Chapter 69: The Lower Town Sleeps Badly

The stairs dumped them onto packed earth that still had the day’s heat, though the sun had been gone for hours.

Vito knew that marching all of them together would advertise their business better than any horn Rethymno’s garrison could have blown.

"Basta."

He had one hand up and kept his voice below a whisper. "Five ways in, one door out, and we’re right against the noble quarter. Not one sound between here and there, even if you’ve thought yourself clever."

Two fingers jerked left, then right. That was enough.

The detachment split, five thin streams slipping into five separate alleyways and narrow streets. Toffolo remained beside him with five others, while the other four groups disappeared around their corners within a dozen heartbeats.

Vito was left with seven men, one passage, and the city standing between him and the destination.

The lower town surrendered its smell a little at a time. Woodsmoke, manure, and the mysterious remains of whatever had been put on the fire before bed.

The streets followed no reasonable plan. They bent around whatever some builder had found convenient centuries ago, and with every turn they grew narrower, until the upper stories leaned over the street so closely that neighbors could have passed gossip between their windows without bothering to raise their voices.

Every shutter was closed, and here and there a dull red hearth showed through a crack in the wood. That was about all the town offered as evidence that anybody was still awake, or alive.

Then two figures came out of the darkness, walking at a comfortable pace, entirely unaware of what was waiting for them.

Two men with one old lantern between them, casting enough shadow to make the light almost decorative. Each carried a staff, and neither had anything that could honestly be called a blade.

Watchmen.

The common sort hired to walk a route and call for soldiers when trouble appeared.

Vito came up behind one and hurled forward, his arm locking around the man’s throat to shut off the cry there. Then he struck the back of his leg with a knee and folded him down.

He fought back, clawing at Vito’s forearm. Then a mailed fist struck him across the bridge of the nose, the cartilage snapping with a wet crunch, and blood pouring hot over the watchmen’s lips and chin.

The impact had been enough to knock him out cold.

Toffolo and one more soldier dealt with the remaining watchman together. One drove a shoulder into his belly and folded him over it, while the other cut above his eyebrow with a fist.

He hit the earth softly, all the air leaving him in one ragged rush.

Then one boot stomped on his jaw to settle the question of whether he intended to get back up. His teeth clicked together badly, and blood and spit slipped from the corner of his slack mouth.

Neither men was killed, and by dawn their wives would have a difficult time recognizing their faces.

Rope went around wrists and ankles in a hurry, torn sleeve became gag.

Then the unconscious bodies were dragged out of the open and propped against a wall where the darkness was thick enough to keep them there.

The night remained silent.

That was the best possible outcome, and Vito had no intention to question it.

From there, the detachment had gone perhaps fifty paces when a cry ripped through the darkness ahead, sharp and rising.

Every blade in the party came halfway out of its sheath.

Another cry followed, lower this time and ragged. For one heartbeat Vito questioned which shuttered door he would break through first.

Then the bed behind began pounding against the wall with a rhythm no man being murdered had ever managed to maintain.

The cry came a third time, louder and considerably more enthusiastic than frightened.

Then one shouted name with genuine pleasure.

Toffolo slapped a hand over his own mouth so hard it looked painful. The soldier beside him swallowed his tongue.

Vito bent away from the noise.

"Ma va’," he breathed. "That man has earned a medal, and a full night’s sleep afterward. God can decide which reward comes first."

There was no reply. Doing so would have risked turning the joke into an actual noise, and they had already learned enough about the night’s surprises.

The party hurried past the house, giving it a generous berth and carrying rather more cheer with them than the night’s work had any reasonable right to allow.

The good humor didn’t survive the next three watchmen.

These three kept farther apart than the first pair. One of them held a lantern high instead of letting it swing uselessly at his side, leaving the street plain and the shadows too thin for a man to hide in close to them.

Vito took the middle one himself and trusted speed to make up for the lack of darkness.

It almost did.

The watchman’s head turned when Vito’s hand reached him. He caught jaw and beard instead of the mouth he had meant to cover.

Half the shout escaped, a harsh bark that was already becoming trouble. Vito’s other hand closed around the man’s throat and slammed him against the ground.

The impact knocked the rest of the breath out of him.

They went down together in a soft heap, the watchman clawing at Vito’s wrist and at his throat with desperation.

Vito drove his forearm into the windpipe and held it there until it gave with a wet, ugly click.

The watchman went limp.

Vito kept the pressure on for one heartbeat longer than he liked, then eased back just enough to feel a ragged breath beneath his hand.

The other two received no gentler welcome.

One caught a boot behind the knee, folded forward, and met a rising fist on the way down.

The third got his staff halfway up before Toffolo’s blade-hilt cracked against his temple and put him twitching in the dirt.

No second shout followed the first half-formed one.

For three long breaths the whole party stood still and listened.

"Cazzo."

Vito waited until his hands had stopped shaking enough for him to trust his own voice.

"That one nearly ruined the whole night for us."

The detachment bound and gagged the three, then dragged them into a pocket of shadow until morning.

After that they moved on in a hurry.

They had crossed two more streets when a door groaned open ahead. A figure in a long dark robe slipped through it with cautious movements.

He stopped to straighten his collar and pulled the robe closed over what little the poor light revealed beneath it. It was considerably less than a man of God generally wore to bed.

He crossed himself twice in quick succession, then hurried away without so much as a glance behind him.

Whatever business had kept the priest in that house tonight, it was plainly not the sort that usually required a blessing on the way out.

One of the soldiers behind Vito made a strangled noise as he tried to keep his laughter behind his teeth.

Toffolo’s shoulders shook so violently that Vito had to reach back and catch his arm.

"Confession."

Vito breathed as the robed figure disappeared around the distant corner.

"It must be a great comfort to some married woman, and apparently a regular necessity."

Nobody could answer without risking an actual sound, so they let the priest keep his lead and waited until he was safely gone before following, each man still trying to get the last of his laughter under control.

The street had started climbing by then.

Packed earth started to become old paving stones onto a part of the city that might as well have belonged to another place.

Torches burned here in iron brackets instead of forgotten oil lamps. Their light fell across fresh plaster and more than one glass window. It was the sort of respectable wealth that had never spent much time worrying about ships or a thin night watch.

A low wall of cut stone marked the district’s boundary, broken by one gated entrance broad enough for a cart.

Beyond it Vito could see a church tower rising above everything else.

Two men guarded the gate.

Neither looked like a fisherman who had been handed a spear an hour before supper and told to stand somewhere important. Their mail was good, oiled, and properly cared for, while blades hung easily at their hips, worn with comfortable familiarity.

Vito dropped into the shadows before the torchlight could catch him and waved his men down beside him.

Then he studied the gate.

He had no intention of walking through it the easy way, at least not yet.