by David Penny
“If I was leading them I’d have a smaller group set half a mile behind looking for anyone taking an interest in our passing.”
Luis smiled. “You over-estimate them.”
“Mandana might be insane, but he’s wily. Better over-cautious than dead. We wait a while longer. Besides, I know where they’re going.” Thomas turned to look at Luis, and for a moment the sight raised a memory of himself at the same age, his whole adult life lying ahead, and he realised how long ago that had been. “Did you make friends in the camp?”
Luis shook his head. “Friendship isn’t encouraged, and there are turncoats who draw you into conversation, pretending a friendship that doesn’t exist. Then if someone lets slip any sign of discontent they are exposed. A beating is the least punishment. You saw what lay at the other extreme. Are we going to do nothing but watch?”
“For now. Do you think we should fight them? Fifty men?”
“Jorge told me you and he have faced huge odds before.”
“He did, did he?” Thomas glanced at Jorge, who seemed to have discovered something interesting in the valley below. “The secret to fighting against large odds is knowing when they are too big.” Even as he spoke the rational words, Thomas knew he had rarely heeded his own advice, surprised he had survived as long as he had, knowing he had come close to death on many occasions. His survival was more a matter of luck than skill, and judgement barely came into it.
Finally, Thomas stood and began to clamber down the slope to the valley floor where walking would be easier. Kin ran ahead, but a single whistle from Luis brought him loping back to join them.
The valley widened, the walls dropping until they formed a low bluff. Ahead and below, Mandana’s men had spread out, but still with the main cohort ahead, another smaller one behind. Beyond them the city of Gharnatah was visible spread across its two opposing hills. On one sat the glittering wonder of the al-Hamra palace, on the other the twisting jumble of alleys and houses of the Albayzin. Beyond the city walls, rich farmland spread as far as the eye could see.
Somewhere down there, Thomas knew, his son and daughter lived. He wondered what they were doing at that moment. Was Will still as curious as ever? Still too brave for his own good? Had Usaden continued to train him? And what of Amal, the daughter Lubna had carried inside her for almost nine months but never lived to see? Thomas knew if it hadn’t been for Jorge’s lover, Belia, Amal would have also died. He had been unable to do what he had done for others and act with the cold rationality he was known for. It had been impossible to find that lack of emotion which earned him the name of qassab: butcher. It had been Belia who cut Amal from the belly of her dead mother to free a new life.
“We wait here until we know exactly where they’re headed.” Thomas tried to close down his thoughts, even as he felt guilty for doing so. He recalled the many times he had told people it was better to know the worst than live in hope. He had been a fool.
He expected Guerrero’s men to head toward the city gate, though exactly what kind of reception they might expect was a mystery. Instead, they stayed high on the hillside, moving north of the main roadway, making their way into the vast hunting grounds beyond al-Hamra before descending toward the palace itself.
“Where are they going?” asked Jorge.
“To meet with Muhammed.”
“But they’re enemies.”
Thomas smiled. “Are they?”
It took a moment before Will realised who had walked into the shaded courtyard, but when he did he sprinted toward Thomas, leaping the final three feet. Thomas plucked him from the air and held him close, breathing in the scent of him.
“Pa!” Will kissed his face. “Why are you crying, Pa? Did I jump too hard?”
“No, not too hard.” Thomas kissed the top of his son’s head and looked beyond him to where Usaden Hamid, the Gomeres mercenary he had hired away to train his son and protect this household, stood with feet planted apart, a sword in his hand. It had no doubt appeared there the moment he heard the courtyard door open. He almost looked as if he wanted to smile but managed to control himself.
“Aiii!” The cry erupted from Belia as she came from the house to see what all the noise was about and saw Jorge. She ran to embrace him, holding his face in her hands while she studied it. “Why did you not send a message? I would have prepared a feast. I still can, I will go into town and buy meat and fresh spices. You will come with me to help carry it.” She glanced aside. “Who is the good-looking one?”
“Luis. Is he good-looking? As handsome as me?”
Belia kissed his mouth. “There is no-one as handsome as you, and you know it full well, so do not go seeking compliments. How long are you staying?”
“Ask Thomas.”
Belia glanced in his direction—a beautiful woman, with lustrous dark hair and even darker eyes. Not as beautiful as Jorge, but with a mystery about her Thomas had never fully understood. Which, he supposed, is what made her a mystery. She came to embrace him, her familiar scent bringing a fresh wave of emotion. Thomas wondered when he had become so weak to be crippled by grief so easily, and he turned away, lifting Will onto his hip even though the boy was heavier than he remembered. Then he realised he had not seen him in half a year. It was a long time. Far too long.
Will wriggled in his arms and noticed Kin for the first time.
“Pa, a dog!” A frown crossed his young brow. “Does it bite?”
“Only bad men.” Thomas set Will on the ground. “Why don’t you go and say hello?”
Will glanced up, then glanced at Kin, torn between the father he loved and a dog. A big dog. It was no contest, not to a boy of five.
Thomas sat on a stone bench near to where Usaden continued to stand, as if he could stay there until the end of time and not show fatigue.
“Have you been hard on him?” he asked.
“As hard as you asked me to be.”
“Good. Does he learn well?”
Usaden offered a nod. “He does, and fast. He will be a great warrior one day.”
“I hope he never has to use what you teach him.” Thomas patted the stone beside him, making it clear he wanted Usaden to join him, and after a moment the man came across and sat. Thomas wanted to embrace him but knew it would not be welcome. Instead he offered his hand. Usaden sheathed his sword and offered his in return—the best he would ever give, and more than he offered most men.
“Better to have the skill and not need it, than need it and not have it,” said Usaden, more words than he had likely spoken in a week, other than to bark commands at Will.
Chapter Eighteen
Thomas knew getting into the palace would prove difficult because most of the guards would recognise him, but there was someone he knew who could help. Several years before a builder by the name of Britto had extended Thomas’s house when Lubna first came there, and had completed more work since. Now the man was a friend, and if he was still working at the palace Thomas was sure he would be willing to help. After sunset he walked through the steep alleyways of the Albayzin to Britto’s house and invited him to an inn. Brito accepted, despite commenting that he preferred not to drink with dead men. Thomas wondered how many others in the city believed he had perished, and knew he had been away too long.
When Thomas told him what he wanted Britto laughed and reached for his hand, examining the palm. “Just as long as the guards don’t see this soft skin it should be easy enough.” He turned the hand over, turned it back. “You have grown too thin, Thomas Berrington.”
The following morning, Thomas carried two wooden pails which clanked with builders’ tools. He had dressed in stained clothing and covered his face with the tail of a tagelmust. As they approached the first guard Britto made a coarse joke and Thomas laughed, the sound false in his own ears, but the guard appeared convinced enough. Britto nodded to the guard, the guard nodded back, and they were inside the outer wall.
“I take it you have no intention of assisting me in laying tiles, do you?”
Thomas shook his head. “Did you expect me to?”
“No, but a good apprentice is hard to find these days. All the good ones want to go to war and make their fortune.”
“Then it’s lucky I wouldn’t make a good apprentice, isn’t it? I’ll come as far as your work, so you don’t have to carry everything, but then I go to find Olaf. You did say he’s here, didn’t you?”
“He was the day before yesterday, and as far as I know there are no new battles, so I expect he’ll still be around somewhere.”
“What does he think about serving Muhammed?” Thomas asked.
“Strangely, he and I spend little time discussing his feelings about the Sultan … or anything else. He’s the Sultan’s general and I’m a simple builder—what else do you expect?”
They were almost at the second gate where four guards stood, stopping all those who sought entrance, checking their clothing and whatever they carried.
Thomas turned to Britto. “What if they recognise me?”
Britto shook his head. “I barely recognise you, and these men have no idea who you are. Don’t start believing you are so important you cannot pass unnoticed, particularly dressed as you are. It’s only a shame we couldn’t have made you shorter.” They reached the guards, who had started to harass a young woman who wanted to take a basket of bread inside. “Hey, Fariq, give her a couple of years and she’ll be old enough to be your daughter. In fact, she probably is your daughter from what I hear tell.”
The guard swiped a hand at Britto’s head, but missed. He was laughing, which was a good sign.
“Take her if you want. I like a bit more meat on their bones.”
“I heard that, too,“ said Britto, and this time he deliberately allowed Fariq to slap the side of his head as he took the girl’s arm and led her through the gate and on toward a set of rough steps that rose to the final entrance. The guard hadn’t even looked at Thomas.
The last barrier, which offered access to the inner palace, was the most secure, with two barred metal gates set eight feet apart so those entering were trapped between them until the far one was opened. Two guards stood at the first gate. They nodded at Britto, allowed their eyes to strip the clothes from the girl, then moved to Thomas. He didn’t recognise either, but ducked his head as if struggling with one of the buckets as the outer gate swung open to allow them to enter, their bodies pressed together in the confined space. The outer gate closed with a clang, but the inner remained locked.
Thomas leaned close to Britto, who was talking softly to the girl.
“Does it always take so long? What if one of them recognises me?”
“I told you, the guards have no interest in you. As long as you’re with me you’re just another badly paid workman.”
“They’re talking to someone, I can hear it,” Thomas said. “What if it’s someone who knows me?”
Britto shook his head and went to the inner gate, which remained barred. He rapped on the iron bars with a hammer until one of the guards turned.
“Wait your turn.”
“It is my turn,” said Britto. “I’ll let you explain to the Sultan why his tiles are taking so long to finish. I should have him offer me rooms here so–” Britto cut himself off abruptly as a figure appeared beside the guard.
Thomas turned away, making himself busy with the buckets, as Abu Abdullah, Muhammed XIII, Sultan of Gharnatah peered into the dimness between the gates.
“Your Sultan is grateful for your work, Britto, but we are busy at the moment.” Muhammed’s gaze took in the girl, lingered for a moment, then shifted to Thomas, who busied himself once more with the buckets, trying to make himself look shorter.
“As I should be, Your Grace. Tiles do not attach themselves. Ask these men to let us in and I promise the new walkway will be finished by the end of the day.”
“Open the gate,” said Muhammed. “And send word to the Spaniard I am ready to see him in the courtyard of lions.” Muhammed peered into the dimness of the chamber again. “Who is the girl?”
“Daughter of a friend,” said Britto. “The guards scare her, so she prefers to come in with me.”
“And your workman?”
Thomas wondered why Muhammed was so interested in workmen all of a sudden.
“Him? He’s new.” Britto grinned. “You keep sending my good apprentices off to war, Your Grace.”
“To keep Gharnatah safe.” Muhammed waved a hand, and a guard unbarred the inner gate and swung it wide.
Britto let some curse go under his breath and pushed past him. The girl followed, Thomas bringing up the rear. He kept his gaze down, despite wanting to drink in the beauty of the palace. Even here, outside the inner chambers, fabulous gardens sported plants from all the known world, while water played soft music everywhere. Beyond the gardens pink walls rose into the sky, picked through with crenellated windows. Once, this place had almost been home to Thomas, but those times seemed distant now and his life had since been shattered into a thousand shards, each of which dug into his flesh and soul.
“You, stop!” Muhammed’s voice cut through Thomas’s thoughts and he slowed, knowing he had run out of luck. He should have done as Britto said and cut a foot from his height, if such was possible. He started to turn as Muhammed came past him and went to the girl. He took out one of the flat loaves she had no doubt baked herself that morning. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed, all the time staring at the girl, who was too afraid to look away. Muhammed dropped the loaf on the ground and turned away.
“Bastard,” said Britto, but not loud enough for Muhammed to hear.
Thomas knelt and picked up the bread, but when he offered it to the girl she shook her head. It was tainted now, so he kept hold of it, not knowing what else to do.
“Off to the kitchen with you,” said Britto, slapping the girl on the backside, and she nodded and trotted off, casting a glance back just before she disappeared.
“She’s too young for you.” Thomas fell into step as Britto began to walk toward the inner palace.
“Do you think so? You saw how she looked at me.”
“Perhaps I need to check your eyes.”
“She looked at you, too. You should–” And then Britto stopped as he realised what he had been about to say. “Sorry, Thomas. I liked Lubna.”
“Everybody liked Lubna.”
Thomas didn’t want to talk of her, but knew that without Britto he would never have made it inside the palace. They entered a courtyard, passed through it to a wide corridor that arched high overhead. Almost every surface they passed was etched with the same words, over and over, in ornate Arabic script: There is no victor but Allah. Thomas wondered if the sheer repetition might stop the Spanish, but suspected it was a vain hope.
Britto stopped and put down his tools. Thomas set the buckets on the flagstone floor as Britto turned to him. For a moment he hesitated, then drew Thomas close and kissed his cheeks, Britto’s dense beard coarse against his skin. “I will come to visit tonight and find out how you got on. I take it Jorge is with you?”
Thomas nodded, strangely touched at the show of affection. Britto had once been nothing more than a workman to him—now the man had become a friend, someone Thomas would trust with his life. Someone Thomas had just trusted with his life. It would have been more sensible for Britto to have unmasked him in front of Muhammed, but he would never do such a thing.
“You will be more than welcome, you know that. And bring your wife.”
Britto pulled a face, then grinned. “Perhaps I’ll bring the bread girl instead.”
Thomas cuffed him across the shoulder, handed him the bread still in his hands, and turned away. He was inside the palace. Now there was only one person he wanted to see.
Thomas thought be might have a broken rib, possibly two, before Olaf’s wife Fatima released her hold on him. She stepped back, but not far, and held his face in her hands, turning it from side to side as if she couldn’t quite believe what she saw.
“You a
re too thin,” she said.
Thomas nodded in acknowledgement.
Tears filled Fatima’s eyes, but she made no move to wipe them away. Instead her fingers tightened painfully on Thomas’s face. He made no attempt to loosen her grip, sharing the grief that must be filling her. Lubna had been Fatima’s daughter, the single issue she had borne for Olaf Torvaldsson. His other daughters had been carried by his first wife, a woman of the north who must have possessed extraordinary beauty if those daughters were any indication.
“I am sorry,” Thomas said. “I would not have had it happen.” But even as he spoke the words he once more felt a certainty that Lubna’s death was his responsibility.
Fatima embraced him again, held his face. “I know you would not. You loved her more than anyone. Perhaps even more than me.” She touched his chest, her hand flat over his heart. “It must hurt so much.” Tears continued to streak her face to drip from her chin.
Thomas put his arms around Fatima and drew her against him, comforted by her grief because he knew it matched his own. She buried her head against his chest, and he felt her sob. He waited until she stilled, then held her a moment longer before unwrapping his arms.
“Right,” said Fatima, only now wiping an arm across her face—a face Thomas studied, finding elements in it that reminded him of Lubna. “You need fattening up.”
“Belia started that process last night.”
“And I am continuing it today. Besides, Olaf is out doing soldiering, so we have plenty of time.” She patted his arm. “Sit and tell me about Malaka, about how clever my daughter was there, and how much you loved her.” She glanced at his face. “If you can, of course. I know men find it hard to express what lies locked in their hearts.”
“I will tell you everything,” Thomas said, a sudden ease flooding him, and he knew it was because he had not spoken of Lubna since she died—not the real Lubna, the woman who made him laugh and made him cry out in ecstasy. Fatima would understand that Lubna. But perhaps he might skip over the ecstasy part.
