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

taught him. It felt odd with the small Turkish bow, but it seemed to pull very much the way the bows of his youth pulled. Heavy. But beautifully balanced.
    He raised the sharp, barbed point of the arrow twelve fingers above Omar Reis’s head. He compensated for the breeze, let out a little breath, and loosed, his hand flying from the string as in a dramatic plucking of a harp.
    He ignored the shouts of his companions and watched the fall of his shot, because it felt right . An archer knows.
    The arrow rose high over the streets of the ancient city, and then, like one of Idris’s falcons, it fell.
    The Wolf of Thrace and his horse fell silently, two hundred paces away. The horse kicked, and dust flew, and Swan could see no more. He turned, scooped up the helmet, and ran.
    ‘I got him!’ he whooped like a boy when he caught Alessandro.
    ‘Got who?’ asked the Venetian.
    ‘I put an arrow in Omar Reis!’ He laughed.
    Alessandro looked at him in disgust. ‘If you have done such a foolish thing, they will hunt us to the ends of the earth,’ he said wearily. ‘Now lead us through your sewers.’
    There was no further pursuit.
    In an hour, the exhausted and bedraggled survivors were in the Venetian quarter. Swan was pissing blood; the Spaniard had an arrow in his left thigh that the Venetian quarter barber-surgeon refused to touch, and Alessandro sent him on his way. A sailor was dead; another of the marines badly wounded with an arrow in the shoulder, and all of the men-at-arms were virtually unable to move from exhaustion.
    The two Venetian galleys were on their way, halfway across the Golden Horn. The sun was setting. But north and west of the Venetian galleys, half a dozen Turkish galleys were crossing their lateen yards and making ready for sea.
    The bishop had been pinked by two arrows, and was badly bruised by rocks and clods of earth, and despite that, he was everywhere, hobbling on a makeshift crutch, full of spirit – almost cheerful.
    Alessandro watched him.
    ‘Not what I expected,’ Swan said carefully. Alessandro seemed to blame him for the whole incident.
    But the Venetian shrugged. ‘He has surprised himself,’ said the Italian. ‘He is braver than he thought, and a better man. It has made him . . . happy. I have seen this before.’ He managed a rueful smile. ‘Perhaps never such a volte-face as this, but still . . .’
    Cesare was downing a cup of wine. ‘Christ, what if we had to like him?’
    The Venetian bailli entered the yard of the inn and began to shout at the bishop.
    Alessandro still had his armour on. He waved at the rest of the party. ‘Get your kit to the wharf. Now. Immediately. The bailli is threatening to hand us over to the Turks.’
    Swan was on his way to his room when he realised that the small boy standing at the open front door of the inn was familiar. The boy brightened when he saw Swan.
    ‘King David is looking for you. At the gate!’ he said. And off he ran, in the way of small boys.
    Swan thought about it.
    Isaac might have something useful to say. He would certainly have a packet of his letters for Venice.
    Or he might have a party of Turks – or even a dozen mercenaries, to take Swan alive, and hand him to Omar Reis, if he lived.
    I don’t have to do this , Swan thought.
    So he went. He was in armour, with his sword at his side. His buckler was lost.
    There was no janissary at the gate. Instead, there was Isaac.
    ‘How did you escape?’ Isaac asked as soon as Swan appeared.
    ‘I have some tricks,’ Swan said wearily. ‘I shot Omar Reis.’
    ‘You killed Omar Reis’s horse,’ Isaac said.
    Swan laughed. Perhaps it was the fatigue, or the heat, or the wine, but he laughed and laughed, and he couldn’t stop, like a small child. Isaac shook his head.
    ‘The Turks will be here in a few minutes, to demand you be handed over,’ he said. He pointed across the square, where Yellow Face was obvious by an ancient archway. ‘I have to know. How – how exactly – did