by David Penny
“Will brought me a box. There were a dozen trinkets in it. Your wedding band among them.”
“Ah. I dare not wear it outside the house for fear I will lose it.”
Lubna kissed his shoulder. “It’s all right, Thomas, it’s not the ring that binds us.” She held her hand up, splayed the fingers. “See, I do not wear mine either.”
“Would you if I did?”
“Perhaps.”
Thomas ran his hand over the swell of her belly, held it there, waiting. It did not take long before he felt movement within, the baby turning, dreaming perhaps, and he wondered did babies dream inside the womb, and if so, of what? An image of the baby he had saved only a scant few days earlier came to him, and the damage inflicted to the mother. Had it been possible to save both he would have done so, but a decision had to be made. It was why they called him qassab, because he could always make such decisions.
He pushed the vision away, not wanting to think of it, not when Lubna lay beside him, their child nestled within her.
“I need to talk to him anyway, should I raise it?”
“He likes you,” said Lubna.
“He likes you too, and Jorge and Belia and Will.”
“He respects you, then.”
“Was that intended to be ‘Yes, you should talk to him’?”
“It makes sense, before it becomes an issue. He means nothing by it, he simply likes pretty objects. None of us mind, and it’s not as if he’s going to run into Malaka and sell them in the market, is it.”
“He needs to learn,” Thomas said. He stared at the open window, the sound of rain loud, the moisture of it touching his skin. It was nothing like the rain of England, which was tentative, shy, but never far away. When rain came to Spain it did so rarely, but always made itself known.
“Do you think his parents let him do as he wished?” he asked.
“We will never know.”
“Children like Diego are killed at birth more often than not, once the parents see what they have brought into the world. Other times they are given more love than is seemly.” He glanced at Lubna. “They were old, were they not?”
She nodded. “It might be one of the reasons Diego is as he is. There are records at the Infirmary telling of the condition, and an older mother is one of the factors.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Thomas said. “When we get back from Ballix. In the meantime, you should keep an eye on him, all of you. Don’t take anything from him, but try to ensure he knows it’s wrong if you see him take anything again.”
“Have you seen the rings he wears on his fingers?”
“Not especially.”
“I’m sure he has one on every finger. Two on some.” She smiled. “Unlike someone I know.”
“Do you think them stolen?”
“Not stolen. More likely they belonged to his parents. They are none of them worth any great value, apart from one which is gold and has a fine stone set in it. Why are you going to Ballix?”
“Al-Zaki’s wife lives there.”
“I thought you said he had created a harem for himself.”
“Which is why she lives in Ballix. The harem seems to believe she bore him ill will on account of them, and the fact he had not paid any divorce settlement.”
“She will not get anything now, will she?”
Thomas shook his head. “I imagine not.”
“We will never divorce, you and I, will we.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No, we will not.”
“I hope the rain stops before you have to go,” said Lubna, straddling him in a single lithe movement. “You are not tired of me yet are you, Thomas?”
And again he shook his head.
Eleven
The rain continued, if anything falling harder, though how such was possible Thomas could not comprehend. It was like riding beneath a waterfall, one that was impossible to escape from. Water cascaded down mountainsides and gathered in stream beds that only the day before had lain dusty and dry. Now they foamed, carrying trees and rocks along with an unstoppable force.
Jorge said something, his words swamped by the incessant noise of falling water, and Thomas had to lean closer to hear.
“Could this not have waited until tomorrow, or better still the day after?” shouted Jorge.
“Never leave undone what must be done.”
Jorge shook his head and scowled. “This woman had better know something.”
“Even if she doesn’t, the journey is worth doing. It is often the slow accumulation of facts that leads to an answer, even if those facts have no obvious bearing on the matter in hand.”
“You do it on purpose, don’t you,” said Jorge.
“Do what?”
“Talk in words that make no sense at all. Not to ordinary folk, anyway.”
They had originally planned to travel along the relatively level coastal route, but as they rode around the outer wall of Malaka it became clear the quantity of water foaming from the mountains would make that way impassable. Thomas had turned his mount north and east. They climbed the shoulder of the heights of Aranzo, following tracks disturbed by few other than goat herders. Here the water continued to be an issue, but the gullies were narrower and easier to cross.
They were late and would be later still arriving in Ballix. They would need to find accommodation for the night rather than risk the return journey in the dark. With luck the rain would have stopped by morning.
Ballix was second in size only to Malaka along the coastal strip of al-Andalus, with a fine fortress sitting atop a sharp hill within the town walls. The sea crashed and foamed at the base of the southern wall as they approached, the flat land surrounding the western edge of the town knee-deep in water. The crops here were flooded but would no doubt grow better as a result. The Wadi al-Cuevo flowed somewhere beneath the surface and they would need to take care to cross it at the ford or risk being swept away.
The gates were closed, as if someone wanted to keep the floodwater at bay, but they were admitted soon enough, and Thomas made enquiries of the guard, but he did not know the woman they sought.
“Before we begin I need something to eat,” said Jorge, “and a cup or more of wine.”
“And somewhere to spend the night.”
“If we must.” Jorge walked ahead of his horse, leading it with an occasional tug of the reins. The rain beat on his head, plastering his hair around his face. He refused to raise the hood of his robe, claiming it only delayed the inevitable soaking. Beneath his own hood, Thomas suspected he was probably right.
The streets were deserted, but their path brought them to a coffee house which, fortunately for Jorge, also served wine and spirits, despite both being against the laws of Islam. Al-Andalus had lost its rigour long since, and it seemed only the Imams and the lunatic al-Antiqamun cared anymore, and few listened to their preaching. It was a world in the process of falling apart, the seams tearing to let in strange, alien ideas of how life could be lived.
The coffee house also turned out to offer accommodation and stabling for the horses, which Thomas negotiated while Jorge found a seat on a stack of cushions. Business attended to, Thomas sank down beside him, still after all his years in al-Andalus uncomfortable at being so close to the ground. Around them men — and there were no women other than those who served them — drank dark, bitter coffee, drew smoke through hookahs, and poured wine from flagons. The air was sweet with the scent of hashish and opium, the room crowded. It appeared the population of the town had sought distraction from the storm raging outside.
Thomas leaned over to a dark-skinned Berber whose shoulder was little more than a foot from his own.
“Sir, perhaps you can help us. We seek a woman by the name of Gracia Bernel Gomez. Do you know of her?”
The man turned clouded eyes toward Thomas. He stared at him for an uncomfortably long time before shaking his head and turning away. Thomas sighed. This was going to be harder than he had hoped. Then the man leaned across to his companion and
spoke a few words. His companion spoke to someone else until the message had spread throughout the entire establishment.
Word came back slowly, person by person, until it reached the man Thomas had originally enquired of, who turned and leaned close, the scent of hashish strong on his robes.
“She is not well liked,” he said, his voice as rough as his appearance.
“Then you will no doubt be willing to tell me where I can find her.”
“For a consideration.”
Thomas smiled. He watched the man’s face change, his clouded eyes seeing well enough to catch the intent. And then he stopped smiling.
“Of course.” Thomas reached into his purse, pulled out coins, and held them within his fist. “Where does she live?”
“With another woman at the foot of the Alkhazabah.”
“That does not help me.”
“This road we are on, follow it until it forks, then take the left-hand way. It steepens. Keep going until you come to a crossroads. Take the right-hand way. The house is on that alley. It is small and in need of repair. If you cannot find her, knock on any door and ask.”
Thomas dropped one of the coins into the man’s hand. “You say she is not well liked. Why?”
More words were exchanged, returning a little sooner than from the first enquiry.
“Perhaps because she lives with another woman.” He showed teeth stained almost black, darker than the gums that held them.
Thomas shook his head and slipped two more coins into his palm.
The man grinned to show a single tooth. “I hope you have more coin for those two, they don’t come free is what I heard.” The old man turned away, leaving Thomas to stare at the back of his head.
“Does this mean we are going out into the rain again?” asked Jorge.
“I see no other way of talking to her.”
“Perhaps I will change my clothes first, then.”
“You’re already soaked. Change when we return, then you won’t soak both your outfits.”
Jorge looked around at the interior of the inn. “Are we safe here?”
“I’ll sleep with my sword in my hand if it makes you feel more secure.”
Jorge laughed. “No, I don’t think it will. All right, if we are going to go let’s get it done. And I was just beginning to feel warm.”
The man’s directions proved accurate, and the house identifiable. It was one of the smallest in the narrow street and the most in need of attention. It stood two stories high, but neither looked tall enough for Thomas to stand upright in. He knocked on the door while Jorge tried to shelter beneath the overhanging eaves, but only managed to get wetter as water sluiced off the roof and splashed his legs.
Thomas waited, knocked harder when there was no reply. The sound of the rain masked any noise from within, so it came as a surprise when the door opened and a short woman of close to his own age stared out at him. She was pretty, with a narrow face and dark hair tucked beneath a red scarf.
“What do you want?”
“I am looking for Gracia Bernel Gomez.”
“Then you have found her. What is your business?”
“You are Señora Gomez?”
“No, but she lives here. Again, what is your business?”
“I have news of her husband.”
“Then she does not wish to hear it. Good-day, sir.” She began to close the door.
Thomas used his foot to block it. She stared down, opened the door again then slammed it. Thomas winced but kept his foot in place.
“I will scream,” she said.
Thomas looked both ways along the street. “Scream, for all the good it will do you.” He shook his head, met the woman’s eyes. “I mean neither of you any harm.”
Jorge stepped into sight, and the woman’s eyes shifted, clearly liking what she saw better.
“What news?” she said.
“I would tell that to Señora Gomez.”
An expulsion of breath. “Very well. But remove your cloaks. We have enough water coming through the roof as it is without you bringing more in.”
Thomas ducked inside, Jorge ducking more as he followed. There was a single room occupying the entire ground floor. A stove set into one wall burned badly and billowed smoke into the air. A second woman stood in front of it, stirring a pot that failed to entice the senses.
“These men want to talk to you, Gracia.”
“What men?” She turned, no surprise on her face, and Thomas realised she must have heard the entire conversation. She was a handsome woman, her looks well maintained, hair still dark and skin unlined. She wore a long dress belted at the waist, the figure beneath voluptuous. Thomas thought she looked younger than her years, if al-Zaki’s women had told him the truth.
“I want to hear nothing of that man unless you have come to bring the money he owes me.”
“I’m afraid not. I bear sad news.”
She snuffled a laugh. “What, is he dead? I would not call that sad news.”
“Yes, your husband is dead.”
“Good.” There was no change in her expression.
“At the hand of another.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Was it one of his girls?” Her expression was confident, almost challenging. “Well, you have delivered the news. I am sure you can find your way out, or does Olivia need to show you where the door is?”
Her companion came to Gracia and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps you should speak with them. The law states you are entitled to his wealth on his death.”
“We divorced, you know we did.”
“But he did not pay you what was due. That makes it void, does it not? In which case —”
“His harem will have spirited his wealth away by now.” Gracia finally stopped stirring the pot and turned to face them. She wiped her hands in a cloth and shook her head. “You do not know how Guild wealth works, do you?”
Thomas gave the question some consideration before shaking his head. When he had first lived in Malaka, learning all he could at the Infirmary, he had been no more than a young stranger, a subject of gossip, of speculation and, in some instances fascination. But he had taken no interest in the bustling commerce of the city.
“Guild Masters are wealthy individuals, certainly, but the riches of each Guild is held centrally and only distributed if requested or someone dies. They will make an arrangement for Zufar’s family.” She pulled a chair from beneath a table and sat, nodding that Thomas and Jorge could do the same if they wished. Her companion passed by, once more a touch on the shoulder.
“An arrangement for you, too?”
A tilt of the head. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” She pushed fingers through her hair. “I will have to go to Malaka to plead a case. It may help that he cheated me out of half his wealth as the law states I am entitled to when I divorced him. The Guild plays fair by its members.” She offered a bitter smile. “Are his playthings still as silly as ever, or are they weeping and wailing?”
“Not weeping nor wailing,” said Jorge.
Gracia turned her gaze on him, letting it explore what she saw, then gave a smile. “My, but you are a handsome thing, aren’t you?”
Jorge returned the smile but said nothing.
“Do you know if your husband had enemies?” Thomas asked before the two women started tearing Jorge’s clothes from him.
“He was a man of influence, so of course he did. How was he killed?”
Thomas considered his response, then decided she deserved to know. Partly because he did not like the woman. There was something calculating in her he found grating.
“He was stabbed.”
“Was it painful? I do hope so.”
“Fatal, in any case.”
“Was it you who examined him? Are you some kind of priest? You do not look like one, and your friend certainly does not. He has a look of sin about him.”
“I am a physician at the Infirmary.”
“Dressed like that? You surprise me.”
“Nothing I can think of. And what makes you think he had knowledge? Could it not have been nothing more than an argument? And he is no longer my husband.”
“Some Guild secret, perhaps.”
Gracia stood abruptly. “It is five years since I left him. How am I supposed to know what he has done since or what he knows now? Ask those slips of girls he beds one after the other.” She grimaced, and Thomas wondered who she hated the most, her husband or the women he had gathered around him.
“I take it you have not left Ballix in the last week?”
“Why would I?” She stared at Thomas. “Do you think I took a knife and cut my own husband?”
“I didn’t say it was a knife.”
“No — what else could it be? I am no expert on stabbings, but if I were to stab someone I would use a knife, except in this case I would cut him slowly, little by little, until he gave me what I wanted.” She tilted her head, examined Thomas. “How would you do it, sir?”
“I would not do it at all.” Though a memory surfaced of when he was much younger, a memory of a different life, one he no longer recognised except when it returned in battle. He had often considered if it was that younger Thomas people saw which unsettled them, for he knew he could unsettle people without even trying. Except it appeared not to work with this woman.
“And your lover?” Thomas said, glancing at the woman at the stove, deliberately using the term to see a reaction, but Gracia simply smiled.
“Oh, she would start on his cock and balls I expect. We would do it together, with great care and pleasure.” She held her hand up, and the woman came to her. Gracia turned her face up so they could exchange a kiss. “Except we did not. My husband and his harem are of no interest to me anymore. I have evicted him from my thoughts. Though I confess a little money would be welcome. We are not, as you can see, well catered for here. But at least we have a roof over our heads, even if it leaks.”
As they walked back through the rain, Jorge said, “I see why people do not warm to her, but I don’t believe she killed her husband. Which means our journey here was a waste of time.”
