Thief's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  Skiouros pulled away irritably as a heavy fat droplet of water burst on his forehead.

  Back inside he crossed the room, pulled open the door sharply as though expecting a lurking menace outside and, finding nothing, closed it behind him and sauntered down the stairs. On the rare occasions he had anything worth protecting, he would set small traps at his door, but generally only a spare shirt and his ruined boots sat in the room, so he sometimes even left the door open invitingly. Better they didn't damage the hinges getting in to find out their time was wasted.

  Jogging lightly down the wooden stairs, he played a game that had become second nature over the years.

  Left; right; right; skip a step; left; left; right; centre; left; skip to left; skip to right; right; left; drop the last two steps to the ground floor.

  The ancient wooden staircase included five steps that were weak enough to give way under a heavy step and everyone in the building knew which ones to avoid. They could seriously hamper the day of any visitor, should the building contain anyone who was worth visiting - which it didn't. With only a few safe patches large enough for a footstep, even the well repaired steps were noisy and relatively poor.

  With a sense of light relief, Skiouros stepped out into the street at the front of the building, hurriedly fastening the doublet against the chill wind that blew up the slope from the Golden Horn. Today could be the best in many years. Despite the unpleasantness of last night and this morning, he had actually felt as close to his brother during the morning argument as he had for half a decade, and this afternoon he would visit Judah and see if there was any news on the money. He'd been told 'a few days', but with that kind of money involved, Skiouros suspected the old Jew would have the money pushed through in short order.

  With a spring in his step, he bounced down the street and ducked into the side passage that led to the 'Bloody' church of Saint Mary. The afternoon light shone on the barest wall of the church, leaving the badly-upkept brick façade where the brothers habitually met in a sliver of shade. Rubbing his eyes and aware that sleep would still be of great use, Skiouros crossed to the wall. The majority of its length consisted of the traditional Byzantine decorative brick where the plaster bearing the red paint had come away, leaving the bare core.

  The chances of Lykaion having further need of him were small for certain, but there was always that niggling possibility, and better to spend a few minutes in the cold searching the church walls than give Lykaion any more ammunition to use against him in future.

  His gaze rose as high as he could have reached on the red paint and began to stray back and forth in a zig-zag pattern down the wall, searching for the scratched legend ' Λύκαιον' - a warning that his brother needed to see him. As his gaze reached the bottom of the wall and he felt a sag of relief, having found only crude graffiti and meaningless scrapes, he suddenly became aware of a noise behind him.

  Turning, expecting to see one of the many stray dogs making a gagging choking sound, he almost laughed out loud as he realised that the peculiar noise was his brother trying subtly to attract his attention.

  Lykaion stood in the lee of one of the local houses, almost shrouded in shadow opposite where Skiouros peered at the wall. His smile faltered and then fell into one of worry as he noted the expression of desperate fear on his brother's face and the nervous twitch of his hands as he gripped the wooden wall and pushed himself back out of sight.

  "What?"

  Lykaion made a hissing noise and used his hands to mime a need for silence. As Skiouros frowned, his brother beckoned. Shrugging, the smaller brother crossed the open space and ducked into the narrow stretch of shade with Lykaion.

  "What is it?" he hissed.

  "Trouble!" Lykaion snapped, his voice little more than a whisper. "Big, big trouble."

  Skiouros' hand went automatically to his belt knife.

  "What sort of trouble."

  "I'm wanted by the Janissaries!"

  This time, Skiouros couldn't help but let out a small chuckle.

  "I'm serious!" Lykaion snarled, his voice rising unintentionally.

  "For what?"

  "What do you think? For the murder of the vizier!"

  "But that's ridiculous. Why would they think that?"

  Lykaion sagged against the wall. "I don't know whether they're just being stupid and mistaken - maybe they need someone to pin it on very quickly before the Sultan finds out; sometimes the truth is not as important as having someone to punish in the Ottoman court. Maybe my shaky story didn't help? It was hardly convincing, I have to admit. I don't know. I have the horrible suspicion that Bin Murad is pinning this on me out of spite. The man is a spiteful old snake."

  "Who's Bin Murad?"

  "My commander. He's put out a call for my arrest. By now every Janissary in the city will be aware of it and on the lookout. And given the nature of the killing and the victim, they'll be none too careful in arresting me. It won't go too badly for them if they deliver me as a corpse instead of a prisoner."

  Skiouros shook his head in bewilderment. "This is all insane. There's no evidence against you, A Greek court would laugh it aside."

  "There's no such thing as a Greek court, brother, and the Janissaries will deal with it any way they see fit. And with the death of a senior government official, it'll be something vicious. I don't know what to do."

  "Well we'll have to try and come up with something that exonerates you."

  Lykaion barked a laugh. "Unlikely, since we've nothing to go on. All things are as Allah wills them. I must have offended God. Probably by consorting with thieves and whores."

  Skiouros bit his lip and stepped back into the sunlight.

  "I may have something that could help, but the first thing to do is to get you changed. Look at you: you might as well be running around shouting that you're a Janissary."

  "I took my hat off and turned my jacket inside out" the older brother retorted somewhat defensively.

  "It's still green and very official looking - doesn't look like a peasant jacket; just like an inside-out Janissary jacket. And you're wearing your red leather boots, your blue trousers and even your sword. You need to change completely."

  "Tell me about this 'something that could help'" Lykaion said with a suspicious frown. "I knew you were keeping something from me."

  "I'll tell you, but we need to make you blend in first. Come with me."

  Lykaion began to object, but his brother had hold of his cuff and was already dragging him out into the sunlight. Spluttering his panic, the older of the pair found himself unceremoniously hauled out and hurried along the narrow road by the church and turned several swift corners in a row until Lykaion had no idea where they were.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Local tailor. Need to get you changed."

  "I haven't much money on me."

  "You've enough for this tailor" Skiouros announced with a grin as they turned a corner into another narrow street, cross-crossed with lines of people's washing.

  "No. I won't steal clothes" Lykaion said flatly.

  "But I will." Leaving the older brother with his arms crossed, resolutely shaking his head, Skiouros jogged off along the street, his eyes checking the doors and windows in advance of his run as they sized up potential items.

  Hurrying along past the few open doors or occupied windows, the thief's arm shot out three times, snatching items off lines as he ran - items carefully selected in advance. Lykaion watched in a mix of amazement and disapproval as his younger brother reached the far end of the narrow street, having acquired a full suit of clothes without attracting even a shout of consternation, and disappeared around a corner.

  He stood nervously for some time, wondering where his brother had gone and starting to worry about standing here near so many now missing garments, until a tap on his shoulder nearly caused him to lose bladder control. Skiouros stood grinning behind him, gesturing back the way they had come.

  The pair hurried through a few more streets and int
o the shade of a tiny alley mouth, where Lykaion came to a breathless halt and looked his brother and their haul up and down.

  "No. Not stolen clothes."

  "It's that or you risk both our lives. How long do you think it's going to be before your brothers in arms start to search the Greek enclave, given your history? Get that kit off."

  The older brother stared helplessly for a long moment, shaking his head, but there was no clear alternative and in the end he began to divest himself of the jacket and the cotton garments beneath it.

  "Leave the shirt" Skiouros noted, pointing. "No one will notice the shirt. You'll need to keep the boots for now too, but here's a brown doublet and braes and a scratty short cloak you can throw over the top. When we get to my room, you can try on my old boots. They might be a bit tight for you, but we'll have to make do for now. Boots are a 'must buy', sadly."

  With considerable distaste, Lykaion removed his outer clothes and shrugged into the stolen garb. Despite his disapproval of the clothes' origin, he had to marvel at Skiouros' eye for detail. Each item was a perfect fit, clean and yet nondescript. The resulting look made his official red leather boots stand out all the more. With a sigh, he began to belt his sword back on.

  "Not the sword."

  "What?"

  "The sword's costly and Ottoman. Too obvious. You'll have to throw it away."

  "No."

  "It's too much of a giveaway. Drop it and your Janissary clothes into that dung pit at the end of the alley."

  "No. I'll throw my jacket and trousers, but the sword I'll carry under my cloak. I can hide it in your room. I'm being hunted by the Janissaries, and I won't simply throw away my only defence."

  "Keep your knife on your belt too, then. That's fine in this quarter and you might even get away with it in the rest of the city."

  As Lykaion hid the curved sword in the voluminous folds of his ragged cloak, Skiouros peered out of the alley entranceway and nodded in satisfaction.

  "Come on."

  As nervous as he'd ever been, Lykaion followed his brother back into the main street and up the hill, turning corners until they arrived at the wooden building that Skiouros had called home for almost four years now.

  With warnings and guidance from Skiouros, the pair climbed the stairs, avoiding the dangerous planks, and pushed open the door only when the younger man had checked to make sure the room was unoccupied, peering through the crack between the hinges.

  "Come in."

  As Lykaion entered the small space and looked around with barely-concealed distaste, Skiouros collapsed onto the bed and fished around underneath, pulling out a pair of ragged, leaky boots covered in stains. The older of the brothers stared at them in disgust before taking them gingerly and examining them.

  "Horrible" he remarked.

  "Just put them on."

  Lykaion joined him, sitting on the edge of the bed as he removed his expensive red boots and pushed his feet with some difficulty into the ruined brown ones.

  "Tell me the whole story" he said quietly as he struggled with the footwear. Skiouros flashed a nervous glance at him for a moment and then sagged back onto the bed, lacing his fingers together behind his head. After a long, cleansing breath, he began to relate the story of the previous day, from the moment Lykaion had left angrily right to the fountain where he'd cleaned off all the blood. Throughout the tale, the older brother nodded as though Skiouros was simply confirming his worst suspicions. Finally, when he'd finished, Skiouros squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his short hair.

  "We could go and see Judah Ben Isaac, though I'm not sure how well he'll take being queried and I'm not sure I want him knowing what he's almost involved in."

  He'd expected Lykaion to argue, but the older brother simply nodded knowingly. "Ben Isaac is a vicious piece of work when he's crossed. If we get on the wrong side of him, the Janissaries will look like the easy option. I think you need to forget about him. Forget all about your stolen hoard and have nothing else to do with the man and his pet thugs."

  "It's a lot of money" Skiouros objected defensively.

  "I'm sure it'll be very useful for you when you're floating face down in the Propontis for putting the old bastard in danger. Anyway, he's peripheral to this whole thing. He's only involved because you dragged him into it, and the coins will tell you nothing beyond when and where they were minted."

  "So what…"

  "The Mamluk."

  Skiouros scratched his chin. "But he could be anywhere."

  "Not so. There are precious few places in the city a Mamluk can go without causing comment or being attacked. And you say you think he was accompanied by Janissaries?"

  "Definitely."

  "There are maybe half a dozen places an enemy of the empire could hide in the city. But with a Janissary guard he's here officially. And that narrows it down to two or three. He could be one of the few Mamluks that are actually serving the Sultan, which would put him at Topkapi, the Yedikule fortress or the Blachernae palace. He could be one of the merchants with trade authority, who are still permitted to ferry goods between here and Egypt, in which case he'll be restricted and should be spending most of his time at the ports on the Golden Horn. Or he's one of the officials - an ambassador or other noble - in which case he'll be in the Bucoleon palace on the Propontis shore."

  "None of which you're likely to get into, even if you kept your uniform on."

  Lykaion nodded. "But I might not need to actually get inside if only I knew where to look. Five places to watch and only one of me. Is there anything else you can tell me? There must be more."

  "I've told you everything I can remember, short of the colour of his underwear"

  "Clothes…" mused Lykaion, tapping his lip with a finger that he then eyed suspiciously, wondering whether it might be deadly poisonous after touching Skiouros' old boots. A frown crept across his face.

  "Clothes. The Janissary clothes. Can you describe any peculiarities of them? We might be able to narrow it down by his guards."

  Skiouros nodded, gazing into space as he cast his mind back to the image of the two guards throwing themselves over the trestle tables in the market in an effort to get to him. They all looked very much the same. They were almost identical to the uniform Lykaion had been wearing earlier. Only the cavalry or the axemen or musket orta or suchlike were distinguishable. Except for…

  "I can do better than that" he grinned. Lykaion raised a questioning eyebrow.

  "They both had the same insignia as you. Does that help?"

  "The Fourteenth?" Pieces of a frightening puzzle were starting to click together in Lykaion's mind as he thought it through. "So if this Mamluk is connected to the killing - which seems undeniable - and his guards serve Hamza Bin Murad, then it's no longer surprising that the commander might immediately pin the blame on me. Something very serious and important is going on here, little brother."

  "Does it help narrow down where to look?"

  Lykaion nodded. "The Fourteenth are palace Guard. We serve at Topkapi and the Bucoleon. The Blachernae palace and its dungeons are in the hands of the Provost corbasi and his men."

  "Down to two, then?" queried Skiouros.

  "Describe your Mamluk again."

  Dredging his considerable recall, Skiouros once more detailed everything he could think of about the Mamluk. When he finished, Lykaion nodded again.

  "And that's definite. All absolutely correct?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I go to the Bucoleon palace."

  "You've seen him?"

  "Quite the opposite. I am assigned to the Topkapi, and I've seen the four Mamluks who work there dozens of times over the past months. Three of them have full beards - two grey and one deep black. The other is always clean-shaven - I believe him to be a eunuch. If your Mamluk in the market sported a thin, oiled moustache, then he is not at the Topkapi."

  Skiouros pursed his lips as he tried to picture the Bucoleon palace. It would be as impossible to get inside as the Sultan's own Topkap
i palace, but considerably easier to watch.

  The old imperial walls that had turned three grand structures into a single massive palace complex with its own lighthouse, chapels, churches and ancillary buildings, now stood unguarded and with the doors removed, even demolished in places. The main structure of the former complex was the only part now inhabited and was itself commonly referred to as the Bucoleon. This building - a grand edifice on its own - stood directly on the sea-shore, with two sides opening out onto land within the city and two onto the waters of the Propontis. There was an impressive water entrance, but that would not be opened in these days; particularly not if the building were serving as the quarters of dignitaries and ambassadors for an enemy nation.

  That left only two sides, and there was no entrance on the western wall. The only remaining façade, which opened north into the heart of the city, had one grand entrance, and one smaller servants' door. It would be easy enough to keep watch over them.

  It was feasible. And yet still an inferior choice to the alternative that had been forming in another corner of his mind as he talked.

  "There's another option" he said quietly.

  Lykaion, his mind still riveted on the Bucoleon and his next move, looked up in confusion. "Hmm?"

  "I said: there's another option."

  "What?"

  "Leave the city."

  Lykaion shook his head decisively. "No. I am Janissary."

  "No you're not. Look, brother: even if you can find this Mamluk, what will you do with him? How are you going to prove his involvement and clear your own name? Especially if half your own comrades think you're guilty? You're heading down a path to self-destruction."

  "I cannot flee and leave my name in ruins."

  "It's not your name. Hussein is some construct of the Janissaries. You are Lykaion, son of Nikos of Hadrianople. I don't care whether you bow to God or Allah or some piss-faced pagan, but you are my brother. I'd rather we were both free and gone from here than dead in an Ottoman ditch."

  "No. You might be able to run…"

  "Lykaion, you've been trying to persuade me to stop my thieving ways for years. How about I make you a deal: we'll go down to the port of Theodosius and get on a ship bound for Crete. We can hide out here until she sails and when I get to Judah Ben Isaac, he'll give me enough money to pay for the journey and start us on something new when we get there?"