Zemel took his client by the arm and said warmly, "Come, sayed, honored ibn Ghulam, a man of your virtuosity should not have to bear with a slipping tuning screw. It will take but a moment to finish the new one I have carved, this time with a narrower thread to grip tighter. Let me give you some refreshment meanwhile. My servant brews a kavah black and bitter as the evil one's imps."
"I shall be delighted," Jamal ibn Ghulam answered and allowed himself to be led back to the gallery, where several doors led from various rooms of the house into the garden. Over his shoulder he called casually, "Come, Karima, it is cooler inside."
Francho pushed through the bushes first and then came Zemel. Dolores, head bowed modestly, followed just behind Zemel, but she was crowding him, in fact, and just as he reached the path she pretended her foot had caught on a root and she stumbled forward into the elderly craftsman in such a way that he was forced to swivel around to protect himself from her clumsiness, which had almost knocked him down. As Francho quickly untangled them, Dolores cast down her eyes in shame and tried to produce an embarrassed blush.
In an annoyed tone Francho said, "I humbly apologize for my servant, good master Zemel. She is stupid and looks not where she walks."
"Tis all right, no harm done," the old man wheezed, setting to rights his orange turban again and looking askance at Dolores. "It was an accident."
Dolores hung her head and stared at her toes. She trailed behind dejectedly as the two men resumed their path, the pouch she had deftly slid from Zemel's sash clutched tightly in the folds of her mantle to keep it from clinking. Stealthily she felt in it with her fingers. She could discern three keys, but one was too long and thin and one had an ornamental head. Fishing out the third key she dropped it into the pocket of her pantaloons.
Entering Zemel's spacious workshop where several apprentices labored with large chisels carving out soundboards, Francho stood back to allow Zemel access to his bench. Dolores brushed closely by him and with a swift and barely noticeable movement transferred the pouch to his waiting hand, then glided to the shadows of a corner, where she stood meekly by. She struggled to keep from showing the triumphant glee she felt, and she was sure Francho was doing the same, solemn as he seemed as he watched the old man's tough, hard fingers use a carving tool to delicately refine the pitch screw. How handily they accomplished the transfer of the pouch, she exalted proudly, as elegant and precise as a dance step, undetectable even if someone in the room had been staring at them. Once a pickpurse, always a pickpurse, she laughed to herself.
The chamber, with tools and braces hung in neat profusion about the room, was redolent of the spruce and rosewood from which Zemel fashioned his instruments and from the fish glue bubbling on a small brazier. With a bow a servant with a tray offered Francho a small steaming cup, which he accepted and sipped from while Zemel worked and lectured. "See you, sayed, a master carver forms a relationship with a piece of wood, as knowing of its character as if it were a person. Without that sense—the 'feeling' of each piece of wood—an instrument maker might as well be a furniture maker. His guembris will have no individual sound or soul." He turned the brass-headed screw in his hand and blew away the wood dust. "Ah, now I think we have it. I will give it a hardening bath and then we will try it." The old man rose purposefully to dip the screw in a container of liquid on a nearby table covered with various unfinished lutes and guitars, and as he did so there was a loud jingle as something hit the floor. Looking down in surprise Zemel saw the pouch of keys at his feet. "Dear me, how careless of me. And how good of you, sayed," he thanked his illustrious client, who had politely stooped to retrieve it for him. "I'd almost forgotten to return this to its place, for which my great grandfather in Paradise would be wroth." Smiling and shaking his head, he hung the pouch by its strings amid a dusty cluster of others on pegs above his bench.
At last Francho's business was concluded amid effusive goodbyes and an invitation to return sometime soon for one of their pleasant chats and a repast in the garden. Dolores silently followed Francho out and silently allowed Zemel's servant to help her onto her donkey while Francho slung his repaired guembri on his back and mounted his big mule. But as soon as they plodded around a concealing corner the twinkling blue eyes met her own dancing eyes and they both burst into laughter.
"Well, my fine Baroness de la Rocha, I see you haven't lost a certain delicate talent," he teased her.
"Nor have you, august sir knight," she admired back. "One ought to warn the poor Sultan to look to his gold." She dug in her deep pocket and handed him the key to the conduit hatch. "Well, have I earned my sweet cake, master?" A passing breeze fluttered the yashmak against her mouth and delicately outlined the shape of her jaw.
"More than that, querida. You shall have an ice with pomegranate syrup all to yourself, as well."
To her surprise, and in spite of curious glances from passersby, he impulsively leaned from the saddle, captured her hand, and kissed the palm. His glance held affection and pleasure. "You make a charming accomplice, hermanita," he murmured warmly.
***
Two hungry-looking men had lately moved into a rotting shed in Francho's alley, sullen and penniless but repelled enough by the vile smell of the only shelter they could find to spend much time outside it, sitting up till all hours on a tattered blanket and brooding. That night, to avoid their eyes, Francho prudently used the roof trap in his house, clambering silently and unseen over the neighboring roofs to drop into the next alley, and thence lope on foot the long distance to Zemel's residence. Finally reaching it he scaled the uneven stones of Zemel's garden wall at a point he judged close to the hatch, jumped, and landed on his feet in the soft turf of a flower bed. The garden was tranquil and silent, illumined only at its edge by a weak torch from the gallery, and in the house Zemel and his staff slept the deep sleep of the just—Francho hoped.
He had no problem finding the hatch by the light of a starry sky and a calm, pale cream half-moon. The oiled lock opened to his key, and with a soft grunt he heaved open the port again, which creaked, but softly. His mantle would hamper him; he dropped it to the ground. From his sash he drew a tiny oil lamp, its spout tightly stoppered, and a flint and striker, and in a few moments he was shielding the lamp's small flame from view with the bulk of his body. Squatting down he took a deep breath, and holding the lamp before him with an outstretched arm telescoped his body and crawled into the uninviting squeeze of the musty conduit, going forward on his hands and knees. His broad shoulders scarcely cleared the round brick sides of the tunnel. He kept his eyes squinted against the brick dust he was stirring up with his passage and pulled the tail of his turban over his nose and mouth. Cramped, able to see only a few paces ahead, he shuffled ahead on all fours through the damp silence of the tunnel, grateful for the gloves shielding his hands from the rough, crumbled brick. He knew with a trepidation he could not quell that he was moving further and further from the open air of the garden with no idea how long the tunnel continued and whether it might constrict into impassability. And worse, he suddenly realized that if the cat's point of entry proved too small or blocked to let him out he would have to crawl backward all the way.
Still there was air to breathe, and in a while the lamp flame began to waver from a slight draught when he stopped to rest, which gave him hope that his uncomfortable journey might soon end. He labored along for what seemed miserable leagues until his heavier breathing made him aware that he had been dealing with a gradual upward slope of the tunnel. At last a cool gust of air hit his perspiring face and he heard the rustle of dry foliage whipping in the wind and the gurgling rush of the river. He thrust his lamp forward and saw the smooth glimmer of ceramic brick lining the deteriorated mouth of the conduit, which was only loosely blocked by a waving mass of tall reeds and grass. Snuffing out his flame he inched forward, blind until he touched the rattling stalks and then with anxious haste shoved them aside and scrabbled through them until he emerged and stood on damp ground, gulping in grateful breaths
of river air.
When his eyes adjusted to the weak moonlight he saw that a peninsula of silt and mud had built up below the conduit mouth and that the river lapped a good fifteen paces from the irrigation inlet it had surely engulfed a century ago. The tunnel was passable, the ingress unblocked and located outside the city walls. What more could he ask?
But where was he? The tunnel might not have run straight from Zemel's house but obliquely; he could not get a sense of it during the claustrophobic crawl. Night hid the opposite bank of the river, and on the high bank behind him there was nothing but the black silhouettes of scrub bushes and trees. He could see beyond that Granada's walls, hulking and featureless, the occasional firefly of a bright torch bobbing along with the battlement patrol. Nothing stood out that would mark this spot so that men rowing across the river at night could find it easily. But the curve in the river had to be upstream; if the party started from there and went with the current, he could set out a lantern to guide them in.
Jubilant with his discovery he lit up his lamp again and, resettling the pads he had foresightedly tied on beneath his pantaloons to protect his knees from sharp shards, he began the long crawl back to Zemel's garden, the unnerving feeling of suffocation much ameliorated this time by knowing where he was going and how long it would take. Emerging in the garden and retrieving his mantle, he went over the garden wall without incident and slipped off through the quiet streets, avoiding the guardian patrols by fading into doorways. He stopped at a deserted fountain to wash the grime from his face and at last reached his house by the same stealthy way he had left—through the trap in the roof. Anyone by chance spying at his door would have to swear he had been inside all evening, and Ali and Azahra, fearing his cold stare, would ask no questions about the river mud on his soft shoes.
Weary from the tenseness of the squeezed, creeping journey, he flopped down on his bed for a few hours' sleep. But not before he muttered a short thanks to San Bismas for helping him find this hidden flaw in Granada's tight defenses.
***
The map crackled as Tendilla smoothed it out before his Queen, whose alert blue eyes quickly scanned the small square of parchment. His long, thin fingers tapped at several X-marks circled on the map. "Here, here, and here, Majesty, my agent has marked the sites of the main depots sheltering not only most of the wheat and rice and ground meal for Granada's sustenance but also great stores of cheeses, roots, onions, and dried beans." His voice was tight with controlled excitement; he had to clear his throat to continue. "If this vast quantity of food were lost in a great conflagration, both Moslem bellies and Moslem defiance would shrink within six months. Only the smaller storage sheds in the Alhambra and Alcazaba would remain, and whatever private stocks the merchants had put by."
"Good, my lord, most excellent!"
"Fortunately the depots are neither heavily guarded nor widely separated, for the fires will have to be set almost simultaneously to create the greatest havoc and confusion. My agent advises he can wreak this heavy damage with only twelve men, counting himself."
"Is there a chance to get these men out again safely?"
Tendilla shrugged. "Yes. If they are not trapped in the flames themselves, if the guards do not catch them, if the ancient irrigation tunnel does not collapse upon them. The men I have chosen for this venture bring superior abilities, Lady Queen. They will go in groups of four, each group to be led by a man who has some acquaintance with the city's byways. In fact, since it seems that I myself as a youth spent much time in Granada, I beg to ask relief from my duties and your permission to go along on the foray."
His ruler refolded the map carefully and handed it back to him. There were elements of both sympathy and impatience in her tone. "Well, you do not have our permission. We do not wish you to depart Santa Fe, my lord. This encampment has too much need of your command. Surely there are others of courage as familiar as you with Granada?"
Although he had anticipated her refusal, the Count persisted, for such an adventure did not often present itself to a gentleman of his rank—and age—and the thought of it quickened his blood and kindled his imagination. "But Your Majesty, how should I propose so risky a journey to my subordinates and refuse to share with them the hazards?" he protested.
"You should, as their superior, and surely you will." She waved away his objection. "Your valor is unquestionable, Don Iñigo, but we cannot allow one of our most capable commanders to chance his life in a bravado sortie better left to younger men."
"You wound my vanity, Majesty. I had judged my fleetness and agility equal to the situation."
"Ah, Tendilla, do not twist our meaning in your usual manner just to have your way; be assured we meant no insult to your physical prowess. This provident means to help put an end to this stalemated siege is welcome, without doubt. Here we sit a few leagues from those cannon-larded walls, careful not to venture closer and expend lives uselessly, and that demon Muza Aben scourges our camp, fills our hospital and burying ground, and then races to the protection of those bristling walls without so much as a handful of his own dead left behind. And those heathens that crowd Granada's battlements to cheer their champions in these skirmishes are as well fed and cocky as in peacetime." Her voice was rising, for the months of solid siege were beginning to cause problems with certain necessary supplies. But she cut off her tirade, astutely reading the disappointment Tendilla sought to hide.
"Attend me, Don Iñigo, our reference to your years dwelt more upon the uniqueness of your services and experience. Experience in leading your troops to victory. And invaluable experience in governing captured territories." Her eyebrows rose significantly in her smooth, white forehead. "Surely, my lord, you can see the possible import behind our refusal to allow our good commander and friend to risk being roasted alive in a grain depot?"
Her words insinuated enough to cause a momentary silence and an exchange of glances between them. Tendilla was human enough to rejoice behind his suave countenance. He realized Isabella could make no commitments now in view of the valid aspirations of the Marquis of Cadiz and the Duke of Medina-Sidonia, but her indirect indication that she was prepared to strongly back his eventual candidacy for the governorship of Granada was encouraging enough to take the sting out of obeying her orders not to join the raids. In any case, if God would see those Moorish food repositories leveled to the ground, the Catholic monarchs would count yet another outstanding victory accomplished through him.
He bowed his head in deferral. "It shall be as you order, my Queen. I will delegate another in my place. A younger man," he added dryly.
She gave him an amused smile. "Good. Now, when will this brave sally take place?"
"Within the fortnight, in the darkness of the moon. Meanwhile I shall rehearse my men in the detailed plan my agent has submitted."
Now Isabella blinked and sat back thoughtfully as she contemplated him, absently twisting a gold ring on her finger. "My lord Tendilla?"
"Majesty?"
Her steady blue eyes signaled they would brook no evasions. "Where is your son Don Francisco, my lord?"
So! The time had come. With the hint of a smile on his long, narrow lips the Count stood more erect and in an even voice told her, "In Granada, at the Sultan's court. He is the agent you have so graciously praised these many months."
"Ah. So we thought. You are a remarkably taciturn man, Count. Would not paternal pride lead you to inform us of his valuable offices? You are too much the prisoner of compelling modesty. We had thought it strange that you detained your offspring in Sicily while there was such honor to be earned here in the field."
"A convenient fabrication, to turn aside loose conjecture. My Queen is aware that scurrilous ears hear unguarded conversations, even at her own noble Court. To what avail alert the Moors that a Christian knight might be disguised and concealed in their midst?"
"Quite true," Isabella conceded. She threw up her hands in mock exasperation. "But must you extend your mantle of secrecy to exclude even your
monarchs?" Yet she chuckled. "Ah well, we are not wroth with you; your reserve is ingrained and 'tis the results, not the method that counts. We shall not even inquire the whys and the hows until Don Francisco's work is done. Then tell your scion to continue his excellent information to us, and we shall not forget we are much in his debt." The co-ruler of Spain inclined her head. "Go now, good Count, and send in to us again my ladies and the Archbishop of Valencia, who wait without."
With a sweeping bow Tendilla backed from the room. He flung his cape over his shoulder and strode away from the royal abode toward his own timber-and-tile quarters located on a long, straight street of similar solid barracks and houses. He reflected, "Your generous words will indeed be remembered, Isabella, for there is yet another, deeper secret to be unveiled. I will pray, my Queen, that time has mellowed your grudge-bearing heart." He wasted no time wondering when to offer up the last confession about Francisco to Los Reyes Católicos. The time would reveal itself.
Chapter 27
Eleven men in dark clothing hunched down in the stolen fishing boat that drifted silent and unnoticed down the Xenil with the current, straining their eyes into the dark to catch the least glimmer of a lantern along the lonely further bank, glancing now and then at the towering ramparts of Granada outlined against the starry sky, where alert guards patrolled and scanned the river. In the prow crouched the two men Francho had asked Tendilla to assign as leaders, his two feckless cronies, Hernando del Pulgar and Antonio de la Cueva.
"There!" Pulgar whispered finally, nudging his companion. "On that small jut-out ahead. Do you see a spark of light?"
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