The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(3)
"How are we to get them out?"
"Our only hope lies in stealth. We'll return tonight, after dark; a few hours will make little difference."
Youssef's ship, the Hayreddin, was a sleek galleass of the sort popular with both Turks and Christians. As well as its three triangular sails, it had two dozen oars on each side, the better to manoeuvre in battle – or sneak into a harbour against the wind. However it was too large to go unnoticed on a moonlit night, so they dropped anchor and went the rest of the way in the ship's boat.
Though they rowed as slowly and carefully as possible, the splashing of the oars sounded over-loud in the night air. Their course was not easy, hugging the foot of the citadel's hill as close as possible so that anyone on the walls above would have to look over and down to see them, instead of out across the water. The darkness that concealed them came at a price, however; it also concealed the rocks near the shore, and one of Youssef's keenest-eyed men was obliged to crouch in the bow, raising a hand now and then to steer them away from destruction. On several occasions Mal thought they were about to be dashed against the rocky shore, but the sailors' skilled rowing thrust them back out to sea. He wondered how often they had done this kind of work before. Best to be grateful they had, and not ask questions.
The harbour was not unguarded, of course. Torches burned in cressets at intervals along the waterfront, and a sentry paced back and forth. Not, Mal noted, too close to the little tower. His conviction that the skraylings were held within deepened.
Their little craft slipped from one fishing boat's shadow to the next and into an empty berth. Mal scrambled ashore, signalling for the rest of them to stay put. He waited until the sentry was nearing the far end of his course, then slipped silently across the quay and hid in the alley between two warehouses. Long moments passed, punctuated only by the sentry's receding footsteps and the occasional hawkand-spit. Then the feet turned and began to approach. Mal edged closer to the alley mouth and drew his dagger.
As the sentry drew level, Mal stepped out behind him, clamped his left hand over the man's mouth and slammed the dagger up under his ribs towards his heart. The sentry writhed in his grasp, stubble grating against Mal's palm, then sagged to the ground. Mal wiped his blade on the man's clothing, sheathed it and hurried back to the waiting boat.
At his signal, Coby clambered ashore, followed by Youssef and two of his men. The sailors scattered to keep watch, whilst Mal and Coby ran towards the tower. A large arch pierced the connecting wall. Mal paused in its shadow, scanning the shrub-covered slopes between the waterfront and the base of the citadel, but could see nothing moving. He beckoned to Coby and slipped round the far side of the tower.
To his relief there was a double door at ground level on this side, its rusty handles secured with a new steel chain and padlock. Any doubts that they might have the wrong place vanished. Why lock up a watch tower so securely, unless you were afraid of what was inside?
Coby uncovered a small lantern as she neared the door. Handing it to Mal, she rummaged in her satchel and produced a canvas roll. Mal positioned the lantern so that its beam fell on the enormous padlock, and Coby began probing the workings with the largest of her skeleton keys. Mal kept watch as she worked; they were well hidden from view here, but also cut off from their allies if things went wrong.
Coby muttered under her breath and blew on her fingers to warm them. Mal glanced back down at her and she made an apologetic face. Biting her lip, she twisted the key again – and the padlock gave a satisfying click and sprang open. Mal took hold of one end of the chain with his free hand whilst Coby gently unwound the rest from the rough, flaking handles of the tower doors and lowered it to the ground. Mal seized the handles, and a shudder of unaccountable dread swept over him. He took a deep breath and hauled the doors open.
A rush of warm air swept their faces, an ancient maritime scent of salt and seaweed, laced with a familiar musky scent: skraylings. Mal gestured for Coby to raise the lantern and stepped forward, expecting to see chained captives blinking back at him. He was partly right. At his side, Coby whimpered and clapped a hand to her mouth.
"Dear God in Heaven," he murmured, making the sign of the cross.
The bodies of about two dozen skraylings lay on the floor of the tower in a pool of dark blood, still roped together. Their wrists and fanged mouths were bloody, as though they had torn open their own veins – or one another's. He began methodically examining the bodies in case any of the victims had survived, but they were already beginning to stiffen. This must have happened hours ago. Was that the cause of the unease he had felt back at the cathedral: the skrayling soul trapped within him, mourning for the snuffing out of its fellows? He shuddered, not liking that line of thought.
At that moment he caught sight of a dark head amongst the white-streaked hair of the other skraylings. Short black hair. He frantically pulled the dead bodies aside until he had uncovered the dark-haired one and turned him over.
It was not Kiiren. Yes, the face lacked the tattooed lines of skrayling traders, and when Mal lifted the upper lip, the canine teeth had been removed; but this was not the ambassador. Another Outspeaker, then?
A scuffle broke out away to his left and he sprang up, drawing his sword. Coby's lantern shattered on the stone floor as she grappled a slight figure who barely came up to her shoulder. More than that, he could not make out in the darkness.
"Kuru tokh nejanaa sjel! Kuru tokh kurut siqirr kith-gan nejanaa sjel, nej nejt adringeth dihaaqoheet-iz aj-an."