Free Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Six: Chios by Christian Cameron Page B

that the whoreson Drappierro wanted?’ The Lord of Eressos spread his hands.
    Swan looked at him. ‘Where did you hear that?’ he asked, his head racing. Theodora said …
    ‘People talk.’ Zambale smiled, then shrugged. ‘I suppose one of the guards said something.’
    Swan looked at him in wine-soaked puzzlement. ‘What would they know? Drappierro sent everyone out of the room.’
    And then it hit him. Drappierro had spies everywhere – on Chios and Lesvos. Swan’s eyes locked with Zambale’s.
    He regretted opening his mouth.
    Zambale backed up a step and drew a dagger.
    ‘Son of a bitch,’ Swan said. He got his back to the wall and reached for his borrowed sword.
    It wasn’t there, of course. It was leaning against the wall of the bishop’s palace.
    ‘You have to know everything, do you not, Englishman?’ Zambale flicked the dagger with easy competence between his hands.
    The Italian captain took a sip of wine.
    ‘In this case,’ Swan said, ‘I can let it go. If you can.’
    Zambale pursed his lips.
    Swan didn’t relax – he was in one of the guards the order taught – but he raised a hand. ‘Zambale – I like you. Let it go. I don’t care. If you reported to Drappierro, or if you didn’t – I don’t care.’
    ‘Always the hero. With Prince Dorino, and now, here.’ Zambale’s face was twisted with rage – or grief. The dagger flicked into his right hand – point down.
    ‘Walk away,’ Swan said.
    Almost as if the dagger was controlling the man, the right arm went up, and Zambale slammed the dagger at Swan overhand.
    Swan took the weight of the blow with his open left hand – which then closed like a vice, thumb down, on Zambale’s wrist. He twisted, and Zambale’s face came so close that they were eye to eye, nose to nose, as Swan twisted the other man’s wrist on the blade of the dagger and stripped the weapon, which fell to the floor with a clatter.
    He backed away, leaving the other man with nothing but a sore shoulder.
    The Italian captain took another sip of wine.
    The prostitutes and the wine-boys were watching intently.
    Zambale sighed. He sank to one knee – and plucked up the dagger. ‘Fuck you,’ he said, in Italian.
    The Italian captain drew his dagger and tossed it across the table to Swan, who caught it by the blade and flipped it into his hand.
    ‘Walk away,’ Swan said, again. ‘Whatever you think is worth this – manhood, honour, chivalry, money – it’s not worth it. All lies. Walk away.’
    Zambale shouted incoherently and lunged, and Swan killed him.
    ‘Giovanni della Scalle,’ the Italian captain said, introducing himself. ‘You have killed before, I think.’
    ‘Many times,’ Swan said, in utter self-disgust. He drank down another cup of wine.
    Della Scalle shook his head and made a wry face. ‘I think that you tried not to kill him. I did not really understand – I’m sorry, I didn’t know what was happening.’ His insincerity was as alarming as his initial reluctance – Swan thought that Della Scalle could have disarmed Zambale at any time.
    Swan bowed and returned his cleaned dagger to the man. ‘Messire, I hope it is so, and you will pardon my cynicism, but it must be very convenient in certain quarters that Messire Drappierro’s friend here is … dead.’
    Della Salle blinked, and his eyebrows rose. ‘Very convenient,’ he said. ‘I ought to arrest you, as duelling is illegal, but I find that you acted in self-defence, and I will so report it to the Mahona.’ He leaned forward. ‘I might have killed you, too. My employer would fancy that.’ He nodded.
    ‘I need to leave this place,’ Swan said.
    Two days later, a fishing boat carrying the English squire doubled the long point guarding the Bay of Kalloni and turned into the channel itself on a favouring wind. As the arms of the land opened, Swan could see all the way down the great bay. He could see the pair of galleys on guard just a few bowshots into the bay, and behind them