Brotherband 4: Slaves of Socorro (45 page)

M
ahmel hurried through the near empty streets towards the gold
souk
. Now that he was at ground level, moving through the twisting narrow streets, he could no longer see the massive, sprawling building. But he could hear the shouts and the insistent clanging of the alarm bell.

After several minutes, he came to the western gate of the
souk.
There was a milling crowd outside. People were rushing this way and that, some carrying buckets and barrels of water, others laden down with the gold and jewellery they had planned to sell in the market. Obviously, Mahmel thought, they were merchants who had stripped their stalls bare before they escaped, taking their valuables with them so they wouldn’t be lost in the fire.

He sniffed the air. He could smell woodsmoke – and the more acrid smell of burning fabric – hessian and canvas.

There was a hubbub of voices around him – shouting, incoherent voices, some calling out orders, others seemingly just calling out, all of them adding to the confusion. The way to the western gate was blocked by a crowd three or four deep. Most of them didn’t seem to know where they were going or what they were doing. He turned to his two bodyguards and jerked a thumb at the crowd in front of him.

‘Clear a path,’ he said briefly.

The bodyguards didn’t hesitate. They drove forward into the crowd, shoulder to shoulder, shoving people aside, striking out with the thick, metal-shod staffs they carried, kicking and elbowing anyone who was slow to move. People shouted and cried out in pain. But as they turned angrily to confront those responsible for the sudden assault, they recognised the men’s uniforms and armour – and the turban of the smaller figure striding behind them. Mahmel’s green turban marked him as a senior administrator in the city’s hierarchy – the sort of person you didn’t antagonise if you were wise. Such men had vast power, long memories and short tempers. The wise move in this situation was to accept the blows and kicks and get out of the way in a hurry.

The guards on duty at the gate saw Mahmel and came to attention.

‘What’s going on here?’ he snapped.

The senior of the two cleared his throat nervously. He wasn’t used to talking to such an important figure.

‘A fire, sir. There’s a fire in the
souk.
’

‘I can see that, you imbecile!’ snapped Mahmel. He went to speak further but was drowned out by the clanging of the alarm bell, which had begun once more. He glared at the vacant-faced guard standing off to one side, who was tugging on the bell pull.

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, then had to repeat the question in a louder voice. The bell ringer started out of his trancelike state, pausing momentarily.

‘Sounding the alarm, lord,’ he said.

‘I think that’s been taken care of by now,’ Mahmel said in an acid tone. He turned back to the first guard. ‘Are the
dooryeh
here?’

The man nodded. ‘Yes, lord. The men from the garrison, and the men from the slave market guardhouse as well. They’re all here. And the fire monitors.’

The fire monitors were the official fire brigade for the city. Mahmel stepped to one side to peer down the long main thoroughfare of the
souk.
There was plenty of smoke evident, but he could see no flames, no sign of fire leaping from one stall to the next.

‘Have they got it under control?’ he asked.

The guard hesitated. ‘I . . . don’t know, lord. I think maybe they have.’

‘Where did the fire start?’

‘Um . . . in the south-eastern quarter . . . I think.’

‘Then go and find out. And find out if it’s under control.’

‘Yes, lord. At once.’ The guard started to back away, nervously bobbing his head in a truncated attempt to bow.

‘RUN!’ shouted Mahmel and the man turned and ran, grasping at his helmet as it threatened to fall from his head. Mahmel turned to the man who had been mindlessly ringing the bell. His hand still grasped the rope bellcord, as if he were ready to start again, any minute.

‘As for you, do something useful. Come and take charge here at the gate,’ he ordered.

The man saluted nervously, then moved to take up a position by the table set across the gateway. Mahmel shook his head in disgust. Some of these men couldn’t think for themselves. He beckoned his senior bodyguard, who stepped forward, waiting for orders.

‘Find the commander of the
dooryeh
,’ Mahmel told him. ‘He’ll most likely be in the south-eastern quarter of the
souk.
Tell him to report to me here.’

‘Yes, lord.’ The bodyguard slapped his palm to his chest in salute, turned and ran into the smoky interior of the
souk.
Mahmel beckoned the other bodyguard forward.

‘See if you can find me a glass of tea,’ he said. ‘One of the tea houses must still be open.’

‘Yes, Lord Mahmel,’ the man replied and he hurried off into the
souk
as well.

All very well for you, the guard thought to himself. The
souk
’s on fire, people are panicking in all directions, and you expect me to find a tea house still serving.

It took him ten minutes and he was rewarded by an angry scowl from his master as he handed him the glass of hot mint tea. A few minutes later, the other bodyguard returned, accompanied by a colonel of the
dooryeh
. Close behind the colonel strode a corporal in a blue tunic. A signal horn hung from his belt. The colonel saw Mahmel sitting on a straight-backed wooden chair sipping his tea, noted the significance of the green turban and strode forward, coming to attention.

‘Colonel Bekara, lord. Commander of the gold market garrison.’

‘What’s been going on here, Colonel?’ Mahmel asked. Then, before the man could respond, he added sarcastically, ‘And don’t tell me there’s been a fire. I can see that. I want details. How did it start? Who was responsible? What damage has been done?’

The colonel paused, gathering his thoughts.

‘The fire was started by two foreigners, sir, in the south-east quarter. One of them distracted the merchants there while the other broke into a store room and lit the fire. Apparently, one of them was a woman. They were recognised. They were seen in the market yesterday.’

Mahmel frowned, stroking his chin thoughtfully. ‘What did they steal?’

The colonel shrugged. ‘I don’t think they stole anything, sir. They lit the fire, then they were recognised and a detachment of the patrol gave chase. They escaped by breaking through the roof.’

‘And your men simply let them go?’ Mahmel’s voice was dangerously soft.

The colonel drew himself up angrily. ‘I lost two men and three others were badly wounded, sir.’

‘To a man and a
woman
?’ Mahmel asked.

The colonel took a deep breath. He was about to answer angrily. But he recognised Mahmel and he knew the man had a vindictive streak. He was not a good person to get on the wrong side of.

‘They were apparently skilled fighters, sir,’ he explained.

Mahmel snorted disgustedly. ‘So it seems. In any event, what did you do?’

‘When the alarm went up, I mustered the garrison and led them here – along with the guard detachment from the slave market. I thought we might need as many men as possible to get the fire under control. I sent a runner for the fire monitors as well.’

‘And is the fire under control?’

‘Yes, sir. It hadn’t spread too far and we managed to localise the danger. Mind you, if we hadn’t got here when we did, it might be a different story,’ he added.

Mahmel nodded distractedly. ‘Yes, yes. I’m sure all your men were very brave and very efficient, Colonel.’ He frowned as a thought struck him. ‘You say you brought the entire garrison, and the detachment from the slave market?’

‘As I say, I had no idea how big the fire was. I thought we might need a lot of men.’

‘So the slave market is currently unguarded?’

‘No, sir. The eight duty guards in the dungeon guardhouse are still there.’

‘But nobody else?’

The colonel shuffled his feet uncomfortably. ‘Um . . . no, sir. But I’m sure they –’

‘Let me summarise, Colonel.’ Mahmel had no wish to hear what the colonel was sure about. ‘Two foreigners, a man and a woman, come in here, set a small fire, steal nothing, create all sorts of confusion, then escape over the roof, after killing several of your men. Why do you think they would do that?’

‘I . . . um . . . I’m not sure, sir.’ The colonel was beginning to perspire. He had a good idea what the administrator was getting at, but he didn’t want to voice the thought.

‘It doesn’t occur to you that perhaps they wanted to draw you and your men here – away from the slave market? That this was all an elaborate diversion while someone else broke in and set the slaves free?’

‘That could be the case, sir . . . I suppose,’ the colonel replied.

Mahmel’s eyes narrowed as he recalled the four Hellenese men who had brought the big slave into the market two days previously. They hadn’t been happy about leaving him there, he remembered. And he recalled that two of them made sure they had a good look at the security arrangements in the cellar.

And now two foreigners had broken into the market, set a fire and escaped.

‘Get your men back here immediately!’ Mahmel snapped. ‘Form them into squads and throw a cordon around the city. Send a runner to the harbour fortress and get more men from there to block off the streets. I want ten men to come with me to the slave market.’

‘Yes, sir!’ The colonel snapped his fingers to the signaller who had accompanied him. ‘Sound the withdrawal, then the assembly,’ he ordered. ‘Do it now!’

As the horn began sounding its wailing summons through the streets of the
souk
, the colonel looked round to find Mahmel’s angry stare fixed on him.

‘Squads of ten. Send them out through the city. Tell them to recapture the slaves if they can. If not, kill them.’

‘You think there’s really been an escape, sir?’ the colonel asked. His blood ran cold with the thought. If any slaves were killed or made their escape, someone would have to pay for it and he had an uncomfortable feeling who that person might be.

‘You’d better hope there hasn’t been, Captain,’ Mahmel told him.

The colonel cleared his throat awkwardly as the first of his troops came running out of the
souk
in answer to the horn’s call.

‘I’m a colonel, sir,’ he said.

‘Not any more,’ Mahmel told him.

T
horn and Stig led the way across the arena, weapons at the ready. Jesper was close behind them, then Ingvar and Hal shepherded the twelve Araluans across. There were nine men and three women in the Araluan party. Their clothes were all rags and several of them were injured – with wounds roughly bandaged in dirty scraps of cloth.

‘They’re in pretty bad shape,’ Hal observed to Ingvar.

The big youth shrugged. ‘They’re half starved,’ he said. ‘Tursgud fed them barely anything, and since they’ve been here it hasn’t been much better. Plus some of them have been badly beaten.’ He scowled angrily. ‘The Socorrans seem to think that if they mistreat slaves and starve them, they’ll be weak and easier to control. Apparently they feed them up just before the sale to put some condition on them.’

Hal could see that Ingvar was right. ‘Doubt they’ll be much use if we have to fight our way out,’ he said.

Ingvar shook his head. ‘They’re not warriors anyway, Hal,’ he replied. ‘They’re farmhands and house servants. Most of them wouldn’t know one end of a sword from another.’

‘Well, if we run into a patrol, keep them back behind us and we’ll let Thorn and Stig take care of the fighting.’

Ingvar grinned. ‘I imagine they’re more than capable of handling that.’

Thorn, Stig and Jesper were at the main gate now. Thorn and Stig took up positions either side of Jesper while he applied himself to the lock. After a few seconds’ work, the gate swung open, making no sound on its well-oiled hinges. Stig and Thorn went through, weapons ready for trouble. But there was no sign of any guards on the other side and they beckoned for the others to follow.

As he went through the massive gates, Hal turned back to the tunnel they had recently vacated. He saw movement there and waved his arm. Instantly Jimpani and his countrymen began to sprint across the sand in a tight group, followed by a raggle-taggle band of the other slaves who had chosen to take the chance of escaping.

Thorn turned to Hal as he emerged from the arena. ‘Which way?’

Hal pointed across the open parkland and to the right. ‘Back the way we came,’ he said. ‘Keep to the side streets.’ The main roads would be the first to be blocked off once word of the escape got out.

They set out across the open ground, with Hal and Ingvar working to keep the Araluans in a cohesive group. It wasn’t easy. Some of them were weaker than others and those who were wounded found it hard to keep up.

‘Keep going!’ Hal ordered. ‘Run! If they recapture you, you’ll be in big trouble!’

It was a race against time now, to get clear of the slave market before the Socorrans had a chance to throw a cordon around the city streets. The former slaves did their best to obey him, but the pace was still painfully slow – restricted as it was to that of the weakest. Hal glanced back and saw Jimpani and his band emerge from the gates, look around, and head off in the opposite direction to the one the Skandians had taken. Then more figures appeared, running haphazardly, without any sense of co-ordination or organisation.