The Fortunate Dead (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 6)

by David Penny

  As he turned away, Narjis caught his wrist. “Take care, Thomas.”

  He offered a smile. “Oh, don’t worry about me.”

  Twenty-Three

  The storehouse appeared empty as Thomas stopped at the base of the first flight of steps. Somewhere water dripped. A scurrying hinted at rats coming in from the river in search of easy food, but what he had hoped to hear was absent. Which might indicate Izem Amreqan had concluded his business, or Thomas had made the wrong choice and he was not here at all.

  He pulled off his boots, set them at the foot of the stone steps, and began to climb. The air was clouded with dust from grain stored in large hessian sacks. It glowed in the beams of late afternoon light falling through openings in the western wall. Other scents touched the air, redolent with the scent of olives, coffee, and a myriad of spices. Somewhere here would lie a chamber maintained by Narjis al-Ishraq for the storage of her goods, and as Thomas passed the second floor he thought he caught a trace of their presence. Then he heard a sound from above. Faint, but definite. The sound a man makes when he is in pain but too weak to call out with any force.

  Thomas climbed faster, his breath coming in gasps which he tried to stifle so as not to give himself away, but as he came closer he knew whoever was above would not hear him. The cries of pain increased in volume. Whoever was the cause of them had to be sure the warehouse was empty or was too confident to care. Thomas moved faster.

  He reached to his belt and withdrew a knife. Two more floors, the cries above growing ever louder, not because the man who made them was growing stronger but because Thomas was closing the distance.

  With one more floor to go Thomas stopped, leaning against a stone bannister as he caught his breath. Looking down he saw steps spiralling away in a dizzying twist. A cold exultation filled him at the thought he was about to capture the killer before more victims died, and he wondered who Amreqan was having killed now. He took a deep breath and readied to finish the climb just as a crash came from below. He leaned out into space to see four dock workers dragging a heavily laden cart through the wide doors. They began to unload barrels, each thumping hard to the ground. The men’s voices rose loud in the echoing space. So loud Thomas didn’t hear the running of footsteps until the descending man was almost on him.

  Thomas spun around, slashing wildly with his knife, but failed to connect. There was a dark blur as the man came directly at him, sword raised to strike. Thomas cried out and raised an arm, knowing it was a foolish gesture even as he did so. What saved him was a shout from below as one of the workers heard Thomas’s cry and came to the foot of the stairs. The attacker was distracted for a moment, and Thomas threw himself at his feet, hoping to trip him and send him tumbling down through the gap. He almost succeeded, grasping the man’s ankle as he leaped over him. He tried to maintain his grip but the man was moving too fast. He stumbled, recovered, and ran on, descending at a breakneck pace. Thomas lifted himself to hands and knees, but all he saw was the top of a head and the back of a leather jerkin. It might be the man he had seen watching Diego’s house, the same man who had accosted Woodville. Then again, nothing about him or his clothes marked him as different to a hundred other mercenaries in the city.

  The workers around the cart made no effort to stop the man as he ran past and out through the open doors. Thomas cursed and got to his feet. He turned and began to finish the climb, hoping Amreqan would be present and his victim still alive. In that he was both correct and mistaken. The Master of Coin was indeed present, but tied to a stout chair, and showed no sign he noted Thomas’s presence even when he reached out to examine a deep wound in his chest.

  Thomas leaned close, drawing the edges of the wound apart. As he did so blood flowed more freely, and he pressed the wound shut again. As he did, the pain roused Amreqan.

  “No more, please God, no more.” His voice was little more than a flutter of breath. “I told you true, no-one else is involved. Have a pity.”

  “Involved in what?” Thomas said. Amreqan gave a start and opened his eyes. Only one of them still offered him any view of the world, and it darted in its socket as he took in Thomas’s face, the room, the fact that only the two of them remained.

  “I know you,” he said. “You are part of it too, then.”

  “Not a part, no, but I seek the man who is. Tell me, who is he?”

  Amreqan shook his head, his one good eye closing. A blood-stained tear rolled down his cheek. “I am not a brave man. I held out as long as I could. Too long.” A corner of his mouth twitched as if he wanted to smile. “But they don’t know everything.” The eye opened again. “Has he truly gone?”

  “He has.”

  “I remember now, you are a physician. Can you save me?”

  Thomas knew the man was dying, surprised he could talk at all, but he nodded. “I will do what I can.”

  “Then I am in safe hands.”

  “Why did he do this? Were you not working together?”

  A shake of the head, barely discernible, and Thomas opened the leather bag he was rarely without and removed gut and needle.

  “The wound in your chest needs closing. Tell me what you can as I work. There will be more pain, I’m afraid.”

  He sensed a reluctance in Amreqan that was nothing to do with his wounds. Instead he saw the man was ashamed of his actions.

  Thomas pretended to work on the wound, knowing he couldn’t save Amreqan and unwilling to inflict more pain without need. It appeared that Amreqan knew he was dying too, and needed someone to know what he had done.

  “Tell me why he did this to you.” Thomas said.

  “The others.” The single eye searched for Thomas again. “He wanted to know who else is involved. I told him no-one, but he didn’t believe me.”

  “Involved in what?”

  “Of course, how would you know? I have lived with the knowledge so long it feels as if the whole world must know it too. But it is only me. All the others are gone. Killed. Like I am killed.”

  “Which others? Al-Zaki? Jiminez? Who else? And what are you plotting?” Thomas pressed on the wound, hating himself for causing more pain to a dying man. “Tell me while you can.”

  Amreqan’s breathing became more of a struggle, but it seemed his need to confess to what he had done overrode the pain, for now at least. “Gold and silver. Riches. Wealth beyond dreams. Malaka is the richest city in all of Spain. Nobody is going to miss a single crate, but I needed help from outside. Not Spain, they would steal the gold for themselves, all of it. I was a fool to trust the man.” A smile almost appeared. “But he is the fool.”

  “What did you tell him?” Thomas was afraid Amreqan would die without revealing what he knew, and all of this would be for nothing. He would be no further forward, no closer to catching the killer.

  “The Alkhazabah,” said Amreqan. “The Englishman knows what lies in the Alkhazabah, how I planned to free a single crate. One of three score. Small return for my duty to this city.”

  “What Englishman? And what is in the Alkhazabah?”

  “I cannot …”

  “Give me a name. If you want to be avenged tell me who did this to you.”

  “Avenged?”

  “For the injury done to you.”

  Stay alive, Thomas thought, stay alive long enough to give me a chance. But it was a wish made in vain. Amreqan took a breath, as if steeling himself to reveal what he knew, but when he released it blood spilled from his mouth and ran across his chest, which did not rise again.

  Thomas cursed and turned away, walked to the window. On the dockside, work continued as usual. Trade would never be halted in this place.

  An Englishman, Amreqan had said. That could only be one man: Woodville. The man who had been here was one of Woodville’s soldiers, perhaps the one Thomas had seen earlier. And what secret lay within the Alkhazabah? Someone must know. Amreqan would not be the only one trusted with such knowledge. There would be records, if Thomas could only access them.

  He s
tarted down the steps, had descended halfway when he saw the corpulent figure of Ali Durdush waddle through the tall opening from the dock. Thomas went down faster, determined the man would answer him fully this time. If Amreqan, Master of Coin, was involved, it must cast suspicion on Durdush too.

  Twenty-Four

  Ali Durdush refused to climb higher than the first floor. Thomas was grateful, because it took the man an inordinate length of time to get that far, which allowed him time to think. He left him to continue his wheezing ascent while he took four men to where Izem Amreqan lay and instructed them on disposal of the body.

  “Dress him,” he said. “Cover his wounds as best you can.”

  “What about his face?” One of the dock workers stared without curiosity at the damaged eye.

  “If anyone asks, tell them he tripped and hit his head on a crate.”

  The man, satisfied he had a story, uninterested in what had actually happened, nodded and set to work with his companions to lift the body into a wooden crate. It would be lowered unceremoniously on one of the hoists that lifted bulky items in and out of the storehouse. Thomas trusted them to take enough care and descended to where Durdush waited.

  “Is it the same as Zufar al-Zaki?” His earlier antagonism had faded with the news of another death. No doubt he was thinking he was as vulnerable as those already taken, and more knowledgeable. It was almost certainly the reason two strong, armed men were nearby.

  Thomas glanced to where Durdush’s guards stood waiting for instructions. “Can we talk in front of them?”

  Durdush followed his gaze, lowered his voice. “They will repeat nothing they hear, but perhaps it is best if we move away a little.” He waved a hand to tell the men to stay where they were as he turned. He led Thomas to the end of the open space. Sacks of olives stood to one side, leaking a residue of oil across the floor, the smell of it thick in the air. A wide, high opening revealed a view to the west. The stone bridge fortified at both ends was packed with citizens of Malaka streaming out, escaping before the Spanish arrived.

  “Tell me, what do I need to do?” Durdush asked when they had put a hundred paces between themselves and the guards. “Is anyone safe from this killer?”

  Thomas knew he meant members of the Guild, though it was obvious no-one in Malaka would be safe for long once the Spanish arrived.

  “Amreqan was still alive when I reached him.” Thomas stared at Durdush, looking for any reaction.

  Durdush’s mouth pursed in distress. “I have no wish to know the details.”

  “He spoke of the Alkhazabah, but didn’t have time to tell me why that place in particular. Do you know what he meant?”

  “What did he reveal to his attacker?”

  “I don’t know. He held some knowledge so close he took it with him to the next life. All he managed to tell me was it has something to do with the Alkhazabah. What would be there that he had to protect the secret to his death?” Thomas held the knowledge of an Englishman to himself for the moment, unsure whether to trust Durdush or not, wondering what Woodville was negotiating with the man.

  Durdush stared through the opening at the fleeing crowds, his face expressionless, as if all emotion had drained from him. He glanced at Thomas. “There is only one secret held fast in the Alkhazabah, and it is good that Izem took it with him.”

  “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  “I do not know if I can trust you. Not with this. It is too big. Too important.”

  “Money.” Thomas watched Durdush’s eyes widen before he managed to regain control of his reactions. “Amreqan talked of gold, and I can think of nothing else that would be sought so ruthlessly. How much is held there? The Weapons’ Guild gold? More than that? Amreqan would know, wouldn’t he? He would know where everyone keeps their wealth.”

  “Yes, he would. And he would know this secret too.”

  “This, this, this!” Thomas slapped the wall. “Don’t trust me with it, then. I no longer care. Let this man kill you all, torture you all. The Spanish are coming and we’ll have more to worry about soon.”

  “That is the secret.” Durdush’s eyes met Thomas’s. “That is the secret he died for, the others too.” He washed a hand across his face, and with the motion came a decision. “If I tell you what Izem knew you cannot pass the information on to anyone else.”

  “My companion must know. I keep no secrets from Jorge.”

  “Only him, then, and he must be sworn to secrecy.”

  “If I ever find out what the secret is.”

  Durdush sighed, releasing the last ties on his reluctance. “The wealth of Malaka, the wealth of the Guilds, has been taken into the Alkhazabah. All of it.” Durdush turned away, his voice low even though no-one was near. “A plan has been set in place to take it out of the city before it falls. If it falls. Arrangements have been made. Everyone has been sworn to secrecy.”

  “Arrangements to take it away? How many people know of the plan?”

  “Only those who must, but that is still two score. Ships need to be brought close to shore. Men recruited to carry the boxes, though they have no need to know what they contain. There are many boxes. And the masters of each Guild know, of course, for the wealth belongs to each of them.”

  “And their clerks?” Thomas said. “Zufar al-Zaki wasn’t the first to be killed. His clerk died first. Clerks know everything. How many are there in the Guild’s employ?”

  Durdush paled. “Hundreds. But all the masters are sworn to secrecy.”

  “Nothing is secret from a clerk.”

  “Only a handful of people know the details of how it will be done. The masters had to agree, of course, but the organisation was left to myself, to Izem, and a few others.”

  “Is one of that handful Woodville?” Thomas asked.

  Durdush frowned. “Woodville? I don’t understand what you mean. Why would that fool have anything to do with it?”

  “Amreqan said he was conspiring with an Englishman. I can think of none other than Woodville.”

  “And yourself, of course.”

  Thomas scowled. “Of course — so it must be me. I have seen you several times with Woodville. What are you discussing?” Thomas came close to accusing Durdush, only holding back at the last moment, realising how ridiculous such an accusation would be. And how dangerous. This was Durdush’s city more than it was the governor’s.

  Durdush continued to stare out at the exodus of Malaka’s citizens, not looking at Thomas. “Richard Woodville and I are in negotiation regarding another matter entirely. One that is not related to Amreqan’s death; one that is none of your concern.”

  “I want to see where this gold is stored.” Thomas expected Durdush to refuse, or at the least to put him off. Instead he nodded.

  “Come to my office, I will have a clerk prepare a note for you to take to the Coin Guild.”

  The Master of Coin’s offices were easy enough to find. Thomas followed the same corridor he had walked only an hour earlier, but when he passed those used by Narjis al-Ishraq they stood empty, an air of abandonment to them, a few stray papers lay scattered across the floor. He had hoped she would still be here and might tell him something about Amreqan’s offices before he went there. Word of the gathering Spanish had spread and people were saving themselves. Is that what explained Narjis’s absence, her empty office? Would she not have been privy to the same secret as the other Guild Masters? Why had she said nothing of it? As was her right, Thomas thought. Had she realised it was what the man sought when he came to her offices? If so she had hidden the knowledge well, and Thomas couldn’t help but feel a sense of disappointment she hadn’t trusted him more.

  He wondered where the wealth of Malaka was to be taken. Would it be redistributed among whichever masters were left, or spirited away never to be seen again?

  As Thomas approached the end of the corridor he saw movement in the large room at the end and slowed. A well-dressed man stood with his back to the door as he stared through the window. Thoma
s hesitated, then rapped on the side of the door.

  The man turned. “Have you seen what is happening?”

  Thomas entered the room. “Everyone is fleeing the city, yes.”

  “That, of course. But I mean this, the reason for it.” The man lifted a hand, pointing toward something beyond the glass. Thomas approached and stood beside the man, who turned back to the window. The Ataranzana was the tallest building in Malaka, its upper offices presenting a view over the city wall, across to the rising bulk of the Rabita fort where al-Tagri plotted his secretive defence of the city, and further beyond to the steep slopes east of Malaka. Slopes that were now thick with soldiers. Spanish soldiers. Thomas scanned the ground and saw others coming along the narrow coastal strip.

  “So,” he said, “they arrive.”

  “Yes. They arrive.” The man glanced at Thomas. “Do I know you? Your face is familiar.”

  “Thomas Berrington. Physician. You have the advantage of me.”

  “Oh, I suspect not.” A smile. “My name is Cesare Padvana.”

  “You are not of al-Andalus then, nor Spain.”

  “I was born in Venizia, but that was many years ago. I am of Malaka now. As are you. Both of us strangers who have made this land our home. I have heard of you by reputation. If you are here to see Izem I’m afraid he’s gone out on some business. I didn’t know he was in need of a physician.”

  “He isn’t. Not now, in any case. Your master is dead.”

  Thomas’s words snapped the man from his lethargy.

  “How? An accident? He wasn’t young, but he was always in good health. Or was it his heart? He had complained about —”

  “He was murdered. Like Zufar al-Zaki.”

  “Why would someone kill Izem? He and I are little more than clerks scribing numbers into journals.” He waved a hand at the shelves stacked against one wall. “Many numbers. Many journals.”