The Promise of Pain

by David Penny

  He drew his knife, not because he expected to need it, but because the encouragement it might offer would be useful. Then he knelt on the bed and put his hand across Don Domingo Alkhabaz’s bearded mouth.

  The man’s eyes snapped open and he began to struggle. Thomas showed him the knife, letting the lamplight glint off the blade until Don Domingo stilled.

  “I mean you no harm. Do you remember me?”

  He watched Don Domingo’s eyes track his face, saw a failure of recognition. It was not a surprise. Thomas knew he had changed these last months, enough that even close friends might fail to recognise him.

  “Thomas Berrington,” he said, and saw Don Domingo frown, felt him try to give a shake of his head. “When I remove my hand you will remain silent. I trusted you at one time, but now I am a desperate man and won’t hesitate to hurt you. Do you understand me?”

  Don Domingo tried to nod. Thomas withdrew his hand, the knife coming down to rest against the man’s neck.

  “I heard you were dead. You disappeared into the wilderness and were never heard of again.”

  “True, some of it at least. But as you can see, I am still alive. What brings you to a place such as this?” Thomas withdrew the knife but didn’t sheath it yet.

  Don Domingo sat up, arranging a surfeit of pillows behind him.

  “Better I ask the same of you, Thomas Berrington. What are you doing in my house, and how did you find me?”

  “Not find,” said Thomas. “It wasn’t you I was looking for, but the man who was here earlier.”

  “Ah … I see.” Don Domingo swung his legs from the bed, unconcerned at his nakedness. “We will be more comfortable having this conversation somewhere else.”

  Thomas watched Don Domingo walk to a wardrobe and pull out a robe. He slid it around his shoulders and tied it at the front. Silk pooled at his feet, dragging as he walked toward the door. He stopped and looked back.

  “You can stay here of course, if you wish. I will even send someone to entertain you, but I suspect you have come in search of knowledge, unless you have changed a great deal since last we met.”

  Thomas rose and followed Don Domingo, who led the way to a large room at the end of the corridor. A single lamp burned when they entered, but Don Domingo went around lighting others before indicating a chair fashioned in the Spanish style. Wide windows looked out into darkness, reflecting the two of them as they sat.

  “It appears we have both fallen on hard times, Thomas. Tell me what brings you here, and then I may be able to offer a little information in return.”

  “I seek the man who was with you tonight. Abbot Mandana.”

  “Why?”

  “I intend to kill him. His son, too.”

  “Ah … so you know about the son, do you? Then we will need coffee.” Don Domingo rose and left the room.

  Thomas remained where he was, wondering if he was a fool to trust the man. He might have gone to rouse his servants. No doubt there would be guards. He wiped a hand across his face, slapped his cheeks, and wondered when he had started to want to live again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thomas stood at the window, looking out into the night. All he saw was his own distorted reflection staring back, and he wondered when he had started to look so old. His face was gaunt, that of a man nearing the end of his life. Is that what this is, he wondered? Have I come to these high places to die? When Don Domingo returned he welcomed the distraction from his own thoughts, which had grown as dark as the night.

  “The girl will bring us coffee. She was asleep, so it may take a while.” He indicated the chair where Thomas had recently sat then took his own. “There are few people that know Mandana has a son. I’m surprised you do.”

  “It was Pedro Guerrero who killed Lubna,” Thomas said.

  Don Domingo stared at him, his face showing nothing. “I heard she had died. I was sorry to hear it, and sorry for your loss. I know how much you loved each other.”

  “How?”

  Don Domingo frowned. “How did I know? People talk of you, Thomas, for you always seem to be involved in the heart of events that are none of your business. So I hear things. As does my master.” He held a hand up when he saw Thomas’s expression. “No, not Mandana. I talk of Muhammed, for it was he who sent me here after I fell on hard times. I was grateful, until that man turned up and made my life difficult.”

  “How long have you had dealings with Mandana?”

  Don Domingo raised a shoulder. “Half a year, perhaps a little less.”

  “How long have you been here in Pampaneira?”

  “Two years. It was a good life, an easy life until Mandana turned up. He brought Guerrero to see me. He is handsome but his eyes are dead. I suspect he came to frighten me into doing as they asked, and it worked.”

  “You are rich, you could have left this place.”

  “I was rich, but no longer. Muhammed has placed other men he trusts, or who he has a hold over, in towns to the east and north of Gharnatah. You know how he is. Those men took land that belonged to others, and some of that land was rightfully mine. Muhammed does not punish them, so they grow ever bolder. He worries over everything. He worries the Spanish will come from the west and the east both. Then he worries they will come from the south, then the north. I heard a rumour Yusuf was planning to oust him before he died.”

  “He was a brave man, a good man,” Thomas said.

  Don Domingo gave a soft smile. “He used to worship you when he was younger. Everyone saw it, how he followed you around whenever you came to the palace. It was as if you were tied together with a length of string. How did he die? Were you there?”

  “Not when he was struck down, but he died protecting others, as you would expect.”

  “He would have made a good Sultan.”

  “It would have meant more fighting.”

  “Muhammed is a coward. The fighting would not have lasted long.” Don Domingo sighed. “And I would still be a rich man.”

  The woman Thomas had last seen leaving Don Domingo’s bedroom padded into the room on bare feet. She placed a tray holding fine porcelain cups and a steaming jug of coffee on the low table between them, then turned and left. Thomas watched her go.

  “She is yours for the rest of tonight if you wish it,” said Don Domingo.

  Thomas smiled. “My thanks, but I want of no-one since my wife died.”

  “It was the news of the hour in Gharnatah when Olaf Torvaldsson returned.”

  “He serves Muhammed now?” Thomas asked.

  Don Domingo offered a nod, leaned forward and poured thick, dark coffee into their cups.

  “Why do you want to kill Mandana so much? Is he worth it?”

  “I will kill them both,” Thomas said. “Guerrero murdered Lubna.”

  “How can you be so sure? I heard she died in the chaos of battle.”

  “Is that what Olaf says?”

  “No, he tells it the same way as you—but others carry a different tale.” Don Domingo reached for his cup and sipped at it.

  “Those others were not there. I was. What are they doing here, Don Domingo?”

  “You should ask your other friend, not me.”

  “Jorge knows nothing of it.”

  Don Domingo smiled. “The eunuch? No, I mean the Spanish King. Mandana is here on his business—though I doubt his master knows exactly what it is the man is doing.”

  “Are you in Fernando’s pay as well?”

  “I am in nobody’s pay. I scratch out a living where I can. Small taxes here and there, some income from iron mines on the other side of the mountain.”

  “And empty property? Abandoned goods when men are taken?”

  Don Domingo said nothing.

  Thomas reached for his coffee and drained the small cup.

  “No more lies. Tell me everything you know.”

  “Can you trust him?” asked Jorge.

  Thomas had returned to their lodgings in the first grey light of dawn. Already the peaks of the
Sholayr were splashed with pink, but the deep valleys held night close like a cold lover it was reluctant to release. Aban was curled in sleep on the narrow cot pushed against the wall. Jorge had been sprawled across the other bed when Thomas woke him. They had come downstairs to sit at the table.

  “He has no reason to lie, and I believe I scared him enough to shake the truth from him in the end.”

  “You’re beginning to specialise in scaring people,” said Jorge. “Though it’s always been a trick you’ve had.”

  Thomas ignored the comment. “He says Mandana came to him with an offer that allowed for only one answer. This is the largest town in forty miles and has empty houses after its scouring.”

  “Why bother? It might be the largest town, but that doesn’t make it a city. Mandana can simply take whatever men he wants by force, like he has elsewhere. I doubt those he’s taken even know their families are held here. What kind of a threat is that?”

  “Don Domingo claims the captives know well enough. Mandana and Guerrero are Spaniards, and the Spanish are nothing if not efficient—it’s why they are going to win this war. Women and children are taken now and again and displayed to their menfolk. Mandana has told Don Domingo to make a record of where every man comes from, another record of who their family is. It’s a simple matter to match one up with the other. He told me more, even though he didn’t want to.”

  “Which is?”

  “It is how hundreds of captured men are controlled. It takes only one or two examples to be made, and I wager one is usually enough. If a man tries to rebel or escape he is held and his family, if he has one, brought to him. The wives see their husbands in chains, the husbands see their wives and children, vulnerable.” Thomas breathed hard, the telling of it difficult, but the act not surprising when Mandana and Guerrero were involved. “The man knows his own life is forfeit, but not that one of his family will also be executed. One is chosen—son, daughter, wife, father, mother. It doesn’t matter which. They are killed in front of the rebel, then the remaining family members are made to witness his fate in turn. It’s demonic.”

  Jorge was silent for some time, his gaze turned inward, and Thomas allowed him to come to terms with the news. If he could. Thomas knew he hadn’t fully done so yet himself.

  Jorge looked up, his face set hard. “Did Don Domingo tell you how many men Mandana has?”

  “Close to a thousand, perhaps more.”

  “Gods, as many as that? Does he know why they have brought an army here?”

  “Mandana hasn’t told him—or he claims he hasn’t, and I see no reason why Don Domingo would lie to me about it, he told me everything else. He believes Mandana continues to work under Fernando’s orders, except I’m not so sure he does anymore. He has broken loose. I’m sure Fernando would not countenance what I heard.”

  “And this town—is it little more than a prison?”

  “Wives, children, entire families are brought here so they can be held in one place. So they can be controlled. The man we questioned said he obeyed to keep his family safe. I have no doubt they will be somewhere within the town walls of Pampaneira.” Thomas shook his head, barely believing the tale he was telling. “Don Domingo showed me records, detailed records of every woman and child that has been brought here. Their names, their captured menfolk, where they live in the town. If I didn’t know it already, that alone would be enough to implicate Mandana and Guerrero. Mandana was involved in the Inquisition in Ixbilya, and they did so love to record every minute item of information—exactly as is being done here.”

  Jamila came to wipe the table with a damp cloth. Thomas had not been aware she had come into the room, so involved was he in the telling of what he knew, but she had obviously overheard much of what he had told Jorge.

  “Men came to our village,” she said. “They made us tell them our names and wrote them in a book. They came back every month or so and compared the names to make sure none of us had left.” She set her knuckles on the table-top and looked at Thomas, Jorge all but ignored. “We were as good as prisoners. Hostages to our menfolk, but prisoners to them as well. You are right, Thomas, it is a work of genius. Evil, but clever.”

  “Mandana isn’t that clever,” said Jorge, as Jamila moved off.

  “No, I’d say that, too. But I know barely anything about Guerrero. This isn’t the work of Fernando, it will be one of those two who has come up with the idea.”

  “Which of them is in charge?” said Jorge. “An army can have only one leader, one man to look up to. Is it Guerrero or Mandana?”

  The thought hadn’t occurred to Thomas, and he knew Jorge was thinking better than he was these days. He grasped Jorge’s arm and pulled him close. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.”

  “Well, that’s another first from you.”

  “It has to be Guerrero. Mandana’s too old, too sick, but his son is in his prime and kills without a second thought—I know that to my cost. The man we captured spoke of him with both reverence and fear.”

  “So why is it Mandana and not Guerrero who deals with Don Domingo?”

  “Because, strange as it seems, I believe Mandana is the more rational, the more open to reason.” Thomas thought of his first meeting with Guerrero a year before, when he had carried his dying wife into the infirmary in Malaka. How the man had been unreasonable, irrational. How he had blamed Thomas and Lubna for his wife’s death.

  “We came through other places on our way here—all of them the same, stripped of men. There were abandoned villages, too, their inhabitants no doubt brought to live here. Whatever is going on must be happening close to here. If Mandana has a thousand men they will have a camp, and I mean to seek it out.”

  Jorge laughed. “You will fight a thousand on your own?”

  “Do you think me stupid?” Thomas held out his arms to display how gaunt he had become. “Look at me. I don’t scare people anymore. I can barely fight one man.” Thomas was aware that something had broken inside him and feared it might never heal. It was nothing physical, despite how thin he had become. The strength that had leached from him could be recovered with time and effort, but there was a void within, shaped in the form of Lubna, that could never be made whole again. He didn’t want it made whole, because that would mean forgetting her. Even killing Pedro Guerrero, the man who had stolen her life, would not heal the void. Not that it would stop him. The man was living on borrowed time, Mandana with him. Thomas would wipe the entire family from the face of the earth. He knew he should have done it sooner. If he had Lubna would still be alive. Mandana’s show of atonement had seduced him, made his resolve weaken.

  Jorge offered a smile, unaware of the dark thoughts in Thomas’s head. “It’s true you aren’t the man you once were, but a week or two of good food, some exercise, and you’ll be back to your old self.” Jorge glanced to where Jamila was busy preparing food and lowered his voice. “Tumble her into bed. Sex is good for both the body and the mind. But even after that you’ll need help.”

  “I’ve been a fool,” Thomas said, knowing Jorge would agree, which he did. “When Mandana and Guerrero first came here they couldn’t have had more than the hundred men we saw in Malaka. My grief blinded me. If I had pursued them immediately, with Olaf and Usaden and a dozen others, I could have destroyed them both. Now, it’s too late.”

  “You need more men, that’s all,” said Jorge.

  “Enough to fight a thousand? It would need an army.”

  “Olaf has an army.”

  Thomas shook his head. “Olaf leads the Sultan’s army. Can you see Muhammed allowing him to take his troops into these mountains in pursuit of a ghost? Mandana and Guerrero are no threat to Muhammed.”

  “But they are a threat to us,” said Jorge.

  “Which is why I have to hunt them down and kill them.”

  “You don’t see it yet, do you? You are right, this place is a prison. There is nothing to stop people leaving except fear, and the knowledge of what their punishment would be. And
now we are also here. No doubt our names will be added to Don Domingo’s list, and Mandana will hear about our presence. Perhaps he was given a list of new arrivals in the town when he came last night. What if he has read it already?”

  Thomas stared into space, teasing the logic of Jorge’s argument, annoyed it hadn’t occurred to him before.

  “Then it’s even more important we hunt them down before they come for us.”

  “I’ve told you, we can’t do anything. The two of us?” Jorge shook his head. “We should flee, I agree, but flee to safety.”

  “Where is safe anymore?”

  “Gharnatah, almost anywhere in Spain. You can throw yourself on the mercy of your queen. Isabel will offer you protection.”

  “I have unfinished business here,” Thomas said. “And now I also have a plan.”

  “Which is?”

  “If I tell it you’ll want to come, and I need to do this alone.”

  Jorge sat up. He stared hard at Thomas for a long while before speaking.

  “That is exactly the attitude that got you into this trouble in the first place. Instead of trusting your friends, you set off on your own. You’re lucky to have survived this long.”

  “Or unlucky,” Thomas said.

  “Don’t be stupid. Did you think I wouldn’t be with you wherever you led? Or did you truly come here to die?” Jorge shook his head. “No, of course not, otherwise you would have used that noose instead of letting it hang there like some pointless promise. And now I’m here I won’t let you leave without me again.”

  “Nor will I.”

  Thomas and Jorge looked across to where Aban stood in the doorway.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t hear you arguing? Those men have taken my father and my friends. If you go to fight then I come too.”