by David Penny
“I am doing nothing. Offering advice. I have spoken with them several times but they continue to tell the same tale they told us in Ballix. I even took Will with me one time. They made such a fuss of him he wants to go back.”
“You took Will to that house? What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking if he saw how other people,” Jorge glanced at Thomas, “how normal people live, it would do him good.”
“That is hardly a normal household. Don’t take him again.”
Jorge smiled. “Now Yusuf is gone I have no excuse to visit, but you can’t hide the truth of the world from Will.”
“I can until he’s older. Is that all you did when you went there?”
“I have Belia, and a man could want of no other. Besides, they have a lover of their own.”
“They do?” Thomas said. “A man?”
“I haven’t seen him yet, but the three of them make enough noise to wake the dead. I think he must be French because he calls out in a language I don’t understand.”
Thomas smiled. He could have said it might be almost any language, for Jorge had only the two. This mysterious man might be speaking the language of China for all Jorge would be able to tell.
“Is Olaf going to live?” asked Jorge.
“I believe so.”
“Good. I’ve grown to like him.”
“And he you, I think.”
“We live in strange times, do we not, when a Sultan’s general and a Sultan’s eunuch can become friends?”
The cart turned and the house revealed itself, substantial, taking up the entire end of the street. Two stories high, with the tops of trees showing above the roof, the city wall rising beyond the small garden behind. It was a fine house, but Thomas missed their previous home. He had liked the sense of freedom, but knew to have stayed would have been madness.
The Gomeres carried Olaf inside as if he weighed nothing. As they emerged, Thomas tried to offer them coin in exchange for their service but it was refused, and he knew better than to try a second time.
“Do any of you speak Arabic?” he asked.
Two of them nodded.
“Would either of you be willing to help train a boy in weapons?”
The other men turned the mule until the cart faced the right way for the return journey. The two glanced at each other. One of them shrugged and shook his head. The other considered the offer.
“What boy?”
“My son,” Thomas said. “Olaf Torvaldsson’s grandson.”
The man grinned. “Is he as strong as the general?”
“He is a boy, but a strong boy.”
“Sword? Bow?”
“And axe.”
“I do not use the axe. It would have to be sword and bow. And riding, of course, as well as hands and feet.” He stared hard at Thomas, almost a challenge. “Have you fought?”
“Yes.”
The man looked him up and down, showing no indication whether he believed him or not. Thomas didn’t care if he did, only that he would train Will. He would take instruction better from a stranger, might one day need the level of skill this Gomeres could instil in him.
“If I offer to pay, will you refuse?”
“No. It is work you propose so of course you must pay me. How much is up to you. Whatever you think fair once you have seen what I can teach your son. Can I see him before I leave?”
Thomas led the way through the house, noting the man’s companions didn’t wait for him. They found Will playing with Diego in the rear courtyard. Not as extensive a playground as the hillside behind the other house had been, but enough for them to play-fight with wooden swords. It was Will who always wanted to fight, but Diego was a poor challenge. The sound of wood on wood clacked and echoed from the city wall at the far end of the courtyard. Thomas had had to stop Will from climbing it, but knew he probably did when he couldn’t be seen. He would have done the same at his age.
Thomas stood beside the Gomeres, watching the man study Will and Diego.
“The short one is your son?”
“He is.”
“Good, I can do something with him, but not the other. His name?”
“Will.”
“Will.” The sound was nothing like Thomas had spoken it. “He fights well. But then his opposition is not much, is he.” He glanced at Thomas. “How hard can I be on him?”
“I would prefer you not to kill him.”
“I will try, then.” A hint of a smile touched the man’s lips. “Yes, I will help you. I would like to start now, to see how much your son already knows. How good he might become. Truly he is grandson to Olaf Torvaldsson?”
“He is.”
“Maybe you need not pay me anything at all, then.”
“Then you can leave now.”
The man turned to stare at Thomas, a sense of threat coming from him despite nothing seeming to have changed. And then he laughed.
“Good, I do not frighten you. That means your son will be strong, too, here where it counts.” He tapped his skull. “Pay me, then. Pay me what you think.” He turned away. “You, Will, come here.”
Will stopped fighting and turned, though Thomas knew he had been aware of their presence since they arrived.
“I need to know your name,” Thomas said.
“Of course. I am Usaden Hamid. I was born in the deep desert and learned to kill when I was little older than your son. I am Gomeres. There is nothing else you need to know.”
Thomas turned away, leaving them to it.
Lubna was waiting for him inside, her face set, arms crossed. Thomas knew this had been coming, glad she had not waited and let her anger simmer. She met his eyes briefly then turned away. He followed, closing the door of their room behind him. Lubna continued to face away, staring out of the window to where Usaden was hitting Will with a stick. She cocked her head.
“What is that man doing to Will?”
“Saving his life. But that isn’t what you want to say to me, so say it.”
“You are going to abandon her? Did you think I didn’t hear what father told you? She is my sister. Would you have Muhammed abuse her, even kill her?”
“I cannot leave Malaka, you know that. I suspect the message was sent by Muhammed to lure me to Gharnatah. He will be ready if I go. Would you have me throw my life away for nothing?”
“Helena is nothing to you now?”
“You know she isn’t. She is Will’s mother and that will always be so, but you are my wife.”
“She lived with you. Shared your bed. Carried Will inside her for nine months. Does none of that mean anything?”
Thomas turned to one side, looking out to where Usaden was showing Will how to hold his wooden sword, how to strike at the weak parts of the body. Diego sat on a low wall, watching. His face showed no expression, but his body shifted in subtle ways, hands moving as he unconsciously copied Will’s moves.
“I have a responsibility to you and the child you carry. To you and Will, to Jorge and Belia, and to your father as well, now. Yusuf, too.”
“You talked to him before he left, didn’t you?”
“Of course. Wouldn’t it be the best solution for him to oust his brother? Imagine what it would be like to have someone young, someone intelligent and with sense ruling on the hill. A Sultan who could save something from this endless war.”
“She is my sister.”
“And you will be jealous if she comes to live under this roof. You know what she is like.”
“She would want to lie with Yusuf when he returns, not you.” Lubna showed a hint of a smile. “She always goes after the best-looking men.”
“Yusuf is somewhere in the hills fighting until Olaf is recovered.”
“Which will be weeks at least, more likely months.” Lubna stared at him. “See, you shouldn’t have brought me to the Infirmary if you didn’t want me to know such things. I can treat father as well as you, you know I can. Go save my sister, Thomas.” She laid a hand against his chest, and he
could feel his heart beating beneath her touch.
“When Malaka falls we will have to leave. It can wait until then.”
“Do you plan to take us back to Gharnatah?”
Thomas didn’t reply, because he had no answer, not yet.
“Or are you going to accept the offers your other woman makes?”
She had no need to state who she meant. Thomas had made no secret of Isabel’s overtures to him, no secret that they grew increasingly attractive as the years passed. This war could end in only one way, and it would be better to be on the side of the winner rather than the loser. But still he couldn’t turn his back on al-Andalus.
Lubna withdrew her hand then used it to slap his face, hard. “You are hopeless, Thomas Berrington.” She turned and walked from the room, her body tense with anger.
Thomas waited until his own anger abated then walked through the house to find Jorge watching Will receive his first lesson from Usaden. Sweat stood out on Will’s chest and back. Usaden looked as if he had barely moved.
“Lubna thinks I should rescue Helena,” Thomas said. “Her anger has been simmering for a week now and she’s convinced herself it’s the right thing to do.”
Jorge glanced at him. “Does she know you would have to bring her back here, to Malaka? She wouldn’t be safe in Gharnatah, not even on the Albayzin.”
“She must.”
“Riding to Helena’s rescue is exactly what Muhammed is hoping for.”
“I know, but it’s hard to turn my back on her.”
“She is not your wife. Lubna is.”
“Helena is Will’s mother.”
“In body only. She doesn’t love him like Lubna does. She doesn’t love you. Helena loves nobody but herself.”
“And if Muhammed kills her?”
“He won’t. Dead she can’t draw you to him. Alive, mistreated, he hopes you will come to save her.”
“When Olaf returns he will have to release her,” Thomas said. “Won’t he?”
Jorge raised a shoulder. “I’m not sure Muhammed respects Olaf as much as he should. He’ll have his own people around him now. You know who they are. Faris al-Rashid and his companions, whispering false words in his ear. Tell me, why is that man damaging Will?”
Thomas wanted to discuss Helena’s situation some more in the hope he could be persuaded, but he let it go for the moment because he knew there was little point. He had already made his decision, and Lubna would have to accept it.
“He’s training him to survive,” he said.
“Looks like a strange kind of training to me. I went to talk to Narjis again yesterday. She told me the masters are afraid. After what happened to Izem Amreqan they expect someone else to be killed. Their deputies and clerks, too. They’re all afraid. All except Ali Durdush, who tells them to get on with their trade.”
“Amreqan might be the last. Almost two weeks have gone by and nothing has happened. Though that might be because the Spanish surround the city, and it’s harder to come and go at will. We should go to the Alkhazabah now Olaf is recovering and see how secure this hoard of gold is. To warn whoever is tasked with protecting it.”
Will came toward them, his face red with anger, and stamped past them both. Usaden followed, Diego trailing along beside him, Will’s discarded wooden sword in his hand.
“You were hard on him,” Thomas said.
“Not as hard as I will be.”
“Then you will train him?”
Usaden nodded. “One day he will be a great fighter, but he is young still. He must learn to control his anger. It lets him down and clouds his judgement. Are you sure you want me to push him as hard as I must?”
“I can’t do it myself. I love him too much.”
“Then love him enough to let me make him invulnerable.”
“No man is invulnerable, and certainly no boy.”
Usaden laughed. “I will come every day if I can.”
“I heard that some of your men take rooms in the city. We have a room here for you, if you will have it.”
Usaden nodded. “I will ask my captain. I am sure he will allow it when I tell him it is for Olaf Torvaldsson’s grandson.”
Twenty-Eight
“I like the houses here,” said Jorge as Thomas walked beside him through the district leading to the crenelated walls of the Alkhazabah — the first of two forts sitting on a hill that rose to overlook Malaka and the surrounding countryside.
“We already have a new house,” Thomas said.
“Which I like well enough, but these are fine too, are they not?”
They were indeed, but Thomas was in no mood to indulge Jorge in a discussion over where they should live. But he agreed the houses were indeed some of the best in the entire city, surpassing even those beside the Ataranzana. The Malaka Guild possessed great wealth, but the Alkhazabah, and Rabita fort which loomed over it, was where true power lay. It made sense that the Guilds would store their riches here. It also made sense that Hamad al-Tagri, the governor of the city, would want it kept close. If he even knew it had been moved, that is. There was a distinct separation between the Rabita and the rest of Malaka, as though they rarely communicated with each other.
Thomas’s scribbled ten-day old note with its stamped seal gained them access through the outer entrance. This led to a paved area with high walls beyond, but the second door proved more problematic. The guards stationed there refused to admit them without higher authority, so they stood looking back the way they had come, trying to find a patch of shade.
“We should find somewhere to sit and drink,” said Jorge.
“And miss our chance when someone comes?”
“I will not stand out here long. The sun is bad for my skin.”
Thomas said nothing, trying to ignore Jorge’s running commentary on how bad too much sun was, and how Belia’s ointments kept his skin as smooth as it deserved to be. He was relieved when one of the guards called them over.
A grey-haired man of indeterminate but advanced years stood in the shade, as if he too had heard Jorge’s theories on sunlight. Thomas noted that the man’s eyes showed the first sign of cataracts, a condition easily corrected, but for which treatment was rarely sought.
“I am told you wish to access the inner chambers,” the man said.
Thomas showed him the slip of paper. The man read it slowly before handing it back.
“This says to show you where the Malaka Guild’s vault is.”
“It does.” Thomas received no response so had to prompt him. “Will you take us there?”
The man held his hand out again, and Thomas passed the paper across once more.
“I know Cesare Padvana, he was Izem’s deputy. He is Master of Coin now?”
“He is.”
“I heard what happened to Izem. Murderers outside the city walls and murderers within. I am glad to be old and will not need to worry myself much longer.”
The man continued to stare at the paper, which shook slightly in his hand. News of Amreqan’s murder had spread rapidly through the city and all would know of it by now. According to Narjis the other masters, their deputies and clerks, had taken to staying inside and increasing the number of their guards.
“Amreqan was murdered,” Thomas said, “by someone who may have come here seeking access to the same place I do.”
The man handed back the paper and turned away. “As you can see, entry to this place is not a matter of simply walking in. There are rules. Protections. Follow me. I am Kohen al-Farsi, Master of the Alkhazabah.” He glanced at Thomas. “As far as I know, nobody has come seeking entrance other than the two of you. I know you, Thomas Berrington, but who is your friend?”
If al-Farsi knows me, why the show at the gate, Thomas wondered, unless it is for the guards?
“My companion is Jorge Olmos.”
“A Spaniard?” Al-Farsi slowed before coming to a halt, a slow-motion procedure that took several paces. Light from a narrow lookout splashed against him, and he took a
step away from it.
Thomas glanced through the slit, drawn as he always was now to the dark stain of the Spanish army visible from this extra height.
“Not for a long time,” he said. “He is a friend and can be trusted.”
“The note names only you,” said al-Farsi.
“I am happy to wait outside,” said Jorge. “Or return to the house.”
“We work together,” Thomas said to al-Farsi. “And at the moment, I am working on behalf of the Malaka Guild. Please don’t make this difficult for any of us. We are on the same side, and I expect even now the Spanish are selecting weak points in the city walls, deciding on where best to launch their next attack.”
“Which is why I asked.” But al-Farsi turned away and began to walk once more, the same gradual building of velocity until he attained a slow, swaying walk which he maintained as they climbed stone steps between high walls that turned and turned again, designed to slow the advance of an attacking force. They entered a wide courtyard planted with bushes and trees, the sound of water mixed with the cries of swallows. Al-Farsi slowed and sat on a bench, the burst of movement draining his meagre supply of energy. Thomas wondered if he was the right man for his position but admitted experience counted for more here than strength.
They had climbed above the level of the walls on the southern side, only the blue of the Mediterranae beyond. Spanish caravels and galleys waited at anchor, replacing the trade ships that had navigated these waters until recently. Trade would not begin again until the battle was done, perhaps not even then.
Al-Farsi too watched the intruders on the water before turning to Thomas. “The passages I brought you through are the only means of entrance to this courtyard. You will have noticed the stout oak doors, which can be closed in a moment and barred from within. They are not a permanent barrier but would take time some to break through, and then there is another, and another.”
“That is interesting,” Thomas said, “but is it of relevance to what I wish to see?”
“You need to know that the wealth of the Guild is protected. It is safe.”
