Silver Angel (7 page)

“Until I’m sold,” she couldn’t resist adding.

Hakeem frowned at her, but there was nothing more he could say. “I have here the clothes supplied by the
rais
for you to wear to leave the ship. Please be ready three hours after the sun sets.”

He held up each piece for her inspection. They were all in dull, nondescript colors and serviceable cotton, except for the yashmak, the veil worn by all women who ventured out in the street, and this was made of a dark gauze. There were pantaloons that looked like long drawers, a long-sleeved tunic that she couldn’t know Hakeem himself had supplied for her modesty’s sake, a short bolero-type vest with a single button to fasten over her breasts, a wide sashed belt, and a voluminous caftan, the long coatlike garment worn in the Near East by both men and women, this one full enough to conceal her completely from shoulders to feet. Shoes were not supplied, since her own were still wearable even after their drenching in her one bid for freedom.

Chantelle was not at all pleased by the pantaloons, which in her opinion were no better than unadorned underwear. “Couldn’t I wear the robe and veil over my own clothes?”

Hakeem shook his head, but there was a slight smile for her expression of distaste. Clothes had accomplished what all his words had not—to take her mind off her fear.

“Your dress is too foreign in design. The full skirt would bell out even with the weight of the caftan over it. It is our intention that if you should be seen leaving the ship, you will appear a Muslim woman who perhaps had passage with us, and so not draw attention to yourself. Hamid Sharif will want your presence kept secret until he is ready to announce your auction, which will be private, only for those who can afford the high price he will set for you. And besides,” he added hesitantly, “your own clothes will be denied you henceforth. In Barikah you will be dressed according to your—”

“New status?” Chantelle cut in bitterly.

Hakeem flushed, but said, “Did you think it would be otherwise, after all I have told you?”

She lowered her gaze to the floor. “No, but can’t I keep my pictures, my own hairbrush, my—”

“Nothing,
lalla
. A slave goes to her new master with nothing, so that what he chooses to give her she will be grateful for.”

Her head snapped up. She had been told this, but because she was faced with the immediate loss of her only reminders of home, her earlier anger returned in full force.

“A tradition that serves to undermine confidence and self-esteem, not to mention self-worth,” she bit out with contempt. “Will I be begging for my food, too, for even a change of clothes? Because I won’t, you know. I won’t beg!”

“All will be given to you without your asking for it,” he replied patiently. “Why do you persist in forgetting everything I have told you?”

“Because I hate it! Your traditions are designed to break me!”

“What you will do is forget your previous life all
the sooner if you have nothing to remind you of it. You will accept—”

“Never!”

“You will,
lalla
,” Hakeem said with a sigh. “It is inevitable.”

R
ahmet Zadeh heard the Englishwoman. He had been sent down to the harbor to inquire of the passengers on the English merchantman that had arrived that morning. It was not the first time he had shown up after dark to make the same inquiry. For three weeks now it had been his task to question each foreign ship entering the port, and always at night, by which time the passengers, if any, would have had ample opportunity to come ashore if they meant to. Omar Hassan gave them that chance. It was when the one he sought did not appear at the palace that day that Rahmet had been sent down to the harbor.

It was a task beneath Rahmet’s dignity, or so he thought. He was captain of the palace guard. Any of Omar’s minions could have been sent to ask these pointless questions, but Omar had chosen him to do it. He did not feel honored. He might if he had been told why the task was necessary, but he had not. The Grand Vizier rarely if ever explained himself.

Disgruntled, feeling as if Omar Hassan were just using this task as a means to punish him, when he could think of no reason he should be punished, Rahmet was not in the best of moods when the sound of that raised, angry voice stopped him on his way back to the palace.

That he knew the woman spoke English was a mere coincidence, since he had only just come from hearing it spoken. He didn’t speak it himself. And the dragoman he had brought along to interpret for him
on the merchantman had rushed ahead to go about his business, afeard of Rahmet’s foul mood, and had already disappeared through the Marine Gate.

What stopped him was the incongruity of it. She was on the wrong ship. The craft that the voice came from was one of Hamid Sharif’s ships, also arrived today among much excitement, since it had carried a full cargo of new slaves. There could be no conceivable reason for an Englishwoman to be aboard it, no reason really for anyone to be aboard it at this time of night, when this was the home port and the cargo had already been unloaded. And yet the deck was lit and light spilled out into the water from several cabins.

Rahmet’s curiosity was piqued. It wasn’t often that Englishwomen were brought here as captives, yet what else could this one be on this particular ship? Then why hadn’t they brought her out with the rest of the slaves today?

It was part of Rahmet’s job to report anything unusual to Omar Hassan, no matter how trivial, especially now with the threats against the Dey still unsolved. And this was unusual.

Rahmet suddenly struck his forehead with the flat of his palm. What a blind fool he was!
This
could be why the Grand Vizier had sent him down here so often. He could be waiting for word of this Englishwoman but not want Rahmet to know it. It hadn’t been necessary to tell him the real reason. Omar Hassan
knew
Rahmet would report something like this.

With those conclusions drawn, which suited Rahmet much better than thinking he was down here as some sort of punishment, Rahmet continued on to the Marine Gate. There he stayed to visit with the guards, keeping his eye on Hamid Sharif’s ship and gleaning
what information the guards could tell him about any activity that had gone on there. They didn’t know much. They had the night watch, and had arrived only shortly after the call to evening prayer.

Rahmet didn’t have long to wait to witness some activity for himself. The woman appeared on deck. Not only that, but she left the ship flanked by two men. But there was no clink of chains. She was not restrained in any way. Appearance-wise, she could be any Muslim woman wrapped up in her street robes. Even standing a mere few feet away from her while one of her escorts explained their business to the guards, he could discern nothing about her to mark her a foreigner, not even the color of her eyes, for she kept them demurely lowered, as was only proper.

Rahmet was disappointed, but should have expected no less. It was the bane of all men that on the streets, every woman looked alike. A princess could visit the bazaar unnoticed. A wife could walk down the street with her lover, and if her husband passed, he would never know it. And a female slave could be escorted through the streets in complete secrecy simply by not appearing to be a slave.

A name was given for her that was common, a tale told that could not be immediately disproved. She was said to be resident of Algiers and a friend of their captain, which was why he had agreed to give her passage on his ship to visit a cousin here in Barikah.

The guards accepted this without question. Rahmet didn’t believe a word of it, though he chose not to dispute it, for he wanted to know her destination and could do that only by following the three unnoticed. He was more intrigued than ever that they were going to this trouble for the Englishwoman. The only reason that he could think of for it was that she was too
valuable to chance passing through the crowds that had turned out to watch the unloading of the Neapolitan slaves that afternoon. If he was right, she would be delivered to Hamid Sharif. If not, he would have to investigate further.

If Hamid Sharif weren’t so loyal to the Dey, and a slave dealer besides, Rahmet would have to consider other possibilities with such secrecy and deception involved, like an involvement in the plot against the Dey. Women were not above suspicion. No one was. It was the English tongue that made him doubt this possibility, however, for it was well known the English favored Jamil Reshid’s reign and would do nothing to jeopardize it. And, too, it would not be the first time a pretty slave was smuggled into the city for a private auction that the slave dealer wanted kept from the public. Such women were generally offered to the Dey first, and so this woman’s particulars would soon be known at the palace, to confirm one way or the other what Rahmet would report tonight.

He set off to follow the three, and as he had suspected, the woman was delivered to Hamid Sharif. Rahmet returned to the palace to let Omar Hassan make what he would of this information. Hopefully, this was the news the Grand Vizier had been waiting for, and Rahmet would no longer be sent to the harbor after tonight. But he could tell nothing from Omar Hassan’s reaction, and for five days, no foreign ships arrived in port. Then an English warship sailed into port for supplies, with two smaller escorts, and Rahmet’s suspicions were confirmed. He was not called on again to visit the harbor.

T
he next morning, Omar Hassan met the Dey in the hall outside the audience chamber where a crowd had already gathered for the day’s business. This hall, leading from Jamil’s apartments, was empty except for the two Nubian bodyguards who were never far from Jamil’s side.

“A moment, Jamil.”

Omar had the privilege of using the Dey’s name at all times, though he did so only in private. He had known Jamil Reshid since he was born, had taken an active interest in his upbringing even before he was removed from the harem, and was totally in agreement with the Divan, Jamil’s council of advisors, that Barikah had never known such prosperity as under Jamil’s rule. His father, Mustafa, had been a good ruler, beloved of his people, but he had lacked Jamil’s diplomacy and shrewdness in dealing with Barikah’s foreign element, as well as with the consuls of the many foreign governments represented here. Barikah enjoyed peace under Jamil, not so under his father’s and older brother’s rule.

Of all Mustafa’s many children, Jamil and his brother Kasim had been Omar’s favorites, each showing at an early age a keen intelligence, but more important in the Grand Vizier’s opinion, a sense of honor and justice. They had been their father’s favorites, too, which was perhaps why his firstborn, Mahmud, whom he had all but ignored, had grown up with a grasping, vindictive nature that had earned him the
title of “tyrant” during his short rule. But by Allah’s will, Mahmud had died without issue, and to Barikah’s benefit, Jamil had been next in line.

He made a fine ruler, in character as well as in appearance, which not a single one of his concubines could find fault with. From his father he had his exceptional height and coal-black hair tucked away right now under a white turban, but visible in a full beard, the pride of most Muslims. He had his mother’s high cheekbones and brow, his father’s strong chin and aquiline nose. But the eyes were strictly Lalla Rahine’s, not the eyes of a Turk or an Arab, eyes that gave Jamil the look of a European and put foreign diplomats at ease.

It was only recently that Jamil had stopped receiving diplomats, and all urgent business was conducted only once a week now, anything else to be handled by Omar. It showed the depth of Jamil’s wisdom that he willingly delegated his power at this time, for his frustration over the continued restrictions placed on him for his own protection had him on a short fuse, which grew shorter with each passing day. He was the first to realize that his easygoing temperament had taken a turn for the worse, which affected his judgment and made it too easy for him to make the wrong decisions or offend someone he shouldn’t.

“Skulking about in hallways now, Omar?” Jamil asked as he reached him.

The older man chuckled. “It does seem so.”

“What is it, then?”

“Nothing important,” Omar admitted. “I just thought you might want to consider purchasing another slave for the harem.”

Jamil frowned. “My ears deceive me, correct? You are not suggesting—”

“Hear me out, my lord.” Omar stepped back so he wouldn’t have to crane his neck to look up at Jamil. That was the only reason that he kept his distance, for he loved Jamil as he did his own sons and liked to think the feeling was mutual. It certainly wasn’t that he was intimidated by one of Jamil’s frowns. “I know you feel you have too many women already, but I was not actually thinking of this one for you.”

A dark brow shot up, and a grin appeared to lighten Jamil’s stern expression. “You wish me to purchase you a woman and hide her in my harem? Are your wives giving you trouble again, old friend?”

Omar laughed outright. “No, my lord, not for me. I was thinking of someone else who might make use of her. I am given to believe she is English, which is why I thought of it. She was secreted into the city last night and delivered to Hamid Sharif. The fact that he tried his best to conceal her can only mean she is either so ugly he is ashamed to have her seen, or so beautiful he is afraid to have her seen. You will recall that the last beauty he proudly had paraded through the streets nearly caused a riot. The reason I mention it now is he may not offer her to you this time, having become discouraged after you have turned him down so many times in recent months. If you want to buy her, I may have to contact him, and it should be done before he has a chance to sell her.”

Jamil considered this news for only a moment before he slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t think so, Omar. It was good of you to think of it, but I prefer not to prepare ahead in this instance, as there may be nothing to prepare for. Our ‘someone else’ has not
arrived yet, nor might he ever. And the last thing I want to do is disturb my women with a new acquisition when they are already displeased with me.”

Omar refrained from commenting on that. He simply nodded his acceptance and salaamed, indicating he would detain the Dey no longer. What could he have said that wouldn’t have reminded Jamil of his own shortcomings? At least the Dey was not pretending an ignorance of the havoc his foul disposition caused in the palace. He was fully aware that his slaves walked in fear of him, his guards drew lots now to see who would
not
have to show up for duty each day, and his concubines complained constantly of his neglect, or, as the case might be, his favor.

Omar knew that Jamil strived for control, and when he failed to achieve it, his anger only grew worse. The situation had just gone on too long. Jamil’s patience was at an end. His temper exploded now at the least provocation, and although he regretted the punishments he ordered and most times cut them short as his reason returned, they still occurred frequently.

Omar sighed and followed the Dey into the audience chamber. Waiting there to speak with Jamil was a servant of Hamid Sharif’s whom Omar recognized. Here was a prime excuse for Jamil to lose his temper this morning: having to deal with the same issue twice, since Omar had little doubt that the servant was here because of Hamid’s newest acquisition. He should not even have been allowed in, for his was certainly not urgent business. But this was Omar’s fault for not being present to screen today’s visitors, leaving the duty in the hands of Jamil’s harried clerk instead.

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.