Quickly, he signaled to Hamid's man and took him out into an antechamber, giving him no chance to state his business. "The Dey does not require any new slaves for his household or his harem."
"But, my lord-"
"Yes?"
The tone was such that the man lowered his eyes humbly to the floor. One did not argue with the Dey's chief minister.
"Forgive me, my lord. You understand, my master did not wish to offend yours by not offering to him the fairest jewel that has ever come into his possession."
"Ever?" Omar was amused.
"It is so, my lord. I have seen her myself."
"Then my regret is no greater than yours. English, isn't she?"
The man's eyes widened as he nodded, but he should have known the palace spies would have ferreted out this information, probably the moment the girl arrived. If it was not palace spies, then it was spies of the foreign consuls, who liked to keep abreast of things. Very few secrets were kept in Barikah, which was why no one could understand why the head of the man behind the attempts on the Dey's life had not long since rotted away hanging on the palace gate.
"You may tell your master that we appreciate his offering this jewel to the Dey first," Omar continued. "His thoughtfulness will be remembered. And although the Dey has not bought any new slaves for some time, that does not mean he will not in future. But come to me next time. The Dey cannot be bothered with such trifles."
It was a shame, Omar thought later, that Jamil scorned the collection of women for the sake of prestige. Most Turks who could afford it filled their harems to overflowing. Three or four hundred concubines were not unheard of for someone as wealthy as Jamil, yet he possessed less than fifty women, and half of these had been given as gifts or were purchased by Lalla Rahine in her efforts to please her son by providing him with variety when he stopped doing so himself. He had not been pleased, and had finally forbidden her to make any more purchases.
It was not that Jamil did not like variety or love women. What he didn't like was to see women go to waste, and that was certainly what happened to the majority of women in a large harem. There could only be so many favorites, and the rest, though they might catch the master's eye occasionally, spent their days in bored idleness with nothing to look forward to, and their nights alone.
That this should concern Jamil was amazing, but it did. He had felt this way even before the rumors started circulating that he was in love with his first wife, the kadine Sheelah. He was a man unique to his culture for the belief that every woman in his harem should feel herself cherished by her master. And he wore himself out ensuring that none of his women were ignored for any great length of time, which was why the thought of even one more woman added to the ranks appalled him.
But it was still a shame, for someone new at this time could serve to take Jamil's mind off his troubles and, in turn, ease what was becoming a formidable temper. But you couldn't tell Jamil that.
What was needed was a day spent away from the palace, for being confined to the palace was Jamil's main frustration. But the Divan would never agree. It was simply too dangerous, the one thing the assassins were undoubtedly waiting for. What was truly needed was for the many messages they had sent out to bear fruit.
Chapter Twelve
Early in the afternoon four days later, the Grand Vizier was still receiving the more important supplicants requesting an audience with the Dey when his clerk informed him a desert sheikh had arrived with tribute in the form of two Thoroughbred horses. Omar was not impressed and would have put the sheikh off until another day, but his clerk insisted he must see these particular animals himself—they were even now being admired in the outer court.
Omar could not help being annoyed. Jamil's own clerk had obviously thought this fellow important enough to send to him, when all he had to do was accept the tribute and send the sheikh on his way. But then he could see the clerk's dilemma. Most of the desert tribes that paid tribute to the Dey according to their respective treaties did not send their headmen to do so. That this sheikh had come in person with his gifts could only mean that he wanted something from the Dey.
So be it. Jamil's policy was to appease these desert tribes whenever possible, which kept the peace. The desert sheikh might not even be aware of what was happening in Barikah, or why this was not a good time for the Dey to receive his gifts personally.
Impatiently, Omar stepped into the room adjoining his office that had a fretted window facing the outer court. There he could see the horses clearly, for even though a crowd of palace officials and servants had gathered around them, they kept their distance, the two young Arabs in attendance having difficulty keeping the high-spirited animals under control.
Omar was finally impressed. They were magnificent, pure white Thoroughbreds of the like never before seen in Barikah. And then he realized the reason they couldn't be controlled. One was a stallion, the other a mare. By the Prophet's beard! This was a breeding pair.
He shook his head as he returned to his office and bade his now smiling clerk to show the sheikh in. Was it possible the man didn't know the value of such a gift, a tribute worthy of the Sultan himself? These weren't desert Arabians, by any means. Where could they possibly have come from?
And then Omar groaned heavily as it dawned on him how this gift was going to affect Jamil, who was a superb horseman but had had to give up his daily rides since the trouble began. He was going to be delighted with this pair, ecstatic in fact, until he realized, as Omar just had, that he couldn't ride them now and wouldn't be able to for some time to come. This was going to make his present disposition even worse.
Understandably, Omar was glowering by the time the tall desert headman was brought before him. His name had been given as Ahmad Khalifeh; it was a name Omar could not immediately recall, nor find among his papers at first glance. He might have been able to recognize him if it weren't for the bulky bur-noose, the hooded robe of the desert that covered him from head to toe, and the fact that he kept his head lowered so that the hood fell forward to further enshroud him.
In his irritation, Omar dispensed with the customary preliminaries of welcome and came right to the point. "Your name is not familiar to me. From which tribe do you come?"
He was answered with a question. "Is that you, Omar?"
The Grand Vizier stiffened. That voice he recognized all too well. "Jamil? What games do you play?"
Laughter greeted this, full and deep. How long had it been since anyone had heard Jamil laugh? Omar frowned darkly, for the man's head had been thrown back, and it was a smooth-shaven chin he could see under the shadowed hood.
"Who are you?" Omar demanded in an ominous undertone.
"Come now, old man, you can't have forgotten me. It's only been nineteen years."
Omar's mouth dropped open in utter amazement. No one spoke to him in such a disrespectful tone. No one! He stood up to call the guards to have the arrogant dog removed, but was arrested by the sight of the hood being thrown back and a pair of laughing green eyes that met his without fear or contrition. He sat back down, or rather, dropped back down on his cushioned pillows, his mouth again hanging open.
"Kasim? Is it really you?"
"None other," came the cheeky answer.
Omar leaped up again and went around the long, low table littered with official documents and letters of petition. "You came! Allah be praised, you actually came!"
"Did you think I wouldn't?" Derek got out before he was enthusiastically embraced. For a little old man twice his age, Omar had sufficient strength left to make him grunt, he was squeezed so hard.
"We didn't know," Omar said, standing back to fill his eyes with the many changes nineteen years had wrought. "We couldn't know. So many messengers were sent out, so many found dead."
"So Ali ben-Khalil told me."
"Then he was the one to finally reach you? The sherbet seller?"
Derek nodded, grinning. "He insisted I lock him up, after he had seen me."
"A
smart man. And you were wise enough to come in disguise. I was afraid you would not, but there was no way to warn you in the message without making the simple code obvious."
Derek shrugged. "It seemed the thing to do to avoid confusion."
"Jamil was sure you would realize."
"How is he?"
"Still unharmed, though there was still another attempt on his life last month."
"Do you know who's behind it?"
Omar threw up his hands in disgust. "We have learned nothing. Nothing! Whoever is hiring these assassins does not reveal himself to them."
"Is it Selim?"
"We can think of no other, but then no one is above suspicion."
"Where is he?"
Omar sighed. "He was last seen in Istanbul at the Sultan's court. We have a veritable army out looking for him now, but he hides himself well."
"Have you considered the possibility that he has already been eliminated?" Derek ventured. "How old is Mustafa's last-born son now?"
"Murad is only eleven, and yes, we have considered that, and all of Jamil's enemies, too."
"And his wives?"
Omar chuckled. "You still think like a Muslim, Kasim."
"I can remember my mother telling me of the fierce rivalry among Mustafa's wives and how twice Mahmud nearly died from poison."
"And did Jamil later write you that it was Mustafa's fourth wife who was responsible, and that she also was foolish enough to make an attempt against him, which earned her a grave at the bottom of the sea?"
Derek grunted. No, he hadn't been told, but he wasn't surprised. To be trussed up alive in a weighted sack and dropped into the sea was the Sultan's favorite mode of doing away with the women of his harem who had displeased him, women kept veiled from other men in life—and so in death as well. Why should Mustafa be any different? Rarely was a woman executed any other way.
Omar continued. "But Jamil's wives? Of course it has been thought of, and security in the harem has been increased also, but Jamil will hear nothing said against them, and I am inclined to look there only as a last resort, too. First, they each of them adore Jamil. But more to the point, none of their sons would benefit unless Selim and Murad both died as well as Jamil, and although Selim is missing, Murad is here in Barikah, and no attempts have been made on his life."
"But if every one of Mustafa's sons died?"
"It would be up to the Divan to decide whether to accept Jamil's firstborn."
' 'It is not unheard of for a kadine to rule through her son," Derek reminded him.
"But he is only six years old, Kasim. If he were older ... It is more likely the Divan will choose a new Dey, and Mustafa's line will rule no more."
"But your vote could sway them either way?"
Omar laughed. "By Allah, you are bringing new thoughts to this problem that even I have not considered. Yes, it is true I could sway the Divan. After thirty-five years of serving as Grand Vizier of Barikah, I assure you my opinion is second only to the Dey's. But it is also true that no one can know how I could vote, least of all Jamil's wives, when I haven't even thought of this possibility myself. But come, Kasim, sit down, sit down. We will have ample time to discuss who is causing all this trouble. Tell me, how did you get here? No new ships have arrived these past few days, and all those before I have had checked."
"A friend of mine got me passage on one of the Royal Navy's warships. I would have been here yesterday . . . only we ran into a little trouble with some Algerian corsairs and became separated from our escort. I imagine they'll arrive either later today or tomorrow, once they regroup. I was dropped off up the coast late last night and rode in this morning. I needed a good enough excuse to get in to see you, and what better way than as Ahmad Khalifeh, come in from the desert with tribute for the Dey?"
"Ah, the horses!" Omar chuckled. "Wherever did you find such magnificent beasts?"
"Find them?" Derek's lips curled with a touch of pride. "I raise them. And Jamil had better be around long enough to start a new line in Barikah."
"Inshallah, " Omar replied in all seriousness.
"Yes," Derek agreed, just as seriously now. "If God wills."
Chapter Thirteen
Derek Sinclair, Earl of Mulbury and future Marquis of Hunstable, was riding an incredible high in spirits, and had been ever since he had entered the city this morning. The sights, sounds, and smells that greeted him made him realize how much he had missed this part of the world and how easily it was to slip back into the shoes of a Muslim Turk.
There was nothing English about the bazaars he had passed through, where sandalwood and gum scented the air from the spice stalls, camels plodded along with noisy complaint, bells tinkled in the breeze that turned the silk merchant's stall into a waving riot of bright color. It was a sea of turbans and kohl-eyed women enshrouded in mystery. It was the din of merchants haggling over prices, the sweet song of nightingales in bamboo cages, the bubbling of fountains on each corner. It was Barikah, which Derek had never thought to know again.
And the Dey's palace, spread out over more than twenty acres on the highest hill of the city, brought back a wealth of memories long forgotten. Derek moved through the labyrinth now, following in Omar's wake. When he first arrived, he had only gotten as far as the outer court, enclosed in high walls that protected the arsenal, mint, bakery, guards' barracks, and other service buildings. But Omar had taken him through several rooms off his office that led directly into the inner palace, thereby avoiding the second court, where only officials and ambassadors ever penetrated.
Unlike the outer court, which was usually easily accessed by the public, the second court was a cloistered garden with avenues running over its lawns to gates and low buildings. Gazelles and peacocks wandered at will under tall cypress trees, lavish pavilions stood in readiness for any state occasion, and slaves bent over flower beds, toiling beneath the hot sun.
The second court housed the offices of the palace officials and the council chambers where the Divan met several days each week. There foreign diplomats were entertained, the Dey's sons were circumcised or his daughters married, and all ceremonies were performed. And from this courtyard was the iron-studded gate that led to the harem.
Beyond the second court was another gate leading into a third courtyard, the one Derek was most familiar with. It was a more intimate garden with chestnut and medlar trees, and cypresses hung with ivy. The treasury was located there, as well as the throne room and the palace school. And through yet another gate were the richly tiled corridors leading to the Dey's apartments, which abutted the harem.
Omar took Derek instead through the heart of the palace, through a maze of corridors and chambers that skirted the domed kitchens, the baths, the harem, the courts, and finally led to the very corridor that the concubines used to reach the Dey's apartments.
At last they stopped before a large cedarwood door, flanked on each side by two stiff-backed Nubians. It was only because Derek was accompanied by the Grand Vizier himself that he hadn't been detained at least twenty times by now by the army of guards they had passed at different points along the way, especially when he had remained hooded and with lowered head, a thoroughly suspicious-looking character.
"I hope you have some password or the like to alert these fellows if all isn't right," Derek remarked thoughtfully before Omar could announce them.
"You were searched for weapons before you entered the palace, weren't you?"
"Yes, but what if someone had found a way to get to one of your wives or children, and so coerced you into bringing them in here?"
Omar chuckled. "There is indeed a signal that would have had you or anyone else beheaded in an instant, but I am glad that you are taking such an interest in our security measures. You must feel free to mention anything that concerns you."
A questioning brow rose. "Your family is protected? Killing the one who tells you your family is taken will not save your family."
Omar nodded. "My sons, my grandsons, my great-grands
ons, all are as safe as it is possible to make them. My wives?" He shrugged fatalistically, though there was now a twinkle in his gray eyes. "It would be no great loss were anything to happen to them. "
Derek suppressed a grin and nodded toward the door. "I suppose you have to announce me?"
"It would be wise, unless you want his personal guards pouncing on you the moment you walk through the door."
"I think I can do without that," Derek replied dryly.
"Yes, it doesn't pay to surprise the Dey, but nonetheless he will be surprised. With so many messengers killed, he had given up hope that one might reach you, Kasim." At the sound of his name, Derek looked pointedly at the guards, but Omar shook his head.
"Those who guard Jamil's door are mutes, as are his personal guards."