I let the porters go at the door with a suitable tip then, hoped to make my way back to the harem through the kitchen corridor, on to the white eunuch’s quarters by the Gate of Felicity. But before I could, the pantry overseer stopped me.
“A friendly warning, khadim,” he said. “I wouldn’t go down past the kitchens if I were you, not if I valued my life.”
“How so, friend?” I turned to him and laughed. “I am not afraid of a little heat if it will cut my walking time in half.”
“Yes, well, there’s the heat. But something else besides.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, it’s all on account of these—ahem.” He gestured towards the casket he hardly ever let out of his sight, even when the room was empty.
“Yes?”
“Well.” His long face grew longer still. “It’s those two kitchens. Nur Banu’s and Safiye’s. They both crave the supreme honor of making the dishes to complement these dates and both claim the other unequal to it. Even the head chefs are not above flinging insults at each other in the hall.”
“I think I can dodge flying insults.” I smiled.
“Ah, but the underlings. They do not stop at words. Kitchen slops, fire brands, skillets—even knives have been flying. And all on account of these dates—and those two women. I don’t envy you, having to go back to the harem. It must be very frightening there, so close to the heart of the flame when this is what we find at the edges.”
I bowed to him, thanking him for his concern. I was going to go against his counsel nonetheless, but I think stopping to hear it was one of the most provident things I’d ever done. Just as I turned to continue, heedless, on my way, what sounded like a thunderclap came from the very spot I would have been at that moment if I had not stopped.
I do not know what the sound was. And no one who was close enough to see what it was lived to tell the tale.
XVII
There are those who think it was only a fire such as any kitchen with piles of wood and pans of grease is subject to. Maybe it was only the words the overseer had just finished giving me, but I’m afraid I must refute that notion. That sound and the awful speed with which smoke, then flame was soon pouring down the corridor in both directions make me suspicious.
Suspicious of what, I can hardly say. And I did not take time to think about then, for the overseer and I were shoving each other out the door and into the courtyard to shout the news to anyone who had ears, “Fire! Fire! Quick!”
Not a moment later we were followed by all those who managed to escape the kitchens if they did not jump out the windows in the other direction. One man had his eyebrows singed. Others, overcome by smoke, were carried by companions. One brought fire with him, clinging to his clothes like a playful little monkey. Screaming wildly, he flung himself to the dust and rolled while some came to his aid.
They answered our call quickly: janissaries, pages, officials of all descriptions carrying water in vessels just as varied. Soon several hand-to-hand chains were set up to carry water from the Fountain of Execution in the first court. The fountain’s steps, brown with dried blood, grew red as the water splashed on them—here the head executioner and his assistants always washed themselves after carrying out their function. Now it was called on to save lives instead. But soon the fighters were halted at the kitchen door in their efforts, and then one or two were seriously injured as the roof of the portico collapsed in front of the door.
A strong breeze like the breath of Judgment came off the Marmara, pushing my robes against the fountain and making them wetter and heavier still.
“We shall have a time of it if that wind keeps up,” the man closest to me shouted, and I agreed.
The wind working like a great bellows trained right on the hot spot and fanned it towards the main part of the palace and the harem. Where a corps might have set themselves to strategic advantage, none did because that would mean violating the Sultan’s women.
As soon as I saw this, I left my place in the brigade—there were plenty with pinched faces beneath the sweat to replace me, and fire-fighting was not my first responsibility. I walked as fast as a eunuch’s dignity would let me through the Gate of Felicity.
I found my lady gossiping with friends. In their oda, no sound of the fury out in the second court had entered. I waited as long as I dared, but then felt obliged to interrupt.
“What is it, Abdullah?” Esmikhan turned to me still weak and smiling from her last fit of giggles.
“Lady,” I said, “there is a fire in the kitchen.”
Her face puckered and then burst into laughter again. “I am glad to hear that,” she said. “They will need something to roast our shish-kebab on.”
The others joined in her laughter.
“You misunderstand, lady,” I said. “There is a fire gone out of control. Several men have been killed already and the whole second court is in alarm.”
“Oh!” some of the ladies exclaimed and wondered if, from the lattices in the female slaves’ dormitory on the second floor, they could get a view of what was going on. They went to find out.
For my lady and even for some others not so handicapped as she, the diversion was not worth the trouble of climbing stairs, so they picked up the conversation where they’d left off.
“But lady,” I persisted, “I think perhaps I should call the sedan porters to have them on alert, at least, in case we are forced to flee.”
My lady sighed at this second interruption.
