The front cart was being led inside, while a clerk went through some papers with the driver of the second vehicle. At a gesture from Samir, the three children nestled down among the comfortable bags, covering themselves as best they could.
Minutes passed as they lay there, staring up into the endless blue while the noises of the port went on around them. And slowly, finally, the cart trundled forward. The three held their breath as the clerk approached, stopping only a few feet from them as he checked the manifest and clearances with the teamster. Such a short time passed and yet to the three of them it seemed an age of man had gone by.
Finally an agreement was made and the cart trundled slowly into the compound. As Samir had explained, drawing on information from his unknown source, the four carts would be drawn into the central space, not far from the warehouse, where there was sufficient space for unloading with the minimal distance to the place of storage. The teamsters, their job done for now, were given a chitty and escorted from the compound where they would visit the nearest tavern while they waited for their carts to be emptied.
With a quick glance, Samir checked the compound over the top board. Someone, presumably an overseer, had gathered the workmen near the lead cart and was speaking to them in quiet tones. The teamsters were departing while the labourers’ instructions were given, and the half-dozen guards at the gate, bored beyond tears, watched the few women pass by in the street outside with half-interest at best.
With a grin, Samir beckoned to the others and clambered over the side of the cart, dropping lightly to the ground and running toward the warehouse, its great wide open doors welcoming him. Ghassan and Asima followed suit, their hearts racing as they slipped from the cart, across the open space unobserved, and into the shadow of the warehouse.
The three ducked around the inside of the doorway and stood with their back to the wooden walls, drawing a deep and relieved breath as they scanned the interior.
“What now?” Ghassan whispered. “They’ll be here in minutes to unload.”
Samir shook his head. ”We have at least ten minutes. They unload the carts onto small trailers and then wheel them in here. It’s a complex business, but we’ve plenty of time to find something and slip out. Besides,” he added with a smile, “it looks like they’ve got some sort of trouble. That man outside is keeping the workers busy.”
“You’ve still not explained how we leave here” Ghassan sighed.
Samir grinned and pointed to the ladders that reached into the darkened upper corners of the warehouse, where they hooked onto the walkways.
“From the top level, we can slip onto the roof. From there we’re the right height to cross the outer wall and drop into the alley.”
“That’s a long drop.”
Samir winked.
“Not where I put the crates ready to drop onto, it isn’t.”
Asima smiled. Samir always claimed to be the quick one, while Ghassan had the family’s brains. To her acute eye, however, it was clear that the brothers shared every talent in equal amounts. For all their differences, they were every bit the match for one another.
Samir wandered along the wall among the crates, peering into occasional ones while trying to decide what trophy was most fitting with which to make off. With a shrug, Ghassan followed suit while Asima remained standing by the doors. There was more to think about today than mere trophies. With a sigh she picked up a small amphora of olive oil. That would do.
Her heart skipped a beat as a man strode into the warehouse mere feet away from where she lurked. She had been so absorbed in their task she’d not heard him approach. Besides, there should be no one coming here yet. Silently, holding her breath, she dropped down behind the crates, cradling her amphora like a newborn. As she vanished from sight, she noted with relief that the boys had already disappeared behind obstructions. They must have sharper hearing than her.
The man was tall; taller even that the nomads of the south, though he was clearly a man from across the sea to the north. Unusually large and imposing, he was dressed in dark leathers and a black shirt, with a finely-crafted chainmail shirt over the top. A curved sword hung at his belt, high and angled across him in the manner of a Pelasian. He had unremarkable brown hair, short and straight, and a neat beard covering a sun-tanned jaw. He walked as though he owned the world upon which he trod, though he was clearly no merchant.
With bated breath, she watched as a second man entered. This person was more than a head shorter and with blond hair, dressed in fine clothes and unarmed, gripped at his elbows by two unsavoury-looking men with Pelasian features and drawn blades. Asima bit her lip as the warehouse doors were closed ominously behind them by an unseen hand. The party of four men stopped in an open area of the warehouse and the rich man was dropped unceremoniously to the floor.
“Trevistus,” the tall man said, shaking his head with mock sadness. “What am I to do with you?”
The smaller man coughed and Asima was shocked to see blood trickle from his mouth, flowing through a gap afforded by two missing teeth.
“I can pay you handsomely, Kaja” the man replied, his gapped teeth whistling unpleasantly. “There’s no need for this antagonism. I’m a man with connections.”
The tall man… Kaja as he had been named, shook his head.
“You used your connections to set a bounty on me; a large and very ostentatious bounty. Things like that can ruin a man’s day. You have piles of money, but then money doesn’t buy me peace of mind or heal my reputation, now does it, Trevistus?”
The merchant, his panicked eyes darting back and forth, stammered. Asima shrank down, fearing that somehow the desperate man would see her through the crates.
“But… wh… what can I do? I’ve sent a message cancelling the bounty. I am a man of means.”
“You were a man of means, Trevistus.”
The merchant’s eyes widened and he assumed the bravado of the cornered man.
“You can’t do this, Kaja! I have friends on Isera; in the government itself. My factor lives in the palace. He knows Minister Sarios… even the Emperor!”
The tall man smiled a horrible, feral smile.
“Emperor Quintus has enough on his plate at the moment. I hear his generals are now in open rebellion. The Empire’s collapsing in on itself, my dear Trevistus, and the time has come for men like us. Men of independent means and supreme self-interest. Well… for men like me at least. Goodbye, my unfortunate friend.”
Asima closed her eyes as a brief whimper gave way to a gasp and was silenced with a slicing noise. There was the dull thud of a padded weight falling to the floor. She couldn’t believe what she had just heard and offered thanks to every God that might be listening that she at least had not seen what just happened.
She almost shrieked as something touched her elbow. Snapping her head round in panic, her eyes met those of Samir, who was gesturing urgently for her to follow him. Beyond him, Ghassan nodded sharply.
The light-stepping journey around the periphery of the warehouse, hidden by crated goods, was tense and slow, and the three heaved a sigh of relief that, by the time they reached the nearest ladder and prepared to climb, the warehouse doors had opened and the occupants had left with their grisly burden.
A gloomy silence accompanied the children on their unnoticed escape.
In which relationships are forged
The next winter would turn the boys’ world upside down. Asima had spent less time with the brothers since the incident at the warehouse and when they had seen her she wore a haunted look. Her eyes had darkened as though she slept little and she had become taciturn. On the few occasions she had visited, she looked uncharacteristically frail and frightened and had taken to sitting wrapped in Ghassan’s arms. Samir had pondered on this for a while, but had finally nodded and accepted that perhaps Asima currently needed Ghassan’s sober strength more than his own optimistic humour.
Then late one evening, as their mother was preparing the main meal and the boys sat alone in the communal room, there was a knock at the door. Knowing that their mother would be too busy to answer and that she would
