Even as the man bounded to the side, away from Skiouros’ lunge, ripping a curved blade from his sheath, he bellowed to his guards outside for help. The men on the floor were now half-up, struggling to fight off the attacks of Skiouros’ friends. Now that they had recovered from the shock of the attack their warrior training was back in control and even on the defensive, they were presenting difficulties for Dragi and Parmenio. Diego, still in the doorway, was busy requisitioning a sword from one of the fallen.
From back across the open deck there came the sound of voices raised in sharp reply to Sincabı-paşa’s call, even above the workmen. The other soldiers were coming. Skiouros had little time to devote any attention to the matter, however, as he leapt once again towards the king-breaker.
Behind him, Dragi finally overcame the man with whom he’d been struggling and put his two blades into the man’s sides, ripping them out in a shower of crimson and then plunging them back in for good measure. The soldier stiffened and then fell away with a gurgle of agony. Parmenio was wrestling with what looked like an angry bear in a turban, trying to bring his ladle and knife to a useful position as the man’s huge arms, rippling with muscle and matted with dark hair, gradually forced the former sailor back off him.
‘Why do I… always… get the big one?’ Parmenio grumbled breathlessly as he fought. Desperately, he looked around to Dragi for help as the Romani wiped his blades on his latest victim and examined a thin cut across the back of his hand. Diego was missing, but the sound of fighting from out in the main deck confirmed that he had gone to head off the paşa’s reinforcements.
‘Dragi?’ he managed to breathe as he struggled, his eyes flicking to the ursine bastard with the thick beard who was nearly breaking his arms, pushing him up.
The Romani nodded and said ‘You have things under control,’ before running out through the door to help the beleaguered Diego against five more well-prepared men. Parmenio stared for a moment, and then bent back to his titanic struggle with the big man below him.
Skiouros found himself in an unenviable position. Though he had Sincabı-Paşa backed into the corner of the navigation room, he was brandishing a knife and a stick, while his enemy held a good sword in a grip which suggested that he knew how to use it.
‘Who are you?’ breathed Sincabı-Paşa in Turkish, in a fascinated voice, his eyes narrowing. There was something odd about those eyes. Nothing clear, but…
‘Can you not guess?’
The man shrugged. ‘You are the supposed king-maker, for all this Romani superstition counts. But who are you?’
Skiouros felt an odd thrill to realise that this man – his opposite number among the enemy – seemed to share his sceptical opinion. He found himself wondering momentarily whether Sincabı-Paşa had considered a different path, just as he had. The fact that the man went by the familiar appellation Sincabı only added to a sudden strange feeling of kinship for which he felt unprepared.
‘My name is Skiouros.’
‘A Greek.’ The king-breaker looked past Skiouros with his odd eyes to where Parmenio and the huge soldier were grunting and struggling on the floor. ‘For the love of God, Rashid, will you finish him?’
Skiouros smiled unpleasantly and switched to Greek. If the man knew the name as a Greek word, then he likely knew the language. ‘There’s no need for this to end in death, Sincabı. I have had enough of killing in my few short years. If you answer my questions and agree to confinement until after the festival, you can then go free.’
‘How very generous of you. I doubt your Romani friend out there would approve of the offer.’
‘The Romani have pushed us into this, guiding our steps and urging us to carry out their will. But I am not here to interfere with the succession. I am here to prevent interference.’
Sincabı-Paşa laughed. ‘You fool. I know who you are now, of course – I remember the face, so like mine, but somehow less... You are that Greek who stopped the assassins five years ago. I ought to thank you. There was I, just a street beggar in the rainy square outside the great Aya Sofya, when you ran past all covered in blood and drenched through. The old woman – dede Babik – said you chased the assassin down into the cistern. I had no idea what had truly happened, of course, but I spun a very plausible tale as the janissaries found me and took me to the palace. You changed my life that day. From starving beggar to one-tail paşa – favoured of the sultan – in a single day. And so in grateful thanks, I’ll reverse your offer. Leave the city now and I will not pursue you. Go and live your small, insignificant life somewhere in the Morea and I will let you have it unmolested.’
Skiouros felt his jaw harden. Good. He had been dithering a little just now, unsure of how much he might actually have in common with this man who represented a dark reflection of himself. But the man was riling him now, bringing back the loathing he had felt at the sight of that twisted dream-Skiouros, and the anger that rose in response swamped any uncertainty. Still, everyone deserved one more chance…
‘You don’t have to do what they want you to do, Sincabı. Do not allow yourself to be a piece in their game. In three days this will be over and you can choose how you want to live.’
The king-breaker shook his head with a small, unpleasant smile.
‘You don’t understand, killer of Mamluks. It was I who persuaded them to direct and bloody action, you fool. The Romani favour playing slow games, positioning their pieces and waiting for the acts of others to win the match for them. Why else do you think you and I are here, now? No, Skiouros the thief. It was I who persuaded them that positioning their prince and hoping for the best was not enough. It was too much of a gamble, and my way Ahmed will rise to the throne knowing that he owes much of his advance to me. His father made me a one-tail paşa, but that is not enough. Funny thing about power: there never seems to be enough. Becoming powerful just makes you want more. It’s like a drug, Skiouros. And when Ahmed is sultan, he will make me grand vizier for my efforts. And then, one day, who knows…’
Skiouros looked into the gaze of his opponent and realised suddenly that what he’d not been able to identify in the man’s eyes was plain and simple madness. He’d seen it before in the terrifying gaze of the butcher pirate Etci Hassan – a specific form of madness, too, fuelled with horrifying purpose; channelled, distilled and then compacted down to a diamond. There was no hope of reasoning with the man.
‘You will tell me who the man in Selim’s court is, and anyone you have in the palace of the sultan, too. I assure you of it,’ Skiouros said in a flat tone.
‘Words. Empty words. My men outnumber yours. I outclass you. This will be over swiftly and then my plans will continue apace. You have saved Korkut, and congratulations for that, but he is the weakest of the three, and we will deal with him in due course. Selim will die tomorrow as planned, and then Bayezid will expire at the festival by my own fair hand – I am, after all, part of his glorious celebration, given how selflessly a Greek peasant endangered his own life to save that of his Ottoman master. I will be close to his side at the festival. And after that Ahmed will soon put an end to his remaining brother. Now, enough of these empty words. Come for me so we can end this.’
Skiouros, trying to ignore the sounds of Parmenio’s desperate struggle behind him, lunged, his long knife aimed at Sincabı’s heart. A predictable and basic attack – not much more he could do with a knife, really. But as the paşa stepped lightly to the side out of the way of the attack, the real purpose of the Greek’s feint became clear as the wooden baton lashed out sharply, jabbing into the man’s wrist. Skiouros yelped at the sharp pain in his shoulder as he thrust, but Sincabı also hissed, almost dropping the sword as his hand numbed. Quickly he flicked the blade to his other hand and brandished it ready. Skiouros sagged. Ambidextrous too?
There was nothing else he could do for a few moments as Sincabı took the opportunity to retaliate, his blade lancing out with breath-taking speed, causing Skiouros to dance back and left to stay out of its reach. In a pan
ic, he bumped his back into the chart table and had to duck sharply to one side to avoid being skewered there and then. Sincabı’s right hand hung down at his side, the baton-blow to his wrist having deadened his whole hand, but his left came back with the blade, twisting it ready to deliver a slash with the curved edge. At least, with both of them arm-wounded, they were a little more evenly-matched again.
Skiouros leapt back, the blade’s swipe coming so near that he felt the rush of air across his throat. That was too close. And then suddenly Sincabı was there again like some sort of battle nightmare, his sword slashing, stabbing and lunging so fast that Skiouros had little opportunity to do anything but leap out of the way and back across the room. On came the paşa, and Skiouros staggered over the struggling bodies of Parmenio and the big man, almost falling. Reeling and skittering, on the desperate defensive, Skiouros suddenly had to raise his makeshift club to save his skin, the sword blow shearing it off just above knuckle height.
Left with just his knife now, Skiouros gained a moment’s breather as Sincabı paused in his pursuit to drive his sword down swiftly through both Parmenio and the bear beneath him, ending that fight. Skiouros, his blood running cold at the sight of that steel blade rising from his friend’s back as it was jerkily removed, suddenly snapped, screamed, and leapt at Sincabı, his knife aiming for the paşa’s throat.
His advance halted due to his pause to dispatch the other combatants, Sincabı was now suddenly on the defensive again, his enemy close enough to use that knife effectively and to render the longer sword almost useless. Skiouros managed to sink the blade of the surgeon’s knife into the man’s shoulder and arm, but Sincabı was still quick and soon the space was opening up between them again and that curved sword came round, holding Skiouros at bay.
‘Revenge sits well with you,’ the king-breaker laughed. ‘It makes you fight back.’
Skiouros felt panic rise to fill the hollowness inside. The loss of his old friend was about to be compounded by his own death. He was starting to tire a little now, and the paşa was still clearly the better warrior, still better armed and now on the offensive once again.
Desperately, Skiouros held up his knife to ward off a blow that would almost certainly end him. The sword blade grated down the knife edge, bounced on the hilt and cut a layer of skin off the top of two of Skiouros’ knuckles. In pain and unintentionally, Skiouros’ fingers flexed and the knife fell away. Now he was unarmed.
Sincabı-Paşa stepped in for the kill, sword pulled back for the final blow, and then suddenly he staggered, floundered and fell in a heap. Skiouros looked down in surprise to see Parmenio’s ladle tangled in the man’s feet. The Genoese captain was struggling to rise, clutching his belly.
‘Fucking show off!’
Skiouros laughed loud as Parmenio painfully passed him the big bear-soldier’s sword. Sincabı-Paşa was looking a little dazed, his head having glanced off the table as he fell. Skiouros stepped calmly over to him and kicked the man’s blade away as Parmenio staggered upright behind him.
‘I always said being a bit on the meatier side did you no harm,’ the sailor grinned. ‘Plenty of body that’s not organ.’
Skiouros crouched and then, very deliberately, kneeled on his enemy’s already pained wrist. Sincabı-Paşa yelped.
‘Who is the man in Selim’s palace?’
The king-breaker looked up at him, the madness in his eyes laced with defiance. ‘I do not fear you, Skiouros Mamluk-killer. You can’t finish me. If you do, your prince will die anyway.’
‘But we can make you wish you were dead,’ Parmenio grunted, pointing angrily with a finger glistening red with his own blood.
Outside the door, the sounds of fighting were dying away, though whether for good or ill they could not tell.
‘You want to be Skiouros?’ Parmenio snapped at the paşa. ‘You want to be the hero-thief? Well remember what your sharia law has in store for thieves?’ Gritting his teeth against the pain in his abdomen, the Genoese grabbed Skiouros’ fallen knife and placed the blade over the paşa’s wrist. Sincabı stared in sudden dread and tried to pull his hand away. With Skiouros still kneeling on his right wrist, Parmenio knelt on the man’s left forearm with all his weight and once more placed the blade above that wrist. Slowly, he put the weight of his bloodied hand on the hilt and balled his fist, ready to bring it down above the tip. The knife would not sever the wrist in this way, of course. Not the first time, anyway…
‘Sefer bin Yunus,’ gasped Sincabı-paşa desperately. Parmenio raised his fist but left the knife threateningly in place. ‘Sefer bin Yunus,’ the paşa repeated, the words coming out fast and almost garbled. ‘He is Selim’s closest advisor and he is the man. But you will not be able to get to him!’
Skiouros heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Don’t be too sure about that. We’re very inventive people.’
A noise drew his attention back to the door, and he felt relief flood though him to see Diego and Dragi return, though the Spaniard was limping badly and the Romani’s face was so sheeted with blood it was impossible to tell whether he was wounded or not. The way he swayed as he crossed the room to this little torture-tableau suggested that he was not unharmed after the desperate fray out there.
‘What has he said?’ Dragi huffed as he rested against the table.
‘He gave us a name. Sefer bin Yunus – I remember him from the Yedikule.’
‘Is he telling the truth? I thought Sefer a little too malleable.’
‘I believe so,’ Skiouros replied. ‘Parmenio here was about to hack his hand off.’
‘Let me in,’ Diego murmured and, with some difficulty on his wounded leg, lowered himself between his friends, facing the paşa. For a long moment, he looked deep into Sincabı’s eyes, and finally he shook his head. ‘He is stronger and cleverer than you think. That was a lie, beyond a doubt. A man can never hide a lie deep inside his eyes.’
Dragi nodded. ‘Then more pressure must be applied.’ He crouched with them and with no warning fetched Sincabı a heavy blow to the temple with a balled fist. As the paşa sank into unconsciousness, Dragi removed his turban and began to undo his shirt and outer garments. ‘Come on. Help me undress him.’
The others frowned at him, but then Skiouros and Parmenio shared a knowing look, and the latter broke into a grin. ‘We’ll have to dye your hair and shave you, of course.’
‘And first we need the true name.’
Dragi, finishing stripping the paşa to his underwear, nodded. ‘The hair can be tucked under the turban. Use one of the doctor’s sharp knives to shave. Parmenio, you get him shaved and dressed. De Teba? You and I are going to extract that name.’ Leaning forward and hissing in pain, Dragi gasped the near-naked paşa and hauled him over his shoulder. ‘Come, Diego.’ And with no further word he left the room with the unconscious king-breaker over his shoulder and the concerned-looking Spaniard at his back.
‘Will this work?’ Parmenio murmured, examining the turban.
‘Oddly, this is not my first time at this,’ grinned Skiouros.
Chapter fourteen – Of questions and answers
May 27th - Two days to the festival
SINCABI-PAŞA slowly blinked back to consciousness, groggy and confused. His first reaction was to reach up and rub the sore spot on his head, but his arms would not move. Alerted and alarmed by this realisation, memory flooded back in and he slumped, defeated eyes taking in his surroundings. He was on the lower deck, seated against the hull, and his hands were bound tightly behind him to one of the rings next to the gun port, to which in time the gun’s carriage would be attached. He was helpless, and he knew it.
Then his eyes, gradually becoming accustomed to the gloom, picked out the two figures crouched before him in the darkness of the deck. He recognised the Romani who had accompanied the Greek into the cabin. The other man was a swarthy looking fellow who somehow managed to carry an air of fineness about him despite the situation. His eyes looked haunted.
‘Good,’ said the Romani.
‘He’s awake.’
‘And insensate?’ suggested the other in a strange foreign accent, yet speaking reasonably good Greek. The man then wandered over and crouched in front of Sincabı. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’ he asked.
The paşa frowned, blinked and shook his head. ‘None.’
‘At least he can see and think, then.’
The Romani nodded. ‘Now, my treacherous, devious friend, we are going to have a little conversation. You are going to tell me who you have in the Tekfur Sarayi and how he intends to kill prince Selim in two days’ time. And this name will be the correct one and not some random appellation plucked from the air.’
Sincabı-Paşa sneered. ‘If your friend in there could not drag the name out of me under torture, what makes you think I will tell you?’
The Romani smiled, and that smile sent a chill of uncertainty through Sincabı. ‘Three things, actually. Firstly, the fact that you came up with a good, convincing lie in order to save your hand tells me that your sense of self-preservation overrides your obstinacy. Secondly, that even Parmenio with a surgeon’s knife still thinks like a gentleman despite his manner, while I can be most inventive and unrestrained when necessity requires…’
He rose and stepped to one side.
‘And thirdly, because you know we have less than two days left and therefore nothing to lose.’
Sincabı-Paşa blinked in surprise at what was revealed when the Romani moved. Behind the man, an abus gun stood on its tripod, the wide barrel pointing at the floor. A small case of ammunition sat on the deck next to it, full of iron balls three inches across. He stared. The business end of the gun was facing him.
‘You’re insane,’ the paşa breathed, staring at the gun.
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