may see them. You know the house where they are kept. The guards have been told to expect you. You will have one hour, and you will be searched before you enter.'
Isa left without another word. Halil was glad that he had found him. When Mehmed's oldest brother, Ahmet, had been poisoned, Halil had of course looked into the matter. After several years and many, many bribes, he had traced the source of the poison to Isa, then a servant in Mehmed's household, but not before Mehmed's other brother, Ala ed-Din, had also been killed. Shortly thereafter, Isa had disappeared. Halil had thought him dead until last year when, in search of a particularly rare poison, he had visited a caravanserai outside of Edirne. He was led into the tent of one of the merchants, a man who went by the name of Amir, and was surprised to find himself face to face with Isa. Isa had been living as the prosperous merchant Amir for years, always moving with the caravan, at first staying far from the major Turkish cities. But time had dulled his sense of fear, and for some years he had been following caravans to Edirne and even to Manisa, where Mehmed lived. No one recognized him, and Isa had grown more and more confident. He returned to his earlier calling as a dealer in potions and poisons. Three years ago he had felt secure enough to marry, and now he already had two children. Halil had taken Isa's family into his protection — meaning that if Isa did not do exactly as Halil said, they would be killed. Isa was a strong man. He had not even blinked when Halil told him that he knew that it was he who had poisoned Prince Ahmet, nor had he shown any sign of fear at threats of torture or death. He did, however, have a surprising weakness for his family. After Halil had them seized, Isa had proved most cooperative.
Yes, Halil was glad that he had found Isa. Thanks to his efforts, Murad would soon be dead and Mehmed on the throne. He would be much easier to control than his father, and if he were not, then there was always Sitt Hatun. Halil knew that the sultan's wife was a proud woman and resented her low status next to Mehmed's new kadin, Gulbehar. Halil had offered her a position of power and respect as mother of the reigning sultan. All he asked in return was that she lie with him so that the prince that was born to her, the prince who would be sultan after Halil eliminated Mehmed, would in fact be Halil's son. Sitt Hatun would have what she wanted, and Halil would be regent and the father of the empire. Sitt Hatun had not accepted his offer yet, but that, Halil hoped, was only a matter of time. Sitt Hatun sat beside the carp pool in the harem garden, daydreaming as her maidservant Cicek read aloud to her from a book of poetry. The morning air in the garden was warm and relaxing, scented with the perfume of thousands of flowers. Sitt Hatun trailed her hand in the water and felt the carp nibble gently at her fingers. She closed her eyes and exhaled. The months since Mehmed left for Manisa had been peaceful, despite Gulbehar's frequent slights. And lately, Sitt Hatun had hardly seen Gulbehar, who had kept to her apartments since the birth of her son, Bayezid.
At times like this, Sitt Hatun could almost convince herself that the harem was what the common people thought it to be: darus-saade, the place of happiness. Sitt Hatun, however, knew better. The harem was indeed a place of unparalleled luxury, but it was also rife with treachery and intrigue. It was a world apart, set aside from the rest of the palace grounds. It had its own gardens, its own mosque, its own kitchen and laundries. The harem even had its own people; except for the wives of the sultan and their offspring, none of the inhabitants of the harem was a Turk, for according to law, Muslims could not be made slaves. The women of the harem were sent by foreign rulers eager to establish good relations with the sultan, or else they were captured in war or taken as tribute from neighbouring peoples. They were Greek, Bosnian, Wallachian, Bulgarian, Russian, Polish, Italian and even French. The eunuchs were much the same; they were mostly taken as prisoners of war or rounded up in the devshirme, which exacted a tribute of children from all non-Muslims living within the Ottoman Empire.
Friendships rarely lasted amongst this mixed assortment of peoples, not with so many strange tongues and cultures lumped together, joined only by their desire to rise within the ranks of the harem, from slave-girl jariye to odalisque at the court of one of the sultan's favourites, to concubine and perhaps even to wife or kadin. Everybody spied on everybody, eager to commit small betrayals in return for power. Sitt Hatun's one friend, her ally in this pit of vipers, was her cousin and childhood companion, Cicek. After Cicek's parents died, she and Sitt Hatun had grown up together. They had become inseparable, and when Sitt Hatun had married Mehmed, Cicek had chosen to join her in the harem, even though it meant the loss of her freedom. Now, Cicek was Sitt Hatun's constant companion.
'My Lady.' It was Cicek. She had stopped reading and was gently shaking Sitt Hatun's shoulder. 'My Lady!' she whispered again. 'Yilan is in the garden.' Sitt Hatun opened her eyes and sat up. Yilan: the snake. It was what she and Cicek called Gulbehar, on account of her venomous tongue and the sinuous, swaying way she walked — like the undulating body of a charmed cobra. Sitt Hatun located her on the portico at the other end of the garden, her head held high as she stepped on to the lawn. Behind her came no less than ten odalisques, each dressed in red silk caftans embroidered with swirling patterns in gold — greater finery than Sitt Hatun herself could afford. But they looked drab beside Gulbehar, who was dressed like a princess from the Arabian Nights. She wore a tight, sleeveless silk robe of the deepest red, embroidered with gold and pearls. On her bare arms hung dozens of jewelled bracelets, and her long blonde hair was woven around a diadem of bright gold, set with diamonds. Certainly, Gulbehar did not lack for wealth; Mehmed showered her with gifts. But Sitt Hatun had never before seen her dressed so ostentatiously. She looked more like the wife of Sultan Murad than the kadin of a prince, even of the crown prince.
'Greetings, sister,' Gulbehar said. Her Turkish was laced with a strong Albanian accent, yet another thing that Sitt Hatun hated about her. 'It is such a lovely day. I thought that I would join you.' Gulbehar motioned to her servants, and they placed cushions on the ground near Sitt Hatun. Gulbehar sat, and two more servants stepped forward to fan her.
'I am pleased to see you,' Sitt Hatun lied. 'I have seen little of you since our husband left. You have not been feeling ill, I hope.'
'No, I have not been ill,' Gulbehar said and smiled to herself. What did that smile mean? Sitt Hatun wondered. 'Little Bayezid has kept me busy, that is all.'
The words were like a slap. Bayezid was Gulbehar's pride and joy, as well as her favourite tool for torturing Sitt Hatun. It was because of Bayezid that Gulbehar enjoyed the title of bas haseki — mother of the heir — and the privileges that went with it. It was because of Bayezid that Sitt Hatun was wife in name only.
'Yes, your son must be quite a handful,' Sitt Hatun said. 'Do the doctors still fear that he is an idiot?' Gulbehar flushed crimson. Bayezid had been dropped when he was still a newborn, and although he had shown no adverse effects, there was a persistent palace rumour that his wits were addled. It was a silly rumour, but it was the best that Sitt Hatun could do.
'No,' Gulbehar replied. 'He is well. In fact, he looks more like his father every day.' As if on cue, the unseen Bayezid began bawling, his loud cries descending from Gulbehar's quarters and echoing throughout the gardens. 'Such a strong voice, like his father's,' she said. 'I suppose that he should be seen to.'
Sitt Hatun nodded, hoping that she might soon be rid of Gulbehar. 'Yes, no doubt he cries for his mother.'
'No doubt,' Gulbehar agreed. She looked around, as if she were searching for something. 'But all of my servants are busy. No matter. You,' she called, pointing to Cicek. 'Bring me my child.' Sitt Hatun's eyes widened. To order another's servants was to take charge of them, but surely Gulbehar would not dare to steal away Sitt Hatun's favourite. Murad would never allow it.
Cicek did not move. 'Do you hear me, girl? Bring me my son,' Gulbehar repeated. Cicek looked to Sitt Hatun, who nodded and looked away as Cicek rose and left. 'You do not mind, do you, sister?' Gulbehar asked Sitt Hatun. 'I will send you a replacement tomorrow. Anyone you wish.'
But this was too much for Sitt Hatun. 'I do not need a replacement,' she spat back as she rose to her feet. 'The Sultan will not permit this.' Sitt Hatun hurried away to her apartments, struggling to hold back her tears. 'This cannot be,' she repeated to herself again and again. Murad will not allow it. He cannot.
But Murad did allow it. In response to Sitt Hatun's angry plea that Cicek be returned to her, he told her that harem politics were not his affair and ordered her to take one of Gulbehar's odalisques in exchange. Sitt Hatun stormed away, furious. She was too angry to even think about letting one of Gulbehar's women, no doubt a spy, into her household. She shut herself in her bedroom and took up her sitar, picking out a nursery song from her childhood in an effort to calm herself. But peace would not come, only fat tears that splashed silently on the finished wood of the sitar. She had no friends in her household now. She was alone.
Alone perhaps, but she was not weak. Sitt Hatun set the sitar aside and angrily wiped the tears from her eyes. She could not afford to indulge in sorrow. She did not have the money or the servants that were showered on Gulbehar. But she had her wits, and she would have to use them. Gulbehar had taken Cicek, but perhaps Sitt Hatun could turn this to her own advantage. Cicek would always be faithful to her, and a spy in Gulbehar's household could
