Silver Angel (13 page)

The “others” apparently occupied the lower two floors. The top floor was dark and deserted. Across
the court and on each of the other two sides, more and more women came out of their cubicles to stare up at the newcomer.

“Here is just fine,” Chantelle said quickly, wanting to retreat from so much avid curiosity.

She stepped into the small room, where a single lantern burned next to a tray of food. So she had been expected.

“You knew I was coming?”

“Of course. There is nothing that happens in the palace that we do not learn of very quickly. When Jamil sent word to Haji Agha that you alone of the three had been chosen, another eunuch rushed to tell his mistress, who is Jamil’s third favorite, and she told Lalla Rahine, who sent the word on to me so that I could have a room prepared for you.”

“How nice.”

Safiye seemed not to notice the sarcasm. “In my day,” she continued, “this court was used only for
ikbals
no longer in favor. There was a dormitory for the odalisques and another small court for the
gozdes
, but they have been deserted since Jamil came to power.”

“Yes, I’ve already heard how he favors all of his women at one time or another.”

Safiye did not let her sarcasm pass this time. Chantelle’s upper arm was gripped quite painfully, and the older woman’s face pressed close, her expression severely disapproving.

“Do not make the mistake of thinking your impertinence will be allowed here. And do not hold in contempt what you do not understand. Jamil’s women are the luckiest women in the empire. They do not know what it is like to live year after endless year without the love of a man, to die a virgin, never knowing a
man’s gentle touch. But other women do know. It happens often in this country. It happened in his father’s harem, where more than a hundred women never even reached the rank of
gozde
.”

I should be so lucky
, Chantelle thought, but she said instead in a coldly controlled tone, “You can let go of me, Lalla Safiye.”

Ordinarily, Safiye would have slapped her to the floor for what amounted to an order, and said so haughtily, too. But this was the first girl Jamil had purchased for himself in several years. That in itself suggested Shahar was going far, and Safiye was wise enough not to make an enemy of a future favorite.

She let go, but compromised by saying, “I hope you understand, Shahar, because your life here will not be pleasant if you do not learn quickly what is tolerated and what is not. We have ways of correcting unacceptable behavior, so you cannot say you weren’t warned. Now, tomorrow Lalla Rahine will come to look you over. I suggest you make friends with her, for as the most powerful woman in the harem, she can do much for or against you.”

“Is she the Dey’s first wife?”

“His mother.”

Good Lord, he had a mother after all. Chantelle had somehow thought Jamil Reshid had been spawned by the devil without any help from the gentler sex.

T
he girl waited patiently, her knees tucked under her, a rich ermine robe lying across her arms. It was never an easy task to dress the Lalla Rahine, for she always had so much on her mind, so many interruptions, forgotten orders to give, supplicants coming and going. But today had been especially trying, as the Dey’s mother was anxious about meeting this new slave who had entered the harem last night. Speculation was running rife about the girl, but Lalla Rahine could answer no questions yet. How could she, until she had met the girl for herself?

Two of the Dey’s wives had already been here this morning, and three of his favorites. They all wanted to know the same thing: Why had he bought this girl? Had they done something wrong? Was he displeased with them?

Such questions would never have been asked if Jamil Reshid were not their lord and master. But all in the harem knew he was not like other men to crave constant variety in the purchase of new women. They knew his own mother had been forbidden to buy any more women for him either, no matter how beautiful. They had assumed the harem gates were permanently closed.

Lalla Rahine had thought so, too. Jamil might have been pleased with her last purchase, enough to elevate the girl to a favorite, but he had
not
been pleased to begin with.

The servants waiting to finish dressing her might
as well not have been in the room for all the awareness Rahine had of them. She knelt on her prayer rug, head bent down, the very picture of a devout Muslim. But she wasn’t praying. She had converted to Islam years ago, but there were times when there was another besides God with whom she needed to commune, and she did it so often that it was no longer an unusual occurrence for her to drop whatever she was doing and go to her rug in between calls to prayer.

But peace never came from these impromptu meditations. It never would. She was a woman tormented by past mistakes that couldn’t be rectified. And the one person who could forgive her for what she’d done, who could give her peace for the remaining years of her life, she would never see again. It was to him she communed, beseeched, cried, all in her mind, wondering the same thing over and over, time after time, the answer always eluding her.

Oh, God, Kasim, did you forgive me? Your brother did not, and he never fails to let me know it. His love died for me the day I sent you away. I did not even have that to comfort me. And you must hate me, too. Do you? Do you know how sorry I was, how much I missed you, how soon I regretted what I did? It seemed important then to let you go, but I was young and foolish and still clinging to my past, to the father whom Mustafa could not make me forget
.

I don’t even know if he still lives. Jamil wouldn’t tell me if he knew. He’s never even told me if you answer his letters. But you are still alive somewhere. I would feel it if you were not. If only I could feel that you have forgiven me. If only Jamil would. But I can’t blame either of you, for I cannot forgive myself either
.

To look at her was not to know she was suffering, for she had long ago learned how to bury the pain
deep inside, to keep it hidden even from Jamil. But for nineteen years she had carried it, for then, as now, her sons were all she had. She had not loved their father. Mustafa had worshipped her. She had merely tolerated him. It was her sons she lived for, and although one was lost to her, she still had Jamil. And she would do anything for him, to assure his happiness, to atone for the pain she had caused him, too.

Which recalled to mind his new slave. She would see her first before she discussed her with Haji. She had already heard that the girl was unique, but that would only explain why Jamil had chosen her, not why he had ordered Haji to search the markets for new women at this time.

And what of Sheelah, whom he had summoned to his bed last night? Rahine was fond of Sheelah, who was everything she appeared to be—kind, loving, understanding. There was not another woman like her in the whole harem, which was undoubtedly why Jamil had eventually lost his heart to her. And ever since he had admitted to this great love for Sheelah, he had not bought another woman for himself.

So why had he suddenly changed his mind? Was it just the restlessness of his self-confinement in the palace these many months, or something more?

Haji might know, but Rahine doubted it. Jamil was very closemouthed about his feelings. The only one he really confided in was his Grand Vizier, and Omar Hassan never revealed anything Jamil didn’t want him to. Rahine was afraid that the only explanation was that Jamil’s feelings for his beloved Sheelah might be changing. She hoped not. Perhaps she should talk to Sheelah first, before she met the new slave.

Chantelle wolfed down the meal that had just been brought to her. She had hardly touched the food left for her last night, and the tray had mysteriously disappeared before morning. No locks for the doors. No doors, for that matter. She didn’t like that at all, that persons unknown could enter her room while she slept.

Hakeem had warned her that some harem women could be quite dangerous, that jealousy and the fierce competition that existed in all harems were strong motivations, injury and even murder the common results. And she had to allow that although she found Jamil Reshid loathsome, his many women probably did not. Competition here was likely to exist between every single inhabitant, excluding herself.

But would anyone believe her when she insisted she wanted nothing of Jamil, or would they see her as another rival? God, she hoped not. She was going to have enough difficulties in the coming weeks without having to worry about making enemies of her own sex.

“Shahar! How dare you not assume an attitude of obeisance when in Lalla Rahine’s presence?”

Chantelle’s head snapped up at the first word, that detested name they had given her. She was confronted with two women standing just inside her doorway, one angry, the other wearing an expression very much like her son’s, inscrutable.

“I might have if I had known you were even there,” Chantelle offered with marked unconcern, ruining the effort by adding, “Don’t you people believe in knocking?”

She watched as Safiye’s face mottled with red. The woman was so angry she couldn’t speak for a mo
ment, and Jamil’s mother dismissed her before she could, saving Chantelle what she imagined would have been an earful or worse.

“It isn’t wise to antagonize your warden.”

Chantelle stood up to put herself on a more even footing with the lady. It didn’t work. Lalla Rahine was as tall as, if not taller than, the African princess. She was also an extremely well-preserved woman for her middle years, and she had to be forty-five at the very least to have a son as old as Jamil. She looked a young thirty. It was incredible. And those eyes, just like his, a dark, dark emerald and thickly lashed, but without the kohl that she had seen on every other woman in this harem, even the female servants.

There was a slight resemblance, too, in the high cheekbones, the strong, determined chin, the same arch to the brows, except Rahine’s were a dark gold, several shades darker than Chantelle’s own. Was she blond? Impossible to tell with her hair tucked up completely under a brilliant blue turban, which happened to have a fortune in diamonds dangling from one side like loose strings. It added even more to her height. She was a sleek woman, tall and narrow, another thing she had in common with her son.

She wore a rich brocaded robe trimmed in fur over a caftan of glimmering blue-and-white silk, with three fantastic diamond necklaces of different lengths about her neck. Belted at the waist, the garb proved not all women in the harem leaned toward the plump side. Still more diamonds glittered from her wrists, her fingers, her ears. Chantelle refused to look down to see if there were any on her toes, too.

All things considered, she should have felt rather intimidated. She might have if Rahine had reacted as
Safiye did when they first arrived, but she didn’t. Her tone was moderate, with about as much feeling in it as her expression.

“Is that what she is?” Chantelle asked. “My warden?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“And you?”

“I am Jamil Reshid’s mother.”

Chantelle waved a hand impatiently. “No, I didn’t mean that.”

“If you want to know what power I have, my dear, it is absolute. I rule the entire harem, in concert with Haji Agha, of course. My son’s wives, his favorites, all his women, are ultimately under my care.”

Chantelle had already heard from Safiye that Rahine was all-powerful. She supposed what she had wanted clarified was the meaning of “under my care.” Safiye might be her warden, but Rahine would have the last word on anything important. No wonder Safiye had suggested she make friends with her.

But Chantelle couldn’t quite see herself doing that. There was a coldness about Lalla Rahine much like her son’s. They were indeed cut from the same mold, these two. And if he was a cruel, heartless wretch, what was his mother, who had raised him?

While Chantelle was thinking this, Rahine was casually inspecting her from top to bottom, and what she saw confounded her completely. She might not be close to Jamil anymore, but she knew his tastes in women better than anyone, and there was nothing about this girl that would have attracted him. She was nothing but skin and bones. Hollow-cheeked and hollow-bellied. Allah’s mercy, was the girl
sickly? And she was blond. There was not a single blonde among his many women, and not for lack of availability. Jamil’s preference was redheads, but any color would do as long as it wasn’t blond. Of the three blondes Rahine had bought for him over the years, each had been promptly gifted to someone else. And she knew why. It hurt, but she couldn’t deny it. He disliked blondes because she was a blonde.

She was more confused about this girl now than before she had seen her. Sheelah had been able to supply no clue. Aside from the fact that Jamil had stopped sleeping with her recently, due to a restlessness that was plaguing him at night, his affections for her hadn’t changed at all. So why had he chosen this girl? Or was she not for himself?

Rahine would have struck her palm to her forehead if she had been alone. Of course! The girl could be intended as a gift for someone, perhaps even to be included in the yearly tribute to the Sultan. That would explain everything.

As her confusion passed, Rahine began to see some possibilities in the girl. She had exquisite features. That was undeniable. Good bone structure, graceful movements, a certain pride in the way she held herself so erect, but that was not a bad thing. And with a strict diet, her figure could be enhanced, made desirable. Blondes were prized by other men here. Yes, she could be a beauty of both face and body, a gift worthy of the Sultan.

“You’re English, aren’t you?” Rahine asked suddenly.

“And here I thought my French was superb.”

Rahine actually smiled. “Your wit is refreshing,
child, but be careful whom you bestow it on. Few Muslims have a sense of humor that would appreciate what is very near impertinence.”

Talk about a subtle scolding. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good. Now Safiye will supply you with a personal servant, and a tutor will be provided to begin your training. I would suggest you apologize to Safiye first, however, or she is likely to find the most lazy slave in the harem to attend you. Give her this.” Rahine reached into a pocket and withdrew a small pouch of coins. “A few coins should appease her present annoyance with you. Keep the rest for when they’re needed.”

“A bribe?”

“Bribery is a way of life here that has gone on so long that the empire cannot operate without it. It is no different in a harem, though we look on it as the ‘obligatory gift.’ You do not visit someone without bringing a little token. If you want something done, you must pay for it.”

“Then how do I see about getting a solid door with a lock on it to replace those curtains?”

Rahine grinned, a remarkable occurrence, though Chantelle didn’t know it. She almost wished this English girl would be staying. There was another in the harem, but she didn’t possess this lively wit that brought back memories of home.

“You don’t, my dear, not in this court anyway. Doors with locks on them are found only in the court of the favorites, where the women have earned the privilege of having a little privacy.”

And they still paid for it, with their bodies. Chantelle would have to resign herself to no doors.
There was no point in making an enemy of this woman by letting her know of her abhorrence for this place—or her son, at least not until it was absolutely necessary.