Chapter Thirty-Seven
Elias passed a coin to the street vendor who gave him a pani ca meusa in return. Bread with spleen was not his favorite dish, but it was cheap, filling – and, from this vantage point, he could see the Gambinos’ shop.
It had occurred to him that if Selim Omar’s men knew where to find Laura and Benjamin, then they knew all about him and the crew of the Calliope. He’d been watching Morwena’s shop on and off for a couple of days, seeing if anyone was spying on its inhabitants. So far, nothing looked out of the ordinary.
He had wrapped the remains of Laura’s locket and a tiny tourist painting of the Monreal Cathedral in paper and addressed it to Kit. The painting he had purchased on his way out of the town. Hopefully, it would be enough of a clue. But he dare not be more explicit nor deliver the package himself.
No sooner had he finished the pani when a boy about ten happened to walk past him. He put his hand on the child’s shoulder. The lad looked terrified – which was no surprise. Elias knew he looked like a bearded vagabond.
He showed the boy a mezzo tornese copper coin, then the small package.
“Deliver this to the iron mongers,” he said.
The boy held his hand out for the coin and the parcel. He watched the youngster enter the shop with the parcel and depart without it. Elias headed down to the docks.
Kit had always been cautious to the point of obsession and he’d instilled that carefulness into his men. The only person outside of their band who knew so much about them was Ahmed Sharrouf, and he was dead.
How elaborate were Sharrouf’s records about the Calliope? And who had them now? Months ago, all he had learned was that a family had taken over the greasy traitor’s lair. Now would be the right time to find out what kind of family, but first he needed the find out whether Selim Omar was actually dead or not, and that would take him into the seedy underbelly of Palermo.
The tavern was one Kit used to frequent. In fact, it had been the one they had stumbled into the night following the close call on the Terpsichore. It was also most commonly home to a man called Rafiq, who could be relied upon to obtain information for a price.
In broad daylight, the tavern was even more of a shambles, hunched in what was once an alleyway between two warehouses. It was an affront to architecture to even call it a building. It looked like something beavers might have constructed from the wreckage of other more respectable buildings. Not one of the dirt-smeared windows matched. The timber walls were an odd mix of different colored boards, cannibalized from other buildings long gone.
The fastidious side of him shuddered being near a place like this.
Elias swung an old canvas pack onto his other shoulder and pressed through. He handed over a silver grana and ordered a beer. Rafiq didn’t seem to be among the four or so men slumped over tables.
He thought about the first time he was alone in Palermo; if he’d not encountered Kit, he could very well have found himself here begging for work.
He chose an empty table, close enough to the door to see who entered or left – and to make a quick exit himself if he needed to.
Apart from the half-drunk patrons, a couple of listless half-dressed prostitutes sat together, sharing a beer. Elias toyed with an incomplete chess set hoping to make himself as invisible as the other men. Unfortunately it wasn’t to be. One of the prostitutes came over and sat opposite him. Eddies of cloying perfume mixed with an undercurrent of something musky identified her profession as clearly as did her revealing clothing.
“Don’t I know you?” she asked, her voice husky.
Elias raised his eyes slightly, feigning annoyance at being disturbed, but he did not reply to her. He doubted the answer would be yes, anyway.
“I do know you,” she pressed.
Elias looked at her properly. Her face had been carved by hardship and time, although she could not have been much older than twenty-five. He drew breath to say “No you don’t”, then recognition dawned on him, too.
The woman with the pockmarked face was the girl who held him in her arms and allowed him to weep away the sickening horror of battle. Belatedly, her name came to mind. Liana. He only realized he was staring when the mask of the courtesan settled once more on her features. She sat back, ready to rise from her place.
“I know you, too,” he answered. “You were very kind to me once, Liana.”
The woman blinked, clearly surprised at hearing her name from him. “I thought I’d never see you again after that night,” she answered. “I always thought you were destined for better things – a wife… children… what happened to you, my English friend?”
At the mention of wife and children, Elias reflexively swallowed.
“Sometimes life takes us in unexpected directions. I need to find Rafiq.”
“You were a good man. And he is trouble you could do without.”
“Unfortunately, I need Rafiq’s kind of trouble.”
“What of your friends? The strange English captain? The African?”
“They cannot help me.”
Liana reached out and took his hands in hers. The well-practiced seduction of her voice made her seem years younger. “Come with me, Englishman. We will go somewhere private and I will help your forget all your troubles.”
Elias fixed her with a look.
Liana lowered her voice. “We go to talk… I understand your reasons, but you cannot sit here with your one beer, and if we stay much longer we risk being overheard.”
She gave him a smile as he stood, his expression unchanged, but he allowed her to keep his hand in hers as they climbed the half-rotten stairs to the room above.
Little had changed in the eight years since he was last here – the pale pink chintz curtains faded from the sun, the residue of incense that seemed to be impregnated into the walls. Liana closed the door behind her.
“Tell me why you want to risk having your throat cut by trying to find Rafiq.”
“It’s a long story.”
Liana sat down on the bed. “So tell me.” She patted a place beside her. Elias shook his head and leaned against the wall instead.
The woman inclined her head, offering him a small smile. “I cannot seduce a man who does not wish to be seduced.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, more sharply than he intended.
The ease he had felt in Liana’s company vanished. He thought of how his body had reacted to Laura’s seduction, how eagerly he participated, and his hope she had come to him because she loved him.
“Let me tell you something about the act of love. The mutual enjoyment is not just found in the body. It is found in the mind. Under duress, one can make a body react – and, yes, it is the same for a woman as it is for a man. But seduction is different. To be seduced, you have already chosen to make love before the first caress.”
Elias let out a long sigh. Liana was right. He’d known it all along. It had been the angry words he’d spoken to Laura the next day that had been the problem.
“Tell me about her,” the girl said.
Elias opened his eyes. Liana regarded him with open curiosity. “I am not jealous of her,” she said, “though I envy that she owns the mind and heart of a good man like you. Plenty of men confide in me about their one true love who does not understand them. Let me help you.”
“I can’t.” Elias pushed himself off the wall, his hand reached for the brass door knob.
“Wait! I will help you find Rafiq.” The offer was tempting and she knew it. “And if you will not take one service from me, you can surely take another.”
Elias turned back to her. “I was going to pay for your time… I can even help you leave.”
“And be your mistress, while you pine for another?” Liana must have read the expression on his face because she laughed. “Even if I wanted to leave, I would not. I do not especially enjoy what I do, but I prefer it over being a laundress or filleting fish at the markets.”
“Do you never wish for a husband and a house of your own?”
The seductress’ mask dropped. Elias saw a brief flash of a woman tired and aged beyond her years.
“Once I did, but until you are willing to share your secrets with me, then I will not share mine with you.”
Elias started awake to the sound of rapping at the door. He had washed and shaved then lain on the bed – alone – at Liana’s insistence where he had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep.
The prostitute’s slender silhouette slipped through the part-opened door.
“Rafiq is here, downstairs. He seems to be in a good mood.”
Elias laced his boots and gathered his satchel. Liana remained at the door. He took her hands and kissed them one by one. The years fell away and she became the girl who had taken pity on him all those years ago. Never would he forget her kindness. She had carved a place in his heart that would ever be hers.
He leaned forward and she turned her face up and closed her eyes. Elias dropped a soft, unhurried kiss on her cheek.
“Thank you.”
He moved past her onto the lamp-lit landing and glanced back. Was he mistaken? Did he see tears on her cheeks? Liana closed the door and Elias was struck with an aching certainty he would never see her again.
He kept his back to the room and found a shadow under the staircase where he could loiter unobserved. Sweat started to bead in his hair at the collar. The tavern windows and door were open to let in the breeze from the harbor, but it did little to dissipate the heat. He scanned the clusters of men at the tables and found Rafiq sitting with three others.
Rafiq was a man who seemed gifted with the ability to blend in with his surroundings. Tonight, his thin moustache and a small beard that edged a sharply-angled jaw had been allowed to become ill-kempt. Tomorrow, with a wash, new clothes, and a trim, he could walk into the finest hotel without question.
They were playing a game of micatio – a gambling sport that used fingers instead of cards. He watched the two men play – the third acting a referee. The two players stared at one another intently with their right fists raised. Simultaneously, each man would extend a number of fingers and each would shout the sum of the combined fingers.
Kit had encouraged the game onboard ship as a way of honing reflexes and sharpening observation. Men often revealed themselves with a twitch to the shoulder, a tic by the mouth. Elias had played it, too – but never for money and, besides, with his fingers swift and practiced from playing guitar he rarely lost, even against Kit who had the eyes and reflexes of a cat.
It appeared this particular contest involved the best of five calls before the bet was won or lost. Playing with two was tricky enough, playing with three – and the purse that went with it, he hoped would be irresistible.
Elias approached the table and caught the eye of one of the serving girls. It also caught the eye of the gamblers. He raised a silver coin worth sixty grana – enough to buy drinks and swift service.
Rafiq’s expression changed as he recognized the stranger who had inserted himself into their game. He looked casually around, no doubt trying to spot where Kit and Jonathan might be in the crowd.
“A friendly game?” Elias inquired, lowering himself into the seat opposite Rafiq.
“Go away. The stakes are too high for you, Englishman.”
“I’m playing for information.”
Elias slid a gold ducat across the table. Rafiq’s companions eyed it covetously. One of them started to reach for it, but Elias shot his hand out, slamming it on the table, covering the coin before the man’s hand moved more than an inch or two.
Elias curled his fingers beneath the coin, familiarizing himself with both faces.
“Choose who calls.”
Elias knew, in that moment, he had won and Rafiq’s curiosity lost.
In Arabic, Rafiq told his three companions to make themselves scarce. They grumbled, but did as they were told, their displeasure eased somewhat by the newly-arrived drinks. They took theirs with them. Elias took a mouthful to wet his throat.
“What is it you wish to know?” Rafiq asked.
“Two things. Is Selim Omar really dead, and who has taken over Ahmed Sharrouf’s estate?”
A speculative look crossed Rafiq’s face as he downed his drink in one swallow.
“These questions are too easy. For the amount of money you’re carelessly showing, I thought you were going to try to raise an army.”
“Just an army of one. Tell me.”
“Yes, Selim Omar is dead. One of his women killed him.”
It was no more than Elias had already been told, but it was a confirmation of sorts. But then who… his thoughts were interrupted by Rafiq.
“I will justify my generous fee by telling you for nothing that most of Selim Omar’s household is dead, too.” Rafiq grinned.
That, Elias didn’t know. The surprise showed on his face to Rafiq’s amusement.
“When did that happen?” he asked.
“About nine months ago. His younger brother, Orhan, laid claim to Selim Omar’s fortune and household. They were on their way back to Turkey when the caravan was ambushed. The surviving women were taken as slaves, most of the rest were slaughtered. A couple escaped that fate, which is how I came to learn of it.”
“The work of another brother?”
Rafiq shrugged.
“I cannot say. It was a stupid act if it was. Half the value was gone when they killed the slaves and despoiled the harem. The strange thing was, it didn’t appear to be a bandit attack. One of the survivors told me he had seen assassins.”
Elias raised the hand that covered the coin, allowing Rafiq to take it, while he reached into a small leather pouch on his belt. He withdrew a gold signet ring that also would double as a wax seal.
“Would this be one of items taken from the caravan?”
Rafiq plucked the ring from Elias’ palm and examined the reverse inscription.
“This belonged to one of Selim Omar’s white eunuchs. How did you come by it?”
“From an assassin who tried to kill me.”
Silence fell between them. Eventually, Rafiq handed the ring back.
“A dozen more gold ducats will not be enough to buy protection if you encounter these people again.”
Elias ignored the unsolicited advice. “The survivors of the caravan attack, do you know where they might have gone?”
“No, but it’s said a boy who died in the ambush may have been Selim Omar’s only male heir, and there was a rumor another of his wives escaped Al-Min after his murder and found her way to Pantelleria. Which answers your other question, my friend.”
Rafiq slipped the ducat into a pouch at his belt.
Elias rose. The noise in the room seemed to ebb away, leaving nothing but the sound of the ocean in his ears. Rafiq might have kept talking, but Elias didn’t hear a word.
Pantelleria. Ahmed Sharrouf’s estate. And the death of Selim Omar’s son. Now the pieces were beginning to fall into place. It wasn’t the sheik behind what had been happening. It was one of his wives.
She would have no interest in Laura, but every incentive in claiming the emir’s only male heir – Benjamin.