by David Penny
“You should fight like you dance,” Thomas said. “You will confuse your enemies so much they will be easier to kill.”
“I would prefer to kill no-one.”
“And if it is you or them?”
“Ah, then I will kill them. After I have danced, of course.”
Twenty
It was almost dark before they reached home, and Thomas wanted only to bathe, eat, and sleep. His head buzzed with information, and little of it made sense. They had spoken with a dozen Guild Masters but, apart from Narjis’s Guild, nobody else had been approached. Provided they had been telling the truth. Thomas could not make sense of why she had been the only one. Zufar al-Zaki had been a weaponer, a profession that might be considered to offer some protection, had he been younger and still practicing, but even an old sword-smith would be considered dangerous. Experience counted for more than strength.
Why had this stranger been asking about al-Zaki at least three weeks before he died? And was the stranger not a stranger at all but someone Thomas knew? The description fitted Woodville. Ayesha and Narjis had described him as a man of France, but the description could just as easily fit an English nobleman. One down on his luck despite his connections. Thomas had already seen the good quality of Woodville’s clothes and the state of their repair. He knew he had to confront the man. Take the ring and show it to him. End this. Yes, end it, for he was growing more convinced he knew who had killed al-Zaki. Not Woodville directly. Diego had said another man stuck the blow, but that a taller man was in command.
Lamps filled the windows of the house with a welcome yellow light, and Thomas walked faster, leaving Jorge behind to catch up. He tried to dismiss his thoughts for the moment, knowing he could do nothing until morning.
Will must have heard him coming because he came running down the track and threw himself at Thomas, who had no alternative than to pluck him from the air before he fell. He hugged him, breathing in the scent of his hair, then lifted him onto his shoulders, the wriggling parcel of boy pushing the last vestige of the mystery from his thoughts.
“Belia told Diego off again,” said Will as they reached the terrace, and Thomas saw Diego sitting on the far side, his face turned away.
“Has he been taking things again?” Thomas lifted Will to the ground and rested his hand on his head.
Will shrugged. “He cried. He’s sad.”
“Go inside and tell Ma I’m home and that I’m hungry and need hot water.”
Once Will had gone, his hand in Jorge’s, Thomas walked toward Diego, who watched him come, wary.
Thomas sat on the stone bench beside him. “I thought we talked about you taking things. You must ask first. Why did you do it?”
Diego shook his head, his gaze darting off to the side, anywhere but on Thomas.
“You cannot take things without asking first. What was it?”
“My ring,” said Diego. “I wanted my ring. Belia has lots of shiny things but I not touch. I wanted my ring.”
“It is not yours, Diego. It belongs to —” Thomas cut himself off, knowing he couldn’t explain the ring had been the property of whoever killed al-Zaki. “It belongs to someone else.” He was dissatisfied with himself and knew he was too tired to be having this conversation now.
“I know.” Diego’s eyes finally met Thomas’s. “But it reminds me of Pa.”
“He was not your Pa.”
“But I have nothing of Pa’s. Nothing of Ma’s, and she had a lot of rings.”
Thomas stared at Diego and then pulled him into a hug, the man-boy stiff at first, then his chest hitched as he began to cry and Thomas kissed his cheek and held him until he stopped.
“Tomorrow we will go to fetch something from your house. Some of your mother’s pretty jewels.” He hoped he told the truth and that Diego’s brother had not emptied the house. No matter if they had, they too could be visited, and Thomas was determined Diego should have his pick of whatever mementoes he wanted.
By the time they reached the wide room where the others were, Diego had forgotten he was meant to be sulking and ran off to play with Will, the pair of them whispering in a corner, and Thomas allowed the warm glow his extended family raised in him to wash away his concerns.
Four of them descended the track and passed through the Antequera gate into a city busy with making preparations for the coming of the Spanish army. Some shuttered their houses, others filled carts with their goods and headed out in search of somewhere safe, though whether such a place existed was becoming a question increasingly hard to answer.
As Jorge lifted Will from his shoulders where he had ridden the entire time they walked, Thomas said, “Can you remember where Diego’s brother lives?”
“And the harridan of a wife. Why?”
“I want you to go and offer to buy Diego’s house from them. I assume title has passed to the son.”
“Why do you want to buy the house? We already have one.”
“The Spanish are coming. Not yet, perhaps not for weeks, but we are vulnerable outside the city walls. Diego’s house is big enough for all of us, and safer.”
“What if he doesn’t want to sell? I agree it is a fine house, but he might want it for himself.”
“Offer him twice what it’s worth, more if need be.”
“We could always leave Malaka and go somewhere else.” Jorge looked into Thomas’s eyes. “But you won’t do that, will you.”
“Do you expect me to walk away?”
“The fighting will be hard when it comes. Inside or outside the walls, nowhere will be safe. I say leave. Go back to Gharnatah, or take Isabel up on her offer and go to her.”
“The fighting won’t last long. Durdush is already petitioning al-Tagri to negotiate a surrender. Fighting is bad for trade, he says.”
“Fighting is bad for everyone, particularly me.”
“Will you go and ask?” Thomas said, and Jorge nodded and turned away. Will wanted to follow, but Thomas held his hand until he felt the small body stop resisting.
Thomas led his two charges away, one hand in each of his. When they reached Diego’s house he was annoyed to discover someone carrying furniture out through the door.
“Stay here,” he said to Will and Diego. “Will, look after him.” He crossed the street. “Hey, what are you doing, this isn’t your house.”
“Says who?” One of the men dropped the end of a heavy table, not bothering to be gentle, and turned. He was as tall as Thomas, broader in the shoulder, with long hair and a beard that hid most of his face. The colour of his skin failed to mark him as Berber or Moor or Spaniard, only the green of his eyes giving any clue to his origins. Two knives were tucked into a wide leather belt.
“Says me,” Thomas said. “Show me your paper if you have any.”
“The house is empty,” said the man. “That’s all the paper I need. Now fuck off before I make you.”
Thomas glanced back at Will and Diego. One of them had turned his head aside, not wanting to watch the confrontation. Will leaned forward, intent on what was about to happen, but at least he continued to hold Diego’s hand.
“I don’t want trouble,” Thomas said. “All I want is for Diego to be able to enter his own house.”
“Who the fuck is Diego?”
“The man who owns this house.”
“It’s empty. That makes it mine now.”
“I already told you once. I won’t do so again.” Thomas didn’t want to be the first to throw a punch, so waited.
He didn’t have to wait long. The man took a step closer, within striking distance, but still Thomas didn’t react. He tried to make himself small, make himself look weak, knowing the man was a bully.
“You’ve broken Diego’s table,” he said.
The man laughed and swung a punch. Thomas ducked beneath it without effort, still not responding. He took a pace backward, giving himself more space, and when the man swung again, harder this time, he sidestepped and punched him on the chest. It didn’t look like a
punch to hurt but he knew exactly where to place it, and the man staggered to one side. His companion dropped the other end of the table and came around it, reaching for one of the knives at his waist.
Thomas cursed under his breath, half wondering why such things always happened to him. Had Jorge been here he would no doubt have been able to talk the men into leaving.
Thomas kicked out to disarm the second man, let his leg swing around until it connected with the knee of the first. As the man sank down he raised his own knee and slammed it into his chin.
When he looked up the second man was backing away, palms up.
“He made me,” he said. “I told him it must belong to someone, a fine house like this.”
“Take him away,” Thomas said. “And in case he thinks of coming back, tell him next time I’ll kill him. Understand?”
The man nodded as he helped his companion to his feet.
A small body careened into Thomas, and Will clutched at him.
“Showed him, Pa!” he said.
“He was a fool.”
“Big,” said Will. “Showed him.” He swung his fists in a frantic parody of the fight, such as it was, and Thomas knew his son had inherited something wild. Whether from him or his grandfather he couldn’t decide. Perhaps from both. It would need training because he knew it would be impossible to suppress, and it would do Will no good if he tried.
Twenty-One
While Diego picked through drawers and cupboards in search of pretty objects to take home, Thomas set Will to watch over him while he went to find someone who could fit decent locks on the doors and bars across the windows. It took him a while before he found a man willing to perform the task immediately, in exchange for a sum that might be regarded as robbery had Thomas not possessed enough wealth to buy all the houses in Malaka three times over. As the thought crossed his mind, he remembered that most of that wealth remained in his house in Gharnatah. All he had brought with him was a small box containing gold coins and some fine silver jewellery. He smiled, wondering if Diego might want to play with it. He had stopped feeling guilt at the way he had acquired such riches. When he returned, Will was on the doorstep trying to stop a man and woman from entering and about to fail.
“What’s going on?” Thomas demanded.
“I was housekeeper here,” said the woman. “I left some possessions. I only want to retrieve them.”
Thomas looked her up and down, found nothing threatening. Her husband the same. He nodded.
“Come in.” He accompanied them, following the woman as she ascended the wide staircase.
“I can find my own way well enough,” she said.
“Like as not, but this house has already had items stolen from it.”
“I am no thief!”
“Good. Then you won’t object when I come with you.” He glanced at the husband, who remained at the foot of the stairs. “Will, if he leaves that spot shout at the top of your voice.”
“Shout,” said Will, demonstrating the power of his young voice, determination on his face, and Thomas tried not to laugh.
After a significant waste of time it appeared the woman was mistaken and had not left anything behind after all. As she turned a circle one last time the scowl on her face told a story of failure. She and her husband had expected the house to be empty. As housekeeper, she no doubt knew exactly where Diego’s father had kept his riches. Thomas shot the bolts across the door after seeing them out and shook his head, then returned to the room she had spent most time in. It was sparse, with a single window overlooking a side alley. A desk in the middle of the room faced away from what small view was available. Five swords hung from nails on one wall. Each showed more skill in its construction than the last, and Thomas wondered if they were gifts to Diego’s father from his master.
He walked the floor, examining each board, but found nothing that might indicate a hiding place. Perhaps this was not the room. Perhaps there was no hidden wealth and his suspicions were unfounded. He was about to leave when Diego came in, his hand in Will’s, who had to reach up to hold it, but even so it was clear which of the two was in charge.
“Pa’s room,” said Diego.
“He worked here?”
“No. Yes. Some.”
“Where is his hiding place?”
Diego frowned, stared at Thomas.
“The place he keeps things safe.”
“Ah …” Diego crossed at once to the oldest of the swords and took it down. He tapped on the wall, the sound hollow.
Thomas examined the wall, tapping his way along it. There was a space behind but he saw no means of accessing it, and then Diego turned and walked through the doorway. They found him in the room next door, a bedroom. He stood near an alcove where clothes were stored. Thomas took them down and laid them on the bed. Close to the floor he found a loose board and prised it out. It came surprisingly easily, as well as the three next to it, and he set them against the wall. Sitting beneath was a small chest. Smaller than he had expected.
“Diego no touch,” said Diego.
“You could take whatever you wanted, but not this?”
A nod. “Diego no touch.”
As Thomas lifted the chest he saw an expression of fear cross Diego’s face.
“It’s all right — this is yours now.”
A tear rolled down Diego’s cheek, and Thomas wondered what was going to become of him. Could they take him into their rapidly growing family, or was that nothing more than a vain desire? He and Will had formed a deep attachment to each other, but that didn’t mean his life would be any easier.
The chest was locked but the key for it simply lay on top, and Thomas opened it and raised the lid. Within lay coins and papers, some jewellery obviously meant to be kept out of Diego’s reach. A small wealth, little more than any man who worked close to power might possess, and Thomas considered Diego’s father must have been one of the most honest men in Malaka. It was a sad testament to a life lived in service of rich masters.
He lifted out the papers then touched Diego’s arm. “All this is yours now. Put your other jewels in the box and we’ll carry them home. Thomas was aware if Jorge was successful at the task he had been sent on this house would become their home, but for now it was better to remove anything of value.
Diego turned without a word and left the room. After a moment Will followed, his constant companion.
Thomas left the chest open and went to the bed where he sat and leafed through the papers, curious what they might contain to warrant their place of hiding. Bills of sale for furniture, one for the fine bed on which he sat. The minutia of a life lived well if not richly. Then Thomas picked up a rolled length of paper which showed a broken wax seal on one end and held it flat. Thomas looked to the bottom of the letter to see who it was from. Zufar al-Zaki. It appeared to be a reply to something Diego’s father had sent.
I am disturbed at the accusations you make against an esteemed colleague. I have spoken with the man you accuse, who assures me your suspicions are entirely unfounded. Take care who you accuse, for no man is irreplaceable.
Thomas read it twice, a third time. He sat tapping the letter against his palm, staring into the room but seeing nothing. Al-Zaki was dead. Diego’s father, Miguel Jiminez, the man this reply was addressed to was also dead, as was his wife. It was to Thomas’s mind far too much of a coincidence for all the deaths to be unlinked. He thought of the report of a man at the Infirmary before Diego’s mother died, and the bruise to her skull which had not been there when Lubna examined her. He wished he knew more about what happened to Miguel Jiminez, but perhaps he didn’t need to. The note was from al-Zaki and said he had told a colleague about an accusation made against him. Thomas knew all he had to do was discover who that colleague was and the mystery would be solved. He almost laughed. All the suspicions he had wrapped around Richard Woodville would fade to nothing. This was an internal matter. A city matter and a Guild matter. Which meant he needed to go back to Durdush’s offices to d
iscover who al-Zaki was associated with. And then his good mood left him. He already had a list of Guild Masters. Whoever Diego’s father had accused he would no doubt be on that list. He sighed and blinked, his awareness returning to the room as he heard footsteps.
Diego and Will returned carrying handfuls of rings, bracelets and necklaces. They tipped them into the chest and went for more. Thomas smiled, but it faded quickly as he turned back to the letter.
There was nothing to indicate when it had been sent, but the ink was still dark and the paper in good condition.
He would like to see Miguel Jiminez’s original letter to know who he had accused, and what of. An esteemed colleague. How esteemed? It had to be someone within the Malaka Guilds. Thomas realised of those he had already spoken to he had been asking the wrong questions. Now he would have to interview them again.
Diego and Will returned once more and it seemed they had completed their task because Diego closed the lid of the chest and dragged it back into its hiding place, but left the boards where Thomas had set them.
He rubbed his belly.
“Diego’s hungry,” said Will.
Thomas looked around the room. This was a fine house, far larger than a man, his wife and their one son would need, but a larger family had once lived here. Thomas knew it was a house that would suit them if they moved to Malaka, as he was sure they must do. It would also make his investigation easier.
“Has Diego chosen everything he wants?” Thomas asked Will.
“Lots.”
“Where do you want to go now?”
“Out.”
Definitely like his morfar, Thomas thought, reluctant to use two words when one would suffice.
Thomas took the papers from the bed and went through to the office, laid them on the desk, meaning to go through them again later in the vain hope there might be something else that would prove of use. Diego stood at the window staring out, his shoulders bunched tight, and Thomas went to see what had disturbed him, the letter still in his hand.