by David Penny
“When?” Thomas said.
“Soon. Not within days, but within a month at most.” Helena stared at Thomas. “What are you going to do?”
“What I have always been going to do,” Thomas said. “Kill them both.”
Helena laughed. “Of course. For a moment I forgot who you are.” Helena rose, stood over him, her scent filling the air. “And don’t worry, I will not accost you again, not tonight. But if you ever change your mind, know that you only need ask and I will be yours once more. And this time I will bring my heart as well as my body.”
She turned and swept from the room. Thomas lay on the cot and closed his eyes, trying to still the thoughts that swirled inside his head.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Thomas woke after a few brief hours and went to Jorge first, who lay alone in the centre of the bed he always used when in this house. Belia was curled into a corner of the room on a pile of cushions, her head at an uncomfortable angle. Jorge woke when Thomas loosened the bandages around his waist, but said nothing until he had finished washing him, his eyes remaining closed as if he wanted to escape back into sleep.
The wound was raw, red—the stitching, though neat, still ugly. Thomas leaned close and sniffed, trying to sense any hint of corruption but finding none. He was sure he had cleaned the wound fully, around the surface as well, and the honey and egg-white would help, as would Belia’s lotions.
“Will I live?”
“More than likely.”
“I’m glad you are so sure in your diagnosis.”
“I’m a man, not God.”
“I’ve seen little results from God’s efforts,” said Jorge. “And I know you don’t believe, just as I don’t.” He glanced to the corner of the room. “Belia has her own Gods, but I never ask, and she never volunteers. All I know is they are alien to this land.”
“Keeping silent is the best way for such as you and I. Lubna was devout, but never attempted to convert me.”
“That’s because she knew you were a lost cause.” Jorge opened his eyes as Thomas lifted his head and made him sip a little water.
“No solid food for a week. No food at all for three days.”
“Are you trying to kill me?” Jorge lay on the pillows again, eyes once more closed. “How long can we stay here, in this house?”
“It depends who knows we have entered Gharnatah. If nobody saw us, then as long as we wish. I’ll send Jamila and Dana to the market because they are not known. The rest of us will stay close to the house until you recover.”
“You don’t have to stay because of me.” Jorge’s voice had softened as sleep blurred the edges of his mind. “Belia and Da’ud can look after me if you want to leave.”
“I stay until you can walk and use a sword.”
Jorge offered a half smile. “Then you will stay until eternity.”
“Swing a sword, then. A month, no more. We can…” But Thomas saw Jorge had gone to sleep. When he sat up Belia was watching him, alert now. She rose when he did and followed him from the room, stopped in the corridor with a hand on his arm.
“Will he make a full recovery?” Her enigmatic face was turned up to his, a pleading in her eyes.
“The truth, between you and I? I believe so.”
She nodded. “Good. I will go to the market and find fresh herbs and make a special lotion.”
“Make a list and send it with Jamila. She knows herbs—not as well as you, but well enough—and she won’t be recognised.”
Belia looked as if she might object, then turned away. No doubt she would ignore him, and Thomas wondered if it mattered. Belia had lived in this house for over a year. Her presence was familiar in the city and meant nothing.
There was no sign of anyone downstairs, but when Thomas went out to the still dark courtyard he found Usaden standing like a statue, staring up at the looming palace atop al-Hamra. Lamplight showed in its many windows, torches burning along the tops of the walls.
“I do not know this Sultan of yours,” said Usaden. “I have heard things when you and Jorge talk, Olaf too, but I am curious about what he is like. Is he as bad as you say?”
“Worse. He is weak, fickle, and a bully. You met Yusuf, his brother, in Malaka. They are nothing alike. If he had lived he would be sitting on the hill now, with Muhammed nothing but a sour memory.”
“And this Mandana—you have history, do you not?”
Thomas walked to stand beside Usaden and, like him, stared up at the palace. For no reason a dog began to bark, setting off others. Thomas heard the click-click of Kin’s claws on the flagstones. The dog crossed to the garden and lifted its leg to piss mightily. Then he came back and lay down beside Thomas, his head resting across his foot. Thomas smiled, pleased the dog had stayed with him rather than go with Luis.
“Yes, we have history. And you know as well as I of the son, Pedro Guerrero.” Thomas felt a bubble of grief rise in his throat and swallowed it down. He couldn’t allow himself to act on emotion, however strongly he felt it. Only logic could destroy the two of them, though exactly how was only now starting to occur to him after what Helena had revealed. “It was you told me it was Guerrero who killed Lubna. Sometimes I…” Thomas waved a hand, unable for once to express himself clearly.
“Your grief will fade with time,” said Usaden. “We never think it will, but it always does. Killing them both will help.” For the first time he turned his head to look at Thomas. “You do want to kill them, don’t you?”
Thomas nodded, knowing Usaden would see the movement in the slowly gathering dawn.
“With your own hand?”
Thomas nodded again.
“Then I will help you get close so you can do so,” said Usaden, “but the final blow must be yours.”
“It must. And I thank you, my friend. When Olaf wakes we will talk, the three of us.”
Usaden made a sound that might have been amusement. “Three against a horde. Even for us three that may prove interesting.”
“We will find more men,” Thomas said.
“We will?”
“Of course. Once I have told Olaf what I know.”
Thomas was pleased Usaden didn’t ask what it was, because the threads were only beginning to knit together in his own mind, and he was sure his idea would sound stupid if he tried to communicate it before he had the thought straight himself.
Thomas left Olaf to sleep until his impatience grew too strong and he sent Will upstairs to wake his morfar. The big Northman came downstairs, wiping a hand across his face as he sat at the table and waited to be served.
Fatima brought him meat, sauce, and flatbread still hot from the griddle. Jamila and Dana had gone in search of Belia’s herbs—Belia herself was working in the garden, trying to recover what she could from the chaos Guerrero’s soldiers had left. Thomas had looked earlier and saw nothing but wanton destruction, but Belia claimed roots remained beneath the surface and would grow again. In a few months they would be eating their own produce once more. The chickens would not regenerate so she intended to purchase more.
Olaf stopped eating and looked up at Thomas and Usaden.
“What?”
“We need to talk.”
“Of course. But can I finish eating first?”
“Can you not do both at the same time?” Thomas asked.
“I am a simple man, but I will try. What does this talk concern? Will it bore me, or does it involve killing?”
“Would I bother you with anything less? Helena came to me last night.”
Olaf glanced up from his food again, a piece of flatbread half-lifted to his mouth dripping sauce onto the table.
“She is a difficult girl, I know, but I would not wish you to kill her,” said Olaf. He cocked his head. “Did you lie with her?”
Thomas kept what had happened to himself, unsure if Olaf would approve or not.
“No, I didn’t lie with her.” Even as he spoke the words Thomas felt a flush rise in his face and hoped Olaf wouldn’t see it.
In any case he spoke partly the truth, for he had not been a willing participant. “She came to me and told me of something she heard Guerrero and Mandana discussing.”
“I thought she already told you what she overheard.” The flatbread continued its journey and Olaf chewed, reached for more.
“She was gifted to them both for the night, no doubt some joke by Muhammed. She claims she left some of what she discovered out because she was ashamed of what was done to her.” Thomas shifted as Fatima set a bowl of thick sauce between him and Usaden, and a slab of bread.
“Helena felt shame?” Olaf shook his head at the strangeness of such an idea.
“Are you expelled from the hill?” Thomas asked, and Olaf stopped eating once more.
He frowned. “That is a good question. I had assumed so, but…” He raised a shoulder. “Perhaps Muhammed doesn’t know of my part in any of this. Not that I want to return there. I have made my choice now.”
“I want us to go to him,” Thomas said. “The two of us, together.”
“What about Jorge? He knows the hill even better than I do. Knows Muhammed, too.”
“I want to do it today,” Thomas said. “I don’t know when Guerrero and Mandana intend to put the plan Helena told me of into action, but I suspect the sooner we go the better.”
“I assume this is not about their attack on al-Zagal,” said Olaf.
“Mandana is still working for the Spanish, that is what Helena overheard. They want to kill Muhammed. With Yusuf dead, and al-Zagal in exile, there is no-one to take Muhammed’s place as Sultan. Gharnatah will fall. This war will be over.”
“There are always pretenders.” Olaf had stopped eating. Thomas now had his entire attention.
“Al-Rashid and his like, of course, but they are all greedy men. The city will not allow them to sit on the throne. Al-Andalus will come to an end. Spain will be victorious.”
“I never thought I would hear you say you wanted Muhammed to remain in power,” said Olaf. “You hate him.”
“Not as much as I love al-Andalus.”
Olaf waved a hand, which still held a tear of bread. “It is a place. The land will remain, only the name changes, and there are other places. I have often thought of returning north when this war ends. If I am still alive, of course.”
“I’m not so sure. The people make the land what it is, and the Spanish are different. They worship a different God. Their first task will be to convert the mosque to a cathedral.” Thomas shook his head. “More likely tear it down. They won’t repeat the same mistake they did in Qurtuba.”
Thomas looked at Olaf, knowing they had drifted away from his main purpose. “I want to go to Muhammed with a plan. If he kills me, so be it. It is not so long since I sought death’s oblivion.”
“But you no longer do,” said Olaf.
“You are right. I have discovered a new purpose. But I will never forget Lubna.”
“As it should be, of course. Besides, I would not allow it. So, when do we go? I hope he doesn’t execute you on the spot.”
“Or have us both beheaded.”
Olaf raised a shoulder. “He can try. But as you know, we are both difficult men to kill.”
“We are all three difficult men to kill,” said Usaden, who had sat silently listening to everything that was said. “Which is why we will all go.”
Thomas nodded. “Agreed. The three of us.” He began to eat, ravenous. “We go later in the day. I need more sleep first, for I was disturbed last night. My mind must be sharp for the confrontation, and it feels I have barely slept since Lubna died.”
Chapter Thirty
Four of them followed alleys down through the Albayzin to the banks of the Darro. Once they had crossed the arched bridge Fatima left them to go to her house beside the barracks. She wanted to fetch a few personal items, unsure if she would ever be allowed on the hill after their meeting.
At the outer gate Olaf’s presence gave them entry, but when they reached the third barrier the guards refused to admit them.
“You do know who I am?” asked Olaf.
“Of course, General, but word has been sent you are General no longer. I recognise Thomas as well, but not the short one.”
“I request an audience with Muhammed,” Thomas said.
The guard who appeared to be in charge laughed. “Where is your pet, the eunuch? He has more chance than you do. Now piss off before I lose my temper.”
Thomas glanced at Olaf, half expecting resistance from him, but he only shrugged and turned away.
Once they returned to the Darro Thomas stopped. “Do you know of another way in?”
“I don’t,” said Olaf. “Not one that will be unguarded. But there is still a chance. Most afternoons Muhammed likes to hunt, and there are no guards beyond the palace.”
“He won’t be alone though, will he?”
“He usually takes a dozen men, no more. He likes to take credit for the kill.”
Thomas glanced at the sky. “We could go there now and find a position to watch from, but it’s a big area. How will we know we haven’t missed him?”
“Muhammed is a creature of habit. He considers it good luck to always approach along the same route. It is so well worn even Jorge would be able to track him.”
“There is cover nearby?”
“Enough. But we want him to see us, don’t we?”
“What if he orders his men to attack us?”
“I told you, there will be no more than a dozen. Even Muhammed is not foolish enough to think that is enough to defeat the three of us.”
Olaf led them out to the Vega beyond the Malaka gate. Close by, men worked fields of vegetables set along the banks of the Darro where the soil held more moisture. Beyond, dense mulberry bushes ran almost as far as the eye could see, framed behind by rising peaks. Women worked with baskets, moving slowly as they picked silk caterpillars from the leaves.
Olaf waded the Darro at a shallow crossing and led them up a rising slope, which brought them to a spot above the palace. Ochre grasses swayed in the breeze. Elsewhere green undergrowth sprouted, small yellow flowers bobbing in a warm breeze.
“Over there would be good,” Thomas said, pointing to a group of rocks which offered a place to hide.
“It would if Muhammed ever came this way. We need to go higher yet.”
Thomas glanced at Usaden, who as always said nothing until he had something to say. Perhaps if Jorge stayed in his company long enough the habit would transfer. At least it could be hoped for.
The sun warmed Thomas’s back and he began to sweat. Flies gathered and he swatted them aside. Olaf and Usaden either didn’t attract them, or ignored their attentions. Thomas wondered why he had left this city he loved, wondered what he had hoped to achieve by fleeing to the high mountains. Yes, he had found Guerrero and Mandana, but now he knew he could have achieved the same by staying here with what was left of his family. He considered himself a fool.
They reached a stand of trees, a mix of pine, cork oak and neglected olives which had gone so long unpruned some of their branches had touched the ground to root themselves.
“We should have brought food,” said Usaden. “How long will we have to wait?”
Olaf glanced at the sky. “Not long.” He sat on a bed of pine needles and crossed his ankles, leaning against the bole of a tree. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Who is taking watch?”
Usaden nodded and started toward the edge of the tree line.
“Call me as soon as you see anything—anything at all. They will come from the south. A dozen of them.” Olaf looked to where Thomas stood. “You might as well rest, too.” He closed his eyes again.
Thomas walked to one side, deeper into the copse of trees, his eyes tracking the ground. He saw mushrooms that were edible, others that would bring wild visions that he had partaken of at one time. He saw lines of ants marking trails through the loam. He heard birdsong, a constant background accompaniment. When he saw a gap in the trees he made his
way to it, rewarded with a magnificent view across the entire city of Gharnatah and beyond, to the rising jumble of white houses of the Albayzin.
He wondered if he would live to see nightfall, and realised for the first time in many months that he wanted to do so. He feared death more than life, with no idea when, or why, the change had occurred. With the realisation came the first tendrils of fear.
Thomas tried to push them away. Fear was sensible, logical, but in the past he had never allowed it to sway him. One more change, he thought, but whether for the better or not he didn’t know.
Movement drew his attention to the hillside. He saw a column of men riding from behind al-Hamra. He didn’t bother counting them—near enough a dozen, as Olaf had promised, and they could be no other than Muhammed come to hunt. Thomas turned and walked fast toward Olaf to warn him, but when he got there Usaden had already seen the men, and the two of them stood in the shade of a pine, watching.
There came a burst of noise from their right, shouting voices and at least two drums beating.
“Ah,” said Olaf, “I forgot about the others. They drive the birds and game toward Muhammed. It is not sporting, but it does guarantee a kill.”
“Will they fight if it comes to it?” Thomas asked.
“I doubt it. Half of them are beggars, paid a copper coin to do the work—others will be low palace servants. But there will be no fighting. Muhammed’s guards know me.” Olaf glanced at the beaters once more, then stepped out into the late sunshine. After a moment, Thomas and Usaden followed.
They had gone a hundred paces before someone spotted them, not Muhammed but one of his riders, who spurred his horse and came fast, pulling up in a show of bravado.
“General,” the man said. “Are you lost?”
Olaf made no reply.
Thomas stepped forward. “We have news for the Sultan,” he said. “I believe he is in danger.”
