Juliet Marillier - Cybele's Secret Read online

  I put them in my notebook, using the same order in case that was a clue to their meaning. There were thirty squares, each with its own decoration. As I worked steadily through the sequence, the tiny writing reappeared on the page. Find the heart, for there lies wisdom. The crown is the destination. I stared at it, looked away, looked back, half expecting it to vanish before my eyes. But it was still there. I drew more squares. Twenty-five, twenty-six…The more of them I set down, the more familiar they seemed. Perhaps they marked out some kind of mathematical sequence. I tried various possibilities for a while and got nowhere. Maybe they were a code that related to words in another manuscript or well-known book. If that was the case, it would probably be in Persian and I would have to trust someone to help me. I imagined the squares turned in various ways and tried to make them match the letters in the manuscript’s text.

  “Ready for some coffee, Paula? Or the hamam?” Irene was coming across the library, smiling. “You’re looking quite pale. I can’t have you fainting from overwork.”

  I slipped the manuscript pages back into their box and closed the lid. As I did so, I saw that the line of tiny writing had vanished.

  Today even the hamam did not succeed in relaxing me. Ideas were racing around in my head, wild guesses as to what it was I was supposed to do and why Tati would be involved. Was I to ensure Father succeeded in buying Cybele’s Gift? Stop Duarte Aguiar from “liberating” it? Or was the quest something entirely different, related to hearts and crowns? I was a scholar; I excelled at puzzles. I hated myself for being too stupid to work this one out.

  “You seem tense today, Paula,” Irene remarked as we sat together in the camekan after our bath. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “I’m not looking for anything in particular,” I lied. “I am rather frustrated at my inability to read Persian.”

  “I hear you’ve had another confrontation with the dashing Senhor Aguiar,” Irene said.

  The change of subject caught me off guard. I felt myself blush and lowered my eyes. Inwardly, I kicked myself. If I’d wanted to give Irene a perfect impression of a gauche country girl, I could hardly have done better. “I saw him briefly at the markets,” I said, trying to look as if I was not the least interested in the dashing Senhor Aguiar.

  Irene chuckled. “Paula, this may be a very big city, but in certain circles news travels fast, and gossip even faster. I heard he was showing a marked interest in you. I was told the good senhor and your large watchdog exchanged glances like sword strokes while you busied yourself intimidating the hapless merchants of the çarşi. I wish I’d been there to see it.”

  I was mortified. “A gross exaggeration,” I said hastily. “It was just ordinary shopping. I’ve no idea why Duarte Aguiar decided to put himself out to help me. I hardly know him. He had stolen my scarf. That was how it started.”

  “Really?”

  The story of the near collision at sea, the scarf, the appearance of Duarte at the markets, and his extravagant gift had her enthralled. After rewarding my narrative performance with laughter, Irene turned suddenly serious.

  “It’s an excellent story that can only improve with retelling,” she said. “However, you should steer clear of Aguiar, as I advised you earlier. His past is shadowed by a hundred tales of dark deeds. This is a man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.”

  “I know that,” I said. “And I know his manner is sometimes inappropriate; I told him so. But he is interesting to talk to. We had a discussion about books. My father was present throughout,” I added hastily.

  “A man such as that does not offer a young woman gifts for no reason,” Irene said with a crooked smile. “Duarte cuts a fine figure; women admire him. A man with a reputation has more glamour than an upright fellow with a spotless record. And, of course, girls love the notion that a bad man can be turned to good, as long as he has the right woman to help him.”

  “You sound very cynical.”

  “Your father allows you considerable freedom, Paula. I respect him for that. But you should heed my warning where Duarte is concerned. If he thinks he can use you to achieve a goal, he will do so without scruples. If he continues to pay you attention, you should question his motives at every turn.”

  I said nothing. Her speech had left me more than a little deflated. It was not possible, apparently, that a man like Duarte Aguiar could admire me for myself, as an intellectual foil. And as a woman.

  “Do you think you will see him again?” Irene asked casually, rising to slip off her wrap, stretching like a cat, then stepping into her delicately embroidered undergarments.

  “Maybe,” I said. “My father has been invited to a supper; it’s likely Duarte will also be there. I will be careful. The thing is, I did like talking to him. It made me feel…alive.” It had made me feel as full of life as I had long ago in the Other Kingdom, debating all night with the scholars, wizards, and sages of that mysterious realm. There, nobody had worried about who liked whom or whether anyone had hidden motives. All had loved ideas; all had been excited by theories and argument. I thought of Tati, who had made that strange world her home. How could she have shown herself to me, then vanished before I could say any of the things I wanted to?

  “You look sad.” Irene’s tone was soft. “What’s troubling you, Paula?”

  “It’s nothing.” I dropped my own wrap and dressed myself in the fresh set of clothing I had brought: my gray gown and a plain white scarf. I was saving the plum outfit for supper at Barsam’s house.

  “Come back in the morning,” Irene said. “You need company, books, stimulation.”

  “Thank you. I will come if Stoyan is available to bring me. He may be busy again; Father has a lot to fit in.”

  “How long until this supper?”

  “Two days.”

  “If you need Murat to fetch you again, just send a message,” Irene said. “I do not want you to be alone at the han and unhappy, Paula. Besides, here you are safe from predators such as Duarte Aguiar.”

  I heard Murat’s voice from outside and, answering, Stoyan’s. I felt unaccountably relieved to hear him.

  “Is it the supper that is worrying you?” Irene asked delicately. “A Muslim household, perhaps?”

  “I don’t think so, or I wouldn’t have been invited,” I told her. “All I was told was to bring a chaperone. Maria will probably come with us. I wish I understood a little better about the rules governing women’s behavior here in Istanbul.”

  “If it is a Muslim household, Paula, you might perhaps accompany your father there, but you could be admitted only to the haremlik, the women’s quarters. If the purpose of the supper is to conduct a business transaction—I am assuming this may be so in view of your father’s occupation—any Islamic traders attending would not be prepared to continue if you were present. You might consider that grossly unfair, but it is the way things work in this part of the world. Those of us who live here discover our own forms of freedom, as no doubt you will if you stay among us long enough.”

  I did not answer. I could not do so without revealing the nature of our business and the purpose of Barsam’s supper.

  “You hesitate to say more.” Irene was fastening a row of tiny clips down the front of her braided tunic. “I think it is time for complete honesty, Paula. There should be no secrets between friends.”

  I opened my mouth to say that the secret was Father’s, not mine, but she spoke first.

  “I will tell you what I know, and you can confirm it as truth or falsehood. I’ve recently been provided with some information. It concerns a rare artifact that is for sale in Istanbul. I’ve been told the vendor lives near the Mosque of Arabs and that competition for the item is fierce, with a number of merchants having traveled to the city for the purpose of bidding. I heard that the transaction is cloaked in the utmost secrecy.”

  “Secrecy?” I echoed, stunned. “It cannot be so secret if you’ve heard all this.”

  “I know more. Duarte Aguiar is one of
the interested parties, and Teodor of Braşov another. I see you are shocked. You should not be. All I am demonstrating to you is that a woman can be more capable than a man of putting two and two together and making four. I have a wide circle of acquaintances in the city, Paula, and I’m a good listener. In this particular instance, it may set your father’s mind at rest if I tell you I obtained my knowledge from a single source: a former acquaintance of Murat’s at Topkapi Palace. The information will go no further, I promise you. The fact that I have not mentioned this to you earlier I offer as proof that I know when to keep my mouth shut. Your father’s trade secrets are perfectly safe with me. My own collection consists solely of books and manuscripts, none of them particularly rare. I have no interest whatever in religious artifacts. Now tell me, is this supper to be held at the house of an Armenian?”

  She had indeed shocked me. There seemed no point in holding back what she evidently knew perfectly well already. “Barsam the Elusive,” I said, nodding.

  “This is exciting for you, Paula. I see that. To be involved in the purchase of such an item must quicken the blood of any merchant. I have a warning for your father. You may pass on what I have told you, in confidence, of course, and add that Murat’s source believed it will not be long before the Mufti’s representatives carry out raids on the premises of all the potential buyers for this item. This relates to the matter the women were discussing on your first visit here—the revival of an ancient cult in Istanbul. It is Cybele’s cult the rumors refer to. The Sheikh-ul-Islam, of course, is outraged at the possibility of pagan rites taking a grip in this devoutly Muslim city and will be keen to shut them down. On this issue, his Jewish and Christian counterparts in Istanbul are very likely to agree with him. His men will be looking for any evidence that will allow them to track the artifact and, through it, the leaders of this supposed cult, who, it is assumed, will be just as keen to acquire Cybele’s Gift as everyone else seems to be. Let Master Teodor know it may be expedient to conceal any documentation related to this purchase. Such a visit will not be conducted gently.”

  “Thank you,” I said, shocked that she knew so much and horrified at the thought that, without the warning, Father might have been caught unprepared by the Mufti’s men. “I will certainly tell him. Now I must go; I hear Stoyan.”

  “Of course, Paula. I hope we will see you again tomorrow.”

  Stoyan was looking particularly impenetrable. It was late; long shadows stretched across the streets, and from the rooftops dark birds screeched to one another, offering their last territorial challenges before nightfall. We walked briskly.

  “Thank you for coming to fetch me,” I ventured.

  A nod in response.

  “Is everything all right? Was there a problem with the Neapolitan merchant?”

  “It was complicated, kyria. Your father will explain.”

  “Complicated?”

  “Master Teodor will tell you. The meeting did not proceed quite as he expected. Then, when we returned to the han, he was upset to find you gone.”

  “I left a message. You must have got it or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Stoyan turned his gaze on me but did not slow his pace. “The house of Irene of Volos is the first place I would have looked for you, Kyria Paula. You think if you were missing, I would stay at the han and do nothing?” He sounded less than his calm self.

  “I’m sorry if I upset anyone. It was a long morning, and Murat did come to fetch me. I’m not completely irresponsible.” I did not tell him that I had sent the tea vendor’s boy to buy me a set of robes like those the old women wore, black and all-concealing. I did not mention that I’d been on the verge of putting them on and going out by myself.

  There was silence as we walked on. We crossed the square with the shady tree under which the storyteller was accustomed to sit. The man had shut up business and gone home; it was almost time for the evening call to prayer.

  “I know that,” Stoyan said quietly. “Your father received your message. But he was worried about you, kyria. Now we should make haste. Best if you are safely indoors before dark.”

  I lengthened my stride. We walked past a coffee shop where a lot of men were sitting or standing around a central brazier. Dusk was falling; the little fire glowed amber. Eyes turned toward us. Stoyan moved so that he was between me and the watchers.

  “You keep up well for such a small thing,” he observed when we were safely past.

  “I was brought up in the mountains,” I said.

  “So,” Stoyan said as we made our way along the narrow, shadowy street that led toward the han, “you can walk fast and climb. You can float in deep water, even with your boots on. A woman of many talents.”

  The smile in his voice surprised me. “You don’t make jokes very often, Stoyan,” I said.

  “I have offended you?”

  “Not at all. I liked your joke.”

  A group of men passed close by us, and Stoyan put his hand against my back, lightly, as if to reassure me that I had a protector. It felt nice—better than it should have to a woman like me, who had always believed she could look after herself. As soon as the men were out of sight, he took his hand away.

  “May I ask you a question, Stoyan?”

  “Of course,” Stoyan replied.

  “I heard some disturbing rumors about Senhor Duarte. You’ve been in Istanbul for some time. What do you know about him?”

  “That man, Aguiar, he is not a suitable friend for you. I was troubled by his interest in you at the çarşi.”

  I could not think of an adequate response. “It wasn’t exactly my choice,” I said rather lamely. “He just came up and took over the shopping. I could hardly tell him to go away; that would have been rude.”

  “Such men, offered a pinch of salt, will take a bucketful, kyria. But you are a woman of independence; you will make your own path. See, we are almost home. Your father will tell you of his meeting. He is worried; you should hear him out.”

  I was worried, too, now and confused by the things he had said. “I will,” I said. “Thank you for bringing me home.”

  At the han, Father was pacing up and down on the gallery, his face drawn and tired. This could not be solely from concern that I had gone out without prior permission. He’d already approved my excursions to Irene’s. I deposited my bundle of clothing on my bed and returned to our central chamber while Stoyan went to buy supper.

  “What happened?” I asked straight out. “Come, sit down, Father. You look exhausted. Stoyan wouldn’t explain to me. Has something gone wrong?”

  “Not exactly.” Father sighed, then settled on the cushions opposite me. “I suppose it could even be interpreted as good news. Antonio of Naples is withdrawing his interest in Cybele’s Gift. He no longer wishes to compete.”

  “You bought him off?”

  “I never had the chance to try. Antonio received a warning. I was with him when it arrived. Whatever was in that message—it was in writing, and after he’d read it he consigned the paper to a brazier—was enough to turn him the color of goat cheese. He told me immediately that he was pulling out. This reduces our competition. Nonetheless, it troubles me.”

  He wasn’t the only one. “You think the letter was a threat?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” A certain note in Father’s voice told me he wasn’t giving me the full story. He reached across and took both my hands in his. “It’s not so very long since Salem bin Afazi was killed, Paula. I’m beginning to think I was foolishly naive when I decided it would be safe to bring you to Istanbul and to involve you in this particular business. When we returned here and you were gone, it alarmed me.”

  “I did leave a—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. You did the right thing. But the situation has changed. I’m concerned about your welfare.”

  I could just see it. The next thing would be a decision not to let me come to the supper at Barsam’s house. If someone outbid Father, I might never get to see Cybele’s Gift. I bit back a c
hildish protest: It’s not fair! I must consider what was best—for Father, for Tati, for me. Just possibly, for the Other Kingdom as well. Before I could even think about Cybele’s Gift, I needed to deal with the mystery of the manuscript and Tati’s appearances. I had to solve that puzzle. As for Father, I must pass on the information I had been given without delay.

  Stoyan came back up the steps, bearing a platter of steaming rice topped with chunks of roast lamb on skewers. It gave off a tantalizing odor combining lemon, mint, and spices.

  “Thank you, Stoyan,” said Father as this dish was set on the low table between us. “Paula, you know how badly I want this deal to be successful. You’ve worked hard to help me, and you’ve proven yourself an able assistant. But I don’t like exposing you to this world of power plays and scheming. Nor, I find, am I as comfortable as I hoped to be about your situation as a woman in a man’s world. You are vulnerable, like it or not. The Portuguese had a certain look in his eye. So, I am certain, did Alonso di Parma the day you struck your deal with him. I didn’t much care for it.”

  “Maybe that’s true,” I said, “but surely there’s an advantage to you in the very fact that I am a woman, and a young one at that. Men do tend to assume a girl is incapable of fully understanding a conversation about trading or related matters. I might hear all sorts of things you wouldn’t. Father, I have some information for you. I think it’s important.” I told them what Irene had said—that raids on trading centers were imminent and that it might be appropriate to do a little rearranging of documents. That the Mufti was interested in Cybele’s Gift and anyone who might be bidding for it. “Irene implied that their methods might be rather rough,” I added. “It sounds as if this is not as secret as you’ve believed, Father. I’ve been careful not to talk about Cybele’s Gift, even when the women at the hamam were discussing this underground cult. I didn’t give away any secrets. But Irene does know a lot about what’s going on, through her steward’s contacts at Topkapi.”