Brotherband 4: Slaves of Socorro (34 page)

The task was completed in a little over two hours.

The thick cable, weighed down by several iron shackles and chain links, was securely fastened to
Nightwolf
’s sternpost, just below the waterline. The other end passed round one of the thick wharf pilings, also below the surface. Hal had fastened the rope to a point well underneath the stern of the ship, so that the likelihood of anyone looking overboard and seeing it was low.

‘What if they decide to move the ship before we leave?’ Stig asked, as Hal dried himself off and re-donned his clothing.

Hal shrugged. ‘It won’t really matter. They’ll damage her and that’s the important thing. Either way, they won’t be able to follow us when we sail out.’

The four friends ghosted back through the now deserted streets of the city to the northern arm of the harbour. As they stepped aboard
Heron
, seven anxious pairs of eyes focused on them.

‘Any problems?’ Gilan asked.

‘All as smooth as silk,’ Hal said. ‘
Nightwolf
is now securely tethered to her wharf, although her crew are completely unaware of the fact.’

‘Let’s hope she tries to leave in a hurry,’ Stefan said. ‘What do you think is likely to happen when she does get under way, Hal?’

Hal thought about his answer for a few moments. ‘Well, the least that will happen is that she’ll do her sternpost some damage – maybe pull it out of alignment. Or even dislodge the backstay and weaken the mast. And since all the planks are attached to the sternpost, she might spring a few of them.’

‘I hope we’re around to see it,’ Stefan replied, smiling at the thought of the disaster waiting for Tursgud and his crew.

‘I hope we’re a long way down harbour from her if it does happen,’ Hal said. He yawned. ‘Let’s get some sleep. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. We have to sell Ingvar.’

‘If only that were true,’ muttered Wulf.

T
hey dressed Ingvar in a torn, sleeveless shirt and tattered knee-length shorts. Thorn wound a length of grubby linen around Ingvar’s head, like a makeshift turban, leaving one end hanging down over his shoulder. He stood back and surveyed his work.

‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘You look just like a slave!’

Ingvar looked sidelong at the strip of cloth hanging beside his face. ‘Why would a slave have a dirty piece of linen tied round his head?’

Thorn shrugged. ‘No idea. But it does make you look the part. It gives you a sort of . . . melancholy look.’

‘I’ll give you a melancholy look when we get back,’ Ingvar threatened jokingly.

They tied Ingvar’s hands securely in front of him, then fastened a length of old chain around his neck. Jesper had bought the chain and several old padlocks earlier in the bazaar.

Ulf and Wulf regarded their giant shipmate quizzically.

‘He does look a little like a trained bear,’ Ulf said and Wulf nodded. For once, they were reasonably sure that Ingvar, burdened as he was, couldn’t throw either of them overboard.

‘And you two look like a pair of chattering monkeys,’ Lydia said acidly. She liked Ingvar and she didn’t enjoy seeing him being teased by the twins.

They both looked suitably taken aback by her comment. They were never entirely sure about Lydia. She didn’t seem to have a strong sense of humour and her hand was always hovering by the long dirk she wore at her side. The long,
sharp
dirk she wore at her side.

Ingvar smiled tolerantly. ‘It’s all right, Lydia. When I get back I’ll knock their heads together.’

She patted his arm. ‘I’ll look forward to that,’ she told him. Even though she knew it was play acting, the sight of Ingvar trussed and chained and ready to be sold as a slave upset her. The sooner this was all over, the better, she thought. She looked up, surprised, as Hal gave voice to the thought that had just run through her mind.

‘Sooner we get this done, the better,’ he said. ‘Jesper, take the lead.’

The plan was for Jesper to precede them through the streets of Socorro by thirty or forty metres. He could slip unobtrusively through the crowds, while they would obviously draw attention. If Jesper caught sight of Tursgud or any of his crew, he would hurry back and warn them. After all, the massive Ingvar and the shaggy, bearded, one-armed Thorn were a distinctive pair and Hal didn’t wish the renegade skirl to have any warning of their presence in the city.

‘Are you sure you’ll recognise Tursgud’s men if you see them?’ Hal asked.

Jesper nodded confidently. ‘I’ve seen them often enough, lounging around the tavern in Hallasholm as if they own it,’ he said. ‘Besides, they all have a distinctive rat-like manner that’s hard to miss.’

They set out, with Jesper scouting on ahead, Hal leading Ingvar by the chain around his neck and Stig and Thorn, fully armed and weapons ready, pacing either side of him, as if guarding him. Stig carried his battleaxe. Thorn elected not to wear his club-hand. Instead, he wore a small shield on his right hook and carried a sword slung on his right hip, ready to be drawn left-handed.

Hal was unarmed, save for his saxe knife, which actually meant that he was more than adequately armed.

They walked in a large arc to the east, giving a wide berth to the arm of the harbour where
Nightwolf
was moored. Hal reasoned that her crew would most likely contain their movements to the taverns and inns closer to the waterfront. There was no reason why they should venture further inland.

But still, you never could be sure, which was why Jesper preceded them. The streets were narrow and winding, crammed with people moving in both directions. The little procession drew curious glances from passers-by. Ingvar was enough to draw a second glance. He towered over most people in the street and his massive shoulders and arms were thick and hard with muscle. Seeing his size and the rope and chain bindings that contained him, most people drew aside as the group passed them.

They emerged from one of the narrow streets into an open plaza. Ahead of them, and on the opposite side, was the sprawling mass of the gold market. The high walls were built from blocks of sandstone. There was an entryway a few metres to their right. The gates were massive, made of blackwood, studded with iron bolts and reinforced with heavy strips of the same material.

Stig whistled quietly. ‘Pretty impressive,’ he said. ‘Are they all like that?’

‘According to Gilan, yes,’ Hal said.

Jesper, who had waited for them at the beginning of the plaza, curled his lip at the sight of the lock on the gate.

‘I’d have that open in twenty seconds,’ he said disparagingly. The gate might look massive, but the lock was old-fashioned and, in Jesper’s view, barely more efficient than a loop of rope over a post. A stream of people moved into the market, hurrying and jostling one another as they went.

‘When does it close?’ Thorn asked.

Hal looked round at him. ‘According to Gilan, it doesn’t. They trade twenty-four hours a day. Of course, things slow down a little late at night.’ He signalled for Jesper to take the lead once more, heading left.

They passed the corner and headed around the eastern side of the market. Stig craned his head as he turned back to look the way they had come, then at the distance remaining before them.

‘This place is huge!’ he said.

Thorn nodded. ‘Gilan said it’s like a town within a town.’ Earlier, Gilan had apprised them of this plan to stage a diversion by lighting a fire in the gold market.

Eventually, they reached the end of the eastern wall and turned the corner. The slave market stood before them, fifty metres away.

It was a huge wooden amphitheatre, a circle of high timber walls, unpainted and faded to grey by the desert sun and wind.

The walls were four metres high and, from where the Skandians stood, offered no way of entry. They were featureless and unwelcoming, stretching away in a curve on both sides and presenting a blank face to the world outside. It was a sobering sight, totally in keeping with the nature of the place.

For a moment, they stood uncertainly, baffled by the uncompromising nature of those grim, grey walls that seemed to offer no way of entering or leaving. Then Hal gathered his wits and pointed to the right.

‘There must be a gate somewhere,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

Following his lead, they began circumnavigating the massive circular structure. But as they did, they continued to be faced by blank walls until they began to half believe that there was no way in, that they would complete a full circle back to where they had begun without discovering a way into the slave market. Even Jesper was discouraged.

‘How can I break in if I can’t find a lock?’ he muttered.

And then they came to the gateway.

It was built under a high timber entryway, consisting of a massive beam that was supported above an opening in the wall – an opening that was five metres wide and barred by double gates built in the same grey timber as the walls. Above the gates, the walls extended upwards for another two metres and there was obviously a walkway behind them. Hal could see half a dozen guards staring down at them, armoured in the customary chain mail and leather, and with conical spiked helmets incorporated in a turban-like headdress. One of them turned away and called off to the side, where a small enclosed structure was situated. A door opened in response to the call and an officer emerged. He was more expensively equipped than the guards on the rampart. His helmet was silver plated, as was the chain mail vest he wore. Both helmet and mail gleamed in the sun. Unlike the other guards, he didn’t carry a spear, although Hal was sure that there would be a curved sword belted round his waist.

The guard who had summoned him pointed down to the small party waiting outside the gate. The officer leaned over the timber balustrade and shouted down to them.

‘No entry until the eve of the sale!’ he said. He sounded angry, as if this was a call that he made all too often to foreigners. ‘Come back then. Sellers only until then!’

Hal glanced at Thorn, who cupped his hands and bellowed back, in a voice that was trained to carry above the roar of storm winds and waves.

‘We’re selling!’ he shouted, jerking a thumb towards the tethered Ingvar. ‘What do you think this is – a side of mutton?’

‘Not very flattering, Thorn,’ Ingvar muttered.

Thorn shrugged and grinned at him. ‘We’re not here to flatter you, just to sell you,’ he said.

There was a quick consultation on the walls above them. The officer shouted down again.

‘All right. Stand back while we open up. And you’ll leave your weapons at the guardhouse inside.’

They heard feet descending a timber stairway inside the walls. Then, a few moments later, the massive gates began to creak open, a gap forming between them, then growing to twice the width of a man’s shoulders. At that point, the gates stopped moving. Obviously, the guards weren’t about to open up too wide, in case there were other men lurking somewhere to the sides, ready to rush in.

‘Come on in!’ shouted the officer. ‘And no tricks or we’ll skewer you!’

‘Charming,’ Thorn said in a low voice. Then he bowed and gestured for Hal and Ingvar to precede him through the gate and into whatever lay beyond.

W
hat lay beyond was a vast, circular arena, with a floor of thick, grey sand.

In the centre was a raised platform – presumably where the slaves to be sold would be put on display. Wooden steps led up to it on either side. Around the arena were rows and rows of benches, rising in tiers. Hal counted quickly. There were eight rows of benches, rising steeply from the arena floor. This would be where the buyers and spectators sat, calling their bids to the auctioneer and his assistants on that central platform. At a quick guess, he estimated the benches would hold between one thousand and fifteen hundred customers.

On the far side, directly opposite the entrance they had just passed through, the rows of benches were interrupted by another massive opening. This one led to a recessed gate, level with the rear row of seats. The tiers of seats formed a slope-sided tunnel either side of the entry, with timber railing preventing those in the seats from falling into the gap.

Level with the back wall of the arena, there was another heavily fortified gate.