"The False Whistle"

Tom kept the cord tight enough to feel the man's pulse through it.

"Your brother on the dune. He had a signal — three notes on a reed, then one. I heard him do it twice before I shot him dead. Don't tell me you've none of your own."

The brother's eyes narrowed. The recognition in them was almost a smile.

"A whistle," he said. "Two short, one long. Means come down, all's well."

"Three short means run, I'd wager."

"Two short, one long means come down." The brother's voice was flat as a slate. "I'll not lie for you. I'll not lie for him. He'd hear it in my throat."

Mama Yves shifted the paring knife a hair. "Then whistle, Beñat. Whistle the come-down. If your throat shakes, the boy's cord finishes what it started, and I let the captain stitch you afterwards with the same needle that's in him."

A long, considering breath. Then the brother pursed his cracked lips and gave it — two short notes, clean, and a longer one that climbed and fell. The sound went up the cistern stair behind the striped cloth and was swallowed by stone.

A pause. A second pause. Then, faint and far, an answering creak. A boot finding a rung.

Tom looked at Mama Yves. She was already moving — silent as a cat in flour — to the side of the cloth, paring knife low and reversed. Sary had gone flat behind the table again, both hands clamped over her own mouth. Marrow, on the cot, had managed to close his fingers around the splinter Mama Yves had laid on the stone. A foot of red wood. A poor weapon. A held one.

Above, the boots came down.