To jump would mean a clean death.
He felt an urgent tug on his cloak and looked down as the withered hand of a beggar huddled at the base of the seawall tugged again.
“Excellency,” the man croaked. “If you’re going to throw yourself over, could I have this?”
John yanked the cloak from the man’s grasp.
Furious, he nearly struck out at the beggar.
Then his quick glance in the man’s direction revealed what he had not noticed before, something the angled side of the nearby warehouse hid from the view of anyone not actually perched where he now stood.
On the other side of the building the seawall bulged slightly outward, and above it rose the tower of Avis.
“Quick! Grab him!” someone shouted hoarsely.
John pivoted and began to run as best he could along the treacherously narrow wall. Where it hugged the warehouse there was barely room to place his feet. He prayed to Mithra he would not step on a piece of loose masonry or slippery moss, or that a sudden breeze would not gust in off the water and unbalance him.
The brick wall rising up to his right seemed suddenly to be leaning seaward, as if to force him over the edge. There were no windows or doors into the warehouse to offer him an escape. He had to continue running or fall.
Perhaps Avis would assist a friend of Lady Anna’s, John thought rapidly, provided of course that he was not intercepted by armed men who doubtless would already be racing along on the other side of the warehouse to catch him when he emerged beyond it.
He came to the corner of the building, leapt from the wall and pounded up the tower’s winding staircase, within sight of the first of his pursuers.
The door at the top swung open.
Avis began to smile a welcome. Then his eyes widened as he looked over John’s shoulder and saw the small army now clattering up the splintered steps.
John made a show of shoving Avis out of the way, sending him stumbling down a few stairs. “You don’t know me!” he whispered hastily. “I forced my way past you!”
There was no reason for Avis to die also.
John leapt into the whitewashed aviary. Startled birds took to the air, flapping up from feeding troughs and potted trees. Crows perched in the rafters croaked raucous warnings.
John slammed the door shut and shot its bolt as the first armed man toiled into view.
The door would not hold for long.
How could he possibly escape?
John found himself staring out of one of the enormous windows overlooking the Golden Horn.
The view was little different than from the seawall. How much extra span of life had his brief flight gained him? It didn’t matter, because now he again faced the same dilemma, imminent capture or a fatal leap.
A distressed sparrow fluttered past him and perched on Avis’ worktable.
John was struck by the irony. The sheer drop beyond the window was not a barrier to any of the feathered creatures in the tower. It presented one to him alone, who could only dream of flying.
A man who at least could dream about flying.
John grabbed the artificial wings set in the corner as the door burst open and his pursuers jostled into the tower.
A black shape dropped from the ceiling and flung itself at the first man’s face, screeching like a demon.
A huge raven.
One of Mithra’s sacred ravens.
Curses echoed off the walls. Blades flashed, swiped ineffectually at the black terror. The attacked man suddenly shrieked and clapped one hand to the side of his bleeding head.
The raven flapped away, part of an ear clutched in its razor beak.
By now John had grasped the loops on the undersides of the immense wings.
Leaping up on the wooden chest, he kicked at the window, once, twice. Fragments of glass exploded outward, sparkling in the harsh light that turned the water beyond the docks to molten bronze. As the glittering shards vanished downward, the small study was suddenly filled with a swarm of winged shapes.
For an instant John stood transfixed at the shattered window as the noisy cloud flowed around him and then outside, like multi-hued smoke.
Avis’ winged captives had gained their freedom.
John did not expect to soar across the Golden Horn, but he had seen leaves drift placidly to the earth, moving lazily back and forth on unseen air currents.
It was a chance he had to take.
Offering a swift prayer to Mithra for escape or a quick death, he grasped the loops tighter and jumped.
He was never certain what saved him, whether it was the updraft from the docks supporting taut, silk-covered wings and belling out his tunic, or that one wing scraped against the side of the tower and slowed his fall, or perhaps a combination of both.
Whatever the reason, the dock rushed up to slam into him and a few heartbeats later, John lay amid the wreckage of Avis’ wings, safe but almost senseless.
The Gourd’s men would be after him immediately. He had to get up and run, he thought groggily as he got up on his hands and knees.
A hand clamped around his arm and dragged him to his feet. “Quick! Come with me!” shouted the huge man who hauled him up.
It was Victor, Viator’s son.
“There’s a door around the corner! Hurry up!” Victor pulled John roughly along and thrust him through the doorway as nearby workers pretended not to notice anything amiss.
That was always the best response to anything unusual.
John’s head began to clear as the pair ran along a short corridor that was wet and slippery beneath their boots, and through a crude, stone doorway into yet another corridor, one that led to a narrow, dark tunnel that eventually branched into three even narrower ways. Without hesitation Victor plunged into the central passage.
John was already lost.
“My friends and I played in here when we were young,” Victor explained breathlessly as they clattered further into the labyrinth. “Know them all like the back of my hand. The Gourd’s men don’t.”
They turned aside into an arched tunnel, its noisome muck up to their ankles. There were more doors and passageways, and then without warning John was in a place he remembered.
Viator’s warehouse.
“You probably wondered where I disappeared after you chased me in here,” Victor said with a wry grin. “Now you know.”
They flopped down on a pile of packing straw.
John looked down at the blood soaking through his tunic. A broken wooden slat from the wings must have scraped him, he thought vaguely. “Should I thank Fortuna you were on hand at the right time?”
“Not really,” Victor replied. “I’ve been hiding around here for my own safety. When the Gourd’s little army started thundering around so noisily I naturally took a look to see what was going on. And there you were, forcing your way into Avis’ tower with a pack of armed men after you. Naturally that caught my attention, even before you came crashing out the window as gracefully as a marble Icarus.”
John managed a smile at the imagery.
“Besides which, I wanted to see if the wings worked,” Victor admitted. “I’ve been waiting years to see them tested. Avis visits quite often asking for what he calls a small monetary contribution to help defray the necessary expenses of his work. Naturally I’ve developed quite an interest in the project.”
“Yes, I ran into him when we tried to arrest you, Victor,” John said wearily. “However, I suspect there was some other reason involved. Why did you really help me just now?”
The big man shrugged. “I’m a Christian, I’m supposed to help people in need.”
John was reminded of the cart driver who had tried to do the same thing and paid dearly for his effort, but found himself instead mentioning the doorkeeper who needed assistance after being stabbed as Victor and his friends escaped from the Great Church.
“I didn’t stab the old man,” Victor said. “I only found out about that later. However, I admit I do have a selfish motive for aiding you. I’m trying to find out who murdered my father.”