by David Penny
“You record the wealth of the Guild,” Thomas said. “Wealth that has now been moved to the Alkhazabah.” Thomas was sure the man would have to know of it, as he suspected half the clerks in the Coin Guild would also know of the plan. He reached into his robe and drew out the letter Durdush’s clerk had prepared and handed it across. “This note asks you to provide permission for me to inspect the storage of this cache of gold.”
Padvana examined the paper for longer than necessary to glean its meaning. “How do you know of this? It is the best kept secret in Malaka. If the population had even a hint of what we are doing there would be panic. They would believe we plan to abandon the city.”
“And would they be wrong?”
“The wealth of Malaka must be protected. Do you have even the slightest idea as to the value of what is now stored there? No, I am sure you cannot. I am sure no man comprehends the wealth of the Guild.” He stared at Thomas, a frown forming. “I don’t understand your interest.”
“At least four people have died to protect your secret. I would like there to be no more, and I would like to catch the killer. The killer of your master.”
“As would I.” The man didn’t appear unduly upset at the death of Amreqan.
“Will you provide me a letter of permission or not?”
Padvana looked at the note again, then strode to the doorway and shouted a barked command to one of his clerks, the sharpness of it at odds with his behaviour so far.
“How long has this undertaking been planned?” Thomas asked when Padvana returned.
“It has been in place for many years, before I was even born. If it is inevitable Malaka will fall, then the wealth of the Guild is to be protected.”
“Where is it to be taken?”
The man turned to face Thomas. “Do you take me for a fool?”
It was a good question, but one Thomas didn’t have the time to give the attention it deserved.
“Aren’t you concerned you might be in danger, too? Your master lies dead, and others before him. All connected through this mythical wealth —”
“Not mythical. The wealth of Malaka is as real as you and me. As real as this stone.” He slapped his hand against the wall. “It is safe, and will remain safe.” He moved to sit at a wide desk fashioned of expensive wood. “Am I truly in danger?”
“No, I suspect not. Unless you are also involved in the plot?”
“What plot?”
“You master revealed to me he planned to steal a portion of the gold. A small portion, he said, but even a small part would be a fortune.”
Padvana stared at Thomas, his face expressionless. Slowly, he shook his head. “I don’t believe you. How dare you accuse my master of such a crime.”
“He told me the truth of it himself, not an hour since. Moments before he drew his final breath.” Thomas watched Padvana for any sign of guilt, wishing Jorge was here. The man was not upset at his master’s death, but that didn’t mean he was involved.
“I should go to Ali Durdush at once and tell him of your slander on a good man’s name.”
“He already knows. I have just left him.”
Rapid footsteps sounded and Thomas turned, half expecting guards come to remove him. Instead a slim clerk rushed into the room and handed a slip of paper to Padvana. He read the note before laying it face down. Thomas hoped it was his permission, but it seemed not.
“There is no answer,” Padvana said, and the clerk departed as rapidly as he had come. “It is from Ali Durdush.”
Thomas waited.
“It confirms my appointment as Master of Coin, and to instruct me should you come here to tell you anything you want to know.” Padvana released the air from his body in a long sigh. “It goes against my nature. Against the nature of the Guild. But I must assume the Master of the Malaka Guild knows what he is doing.” A hand indicated one of the chairs. “Sit, Thomas Berrington. Unless you prefer something lower.”
Thomas took a chair. Whatever Durdush’s note said it had changed Padvana’s attitude.
“What would you ask of me? There are some things I cannot tell you, but if I can, I will help.”
So much for telling me anything I want to know, Thomas thought. He leaned forward. If Padvana knew something useful he might not even be aware of it himself.
“When did you start to move the gold?”
“Two months ago. Before the Spanish gathered at Ballix. Everything has been transferred now.”
“You had planned this so long ago?”
Padvana lifted a shoulder. “Ballix and the surrounding towns were never going to offer much resistance. Unlike Malaka. Would you rather we allowed the Spanish to plunder everything?”
“It shows little faith in the forces arrayed here, doesn’t it?”
“Boxes of gold can be returned as easily as they can be spirited away. It is a precaution, for I am sure al-Andalus will prevail.” But his face told a different tale.
“Were you involved in the planning?”
“More so than my master, who had other responsibilities. I … No, I am sorry, that is one of the things I cannot reveal.”
Thomas believed the secret related to the transport of the boxes when the time came, but he also suspected it was unimportant. They would be taken away by sea, no doubt. To where didn’t interest him. Malaka was finished — the Malaka of the Moors, at least. What the Spanish made of it didn’t concern him because he would no longer be here.
More footsteps sounded, and this time it was what Thomas had been waiting for. Padvana took the sheet of paper, read it, and scowled. Then he folded the single sheet, melted a spot of wax, and applied a metal seal to close it. He stared at the letter for a moment then sighed and slid it across the desk. “Your permission. Use it wisely, for it allows you access to anywhere you ask.”
Thomas took it without a word and rose to leave. It had already been a day so full of incident his head spun with too many thoughts. Any visit to the Alkhazabah could wait until morning, but in that he was wrong — it would have to wait far longer.
As he made his way past the Infirmary, heading toward the Alkhazabah, the tall figure of the master came out to stop him. “Thomas, thank the Gods. The city is sending a force to attack the Spanish, and they need you. You are the best battle surgeon we have.”
Twenty-Five
It was dark as a thousand soldiers picked their way across rocky slopes toward the forces of Spain that far outnumbered them. They were relying on the night, dawn still hours away, and the element of surprise. At the rear, Thomas led a horse laden with saddle bags which held potions, herbs, and instruments. He was thinking of the many times he had taken this same walk on different fields of battle. Of lives lost and lives saved. Of what he would witness and what he would do to save men or ease their passing. He knew there was nobody better suited to what the next hours would bring, for was he not qassab, the butcher: saviour of men of war.
The sky was clear, a million stars dusting the blackness. A faint glow from beyond the distant peak of Maroma showed the moon close to rising. Their band would need to be in the foothills to the east of Malaka before that occurred, ready to attack, but something had caused the lead group to halt, the others bunching up behind. Some men grumbled, others moved to the side and found a rock to sit on while they waited. Thomas moved along the ranks, curious what had caused the hold-up. He smiled when he saw what it was.
Yusuf had come to join them, bringing his four hundred men. The leader of the Malaka troops was discussing tactics, and when it was done, Yusuf started along the line. He stopped when he caught sight of Thomas, then came forward and embraced him, the force of the greeting testament to the boy who was now a man and a skilled leader.
“I’m glad you’re with us, Thomas. Are there other physicians?”
“A few, no more than half a dozen. They will take up positions at the rear, so if you have any injured men who can walk send them back.” He didn’t have to say anything about men who were not capable of w
alking. Those would not last long in the howl of battle.
“You won’t be at the rear, will you.”
Thomas shook his head. He would have smiled, but already a familiar cold was settling through him. He patted the hilt of a knife to indicate he could look after himself.
“What are your orders?” he asked as they passed men starting to move downslope again.
“To protect the flanks. Why? Have you a better idea?”
“I’m not the general,” Thomas said.
“No, but I trust your word above any man other than Olaf.”
“Does he remain in Gharnatah?”
“My uncle sent him south.” Yusuf pulled a face. “Though he stays in the city himself, afraid Muhammed will oust him if he leaves. Olaf has brought two hundred of his men and will attack the eastern flank.”
In the faint light Thomas studied Yusuf, noting the strength in him, the certainty honed by the manner of fighting he had been undertaking in these hills, attack and withdraw, harry the enemy before slipping away. It was a tactic which could bring despair to a much larger force, and Thomas knew Yusuf was good at it. The fact he remained alive paid testament to that.
The Spanish were confident of their position on the flatter land north of the city, spread out for almost a mile, their presence sparked with fires and burning torches. It was clear they didn’t expect an attack, certainly not one from the opposite direction to Malaka. Thomas was surprised — he had expected Fernando to be a better general and to set guards at a distance, to position men on the high ground above the passes to warn of approaching enemies. Perhaps he had and the men were all asleep, but no alarm was raised as the Moorish soldiers reached the low ground and spread out to either side.
There was no warning cry, everything had been arranged in advance. Men moved forward until they were among dozing Spanish soldiers, then turned and attacked. The first sound came as men screamed and died.
Thomas wasn’t in the front rank but moved at the speed of the attackers ten ranks behind. He wore a heavy leather satchel over his shoulder and held a wickedly sharp knife in his right hand. He had debated whether to wear his chainmail jerkin and decided against, fearing he would look too much like a soldier. In the heat of battle he knew it would make no difference. Not that he cared, not at that moment, because the cold had filled him and he saw the world with a brittle reality that had saved his life many times before but stolen his humanity as well. He had hoped never to feel this way again but knew the hope was in vain. There was already too much violence in the world, and if the coldness meant he could protect those he loved he would welcome it again and again. He gave no thought to the men being attacked, nor Isabel and Fernando whose soldiers these were. They had come to destroy one of the great cities of al-Andalus. Besides, Thomas would not be doing the fighting, only offering comfort and treatment to those injured.
Chaos descended, and the night was filled with screams and shouts and the clash of metal on metal. Thomas held back, knowing the front ranks were not for him, for he couldn’t be effective in the heart of battle. Instead he stood in place as men streamed past, some faces exultant with the joy of killing, others pale and grim with determination, a few showing nothing but fear and these, he knew, would be the first to die. Better to let the rage fill you and live than die whimpering. If you could. He knew killing was not for everyone.
The fighting was brief and fierce. Thomas treated those who could be treated and offered mercy to those who could not, and then a man staggered back from the melee clutching what remained of his arm. Blood spurted in time to his heartbeat from a deep slash that had almost severed it between wrist and elbow.
Thomas grabbed his jerkin and threw him to the ground, followed hard so his knee pressed into the upper arm to stem the flow of blood. The man screamed and tried to throw him off but Thomas was used to such objections and ignored him, the stronger and more determined of the two.
He made no move to ease the man’s pain until he knew how serious the wound was, and whether he would die or not. He lifted his knee a little, allowing blood to flow again, watching as it jetted, thinking of a strategy. Then he decided to ignore the poppy liquor. Instead he swung a hard blow to the man’s head, snapping it around and rendering him senseless, knowing the blow might kill him but not before loss of blood if he did nothing.
He took fine gut and a needle and drew back the edges of the wound. It was clean, muscle and tendon revealed as he wiped at the blood filling it. He found the main vessel and pinched it tight, leaning close in the dark to calculate if it was possible to re-join it, and deciding not. Instead, he doubled the upper vessel back on itself and stitched it. He waited a moment to see if the blood would burst through before adding more stitches, then he started to close the wound.
Half way through someone slammed into his back, knocking him to the ground. Thomas rolled away as a Moorish soldier fell hard, the life already leaving him. A Spanish soldier stood over him, grinning, before turning to Thomas, the grin growing wider.
As the man drew back to strike Thomas rose fast and buried his knife in the man’s chest, knowing exactly where the heart lay. The soldier grunted as if punched and his knees gave way. Thomas ignored him — he was no longer a danger — and turned to finish closing the wound. The injured man was starting to come around and began to fight him off, and this time Thomas drew the cork on a phial of liquid and forced the contents into the man’s mouth. It would take a while before it was effective, but Thomas was more than strong enough to finish his work and bandage the arm. He left the man where he lay and stood, ready for his next patient, suddenly aware that he was no longer surrounded by Moors but Spaniards. The attack had peaked and been rebuffed, and Thomas’s companions were now fighting a retreat a hundred paces behind. For some reason none of the Spaniards took any notice of him, perhaps because he had not worn his chainmail.
Men jostled past, eager to pursue the fleeing Moors, the glint of triumph in their eyes. They had been taken by surprise, but fought off the attack, and now they would kill everyone they could. Except their leaders had a different plan. They had seen a Moorish retreat before, only to be ambushed in the narrow defiles, rocks rolled down on men, a hail of arrows descending.
Officers strode to the front, calling out, and slowly the blood lust faded. Men stood panting, stained swords in hands, heads down. One man looked up and stared at Thomas, a frown on his face, and it was obvious what he saw. A tall man dressed oddly, a dark Moorish tagelmust rolled at his neck. The man raised his sword and shouted.
Others turned, enough wildness remaining to hack Thomas to pieces.
Thomas proffered the knife, wishing he had brought a sword, but it would have been too unwieldy.
“I am Thomas Berrington, friend to King Fernando!” He wondered if he should have used his new title of Sir.
Even as he shouted the words, in Spanish better than it once had been, he saw they fell on deaf ears. These men had not yet finished killing, seeking revenge for fallen comrades.
“I can help your wounded.” Thomas tried again, but already they were advancing, the bravest at the front, and he took one in the arm, not wanting to kill but slicing through the tendon so the sword fell from his hand. And then the others came, fast and eager.
Thomas stepped back, stepped again, and slammed into a figure behind who wrapped strong arms around him, lifting him from his feet.
A soldier came close, no hurry now. He circled the tip of his sword in front of Thomas’s face, teasing with the promise of pain. Thomas kicked backward, connecting with a shin, but the pressure around his chest didn’t slacken. He scanned the men, looking for officers, but if they were present they too wanted to see more blood spilled. One final conquest to end the attack.
The man with the sword came closer, using the tip to slice through Thomas’s robe so it fell to the ground. Beneath he wore his usual shirt and breeches, no protection at all from what was about to come. He knew they would take his boots once he was dead. Good b
oots, supple leather. His father’s boots that had been his since taking them from John Berrington’s dead body, carrying them even though they were too big for him until he too had grown into a man, not even knowing why he kept them because he had hated the man. Hated him as a boy, hated him as a man, for what he had passed on to him. This urge to kill that engulfed what he regarded as his true soul.
He let it fill him now. They could kill him, of that he was sure, but they would not do so without casualties on their part.
He stretched the fingers of his left hand, the only one he could use, until the tips brushed the end of a small dagger tucked into his belt. He eased it loose and without a moment’s hesitation slammed it backwards into the belly of the man holding him. Even then his grip barely loosened until Thomas struck a second and third time.
As his feet landed on mud he darted to one side, the blade of the swordsman whistling through the space he had vacated. Thomas twisted and stuck the man in the side, not a killing wound but enough to discourage. By then others were coming, far too many to offer any hope at all, an entire army, three or four thousand strong. Thomas had faced heavy odds before but knew this was the end and wished he had thought to kiss Lubna before he left. An image of Will filled his mind, blond-haired and sturdy, easing his way into being a handsome man, a strong man.
Thomas took a breath and let it out in a long sigh.
So be it.
He struck, unaware that he moved like a dervish, that he moved like Jorge when he danced, his tagelmust swirling around his head, his feet and hands a blur. And then there came a moment of respite and Thomas stopped, breathing hard as Jorge had breathed hard, wondering why he was still alive. There came a clash of steel on steel and the men in front of him hesitated, fell back a pace, two.
Something knocked into him, and he went hard to his knees.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake get on the horse or I’ll let them kill you.”
Thomas looked up at the figure of Yusuf astride a stallion that glowed moon-white in the darkness. He reached up but Yusuf was too high so Thomas stood, leaned for a moment against the heaving flank of the horse, then grabbed the saddle and pulled himself up behind Yusuf.