by David Penny
As they were already in the headquarters of the Guild, Thomas thought it only wise to consult its leader. Ali Durdush was Master of the Malaka Guilds, the same man Thomas had seen berated by the mad preacher after Lubna had lost the body of Diego’s mother. Thomas had dined with the man once soon after coming to the city, because Durdush considered an association might prove useful at some point. The Malaka Guilds were powerful, but so was the Infirmary. It was a consideration only on one side of the relationship, but it did allow Thomas access to the man, and his administrative staff, who would prove the more useful.
Durdush was young for such a position, but his family had been an integral part of the Guild for many generations; their wealth was spoken of in whispers. As a man blessed with controlling all of the Guilds in Malaka, Durdush sat at the centre of a complex web of trade and influence, a position a clever man could use to increase his wealth a hundred-fold. Or, as was rumoured in Durdush’s case, a thousand-fold. Thomas didn’t particularly like the man, but had to admit he was clearly not without intelligence and cunning, both traits the Guild valued.
He welcomed Thomas and Jorge into a large room situated at the top level of the customs buildings that overlooked the docks. A long corridor with smaller offices set off it stretched the length of the building to a second complex of offices at the far end. There was no sign of damage from the shaking here. This building had been built of only the best material, using only the best workmen.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, Thomas. And in better circumstances than the other day. Someone should take that preacher out in a boat and neglect to return him to shore. Who is your handsome friend?”
“Jorge. We work together.”
“I see. Another miracle worker?”
“Something like that.”
A brief frown crossed Durdush’s face, discarded as quickly as it had come. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Durdush snapped his fingers, and a young man darted from where he had been hidden behind a pillar. “Fetch a box of the dates that arrived yesterday from Tunis.” A smile at Thomas. “A small gesture of my esteem.”
Thomas knew better than to attempt a refusal. Besides, Diego would enjoy their sweetness.
“Have you heard the news of Zufar al-Zaki?”
“News? What news? Please, sit.” Durdush seemed genuinely puzzled.
“His body was discovered in one of the Guild offices next to the wall,” Thomas said, watching Durdush closely.
“Today?”
“He was killed almost a week ago, but his identity only discovered today. I am sorry to be the bearer of such news. You must have known him well.”
Durdush raised a shoulder. “Not as well as you might imagine. Al-Zaki was not an easy man to know, and had neglected his craft of late. He no longer practiced and showed little interest in commerce. Most of the Weapons’ Guild duties were carried out by his clerk, I believe.”
“Would that be a man by the name of Miguel Jiminez?”
Durdush shook his head. “I would not know that. You will have to ask my clerks for the information. Ah, here is the boy.” Durdush looked relieved at the interruption. He nodded toward Thomas, who was handed a small box almost spilling over with sticky, dark fruit. “You can find a use for these, I trust?”
“My thanks. Was al-Zaki popular among the other Guild Masters?”
“Not popular, but not unpopular either. He was reserved. A private man, I would say. Not a good trait in one meant to foster trade, but many Weapons’ Masters are the same. Men want swords, muskets, all manner of means to kill each other. It requires little in the way of conversational skill to sell them such. But he was not disliked either, though there were rumours his personal life was … complicated.”
Another man entered the room, and Durdush turned his head in obvious relief. The man leaned close, the words he spoke too soft to carry.
“You will have to excuse me, there is someone I have been waiting for. If you discover anything more, send a message. I am grateful you are looking into the matter, Thomas, I hear you have had success in the past.” Durdush rose and left the room, his staff bustling after him.
“Do you think he has gold here?” asked Jorge. “He is trusting to leave us alone.”
“Oh, I suspect someone is watching us.” Thomas nodded toward narrow openings in two walls. It was not possible to see if anyone stood on the other side, but he would be surprised if at least one watcher was not in place. “Besides, what do you need gold for? You already possess the riches of a prince.”
“Which you will not let me spend.”
“One day.”
“One day soon?”
“Sooner than either of us might like.” Thomas rose. “Do you think Belia will like these, if Diego does not eat them all?”
“She will use them to help make a meal fit for a prince with no money.”
Thomas moved to an arched window which looked over the dock. He caught sight of Ali Durdush as he crossed the flagstones toward a tall figure surrounded by a group of men, most of whom looked like soldiers apart from one, who was also tall, slim, and good-looking.
“Who has he gone to see? Someone you know?” Jorge narrowed his eyes. “I like that one.”
Thomas shook his head. “A Spaniard, by the look.” He offered a tight smile. “The Guilds see the way this war goes. They will negotiate to protect their position. Their trade.”
“Then you are lucky you do not have to partake of it,” said Jorge. “And the man Durdush is talking to is not Spanish. His dress is of the north, I would say.” He smiled. “Perhaps even of your country, though my knowledge of English fashion is sadly out of date, and there is little point in asking you.”
“None at all, and I am glad it is so.” Thomas watched Durdush and the man talk, wondering what they were discussing. “But you are right, he does have the look of an Englishman.”
“There is a look? Other than a pale face and bad teeth?”
“I do not have bad teeth,” Thomas said. “Nor a pale face.”
“I do not count you as English.”
“My thanks. But you’re right, he is pale, and I hear many of my countrymen have come to Spain. They believe there are riches to be gained in this war and want a share of them. That man already has riches though, I wager. Look at the cut of his clothes.”
“They are not to my taste,” said Jorge.
“No, I expect they are not.” Thomas turned away, losing interest in whatever negotiation Ali Durdush might be involved in even if they did involve one of his countrymen. Or perhaps because they did. “We need to find out more about Zufar al-Zaki. The clerks will have an address for him. With luck his wife will be the jealous type who has had him murdered and our task will be complete.”
“We can always live in hope,” said Jorge. “Though that would not explain what happened to Diego’s parents.”
“His father died from a fall,” Thomas said. “His mother … well, that is more of a mystery, but no doubt one with an innocent explanation. I intend to talk to Diego. He may know something.”
“Or nothing,” said Jorge.
“Yes. Or nothing, which is the more likely.”
Ten
“Save me from these women!” Thomas had come to al-Zaki’s house with Jorge after a clerk reluctantly provided its location. It lay on the eastern edge of the city, at some distance from where most Guild members lived close to the Ataranzana. The house was in turmoil. A group of five young women milled about, each of their voices contributing to a meaningless cacophony.
The Weapons’ Master’s body had finally been claimed to be prepared for burial, but not by anyone in this household. Instead they had paid one of the numerous undertakers to perform the task. Thomas thought it likely none of the wives would even bother to attend the internment.
Jorge stood among the chaos with a smile on his face, used to such from the harem. For Thomas it was uncomfortable. He stood beyond the doorway, listening until he understood wh
at was happening, despairing he ever might. The young women made up the man’s harem, even if he was a supposed Christian. Religion ousted by lust — a familiar story. Al-Zaki had a son, but it appeared he had not visited since his mother abandoned the family home.
“Would you like me to question them?” asked Jorge.
“Can you. And while you do I’m going to look around the house. Keep them occupied as long as you can.”
Jorge smiled, and it was clear a reply was not necessary. Thomas turned away, glad to be freed from the chatter. Al-Zaki’s house was not small, but neither was it overly large, and the furnishings and decorations were modest for a man of his position. It seemed the Weapons’ Master had been no lover of frivolity, and Thomas thought of Jorge’s brother, Daniel, who fashioned some of the finest swords in Spain. He too was a plain man, forever in Thomas’s debt for the rescue of his daughter, not that either of them would ever mention the fact.
The sound of female voices grew faint as he entered a kitchen, a wide room, the stove cool. He wondered who did the cooking here, for none of the young women appeared either capable or willing. A housekeeper, a cook, someone paid to carry out the day-to-day tasks? Which meant there was someone else who would need to be interviewed. Thomas made a mental note to ask before they left.
He looked through storage jars, not exactly sure what he was searching for, but unwilling to miss anything. He knew the house was not where al-Zaki had died, but it might be where he had been taken from. Another note to ask: when was he last seen? He turned with the intention of doing the asking now when, as he passed the foot of a staircase, he heard a sound from upstairs. He ascended the staircase.
There came a scraping of something dragged across the floor. Thomas tracked it to a large room at the end of the corridor where the air was perfumed with the scent of women. Four beds were set, one at each corner. In the centre of the room a young woman leaned over a chest, placing silk clothing into it. As Thomas entered, she spun around, a hand rising to cover her mouth. She was one of the younger members of al-Zaki’s harem, her skin as shaded as Lubna’s, hair as dark and lustrous.
“I am not stealing anything,” she said, taking a step away from the chest, “only taking what is mine.”
Thomas glanced at the chest but was uninterested in the contents. “What will become of you now, you and the others?”
“Why do you care?” A flash of spirit showed.
“I am investigating your master’s death.”
“Why?”
“He was an important man.”
“Important men die all the time. Do you investigate all their deaths?”
“But your master did not die a natural death, did he?” Thomas took two paces closer, her scent enfolding him, and an unwelcome image of Helena, the concubine who used to share his life, came into his mind. The scent was almost the same, the spark of life in this woman’s eyes reminded him of the woman whose sister was now his wife. Thomas thought the telling of it sounded more complicated than the living of it. “When did you last see him?”
The hand that had fallen to her side rose again, touched lips stained red from the application of beeswax and crushed flowers.
“Who killed him?”
“That is what I intend to find out. When did you see him?”
“A week ago … ten days … let me think …” She stared into space, her eyes tracking a memory. “I shared his bed nine nights since. It would have been my turn again two days ago, but none of us has seen him since …” More searching. “Eight days. Yes, I am sure of it, eight days. You can ask Alisha, for it was her turn to lie with him that night.” A smile of raw cunning and mischief came and went so briefly Thomas half doubted it had ever been there. He certainly didn’t know what it meant — he would need Jorge for that.
“Did anyone report his missing?”
“He would often be gone from home for long periods. His work, he claimed. Except the last time he brought me back with him.”
“Brought you back? From where? You’re not Spanish, are you.”
“I met him when he crossed the sea to Tunis. I worked in a … I worked there and he took a liking to me. He was a generous man.” A frown. “Is that why he was killed? For money? But that is all still here, in the cellar. At least I think it is, I have not looked. We should do so. What if someone killed him so they could steal his gold?”
“I will make sure to look later,” Thomas said. “So he might be gone for days at a time and none of you would wonder where, or why?”
“He did not speak to us of his work, or his plans.”
“Did any of you see strangers in the days before he disappeared?”
“I did not, but you should ask the others.”
“My companion is talking to them at the moment. What about his work? Did people not come here to discuss business?”
“Never. He was protective of his private life, of all of us. He worked in the afternoons only, and always returned before dark when he was at home.”
“Worked where?”
“At the Ataranzana. You must know it.”
“Of course.” Thomas knew he would have to return to al-Zaki’s offices. There would be staff there able to provide more information. He was beginning to believe these women would prove of little use. Their lives were too constrained, apart from which they lacked curiosity, which was a sin in Thomas’s eyes.
“So you cannot think of anyone who might wish your master dead?”
A shake of the head. “No. Unless you consider his wife. His ex-wife, that is. She hates him.”
“Ballix,” said Jorge. “The wife lives in Ballix.”
“Ex-wife,” Thomas corrected. “That is what I was told.”
They ascended the slope toward home, the city behind them but the scent of its fires and thousands of people reached them on the breeze.
“It’s an arguable distinction. She applied to divorce him when the girls became too many and she grew tired of his infidelities. But a divorce requires the splitting of a man’s assets, and so far al-Zaki has paid her nothing. Does that still make them married or not?”
“I’m no expert on divorce,” Thomas said. “Nor do I wish to become one. She has a name? A given name?” He halted for a moment, the air burning his lungs. The beat of his heart sounded in his ears. He turned and surveyed the city, then looked east, but Ballix lay beyond the peak of Aranzo. Not so far in miles, but half a day on horseback. He knew they had to talk to the woman, but it would not be today. Inland, dark clouds hung over the peaks, and curtains of rain washed across them. The wind promised tomorrow would be wet, but tomorrow the journey would have to be.
“Gomez,” said Jorge. “Gracia Bernel Gomez.”
“She is al-Zaki’s age?”
“No, of course not. He was a man who liked his women young, and willing. They told me she was no longer young, not as young as they are. She is almost as old as you.”
Thomas smiled. “So old enough.”
“Yes, old enough.” Jorge punched Thomas’s arm softly. “Have you rested up enough yet, old man?”
A rumble of thunder sounded as they approached the house, and Thomas knew they would get wet before they reached it. When they had moved to this house shortly after arriving in Malaka, he had wondered why its original owner had built it so far beyond the city walls. What did he have to hide, or who did he need to hide it from? But he liked the house. It was large, comfortable, and people could not find him easily, which suited him well. Thomas had grown tired of people who always wanted something from him. Now he intended to do only what pleased him.
He wondered if the pursuit of this mystery was something that pleased him or not. In the past he had been given no choice. The first time the Sultan of Gharnatah had brooked no refusal, and each time since there had been pressure brought. But now?
Thomas glanced to where Jorge strode ahead of him, his youth starting to show in greater strength, and Thomas knew he was getting older. Perhaps it was time for a man to star
t thinking of taking life easier, to make the most of whatever years were left to him. Except he didn’t feel old. Lubna was only twenty-five, and Will so full of life and curiosity it made Thomas younger than his years.
So why was he following the threads of this mystery? Zufar al-Zaki meant nothing to him. Was it only the confluence of circumstance? Lubna mislaying a body, Diego finding another? Thomas knew he had to question Diego more closely about his parents. He needed to know if their deaths were coincidence or something more.
Responsibility had gathered around Thomas until he could not turn aside from the search. Which is why early in the morning he and Jorge would saddle two horses and ride the twenty miles to Ballix to talk to al-Zaki’s wife, and with luck that might be the end of the matter.
By the time they reached the wide terrace, heavy rain was falling, and both Thomas and Jorge were soaked. Lightning stuttered to die against the surrounding peaks, thunder coming almost immediately. Thomas was sure Diego would be afraid, cowering somewhere with his hands over his head, but instead he and Will stood on the terrace laughing, watching as the sky fought the earth. Water cascaded from the roof so close they could reach out and let it rush across their fingers.
Will ran to Thomas, hugged his legs then returned at once. Diego did not turn, mesmerised by the storm.
Thomas went to change, laughing as Lubna came to assist in a way that was no help at all, until eventually he tumbled her onto the bed and she squealed as though that had not been her intention all along.
After, as they lay curled together, she said, “That boy is like a jay.”
“Diego? Why, can he fly? It wouldn’t surprise me at all.”
Lubna laughed and ran a hand along Thomas’s belly, her fingers tracing the scars that criss-crossed him, each of them familiar to her now. “He likes pretty things.”
“So do I.”
