Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Five: Rhodes by Christian Cameron

nasty laugh. ‘Is that the sound their black souls make shrieking to hell?’
    ‘Before you potted them, Peter.’ Swan was looking out under the shade of his hand again. An arrow was lofted from the beach. Swan ducked back and then popped out from behind another merlon. ‘Hello – look, Peter, I got one!’ he said. From his new angle he could see that there was a Turk lying face down behind the nearest mantlet.
    It wasn’t the mantlet at which Swan had fired, but that wasn’t important.
    ‘Doesn’t it look as if there’s an opening?’ Swan asked.
    Peter was sulking. ‘Gekke machine,’ he said. ‘Smells like hell come to earth.’ But after both of them had ducked under a new salvo of arrows, he leaned out and glanced. ‘Too dark,’ he said.
    Holes in the ground didn’t interest Peter. But Turkish arrows did, and he began to collect a few. He held them up in the last light. ‘Cane. Beautiful. Why don’t our fletchers make them like this?’ he asked. He picked up his own Turkish bow and fitted one. And watched the rocks by the beach. ‘Show yourself,’ he ordered his master.
    Swan leaned out and Peter smiled and loosed.
    A second later, a man stood, raised his bow, and Peter’s arrow took him in the chest.
    Peter was insufferable for the next hour.
    After they were relieved, Swan didn’t unarm. Instead, he picked up a pair of lanterns and a long Arabic headscarf. He stopped by the well in the English tower to drink water.
    Peter still had his brigandine on. ‘Vere do you tink you are going?’ he said.
    Swan frowned. ‘I want to investigate a theory,’ he admitted.
    Peter sighed theatrically.
    Fifteen minutes later, they were easing past the stinking privies in near-total darkness. Each of them had lanterns, and both were armed.
    ‘You are insane. You know that,’ Peter said. ‘Christ Jesus, this smell will never come off my good jack. You deserve to be hanged. Sweet Christ!’
    Past the privies, moving very carefully. Past the cat piss. Swan’s boots were silent, but his arm harnesses made distinct sounds each time they tapped against stone.
    Into the ancient underground street. ‘Which way do you think we’re going?’ Swan asked Peter.
    ‘I haf no idea, you madman!’ Peter complained. ‘Ve are in hell.’
    Indeed, the hidden under-city of Rhodos was a fair simulacrum of hell. It stank – and it was very hot. And absolutely dark. The lanterns with their olive-oil lamps burned with too little light to illuminate any more than a step or two in front of them.
    Swan crept down the ancient street. He could feel the slightest breeze on his face, as he had the last time he’d been here – with Salim.
    Far away in the darkness, there was a distinct clank.
    He eased the sword in his scabbard. And pressed forward.
    After ten slow steps, he reached a cross-tunnel. He ran a gauntleted hand over the stone – held his oil lamp in the tunnel and saw the flame move.
    ‘This way,’ he said.
    He struck his head – a ringing blow that staggered him and might have knocked him unconscious if he hadn’t had a helmet on. When he recovered, he raised his lamp and saw that his cross-street – it had cobbled paving under his booted feet – was only four feet high.
    ‘Must we do this?’ Peter asked. His voice was very loud.
    ‘I think the escaped slaves are trying to let the Turks into the town,’ Swan said.
    ‘Vere the fuck are we?’ Peter asked.
    Swan rested a moment, his hips against what he suspected were the under-shorings of the English wall. ‘This is the ancient city,’ he said. ‘Many of the old floors – and old walls – still bear weight. So there are empty spaces – and a path among them. Salim knew it. I didn’t think about it at the time – about who exactly lived down here – but it must be escaped slaves.’
    ‘And they would help the Turks. Of course they would,’ Peter admitted. ‘So – there is a way out?’
    ‘Can’t you feel the breeze? They must have opened one –