‘You’ve done this before,’ Hal said softly and he saw the gleam of Thorn’s teeth in the moonlight.
‘Once or twice,’ the old sea wolf agreed. Then he handed the end of the taut rope to Stig and took a position alongside Hal, their backs to the wall, facing Stig, with the metre-long piece of oak held between them at waist height. Thorn held it in his left hand, bracing it with the wooden club-hand for extra purchase.
It had been agreed that Stig would be the first one to go over the wall. Jesper was more stealthy, but if there was potential trouble on the other side, Stig was the best equipped to deal with it. Thorn would go last. This was one situation where his lost hand put him at a disadvantage. The others could scramble quickly up and over the wall. He would have to be pulled up.
‘On my count,’ Stig said, holding the knotted rope in his hands, not letting it sag. ‘One, two, three!’
On three, he dashed forward, his hands hauling in the rope as he went so that it retained its tension. Then he leapt up, stepping onto the piece of timber held by his friends. As they felt his weight come down on the wood, they heaved him upwards, boosting him for the first two or three metres of his upward journey. As he flew up, he continued to reel in the rope.
It was a movement that required a lot of co-ordination and hours of practice. But it was almost second nature to anyone who had trained in a brotherband or served on board a raiding wolfship in the old days. When the momentum of the upward boost died, Stig was in position with the soles of his feet against the timber wall. He continued to haul in on the knotted rope, retrieving it hand over hand and walking his feet up the wall as he did so.
As a result, what would have been an awkward, time-consuming climb was accomplished in less than twenty seconds. Stig transferred his grip from the rope to the parapet and vaulted over the top of the wall, landing soft-footed on the top bench of the arena.
As soon as he landed, Stig drew his axe from the belt loop that held it and turned – knees flexed, weight on his toes – to face the interior, and any enemy who might have been waiting.
There was no one. Slowly, he straightened and laid the axe down. He peered over the parapet, looking down on the three pale ovals that marked the upturned faces of his friends.
‘All clear,’ he called softly. ‘Give me a second to tie off the rope.’
As he had released his grip on the rope, the grapnel had fallen to the timber floor, with another muffled thud. It was a small enough noise, but no noise at all would’ve been better. He hastily tied the rope off now, looping it round the support for one of the benches. Then he twitched it violently, sending a message to his friends that all was ready.
He didn’t watch Jesper’s ascent. He was there to make sure no danger threatened from the interior. But he heard the scrambling, sliding impact of his boots against the wall as Thorn and Hal boosted him up, and he completed the climb under his own power. Stig heard the grunt of exertion as Jesper rolled over the parapet and landed beside him. He slapped Jesper on the back. Jesper grinned at him, then drew his sword and took up a position on watch.
It took longer for Hal to negotiate the wall. Thorn couldn’t provide any upward thrust for him, so he had to climb the entire way unaided. But he was fit and his muscles were hardened from years of hard work and weapons practice and he swarmed up the wall like a giant, dark spider.
‘Any problems?’ he whispered to Stig as he crouched below the parapet.
Stig shook his head. ‘All clear so far,’ he said. ‘Let’s get Thorn up here.’
Thorn had set about tying a loop in the end of the knotted rope. Now he placed one foot in the loop, seized the rope with his left hand, and waited. He heard a low whistle from above, then the rope tightened and began to move as Stig and Hal started hauling it up.
Thorn rose, fending himself off from the wall with his free foot, ascending in a series of smooth jerks as his two friends reeled him in like a giant fish. As he came level with the wooden parapet, ready hands reached out to help him up the last metre or so and he rolled over the edge and crouched beside them.
‘You’re going to have to cut down on your intake of ale,’ Stig whispered indignantly. ‘You weigh a ton.’
Thorn eyed him balefully. ‘It’s the weight of responsibility I feel, looking after careless fools like you,’ he said.
Jesper sniggered quietly while he re-coiled the rope.
The four of them crouched on the timbers of the benches. To their right, halfway round the circular structure, they could see the dim lanterns that marked the main entrance and the guardhouse. They waited several minutes but there was no movement from that direction.
The tunnel that led to the slave quarters was to their left. It was in complete darkness, and from this vantage point, they could see that above the gates, spanning the tunnel itself, was a roofed structure similar to a gatehouse. There were several chairs in place under the roof. Presumably that was the point where important guests watched proceedings while a slave auction was in progress.
Hal gestured to it with his thumb. ‘Let’s get under cover there while we’re waiting.’
Moving in single file, they ghosted around the top row of benches until they were safely in the shadows under the roof.
Hal indicated the chairs. ‘May as well make ourselves comfortable,’ he said. ‘Now all we have to do is wait till someone yells, “Fire!”’
The spot Gilan had selected was a small, closed room – apparently a store room of some kind – set between two of the gold stores in a narrow alley off the larger main thoroughfare.
The stores themselves were ablaze with lamplight, reflecting brilliantly from the chains, pendants, rings, bangles and other gold jewellery laid out in intricate patterns on the counters. A few shoppers browsed the glittering arrangements, occasionally pointing to a piece so that the merchant could hand it to them for closer appraisal.
Gilan nudged her and they ambled slowly past the nearer jewellery store. As they came level with the blank door between the two stores, Gilan stopped and made a pretence of removing a stone from his boot, hopping on one foot as he did so. His eyes scanned the wooden door. It was old wood, without much remaining strength. The door was fastened by a simple metal hasp that closed over a loop of iron. A padlock was set through the iron loop.
‘We could use Jesper here,’ Lydia muttered.
But Gilan shook his head. ‘Don’t need him. That wood is dried out and weak. The screws holding the hasp in place will hardly have any purchase at all. There’s obviously nothing of value behind the door.’
He looked back at the store they had just passed. There were three potential customers browsing the goods, and inspecting individual items. The merchant and his bodyguard were completely occupied, watching the shoppers and keeping track of the items that they asked to inspect. They had no eyes for anything outside the shop.
By contrast, the second store was empty. The merchant sat on a high stool behind the counter. His eyes roamed the alley, alighting on the two newcomers. The heavy-set guard sat a few metres away on another stool. His eyes scanned the alley as well.
Gilan nudged Lydia. ‘Go and look at the jewellery,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Ask to see a couple of pieces at once. That should get them concentrating on you so I can open the door.’
Lydia nodded.
‘Don’t speak,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘Just point at the pieces you want to see.’
She stepped into the store, stooping to look at the items on one of the lower shelves of the counter. Inevitably, the merchant’s eyes went down as well, trying to see which piece had caught the new customer’s fancy. The guard stood up and moved closer to his employer, a heavy blackwood club dangling on a leather thong from his wrist.
As their attention focused on Lydia, Gilan drifted back to stand beside the wooden door. He slipped his saxe from its scabbard and, leaning against the door, worked the blade under the brass hasp.
Lydia pointed to a ruby pendant on a chain of heavy
gold links. The merchant retrieved it from its display stand and handed it to her, letting the chain drape over her hand and hang down either side.
All the better for him to keep an eye on it, Lydia thought. She studied the pendant for several seconds, pursing her lips thoughtfully. Then, without returning it, she pointed to another – this one a ball of gold filigree work on a finer chain.
The merchant held up his forefinger, shaking it from side to side in an unmistakable sign of disapproval. He pointed to the ruby pendant in Lydia’s hand.
‘One piece at a time.’ His voice was guttural but his use of the common tongue was clear enough. Lydia shrugged, pretending not to understand. She held the ruby pendant away from his outstretched hand and pointed more insistently at the gold filigree piece.
Again, the merchant’s reply was in the negative. His voice rose in pitch as his annoyance grew. He reached for the ruby, seizing the chain before Lydia could move it out of reach. She retained her grip on the pendant and frowned at him, then pointed to the filigree pendant again.
‘One at a time!’ the merchant repeated. Why couldn’t this ignorant foreigner understand the most basic rule of the gold souk?
Lydia allowed a look of comprehension to cross her face. She nodded and held out the ruby pendant. The merchant snatched it from her grasp and held it close to his nose to inspect it. Satisfied that it was the original article, he nodded. His manner relaxed and he replaced the ruby and chain on their stand, handing her the gold filigree item in its stead.
‘Aaah!’ said Lydia, in as deep a voice as she could manage. She pointed to the new pendant and smiled, pointing to the original pendant, then herself.
The merchant smiled in return. His bodyguard, in response to Lydia’s pantomime, laughed as well.
Gilan jerked the saxe knife away from the wood. The screws were pulled loose from their hold and the hasp came away into his waiting hand. The sound of cracking wood was faint, and the guard’s laughter covered most of it.
Released from the lock’s hold, the door swung inwards. Gilan shoved it open further with his shoulder and stepped inside the small room, pushing the door shut behind him.
As Lydia took the filigree pendant, she pretended to drop it. The store keeper reacted like lightning, catching the piece before it reached the ground and frowning at her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gilan slip inside the store room and close the door behind him.
Nobody else seemed to notice, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She studied the filigree work, shook her head and pointed to the ruby. Once again, she delayed matters by not handing the filigree back to the merchant before he could pass her the ruby. Then she smiled and seemed to comprehend his gestures. She glanced quickly at the store on the far side of the small room Gilan had just entered. One of the customers had left, but the merchant was fully occupied with the other two. It occurred to her that the best way to rob one of these stores would be to work as a pair and split the store keeper’s attention.
Inside the dim store room, lit only by shafts of light breaking through the warped timbers of the door, Gilan took stock of his surroundings. As he’d surmised when he saw the state of the door, there was nothing of value kept here. It was a store room for cleaning materials. There were three wooden buckets with mops standing in them in one corner. Cloth cleaning rags hung from shelves and several small casks gave off an eye-watering smell. Solvents, he thought. Just the thing for cleaning tarnished jewellery and renewing the sparkle.
And just the thing for starting a fire.
He began to tear some of the rags into strips and pile them under a carton full of other cloths. He jammed his saxe into the bung of one of the solvent casks and let the volatile liquid spill over the torn cloth he had prepared. There was a crate of glass bottles nearby, packed with straw to prevent their shattering. He added handfuls of straw to the pile of drenched cloth.
There were several bundles of old linen curtains stacked to one side. He seized one and slashed at it with his saxe, sending clouds of dust and dry material fragments flying, and added it to the pile he’d already created. The first cask was empty so he broached another, checked that it had the same pungent contents, and spilled some of it over the cloth.
The inside of the store room was beginning to reek with the sharp-smelling solvent. He hoped the door would prevent the smell reaching the merchants on either side. He moved to the door and peered out through one of the cracks between the planks. Lydia was still engaging the merchant. He couldn’t see what was happening in the other stall.
Too late to worry about that, he thought. He took out his flint and steel and struck a spark into a small handful of tinder. The little spark grew into a flame as he breathed gently on it. Once it was well alight, he thrust the burning tinder into the pile of soaked cloths.
There was a slight delay, then the pile ignited with a soft WHOOF. Flames leapt up eagerly, licking at the support timbers that held the shelving and ceiling in place. Satisfied that the fire wouldn’t go out, he stepped quickly out through the door, leaning against the door jamb casually as he pulled it shut behind him.
Again, nobody noticed.
Mahmel awoke suddenly from a dreamless sleep. One moment he was relaxed, breathing deeply, limbs limp. The next his eyes were open and he was wide awake. Beside him, his wife remained asleep, her breathing making a little sighing noise at the end of each intake.
He had no idea what had woken him. He sensed something was amiss. He lay still, staring at the fluttering awning over his head, trying to recall if he had heard or felt anything in the second before he woke.
But there was no memory of any disturbance.
As was the custom, he and his wife, Saleema, were sleeping on the flat roof of their house, with a canvas awning stretched over them to provide shelter in the unlikely event of bad weather. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Saleema stirred but didn’t wake, turning over and settling again.
He walked to the edge of the roof, where a waist-high parapet ran round the edge, and peered out into the night. The black bulk of the slave market arena was a few blocks away. As the market co-ordinator, he was granted a house and servants within easy reach of the market – but far enough away so that the sometimes pungent body odour of the slaves didn’t reach his home.
Nothing stirred there. There were a few lanterns lit on the perimeter of the wooden wall, and over the main entrance gate. One shone dimly in the guardhouse by the main gate.
He sniffed the air. There was a faint scent of woodsmoke on the breeze, and the usual acrid smell of camel and goat dung fires. But the land breeze was wafting them out to sea.
He turned his attention to the massive gold souk – a huge structure that sprawled over half a dozen city blocks. He could see the bright lights of two of the entrances but, once again, nothing seemed amiss.
He yawned. Odds were, there was nothing to worry about. But he had learned over the years not to ignore premonitions like this. Sometimes, they turned out to mean nothing. But at others, they had provided forewarning of potential disaster. He walked soft-footed back to the bed and began to don his striped robe over the loose linen trousers and vest he wore to sleep.
Saleema sensed his movement and sat up, her hair tousled and her eyes bleary.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said.
‘Probably nothing. Go back to sleep. I’m just going to the market to check on things.’ He quickly donned his green turban – the symbol of his authority – and pulled a green cloak over his shoulders against the night’s chill.
‘At this time of night?’ she protested, but he leaned down and patted her hand.
‘Go back to sleep,’ he repeated. ‘I won’t be long.’
She slumped back, grumbling muffled words that he knew related to his overactive sense of duty. He smiled and buckled on his long scimitar in its scabbard, then went down the stairs to the ground level, where his two bodyguards slept on cots beside the door, fully dressed. One of them had
his foot hanging over the side of the cot. Mahmel kicked it gently and the man instantly sprang awake.
‘Get up,’ he said. ‘We’re going to the arena.’
Flanked by the two heavily built guards, Mahmel made his way through the dark, silent streets. They hadn’t gone more than fifty metres before he heard the shouts in the distance, warning of fire in the gold souk. Then an alarm bell began clanging stridently.
‘I knew it!’ Mahmel muttered. He began to run.
Thin tendrils of smoke were beginning to curl through the cracks in the door to the store room. Gilan tugged the door shut against the warped frame, then nodded to Lydia as she emerged from the jewellery store.
The store keeper stared after her with a sour expression. She had wasted ten minutes of his time and he realised now she had never meant to buy – a merchant came to know those things about potential customers after a few years. But you could never simply tell such people to move on. If you were mistaken, you could lose a valuable sale.
Casually, the two interlopers began to stroll back towards the main thoroughfare, where they’d planned their escape. Lydia glanced back and jogged Gilan with her elbow.
‘I can see smoke coming under the door,’ she whispered.
‘Shut up and don’t look,’ Gilan ordered.
They were almost back to the intersection with the main thoroughfare when disaster struck. A party of half a dozen Socorrans entered from the main street, jamming the narrow alley, and there were several moments of milling confusion as Lydia and Gilan tried to find a way past them. Gilan, conscious that at any moment the smoke might be spotted and the alarm raised, began to shove his way through more forcibly, using his shoulders and jostling the Socorrans out of his way. He came face to face with one of them and stepped back in surprise.