‘Come on,’ he hissed, running to the first stack. It proved to be cotton, and so did the second, but the third was silk. Beautiful silk.
Nish sorted through the rolls. It didn’t have to be the finest cloth but it needed to be strong. All the rolls at the top turned out to be too fine, no use for anything but scarves and nightwear.
‘The best stuff is right down the bottom,’ said Nish. ‘Pull that one out, would you?’
The soldier, whose name he could not remember, hauled at the roll. It did not budge. ‘We’ll have to shift the ones up top first.’
Vim climbed the end of the stack, which was a couple of spans tall, and began hurling rolls down from the top. They thumped onto the floorboards.
‘Don’t do that!’ Nish waved his arms frantically. ‘If there are people below, they’ll come up to see what’s going on. Hand the damn things down.’
They were all panting by the time they’d uncovered the bottom of the stack, and the dust was tickling their noses. Nish resisted the urge to sneeze. ‘Help me unroll this one.’
They spread it out along the floor. It was good strong cloth, better than anything they’d been able to obtain at Fiz Gorgo. There were no flaws, no rat or moth holes. He paced out the length and width, calculating, then rolled it up again.
‘We’ll need eight of these to make three airbags. Vim, Slann, take this one. Leave it upstairs at the rope and come straight back.’
‘It’s bloody heavy,’ said Slann, a weedy man, as they heaved it to their shoulders.
‘Just get on with it.’
They went out, the cloth sagging between them. Scarcely had they turned the corner when there came a cry of rage.
‘Hoy! Put that down, you. Neahl, Roys, they’re stealing our cloth.’
The other four soldiers pelted to the door. Nish drew his sword and followed with the lantern. Opening the shutter wide he flashed it down the stairs.
About three flights down, a crowd of at least thirty people, ranging in age from dirty children to withered oldsters, had gathered. A good few of them looked fit, though they were only armed with an assortment of knives.
‘What are you doing here?’ said Nish.
‘We live here,’ replied a snaggle-toothed old man.
‘But the lyrinx –’
‘Don’t bother us and we don’t bother them, any more’n the rats do.’ The oldster gave a squeaking kind of laugh.
‘Well, we’ve just come for some of this silk.’
‘Can’t have it,’ said the old fellow. ‘It’s our’n.’
‘You’re not using it.’
‘We will one day, now clear orf.’
‘We can pay you for it,’ said Nish, feeling the ground sinking beneath him.
‘Get lost! Can’t eat yer stinkin’ money.’
‘You fellows get your crossbows ready,’ Nish said in a low voice.
‘They are,’ a soldier replied. ‘Just give the word.’
‘Don’t shoot unless there’s no choice.’ Nish raised his voice. ‘Whether you accept the money or not is up to you, old fellow. We’re taking the cloth anyway – for the war.’
Fingering a small bag of silver out of his pocket, he tossed it down the steps. It landed halfway and burst, scattering coins everywhere.
The old fellow did not look down. Nor, to Nish’s surprise, did anyone else. Not even the children scrambled for the silver. The cold feeling in the pit of his stomach grew colder.
‘We don’t give a damn about the war,’ said the old man. ‘The lyrinx leave us alone.’
‘Raise your weapons, lads,’ Nish said softly. Then louder, ‘Come any closer and we’ll shoot.’ Nish drew back to give the soldiers with the bows a clear shot, though he still hoped that they could intimidate the crowd into running away. To the others he said, ‘Take it up, Vim and Slann. You two, get the next bolt. And hurry!’
Vim and Slann thumped up the stairs. The second pair of soldiers hefted their bolt of silk. The crowd were a quivering mass of indignation. Nish darted in and tried to pick up the third bolt. It was extremely heavy, and when he got it onto his shoulders the ends of the roll bent to the floor. He’d never carry it up the stairs on his own.
‘Don’t move!’ said the soldier on the left.
Nish staggered to the door. The old man was slowly creeping forward. ‘If you have to shoot, try not to hurt him,’ said Nish. ‘This is their home, after all.’
The crowd moved up behind the oldster. One step; two; three. They weren’t looking at the two soldiers. Every eye was on Nish.
‘No further!’ Nish shouted. ‘Soldiers, shoot if they go one more step.’
The old man looked Nish in the eye and kept coming.
‘Stop or we’ll shoot!’ said the soldier on the left.
The old man ignored him. The crossbow snapped, the bolt taking him in the middle of the forehead and hurling him backwards into the throng. A woman wailed. Children screamed. Two men took the oldster under the arms and dragged his body down the stairs into the darkness. The rest moved down to the limit of visibility and remained there. The soldier frantically reloaded his crossbow.
‘You bloody fool!’ Nish raged, dropping his roll. ‘I said don’t hurt him.’
‘And then you said to shoot if he went any further,’ said the soldier, as if that made it all right.
Vim and Slann came thumping down the stairs, followed by the second pair of soldiers. ‘What’s happened?’ panted Vim.
Nish told them.
‘Not good,’ said Slann. ‘I wonder what they’ll do now?’
‘I don’t dare think. Come on. Get the rest of the rolls up. We need another six.’
The soldiers went up with another three rolls of silk, the second pair dragging a bolt each. Silence fell.
‘It’s very quiet down there,’ said Nish. ‘I wonder what they’re up to?’
‘Running for their lives,’ said the soldier who had fired. ‘Vermin.’
Disgusted, Nish returned to the silk floor and began to drag the remaining bolts toward the entrance. He was lifting the third when the soldier who had fired clutched at his throat and toppled down the steps. The other soldier threw himself in through the entrance.
‘What was it?’ said Nish.
‘A slug from a sling, I’d say. Caught him in the throat.’
‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’
‘If the slug didn’t kill him, or the fall, they will when he gets to the –’
Slaughtering noises came up from the darkness. Nish looked around the corner. The lantern still glowed in the middle of the step. He ducked back hastily as another slug smacked into the side of the doorframe.
The soldier picked it up. It was a piece of tightly rolled lead sheet, about the size of a plum. ‘Enough to kill a man if it hits him in the right place. Are they coming?’
‘Couldn’t see anything.’
‘Makes it worse. Should I put the bow around the corner and send a bolt down at them?’
‘Might as well,’ said Nish. ‘Aim high. I don’t want to kill anyone else. Though I don’t suppose they’ll be so scrupulous now.’
The soldier fired. A yelp was followed by sounds of people fleeing down the stairs.
Vim and Slann came creeping down and sprang in through the doorway.
‘Where are the others?’ said Nish.
‘Roping the rolls and winching them up,’ said Slann.
‘All right. Let’s get these last three.’
Before they could load them onto their shoulders, something clattered on the steps and began to rattle and sploosh its way down again. Something else followed it, then a third object.
‘Sounds as though they’re throwing buckets of water at us.’
‘Why would they throw water –’
Nish smelt turpentine; then, with a whoo-whoomph, fire exploded up the stairs, licking in through the entrance and coiling around into the room. Nish’s dangling sleeve began to smoke. He hurled himself backwards away from the door, dashing the flames out against the floor. Vim’s hair was ablaze.