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

don’t, you fool!’ Alessandro shouted.
    Swan squirmed.
    The bow of the little boat buried itself in a wave.
    Almost instantly, the boat filled – just as a sailor cut the tow. The rowing boat tipped once, took another wave directly under Swan’s eyes – and sank.
    The sacks – leather sacks, carefully tied – floated for a few moments. Long enough for Peter to seize a marine’s partisan, lean far out over the stern, and catch one. It hung from the point of the spear for a long moment, and the spear caught the last of the sun – and then Peter whipped the spear up over his head with all his strength, and the bag, flung as if by a trebuchet, passed over the stern and landed in the middle of the ship.
    And before the Turkish galleys passed them, the rest of the bags sank into the waters of the Bosporus.
    Swan watched them all sink. He stood there, at the stern rail, as the Turkish arrows fell around him, until Alessandro came and pulled him away. ‘It’s over,’ he said. ‘You did well. The cardinal never expected us to save his library. The actors are more important.’
    ‘They are?’
    ‘Some day perhaps the cardinal will tell us why.’ Alessandro shrugged. ‘Or perhaps they are people, and the scrolls are just the words of dead men.’
    Swan met his eyes. ‘You don’t really believe that.’
    Alessandro shrugged. ‘I stand with Ser Marco. I wouldn’t give the life of one Arsenali for a lost book by that faker, Aristotle. Or Plato the hypocrite.’ He shrugged.
    Swan was watching the Turks. ‘They’re losing the race,’ he said.
    Alessandro smiled. ‘There’s no ship on these waters as fast as a Venetian galley,’ he said.
    Half an hour later, Swan collapsed to the deck and slept.
    He woke in the night with the sort of headache he associated with drunkenness, and drank some water. Ser Marco was still with the helmsman. They were racing along, their big sail set and drawing.
    Swan was diffident. He’d learned that the Venetian captain didn’t like to be interrupted on the command deck, even though it was the best place to stand on the ship, so he leaned over the rail forward of the helmsman’s station and watched the vaguely phosphorescent water race by.
    ‘Too tired to sleep?’ Ser Marco asked.
    ‘Yes, messire. Tired and thirsty. A little ill.’ Swan shrugged.
    Ser Marco’s remaining teeth glittered in the moonlight when he smiled. He was missing all four in the centre, and it made him look sinister. ‘Overexertion, young man. I gather I owe you my life?’
    Swan smiled. ‘Messire Claudio did the surgery. I merely pinned down a blood vessel.’
    Ser Marco nodded. ‘I am grateful – but many men have saved my life over the years.’ He looked away.
    Swan decided a change of topic was in order. ‘Where are we?’ he asked. When Ser Marco paused, he said, ‘I’m sorry. I know you don’t like to be bothered on the deck.’
    Ser Marco grinned his demonic grin, and beckoned. ‘Come, young master. Join me on the sacred wooden boards of the command platform.’
    The helmsman gave him a distracted nod. The man’s head was clearly somewhere else.
    Ser Marco waved. ‘See the lights?’
    Swan was about to protest that he didn’t see anything but a handful of stars, and then he saw them – a cluster of pinpricks, more yellow than white, and what had to be a fire.
    ‘I see them.’ He leaned out over the water, as if being a few handspans closer would make a difference.
    ‘That’s the isle of Marmora. They trade in marble. It has several good ports.’ Ser Marco motioned again. ‘Lean well out and look carefully astern.’
    Swan suited his actions to the capitano ’s words. He watched for a long time, and saw nothing but the faintest glow far astern.
    He didn’t want to give up – the capitano was a man who loved to present a puzzle, as Swan knew from months of serving under him, and the young were expected to provide answers. Then he looked at the sea. Much, much closer than the dark