Thief's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  A sudden need for urgency filling him, Lykaion followed his brother across the open space and to the rear of the church, where the main building and its square rear portico met in a convenient shadowy corner. Indeed, as the fugitive Janissary closed on the corner, he could barely see Skiouros in the darkness, and it took him a moment to pick out the climbing figure nearing the top of the twelve foot wall, his hand hooked over the roof edge, where three courses of decorative brick projected at increasing lengths, topped by rows of tile so ancient they had probably seen pagan days. His heart pounding with sudden fear, Lykaion watched his brother with a mix of terror and awe as the young thief grasped the tiles and somehow vaulted over the edge, coming to rest face down on the slightly sloping roof.

  Skiouros waved him on.

  Feeling an imaginary cold lead weighing down his boots, trying to prevent him approaching the wall, and the icy grip of unmastered fear all over his flesh, he stepped into the shade and took a firm grip of the brickwork. The long-gone-and-forgotten architects of this marvellous building had built designs into the walls through the masterful use of differing brick styles, and the result was bands of decorative work that ran around the walls between and above windows and doors, strange concave fake window arches, false columns of brick and mortar and so much more. It was quite fascinating, and created a healthy selection of holds for climbing, so long as the climber had strong fingers…

  …and no fear of falling.

  Lykaion's feet were only four feet from the ground when he first made the mistake of looking down. Quickly, he pulled his eyes back to the brickwork as icy fingers probed his spine and he felt every muscle and tendon in his body tighten. His fingers whitened on the brick as though he might crush it.

  "No. Nonononononono."

  His fingers slipped from one of the bricks as he made the conscious decision to drop back the four feet to the floor, but suddenly a vice-like grip wrapped itself around his wrist and he felt himself being pulled upwards. Panic ran through him as he scrabbled for the brick to try and back down.

  "For the love of God, climb!" hissed Skiouros, his eyes wide with effort and the tendons in his wrist standing out like cords as he struggled with his brother's weight.

  "I can't."

  "Then the Mamluk wins."

  Lykaion ground his teeth in irritation. Before he even realised what he was doing, his fingers had curled around the protruding tile of the roofline. Taking a deep, terrified breath, he pulled himself over the lip with his brother's help and came to rest on the gentle sloping tiles of the first roof, his heart hammering in his chest. Opening his eyes, he looked back and wished he hadn't. The ground was only the height of two men away, but the roof edge jutting out and cutting off the direct view down somehow amplified it and made it look distant and terrifying.

  "One down, two to go" Skiouros breathed.

  Lykaion's blood ran cold as he looked up at his brother and saw the rest of the ascent behind him. The next stage was theoretically very similar to the first, but with the added horror of already being a dozen feet up; beyond that lay a climb of at least twice that height, and then the undulating roof and its domes.

  His bladder suddenly threatened to empty itself.

  "I can't do it."

  Skiouros pursed his lips. "I know it's an old cliché, but don't look down. Concentrate on where you've got to get to and it'll help take you there. If it makes you feel any better, I'm much the same with tight spaces."

  "It doesn't."

  The older brother watched in abject horror as the thief sprang to his feet on the sloping tiles and started to stride up the slope towards the side aisle wall. The wind up here suddenly felt very powerful and Lykaion could feel it rippling through his cloak and wished fervently he had had nothing to do with all this from the start. Not trusting his feet on the roof, he stayed almost flat to the tiles as he started the ascent to the next stage on his belly.

  By the time his fingers closed on the lowest courses of brick, Skiouros was already at the next roof, leaning over in what looked to Lykaion like a suicidally dangerous manner, arm dangling ready to help him up. The older of the pair steadied himself with a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet, his hands whitening as he gripped the decorative brickwork hold. His knees had suddenly become fluid and useless and, as the first gust of wind hit him, he almost passed out with sheer panic, pulling himself close in to the wall and flattening himself to it.

  "Come on" hissed Skiouros. "We might be missing something."

  His mind locked onto an image of a Mamluk ambassador standing over the bloodied corpse of a Christian whore and an Ottoman noble and the picture filled him with such frustrated anger that he actually snarled as he reached up to grasp the next brick jutting out and hauled himself upwards. A minute later he was being pulled over the edging tiles and onto the aisle roof. Skiouros was grinning.

  "What's so pissing funny?"

  "You" Skiouros laughed. "You don't know what you sound like."

  "This is not amusing."

  "It is when you climb a wall saying 'fuck, fuck, fuck' over and over, like one of your Dervishes in full swing. Nearly pissed myself."

  "Glad I can help. Now move up."

  The anger was continuing to build in Lykaion. His blood was boiling with the combination of the image of the murderous Egyptian among the innocent citizens of the city, his commander's apparent involvement - despite the vows of the Janissaries, his own impotence in the whole situation, and now his brother's jibes.

  And yet the anger was helping.

  While Skiouros skittered up the tiles to tall walls with rows of windows and arches, Lykaion followed up on his belly, feeling the wind ripping at him, trying to throw him off to his death. Half a minute was all it took, and yet it felt like half a lifetime until he finally wrapped his fingers round the brickwork. Once more, Skiouros was already climbing and far ahead of him.

  Just a single look up froze the older brother to the spot.

  At twice the height of the previous two climbs, this wall seemed to rise into the heavens like a construction of Allah himself. The small part of his mind that was still processing logical thought and was not given over to blind panic or driving anger told him that this section would actually be easier, for all its height. While the previous two ascents had been short, they had been on flat, featureless walls with only the brickwork itself to aid them. This section had columned window edges, brick arches, protruding sections of wall similar to shortened buttresses and so much more. In his childhood days, Lykaion would have seen this climb as a fun challenge.

  The knowledge that he was mid-way up, and that it would be at least equally terrifying to shuffle to the roof edge and contemplate climbing back down, drove him to the first few holds. He was perhaps half way through the main ascent when the anger was no longer enough to conquer the panic and he stopped dead, fingers gripping the stone, feet frozen and knees shaking dangerously.

  "Come on."

  "No."

  Skiouros peered over the roof edge and extended his arm. Their fingertips would still be an arm-length apart, even if he stretched.

  "No."

  "You have to, brother. We're nearly up, and you can't just stay there."

  A sudden gust of wind whipped Lykaion's cloak about him and one hand came free. As his bladder gave an involuntary squeeze and leaked a little, the white-icy blindness of panic gripped him and he flailed and grasped for the brick again, almost crying out in terror.

  Somehow, in the desperate thrashing of his arm, he found purchase again and pulled himself flat to the surface.

  "Can't!"

  But when he looked up, Skiouros was not there. Lykaion hadn't realised just how much positive effect his brother's company had been having on his fear until that comforting presence was no longer there. He felt sick. Perhaps he'd been sick; certainly his mouth tasted funny. His head began to spin with the sensation of falling and he shuddered uncontrollably.

  "Get up here now, Lykaion!"
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br />   The terrified climber's head snapped upwards again to see the welcome face of Skiouros peering over the edge.

  "The Mamluk's in there" he went on "waiting for someone. Stay there and we'll miss it."

  "Can't."

  "Yes you can. Trust in God, or in Allah if you like, or even in me, but do it."

  Slowly, Lykaion released the brick with one hand and desperately reached up and grasped the next one, his heart pounding. He would do it; had to do it, or give up and die here. His fingers were rapidly numbing with the cold and when it got too much for all his digits, he would plummet almost thirty feet to a roof, bounce down it, fall another dozen or more feet and then repeat the process to the paving stones of Mill Street - odd that. Here in the heart of the Ottoman city, a few streets retained their old names.

  He was aware at a deeper level that his mind was wandering to avoid facing the current dilemma, until suddenly he felt fingers close on his wrist again and haul him up. Pulling himself, shaking, over the lip, he collapsed flat onto the roof - or as flat as he could on the sloping curved lines of tile.

  "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"

  "Come on. We're taking too long."

  Lykaion glared at his brother, but Skiouros was already vaulting away up the roof towards one of the smaller domes, where a window stood wide open. The panic still present and hovering on the periphery of his senses, Lykaion followed his brother up the slope of tiles, taking considerably more care and time, and reached the dome with great relief, his fingers folding tight on the window sill.

  Skiouros had already disappeared inside, and Lykaion pulled himself up to the window and peered inside without thought, his brain suddenly reeling and swirling as he looked down some fifteen feet to a stone floor. Gripping the window edge tight and shivering uncontrollably, he pulled back from the drop, though not too far as the roof sloped away behind him and down to a horrible descent.

  It took him a moment to realise that Skiouros was hanging from the inside of the window frame by his fingertips and, as Lykaion leaned in to question his brother, he saw the thief let go and drop to the floor, where he landed lightly as smooth and professionally as an athlete. A moment later Skiouros was standing and beckoning him. Lykaion swallowed nervously and clambered onto the window, his heart pounding so rapidly it felt like almost one constant hum, the beats melting together. Slowly, and feeling the panic mount again, he swivelled, lowering his feet and then legs over the drop inside, gradually shuffling and inching until the sill grazed his armpits. Then another drop to his fingertips, and he felt the panic recede. He was only about eight feet from the floor.

  The drop was not subtle.

  Unlike his brother, who had landed with catlike grace, Lykaion hit the floor with the slap of leather boots on stone. He looked guiltily around as he rose slowly to see Skiouros wincing. The pair stood very still for a long moment, breathing as lightly and quietly as they could until suddenly the silence was rudely broken by the crashing open of a door somewhere below - the front one; all the others were blocked.

  Skiouros beckoned to his brother and the pair made for a staircase that led down the inside of one of the outer walls. Moving as quietly as they could, the brothers' footsteps were partially masked by the heavy rhythmic thump of another pair of boots marching through the church below.

  A voice suddenly sprang up, barking out authoritatively in Arabic, and a second speaker replied, a note of anger or irritation in its tone.

  Lykaion reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to find his brother creeping forward between huge wooden kegs. The very thought of what those containers held was chilling to the blood. The Janissary guards were not allowed even an oil lamp in this building, and it was quite obvious why. As the renegade moved between the aisles, following his brother as quietly as he could, he lost count of how many rows of barrels he could see. They packed most of the former church's ground floor and were stacked two high.

  The thief came to a sudden halt and gestured to Lykaion as the deeper of the two voices switched to Turkish.

  "Did you hear something?" it said.

  There was the tense pause of two people listening intently, and when a pigeon suddenly burst from the low arch of the side aisle in an explosion of flapping and feathers, the second man burst out laughing.

  Lykaion's heart pounded all the more with the sudden shock.

  "You, friend Qaashiq, are entirely too nervous. Pigeons! This place is alive with the vermin. Look at the shit all over the floor. Don't fall prey to unnecessary panic; this is one of the most secure buildings in the city. It's why I suggested it."

  Creeping forward to Skiouros' position, Lykaion peered between the kegs and the centre of the building opened up before him. Despite having only a narrow peephole, the angle served well to display much of the open space at the centre. In a small arena formed by a circle of powder kegs, passages radiating off between them, two men stood four yards apart. The Mamluk appeared tense and stood with his arms folded, while the new arrival leaned on a stray keg in a relaxed fashion.

  Lykaion pointed to the Mamluk and shrugged questioningly at his brother. Skiouros nodded and returned the gesture, pointing at the visitor. Lykaion took another look, just to make sure, and nodded back. Yes; it was Hamza Bin Murad: Corbasi of the Fourteenth Orta. If the fugitive soldier had still harboured any doubts about the culpability of his commanding officer, he felt them melt away at this damning scene.

  "I am uncomfortable speaking in your tongue" the Mamluk spat with a perfect Ottoman inflection.

  "You are in my city, at the whim of my Janissaries, so you will speak my tongue. Do not mistake my willingness to take a part in this affair for any kind of respect or pleasure at your presence. You are my enemy, no matter what happens."

  "Perhaps we chose you wrongly, commander?"

  Bin Murad's lip curled into an unpleasant sneer.

  "No. You chose correctly. No other officer would even countenance your plots."

  The Mamluk shifted uncomfortably.

  "But you are different? To be willing to defy your own and sell out your nation."

  Hamza spat on the floor, his hand going to his sword pommel. "Be very careful how you speak to me, Mamluk. I could live with myself if this all ended here with your brains smeared across the floor."

  "There is no need for such antagonism, commander. You asked for me to come; I'm here. These meetings are dangerous, so I suggest you say your piece and we depart."

  There was an angry pause and then Bin Murad nodded, his hand slipping down from the sword to hang by his side.

  "The treasury vizier has turned up with an unfortunate second mouth just beneath his chin. Caught me off-guard, since I wasn't expecting it yet, and forced me to do a little improvising. Your killers are getting ahead of themselves."

  "You never specified a timescale - just a deadline."

  "It was implied, you fool. The longer this is drawn out, the more danger there is. One day. All in one day, I meant."

  The Mamluk took an angry step forward. "Do not presume to lecture me, Bin Murad. This is not your game, nor mine. We do as we are bidden and will receive our rewards in due course, following which, insha'Allah, we will never have to set eyes on one another again. Now, was there anything else? This meeting is too stupid and dangerous to call for putting forward a simple complaint of no real substance."

  This time, Bin Murad took the step forward and pointed angrily at the ambassador.

  "You use fools. Your hashishin or whatever you want to call them these days are clearly overzealous in their devotion to Allah."

  The Mamluk unfolded his arms and clapped his hands condescendingly. "Some might argue that there is no such thing as 'too overzealous' in the eyes of God, commander."

  "Your killer performed his task on the vizier perfectly, but took time to cut a Christian bitch to pieces in his fervour. While I approve of removing the vile heathens from the world at every opportunity, this particular death was idiotically unnecessary. Such a murd
er could point unhelpful fingers; it certainly made it too difficult for me to pin it on the Christian, which I would have preferred. I have managed to deflect suspicion so far, but if your other two assassins are no more careful, this is going to become too big and public for me to contain. Curb your murderers, Qaashiq. Just tell them to do the job they're paid for and stop dabbling with personal killings."

  The Mamluk nodded slowly as if conceding the point.

  Skiouros and Lykaion shared a look as the young thief mouthed the words 'other two' silently. Suddenly it felt very exposed and dangerous in here.

  "So if you are dragging the timescale out," Bin Murad said irritably, "when will the agha die?"

  Lykaion felt his blood chill at the question. Just as the viziers were the men who ran the civil side of the empire, so the aghas were the men who commanded the military at the very highest levels, and the only agha to whom Bin Murad could possibly be referring here and now was Ahmed Ali bin Nasuh, the commander of the Janissaries. He was the only agha who spent any real time in the city.

  "Leave the details to me" the Mamluk said quietly. "Suffice it to say he will be dining in paradise the day after tomorrow. Other than that, the less you know: the better."

  Bin Murad nodded at the truth of that.

  "Just remember your side of the bargain when the army is yours" the Mamluk said with quiet threat. "A deal has two sides. We are not doing this purely for your benefit."

  Bin Murad gesticulated angrily.

  "I know what I am to do, Mamluk, and I am not doing this purely for my benefit, either. You would do well to stop treating me as a traitor. I love my empire and I love my corps. If it were not for what you can give me, I would have your head on a pike over the Edirne Gate by morning. Bayezid must die, but I take no pleasure in it. Just you make sure your Cem 'Sultan' remembers those who made this possible."