The Janissary Tree

[ 66 ]

The rope gave another jerk and Yashim scrabbled to keep his balance on the edge of the vat. His right foot lost its hold and for a moment he swung out over the scum. To regain his footing he had to pay out more rope until he was almost horizontal. He could feel the heat on the back of his neck, and the weight of the liquid seeping into his cloak.

It was not so much a decision as an instinct which made him haul savagely on the rope to regain his footing. The response of his human counterweight brought him momentarily upright: the assassin dropped and as the bundle hit the boiling water his legs convulsively scissored for the last time as the rope finally parted. Yashim floundered, his arms sawing the air while the assassin continued his descent into the vat. Regaining his balance, Yashim was in time to see one hand fling itself out of the pot before it sank into the churning water.

He had no time to consider what had happened. Avoiding the slippery surface between the vats, the men from the doorway were now fanning out into two lines around the edge close to the walls, to cries of ‘Block him!’ and ‘Close the entrance!’ Yashim began to scramble back in a zigzagging diagonal line towards the gate at the corner by which he had come in. But he had to move cautiously, while the others, further from the edge of the vats and with the wall to help them, were already closing in.

Several tanners were already at the gate when Yashim came past the grating he had first descended. He reached down and scooped up the grille in his left hand, like a shield; in the other he fingered the short-bladed knife. But he knew already that the gesture was futile. The men at the gate were hunched over their own knees, bow-legged, waiting for a fight. And the others, sensing their chance, had left the wall to approach him across the vats.

He whirled round. A man at his back lunged, and Yashim whipped him across the face with the knife. Another man closed and Yashim plunged the grille against him like an iron glove, knocking him back. Turning, he saw that the gate was infested with men: there was no escape in that direction.

He sensed a movement and turned, a little too late. He had only time to see a face blackened with rage before he felt a stunning blow over his right eye and he fell to the ground. He stuck out the knife blindly and waited for the man either to run upon it or dodge in and grapple with him, but when nothing happened he rolled round to raise the grating as a shield.

Just in time to see the black-faced man wheeled to the right by a tug on his arm. The man who was tugging ducked, rose like a fish and nutted the black-faced assailant expertly on the tip of his nose. The assailant dropped and the man who had delivered the blow turned to Yashim and grinned.

“Let’s get you the fuck out,” he said.