Free The Mosaic of Shadows by Tom Harper Page B

to a house in the forest, where for two weeks he trained one of them in the use of a strange weapon, a barbarian weapon the like of which Kaloyan had never seen.’
    ‘Was it a tzangra ?’ I asked, describing it as best I could.
    ‘Yes,’ said the interpreter. ‘Just so. It could shoot through steel. Kaloyan wanted to try it, but the monk guarded it jealously and let no-one but his apprentice use it. Once one of Kaloyan’s companions tried to steal it while the monk was sleeping. He did not leave the forest alive.’
    ‘So Kaloyan was not the assassin.’ I could not know whether to be elated or confused by how close I had come. ‘Does he know the one who was?’
    I saw the Bulgar shake his head weakly. ‘He never knew him before,’ the priest confirmed. ‘Vassos found him somewhere in the slums.’
    ‘Did the monk say what he purposed with the weapon? Why he went to so much trouble to train another man in its use?’ My questions were coming faster now, for every word the Bulgar spoke demanded explanation, and the frustration of the long pauses while the interpreter spoke first with the prisoner and then formed his phrases was beginning to wear on me.
    ‘The monk never told them his purpose, and he did not welcome questions. All he said was that he had a powerful enemy whom he wanted removed, and he could not do so himself.’
    Another thought struck me. ‘So if he trained only one of them in the use of the tzangra , what were Kaloyan and the others for? Did he fear for his safety?’ Did the monk have other enemies of whom we knew nothing?
    ‘Not for his own safety.’ The interpreter puzzled at something the Bulgar had said. ‘He was afraid that the apprentice would flee away if he had the chance.’
    ‘Why would he do that?’ Surely the monk paid well enough, if he could afford a quartet of bodyguards.
    An even longer pause. ‘Because of his age. He was little more than a boy, the Bulgar says, and wild, untameable.’
    I heard the ringing thud of metal on stone as an axe-head fell to the ground. The interpreter flinched; the Bulgar screamed, though it was only Sigurd dropping his weapon. It was some moments before there was calm again, and all that time I strained with a burning impatience to ask my final question.
    ‘A boy?’ I said at last. ‘The assassin was a boy? Has the Bulgar seen him since?’
    It seemed an age while my words were echoed into the Bulgar tongue, then while the interpreter frowned in concentration at the long answer he was given. He curled a finger through his beard and eyed me nervously, sensing the importance that had settled on this last question, though in no way understanding it.
    ‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘He did see him again. He says he tried to kill him this morning.’

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    I was running out of the dungeon almost before the priest had spoken, out past the blank ranks of lamplit slaves, up the twisted steps, and into the mercy of the cool air in the courtyard above. There were shouts and footsteps behind me but I did not care: I had held the assassin in my arms only hours ago, had saved him from an almost certain death. I looked about at the great columns enclosing me like a giant cage, and realised I did not even know my way out of the palace.
    ‘Where did you take him?’
    I spun around to see Sigurd emerging from the stair behind me. He was breathing heavily, though still could hold his axe with a single hand.
    ‘To a monastery.’ I hesitated, suddenly thinking what he might do to the boy who had tried to kill the Emperor. Of course a murderer deserved death – but I had saved his life, and I had not shaken the soldier’s superstition that you buy a man’s life only with a small piece of your own.
    ‘Which monastery?’ Sigurd demanded. ‘Christ! The boy might already be gone. There’s no time.’
    ‘The monastery of Saint Andrew. In the Sigma district.’
    ‘Follow me.’
    His armour jangling like shackles, he led me at a run through the corridors of