And as he dragged himself up out of the vent he scarcely noticed the coiled rope that cinched very tight against his burning ankles.
[ 65 ]
Yashim lunged on the counterweight and had the satisfaction of seeing the assassin swept from his feet. But as the slipknot ran up against the pulley, the arm of the derrick swung heavily towards him and the rope went slack. Yashim lunged further backwards to regain his hold but at that moment the rope bearing the assassin’s weight kicked between his hands, almost knocking him off his feet: the rope sped through his palms and he found himself suddenly scrabbling against the sweaty slope. He kicked with both feet: his left leg slithered off the edge and his foot touched boiling water. He jerked it back with a gasp, and went down on his side.
Flailing to regain a foothold on the slimy surface, Yashim saw the rope slowly oozing through his fingers, slick with grease. He made a lunge with his left hand and caught the rope, tight as a bar, a few inches higher up, hauling hand over hand until he was able to get into a crouch. For a moment he felt his sandals skating on the greasy floor, so he leaned back to balance the weight. Everything had happened so fast that when he finally looked up he could make no sense of what he saw.
A few yards ahead of him, something like a giant crab was working its pincers in a jet of pinkish steam.
Bound at the ankles, upside down, the assassin’s legs were opening and closing at the knee. His tunic had fallen over his head, but his arms were flailing upwards from the cloud of cloth, struggling to take a grip of his own legs. The hem of the tunic floated in a bath of dye. He was suspended directly over a boiling vat, where the derrick had carried him the moment it felt the weight of his body against its arm.
Yashim dragged at the rope and hauled himself upright, but the moment he slacked his hold on the rope the assassin dropped. Yashim hauled back, wrapping a length of rope around his waist and leaning back over the vat behind him.
I can’t let go, he thought.
The flailing man’s legs opened again. What was he doing? Yashim cast a glance over his shoulder: he was hanging out over a roiling tub of evil-smelling liquid. He could see the skins rolling over and over. He needed to keep his weight balanced there, keep his feet set against the rim of the vat, move them along the greasy ledge, and gradually bring the rope up hard against the derrick.
Then he saw what the man was trying to do: with a knife in his hands he was lunging upwards, scissoring his legs to close the distance, lunging at the knot with the blade.
He didn’t know where he was.
If the rope severed, the assassin would dive into the dye.
Yashim, meanwhile, was also hanging out over a vat of poisonous, boiling liquid. Only the assassin’s weight was keeping his feet on the rim of the vat.
And at any moment the rope would whip through the block and Yashim would plunge backwards into the boiling broth.
They were balanced.
The rope gave a thud, and sagged a quarter of an inch.
Yashim tightened his grip. He glanced across the pillars of purple and yellow and saw that the dark doorways at the far end of the tanneries were growing wider.
A knot of men detached themselves from the darkness of the door and began loping across the glistening surface of the tanneries towards him.
And from the direction they came from, and the way they moved, Yashim did not think that they looked very friendly.
[ 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.
[ 67 ]
It was said that the battle—they only called it a brawl—continued long after Murad Eslek had helped Yashim punch, kick and slash his way out of the tanneries and into the silent darkness beyond.
As they groped their way down the alleys, small lights glowed behind shutters overhead. Now and then a door banged. Away in the distance a dog began to bark. Their footsteps echoed softly on the cobbles, thrown back by buildings asleep, and at peace. A cold wind carried the smell of damp plaster, and the lingering scent of the evening’s spices.
“Phew! You stink, my friend,” said Murad Eslek, grinning.
Yashim shook his head.
“If it hadn’t been for you,” he said, “there’d have been nothing left to smell. I owe you my life.”
“Forget it, effendi. It was a good scrap, and all.”
“But tell me, how—” Yashim winced. Now that the excitement was over his scalded foot was beginning to smart.
“Easy enough,” Eslek replied. “I sees you running like a demon—maybe you got robbed, or something. But when you started in for the tanneries it didn’t look so good—I mean, they’re rough, them guys. That’s when I started to think you were going to need some heavy artillery. So I whipped back and raised the boys. I went round a couple of caffs. Put the word out. Ding dong up the tannery? No problem. Why, when we came and saw what trouble you were in the lads moved in like donkeys on a carrot. Lovely job.”
Yashim smiled. They were back in the city by now. The streets were empty and it was too late, he thought, to get a bath. Eslek seemed to guess his thoughts.