The Bird King(65)

“Yes, all right, there are half a dozen ways they could find out we’re planning to dock at Marbella,” snapped Fatima. “I just don’t find any of them very likely.”

The silence fell again.

“I’ll go get our monk,” Hassan muttered, disappearing belowdecks. Several minutes later, Gwennec emerged, rubbing bloodshot eyes.

“You didn’t sink the boat,” he said, his voice hoarse with fatigue. “That’s a good sign.”

“Have we put it in the right place, though?” asked Hassan with forced cheerfulness. “That’s the real test.”

Gwennec leaned over the deck railing and studied the lights.

“Aye, I’d say you have,” he said, sounding a bit surprised. “You haven’t passed another port town like this one, have you?”

“No,” said Fatima. “There’s been nothing larger than a little smoke on the horizon until just now.”

“Did you notice a river mouth, probably two or three hours back? Reddish water, lots of it.”

“Yes,” said Fatima, feeling more confident. “We passed it late in the afternoon.”

“I’ll be damned, then. This must be Marbella. I expected to wake up in North Africa or Italy or possibly dead. Well done, barnacle geese.” He drummed his fingers on the railing in a cheerful rhythm.

“Save your praise,” said Hassan. “There’s still the small matter of docking and provisioning the ship and setting sail again without being caught.”

“And paying for it,” said Gwennec. “You haven’t got any money, have you?”

Fatima pulled Lady Aisha’s ring over her knuckle and held it up, admiring the many-faceted stone with a feeling of profound regret.

“Will this do?” she asked, handing it over with no small reluctance. Gwennec tested the band with his teeth and grunted.

“Handsomely,” he said. “You’d eat like princes if you had time to kit yourselves out the proper way. As it is, you’ll have to make do with whatever you can find fast at this hour.”

The lights onshore were arranging themselves into straight lines, a few of which might be wharves reaching out like bright fingers into the bay. Fatima could smell smoke and charred meat.

“Pork,” she said.

“Catholics,” said Hassan. “All Catholics between us and the Strait now. The last scions of the Moorish empire stand here on this boat.”

Fatima paced at the railing. Though the air was chilly, she felt moons of sweat cooling beneath her arms and in the hollow of her back.

“I can’t go ashore,” she said. “They’ll know something’s wrong if they see me. You’ll have to go, Hassan. You look as if you could be Castilian.”

Hassan stared at her incredulously. “I can barely speak the language. Your Castilian is twice as good as mine. I’ll have to speak Sabir, and then they’ll know at once what I am.”

“Tell them you’re Breton,” said Gwennec drily. “That’s only a three-quarters lie.”

“You’ll help, surely.” Hassan put his hand on Gwennec’s arm. “You know who to speak to and what to say. I don’t even know what to ask for.”

Gwennec looked away, rubbing his jaw.

“I’d rather not,” he said. “I’d rather be done with this and part ways at the dock, if it’s all the same to you. I’ve kept you from drowning—that’s my right as a man in holy orders. I’m allowed to show compassion to the enemy. Any more than that and it starts to look like treason.”

Hassan let his hand drop. Gwennec had used a Latin word, hostis, instead of the Frankish enemi, as if to take the sting out, or perhaps to make himself sound important, or because he was ignorant; Fatima couldn’t tell which. She had almost forgotten what the monk was: he had become a part of the ship and the sea itself, as far removed from politics as a water spirit. But he was none of those things. He was a man, and he had a man’s allegiances.

“That’s fine,” she said coolly. “Do what you want. Take your things and go, with the enemy’s blessing.”

Gwennec’s face fell.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “Damn it all, this is my second language, and I barely speak my first one proper. Fa—”

“You don’t call her that.” Hassan, with great energy, was checking the ropes that secured the boom of the sail to the railing.

“But that’s her name,” said Gwennec.

“No, that’s not her name. That’s what I call her.” He hurried toward the prow with his head bent. Gwennec stood for a moment without moving.

“We need to slow down,” he said in a different voice. “I’ll take the sail in. You keep us pointed at that string of lights.” He clopped off toward the mast, his sandals flapping against the deck in a graceless rhythm. Fatima stiffened her back. The wind had slackened, but the tide was pulling them now, and the tiller jerked restlessly against her hands. She steadied it with some effort. The ship, at least, had a single purpose, loyal only to the one who stood at its helm.

They drew close enough to the wharves to hear voices. Smoke curdled the air, redolent of sheep’s tallow. It made a dense haze around the torches that lined the mooring closest to them, creating the illusion of fog. Fatima was grateful for it. The cog was not large, and in clear weather, she would be plainly visible from the wharf: a girl in Arab dress in a place where she had no reason to be. As it was, Gwennec approached her with a wary look and his arms full of cloth: a cloak made of nubbly, poorly dyed wool and cut in a northern style, with a brass brooch at the neck.