Assassin's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  Finally, as he was starting to look forward to the oblivion of unconsciousness and very probable death, the grip on his windpipe loosened slightly and the huge thing in front of him bent low to address him face to face. The big man had quite passable French, astonishingly, with a faint Germanic accent.

  ‘Tell us the direct route to the bedchamber of the false sultan Cem, or my friend’s arm will tighten and will crush your throat-apple, leading to an excruciatingly slow and painful death. Nod if you understand.’

  Henri lost no time in nodding as expansively as the tattooed man’s grip would allow.

  ‘Good. Talk. Quietly and very quickly.’

  Henri swallowed with some difficulty. A good soldier of France would refuse to talk. He would die for his king and for his duty. But then a good soldier would not have fallen off his horse and be assigned all the shit duties his commander could find. A good soldier might not baulk at the idea of gasping out his last moments with a flat throat, clawing at his face as his tongue swelled purple and his eyes bulged pink. But Henri had seen a man choke to death back near Torino, and no amount of national pride was going to persuade him to submit to a similar fate. Settled on his course of less-than-heroic action, Henri pictured the interior and the corridors he had trod so often over the last three days. ‘From the door over there…’

  The arm around his neck tightened slightly and a brief Italian exchange occurred. The big French-speaker in front of Henri shook his head. ‘Not from the door. From the window above you.’

  Henri tried to look up in confusion, but the grip prevented it. ‘Which floor?’

  ‘Which floor is Cem Sultan on?’ the giant breathed.

  ‘The top, but it’s very difficult,’ Henri replied in a whisper. You will be caught. Better to give up now…’

  ‘Just tell us. And anything else you think we might want to know, too.’

  Henri sighed inwardly. Might as well be hanged for a wolf as a sheep. ‘There’s less men on the top floor than below, but they are the best the Duc has to offer,’ he whispered. ‘This end of the chateau is more complex than the other end, with quite a few side corridors, yards, light-wells and staircases, but its rooms are not occupied, so it’s less often patrolled. The other end is a square built around one courtyard, with the best royal suites. The Turk is being held in a room deep in the castle’s centre that overlooks that courtyard.’

  ‘How will we know which room?’

  Henri shrugged with difficulty. ‘It has guards at the door. No other room does - apart from that of the Duc d’Orleans, and his apartments are over the main gate on the opposite side of the courtyard. But you would be better not doing whatever it is you plan. There are too many of us inside. You will all die.’

  The big monster smiled. ‘I do not think so.’

  Henri felt a blow to the head and pleasant, welcome, foggy darkness enfolded his mind, driving away the ache and the constant cold.

  Orsini rubbed his hands together. ‘Remember, all of you, that we need to be as fast and as stealthy as it is possible for a human to be.’ He ignored their long-suffering expressions and gave them a hard-eyed glare. ‘I am aware that you all know this, but it’s important enough to hammer into your brains once more. The force of Frenchmen in there alone could kill us without batting an eyelid, let alone the army out in the city. The moment we are discovered, we are done for… will probably all die. So it is vital that we deal with every last threat before the alarm can be raised. Only then do we stand a chance of both success and survival, and I for one am intent on both.’

  The others nodded their weary understanding, and Parmenio cleared his throat, addressing the young Greek. ‘You’re confident you can get up there?’

  Skiouros turned to him. ‘How long have you known me again?’

  ‘But with the frost…’

  ‘Give me the rope.’

  As his friend passed the coil of rope across, Skiouros threw it over his neck and shoulder and leaned in to the slope of the buttressed wall-base. For the first ten feet or so the wall splayed outwards, formed from large, centuries-old blocks with easy handholds where the mortar had crumbled. For all the slippery, chilling frost, grip would not be difficult. Taking a deep breath, he began to climb, pausing every four steps up to blow warm life back into his fingertips.

  The ascent held no fears for him. He had climbed much worse places than this in his life, including that castle parapet at Roccabruna. The worry that nagged him as he rose, that had his face turning this way and that nervously, was that he might be seen. They had chosen this corner carefully, though. It had taken a well-aimed half-brick from the shadow across the street to knock the bearded door guard flat - Skiouros had been sceptical that Helwyg had such good aim, but had been thankfully proved wrong, the Silesian’s hefted missile striking the back of the man’s head as he stood pissing in the corner. After that, they had managed to approach the sleepy guard with the bad leg with relative ease.

  At this time of the night, there would be few locals abroad in the city, and few shutters open. It was a rare street indeed that did not see a French patrol pass in search of easy pickings every quarter hour, but they tended to keep away from the piazza, the castle and the Capua Gate, as there was still a ban on looting and raping, and this area was a little too visible to the higher authorities, what with the king’s cousin being based here. The two castles that resisted Charles’ control in the city continued to hold out, and the whole of Napoli feared that ban being lifted and the horrendous reprisals that would follow - that the French army would be let loose to kill and rape with impunity. Only the bravest or most stupid Neapolitans made themselves visible just now.

  Which were the four of them? Skiouros felt certain he knew that answer.

  As long as they were quick, got in and had the job done before the guard change came, there was little chance of them being noticed outside the castle, and they would be back to the inn without passing into the dangerous streets beyond. Still, his nerves jumped and he peered around as he reached the top of the slope and found a reasonable handhold in the brick of the next stage: a short length of jutting wall with an arched base forming small buttresses. Taking a deep breath he soon slipped up the side of this with the assured ease of a spider in its twinkling white web. Now already half-way to his goal, he glanced right to the nearest windows, their shutters closed tight like all the others in the castle’s outer-facing walls. The faintest of glows from behind the shutters suggested that the guard below had been correct, and that these rooms were unoccupied, the dim light coming from the corridor beyond. If the rooms had been occupied by a wakeful figure, the light would be much brighter, while a sleeping inhabitant would have the door closed, making it dark. Still, just in case, Skiouros moved that little bit slower to keep his ascent as quiet as possible.

  A few heartbeats later he was above the first windows and approaching the shutters of the top storey at this side, some sixty feet above the silvered paving where two of his three friends waited, Helwyg just returning from an alleyway nearby where he had dumped the insensible bodies of the French guards. With a quick glance at them, Skiouros pulled himself up to the shutters and peered in through the crack. The interior was gloomy, though he could see the faint glow of light from the door beyond. Trying to still his racing heart, he clung on tightly with his left hand and slipped a small narrow work-knife from his belt with his right, reaching up and sliding the point between the shutters. He felt a moment of resistance and when the latch came up and gave way, it freed so quickly that he had to grip all the more tightly to stop himself falling. With difficulty he swung the shutters back, causing a creak that sounded deafening to him, and ducked his head to avoid clouting it.

  Pausing only for a cursory glance inside, Skiouros hauled himself up and over the sill into the blessed relative warmth of the Castel Capuano. As he rose from an automatic crouch, he spun. The room was gloomy and dim, but he could still see that it was some sort of bedroom that was clearly not in use. No bedcl
othes covered the wide, stale bed, and the furniture appeared untouched and uncluttered. Most likely only Cem and the Duc had rooms on this floor, which would be where the well-appointed ones were to be found. If anyone else lived up here, they would also be officers or noble guests. That meant that the bulk of the French military would be down below, and only patrolling guards would likely be encountered up here. It seemed their friend outside had been straight with them.

  Satisfied that the room was entirely clear, he sheathed his knife, turned and removed the rope from around his neck, unravelling it and tying one end tightly to the window’s mullion, treble-knotting it for sureness. Testing his weight on it and satisfied with the result, he leaned forward and threw it from the window, watching the falling rope uncoil as it tumbled to his friends below.

  His fingers closed on something on the table below the window and he looked down in interest to see a thick, heavy book, fastened shut with a metal clasp, its leather cover marked with intricate designs.

  ‘Halt!’

  The voice sounded uncertain. Its owner had spotted movement - a shape before the window, but had not quite confirmed the definite presence of an interloper yet in the gloom. Skiouros turned, his fingers still gripping the book, and let fly. A French guard stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the lamplight of the corridor. Miraculously, given the spontaneous throw and Skiouros’ lack of preparation, the heavy book hit him full in the face, knocking him from his feet. The guard hit the floor heavily, the wind driven from him. The Greek intruder wasted no time. Ignoring the window and his friends, he leapt across the room, grabbing the guard by the ankles and dragging him fully into the chamber, against the likelihood of anyone else appearing in the corridor and seeing the prone man.

  The Frenchman was already recovering from his daze even as he slid into the dark room with a faint squeak of leather baldric on waxed floor. Skiouros reached down for his knife once more, ripping it from its sheath just as the soldier reached up and grabbed his wrist. Skiouros felt a moment of panic. As the Frenchman opened his mouth, his wits returning rapidly, preparing to shout the alarm, Skiouros’ hand closed over the man’s maw, muffling his shout to a stifled murmur.

  The guard’s other hand came up and reached for Skiouros’ throat. He tried to rise out of reach, but couldn’t do so while keeping his hand over the man’s mouth. For a moment, they were locked there in a motionless stalemate, both straining for the upper hand, neither able to back down. Then, in a move that surprised Skiouros, the Frenchman bit deep into his palm. Skiouros instinctively drew his hand back a fraction, but the snapping teeth clamped onto his little finger and while Skiouros stared in agonised panic, he gasped in horror as the Frenchman bit through the bone and removed his finger.

  As Skiouros reeled from this unexpected and horrific reaction, the Frenchman attempted to bellow out a warning, but was halted by ill luck as the spray of blood from Skiouros’ finger stump flooded into his mouth and he choked on the warm ferrous taste.

  The struggle swung the other way instantly, as the guard coughed and gagged on the blood, his attention momentarily distracted. His grip on both Skiouros’ neck and wrist relaxed involuntarily, and the Greek automatically took advantage, the knife forced down past the impotent hand and plunging into the Frenchman’s neck. More blood sprayed up, and Skiouros leaned to one side to avoid being drenched in the torrent.

  The Frenchman had all but forgotten him now, still coughing out the blood, much of it now his own, and reaching for the dagger buried in his windpipe, around which pink, bubbly froth was leaking.

  Skiouros rose, a shocking pain throbbing in his left hand and repeatedly lancing in shocks up his arm. His eyes still upon the stricken, dying guard, he reached for the scarf around his own neck and yanked it free, tying it around his left hand and knotting it tightly. The dark blue wool immediately turned glistening black as his blood soaked it.

  A thump behind him announced the arrival of Helwyg, and the big Silesian appeared next to him a moment later, looking down at the guard and then across at his wounded companion.

  ‘You messy fight.’

  Skiouros glared at the big blond warrior who merely grinned and grabbed the shaking body of the Frenchman, dragging him further inside the room. A moment later Parmenio and then Orsini dropped into the chamber, the latter turning and hauling up the rope, coiling it and leaving it on the table.

  ‘If we’re lucky we have half an hour or perhaps forty minutes before the man below’s absence is noted. Possibly a lot less, though.’ The nobleman left the rope attached to the mullion, but closed the shutters without, deepening the gloom of the chamber.

  ‘Helwyg is right,’ he smiled. ‘You do make a mess.’

  Ignoring Skiouros’ face, he stepped past and peered out into the corridor. ‘Clear.’

  A moment later, the four friends moved out into the passage and Parmenio closed the door behind them. Skiouros was gripping his crippled hand tight, tears welling in his eyes. His finger was somewhere in the darkened room with the dead Frenchman. Orsini had whispered his fine sword and parrying dagger from their scabbards, and Helwyg had unsheathed from his back the long sword he favoured, despite its difficulty of use in such confines. Parmenio drew his own sword now, though Skiouros refrained, his left hand throbbing too much to be of great use and preferring to keep one able hand available. He would rely upon the others to deal with any sudden threats as they moved through the corridors.

  Once more, as he fell into line with Orsini leading and Helwyg bringing up the rear, Skiouros found his mind wandering back to the Castel Sant’Angelo on a cold winter morning, and to the cisternone of Albano in the torrential rain. His revenge was almost upon him. After so long, and coming close so many times, they had finally committed to the act. It was ridiculously foolhardy, this. He knew that they all thought it. They realised their true chances of success for all their bravado. No one said anything, but he could see in Orsini’s face that he didn’t expect to succeed, or at least not to live through it.

  Lykaion’s rest and the vengeance it required had cost so much already: Girolamo, Nicolo and Vicenzo gone. It was hard to believe the rest of them would make it out of here intact, and for what? After all, he had heard less and less from the shade of his brother over the last year, and now nothing since their early days in Rome. His shade had fallen silent.

  Skiouros gritted his teeth. Albano, not Sant’Angelo. Vengeful fury for the wronged, not hesitation through moral dilemma. Vengeance needed to be visited upon Cem. Bayamanaco satisfied, his fiery wrath subdued. The opia of his brother’s resting spirit added to the ensemble on his arm, completing the tattoo.

  He barely realised what was happening in front of him until it was over. A side door had opened by chance as they passed and a Frenchman emerged, only to find himself spitted from two angles as Parmenio’s sword sank into his ribcage and Orsini’s slid into the base of his throat where his collarbones met, preventing him from crying an alarm. The figure fell back into the dark room and Orsini smoothly closed the door on it, hiding the evidence.

  They moved on through yards of corridor with doors and paintings, mirrors and expensive furnishings, occasionally catching a glimpse of the courtyards below. Two guards stood chatting in one of the smaller ones, oblivious to what was going on above them.

  He almost walked into Parmenio’s back before he realised the others ahead of him had stopped. They were at a junction: a corridor led off to their right as well as ahead. Before them, rooms continued on the left side but opposite, windows looked out, presumably over the large courtyard. Orsini was gesturing. Skiouros stepped forward and glanced around the corner for a heartbeat.

  Halfway along the next corridor, two guards stood armoured and at attention by a door. Skiouros ducked back instantly in case they spotted the motion.

  ‘What now?’ he whispered, his voice little more than a breath. He used his good hand to wipe away a tear of pain from his eye and realised he had instead left a smear of blood across it
from where he had been clutching his four-fingered hand.

  Orsini looked up at them and shrugged. ‘Leave this one to me.’ With surprising deftness, he pulled the big wool cloak that he had kept pushed back for the climb around him, his arms now buried deep in the folds. He took a deep breath and then stepped out into the corridor, striding along it with a purposeful gait. He was moving with such assured speed that he had closed half the distance before the guards turned to him.

  ‘Qui est là?’ The Frenchmen changed their grips temporarily on their spears, being careful not to scrape the painted ceiling with the points.

  ‘Bonsoir,’ Orsini said casually as he approached. ‘Avez-vous entendu le duc d'Orléans…’

  He never finished his sentence since, as soon as he was close enough, he threw his cloak back with a flick of the shoulders and his sword and parrying dagger came up together, each buried to the hilt in a French breast within the blink of an eye. The two guards gasped simultaneously and, despite their mortal wounds, tried to bring the cumbersome spears to bear against their attacker in the confined space. Skiouros realised now why Orsini had been so brazen - he had known that it would take time for the guards to get their long, heavy weapons angled at him, and that time would be enough for him to strike, so long as he took them by surprise.

  A moment later the other three had rounded the corner and were bearing down on the door, even as Orsini delivered two more blows to each man to make sure they were out of the fight and unable to raise the alarm. Gathering there, they paused, Helwyg piling the two men to one side and moving their spears to lie along the edge of the floor.

  ‘Alright, Skiouros,’ Orsini said in little more than a whisper. ‘This is it. Move quickly and decisively. If you have to deliver some cutting line as you do it, then be quick. Time is now of the essence and you’ve not the freedom to gloat and delay. We are incredibly lucky not to have had the alarm raised yet, and every passing minute makes it more likely. We will deal with anything else in the room. You concentrate on Cem.’