The Promise of Pain

by David Penny

  “Agreed. But you are talking about attacking an entire army.”

  “I will think of something.”

  “Something rational, I hope.”

  When the boy came to ask if they were going to be long, because other patrons were waiting for the chamber, Thomas told him they were finished and pulled himself from the water. He knew he had made a decision, and the making of it brought a new confidence. He told the boy to take his old clothes and burn them, then find him someone to trim his hair and beard. Barely recognisable, he dressed his scrubbed body in fresh cotton and linen. It felt like donning a suit of armour.

  The bathing and clothes were only the start of the plan, if plan it could be called. For the moment it involved little more than waiting and watching. Thomas had identified a number of locations where the governor’s house could be observed from without drawing attention and led them to one such now, a small inn with rough tables set outside. A young girl came to hover in the doorway and Thomas asked if they had wine. The girl nodded and went inside without asking what kind of wine they wanted.

  “Are we going to be here all night?” Jorge looked at their surroundings, making clear his opinion of them.

  “There are other places, but this is convenient, and no doubt as good as any.”

  “What are you expecting to see? Or perhaps I should be asking who.”

  “Mandana or his son. Perhaps both. Killing his men will have angered him. I expect the man to come here to see if this is where we have fled to.”

  “It would help to know who this governor is,” said Jorge, “and whether he can be trusted or not.”

  “Why? According to Jamila he’s involved. You’ve seen this town. It’s a gaol. So we sit here and wait until the gaoler arrives.”

  “How long?” Jorge leaned to one side as the girl brought a jug of wine and two cups.

  “As long as it takes.”

  “What if he doesn’t come for two weeks, or a month? We can’t stay here forever.”

  Thomas looked around. “Why not?” His attention returned to the house at the end of the street. People moved along the cobbles, most of them coming from the higher part of town to bathe. Nobody else came to the inn, and Thomas realised that should have been a sign. Instead of rising he stayed where he was, continuing to watch the house. Nothing was happening, but he was patient.

  “I’m not staying here watching an empty house,” said Jorge. “You do what you like, I’m going back to the others.”

  Thomas nodded, his eyes not moving from the building.

  After a while Jorge rose and walked away.

  The girl came out and picked up the almost full flagon of wine.

  “Do you want food?” she asked.

  Thomas shook his head.

  “If you’re not drinking and not eating there are other customers waiting.”

  Thomas looked around at the empty tables and said nothing. After a while the girl went away again. He wondered what he would do if Jorge was right, but knew he would never find Guerrero and Mandana by searching the countryside. The area was just too big, too difficult to navigate. He would wait for them to come to him. They may not come tonight or the next night, but they would come eventually.

  The sky grew dark and stars appeared, glittering like pinpricks cut through black velvet cloth. In the house a light moved beyond the wide front door as someone approached. The door opened and a tall man walked onto the terrace. Thomas sat up. He recognised him.

  He rose to his feet, staring at the house, trying to decide whether to approach or not. He had not seen Don Domingo Alkhabaz in several years. The last time had been in the palace sitting atop al-Hamra, and then he had been in the company of Faris al-Rashid and others who were plotting the downfall of a Sultan. Not the Sultan who now ruled there but his father. Now his son sat on the throne after taking it, losing it again, and then regaining his position. It was a sign of the chaos al-Andalus had sunk into that such a thing could even be comprehended.

  At one time Thomas had considered Don Domingo a friend. Not a close friend, but neither an enemy like his master, Faris al-Rashid. But that had been almost six years ago, and much had happened in the world since.

  Thomas realised he could sit where he was all night, but to do so would bring no enlightenment. He watched Don Domingo stand at the top of the steps. He was waiting for somebody, and that thought sparked an excitement in Thomas. He wished Jorge was still with him to provide courage, then shook his head at the notion he could even consider such a thing. Where had his own courage gone?

  He dropped coins on the table and stepped around it, just as another figure appeared at the end of the roadway. Don Domingo Alkhabaz moved forward and descended the wide steps to the street. It was clear this was who he had been waiting for, and Thomas stepped backwards until he was obscured in the shadows of a narrow alley.

  The other figure walked slowly toward the Governor’s house. This man Thomas had seen more recently, the last time only an hour before Lubna’s life was taken. Abbot Mandana held a staff in his right hand. His left was missing. Thomas glanced along the road but saw no companions. It was all he could do to restrain himself from leaping out as the man passed close by. He knew the old Thomas, the fearless Thomas, would have done so whatever the consequences, and he wondered if he had truly changed so much. He missed that man, the one who knew his own mind, who never doubted.

  He watched as Mandana reached Don Domingo. There was no embrace, no touching of arms. Mandana spoke for a moment, then Don Domingo turned and led the way into the house. The door closed, a matter of minutes since it had opened and changed everything. Thomas remained in the alleyway, attempting to work through the implications of what he had just witnessed.

  Thomas recalled Usaden’s words when he had returned to the courtyard of yews where Lubna lost her life. He said he had pursued Mandana’s son before losing him, and that Mandana himself had not been involved in the attack on Lubna and the others. Will confirmed the story even through his own shock. Yet here the man was again, in a town where the families of captured men were being held. It was no coincidence, and Thomas wondered if his son was close—for more than Mandana it was the son, Pedro Guerrero, he sought. The man who had killed his wife. The man whose name, in Spanish, meant Warrior.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Thomas returned to their shared accommodation he found Jorge flirting outrageously with both Jamila and Dana, neither of whom offered the usual response to such efforts. Thomas drew him aside without explanation and led the way to the room they shared with Aban, who remained downstairs with the two women.

  “I was enjoying myself,” said Jorge, attempting to look petulant and failing.

  “Clearly. I’ve just seen Mandana enter the Governor’s house.”

  “Already? You have the luck of the devil, Thomas. But it’s not so surprising, for it confirms your theory.”

  “Do you remember Don Domingo Alkhabaz?”

  “Of course. One of the more civilised companions of Muhammed and his so-called friends.” Jorge sat on the edge of the bed and stared at Thomas. “Does the fact that it’s Don Domingo have some significance? Is there more going on here than you thought?”

  Thomas pulled up a rickety stool and sat, for the roof was too low to allow him to stand without bending and his neck was starting to ache. “Mandana is here for a reason, either something to do with the captives or something else—he may even suspect this is where we fled to. Whatever it is involves Don Domingo.”

  “And if that man you tortured told the truth, Guerrero can’t be far away.” Jorge stared at Thomas. “Unless father and son fell out over what happened in Malaka. I genuinely believed Mandana liked Lubna—that he had changed. But if what we were told is true and Guerrero is Mandana’s son—though how such a thing could be possible I have no idea—they may well be working together now.

  “Mandana could never be trusted. He’s reverted to what he has always been—a wolf, a killer. His change was no more th
an a mask he hid behind. I just wish I knew the reason for what he is doing here. It doesn’t make sense. He should be with Fernando, doing his bidding.”

  “Perhaps he is.” Jorge smiled. “Can we go and kill him?”

  “Not yet. I’m going back to watch the house when the town grows quiet, then follow when he leaves to find out where he’s holed up. This town is different to the others so I don’t think he’ll be far away.”

  “And then we kill him?”

  Thomas stared at Jorge, trying to decide if he meant his threat or not. Then he realised Lubna’s death would have hit him hard too. They had been friends. Good friends. Lubna would go to Jorge to unburden herself of the fears she couldn’t admit to Thomas. They would have shared secrets he wasn’t privy to.

  “Mandana can live or die, it’s his son I seek. The man who took Lubna’s life.”

  “Father and son,” said Jorge. “If they’re working together you will have to kill both.” He tilted his head to one side. “Would you still consider Don Domingo a friend?”

  It was a good question—a relevant question—but one Thomas had no answer for.

  “I haven’t spoken to him in years. It puzzles me why he’s here, in the position he is. When I knew him he was a rich man.”

  “We live in hard times. Even rich men are not immune to trouble.” Jorge smiled. “We are rich men, are we not? Though it would be hard to tell looking at us now.”

  Thomas thought of the wealth they had liberated over the years. None of it stolen, not in truth—liberated was the word he preferred.

  “Are we still rich men?” he asked.

  “We were when I left Gharnatah, I made sure to check. Whether Muhammed has discovered our chests and stolen them by now I doubt, but you can never tell with that man. He stole Helena from you and keeps her captive. You should have returned to Gharnatah with me and freed her like we were going to do. It would have been a better tribute to Lubna than hiding in these mountains.”

  “She wasn’t stolen from me,” Thomas said. “She was never mine. But you’re right, I should have freed her before coming here. How well do you know Don Domingo?”

  “I doubt he even remembers who I am. Why?”

  “I was hoping you could talk to him, find out how he ended up here, and what his relationship is with Mandana.”

  “And what will you be doing?”

  “Following Mandana, of course, to find out where he goes.”

  “He’ll have a horse and you won’t. Besides, Don Domingo won’t tell me anything.”

  “I can find a horse, but there’s little point if Don Domingo won’t talk to you.”

  “He knows me as a palace eunuch, nothing more—a creature he would never even acknowledge. I should follow Mandana instead.”

  Thomas only stared at Jorge.

  In the end Jorge had wanted to come even though Thomas had no use for him. If Jorge couldn’t interrogate Don Domingo he would have to do so himself and let Mandana ride away. He had told Jorge the women needed his protection, but here he was beside him in the dark roadway, watching the Governor’s house. The inn they had frequented was shut, all the houses dark except for the one where lamps flickered behind expensive glass windows. Even the town’s dogs had stopped their endless barking and fallen silent. Thomas wondered what had become of Kin and determined to ask Jamila in the morning.

  “What if he stays the night?” asked Jorge.

  “He won’t. He’ll have men waiting for him beyond the town walls, but I admit he has been in there longer than I expected.”

  “What if he left when you returned to our lodgings?”

  “Then Don Domingo would be in bed and the house dark. Mandana is still there.”

  “So we wait?” said Jorge.

  “In silence,” Thomas said.

  Half an hour passed before there came movement at the end of the street, but instead of Mandana’s men appearing a boar came along the roadway, as if this was its natural habitat. It rummaged in piles of rubbish that had been thrown out. When it came to where Thomas and Jorge stood it stopped and sniffed the air. Thomas laid a hand on the hilt of the knife at his waist. He had seen boars attack before—both in France and England, and later here in Spain, so he knew the danger they offered—but this one seemed to find them unthreatening and continued on its way. Thomas smiled as it passed within a dozen paces, totally unconcerned. The boar continued on, then stopped and looked around before breaking into a run along the street.

  The door of the Governor’s house opened and Mandana stepped out. He was alone. From within the door a lamp moved, but whoever held it didn’t reveal themselves. Mandana looked left and right, up at the dark sky, then came slowly down the steps and started along the roadway toward them. Thomas caught Jorge’s sleeve and pulled him deeper into the alley they were sheltering in. Jorge’s foot caught on a discarded sack of offal and he tipped sideways into a pile of wood, sending it clattering.

  Mandana stopped, only forty paces separating them. He glanced back at the Governor’s house, then directly at the opening of the alley. Thomas was sure he couldn’t see them, but the noise was enough to tell him someone must be lurking within the shadows. Thomas didn’t want to confront the man, not yet, nor did he want him to know he was on his trail. He grabbed Jorge’s arm and pulled him deeper, praying the alley would let them out at the far end. He saw Mandana take a few steps toward them then suddenly jerk away. A sound came, a clattering of horned feet, and the boar came running along the road, right past Mandana without even seeing him and on down the roadway. The town’s dogs broke into a high-pitched clamour. Mandana watched the boar disappear then shook his head and continued on his way.

  “Close,” said Jorge.

  Thomas held a finger to his lips. He waited until the sound of Mandana’s progress had faded. “Follow him. Tell me how many there are with him and in which direction he goes, but do not go after them.”

  Jorge stared at him, the whites of his eyes almost all that showed. “I’m not sure I’m the right person after all. Perhaps I should try to talk with Don Domingo.”

  “Follow Mandana—not close, but find out where he’s going and how many men he has with him. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “I’m a better talker.”

  “You said he thinks of you as a palace servant. It won’t be dangerous, so long as you don’t fall over any more rubbish.” Thomas pushed at Jorge, who hesitated a moment then turned away. At the end of the alley he stopped and looked back, even though Thomas would be hidden by the shadows, then went on.

  Thomas waited for the town to fall still again before making his way toward Don Domingo’s house. He tried the wide door from the terrace but found it barred from within. He hadn’t expected getting inside to be easy, so took one of the smaller roads that led along the side of the building. He chose the one the boar had appeared from for no other reason than it pleased him to do so. It pleased him even more when he came to a wall twice his height that must enclose a space behind the house. He reached up, fingertips searching for a hold. The mortar between the joints was soft, crumbling away in places. He pulled himself up until he could straddle the top of the wall and take stock of what lay beyond.

  There were gardens that might once have been impressive but had been left to run wild. The expected rill along the centre had dried up and grown choked with weeds. At the rear of the house sat a terrace with a terracotta tiled roof. The flagstone floor had been recently swept, though why anyone would want to sit out there was a mystery. Thomas turned and let himself hang then dropped to the ground, the sound of snapping stalks loud in the night. He waited, but nothing showed to indicate he had been heard, and he made his way to the terrace. Here he was rewarded with a door that opened to his touch, giving access to a narrow hallway. At the end a lamp burned. Thomas waited, listening, hearing nothing. He closed the door and walked along the corridor, trying to work out where Don Domingo’s rooms would be. On the upper floor, almost certainly, and when Thomas found a st
aircase he climbed it, grateful for the occasional lamp that offered enough light for him to make his way without knocking into furniture. The servants would no doubt have rooms downstairs in the cellars, but there might well be someone else on the upper floor—a female companion perhaps, because Thomas recalled Don Domingo was much taken with beautiful women.

  At the top of the stairs Thomas stopped to work out a strategy. Don Domingo had recently been talking with Mandana. The night was more than half gone, so it was likely he had gone to his bed, but unlikely he had fallen asleep yet.

  Thomas slipped his shoes off and left them at the head of the stairs, then walked barefoot along the upper hallway. Where doors had been left ajar he peered inside, saw offices, a dining room, another where the sweet scent of hashish hung in the air. He ignored the doors that were closed for the moment, knowing he would have to try them at some point if he failed to find Don Domingo.

  Ahead, on the right, he heard a soft female voice offering words of encouragement. Then a male voice, an edge to it urging the woman to try harder.

  Thomas turned back and entered one of the rooms he had passed, a place for reading, with documents on shelves and deep cushions. He sat cross-legged and waited, fighting off the urge to sleep. He listened to Don Domingo and the woman struggling to achieve some manner of conclusion. Grunts of passion and squeals of delight. He tried to work out if the sounds held genuine passion or only a pretence at such. He jerked awake from a dream where Lubna lay atop him, her skin silken, warm beneath his touch, and he almost cried out at the surge of loss that rose through him.

  Bare feet slapped on the floor, light feet, and he glimpsed a shape as a woman passed the doorway. He waited, listening as she descended the stairs. After a time a door below closed and Thomas rose to his feet.

  Don Domingo’s door stood a little open, but Thomas ignored it and walked to the end of the hallway where he found a window looking across the neglected garden. He sat on the sill, waiting. It didn’t take long before he heard snores, but still he waited. Only when he knew Don Domingo was deep asleep did he enter the room and approach the wide bed. He looked down at the man he had once known well enough to call friend, despite the company he kept, and wondered what had brought him to this far-flung remnant of the Moorish kingdom of al-Andalus. He smiled to himself. Time to find out.