Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Three: Constantinople

and the top inside the wellhead.

Khatun Bengul’s wellhead.

Then he paused, one foot on a rung of the ladder.

So – I made it here. I have the ladder up. I can walk away. This is . . . insane.

He found that he was climbing the ladder.

He shook his head. At himself.

Two rungs from the top, he rested his back against the well’s wall – probably just where his shoulder had struck in falling, he thought. Shook his head.

Insane.

He took the coil of rope off his shoulder and secured the grapnel.

I’m sure I swore yesterday never to do this again.

What if there are people in the kitchen?

Smiling at his own foolishness, he tossed the grapnel straight up.

He did cover his head.

Which was good, as it fell back with a lot of noise.

He sighed. Paid out one more coil of rope, took the grapnel by the stock, and threw.

He heard it hit. Outside the well. He pulled, and it came quite easily – he pulled it in very slowly, dragging it across the stones of her kitchen. And it caught. He pulled again, and it stayed tight.

Caught on some tiny projection? Or on the cross-beam?

He went up, putting as little weight on the grapnel as possible – his back against one wall of the well, feet against the opposite wall, walking up as he’d seen the acrobat girl do earlier.

She was nice. She was pretty. Why am I doing this?

Up and up.

At the top, he stopped to listen. The cover still wasn’t on the well. His back and sides hurt, and his neck . . .

He went over the edge.

Screaming eunuchs didn’t kill him, so he decided after a few moments that he was still safe.

He paused at the curtain to the stairwell.

Now, I can slip down the rope and go. I did it. I entered her apartment undetected. No need to go any farther.

His soft leather boots made no sound on the steps as he climbed.

He paused at the curtained doorway to the slave quarters, and listened. Her slaves were silent. Several were snoring.

He stopped outside the cedar and silver door. It was just as he remembered it.

If she screams, I’m dead.

This is foolish.

In fact, this gives foolish a whole new perspective.

He put a hand on her door. It was locked.

A German lock.

England had German locks.

It took him longer than he expected to open it. He had to find the tool in his belt purse, and it took him far too long to realise that the local workmen had installed the lock upside down.

Click.

I could just let this go.

Don’t try for revenge on Omar Reis.

He opened the door, very, very slowly.

He had to fight the sudden feeling that it was all a trap. The wave of paranoia came, and went, and he could smell the fear he had exuded.

He slid into the room. Closed the door with infinite patience.

He could hear her breathing. It was soft, and regular.

He went to her bedside.

And put a hand on her mouth, thinking, It is now officially too late to back out.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Remember me?’

She hesitated – and then threw her arms around his neck.

Then he put his mouth over her mouth.

‘No!’ she said, and pinned his legs with her own. She was very strong.

There was one lamp lit, and she was magnificent.

‘No,’ she said. She smiled. ‘Don’t be angry. It is . . . a matter of life and death.’ She leaned over him and licked his lips. ‘Listen, I’ve read books. There are a thousand other things we can do.’

Apparently, there were.

He kissed her at the wellhead, and the whole process began again. He’d meant it to be a kiss goodbye. It didn’t have that effect.

But eventually, she let him go down the rope Or rather, he forced himself out of her arms against his own will.

She dropped the grapnel to him after he was on the ladder. And blew him a kiss.

At the base of the ladder, he could still see her light. He felt an intense temptation to climb right back up, but there had been a change in the air of her apartments. And slaves rise early.

He could smell her on his skin – smell her perfume, which seemed to be in every fold of linen and silk in her room, and on every part of her body – rose and lavender and an Eastern scent he didn’t know. And her own scent – musky and heady. And strong.

He smelled her on his hands, and smiled, and then, after wrapping his clothes in a leather sack that would be waterproof for some minutes, he leaped into the water.

He swam downstream in the cistern, under the arch of the great wall, and again he found that darkness and deep water combined to panic him even when he knew that there was an opening at the far end. He emerged and pulled himself out on to the walkway – stronger this time – and, sack on shoulder, walked all the way to the end of the main cistern.

He dressed quietly, surprised to find that the scent of rose and lavender still clung to him, and climbed out of the cistern by the access doors. He crossed the main square, walked partway down the hill, and entered the next system. It was very dark, and when he saw the small fire that the acrobats had burning, he was very happy.

He approached as quietly as he could. But he was fifty feet from the fire when a someone spoke.

‘Don’t move,’ Peter said.

‘It’s only me,’ Swan said.

‘Don’t make too much noise,’ Peter insisted. ‘It took me a long time to get them to sleep.’

Swan walked carefully along the cistern’s shelf to the fire – really, just a small pile of charcoal that had been laid on the stone and lit. But it was warm, and he realised that he was cold.

‘We have wine,’ Peter said.

Andromache appeared beside the fire and smiled at him. She had Peter’s soldier’s cloak around her shoulders.

Swan accepted a cup of wine. ‘All is well?’

Peter shrugged and smiled a secretive smile. ‘I just spent a day underground with a troupe of actors who can’t stop talking.’ He glanced at Andromache. ‘Mind you, there are compensations.’

Swan finished his wine. ‘Tonight,’ he said. ‘Watch for us from the water gate. If you don’t see the Venetian galley—’

‘Yes?’ Peter asked. ‘Yes, what exactly do I do if there’s no ship?’

‘Switch roles and get them to take you out of the city,’ Swan said. ‘Save what you can.’

‘That’s how it is?’ Peter asked. ‘By the way, you know you smell like a Spanish whore.’

‘I lack your experience with Spanish whores,’ Swan said. ‘What do they smell like?’

‘Attar of roses and old sweat,’ Peter said.