A Burning Sea by Theodore Brun (snow like ashes series TXT) 📗

The long hours with Nikolaos had paid off. Eventually. But the lampros had been stubborn. Brave, even. Katāros had been forced to use all his powers of invention to coax the necessary information from him. But he was satisfied that he had extracted everything the man had to tell.

Materials, composition, conditions of preparation, quantities, proportions, viscosity. . . process, all was process. And that was merely to make the substance. The real trick, it became clear, was in the mechanics of the fire-syphon. Pump, nozzle, ignition temperature, pipework. But all the details were safely recorded now on the long scroll of parchment in the leather cylinder in his hand. Written in Greek and also in Arabic for good measure. Everything that Maslama and Abdal-Battal needed to tip the scales of providence in their favour.

‘I should be staying,’ said the Jewess, who had joined him halfway through the night’s grisly business. The work proved too much for her at times but she had swallowed her qualms and stayed the course. ‘My task here is still not complete.’

‘You’ll never get another chance like the one you blundered,’ replied the eunuch, glad of the chance to goad her. ‘But don’t be disheartened. Your part in this work tonight will more than make up for your failure. I expect by the time this is over, they’ll be writing your name in gold on the walls of Damascus.’

Lucia scowled softly. ‘I care nothing for acclaim. I only want to see the city fall. Along with that son of a poxed whore, Arbasdos.’

‘Your modesty does you credit,’ Katāros smiled. ‘As does your hatred. Now – you’re sure of the meeting place?’ He passed her the leather cylinder.

‘At the foot of the sea wall between the Boukoleon and Julian harbours.’ She slipped the leather strap over her head. She was dressed entirely in black, a headscarf obscuring her face. All but her eyes, which shone out like purple sapphires. ‘He’ll be waiting an arrow’s flight offshore.’

Katāros checked the cylinder on her back, smearing soft wax around the seal. The container needed to be watertight. ‘And the ferryman. . . you trust him?’

‘He thinks I’m meeting a lover across the straits. He knows nothing but the gold I’ll pay him.’

‘Good.’ Katāros glanced down at Nikolaos’s body. The night had not unfolded quite as the fire-maker had wished. His limbs were twisted awkwardly under him and a coil of intestine glistened wetly in his lap. ‘Very good. God go with you then,’ he murmured. Lucia lingered for a heartbeat, nodded, and then she was away into shadow. ‘Aye,’ the eunuch whispered after her. ‘And the Devil too.’

The Jewess gone, he took out the silk stole and soaked half of it in blood, then he stuffed a corner into the fire-maker’s crooked fingers. ‘Pieces, pieces,’ he chuckled to himself. The game was at last moving his way.

Next moment he was leaving the gloom-wreathed cul-de-sac behind him, turning the corner by a grubby little bakery and hurrying down the lane. The gutter next to the pathway was deep there, clogged with foul-smelling ordure. He stopped for a moment and listened. The lane was deserted. Here was as good as any spot. He pulled the dagger from his belt and let it fall. It sank down into the filth and soon disappeared.

He cast a final glance up at the faint ribbon of sky visible between the close-set houses. Somehow a silver moonbeam had burrowed its way down into the shadows. It fell across his face for a second.

And then he was gone. . .

‘So, my young hero – until the morrow.’ Einar clapped Erlan on the shoulder as they stumbled out of the tavern onto the street.

‘Don’t be late, fat man. Oh, and Einar – a bit of peace-making wouldn’t go amiss. It may be a while before you see your woman again.’

‘Don’t worry, lad.’ Einar’s face beamed in a lecherous grin. ‘I’ll be sure to peace the Hel out of her before the night’s much older.’

Erlan chuckled and was about to turn away when he noticed someone moving fast and furtively under the shadow of the portico on the other side of the street. A silhouette he would now recognize anywhere.

‘Hey,’ he said sharply under his breath. Einar was already heading for home, but his head turned, then tilted in a question. Erlan ghosted a finger across his lips. The light fog of the wine in his head cleared in an instant, the scent of action blowing it away like a gust of wind.

His eye was on the figure – Lucia. The movement the same, even the dress. So here was his second chance. She crossed the street a little further down the road, heading downhill towards the sea.

‘What is it?’ hissed Einar.

‘The assassin.’

‘What? How do you—?’

‘I know,’ he said firmly. ‘Follow me on the other side of the street. And keep out of sight.’ The Fat-Belly might have sunk enough wine to render most men unconscious for a night and a day – but it seemed to make little difference to him. He grasped the point admirably and slunk across to the opposite colonnade.

Lucia’s shadow flitted onwards, not running, but moving fast. Erlan lurched after her, gripping the buckles of his sword and long-knife to keep them from jangling. About halfway down the hill, she turned left, this time heading straight for the dark shadow of the Hippodrome.

Not this damn place again, thought Erlan, checking to see that the fat man was with him. It took him a few seconds to identity the bulky shadow moving through the gloom with surprising stealth.

They were holding the distance, more or less. Sooner or later Lucia would run slap into the gates of the great stadium. For a second he wondered whether she was on her way to break into the palace again but when she reached the wall she turned right, and flew along it. He waited at the end of the portico. He could see Einar