Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Three: Constantinople by Christian Cameron

you get out of Bessarion’s house? I had watchers, and you eluded them.’
    Swan rubbed his beard. ‘Trade secret, which I will sell you. Can you delay the Turks by an hour?’
    Isaac gestured at himself with both hands. ‘I? A mere Jew?’ He shrugged.
    Swan waited.
    Isaac rocked his head back and forth. ‘Ah. Perhaps I could at that.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I think they want you to get away. I think they have decided to use you as an . . . incident. If they catch you – that might be inconvenient for them as well.’ He handed Swan a heavy packet. ‘My letters for Venice. And my cousin Simon’s, as well. He did not, as it turned out, sell you to the Turks.’ The Jewish merchant nodded. ‘There is a letter in that packet addressed to you. Lord Idris brought it to my brother. In person.’
    ‘Good Christ,’ Swan said.
    ‘Omar Reis will want you dead, even if his master Mehmet has decided to let you go,’ Isaac said. ‘Nonetheless, I can purchase you an hour of time.’
    Swan reached into the leather bag he wore at his shoulder, and took out his tablet of paper, and tore off his map of the sewers and conduits. He handed it to Simon with a bow – he didn’t have the power in his muscles for a flourish. ‘They don’t all link up,’ he said sadly. ‘I thought they would. But you can pass from one to another without being noticed, if your hunters don’t know where to look.’
    Isaac was looking at the map. ‘These aren’t streets—’ he said slowly.
    ‘Sewers. The ancient cisterns. That’s my map.’ Swan leaned back against the gate to the Venetian quarter.
    Isaac laughed. ‘You know the sewers?’ he asked. He shook his head. ‘Hug my cousin Balthazar for me. Pass that packet on, and he will see you rewarded, I promise. You have been . . . most entertaining, Messire Swan.’
    Swan embraced the man, who seemed surprised to be embraced – but they kissed each other’s cheeks, and Isaac chuckled. ‘Go with God, Frank,’ he said.
    ‘Thanks!’ Swan said, and ran back through the gate.
    ‘Wait!’ Isaac called. ‘Where did Bessarion’s library go? And what if I find you more books?’
    Swan waved.
    They boarded Nike in minutes – the men in their armour, the embassy boarding with greatly reduced baggage. Bags went straight to the hold under the rowers’ feet, and Swan took a moment to grab an old, open-faced bascinet from the Venetian guardhouse and put it on his head.
    Alessandro came and stood by him at the edge of the command deck. ‘Where – exactly – are we picking up this boat?’ he asked.
    Swan pointed a mile down the European shore of the Horn. ‘Right at the point.’
    Ser Marco grunted. ‘Where the currents are the worst. Nonetheless – any Venetian knows those waters. That is where Dandalo stormed the city.’
    Claudio, the surgeon, was already at work on the Spaniard before they were under way. And north of them, three Turkish galleys left their docks and started down the Horn towards them in the failing light.
    Alessandro turned and spoke to Ser Marco. ‘Omar Reis will stop at nothing to get us,’ he said.
    Ser Marco fingered his beard and looked at the sky and the sea. He spat over the side. ‘A Turkish ship? Catch me?’ He smiled. ‘We’ll see.’
    And then the bow was clear of the Venetian quay, and they were in the current, moving south, and east.
    ‘I wish . . .’ Swan said, and Alessandro looked at him.
    ‘You wish?’ he asked.
    ‘I wish I’d thought to send a decoy,’ Swan said. ‘Another ship, waiting on the south side of the city. In the old imperial docks.’
    Alessandro laughed. ‘That will have to wait until next time,’ he said.
    Swan looked at the Turkish squadron coming down the current behind them. ‘I don’t plan to come back,’ he said. ‘Ever.’
    Of course, in the same breath he said that, he thought of the letter from Idris. And possibly, Khatun Bengül.
    He sighed.
    The mile passed very quickly.
    He was in the bow, watching. From