Free The Trojan Icon (Ethan Gage Adventures Book 8) by William Dietrich Page B

was close to passing out.
    My survival depended on Harry.
    If my young son hadn’t become frightened from waiting too long as the day lightened, he should lift the lid we’d kept closed so as not to alert the night watchman.
    But my escapade had taken longer than I’d hoped. Had Horus already run home? If I couldn’t get out of the moon pool in moments, I’d freeze and sink. Had he heard the shots and waited? Or fled in fear?
    So I pounded on the wooden well’s sides, the signal to hoist the lid and lower a knotted rope to Papa.
    No answer.
    Mother Mary, I was frozen. I pounded again. “Harry!”
    Nothing.
    I was shaking uncontrollably now, teeth chattering, and every second of entrapment seemed a desperate hour. I’d surfaced from the river in the one place no one could see me, but it did little good if I was helpless as a crab in a trap.
    I pounded once more, weakly this time. It was Czartoryski who’d first scouted the ship, using arrogance and a stolen hat to pose as a marine inspector. He reported back on the moon pool, its hatch, its watchman who made predictable rounds, the rope and pulley to raise it, and the feasibility of exiting the river that way. It would be my last resort, if chased.
    But when we returned to make preparations, a guard had been posted on the ship’s top deck by a captain hostile to any regulation. Only my boy had been small enough to crawl down a mooring line and squeeze through the hawsehole that bound the ship to the pier, invading like an enterprising mouse. He was tiny enough to hide should any watchman come searching. He seemed, if not the best helper, the only one possible.
    Unless he’d gone home as I’d told him. “If Papa doesn’t come when its full morning, you must crawl out sly as a fox and hurry back to Mama. We cannot have you caught.”
    “When is it morning, Papa?”
    “When the day gets bright.”
    “But I’ll be inside.” The lad was as sharp as a tack.
    “Watch the light through the hawsehole.”
    I’d been more worried about him than me. But now I knew I should have entrusted the job to a bribed adult. Corrupt the watchman, say, or hire a desperate rogue who could somehow bully his way aboard. I’d hesitated to spend the money and would die a miser.
    A final exhausted rap. My hair was crusted with ice. My boots were lead weights. The swords dragged to drown me. “Harry.” It was a croak.
    And then, in a miracle equal to that of the light that fell on Saul over the road to Damascus, the hatch opened and a small head peered over.
    “You’re late, Papa.”
    “Harry,” I chattered, “the rope!”
    He pitched it in. My last strength was spent dragging myself out of the pool, my boy helping as best he could. Water poured off, and bits of ice rattled on deck when I collapsed.
    Harry pulled the swords free to lighten me. “They’re heavy!” The weapons clanked as they fell to the planks.
    “Not too loud, son.” I gasped like a fish, water draining, my hands plucking chunks from my hair. I was shivering uncontrollably.
    My five-year-old regarded me with concern. “Do you want a blanket? I found a sail.”
    “Yes, thankee.” I shook like an epileptic. “I feared you gone.”
    “No, I found a kitty. Do you want to pet it?”
    A ship’s cat, for rats.
    Fingers numb, I began to unbutton my wet coat, ice water still sluicing out. “The sail first. And then we’ll hide under it until any outside search is given up. Hide until nightfall if we have to. The days aren’t long.”
    “You said go home by morning.”
    “This is a new game.”
    I could hear shouts outside as soldiers ran along the quay, studying the ice of the Neva on the unlikely chance I’d surface near shore.
    I rolled myself in the tarp with the precious swords, wincing as thorns of warmth returned, the pump of blood as painful as shards of glass. Harry sat next to me with his hat and coat, but then took his mittens off and beckoned.
    “Here, kitty,” he whispered.

 
     
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