The Janissary Tree (24 page)

He
had heard her coming. He saw the light approach, watched with satisfaction as a
finger snaked in to flick the latch. His hand coiled around the weight at the
end of the twine.

And
then, in the darkness, it had all gone wrong. The dancer stepped back, not
forward. The weight sliced through the empty air, and then the crashing. It
would have been possible to go on--but someone had come.

If
there's any risk of being discovered, abort.

The
assassin began to move again, silently, creeping away from the grating down the
sluice. Forget the failure, he thought. Hide. Go to earth.

The
movement consoled him. His breathing softened. Rest now. No one would follow
him down here, and later he could rectify his mistake. Sleep now.

Sleep
among the altars.

Each
altar topped by a glowing brazier.

The
air fetid and warm.

The
air full of sleep.

The
assassin squirmed through a low arch and found a clear space on the warm brick.
He also found a day-old loaf of bread on the ledge of a brazier and stuffed a
piece of it into his mouth. He took the stopper from an earthenware bottle and
drank a long draft of warm water.

At
last he stretched out on the warm bricks, clasping his hands behind his head.

And
then, looking up at the curving belly of the vats, the assassin screamed.

63

****************

YASHIM
saw that he had been wrong about the spaces that lay below the vats. From what
he could make out, a succession of air wells all dropped to a huge and very low
chamber, raised on shallow brick vaults. Between the vaults, at regular
intervals, wide braziers were set on stacks of bricks to heat the tiled
cauldrons overhead: in the dim and smoky light, the cauldrons were suspended
like the teats of a monstrous she-devil.

His
eyes ran from the wooden bungs that hung like nipples to the brickwork that
composed the floor on which he now crouched. In a way he had been right. He had
expected a maze of tunnels, but what he found was the impress of a maze, as if
the floor of the tannery had been scored by a huge wheel; as if the tunnels he
had imagined had been abandoned when they were only a few inches high. They
were thick with colored grease.

He
shuffled forward, the torch in one hand, the knife in the other. He felt the
grease pile up beneath his toes: looking down, he saw it gathered in a slick
ridge at his feet. Looking ahead, he saw that the grease was actually moving
sluggishly toward him. Someone had already sloshed it aside, in a faint but
unmistakable track, and it was quietly oozing back, revealing its direction as
it rolled.

Struck
by an idea, he inched back to the air vent and stood up. He put the torch on
the ground above his head and gripped the edge of the grating, hauling himself
back into the not so fresh air.

For
the next five minutes, Yashim crept this way and that around the vats. He went
to the far end of the tannery and removed the grating, thrusting his torch down
the pipe. He watched the oozing grease for a few moments.

He
went toward the center of the tannery and fiddled with a rope attached to one
of the derricks used for raising and lowering bundles of skins into the vats.

When
he was ready, he put a hand on one of the chains that stretched out of the vats
and yanked on it.

Then
he dived for another, and another, pulling with all his might.

And
somewhere in the distance, as if from underground, he heard a scream.

64

****************

The
assassin saw the first bung disappear.

Ten
years before, he had watched a wall collapse on top of him and counted that
moment an eternity.

Now,
for an eternity, he made no sound.

For
an eternity he scrambled for an explanation.

And
he rolled aside only when the bung was replaced by a black tube of scalding fat
and water, which exploded onto the brick.

It
ricocheted onto his back, the hot fat clinging like needles.

And
he screamed.

Spouts
of heavy boiling dye erupted all around him. The culvert he lay in was suddenly
filled with swirling liquid. In terror, he plowed his hands into the steaming
torrent and fought his way to an opening. He reached up, placed his scalded
hands on the grating, and heaved.

And
as he dragged himself up out of the vent, he scarcely noticed the coiled rope
that cinched very tight against his burning ankles.

65

****************

YASHIM
lunged on the counterweight and had the satisfaction of seeing the assassin
swept from his feet. But as the slipknot ran up against the pulley, the arm of
the derrick swung heavily toward him and the rope went slack. Yashim lunged
farther backward to regain his hold, but at that moment the rope bearing the
assassin's weight kicked between his hands, almost knocking him off his feet:
the rope sped through his palms and he found himself suddenly scrabbling
against the sweaty slope. He kicked with both feet: his left leg slithered off
the edge and his foot touched boiling water. He jerked it back with a gasp and
went down on his side.

Flailing
to regain a foothold on the slimy surface, Yashim saw the rope slowly oozing
through his fingers, slick with grease. He made a lunge with his left hand and
caught the rope, tight as a bar, a few inches higher up, hauling hand over hand
until he was able to get into a crouch. For a moment he felt his sandals
skating on the greasy floor, so he leaned back to balance the weight. Everything
had happened so fast that when he finally looked up he could make no sense of
what he saw.

A
few yards ahead of him, something like a giant crab was working its pincers in
a jet of pinkish steam.

Bound
at the ankles, upside down, the assassin's legs were opening and closing at the
knee. His tunic had fallen over his head, but his arms were flailing upward
from the cloud of cloth, struggling to take a grip of his own legs. The hem of
the tunic floated in a bath of dye. He was suspended directly over a boiling
vat, where the derrick had carried him the moment it felt the weight of his
body against its arm.

Yashim
dragged at the rope and hauled himself upright, but the moment he slacked his
hold on the rope, the assassin dropped. Yashim hauled back, wrapping a length
of rope around his waist and leaning back over the vat behind him.

I
can't let go, he thought.

The
flailing man's legs opened again. What was he doing? Yashim cast a glance over
his shoulder: he was hanging out over a roiling tub of evil-smelling liquid. He
could see the skins rolling over and over. He needed to keep his weight
balanced there, keep his feet set against the rim of the vat, move them along
the greasy ledge, and gradually bring the rope up hard against the derrick.

Then
he saw what the man was trying to do: with a knife in his hands he was lunging
upward, scissoring his legs to close the distance, lunging at the knot with the
blade.

He
didn't know where he was.

If
the rope severed, the assassin would dive into the dye.

Yashim,
meanwhile, was also hanging out over a vat of poisonous, boiling liquid. Only
the assassin's weight was keeping his feet on the rim of the vat.

And
at any moment the rope would whip through the block and Yashim would plunge
backward into the boiling broth.

They
were balanced.

The
rope gave a thud and sagged a quarter of an inch.

Yashim
tightened his grip. He glanced across the pillars of purple and yellow and saw
that the dark doorways at the far end of the tanneries were growing wider.

A
knot of men detached themselves from the darkness of the door and began loping
across the glistening surface of the tanneries toward him.

And
from the direction they came, and the way they moved, Yashim did not think that
they looked very friendly.

66

****************

The
rope gave another jerk and Yashim scrabbled to keep his balance on the edge of
the vat. His right foot lost its hold, and for a moment he swung out over the
scum. To regain his footing he had to pay out more rope until he was almost
horizontal. He could feel the heat on the back of his neck and the weight of
the liquid seeping into his cloak.

It
was not so much a decision as an instinct that made him haul savagely on the
rope to regain his footing. The response of his human counterweight brought him
momentarily upright: the assassin dropped, and as the bundle hit the boiling
water, his legs convulsively scissored for the last time as the rope finally
parted. Yashim floundered, his arms sawing the air while the assassin continued
his descent into the vat. Regaining his balance, Yashim was in time to see one
hand fling itself out of the pot before it sank into the churning water.

He
had no time to consider what had happened. Avoiding the slippery surface
between the vats, the men from the doorway were now fanning out into two lines
around the edge close to the walls, to cries of "Block him!" and "Close the
entrance!" Yashim began to scramble back in a zigzagging diagonal line toward
the gate at the corner by which he had come in. But he had to move cautiously,
while the others, farther from the edge of the vats and with the wall to help
them, were closing in.

Several
tanners were already at the gate when Yashim came past the grating he had first
descended. He reached down and scooped up the grille in his left hand, like a
shield; in the other he fingered the short-bladed knife. But he knew already
that the gesture was futile. The men at the gate were hunched over their own
knees, bowlegged, waiting for a fight. And the others, sensing their chance,
had left the wall to approach him across the vats.

He
whirled around. A man at his back lunged, and Yashim whipped him across the
face with the knife. Another man closed, and Yashim plunged the grille against
him like an iron glove, knocking him back. Turning, he saw that the gate was
infested with men: there was no escape in that direction.

He
sensed a movement and turned, a little too late. He had only time to see a face
blackened with rage before he felt a stunning blow over his right eye and he
fell to the ground. He stuck out the knife blindly and waited for the man
either to run upon it or dodge in and grapple with him, but when nothing
happened he rolled around to raise the grating as a shield.

Just
in time to see the black-faced man wheeled to the right by a tug on his arm. The
man who was tugging ducked, rose like a fish, and crashed his skull deftly against
the black-faced assailant's nose. The assailant dropped, and the man who had
delivered the blow turned to Yashim and grinned.

"Let's
get you the fuck out," he said.

67

****************

It
was said that the battle--they called it only a brawl--continued long after Murad
Eslek had helped Yashim punch, kick, and slash his way out of the tanneries and
into the silent darkness beyond.

As
they groped their way down the alleys, small lights glowed behind shutters
overhead. Now and then a door banged. Away in the distance a dog began to bark.
Their footsteps echoed softly on the cobbles, thrown back by buildings asleep
and at peace. A cold wind carried the smell of damp plaster and the lingering
scent of the evening's spices.

"Phew!
You stink, my friend," said Murad Eslek, grinning.

Yashim
shook his head.

"If
it hadn't been for you," he said, "there'd have been nothing left to smell. I
owe you my life."

"Forget
it, efendi. It was a good scrap, and all."

"But
tell me, how--" Yashim winced. Now that the excitement was over, his scalded
foot was beginning to smart.

"Easy
enough," Eslek replied. "I sees you running like a demon--maybe you got robbed,
or something. But when you started in for the tanneries it didn't look so
good--I mean, they're rough, them guys. That's when I started to think you were
going to need some heavy artillery. So I whipped back and raised the boys. I
went around a couple of cafes. Put the word out. Dingdong up the tannery? No
problem. Why, when we came and saw what trouble you were in, the lads moved in
like donkeys on a carrot. Lovely job."

Yashim
smiled. They were back in the city now. The streets were empty and it was too
late, he thought, to get a bath. Eslek seemed to guess his thoughts.

"Me,
I'm in transport. We work nights, efendi. Cover the markets--veg, mainly, and
small livestock. I was going in there when we ran into each other again. There's
a hammam we use, open all night, which you as a gentleman might not know about.
It's small, yes, but I reckon it's clean. Leastways save you going back and
stinking up your own gaff. No disrespect," he added hurriedly, "but them
tanneries don't half get into your skin. It's the fat."