Juliet Marillier - Cybele's Secret Page 4

  The Sultan would not buy here, of course. Those who purchased goods on his behalf dealt almost exclusively with business enterprises that were within his own personal control. If there was a need to go beyond those, perhaps for a particularly specialized dyestuff or a rare manuscript, an emissary would be sent out to summon the merchant to the palace. Even the most respected traders would be admitted only to the outer court of that establishment. The Sultan and his household were surrounded by layer on layer of security and protected by rigid codes of protocol. That did not always keep them safe. In a hierarchy where any male of direct lineage could ascend the throne, covert killings were a fact of life. I had heard some terrible stories.

  “Concentrate, Paula,” said Father. “I need you to be observant during this meeting. Watch their eyes and their expressions. This fellow Alonso di Parma is known to be manipulative. We need to be clear on the taxes; who pays the fee on entry of the goods to the harbor here and whether there’s an additional impost on transfer to our own ship for the journey north. If they pay that, we could offer to set it against the tax on the furs.”

  “Yes, Father.” I had been distracted by the appearance of a female visitor to the han. A shapely, stylish woman of about thirty was going up the far steps now, probably to visit Maria or her friend Claudia, who was married to another Genoese trader. Her hair was covered by a very fine veil in dark green stuff with a row of tiny gold medallions sewn around the edge, framing her face. Under it she wore a long overdress in the Greek style, green and gold, with a flowing skirt beneath. The ensemble was complemented by gold slippers.

  I glanced down at my own garb, finding it suddenly a little lacking. I had selected my outfit for decorum, not for style. I had on a dove-gray gown with some unobtrusive braiding at neck and wrists, and a blue headscarf. In short, I had dressed not as a single woman of seventeen but as my father’s assistant. For a moment or two, I allowed myself to want gold slippers and a gown that would make me beautiful.

  The elegant lady had vanished into Maria’s quarters. Her guard, a big man in a caftan and turban, was standing out on the gallery waiting. I caught his eye without intending to, and he gave a slight nod. There was something odd about him—a fleshiness of the features, a certain manner. I could not quite place it.

  “A eunuch,” said Father, noticing my curiosity. “You’ll see them from time to time in Istanbul, generally escorting dignitaries from the palace. Among the Sultan’s most trusted slaves are both black and white eunuchs. The former guard the harem, the latter see to the business of the household in general, including the education of the Sultan’s sons and those of his nobles. They are employees of high status. But slaves nonetheless.”

  “Oh,” I said. “But he came with a lady who looked like a buyer. Greek, maybe.”

  “I didn’t notice her. It would be unusual. Infidels—that is, foreigners, non-Muslims—rarely have the opportunity to employ such a person in their households. Don’t stare, Paula.”

  Embarrassed, I brought my attention back to the matter at hand. We went through our figures once again. The Venetians were late. We discussed how we would handle things if they did not come. When we heard the guard at the han gate challenge someone, Father and I both rose to our feet, sure our visitors had arrived at last. But it was Stoyan who came into the courtyard; he strode to the steps and ascended them with his usual athletic speed. He hurried along the gallery to us. I observed that he was slightly out of breath; that was a first.

  “Is something wrong?” Father asked him.

  “No, Master Teodor. I have been to this blue house. The merchant invites you to come now, immediately. I made my way back as quickly as I could, knowing you viewed the matter as urgent.”

  Father was not a man given to cursing, but he muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like an oath. “I can’t go now,” he said. “I have traders coming to see me at any moment. If I put them off, I may lose an important deal.”

  Stoyan was getting his breathing under better control. I suspected he had run all the way. “I am sorry, Master Teodor. At first, the steward of that household did not wish to hear my message. I thought it prudent to mention Salem bin Afazi. I was then admitted. I told the merchant you were Salem’s friend, all the way from Transylvania.”

  “I wonder if he would see me in the afternoon.”

  “He did say”—Stoyan’s tone was apologetic—“that he must keep your appointment brief, as others were coming to visit him later.”

  “This is infuriating,” muttered Father. “To have the opportunity laid before me on a plate and not be able to take it…I can’t be in two places at once.”

  “I could go,” I said.

  “I don’t think that’s wise.” Stoyan’s response was instant and emphatic.

  I stared at him, outraged. “It’s not up to you to decide!” It was all very well for him; he wasn’t shut up in the han all day. “I’m perfectly capable.”

  “I’m in complete agreement with Stoyan,” Father said. “This Armenian will not be prepared to receive a young woman on such sensitive business. Besides, it’s too risky.” He sighed. “It does seem we must let this opportunity pass.”

  “If I may suggest?” Stoyan spoke up, surprising me. “Kyria Paula could deal with these traders, could she not? I can request that the han guard remains within sight. Provided the negotiations take place out on the gallery, I believe it will be quite safe for her. You will need me to show you the way to the blue house, Master Teodor. It is not so easy to find.”

  Father opened his mouth to say no—I could see the doubt in his eyes—and shut it again as I lifted my chin and fixed him with my most capable look.

  “I can do it,” I said. “I know everything about the deal, including how to stop Alonso di Parma from trying to double-cross me. I’ll explain that we can reach provisional terms subject to your signature. Go on, Father. You must see this Armenian. It may be our big chance.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “I can do this, Father,” I repeated.

  “It’s a lot for you to take on….” He was already fetching his short cloak, his hat, his best gloves.

  “I like a challenge, Father. You know that.”

  As they left, I met Stoyan’s eye and he gave me a little nod. I did not respond. I wasn’t quite sure how I felt: cross or grateful. I only knew he had surprised me yet again.

  By the time the Venetian merchants were making their farewells, I was holding on to my temper by the merest thread and my whole body was clammy with nervous sweat. Alonso di Parma had not only tried to double-cross me, he had patronized me, attempted to trap me into giving away trade secrets, then, once he realized I knew what I was doing, flirted with me outrageously. The man was old enough to be my father.

  Alonso had brought his two trading partners with him. One had wanted to leave immediately on discovering they would be dealing with me. The other was tired from the walk to the han and preferred to stay long enough for a glass of tea and a rest. I seized the opportunity, procuring the tea from downstairs and handing around the glasses like any demure young lady while making certain introductory statements—just enough to get them interested. A very considerable time later, after many more glasses of tea and a great deal of maneuvering, we had agreed on terms.

  I curbed both my jubilation and my annoyance, bidding my visitors a courteous farewell. I stood on the gallery watching until they were out of sight. Then I slipped my veil off my head, ran my fingers through my hair, and whirled around in a little private dance of triumph. As I came to a halt, I realized there were two people watching me. One was the eunuch, still stationed by Maria’s doorway. The other stood down in the courtyard, looking up at me with a blank expression on his hawkish features. He was wearing riding gear, serviceable and plain, in muted grays and browns. His only touch of color was twisted around his neck: a red scarf.

  Suddenly I was aware of how tired and sweaty I was. My hair had been neatly plaited this morning,
but now it was everywhere, curling over my brow and spilling onto my shoulders. I pulled my veil back up and retreated swiftly into our apartment. What was Duarte da Costa Aguiar doing in the Genoese trading center? Not looking for me, that much was certain. His eyes had passed over me as if I were of no more interest than the brickwork of the han walls. I would go down there on the pretext of returning the tea jug to the vendor, and I would ask the pirate to give back my scarf. But not looking like this.

  Some time later, I emerged from our apartment wearing a clean gown, with my hair brushed and pinned up high. The woman in the gold-decorated veil was down in the courtyard chatting to Maria beneath a bay tree. Her attendant stood behind. Three or four Genoese merchants were gathered close, like a swarm of bees around an exotic bloom. That was unsurprising, for the woman was lovely. Her face was a perfect oval, her skin smooth olive, her features flawless.

  Someone stepped out from the shadows a little way along the gallery, making me jump.

  “That looks nice,” said the pirate in accented Greek, his eyes running over my neatly ordered curls and fresh gown. “Blue suits you. But I think I prefer your hair down.”

  As I tried to find words, Duarte Aguiar hitched himself up to sit on the gallery railing, from which elevated and precarious position he would be fully visible to anyone in the courtyard. He was breaking so many rules of acceptable behavior I could not think what to say to him. Foremost in my mind was the thought that he had been waiting for me out here while I changed my clothes with not much more than a curtain between us. I tried to look past him for the han guard, but the Portuguese was effectively blocking my view. I was not quite prepared to run away; that would suggest an inability to cope with the situation.

  “I don’t believe I know you,” I said in my frostiest tone.

  The pirate smiled. He was a startlingly attractive man, lean and tall, his dark hair caught back with a ribbon, his eyes sparkling with mischief in a face like that of a fine Greek statue, only with considerably more character. His close proximity troubled me for reasons that were not all to do with the impropriety of the situation. “You’re blushing,” he said. “Most fetching. I think I have the advantage over you. Paula of Braşov, isn’t it? I am Duarte da Costa Aguiar, master of the Esperança, out of Lisbon. There, now we are introduced, and it is perfectly proper for you to talk to me. How are you enjoying Istanbul? Has your father taken you to see Aya Sofia yet? Or to the covered markets? You’d like the booksellers, I’m sure.”

  It sounded as if he’d been gathering information about me, for what purpose I could not imagine. Anxiety was making my palms clammy. Eyes would be on us from all over the han. I did not want Father to return to the news that his daughter had been entertaining male visitors alone. Alonso di Parma’s visit had been a scheduled trading meeting, during which the han guard had kept me in sight continuously as instructed by Stoyan. Once Alonso had departed, the guard had gone back to his normal duties. I needed to extricate myself swiftly and, if possible, politely.

  “Why would you assume that?” I inquired as Duarte folded his arms, apparently settling in for a lengthy chat.

  “Gossip travels fast in the Galata quarter,” the Portuguese said lightly. “You must know how people talk in the hamam. All that steam loosens their tongues.” When I did not reply, he narrowed his snapping dark eyes and gave me a droll look of scrutiny. “Don’t tell me your father hasn’t let you visit a bathhouse,” he said. “It’s an essential part of being in Istanbul to submit to the steaming and scrubbing and pummeling. You won’t know yourself, Mistress Paula. It would give me immense pleasure to introduce you to the delights of the hamam personally, but unfortunately I am too much of a man for that.”

  I felt my blush flame still brighter. “This is most unseemly,” I spluttered. “Senhor Aguiar, I cannot conduct a private conversation with you, and I suspect you know it. If you want something, tell me what it is and then leave. Please. My father is out on business. If you need to speak to him, you should return later.”

  “Master Teodor? I am not ready to speak to him yet. I came here to offer you an apology.”

  I gaped at him. “For what?”

  His hand went up, long-fingered, elegant, to touch the red scarf. “For this,” he murmured.

  “It wasn’t a gift,” I said. “If you feel sorry for taking it, all you need to do is give it back.”

  “I suppose I could do that. I find myself disinclined to part with it. It has become something of a good-luck charm, Mistress Paula. I think I will retain this little part of you for myself, to hold close.”

  That sent a shiver through me, mostly unease but, I was forced to recognize, partly pleasure as well. I could not help feeling just a little flattered. “I want you to leave,” I made myself say. “Please.”

  “Am I embarrassing you?”

  “Of course not,” I lied. “But you must know how wrong it is for me to receive you up here on my own. It’s not as if we’re talking business.”

  “Ah!” He came down off the railing in a graceful movement and stood before me, perfectly relaxed in his good, plain clothes and his highly polished leather boots. The red scarf did set off his manly beauty rather well. “So business is allowed? Then let us speak of that. Your father has brought a cargo of hides, furs, grain, yes? I’m not dealing in those. I want to know what he’s come to buy.”

  My heart gave a lurch. “You have goods for sale?” I asked, squashing the response that sprang to my lips—That’s none of your business—and keeping my tone cool.

  “None at all,” Duarte said, spreading his hands with a shrug. “But I think Master Teodor and I may be in competition for a certain item. I understand he is making a series of visits. As his assistant—that is what I have heard you are—you might perhaps be able to provide me with further details. If I ask nicely.” He smiled again, a look I suspected had been practiced on young women for years and years with devastating results. I wished I had listened all those times when my sister Iulia had tried to give me tips on dealing with men; her advice would have come in handy right now.

  “There’s a way these things are done, Senhor Aguiar,” I told him, surreptitiously wiping my clammy hands on my skirt. “And this is not the way. Have you never heard of confidentiality? I thought you were a trader—that is, when you are not pursuing your other activities.”

  His gaze altered; it became suddenly dangerous. “And what activities might those be?” The tone was like silk wrapped around a blade.

  Piracy. Stealing. Murder. “I’ve heard certain things. Enough to know I cannot do business with you, senhor. I’ll wish you good day. I will tell my father you called.” I made to walk away along the gallery, but suddenly he was there, not blocking my path exactly, for if this man was anything, he was subtle, but somehow making it too awkward for me to get past.

  “Not so fast,” the pirate said. “I can’t have wild rumors spread about, especially not if they reach the ears of lovely young women such as yourself. What exactly did you hear about me, and—”

  “Senhor Aguiar!” The confident female voice cut Duarte’s speech short. We turned to see the woman from the courtyard walking along the gallery toward us, her pace unhurried, her eyes fixed on my companion. There was an expression in them that could only be described as withering. “At your age, have you not grown weary of playing silly games with vulnerable young women? We’ll bid you good day. Mistress Paula has an appointment with me.”

  The pirate surprised me by sketching a mocking half bow, then obeying without a word. At the top of the steps, he turned his head and gave me a wave and a crooked smile. A moment later he was gone.

  “Thank you,” I said uncertainly. “Do we have an appointment?” I tried to recall whether Father had expected any more visitors today.

  “Officially, no, though I did obtain Maria’s opinion that you would be prepared to receive me. It appeared to me that Senhor Aguiar might be embarrassing you; I know the man well enough to read his moves. I hope you didn�
�t mind being rescued.”

  “No, I welcomed it. Are you a friend of Maria’s?”

  “How remiss of me. I am so sorry! My name is Irene of Volos. Maria told me you were here in Istanbul with your father, of whom I have heard many good things. She tells me you are something of a scholar.”

  Irene of Volos. That explained a lot. No wonder Duarte had obeyed her without question, though he had ignored my requests for him to leave. “I’m honored to meet you,” I murmured. “May I offer you some tea?”

  At closer quarters, her Greek descent was more evident. It was in the patrician nose with its slight downturn and the confident carriage. Her sloe-dark eyes were rimmed in artful black. Her brows had been expertly shaped. Behind her, the eunuch had come silently up to the gallery and stationed himself near the steps.

  “Tea?” She gave a rueful smile. “To tell you the truth, I am awash with it after a morning’s visiting. Let us sit down here and talk a little, Paula. Maria says you have been very busy helping your father with his business. I like that. Most men would not be prepared to allow a young woman to take such responsibility, however much aptitude she showed. You speak excellent Greek.”

  “Thank you.” I was assessing her earrings, which hung to striking effect down her long, graceful neck. Those were not pieces of faceted glass but real emeralds. The pearls were the size of quail’s eggs. “I do love reading and study. I’m more of a scholar than a merchant.”

  Irene smiled. “Don’t underrate yourself, Paula. Wasn’t that Alonso di Parma I saw leaving not long ago with a self-satisfied look on his face?”

  “First him and then Duarte Aguiar,” I said with a grimace. “It’s been quite a day.” A moment later I realized I had spoken to her as if she were someone I knew and trusted. I had addressed her as I would one of my sisters.

  She chuckled. “I can see Maria is right; your father expects a great deal of you,” she said. “She tells me you have seen nothing of the city as yet. You are too young to spend a visit to Istanbul entirely in trade negotiations. Do you think your father could spare you for a morning? My home is not far away, in the Greek quarter. You could come early, before it is too hot for the walk, and stay to take some refreshments with me. It can be very difficult for an outsider to access the company of educated women here in Istanbul. Indeed, it is even a challenge for us to meet amongst ourselves. My home is a gathering place for women who love books, music, high culture, and meaningful discussion. You must feel free to make use of my library.”