Inside was a length of cloth in deep red-purple, a darker version of the plum-colored silk I had purchased. As I lifted it, there was a faint tinkling sound. I shook it out, the fabric smooth in my hands, and saw that it was a generously sized headscarf of the kind I had so admired on Irene of Volos: smoothly draping and fringed at the front with a row of tiny medallions. Not gold; such headdresses were reserved for the storage and occasional display of the wealth of an entire family. These were disks of polished shell, each a small miracle of swirling light, in every shade from cloud to spindrift to stream-in-shadow. It was a garment for a fairy-tale princess, delicate, exotic, one of a kind. Not valuable, yet of a value beyond measuring in merchants’ currency. As a gift, it was the kind of item that would appeal only to someone with a taste for the unusual. Instantly I loved it.
I decided I would not explain to Father that I had left nothing behind in the carsi. Let him think I had bought this stunning garment for myself. Was it intended as compensation for my red scarf? What else could it be?
I arranged the scarf over my hair so the disks lay across my brow. There was no mirror here, but I let myself imagine it made me beautiful.
“Paula?” Father called from the adjoining chamber. “After we’ve eaten, will you check our remaining stock against the inventory, or were you planning to throw yourself straight into a frenzy of sewing?”
“Of course I’ll do it, Father.” I took off the scarf with a sigh and put it away in the storage chest, where it settled like a soft red shadow: out of sight but definitely not out of mind.
It was now urgent that Father call on the other merchants he suspected might be in the contest for Cybele’s Gift, for not long after we’d got back from the markets, we’d received our own invitation to supper at the house of Barsam the Elusive. The invitation included me, provided I brought a chaperone. That improved my mood considerably, and in the morning I waved goodbye in good spirits as Father and Stoyan headed out on a round of visits. Then I went to Maria’s quarters and settled to sewing.
I was good at dressmaking. It had been an essential skill for my sisters and me. When we were growing up, our monthly visits to the Other Kingdom had required dancing gowns of a style and quality we had no need for in our daily lives. We had become expert at creating dazzling confections out of limited materials. The new silks, feather-soft and glowing with subtle color, were an enticing invitation—almost enough to make me forget Irene’s library, the manuscript, and the woman in black, but not quite.
Maria and her friend Claudia were also keen seamstresses. Perhaps it came with being married to merchants and constantly surrounded by lovely fabrics. One day, then another, passed in a whirlwind of creative activity, and on the third morning my new apparel was ready. I felt quite an urge to give it an outing.
Father and Stoyan had left early, planning to sail up the Bosphorus to see Antonio, one of the Neapolitan merchants we’d met in the carsi. They would be gone until nearly suppertime. In the last two days, they had tracked down four other parties interested in Cybele’s Gift, and Father had ascertained that none was prepared to enter into any kind of deal prior to the viewing. He had also made his own informed guesses as to how serious each trader was and how much each might be prepared to offer for the piece. When he returned in the evenings, there was a suppressed excitement about him, as if he were enjoying the challenges of this contest. Stoyan, by contrast, seemed on edge. I often saw him scanning the courtyard, the gallery, the dark corners of the han as if he expected danger to follow us right inside. Before they left in the mornings, he always had a long conversation with the han guard, which I suspected was to do with my safety. I could have told him there was nothing to worry about. What trouble was I going to get into while shut up inside sewing?
Now, with my project finished, I sat on the gallery in my moss-green outfit, frustrated that I could not go to Irene’s without an escort. I knew the way and could walk there easily. I could request that same box of papers again and see if there were any other pages to match the one I had studied. I could copy those little pictures, the mysterious ones in the decorative border. I could look for information about Cybele. Besides, I wanted to see if the woman in black was there. If she was, I would ask to see her embroidery.
But I couldn’t go. I’d promised not to take a single step outside the han walls unless Father or Stoyan was with me. It was infuriating. There were only a couple of days left until Barsam’s supper, and my instincts told me there was a puzzle I was supposed to solve before then. The clues were in the library. I had to go there.
The morning wore on and my mood did not improve. I sent the tea vendor’s boy out with a small purse and instructions to make some purchases for me and to keep his mouth shut about it. I wrote a letter to Stela, which I would dispatch when the
An hour or so before the midday call to prayer, Irene’s steward, Murat, appeared in the han courtyard. He caught my eye and indicated by gestures that he had come to speak with me. I beckoned him up to the gallery, suppressing an urge to grovel in gratitude when he said he had come to fetch me, at Irene’s request, so I could spend the rest of the day at her house. Only if it suited me, of course, he added politely.
I fetched what I needed for the hamam and left a message with the tea vendor that Stoyan should come and collect me before suppertime. Then, very glad that I had put on my new clothing, I set out for Irene’s. Even Stoyan must agree, I reasoned, that I would be safe on the street in Murat’s company. The eunuch was armed today, a knife in his sash, and made a fine figure in his green dolman and neatly wrapped turban, the latter fastened with a little clasp set with what appeared to be a real emerald.
Murat intrigued me. His manner was courteous in the extreme, but there was something about him that was the opposite of servile. The upright but relaxed stance, the piercing blue eyes, the impression he gave that he could perform the duties of a household steward more or less in his sleep—these intrigued me. There were many things I wanted to know about his past, all far too awkward to put into words. But there were other, related matters he might be prepared to talk about. As we negotiated a narrow street, I said, “May I ask you something, Murat?”
“Of course, kyria.” His voice was high for a man’s; Father had told me this was usual for eunuchs.
“I’ve heard of the devshirme, when they take boys for the Sultan’s service. Do folk ever come here looking for their lost sons or brothers? And if they do, what is the chance of such a young man being found?”
Murat maintained his steady pace, walking to my right and one step behind. “It is possible,” he said. “But unlikely. The families that lose sons to the devshirme are not wealthy. Few would have the resources to mount such a search. Besides, though no doubt the cause of much grief in the short term, to have a child taken in this way could be seen as beneficial. For a poor family, it is one less mouth to feed. For the boy, an opportunity to make something of himself.”
“But—” I began, about to tell him that most boys would surely rather end up as simple farmers free to make their own choices than as highly trained, well-fed slaves. I stopped myself just in time. It seemed very likely Murat himself had been a child of the devshirme. “What about records?” I asked him, trying to make it sound like a casual
