by David Penny
“I never doubted it.”
Al-Farsi leaned forward, placed his hands on his knees, then tipped from the bench and tottered several paces while he straightened. Thomas felt his arm twitch, wanting to offer support, but stilled it with an effort of will knowing it wouldn’t be welcome. Jorge showed no such restraint and took al-Farsi’s arm and whispered something to him. The old man smiled and leaned against Jorge’s strength.
“It is no distance now, but I thank you for your kindness.” He took Jorge’s arm, half leading the way toward a square tower with a single window that looked over the city. There was a door, then another. Not the series they had passed on the ascent, but if someone managed to get this far another dozen doors would prove little barrier.
Al-Farsi had keys and used them to open a stout oak door into a square tower.
“How many others have copies?” Thomas asked.
“There are three in total. One set is always in my possession. The other is with the captain of the guard. The third is sealed in the inner chambers of the fort.”
“Durdush doesn’t possess one? Nor the Master of Coin?”
“This place is my responsibility.” Al-Farsi opened the door to reveal a chamber. The window that had been visible from outside was set high on one wall, sunlight splashing across the walls to provide illumination. Oil lamps were set in alcoves, not needed for now. Three sides were stacked to above a man’s height with newly built crates, the scent of resin sharp in the air. The fourth wall also contained crates apart from where a set of steps led down. Thomas walked across and examined them.
“How many levels deep?”
“Seven beyond this one.”
“All the same?”
Al-Farsi inclined his head, still leaning against Jorge, who stood like a sentinel beside him. “The lower levels were filled first, of course.” He glanced around. “And this one will be filled soon.”
“What happens then?”
“We ship the crates to a place of safety.”
“Where?”
“That is none of your business, Thomas Berrington.”
“How many times has this place been emptied?” He suspected that wasn’t his business either.
“The last time was forty years ago. To my knowledge it has been filled and emptied five times in the past. This will be the sixth.”
“But never before in a time of war?”
Al-Farsi seemed to consider a reply unnecessary.
Thomas looked around, trying to place a value on the wealth of the Malaka Guild, and failing. The numbers were simply too enormous to contemplate. He thought of the seemingly infinite cache of gold, silver, and jewels he and Jorge had liberated after the death of a merchant in Gharnatah, and it paled into insignificance.
“You say if the Spanish come there is an escape route?”
“On the lowest level. A tunnel that leads to the sea. The crates will be taken out that way to a waiting boat.”
“What about the Spanish? They are unlikely to let any other vessel approach shore.”
“It will be done when they are otherwise engaged. There is a plan in place and I am assured it will work.”
“How many know of this plan?”
“All Guild Masters know of what we do, but not the entire plan, not the detail of it. Now I have told you and your companion, there are six, but even you do not know everything.” Al-Farsi cocked his head and almost smiled. “You see, I honour your permission by revealing what we do.”
“We are honoured indeed.” There was sincerity in Jorge’s voice, and Thomas saw it pleased al-Farsi, who had clearly taken a liking to him.
“As you should be. But I know of Thomas’s reputation, otherwise I would not be so open with you. I heard you are a man who can be trusted.”
Thomas was tempted to ask where this news had come from but knew it was irrelevant. Instead he stuck to the matter at hand and walked to one of the crates. Each was expertly cut and assembled, each the exact same dimensions. Not so small they would be unsuited for storing what lay within, not so large they could not be moved when necessary. He pushed at one but it offered no give at all — it was like trying to push a mountain. It would require several men and perhaps equipment to shift them.
“How long will it take to empty this tower? Not a matter of moments, I imagine. And how can anyone move these crates?”
“There are machines we use, pulleys, levers. Each was brought here, each can be moved. It will take a full day. That is how long the last emptying took, forty years ago, but we may be able to improve that if there are soldiers at the gates. Only so many men can work in here at once, as you can see. There is little room to spare, and the lower levels have even less.”
“I take it the lower exit is locked?”
“And barred from this side. It would be impossible to gain entry that way.”
“I would like to see for myself.”
Al-Farsi seemed to consider the request before coming to a decision. “As long as you are happy to descend alone. All those steps are too much for an old man.” He held out his keys and Thomas took them before glancing at Jorge, who nodded to indicate he would stay with al-Farsi.
The air cooled as Thomas descended, light fading until in the lowest chamber he could barely see. Someone had prepared for the eventuality, a lamp set in a stone alcove together with a flint and oiled cloth. He struck a spark, lit the cloth and transferred the flame to the lamp. When he raised it, he saw more crates stacked to the roofline. These were clearly older, their wood darkened by age, but still sound. A narrow walkway led between them to a barred door. It was narrow and low, with barely enough room for two men to drag each of the crates through.
Thomas unbarred the door and tested it, discovered he would also need a key, and tried each until one turned in the lock. He heard solid bolts withdraw, but once unlocked the door opened easily enough on well-oiled hinges. The passage was barely higher than the doorway, and Thomas had to bend to enter it. A scent of rot and salt-water greeted him as he made his way across a smooth floor where wooden runners waited a cart of some kind. The walls of the tunnel were well-mortared, but water gathered on the cold stone and ran in rivulets to the ground. Part of the way in he stopped at a door set into one side of the tunnel. He glanced along to where another door sat at the end, obviously where the crates would be taken out to the shore. What was this second door for, he wondered? Curious, he tried the keys until one turned. He raised the lamp as he pushed through.
A second tunnel, wider than the one he had been in, ran away into darkness. Thomas walked forward. Less than a minute took him to a chamber where wheeled carts waited, ready to be used for transporting the boxes. More wooden rails ran across the floor. Water dripped from the roof, but each cart was covered with an oiled tarpaulin. The planning was impressive. He only hoped the reality would prove equally so. It would have been good to know how the Guild managed to keep the Spanish from simply sailing in and taking these riches once they were on the shore, but Kohen al-Farsi had been confident the plan would succeed.
At the far end of the chamber a second door, barred but without a lock, offered access to a continuation of the tunnel, which was wider here. Thomas assumed this was how the carts had been brought in, as it would be impossible to carry them down all the steps in the tower. He turned away and returned to the main passageway, making sure to lock and bar all the doors behind him. He smiled at the thought of leaving an unlocked door for someone to sneak in through and steal all of the wealth.
Once he had unlocked and removed the bars from the final door he hesitated, put his ear against the heavy wood, and listened. He heard the rhythmic wash of waves, a faint moan as wind caught at a gap around the edge of the door, but nothing else. He knew there might be a score of men on the other side and he would never know. He considered whether it was more sensible to simply return to Jorge and al-Farsi, then berated himself for cowardice. If he saw anyone he could always duck back in quick enough and throw the bolts again. T
homas pushed softly on the door, opening it little more than a crack. Bright sunlight fell in, almost blinding him, and he waited for his eyes to adjust.
Dark sand and rock lay immediately beyond, and as he pushed it wider he was able to see in both directions. There was nobody close, but two hundred paces to the west a small group of men stood on the shoreline. They were too distant to make out who they were, or what they were doing, but it was unlikely they were Spanish. They were almost certainly men of the city come to try to catch fish, for food was growing scarcer by the day. He had even heard of people stripping leaves off the trees and boiling them into a thin soup, a dangerous practice at best.
Thomas walked out across the rough pebbles, relieved to be able to stand upright. He crossed the thirty paces to the waterline. Marks showed where rowboats had been pulled up, and he wondered if they had been practicing the removal of the crates, or were they from Spanish boats come to probe for weakness? The thought reminded him of Mandana’s son, Pedro Guerrero, and he wondered if that was what he had been doing on the sea when his wife was attacked.
He turned around and looked back at the towering wall, over a hundred feet high and studded with slits for bowmen. The wall appeared to lean out toward him but he knew it as an illusion. He thought of what the Spanish had done at Ronda when they used powder to blow the door to the tunnels leading from the river to the town. Would they try the same here? The door was strong, but not strong enough to withstand that kind of force. Thomas would tell al-Farsi to set men on the top of the wall to look out for anyone bringing kegs ashore. A few tossed rocks, some arrows and hot pitch would be enough to discourage them. But he didn’t expect an attack to come from this direction.
He saw it might be possible to spirit the crates away. To the east a cliff prevented anyone approaching from that direction. West the city wall extended almost to the shore. Thomas knew if it had been his plan he would have ships ready to attack the Spanish fleet, small as it was, to prevent their approach. There were enough trading boats in the harbour and riverside to do that. He judged the distance, trying to work out how long it would take to empty the tower. A whole day, al-Farsi had said. That would be too long. Then he realised it would only be a problem if the Spanish knew of what was going to happen, and almost certainly they did not. The Spanish ships wouldn’t be expecting any danger from this direction. Their efforts, when the final attack came, would be concentrated where the Wadi al-Medina emptied into the sea. It appeared feasible, but as he stood on the shoreline Thomas was wondering why people had died, and whether it was connected to what was going to happen here. Izem Amreqan had been Master of Coin and would know all about what was planned — no doubt would have known even where the eventual destination was. Would he have shared that information with Zufar al-Zaki? If he had, for what purpose? Was that the reason both men were now dead? To hide the involvement of others? Woodville hardly seemed capable of such a plan, but he wouldn’t have had to kill anyone himself. He had brought men with him from England, soldiers used to war, who were no doubt more than willing to follow orders for the amount of gold they would receive in return.
Thomas turned and walked along the base of the wall as he thought over the possibilities. He was looking for another entrance where the carts would have been taken through but found nothing before he reached the towering rock cliff on which both the Alkhazabah and Rabita rested. Which meant the tunnel must rise into the Alkhazabah itself. As he considered the possibility, the more it made sense. Why risk two entries on the side of the sea, and bringing carts and men down through the protected fort itself would be much simpler. Thomas looked around, smelling salt water and dried weed, feeling the spray from waves on his face as the wind drove them to shore.
As he started back he believed Amreqan and the others had died to protect the secret of Woodville’s involvement. Diego’s father and mother were killed to ensure his father’s suspicions did not gain a wider audience.
Thomas made his way back through the tunnel, taking care that each door was locked and barred, knowing al-Farsi would send someone down to check. If it was a conspiracy, how many others were privy to it? Would it go all the way to the top? Could Ali Durdush be involved? Was that the reason he had been meeting with Richard Woodville? The more Thomas thought it through the more it seemed possible. Someone within Malaka had made a deal with the Spanish in return for a portion of the riches.
It made more sense that Richard Woodville, a man in obvious need of a fortune to match his position, had come to Spain in search of the largest fortune in the known world. His story of seeking a bride for an English prince was little more than a useful excuse for his presence. Had he come to Spain with a plan, or only developed one when he found out about the gold? The only part that made no sense was Durdush himself. Was he involved or no more than a useful contact? And how could Woodville work his way into the trust of important men in Malaka well enough to be accepted as part of the conspiracy? Unless he had seeded the idea. Everyone knew that before long Malaka was doomed. Did some Guild Masters conspire together to enrich themselves once that came about? Still Thomas couldn’t work out Woodville’s involvement, and then a possibility came to him. The man was brother to the King’s wife. King Henry, who Thomas knew nothing of other than the rumour he was a calculating, clever man. Was he looking to enrich England? King’s always needed money, and a lot of it. Yet still Thomas couldn’t see how Durdush would benefit from such a scheme when all he needed to do was steal the wealth for himself. He knew he would have to confront Durdush again, Woodville too if he could arrange another meeting somehow.
Thomas was almost at the top of the tower when he heard the first bark of cannon, and a moment later a distant crash as a ball landed within the city walls, followed closely by another, and he knew any opportunity to confront Woodville was now lost. The final assault had begun.
Twenty-Nine
Thomas sent Jorge home with a message that he would follow within the hour, then walked through a panicked city to the Ataranzana. He wanted to confront Ali Durdush, to press him over what he knew, if anything, about a plot to steal the city’s wealth.
With the fading of the afternoon the Spanish bombardment had slowed, only the occasional bark of a cannon breaking the calm that had descended on a population pushed beyond fear. A constant hum of ten thousand voices rose from beyond the wall, the rustle of men cleaning weapons, talking, cooking, fighting. The sound drifted into the city to form a background whisper, reminding everyone of what lay beyond, or what was still to come.
The Ataranzana cast long shadows from the final rays of the setting sun as Thomas approached. He glanced up, pleased to see several windows on the upper floor lit from within, but when he entered Ali Durdush’s offices it was to be informed he was not there. He had been gone all day. Thomas pressed the clerk, but either he didn’t know where his master was, or unwilling to reveal the information. So instead he walked the length of the upper corridor to the office of Cesare Padvana, the new Master of Coin. Thomas was sure if his new theory was correct then Padvana must have information.
The man was still working. He glanced up, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before composing himself.
“Did you want something? I was about to leave.” Padvana washed a hand across his face, pulled at his beard. “If it is more questions, my clerk is better able to provide answers.” He indicated the papers scattered across his desk. “As you can see, I am still learning my new role.”
Again the claim to know little, a claim Thomas now doubted.
“I have come from the Alkhazabah.”
“Good for you.” Padvana turned his attention to a ledger which lay open in front of him. Columns of tiny figures covered the pages, recording the minutiae of every transaction that took place in the city.
A sense of frustration built in Thomas as he watched the man. Like most of the Guild Masters he was arrogant and dismissive of those they considered their inferiors. Thomas stepped to the desk and swept it clear
.
“What the —”
“Listen to me.” Thomas leaned over the desk, his knuckles pressed against the smooth surface. He could feel a tremor passing through him. “Four people are dead, possibly more. One was your master. You know more than you’re saying and you will tell me what it is, or I am going to pick you up and toss you through the window.” It was a threat Padvana might doubt, but Thomas wasn’t so sure he didn’t mean it. He was exhausted, battling with frustration, and on the point of abandoning his task altogether so he could get on with his own life. Isabel had promised him sanctuary, a promise that looked more inviting by the hour.
Padvana rose to his feet, he too leaning across the desk until his face was inches from Thomas’s. “I am no deputy anymore, Thomas Berrington, so take great care who you threaten.”
He lifted his head a moment and shouted: “Guards! Here, now!”
Thomas smiled. “I saw no guards when I came in. They have better uses for their time these days. Go on, try calling louder. Here, let me help. Guards! Guards!” He used his full voice, already hoarse from too much talking, confident no-one would appear.
Padvana straightened, stepped back from the table. He looked right and left, craned his neck to see if anyone was coming along the corridor.
“What are you so afraid of revealing?” Thomas said. “That you are also involved in the plot to steal Malaka’s wealth?”
“Plot?”
Thomas couldn’t tell whether he spoke true or not, wishing once more he had brought Jorge, but even as he did so he knew Jorge was too soft for what he had come to do. He was willing to hurt, to inflict injury in order to find out what he needed to know. He considered himself a fool for not seeing it sooner. The spiriting away of the city’s wealth to a single location. It might have been done several times before, as Kohen al-Farsi claimed, but never from a city under siege. Only someone over-confident, or stupid, would believe such a plan had any chance of success. Thomas didn’t believe Padvana to be either, which only added to his suspicion.
