Juliet Marillier - Cybele's Secret Page 10

  “I am revising my opinion, Mistress Paula. I see that you are a woman of culture and learning.”

  “I hope you’re not making fun of me. I don’t care for that.” I felt a smile creeping onto my lips, despite my best intentions.

  “I would not dare. Not with the eyes of your guard fixed on me in that intimidating fashion. Where did you get him? He’s a tough-looking specimen.”

  I was not about to be drawn into a conversation about Stoyan and his former employer. “I want to ask you something,” I said.

  “Go on.”

  “You used the word liberate before. Can you possibly mean acquiring goods without making fair payment for them?”

  It was unfortunate that I spoke these words during a lull in the other conversation, the one Father was conducting with the Neapolitans. Suddenly everyone was looking at me.

  “You will hear me called a pirate,” said Duarte. “Among other things. Some of what folk say is true, some not. I’ve plied these waters a long time, Mistress Paula. A man uses what methods he must to make a living.”

  “All the same,” I said, delighted that he was prepared to engage me in a proper debate, “surely even the most admirable end should not be served by dishonest means.”

  “Paula.” My father’s tone was soft, a warning.

  “Dishonest? I am more honest than a man who pretends to integrity while readying a noose for his rival’s neck.” Duarte’s tone had changed; I could tell I had annoyed him this time. “I have never lied about what I am and what I do. I have been known to remain silent in the face of questioning. It has proven convenient once or twice, I admit.”

  The awkward moment was ended by the arrival of a fresh tray of coffee, carried by the vendor himself. A platter of sweetmeats followed. Duarte had procured these without needing to utter a word.

  “Folk run to do your bidding,” I observed. “Now why is that? From fear?”

  “Do not discount my natural charm, Mistress Paula.” He glanced at me, and I saw the flash of white teeth before I looked away. He was dangerous, all right—dangerous and irresistible.

  “Thank you for the information about the supper, Senhor Aguiar,” said my father politely. “We’ll bid you good day.”

  “I deduce I have outstayed my welcome.” Duarte glanced toward the steps to the street. A man I recognized was waiting there: the short, thickset fellow I had seen on board the Esperança. “We may meet in five days’ time,” the Portuguese said. “If so, we can resume this interesting conversation. Enjoy the sweetmeats.” And, with the effortless grace of a wild creature, he was on his feet and away.

  “Strange fellow,” observed Antonio, helping himself to a dried apricot.

  Father and I exchanged looks. We both knew that the conversation had yielded useful information and that we did not plan to discuss it in front of the Neapolitans.

  “That was a little unsettling,” Father said mildly. “More coffee, Paula?”

  As we sailed back across the Golden Horn, I felt an unexpected sense of well-being. Maybe the caïque was bobbing about more than I cared for, and maybe I had not coped with the çarşi as well as I had expected to, but I did have two lengths of good silk and enough trimmings to make a pair of very becoming outfits, and all at an excellent price. Better still, I had just had a discussion of the kind I most enjoyed, one in which my opponent could match me for cut and thrust. I wasn’t sure I liked Duarte Aguiar much. But I very much hoped I would talk to him again. Back in my tiny chamber at the han, I unpacked the purchases that Stoyan had carried for me. Plum silk, moss-green silk, braid and muslin, veils and shoes—I did like the elegant tooled finish on those. I might send Stoyan out another day to get a pair for Stela. Ah, there was the little package Duarte had so politely brought to the coffee shop, the item he’d said I left behind.

  I unfastened the twine around the bundle—not easy, as the knot was a sailor’s—and unfolded the wrapping. 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 çarşi. 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. What are you playing at? I thought. What is it you want from me?

  “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 çarşi. 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 Stea de Mare sailed. We would not be on it this time; buying Cybele’s Gift was taking longer than Father had expected, and we would not sail for home until our ship came back on its next trip, about a month from now. I played chess with myself, using a board and pieces borrowed from Maria’s quarters. The sun rose higher, and a light breeze tossed small clouds across the sky. It was a beautiful day for a walk. The boy came back. I thanked him and stowed away the items he had brought.

  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 question. “Which boys went where in which year, and so on?”

  “I cannot say, kyria. Such records, if they exist, would be in the archives at Topkapi Palace and accessible only to the Sultan’s librarians. Their availability would depend, I imagine, on who was asking to see them.”

  I could not pursue this any further. It was Stoyan’s secret, not mine. If it had occurred to me that Murat might be able to help him, Stoyan must also have thought of it.

  “Thank you, Murat,” I said. “I apologize if I was too curious. This is a very different culture from the one I am used to at home.”

  “It has many secrets, kyria. Layer on layer. If you were to stay in Istanbul, in time they would begin to reveal themselves.”

  The library was almost empty today. After greeting me warmly and saying Ariadne would find whatever I needed, Irene went out. The black-robed woman was nowhere to be seen. I asked Ariadne to fetch the box of papers I had studied on my last visit and settled to look at them.

  The first thing I noticed was that the sheet I had spent so long poring over before was on top of the pile. I knew I had placed it farther down, in a wish, perhaps misguided, to conceal the nature of my interest. “Ariadne?” I asked.

  “Yes, kyria?”

  “Is someone else currently working on these papers? I would hate to disrupt another scholar’s research….”

  “They have not been touched since your last visit, kyria. Alas, I have been too busy to progress with the catalog, and nobody else has asked to see these. Why do you ask?”

  “I couldn’t remember where I’d put the piece I was looking at. Never mind, it should be easy enough to find. Thank you, Ariadne.”

  It was odd. There was no reason for her to lie about such a thing, but I could not escape the conclusion that someone had set the piece at the top in readiness for me. I felt uneasy. It didn’t seem quite right to be in this house without Stoyan, even though all he had done the last time had been to stand by the door. I turned the sheet over, thinking I might make a copy of the symbols before I went home. The tiny, cryptic writing, the script that had appeared and disappeared before my eyes, was not visible today. There was no way to tell there had ever been anything written on that part of the sheet.

  I was disappointed. Secretly, I had been hoping there might be a new message there, something that began to make sense of the clues that were coming my way. Never mind; perhaps that was too easy. I had not gone through the entire box last time. I would check the full contents today to see if there were other papers that matched this one. More pictures; perhaps more clues. If someone wanted me to solve a puzzle, I needed more information.

  Because so many of the papers were old and fragile, it was a slow job. Time passed as I lifted them out onto the table, first the leaves I had looked at before, then those that were new to me. Just when I was deciding it was a wasted effort, I found it—another piece with matching borders and the same assured, ornate calligraphy, the letters curling and decorative, each a small masterpiece of control and flow. On this page there was only one picture. My heart gave a jolt; I knew immediately what I was looking at. It could not be coincidence. Whoever was setting me clues knew about Cybele’s Gift. The woman and her embroidery, the mysterious words about a quest and finding the heart, the cryptic border symbols—they were all tied up with Father’s business in Istanbul. I felt it in my bones.

  The miniature was no taller than my thumb, but it captured her vividly. She was painted in ocher, a squat, round person, her face a mask with a flat nose, a wide mouth, and dark holes for eyes. Her hands were on her hips, her legs tucked under her. Gold earrings hung from her lobes, and her hair streamed out like a wild tangle of snakes. Around the exuberant locks, the artist had added a swarm of bees. I looked into the cavernous eyes and heard a deep voice say, I am the beginning. Make me whole. I started in shock. When I looked up, thinking others in the library must have heard the same strange words, the woman in black was seated opposite me at the table, her eyes fixed on my face through the narrow opening in her veil.

  “Who are you?” I murmured, my gaze dropping to the embroidery that lay partly unrolled on the tabletop, far enough to show me that the two dancing girls had been joined by a third, curvaceous and graceful, with artfully dressed dark hair and bright blue eyes. My sister Iulia. Afte
r her, it would be me. Then Stela. Was that how long I had to work out the mystery, two more encounters with this woman? “Tell me! What do you want with me?” I looked at her veiled face once more. All I could see was her beautiful eyes, eyes of an unusual violet-blue shade, fringed by long dark lashes. They were just like my sister Tati’s. My skin prickled with unease. “Tati?” I whispered, not quite daring to believe.

  She did not speak. I heard it in my mind instead, my sister’s voice saying, The signs—you’ve got to look for the signs, Paula. And you haven’t got much time left. Then I was by myself at the table again, my lips still framing a question that would not be answered, for where Tati had been there was only empty space. Across the library, Ariadne worked on, oblivious to what had happened.

  I was cold with shock. Tati—Tati, who had not once come back from the Other Kingdom in the six years since she went there to be with her sweetheart, Sorrow. What could this mean? That a quest had been set not just for me but for my sister as well? In our forest at home, the Other Kingdom paralleled the human world, the same hills and hollows, lakes and streams existing in both. They were linked by hidden portals, doorways guarded by magic. Did that apply everywhere? Was there an Other Kingdom in Istanbul, in Bulgaria, in Portugal? I remembered the mission on which Sorrow had been sent by Ileana, the forest queen, to win Tati’s hand. That had involved an extraordinary journey, taking him to places within both our world and the other. So perhaps it was true. Perhaps concealed in the streets and gardens and palaces of Istanbul there existed secret entrances to another world, the same as the ones my sisters and I had discovered in the forest and castle of Piscul Dracului when we were growing up.

  Think, Paula. My mind was awhirl. I prided myself on my scholarship, my ability to use my learning to work things out. There had to be a logical way of approaching this. I must set aside the thrill of seeing my lost sister and the bitter disappointment that she had disappeared before I could speak to her. Step by step, that was the way to handle things. I would proceed as I’d planned, starting by making a copy of the odd little patterns from the border of the first manuscript page. I could examine them at leisure back at the han.