Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Three: Constantinople by Christian Cameron Read Free Book Online

arms against his own will.
    She dropped the grapnel to him after he was on the ladder. And blew him a kiss.
    At the base of the ladder, he could still see her light. He felt an intense temptation to climb right back up, but there had been a change in the air of her apartments. And slaves rise early.
    He could smell her on his skin – smell her perfume, which seemed to be in every fold of linen and silk in her room, and on every part of her body – rose and lavender and an Eastern scent he didn’t know. And her own scent – musky and heady. And strong.
    He smelled her on his hands, and smiled, and then, after wrapping his clothes in a leather sack that would be waterproof for some minutes, he leaped into the water.
    He swam downstream in the cistern, under the arch of the great wall, and again he found that darkness and deep water combined to panic him even when he knew that there was an opening at the far end. He emerged and pulled himself out on to the walkway – stronger this time – and, sack on shoulder, walked all the way to the end of the main cistern.
    He dressed quietly, surprised to find that the scent of rose and lavender still clung to him, and climbed out of the cistern by the access doors. He crossed the main square, walked partway down the hill, and entered the next system. It was very dark, and when he saw the small fire that the acrobats had burning, he was very happy.
    He approached as quietly as he could. But he was fifty feet from the fire when a someone spoke.
    ‘Don’t move,’ Peter said.
    ‘It’s only me,’ Swan said.
    ‘Don’t make too much noise,’ Peter insisted. ‘It took me a long time to get them to sleep.’
    Swan walked carefully along the cistern’s shelf to the fire – really, just a small pile of charcoal that had been laid on the stone and lit. But it was warm, and he realised that he was cold.
    ‘We have wine,’ Peter said.
    Andromache appeared beside the fire and smiled at him. She had Peter’s soldier’s cloak around her shoulders.
    Swan accepted a cup of wine. ‘All is well?’
    Peter shrugged and smiled a secretive smile. ‘I just spent a day underground with a troupe of actors who can’t stop talking.’ He glanced at Andromache. ‘Mind you, there are compensations.’
    Swan finished his wine. ‘Tonight,’ he said. ‘Watch for us from the water gate. If you don’t see the Venetian galley—’
    ‘Yes?’ Peter asked. ‘Yes, what exactly do I do if there’s no ship?’
    ‘Switch roles and get them to take you out of the city,’ Swan said. ‘Save what you can.’
    ‘That’s how it is?’ Peter asked. ‘By the way, you know you smell like a Spanish whore.’
    ‘I lack your experience with Spanish whores,’ Swan said. ‘What do they smell like?’
    ‘Attar of roses and old sweat,’ Peter said.
    The sun was rising when he slipped over the wall into the inn yard. He heard a woman’s voice from the stable, and he smiled, and went into the kitchen, where shocked servants scurried to get out of his way.
    An hour later – face and hands washed, in best clothing, neat, and dead tired – he stood in his armour in the atrium waiting for the rest of the embassy.
    Alessandro came down with Giannis and Cesare.
    Cesare embraced him, then held him at arm’s length. ‘You look like hell,’ he said.
    Giannis shook his head. ‘You smell like . . .’ He made a face. ‘Perfume.’
    ‘Christ on the cross, he does.’ Alessandro laughed. ‘I thought you were going to bed, scapegrace.’
    Swan forced a grin. ‘There was a bed involved,’ he said.
    The three men roared.
    They carried their helmets under their arms, rather than wear them, as Swan had hoped, and he carried his through the streets. He wondered why he’d bothered to wash. It was four miles to the palace of the Sultan, and even in the early morning, it was a walk intended to discomfort and annoy.
    As they walked, Alessandro drifted back from the bishop. ‘I have taken some precautions,’ he