by David Penny
The soldiers ignored them, either believing they were part of their army or local men foolish enough to ignore the soldiers in their midst. Now and then Thomas saw other Moors passing, also ignored for now. The unwashed stink of the soldiers hung in the air, together with the chatter of conversation uttered in half a dozen languages. Many of the men were mercenaries, others soldiers of fortune come to seek riches. Like Richard Woodville, perhaps. Thomas was sure his journey was on behalf of the English King, but was the man taking the opportunity to find a way to enrich himself at the same time? Or was he negotiating with Durdush on behalf of his King? Woodville didn’t strike Thomas as a man likely to act beyond the orders given him. Earl he might be, but what Thomas saw was a coward, and a weak coward at that. Danvers was a different matter, but Danvers had no position.
Thomas put thoughts of both men aside. He wanted to think more on the murder, so instead of heading directly to Malaka, he followed the twisting roadway south toward Ballix. He wanted another conversation with Gracia Bernel Gomez, sure the woman knew more than she had admitted to on their first encounter. Whether what she had left unsaid made her guilty or not he was unsure of, only that secrets got people hurt. As the land flattened, they forged the Wadi al-Cuevo, now fully constrained within its banks, and passed through the western gate of Ballix without challenge. But when they arrived at the house it was to discover it empty. More than empty, there was an air of abandonment. A neighbour told them Gracia had closed up her house and moved to Malaka, together with her friend, the latter said with a smirk. The neighbour claimed not to know the reason for her going, but as they turned away she called them back to reveal it might have something to do with her claim to an inheritance from those girls. She said it with a smile of triumph, and Thomas could imagine the stories she had been told about al-Zaki’s infidelities, sure that was how they would have been presented.
The town gates continued to remain thrown wide when they left, as they had been every time Thomas had visited, and he wondered how long it would remain the case. The Spanish horde continued to gather on the far side of the river. The lead cohort had erected tents and dug soil pits, settling in for a lengthy siege.
“Should we go and talk to his harem again?” asked Jorge as they re-crossed the river and took a road that ran alongside the coast, the ground marshy here. Thomas had chosen a simpler route to the one they had followed leaving Malaka. It was close to noon, the sun at its zenith, and the heat encouraged loud swarms of flies that settled anywhere bare skin showed.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Don’t pretend they don’t attract you.”
“But I can control myself. Damn these flies!” Thomas cursed and adjusted his tagelmust so only his eyes showed. He reached into a saddle bag and withdrew another, this one dyed a deep red, and handed it to Jorge, who wound it awkwardly around his face.
“Perhaps we should have gone the other way.”
“This will bring us back two hours sooner.”
“There is a rush?”
“There is always a rush when a killer is sought. The more time passes the colder the trail grows. Have I not taught you that already?”
“Possibly. But you know I don’t remember things as well as you and Lubna.”
“In that case I will make sure not to tax your brain more than necessary.” Thomas urged his horse toward the west, skirting an area of shimmering water where mosquitoes hovered thick as rain clouds, their constant whine carrying across the fetid surface.
“You can go to al-Zaki’s house on your own, can’t you?” Thomas said.
“I expect so. What are you going to be doing?”
“I want to pose more questions to Ali Durdush. Now I have done him this favour he might be willing to tell me the truth. And I need to visit the Infirmary. I have neglected my duties of late.”
“I didn’t think you had duties.” Jorge waved at a cloud of dark, fat flies as they descended around him.
“I don’t, but you know that has never stopped me in the past.”
Jorge might have smiled, but the tagelmust hid most of his face, and even if it had not, the flies were too thick to see him clearly.
The sun was sinking when Ali Durdush admitted Thomas to his offices in the Ataranzana, his face dark with anger. “Where did you go? And why did you not do as I asked and make yourself known to the King?”
“Why do you think I didn’t return with you?”
“You spoke with him?”
“And the Queen. I relayed the importance of your message to them both.” Thomas wondered if mentioning Isabel was a mistake, but it was too late to take the words back.
“And his reply?”
Thomas walked to the wide window. Glass of the finest quality showed a barely distorted view across the harbour. Durdush’s personal clerk stood to one side in an attempt not to be noticed, but his note-taking was loud, to Thomas at least, whose ear was tuned to the sound of pen on paper. Every word they spoke would be recorded, he was sure, but unlikely ever to be read by anyone other than Durdush and the clerk himself.
“The Spanish may be willing to talk,” Thomas said, his back still turned, “but you will have to involve the governor. You may be willing to surrender the city, but is he?”
“I reported to al-Tagri this morning. He continues to believe our forces can defeat the Spanish. He told me he has been tasked with protecting the city, not surrendering it.” Durdush glanced at Thomas. “Soldiers.”
“Soldiers protect us.”
Durdush continued as if Thomas hadn’t spoken, the kind of man who ignored what others said. “Do you think the Spanish will grant the Guild a charter to continue trading? To keep our houses and wealth and lands? I hear they have made such arrangements in the past.”
“You would switch master so easily?” Thomas hoped Durdush didn’t hear the judgement in his voice.
“Will they be so different to the ones we have now? It is said they are good rulers, fair to their people, fair to those they conquer.” Durdush came to stand beside Thomas. He used his hand to indicate what lay beneath them. “All of this — the trade, the riches that flow through Malaka — all of it can be put at their disposal for the right terms. You will tell King Fernando that?”
“I have no plans to see him again.”
“But you will, won’t you, for Malaka?” There was little in Durdush’s tone to indicate refusal was an option. “This city is too great, too important to be razed to the ground. Go to him and make it clear I will do anything I can to broker a peaceful transfer of power.”
“And al-Tagri?”
“Leave the governor to me. He will see sense in the end.”
Thomas turned to leave, then hesitated, as if his real reason for coming was something trivial. “There is another matter, but I am reluctant to raise it.”
“What matter? Will it take much time? I have a meeting soon and I have to arrange to see al-Tagri.”
“There is an Englishman by the name of Richard Woodville. Is he known to you?”
Durdush gave the question little thought before shaking his head. “The name is not familiar.”
“He also goes as Earl Rivers.”
“Is that another name? You have strange names in England, do you not? Is one not enough for you?”
“It is a title,” Thomas said. “An Earl is an important man, one who is close to the King. It is of similar rank to a Duque.”
“There was an Englishman here recently, but he did not tell me he was a Duque.”
“What did he want?”
“He came to discuss trade, and much as I respect you, I will not discuss the secrets of trade with you.” Durdush began to move away. It was clear he believed the discussion concluded.
“Do you recall the matter of the Weapons’ Master, Zufar al-Zaki, that I brought to you? It was the same day I saw you with Woodville.”
Ali Durdush shook his head. “Are you suggesting a connection? Zufar died. People die all the time, pa
rticularly old men. I do not see what connection that might have with this man.” Durdush frowned. “He told me his name, of course, but I do not recall it at the moment, though I am sure it was not Woodville or Earl anything. I will have my clerk find it, he will have made a record of the conversation.”
“I can ask him for you if you are busy,” Thomas said.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you? A chance to read the Guild’s confidential records. If I consider it relevant I will let you know what name he used, but I am sure it is not the same man you speak of.” Durdush started to turn away, stopped. “Who would want to kill Zufar? It makes no sense.”
“He didn’t kill himself.”
“And you seek whoever did it?”
Thomas nodded. “I need to know more about the man. What he was like, who he worked with, who his friends were. People are killed for too many reasons. Once I discover the reason here, I will be closer to who struck the blow. I also worry that his death may not be the last. I would like to speak with the other masters. I know some, but not all. I would speak with each, if only to warn them, as I am warning you. Who is to say the matter will end with one death?”
Durdush stared at Thomas. “Am I in danger?”
Thomas said nothing, waiting.
“My clerks are busy men.” Durdush waved a hand toward the window. “You can see the trade that flows through Malaka. You said there could be a multitude of reasons for someone to kill him; it may not be connected to the Guild at all. In fact I would be surprised if it was.”
“If you allow me to question the clerks, I will of course pass your request for further negotiations on to Fernando before I pursue my investigations any further. It is not even so far to go now, as he currently sits outside the gates of Ballix.”
Durdush stopped on his way to the door. “When might I expect his reply? It is no good waiting until the city is reduced to rubble.”
“Within days,” Thomas said. “I will see him within the week.” He had no intention of doing so, but Durdush had no need to know that.
“And you will not take up too much of my clerks’ time?”
“As little as I can.”
Ali Durdush nodded. “Tell them I authorise it. Now I must go. You can see yourself out.”
The clerk who had stood silent in the room the entire time, the only sound from him the scratch as he recorded their conversation, scribbled something more, tore the slip of paper in half, and handed it to Thomas before he followed his master out.
Thomas looked at what was written and smiled. The clerk was good. Very good. It was an authorisation for Thomas to speak with any clerk in the Ataranzana, but only on matters pertaining to the sad death of Zufar al-Zaki. It was worth nothing. Thomas almost screwed it up and dropped it on the floor but stopped at the last moment. He could try, at least, but would have preferred Jorge with him to decipher the language of the body he could not translate himself.
Below, a dark-sailed ship manoeuvred toward the dock until it was close enough for ropes to be thrown, caught, and drawn taut. Beyond the harbour wall other ships waited, some at anchor, others tacking to and fro while they waited their turn to unload their goods. The Ataranzana was a hive of industry, men working in a finely choreographed dance that brought ever more riches for Malaka, ever more riches for Ali Durdush and the Guild.
Thomas went in search of someone who could help. He had a scribbled note of introduction, nothing more. He could as well have simply told whoever he sought that Durdush had approved his questions, but at least this way if anyone thought to check he had evidence.
On the dock the smell of the sea was strong, its sound constant, the cry of gulls even louder. Creaking timbers on the ships that had managed to dock and the thump of cargo being unloaded completed the cacophony, making a wall of sound that made it difficult to think, though nobody else appeared to notice. Perhaps because their labour did not require much in the way of thought.
Thomas saw a man writing in a ledger and started toward him, but a crash stopped him in his tracks, his nerves still on edge after the shaking of the earth. After a moment he saw it was no more than a wooden platform that had been dropped against the dark-sailed ship. Almost as soon as it touched the hull, even before it could be tied in place, men started down its slope. Dark of skin, dressed in leather jerkins beneath desert robes similar to those Thomas wore, these were soldiers from the shores of Africa. No doubt mercenaries, they were hard-bodied and transmitted a sense of danger. There were no smiles, no chatter as they spilled onto the cobbles before drawing into a loose cohort. A man dressed no differently but obviously of higher rank came to stand in front of them. His eyes tracked the group before he spoke a few words and turned to lead the men away.
Thomas saw the dock workers, like him, had stopped to watch their arrival. “Who are they?” he asked a nearby man.
“Gomeres. Best fighters in the world, but the worst neighbours. Steer clear of them, my friend, if you want to keep your guts inside you.” The man grinned, spat an impressive stream of saliva, and moved off.
Thomas identified the man with the journal once more and moved toward him. He would find out what information he could about the other masters, then go to save Jorge from al-Zaki’s women.
Eighteen
Gracia Bernel Gomez’s voice overrode a bird-like chatter as she tried to tell al-Zaki’s harem that the house was not theirs and they had to leave at once. Jorge caught sight of Thomas and waved him inside, but he shook his head and stepped away. The street was busy with market stalls and traders, the smells of cooking food, spices, leather, cloth, and people thick in the air. The late sun cast a soft light over everything. Men and women moved among the stalls picking out items, some buying but most simply there for the entertainment. The last time Thomas had come to the house there had been none of this, but now he could see why a Guild Master might make his home in such a place. There were even three blacksmiths conducting some sort of business repairing broken catches, selling knives and swords, and taking orders for more. Their braziers added a layer of smoke that hung over the street. At one end Berber musicians played, the beat of their drums infectious, high ululations filling the air from silk-clad women who whirled and jumped high. Thomas was sure they were the same group that al-Antiqamun had attacked outside the Infirmary.
“You should come inside,” said Jorge, joining Thomas on the street. “I haven’t had this much fun in a long time.” His eyes surveyed the scene. “Why can we not move somewhere like this? Do you think we could buy Diego’s old house?”
“Don’t you like it where we are?”
“Of course, I like it well enough, but it’s … quiet.”
“Which is how I like it.”
“Hm.”
“I need to speak with Gracia alone. Is her companion with her?”
“I haven’t seen her, but it’s a big house and she may be avoiding Gracia, for the woman is in a foul mood. I wouldn’t recommend talking to her at the moment.”
“I have to.” Thomas stepped to one side as a clutch of children, none older than eight, came running full tilt along the street with a trader in pursuit. “Can you distract al-Zaki’s harem while I do so?”
Jorge took an apple from a stall and tossed the vendor a small coin, waving away the need for any change. He bit into it, any reply to the question deemed unnecessary.
Gracia was still berating the gaggle of women when Thomas returned to the house. He stood outside the room and watched her display of righteous anger, slowly coming to the conclusion it was false. He gave a shake of his head, unsure if he was reading the situation right, knowing he was not Jorge and not trusting his own senses. When Gracia glanced in his direction, he motioned with his hand and turned toward an empty room.
It was some time before he heard rapid footsteps and moved away from the window he had been looking through at the dancers.
“There you are,” said Gracia, as if it was his fault. “I was beginning to think you had left.”
Thomas shut the door before taking a chair. The room seemed to have no specific purpose, a sign al-Zaki had been a rich man. More than rich enough to pay Gracia her due after the divorce.
“Why did your husband refuse to pay your settlement?”
“Why should I answer your questions? You are a physician, nothing more.” Gracia declined to sit and instead stood in front of the cold fireplace. “Yes, I asked about you when I came here. I was curious why you sought me out. What is our business to you?”
“Was it the women?” Thomas crossed his legs, picked at a loose thread on his robe. “Is that the reason you have returned to Malaka, to this house?”
“I have come to claim what is my due. From them, yes, and if not them then the Guild. I am owed.”
“Owed enough to have your husband killed?”
Gracia took a step closer, her body tensing. She was a tall woman, strong in body and mind. Strong in her anger. But is it justified, Thomas wondered, or no more than a cloak she hides behind? Cloaks could be torn if enough force was applied.
“I —” Thomas watched as Gracia took a deep breath and tried to control herself. She glanced around as if seeing the room for the first time, but it must have been more than familiar to her. This house had once been her marital home. She would know every nook and cranny, every creaking floorboard and sticking door.
Thomas indicated the chair across from him.
Gracia studied it then pulled a different one across, the legs scraping along the floor. She sat like a man would, arms resting on her knees, leaning forward. “How would it benefit me to have him killed?”
Thomas raised a shoulder. “He is dead and you are here. You seek compensation and he is not here to deny you. Those women cannot exist without someone to watch over them. Man or woman. And they are very beautiful.”
