The Janissary Tree

[ 65 ]

Yashim lunged on the counterweight and had the satisfaction of seeing the assassin swept from his feet. But as the slipknot ran up against the pulley, the arm of the derrick swung heavily towards him and the rope went slack. Yashim lunged further backwards to regain his hold but at that moment the rope bearing the assassin’s weight kicked between his hands, almost knocking him off his feet: the rope sped through his palms and he found himself suddenly scrabbling against the sweaty slope. He kicked with both feet: his left leg slithered off the edge and his foot touched boiling water. He jerked it back with a gasp, and went down on his side.

Flailing to regain a foothold on the slimy surface, Yashim saw the rope slowly oozing through his fingers, slick with grease. He made a lunge with his left hand and caught the rope, tight as a bar, a few inches higher up, hauling hand over hand until he was able to get into a crouch. For a moment he felt his sandals skating on the greasy floor, so he leaned back to balance the weight. Everything had happened so fast that when he finally looked up he could make no sense of what he saw.

A few yards ahead of him, something like a giant crab was working its pincers in a jet of pinkish steam.

Bound at the ankles, upside down, the assassin’s legs were opening and closing at the knee. His tunic had fallen over his head, but his arms were flailing upwards from the cloud of cloth, struggling to take a grip of his own legs. The hem of the tunic floated in a bath of dye. He was suspended directly over a boiling vat, where the derrick had carried him the moment it felt the weight of his body against its arm.

Yashim dragged at the rope and hauled himself upright, but the moment he slacked his hold on the rope the assassin dropped. Yashim hauled back, wrapping a length of rope around his waist and leaning back over the vat behind him.

I can’t let go, he thought.

The flailing man’s legs opened again. What was he doing? Yashim cast a glance over his shoulder: he was hanging out over a roiling tub of evil-smelling liquid. He could see the skins rolling over and over. He needed to keep his weight balanced there, keep his feet set against the rim of the vat, move them along the greasy ledge, and gradually bring the rope up hard against the derrick.

Then he saw what the man was trying to do: with a knife in his hands he was lunging upwards, scissoring his legs to close the distance, lunging at the knot with the blade.

He didn’t know where he was.

If the rope severed, the assassin would dive into the dye.

Yashim, meanwhile, was also hanging out over a vat of poisonous, boiling liquid. Only the assassin’s weight was keeping his feet on the rim of the vat.

And at any moment the rope would whip through the block and Yashim would plunge backwards into the boiling broth.

They were balanced.

The rope gave a thud, and sagged a quarter of an inch.

Yashim tightened his grip. He glanced across the pillars of purple and yellow and saw that the dark doorways at the far end of the tanneries were growing wider.

A knot of men detached themselves from the darkness of the door and began loping across the glistening surface of the tanneries towards him.

And from the direction they came from, and the way they moved, Yashim did not think that they looked very friendly.