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

said.
    Swan could barely remain awake. ‘Yes?’
    ‘I think it possible that the Sultan could . . . decide – to dispense with us.’ He shrugged.
    ‘You mean, kill us,’ Swan said.
    Cesare started.
    ‘Yes. If so, it won’t happen at the palace. It will be a street attack.’ Alessandro was watching the buildings. ‘So we will not return along these streets.’
    ‘The palace is too public?’ Swan asked.
    ‘I have to hope so. If he chooses to kill us in the palace . . .’ Alessandro glanced over his shoulder.
    Swan followed his eye. He hadn’t seen Yellow Face in days, and there he was.
    ‘Why, though?’ Swan asked.
    Alessandro shrugged. ‘As a message? Because the bishop will annoy him? Because he’s ready for war with Venice anyway?’ Alessandro shook his head. ‘Your Jew friend – Isaac – sent me a warning.’
    Swan tried to imagine some higher order of plot where Isaac would send them a false warning. He shook his head – fatigue was not helping him think. ‘I would listen to Isaac,’ he said carefully.
    ‘Listen, sleepy-head! Damn you, you English pup, I need you, and you smell like a French whore and look like a three-day drunk! Now that I have your attention – how far north do the sewers come?’
    ‘Christ – sorry, Alessandro. I haven’t come this far north. And I haven’t been in – or out – north of the market by the Venetian quarter.’
    Alessandro shook his head. ‘Damn it to hell.’
    The Palace of Blacharnae was at the north-east corner of the city. It had suffered substantial damage during the siege, but its woods and fountains appealed to the Sultan and he had taken it for his residence, although rumour said he usually lived in a great palace of tents on the plain just beyond.
    The entrance hall was grander in every way than any similar hall in England, even the Guildhall in London. The square of St Mark’s in Venice had something of the majesty, but the apparently infinite vista of mosaics stretching away from the viewer struck Swan with wonder. And it was old. Swan couldn’t tell how old, but he was awestruck. A thousand years old?
    The only man who seemed unaffected was the bishop, who led them into the great hall without looking to the right or left, up or down. Neither the mosaic ceilings nor the marble floor seemed to interest him.
    The hall was lined by armoured sipahis, who leaned indolently on their lances and did not speak. The great doors at the far end of the hall were closed.
    Swan stood still. There were six Christian men-at-arms, counting Cesare; and four more Venetian marines. They stood, five a side, flanking the embassy – the bishop, two interpreters, and four sailors with the gifts.
    They stood. And stood.
    So did the sipahis.
    Sweat ran down Swan’s neck, gathered momentum in the middle of his back, and rolled all the way down to the top of his buttocks under his arming coat. The arming coat began to grow alarmingly heavy and wet. The weight of his harness seemed to grow. He could even feel – feel viscerally – the weight of the sword at his hip.
    He flexed his knees.
    He had too much time to think. Time to consider the troupe in the cisterns; time to consider the flaws in his plans.
    Time to consider Khatun Bengül. Time to think about the risk he’d run. And why.
    Revenge .
    The joke was on him. He couldn’t get her out of his head, and he had gone to lie with her to revenge himself on her father. A petty, wicked sin.
    Where did that thought come from?
    ‘I’m too fucking old for this,’ muttered Cesare, immediately behind him.
    Alessandro was a statue of steel.
    The bishop began to complain. At first, his complaints were aimed at members of his own staff. Then he walked over to one of the silent sipahis.
    ‘I demand to see the Sultan!’ he shouted, spittle flying.
    The man ignored him.
    ‘Immediately!’ shrieked the outraged prelate. ‘I have waited nineteen days to deliver a letter and some presents!’
    The sipahi might have been