Brotherband 4: Slaves of Socorro (39 page)

They had travelled via a circuitous route that brought them to the south-western gate – the one furthest removed from the neighbouring slave market. Fortuitously, it was a gate by which they hadn’t previously accessed the gold
souk
. That way, there was less chance of encountering a guard they might have seen previously, one who might remember them and ask awkward questions.

Even at this late hour, there was a crowd milling outside the gate, waiting to gain entrance. As they crossed the square, Gilan pulled one of the tails of his
kheffiyeh
across his face to obscure part of it. He knew that if he covered his face completely, it would only arouse suspicion. But the partial concealment was nearly as effective, and far less noticeable or memorable. Lydia took her cue from him, doing likewise.

They tagged onto the end of the queue waiting to enter, moving slowly forward. Before long, they were no longer the end of the queue, as other keen traders joined on behind them. On this occasion, the guard seemed to be merely going through the motions of checking people as they entered. There was little talk and each group or individual received only the most perfunctory inspection before being waved through.

Lydia and Gilan were no different. The yawning guard glanced quickly at them, then waved them forward with a complete show of indifference.

As they stepped through the gateway, then went through an arched entrance, the darkness disappeared in a blaze of lantern and candle light reflecting off the gold and brass displays that lined the streets. The smell of grilling meat filled the air and Lydia’s stomach rumbled. She realised she hadn’t eaten since the afternoon. Gilan looked at her, amused.

‘I take it from that thunderous noise that you’re feeling peckish?’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘Forget pecking. Put some food in front of me and I’ll tear it to pieces.’

‘Might not be a bad idea to do that while we get our bearings,’ he said. They were in a part of the market they hadn’t visited before and, while there was nothing essentially different from the parts they had already seen, they could use a little time to check out the surroundings and pick a likely place where they could start their diversion.

He led the way to one of the many tea houses in the market and they sat at a small table on spindly chairs. The waiter brought them mint tea, grilled mutton still sizzling on skewers, and flat bread with a salad of chopped parsley and mint.

They ate and drank, and the Ranger’s eyes were never still, darting from one stall to another, from one side street to another as he studied the lay of the land. Once again, they had selected a spot at the top of a natural hill, where the streets and side alleys fell away on all sides. Finally, he casually pointed to a spot halfway down and on their left, at the junction of the main street and a narrow alley.

‘That looks like the place,’ he said. ‘Finish your tea and we’ll take a closer look.’

T
he rescue party left an hour after Gilan and Lydia had slipped away to the gold
souk.

Hal spent the intervening time pacing the deck, from bow to stern and back again. From time to time, he would stop and inspect the work being carried out by Ulf, Wulf, Edvin and Stefan. They had the halyard and stays rigged and ready and were now refitting the triangular sails to the long, slender yardarms.

At one stage, Stig began to rise to his feet as Hal paced past him. Thorn laid his left arm on Stig’s forearm. ‘Where are you off to?’ he asked, although he knew full well.

Stig glanced after his friend, pacing with his head down. ‘Thought I’d keep him company.’

Thorn shook his head. ‘He doesn’t need company right now. He needs to be alone.’

Stig studied Hal more closely as he turned and began to pace his way forward once more. He could see the frown of concentration creasing his friend’s forehead, the set of his mouth and the distant look in his eyes and he realised Thorn was right. He sat down and began honing the blade of his axe once more. The axe was already sharp enough to shave the hairs on his forearm, but all Skandians knew an axe could never be
too
sharp.

For his part, Thorn had already strapped on the fearsome club-hand that Hal had made for him. In addition, he was wearing a sword on his right hip and his saxe in a scabbard on his left. A small, bowl-shaped metal shield lay on the deck beside him.

Jesper, the fourth member of the raiding party, and in some ways the most important, sat in the well where the rowing benches were situated. He had his lock-picking wallet open before him, and a selection of half a dozen old and new padlocks arranged on the bench. Some he had had for years. Others he had bought as recently as that afternoon in the bazaar.

Now, as he sat, humming quietly to himself, he would pick up a padlock at random, inspect it quickly, then select the correct lock-pick from his kit and proceed to open the lock. The succession of smooth clicks were audible throughout the ship as he practised his craft. It was a strangely soothing sound. The locks were well oiled and well maintained and it took only seconds for him to manipulate the pick in each of them and have the jaws spring open.

Finally, satisfied that his fingers were sufficiently nimble and sensitive enough to assess the resistance of each lock as he manipulated it, he packed the padlocks away, rolled his lock-picks back into the canvas wallet, and slung it around his neck, over his shoulder.

In the distance, the watch tower bell chimed, its peals ringing steadily out over the city. As before, Hal’s lips moved unconsciously as he counted the strokes, although once the bell had sounded twice, indicating that it wasn’t sounding a quarter-hour signal, it was inevitable what the end result would be.

‘Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve,’ he said quietly.

His sword belt was leaning against the steering platform and he moved towards it now, swinging it round his waist and buckling it on in a smooth movement borne of long practice. He donned his white robe and
kheffiyeh
then, as an afterthought, shoved his Heron watch cap through his belt. Once they were at the slave market, they planned to abandon the white cloaks – they would only stand out in the darkness. When that happened, he was going to lose the
kheffiyeh
as well, and don the watch cap – the Herons’ uniform headgear. He noticed the other three picking up their caps and shoving them inside jackets or through belts. Obviously, everyone had the same idea.

Kloof had watched him donning the sword belt and cloak. Now she reared up on her hind legs, straining against the length of rope that kept her tethered to the mast. He stepped to her and ruffled her ears as she whined expectantly.

‘Not tonight, girl,’ he said. ‘You stay here and keep an eye on Ulf and Wulf.’

The twins grinned up at him and Kloof subsided, disappointment evident in every line of her body. She let her front legs slide out from under her on the decking and slumped down on her belly, chin resting on her paws, her eyes following Hal’s every move.

‘Keep her tied up,’ he said to Edvin. ‘She’s liable to take off after me and we won’t have time to find her later.’

‘I’ll take care of it,’ Edvin said. ‘Good luck, Hal.’

‘Take care, boys!’ Ulf called softly.

‘Brain a
dooryeh
for me, Thorn,’ Wulf added.

The raiding party climbed up the short boarding ladder to the wharf.

‘Who’s got the grapnel?’ Hal asked. His voice seemed unnaturally loud.

Thorn tapped his shoulder. ‘It’s here.’

They planned to scale the high wooden wall of the arena, at a point level with the office and the slave pen. For that purpose, Thorn was carrying a coil of light, strong rope, with a grappling hook attached to one end. They would throw the hook over the wall, heave on it until it set, then swarm up the rope to gain entrance.

‘Jes, do you have the booster?’ he asked.

Jesper nodded and held up a metre-long piece of wood – the butt of an old oar. They would use it to help get over the wall.

Hal paused for a moment, taking a quick inventory. They had their weapons and the grapnel. And Jesper had his lock-picks. There was nothing else they needed, other than a decent measure of good luck, he thought grimly.

‘Let’s go then,’ he said.

T
he four raiders crouched in the shadows. Above them, the massive wall of the slave market blocked out the night sky. Hal looked at Thorn, standing ready with the rope and grapnel Jesper had handed him. ‘Let it go,’ he said.

Thorn had the coil of rope looped over his club-hand. He held the end, with the triple-hooked grapnel in place, in his left, letting it swing easily back and forth. The hooks were wound with canvas to reduce the sound they would make when the grapnel hit the timber benches inside the arena.

Now Thorn stepped away from the wall, swung the weighted line back and forth a few times, and cast it underhand up the wall.

It was a task he had performed hundreds of times in his career as a raider, so it was not surprising that his cast was perfect. The grapnel sailed upwards, trailing the length of knotted rope behind it. As it cleared the lip of the wall, it lost momentum and began to fall back. But Thorn had cast it on an angle, so that it was slightly inside the lip of the wall. There was a dull thud as it made contact with the timber, then Thorn pulled the rope tight, setting the padded hook against the edge of the wall before it could rattle and clatter across the benches.

‘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.