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Chapter 4
The Saracen
 

The English have a saying that necessity makes strange bedfellows. There are times when I worry that my brothers in themselves worry about that with regard to me.

My only instructions were to watch and report, and I have watched, and reported where I can. Since we left England, I have seen the markings that show that there are messages waiting for some brother or brother in half a dozen ports, but both in Malta or Pironesia, while I did see signs, there were no messages for me. Please, if you would, I ask again, as I asked in the message left in that place in Londinium that I'll not commit to this writing: let me know what your will is with regard to me.

There is no reason to worry, my beloved brothers. Yes, I think of myself as Stavros Kechiroski, Sir Stavros the Hellene, almost all of the time, as I was trained to do. It's even more necessary these days, for reasons that I trust you will understand.

But I remain, at my heart and soul, the one who I have always been.

—Nissim Al-Furat

It was a delicate balance.

Even in Cully's absence, while bargaining over the teakettle, Stavros tried to do it well, but not too well. That would be suspicious, in and of itself. Andropoloniki weren't Athenians, after all, renowned as hagglers—although not even the best of the Athenai that Stavros had ever met was at most a patch on the robes of least of the olive merchants in the souk of Tikritzia when it came to haggling.

It was all a delicate balance, Stavros Kechiroski decided, not for the first or the hundred-and-first time. He had spent the trip from Portsmouth thinking of little else.

"At that price," he said, keeping just a trace of a hellenic drawl in his türkçe, "it would hardly have been worth my master having me haul this up even the hill to this miserable village, much less all the way over from Antalya, where I know he paid better than ten times the pitiful two bice that you insist on insulting him with."

The old woman sniffed. "Then I guess that he must have paid for it with the gold that litters the streets of Antalya, because it's worth not more than three here."

"And perhaps you'd rather another tinker mend your pot?" he asked, pointing to the growing pile of work, where villagers, hearing of the tinker, had come to the market, always carefully negotiating a price and examining the tinker's other wares before leaving. Like most of the stack, this particular pot—more of a small kettle, really—was the sort of thing that should have been mended by a blacksmith, but the nearest one was two days away, and the patches showed that it had been, as the English said, "tinkered with" endless times before, and would now be, once again.

Steal it?

Turks would steal soiled swaddling clothes, if you let them—but a tinker who absconded with goods left for repair would find not only that his reputation preceded him to the next cluster of hovels, but peasants were dropping their work to hunt him down. When Cully had said before he had departed, as though he had said it a thousand times before, that Onan and Erdem were to guard goods left for repair with their lives, that had not been taken as a figure of speech, not in the marketplace.

"No, no, I'll be back for that tomorrow," she said.

Pots sprung leaks, after all. Of such was a tinker's fortune made.

She started to turn away, slowly, and for a moment, Stavros considered telling her to turn back, the way an Athenian would, but—

He just shrugged, and let her walk away, rewarded by the smallest of nods from Sir Guy.

"I know, Onan," he said. "Better not to sell, than to have Master Erdem beat the two of us half to death for selling too cheaply."

Onan—Sir Guy—just grunted. He was actually quite good at that.

It was slow today, here, it being a Sunday.

Saturday was the market day in this village, although in every one of the villages that they had passed through, every day seemed to be a market day, even Sunday. The Church forbade trade on the Lord's Day, true, but Izmir was far from Constantinople, and even cassocked priests could be seen in their robes and crucifixes, moving from stall to stall, seeking bargains. Stavros was not sure what could possibly be a bargain on the basket of poorly salted-down smelts that might—might—have been almost fresh the day before, but surely were good for nothing but feeding to the hogs now, if that, as when the wind changed and blew the smell this way, it turned Sir Guy's face almost green. Stavros had no difficulty in stifling his own smile at that; he had smelled it, too.

Fortunately, the wind changed, carrying the stink away from them.

The fishmonger shrugged an apology, and stepped out from under the shade of his stall. "Ah," he said, "that's the trouble with Istia. Too close to the sea, and too far from it, at the same time."

"Eh?"

"Doesn't pay to smoke it or pickle it," he said, "as we're too close to the sea. And by the time that the fish is properly gutted and washed, I've practically got to whip my asses half to death in order to get the lazy fellows to make the trip overnight for Saturday market." He shrugged. "And then, of course, with my luck being notoriously bad, yesterday had not a cloud in the sky, and I could practically watch it all spoiling before me."

Well, while there still was a large pile of smelts, most of the rest of the fish had gone; the fishmonger was just complaining for sport or, more likely, as an opening for some negotiation.

He was an amazingly fat man, although he moved nimbly enough, and he kept his eyes on Stavros's while his fingers toyed with the teakettle, no doubt much more interested in the set of knives that had been laid out on the boards. Decent working knives, bought in Pironesia, not good Sheffield or Damascus. What would itinerant tinkers be doing with anything so fine? Sir Guy had argued in favor of better equipping themselves—after all, he'd said, even though they had to lower themselves to do all this, that didn't mean that they had to lower themselves any more than necessary.

He turned to Sir Guy. "Onan, I find myself thirsty. Be so kind as to fetch more water."

For a moment, Sir Guy hesitated, then sagged his shoulders in an overly dramatic demonstration of resignation, picked up the bucket beside the table, and stalked off.

"Hmm . . ." the fishmonger said, eying Sir Guy's retreating back. "Seems to me that that other slave of your masters could do with a clout or two."

Stavros grinned. "That was my thought, as well—but don't tell it to Master Erdem Tenekeci. It was his clouts about the head that cost poor Onan his speech." He pointed at the knives. "I see that you find these of interest."

"Hmmmph. Possibly. Depends on the price. Which must be large enough to satisfy your master, I take it. Is he due back soon?"

"Well . . ." Stavros chuckled. "I doubt it. Not with his new girl still new to him. Amazing endurance, Master Erdem has, for a man his age, and he's got a feeling about how a quick servicing while the irons are cooling makes the day go better, if not faster. My guess is that she'll be hauling more than his shoes and hammer before they're back."

Peasant farmers would rarely shoe their children, but their horses were a different matter, and while many itinerant tinkers were also farriers, it was likely that few were as good as Cully, all in all, nor as quick, and the reputation of Ercam the Tinker was quickly spreading from village to village. Of all that a Turkish peasant owned, his dray horse was more important than his children, and there was always work for a farrier, even if the local blacksmith—when there was a blacksmith—resented the competition. Three days in Istia, and there could easily be a dozen more horses to be shod before they moved on.

"Where I was born," Stavros said, "it was customary to purchase a knife before slipping it into one's robes." He made to rise up, as though to cry thief—a call that would bring others from all over the market—but the fishmonger simply set the knife down and put three copper coins next to it.

By the time they finished negotiating, Sir Guy was back, and took no note of Stavros's glare at him as he carefully put all five coins in the leather pouch that hung about his neck.

The fishmonger grinned. Obviously, Stavros/Ercam had thought to pocket one of the coppers himself, risking the beating for having sold too cheaply to line his own purse.

He didn't mind being thought obvious; that was just fine with him. What all three of his persons—Ercam, Stavros, and Nissim—were doing was, for once, one and the same. Listening for gossip. This part of Izmir was where so many of the admiral's agents had disappeared, and the locals seemed neither more nor less dangerous than anywhere else.

Less so, if anything. Slave raiders from Seeproosh rarely made it this far inland. The reis hardly had much of a standing army, but raising a company of peasant bowmen was something that could be done quickly, and, whatever else you could say about the cursed Turks, they were accurate with their short bows, if only from endless shots at wild animals poaching on their fields.

But . . . wait.

It was just a muttered curse exchanged between two women who were walking by, and a quick gesture at a hilltop toward the north east.

Büyüleyici kadýn.

Witch.

Now, that was interesting.

Back | Next
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 4
The Saracen
 

The English have a saying that necessity makes strange bedfellows. There are times when I worry that my brothers in themselves worry about that with regard to me.

My only instructions were to watch and report, and I have watched, and reported where I can. Since we left England, I have seen the markings that show that there are messages waiting for some brother or brother in half a dozen ports, but both in Malta or Pironesia, while I did see signs, there were no messages for me. Please, if you would, I ask again, as I asked in the message left in that place in Londinium that I'll not commit to this writing: let me know what your will is with regard to me.

There is no reason to worry, my beloved brothers. Yes, I think of myself as Stavros Kechiroski, Sir Stavros the Hellene, almost all of the time, as I was trained to do. It's even more necessary these days, for reasons that I trust you will understand.

But I remain, at my heart and soul, the one who I have always been.

—Nissim Al-Furat

It was a delicate balance.

Even in Cully's absence, while bargaining over the teakettle, Stavros tried to do it well, but not too well. That would be suspicious, in and of itself. Andropoloniki weren't Athenians, after all, renowned as hagglers—although not even the best of the Athenai that Stavros had ever met was at most a patch on the robes of least of the olive merchants in the souk of Tikritzia when it came to haggling.

It was all a delicate balance, Stavros Kechiroski decided, not for the first or the hundred-and-first time. He had spent the trip from Portsmouth thinking of little else.

"At that price," he said, keeping just a trace of a hellenic drawl in his türkçe, "it would hardly have been worth my master having me haul this up even the hill to this miserable village, much less all the way over from Antalya, where I know he paid better than ten times the pitiful two bice that you insist on insulting him with."

The old woman sniffed. "Then I guess that he must have paid for it with the gold that litters the streets of Antalya, because it's worth not more than three here."

"And perhaps you'd rather another tinker mend your pot?" he asked, pointing to the growing pile of work, where villagers, hearing of the tinker, had come to the market, always carefully negotiating a price and examining the tinker's other wares before leaving. Like most of the stack, this particular pot—more of a small kettle, really—was the sort of thing that should have been mended by a blacksmith, but the nearest one was two days away, and the patches showed that it had been, as the English said, "tinkered with" endless times before, and would now be, once again.

Steal it?

Turks would steal soiled swaddling clothes, if you let them—but a tinker who absconded with goods left for repair would find not only that his reputation preceded him to the next cluster of hovels, but peasants were dropping their work to hunt him down. When Cully had said before he had departed, as though he had said it a thousand times before, that Onan and Erdem were to guard goods left for repair with their lives, that had not been taken as a figure of speech, not in the marketplace.

"No, no, I'll be back for that tomorrow," she said.

Pots sprung leaks, after all. Of such was a tinker's fortune made.

She started to turn away, slowly, and for a moment, Stavros considered telling her to turn back, the way an Athenian would, but—

He just shrugged, and let her walk away, rewarded by the smallest of nods from Sir Guy.

"I know, Onan," he said. "Better not to sell, than to have Master Erdem beat the two of us half to death for selling too cheaply."

Onan—Sir Guy—just grunted. He was actually quite good at that.

It was slow today, here, it being a Sunday.

Saturday was the market day in this village, although in every one of the villages that they had passed through, every day seemed to be a market day, even Sunday. The Church forbade trade on the Lord's Day, true, but Izmir was far from Constantinople, and even cassocked priests could be seen in their robes and crucifixes, moving from stall to stall, seeking bargains. Stavros was not sure what could possibly be a bargain on the basket of poorly salted-down smelts that might—might—have been almost fresh the day before, but surely were good for nothing but feeding to the hogs now, if that, as when the wind changed and blew the smell this way, it turned Sir Guy's face almost green. Stavros had no difficulty in stifling his own smile at that; he had smelled it, too.

Fortunately, the wind changed, carrying the stink away from them.

The fishmonger shrugged an apology, and stepped out from under the shade of his stall. "Ah," he said, "that's the trouble with Istia. Too close to the sea, and too far from it, at the same time."

"Eh?"

"Doesn't pay to smoke it or pickle it," he said, "as we're too close to the sea. And by the time that the fish is properly gutted and washed, I've practically got to whip my asses half to death in order to get the lazy fellows to make the trip overnight for Saturday market." He shrugged. "And then, of course, with my luck being notoriously bad, yesterday had not a cloud in the sky, and I could practically watch it all spoiling before me."

Well, while there still was a large pile of smelts, most of the rest of the fish had gone; the fishmonger was just complaining for sport or, more likely, as an opening for some negotiation.

He was an amazingly fat man, although he moved nimbly enough, and he kept his eyes on Stavros's while his fingers toyed with the teakettle, no doubt much more interested in the set of knives that had been laid out on the boards. Decent working knives, bought in Pironesia, not good Sheffield or Damascus. What would itinerant tinkers be doing with anything so fine? Sir Guy had argued in favor of better equipping themselves—after all, he'd said, even though they had to lower themselves to do all this, that didn't mean that they had to lower themselves any more than necessary.

He turned to Sir Guy. "Onan, I find myself thirsty. Be so kind as to fetch more water."

For a moment, Sir Guy hesitated, then sagged his shoulders in an overly dramatic demonstration of resignation, picked up the bucket beside the table, and stalked off.

"Hmm . . ." the fishmonger said, eying Sir Guy's retreating back. "Seems to me that that other slave of your masters could do with a clout or two."

Stavros grinned. "That was my thought, as well—but don't tell it to Master Erdem Tenekeci. It was his clouts about the head that cost poor Onan his speech." He pointed at the knives. "I see that you find these of interest."

"Hmmmph. Possibly. Depends on the price. Which must be large enough to satisfy your master, I take it. Is he due back soon?"

"Well . . ." Stavros chuckled. "I doubt it. Not with his new girl still new to him. Amazing endurance, Master Erdem has, for a man his age, and he's got a feeling about how a quick servicing while the irons are cooling makes the day go better, if not faster. My guess is that she'll be hauling more than his shoes and hammer before they're back."

Peasant farmers would rarely shoe their children, but their horses were a different matter, and while many itinerant tinkers were also farriers, it was likely that few were as good as Cully, all in all, nor as quick, and the reputation of Ercam the Tinker was quickly spreading from village to village. Of all that a Turkish peasant owned, his dray horse was more important than his children, and there was always work for a farrier, even if the local blacksmith—when there was a blacksmith—resented the competition. Three days in Istia, and there could easily be a dozen more horses to be shod before they moved on.

"Where I was born," Stavros said, "it was customary to purchase a knife before slipping it into one's robes." He made to rise up, as though to cry thief—a call that would bring others from all over the market—but the fishmonger simply set the knife down and put three copper coins next to it.

By the time they finished negotiating, Sir Guy was back, and took no note of Stavros's glare at him as he carefully put all five coins in the leather pouch that hung about his neck.

The fishmonger grinned. Obviously, Stavros/Ercam had thought to pocket one of the coppers himself, risking the beating for having sold too cheaply to line his own purse.

He didn't mind being thought obvious; that was just fine with him. What all three of his persons—Ercam, Stavros, and Nissim—were doing was, for once, one and the same. Listening for gossip. This part of Izmir was where so many of the admiral's agents had disappeared, and the locals seemed neither more nor less dangerous than anywhere else.

Less so, if anything. Slave raiders from Seeproosh rarely made it this far inland. The reis hardly had much of a standing army, but raising a company of peasant bowmen was something that could be done quickly, and, whatever else you could say about the cursed Turks, they were accurate with their short bows, if only from endless shots at wild animals poaching on their fields.

But . . . wait.

It was just a muttered curse exchanged between two women who were walking by, and a quick gesture at a hilltop toward the north east.

Büyüleyici kadýn.

Witch.

Now, that was interesting.

Back | Next
Framed