They outnumbered him and he stood little chance against them for all his speed and age advantages.
"Really?" he asked with a heavy drip of sarcasm. "Allah sends a storm of vengeance across the city to sweep away the faithless, and you would risk his wrath by betraying the Qur'an and committing murder?"
The boy frowned.
"What do you know of God, Greek?"
"Not all those of a fair complexion are ignorant in the ways of Allah and his prophets."
As Skiouros stood, trying to keep his nerves well hidden beneath a veneer of Ottoman confidence, he watched several of the older waifs converging on the speaker. There was a brief muttered conversation, from which Skiouros caught a few words only, but one of them happened to be Janissary. They suspected him of being one, very likely. After all, very few foreigners knew the ways of Islam unless they had been brought to the empire in the Devsirme intake and converted by the city's soldiers, just as had happened to Lykaion those years ago. Good. Let them think he was a Janissary if it got the right results.
Finally, the small huddle seemed to reach a consensus and the five of them stepped forward. Skiouros noted with some relief that the other watchers melted away into the corridors and doorways as though given some unheard command.
"Eight akce and all up front. You're unknown to us."
Skiouros stood and deliberated. Really it was a paltry amount from such a rich purse, but he did not wish to appear too easily swayed. A real Janissary might be tempted to argue them down or simply walk away and find another waif. After a while he gave an arrogant shrug.
The apparent leader stepped forward to meet him, the others melting back into the shadows. This really was a lot more troublesome than Skiouros had expected.
"You know where to go?"
"The barracks up in the old forum on the Third Hill."
Skiouros felt relief flood him. He'd had a feeling that these boys had run such errands time and again for the Mamluk ambassador, and the answer seemed to confirm it.
"Yes. To the orta commander Hamza Bin Murad. He is to meet my master in the usual place as soon as he is able."
The boy simply nodded.
"Why're you out of uniform?"
Skiouros glared at him. "Such curiosity can be dangerous."
The boy shrugged and reached out for the coins. Skiouros dropped them into the outstretched hand and then fished five more from the purse and added them to the pile.
"Be quick, and avoid the hill by the hippodrome. It's a fast flowing river now."
Without a word, the boy wrapped his fingers around the coins and loped off out of the front door. Skiouros turned to regard his surroundings and was relieved to note that there was no sign of any observer now. With a release of pent up breath he turned and followed the messenger out into the storm.
Now for the other message.
It was not hard to find another urchin, lurking in a side street a few blocks away. It was a risk - he knew that the Mamluk sent his messages with urchins from the gang in the abandoned palace and while there was always the possibility that Bin Murad had a similar arrangement, he had no evidence and would have to trust to luck that the Mamluk would not be suspicious of a messenger he'd never seen before.
The young lad, shivering and soaked, was huddled in the lea of a tall house, his emaciated body providing very little protection against this horrendous weather. Where the streetwise urchins of the Bucoleon were tough and prepared, this young fellow almost fell over himself to grasp the three coins protruding from Skiouros' fingers.
"There may be more chances in future to earn a few coins if you do this properly."
The boy nodded, staring greedily down at the coins in his palm.
"You know where the Bucoleon palace is?"
The boy frowned for a moment and then nodded, his face lighting up with understanding. "Near the Pharos, by the sea."
"That's right. You need to knock on the main door. Don't get frightened by the Janissaries inside. If you tell them you're there to speak to the Mamluk ambassador they'll let you be. When the man comes out, you need to give him this message:"
He paused, wondering whether the boy would have the memory for it, but he had to trust in the lad's need to perform the task well in the hope of future lucrative work.
"Tell him that the corbasi wants to meet him in the usual place immediately."
The boy frowned. "Which corbasi?"
Skiouros paused as a crack of thunder rent the sky, the air thick and electric. Once the deafening noise died away and he could be heard again, he addressed the boy by the flash of white light that bathed the street.
"That's none of your concern, and he will know. Have you got that?"
"The Mamluk ambassador. Corbasi wants to meet him immediately in the usual place."
Skiouros nodded. "Then go."
As the boy scurried out into the rain, Skiouros watched him nervously. All the pieces of the game were now in place, but something was making him nervous. He wondered for a moment whether it would be prudent to follow the boy and make sure that he delivered the message correctly, but quickly decided against it. Now, it was more important to be in place and ready.
Hurrying back through the streets, he closed on the Nea Ekklasia confidently, sloshing through the ankle-deep water, detritus bouncing from his feet and eddying away. There were no casual observers to hide from today, and not enough time had yet passed for either of the villains at the heart of this matter to beat him to the church.
The ruined wooden door to the peristyle garden that sat to the church's rear was in a worse state than even a few hours ago, the billowing winds and blown waste bouncing from the broken rotted planks and weakening them ever further. He'd taken the precaution of jamming it shut, just in case, but a hefty kick sent it flying inwards once more - a kick that almost saw him overbalance and tip into the water as the current and winds tugged at his other leg.
As he moved into the colonnaded garden, pushing the gate closed behind him, he was suddenly struck by how much it now resembled a public bathing pool. Where the currents had allowed a small amount of drainage from the complex and had kept the water level down, the central garden area had been contained within a low wall which had turned it into a wide pool.
For a moment, as he realised that the water level within the complex appeared to have risen a little even despite the drainage, he feared for the execution of his plan. Would it be washed away with the endless downpour? No. It was still safe to rely upon, and should be so for an hour or two yet unless the weather changed dramatically.
Quickly, he followed the cable around the inside of the peristyle, safely sheltered beneath the colonnade, finally coming to the church's rear door and noting with satisfaction and relief the fact that it still stood unbarred. With the flick of a thumb he lifted the latch and swung it open, stepping in out of the rain.
A small puddle had formed just inside where the ill weather had leaked in beneath the wood, and Skiouros stood for a moment after he'd quietly shut the door and dropped the latch, adding a thousand new drips to the growing lagoon. At least footprints wouldn't matter. There would be no trackers and no pursuit today.
With the nervous swallow of a man who had wagered every last penny on a long-shot, Skiouros turned and nipped through the kegs of powder, along the narrow aisles and to the vantage point from which he and Lykaion had fallen deep into this mire of murder and treachery in the first place.
Barely had he dropped into position when the main door at the front of the church slammed open and booted footsteps clattered across the marble floor, unseen.
"Come out!" called an authoritative voice in a local Turkish accent.
Bin Murad!
Skiouros' blood ran suddenly cold. Come out? It had to be a bluff. He crouched slightly lower, only one eye visible through the narrow channel between kegs, his knees threatening to tremble, his breathing suddenly troublesome.
"It's no use hiding. There's no way out. My men are already h
emming you in."
Skiouros closed his eyes for a moment, his heart pounding as a cold knot of fear bound his gut tight. Now, as he concentrated, he realised he could hear not only the echoes of Bin Murad's footsteps repeating back and forth around the walls, but also those of several other men.
Quietly, he turned on his heel and started to creep back towards the rear door.
"When we find you, I will have your skin peeled from your frame and pinned to the wall. You will be salted like a side of meat and then, finally, when you do not believe there can be any deeper agony, I will have you slowly slid, arse-first, onto a sharpened stake above the Gun Gate, where you might die slowly over two or three days for the delight of the ships passing along the Bosporus once the storm is gone. What do you think of that, son of Nikos?"
Skiouros almost tripped. Bin Murad somehow knew his identity!
Desperate now to reach that private exit from this place, he rounded the corner at the end of a line of kegs and a fist with the dimensions and force of a battering ram smashed into the side of his head, driving his senses from him and spinning him momentarily into a terrifying, confusing blackness.
He must have been stunned, rather than knocked truly unconscious. Skiouros could picture the swimmy blurred passage between the rows of kegs as he was dragged unceremoniously by one foot to the church's centre.
His head bumped down to the marble again with a painful 'crack' and he lay still. Would it go better or worse for him if he continued to feign unconsciousness. Certainly, he would prefer to be out cold, given the throbbing pains in his jaw and the back of his head. Yes. Silent and immobile was the way to play it until he had a better idea of what he could do…
"Fool" Bin Murad snapped, crossing to lean over and look down at him.
Despite his initial intentions, Skiouros found he had opened his eyes and was looking around with panicked, jerky motions. Bin Murad had a twisted and very unpleasant smile wrapped across his mean, piggy face.
Three other Janissaries stood around, the one who had hit him very close. He had been dumped just inside the central open space, close to the first circle of kegs and radiating passages.
"What happened to your brother? I had assumed it was Hussein Bin Nikos I was going to have at my feet when the little sewer rat brought me a message without the correct codes and told me it was from a Greek Janissary out of uniform. Not that I'm unsatisfied with the result, you understand. I've had the desire to bring you to justice for a number of years - ever since I found out about your flight from the Devsirme a decade ago - but it is irksome that I still have to hunt down your brother now."
Skiouros spat - a futile gesture in the circumstances.
"He's beyond your reach, traitor."
Bin Murad's smile turned even more malicious, his eyes acquiring a dark twinkle that promised pain.
"I think you'd be surprised at the length of my reach, boy; and a man who removes an unfit ruler to replace him with the rightful sultan is hardly a traitor. In the new Istanbul I shall be a hero. Once new assassins have been brought in - though I might even do it myself now."
"You think selling the power of the throne to Egypt is a laudable thing commander? You can skin and execute me, but you'll find yourself heading down the same path once the Mamluks have a foothold here."
"We can handle the Mamluks, boy. They're useful at the moment, but their time will pass." Bin Murad said, dismissively.
"Is that so?" snapped another voice. Painfully, Skiouros turned his head to see Qaashiq, the Mamluk ambassador, striding into the church centre. For the first time, he did not appear to be accompanied by Janissaries, but had four men at his shoulders dressed in fine mail shirts and with distinctively Egyptian features.
Before Bin Murad could even reply, two of the approaching Mamluk soldiers jerked their fingers on their short, lightweight crossbows, sending bolts slamming into the chests of the two most outlying Janissaries, the pair sprawling back against the kegs of black powder, gasping with agony and surprise. The remaining Janissary soldier, standing only a few feet from the commander, instantly unslung his musket and began the loading procedure, but one of the Mamluks had ratcheted back the cord on his crossbow by hand and placed a bolt in the groove before the Turk could even unstop his powder cartridge - ironic, given his situation.
The Janissary dropped his gun and raised his hands as his eyes fell on the missile pointing at his face, becoming all too aware that he stood no chance of firing first.
The other Mamluk archer had lowered his crossbow; the three of them drew their curved scimitars while Qaashiq simply folded his arms and regarded Bin Murad with cold, dead eyes.
"I fear you are mistaken about who is expendable, commander. You have been convenient thus far. You are no longer so."
As he finished speaking, the man beside him snapped the trigger of his reloaded crossbow, sending a foot-long ash quarrel with a heavy iron point straight through the remaining Janissary guard's left eye and into his brain until it struck the rear of his cranium and came to rest, an inch of flight protruding from the ruptured iris.
Wearing a frozen expression of stunned disbelief, the soldier simply sagged and collapsed back, falling to the floor like a sack of grain. One of the other fallen men was gasping and clutching at the flights of the bolt jutting from his chest, every breath bringing bubbling pink foam to his lips. The other - the man who had recently delivered a ringing blow to Skiouros' head - was splayed out on the floor, apparently expired, though Skiouros could see the man's eyes swivelling towards the sword hilt at his belt. The crossbow shot had struck his shoulder, merely wounding him.
To Skiouros' astonishment, the Janissary widened his eyes and made a 'shush'ing face at him. Laughable. As though Skiouros was likely to help.
But then what else could he do. The Mamluk was unlikely to help him.
"Turn around, Qaashiq" Bin Murad said with an angry snarl. "Walk out of here and I will make nothing of your dishonourable actions. Else I shall be forced to deal with you."
The Mamluk let out a belly laugh, still standing unconcerned, his arms folded.
Skiouros saw the nearby fallen Janissary's hand inching down his leg and realised that he was not going for the long sword in its scabbard, but for the short, finely-crafted Indian throwing knife that was sheathed next to it. He would never manage to stand and reach the enemy with his sword, but a good throw from the floor would remove at least one of them, even if he died for his efforts.
At that particular moment, as Hamza Bin Murad and Qaashiq stood locked in a battle of wills, glaring at one another, the Mamluk soldiers each concentrating on the Turkish officer, no one was paying the slightest attention to the fallen wounded Janissary or the scruffy - apparently unconscious - Greek next to him. They probably hadn't noticed him at all yet.
But the moment this lunatic threw his knife, every Mamluk in the room would be peppering them with crossbow bolts.
Skiouros heaved in a deep breath as quietly as he could, bracing the sole of his boot in a wide crack in the marble flooring caused by the constant shifting of heavy ordinance over a number of years. Waiting for little more than a heartbeat, he watched the Janissary's eyes drop to the knife for which he reached.
For a split second, and that time only, not a single eye in the room was on him.
Heaving with his wedged foot, he pushed himself back into the avenue between the crates, out of the direct aim of the Mamluks.
Before the first shout went up he had rolled over three times, taking him far enough into the passage between keg stacks to disappear from the sight of anyone but the fallen, wounded soldier. As Skiouros scrambled to his feet, he glanced back in time to see a bolt strike the fallen man in the neck, appearing through his vertebrae in a spray of blood. The Janissary hadn't even managed to wrench free his throwing knife before Skiouros' sudden burst of activity had drawn unsought attention to the area and brought about his death.
As the man slumped back to the floor, gurgling and pumping cr
imson, his eyes starting to glaze, withered Skiouros with their accusatory steel.
The young thief fled.
With no thought for subtlety or silence, he pounded back along the alleys between kegs, not even pausing to risk a backwards glance. Whatever was happening there would hardly draw him back. Nothing now would stop him running.
As he rounded the last corner and laid eyes on the small door that led to the colonnaded garden, he could hear Bin Murad back in the central circle of the church, snapping out orders to hunt him down - orders that were apparently being contested by Qaashiq, there being no Turks left upright to follow their commander.
Good. Let them argue, so long as they stayed where they were.
Even as Skiouros' hand reached for the latch to open the door, his eyes slid sideways to the cord that he'd followed into the building when he arrived.
It had taken a great deal of care this afternoon to anchor that precious cord in position. The slow match was not kept in the same stores as the explosive powder for obvious reasons, and he had been forced to pay well above the odds to procure it from a contact of dubious legality in the forum of the Ox.
He had lavished attention on its setup, the near end finishing in a carefully-spilled pile of black powder right next to an opened keg. The entire length had been coated with a fine layer of pig grease, which would not hinder its burning but would stop the water from rendering it useless should the rain become too close. The cord had run unbroken around the inside edge of the doorframe, by the hinge, leading out to the garden, where it ran the entire length of the Peristyle garden, pinned to the wall at a height of four feet, safely out of the weather.
Let them argue! It would be the last damn argument either of the sons of bitches would ever have.
Allowing the door to close partially behind him, he nudged in place the brick he'd left out specially, which kept the portal slightly ajar and would allow the fuse to pass around the frame unhindered.
Thief's Tale Page 26
