Brotherband 4: Slaves of Socorro (28 page)

Gilan took her elbow and guided her past a row of stalls selling melons, oranges, onions and assorted vegetables. ‘This is the food section. Let’s find the clothing stalls,’ he said. ‘You do the buying – say you’re buying for your older brothers.’

‘Won’t it look suspicious if we buy ten sets of clothes?’ Lydia asked.

He nodded. ‘Decidedly. So we won’t buy them all in one place. The robes are pretty much one size for all.’

‘Except Ingvar,’ Lydia said with a smile.

‘Except Ingvar. He is a size, isn’t he?’

They crossed over three aisles, moving from the food section of the market to the section where clothing and fabrics were on sale. Gilan stopped at a money changer and exchanged some of his Araluan money for dirum, the local currency.

He frowned as he studied the purseful of coins he had been handed. ‘I think he might have taken advantage of me,’ he said.

Lydia raised an eyebrow at him and looked from him to the money changer. He was an overweight, swarthy man, whose eyes were constantly darting about him and whose hands made continual small movements.

‘I’m sure he did,’ she said.

‘Nobody ever got the better of a money changer,’ Gilan said.

He gestured at a stall where a trestle table displayed a variety of garments, ranging from the voluminous trousers that the locals wore, to brocaded and garishly decorated waistcoats, to the simple, flowing robes and headdresses they were after.

‘Off you go,’ he said, handing her a fistful of dirum. ‘Remember to haggle a little.’

She gave him a pitying look, dropping the coins into a side pocket on her vest. ‘I’m a Limmatan,’ she said. ‘I was born haggling.’

A faint smile crossed Gilan’s face. ‘Interesting picture that conjures up,’ he said. ‘Just don’t argue too much or you’ll have women banned from this market as well.’

She looked around. The market was predominantly filled with women of all ages and sizes. They were gesticulating, throwing their hands in the air, uttering shrieks of apparent despair at the prices quoted. From time to time, one of them would throw the goods they were inspecting back on the trader’s table and walk off indignantly, only agreeing to return to the negotiation when the seller agreed to a cut in price.

‘If they were to ban women here,’ she said, ‘the market wouldn’t survive.’

She approached the stall and began fingering one of the long white linen robes, a look of distaste on her features. The trader at first pretended not to notice her, then, as she held up one of the robes to inspect it more carefully, he casually came closer and muttered a price.

Lydia laughed and tossed the garment back onto the table, shaking her head disdainfully. She began to turn away but the trader picked the garment up and called her back, with an impassioned plea for her to consider the superior quality, and so the inflated price, of the garment in question. Gilan watched with interest as the charade continued. At first, Lydia offered a figure less than half the amount the trader was asking. The trader’s eyes rolled to heaven and he clutched his chest over his heart in a ‘you’re killing me’ gesture. Then he offered an infinitesimal reduction on his previous price. Lydia countered with an equally infinitesimal increase in her offer and so the bargaining continued, the trader constantly asking slightly less, Lydia constantly offering slightly more.

After three minutes, they had reached a reasonable area of negotiation, where the difference between what was offered and what was quoted was becoming smaller and smaller. Then Lydia played her trump card.

‘I want three,’ she said. ‘I have three brothers and I’m buying one for each of them.’

The trader fingered the narrow beard on his chin and thought deeply.

‘For three you will pay less,’ he said magnanimously. ‘Eight dirum each one.’

‘Six,’ she said firmly. ‘No more.’

‘Seven,’ he said.

‘Done,’ she replied. The dialogue was rapid fire, with neither one of them having time or inclination to consider the other’s offer.

The trader deftly folded three of the robes for her, placing them on the table while she counted out the money. Then they began again as she indicated that she wanted three
kheffiyehs
– the simple but effective linen headdress, held in place by a double loop of twisted horsehair, that would shield the wearer from sun, wind and dust.

By now, each had a sense of the other’s skill and determination, and the negotiations were much quicker. A few minutes later, she moved away, the new clothes folded in a sack. Gilan took charge of it and they walked through to the next aisle, where another trader and another store awaited them.

‘We could have got a better price if I’d bought all ten there,’ she pointed out.

Gilan shrugged. ‘The objective isn’t to get a better bargain,’ he said. ‘And he might remember a girl buying ten robes and headdresses. We don’t want people asking questions. Markets like this are crawling with spies and agents on the lookout for anything unusual.’

She nodded and repeated the process at a second and third stall. Interestingly, all of them charged the same amount at the end of the haggling, which made her feel that she had struck a reasonable bargain. Either that or they recognised her as an easy mark, she thought.

They took a break and sat at a stall selling coffee and sweet pastries. The coffee was delicious – thick and grainy and heavily sweetened. Gilan rolled it around his tongue appreciatively.

‘They know their coffee in this country,’ he said.

Lydia pulled a face. There were too many grounds in the cup for her taste.

‘Now what?’ she asked as he drained his cup. The look on his face told her that he was considering ordering a second. ‘We do need to get back to the ship sometime this week.’

He nodded reluctantly. ‘True. Then perhaps we should have a look at the gold market.’

She frowned. ‘What’s the fascination with the gold market?’

‘We’re planning to liberate the captives,’ he told her. ‘And that means we’ll be raiding the slave market. We might have to stage some sort of diversion and I figure the gold market might be the best place to do it.’

‘What kind of diversion do you have in mind?’ Lydia asked.

He smiled. ‘A fire’s always good. Nothing gets an Arridan trader’s attention better than a threat to his gold. And it’ll probably draw the patrols away from the slave market while they try to put it out. So I’d like to have a look at it and get an idea of the layout.’

‘What about me?’ she asked.

He smiled again. ‘You’re a woman,’ he said. ‘You aren’t allowed in the gold market.’

‘The heck I’m not,’ she said. She gestured to the sack of clothes they had purchased. ‘With one of those robes and a headdress, who’s going to know the difference?’

‘You don’t think your overwhelming femininity will give you away?’ he teased.

She gave him a pitying look. ‘You know, you’re starting to make Thorn look agreeable.’

She found a secluded spot behind the coffee stall and donned one of the robes and
kheffiyehs
. Gilan gave the stall owner a small coin to take care of the clothes for them and studied her as she emerged, now wrapped in the flowing robe and with the
kheffiyeh
arranged over her head. It was an effective disguise and with her olive skin, dark eyes and slim build, she would pass easily for a young boy.

‘Let’s take a look at this gold market,’ she said.

T
he attackers wore black and white striped robes over baggy linen trousers that were gathered at the ankles. Their feet were clad in stout leather sandals and they wore cone-shaped brass helmets on their heads, over long linen turbans whose tails hung down their backs. Each of them carried a small, round metal shield, shaped like an oversized bowl. As they reached the bottom of the slope, there was a series of rasping metal on leather sounds as each man drew a long-bladed curved sword.

‘Move it!’ Thorn barked.

The crew scrambled to gather swords, axes and shields. As they formed up around him, he was busy shedding his grasping hook from the end of his right arm. Stig passed him the huge, bone-crushing war club Hal had fashioned for him and he strapped it in place, using his teeth to pull the straps tight. He nodded his thanks to Stig, picked up a shield – a large round one in place of the small metal shield he often used – and the two of them stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder.

‘Shield wall,’ Thorn said, then quickly called, ‘Shields up!’

The warning came just in time. He’d spotted movement at the fringe of the approaching group of armed men. Three of them had short but powerful bows. The arrows rattled against the raised shields. Two deflected off the metal bosses. The third thudded directly into the wood of Stefan’s shield and stayed there, quivering.

Hal took the situation in at a glance. So far, he hadn’t joined the shield wall, which had formed rapidly in a semi-circle. Instinctively, the crew had placed themselves in position to defend the ship. Moving behind them, Hal heaved himself up over the bulwark and ran aft to where his crossbow and quiver of bolts were hanging beside the tiller.

He stepped his foot into the stirrup at the front of the crossbow, grabbed the cord in two hands and heaved it back until he heard it clack into the restraint. He fed a bolt into the groove on top of the crossbow and ran forward to the bow again, the quiver of bolts, slung hurriedly over one shoulder, banging loosely against his side.

There was a man in the centre of the approaching line who was obviously in command. He gestured to the archers, placed at either end of the line, and pointed his sword at the waiting Skandians. The bows came up again and Hal could hear the creak of straining cord, hide and wood as they drew back.

He flipped up the rear sight on the crossbow, estimating the range at less than a hundred metres. He centred the foresight on one of the archers and, as the man released his arrow, Hal squeezed the trigger lever of his crossbow.

There was the usual ugly slamming sound, then the bolt sped on its way. He’d hurried the shot and it went low, taking the man in the thigh. The force of the shot jerked the man’s leg out from under him and he fell, dropping the bow and clutching at his injured leg. The arrow that he’d shot, along with the other two, thudded harmlessly into the Herons’ big circular shields.

Then the leader of the group yelled a command, raised his sword, lowered it to point at the waiting Skandians, and led his men in a wild, screaming charge.

‘Brace!’ shouted Thorn and the Herons set their feet, leaning their weight into the big wooden shields, overlapping them so that their combined strength was ready to resist the charge.

The attackers crashed into the unyielding shield wall, rebounding and staggering with the shock of contact. Their normal victims were traders and travellers, not used to fighting and more inclined to flee at the sight of the charging, sword-wielding Asaroki. This time they had come up against trained, expert warriors, fully armed and ready for their attack. Four of the attackers went down in that first impact, as the Skandian axes, and Thorn’s mighty club-hand, smashed into them. Thorn himself took care of two of the attackers, with a blindingly fast forehand and backhand sweep that sent them flying off their feet. Stig’s vertical axe stroke dropped another where he stood and Edvin accounted for the fourth with a swift, expertly placed sword thrust. As the bandit sank to his knees, a surprised look on his face, clutching at the wound in his side, Edvin grimly recalled Thorn’s teaching:

Three centimetres of point is as good as thirty of edge.

Instinctively, the surviving attackers withdrew from that implacable wall of shields and deadly weapons. The leader looked back in an attempt to rally his men and, as he did, another crossbow bolt buzzed over the heads of the Skandians and hit him squarely in the chest. The impact hurled him backwards and he crashed into two of his men, dead before he hit the sand.

But if the defenders thought his death might discourage the remaining raiders, they were quickly disabused of that notion. The second in command of the band screamed an order and they hurled themselves forward again. This time, they had a little more success. They concentrated their attack at one end of the line, reasoning that the most capable fighters would be at its centre. Seven of them drove Ulf, Wulf and Edvin back, and began to spill round the flank of the line to encircle the defenders. One of them avoided Edvin’s darting sword by mere centimetres, then moved behind the smallest of the Skandians while another attacker took his attention. The first bandit drew back his sword, ready to plunge it into Edvin’s unprotected back, when a snarling black and white hurricane smashed into him.

Forty-five kilograms of enraged dog slammed into the Asaroki, sending him sprawling. Desperately, he raised his sword arm to protect himself, but Kloof’s mighty jaws crunched shut on his forearm and the weapon fell to the sand while its owner screamed in pain and fright.

‘Good dog, Kloof!’ Edvin said, realising the threat a few seconds too late. Without the dog’s intervention, he would be dead by now. Kloof released the terrified bandit’s arm, wagging his tail at Edvin. ‘I’ll make a note to feed you more often,’ Edvin told her.