The Janissary Tree

[ 62 ]

The assassin hung for a moment on all fours, to catch his breath. Strong: yes, he was very strong. But the running was for a younger man, perhaps; a man in training. He had not trained that way for ten years.

Move, he told himself. Crawl away from under the grating. For the first time in forty-eight hours he felt tired. Jinxed.

The mission had failed. He had waited for hours in that room, focusing on the door. Once or twice he had tried the latch, to see how long it took for the door to swing open. Darkness had come: his element.

He had heard her coming. He saw the light approach, watched with satisfaction as a finger snaked in to flick the latch. His hand coiled around the weight at the end of the twine.

And then, in the darkness, it had all gone wrong. The dancer stepped back, not forwards. The weight sliced through the empty air, and then the crashing. It would have been possible to go on—but someone had come.

If there’s any risk of being discovered, abort.

The assassin began to move again, silently, creeping away from the grating down the sluice. Forget the failure, he thought. Hide. Go to earth.

The movement consoled him. His breathing softened. Rest now. No one would follow him down here, and later he could rectify his mistake. Sleep now.

Sleep among the altars.

Each altar topped by a glowing brazier.

The air was fetid and warm.

The air was full of sleep.

The assassin squirmed through a low arch and found a clear space on the warm brick. He also found a day-old loaf of bread on the ledge of a brazier and stuffed a piece of it into his mouth. He took the stopper from an earthenware bottle and drank a long draught of warm water.

At last he stretched out on the warm bricks, clasping his hands behind his head.

And then, looking up at the curving belly of the vats, the assassin screamed.