Kosem advanced gingerly into the audience room. When Kalid looked up and saw her, he groaned.
“No,” he said wearily. “Not now.”
“Kalid, I must talk to you.”
“Take her away!” Kalid made a sweeping gesture to the eunuchs escorting his grandmother. Each one of them immediately seized a frail arm.
“Kalid, please!” Kosem said. “I will not be long. I have something important to say.”
Kalid gestured for the servants to release the old lady. “I am furious with you,” he said flatly, not looking at her. “It was your idea to take Sarah to the bazaar.”
“Kalid, she would not have seized that opportunity to get away if she were happy here. Give up on this girl and get another.”
He said nothing.
“She is running away from you! How long can you keep her under lock and key?”
“As long as it takes.”
“And by then I will be dead.”
“She will give in to me soon. She is powerfully attracted to me. I can build on that. She has all these Western notions of propriety and civilized behavior; I have to overcome those barriers with a passion so intense it will sweep all before it.”
“How do you know you can do this?” Kosem asked.
“I know I can because my mother grew to love my father,” he said simply.
Kosem relented, bending to his cheek. “You always were a romantic, son of my son. I give you keyf.” She gathered the hem of her caftan into her hand and tiptoed out of the audience room, leaving Kalid alone.
Kalid stared at the door long after she had left, not as confident as he pretended, wondering if he would ever find the fulfillment his grandmother had wished him.
If Sarah had been unhappy in the Orchid Palace before her brief escape, after three days of close confinement in the harem she was in complete despair. Denied the freedom of the palace, she saw no one but Memtaz, who brought in her meals and did her best to keep her mistress occupied. Sarah was allowed books but she had read most of them, and she had little interest in the intricate pastimes that amused harem women, strategic games involving tiles and colored marbles that she found childish and unabsorbing.
Her mood was not improved when Memtaz told her that Kalid had sent for Fatma every night since Sarah was recaptured.
For Sarah, there was no word from him at all. So when Memtaz announced that a bundle woman was visiting the harem with her wares, Sarah asked permission to have the woman admitted to see her. Memtaz returned shortly with the peddler, and Sarah fell on her like she was a long lost relative.Trapped in the harem and stymied by its restrictions, Sarah was eager to do anything to relieve the tedium and abandonment of her imprisoned existence.
“Sarah?” the bundle woman said, as soon as she entered the ikbal’s apartment.
Sarah stared at her. “Do you know me?”
The woman said something else, but her accent was so thick that Sarah could not understand her.
“Memtaz, what is she saying?” Sarah asked quickly.
“It is her dialect. She is from Pamphylia. She says that she has a message from the Princess at Topkapi,” Memtaz whispered, glancing at the door.
Sarah held her finger to her lips, her heart beating faster. “Roxalena?” she said in an undertone.
The peddler nodded emphatically.
Sarah and Memtaz exchanged glances.
“Memtaz, go and listen at the door,” Sarah muttered.
“Mistress, this is dangerous. If my master—”
“Go to the door!” Sarah hissed.
Memtaz scurried to obey.
Sarah looked at the bundle woman, who withdrew Roxalena’s note from her bosom and handed it to Sarah.
Sarah scanned it quickly and then held it to her lips. She could feel the sting of tears behind her eyes.
God bless Roxalena. She was a friend.
“Let me give you something for your trouble,” Sarah said to the peddler, looking around for a bauble.
The woman held up her hand and looked toward Memtaz. Sarah gestured for the servant to come back.
“What does she want?” Sarah asked.
Memtaz conferred with the visitor, then said, “She needs something to prove to the princess that she saw you. A lock of hair?”
Sarah ran to her vanity table and snipped off a curl of hair, then removed her father’s gold signet ring from her pinky. Roxalena had often remarked on it.
“Give these to Roxalena,” Sarah said, pressing the items into the bundle woman’s hands.
The peddler nodded and thrust them inside her blouse, then bolted for the door, eager to leave and collect her reward now that her mission had been accomplished. Memtaz saw her out the door to meet her escort.When the servant returned after a protracted period, her expression was clouded.
“What is it?” Sarah demanded anxiously. “Did someone stop that woman and question her?”
Memtaz shook her head. “I heard the eunuchs talking. Pasha Kalid has been badly injured in a Bedouin raid. They think he might die.”
Chapter 7
Sarah felt faint; her hand shot out to steady herself on a table as she said, “Die?”
Memtaz nodded worriedly. “It’s a pistol wound. The ball is still in his shoulder. The valide pashana has sent to Ankara for a doctor skilled in such matters, but it is a long trip to reach here. The pasha is bleeding badly.”
Sarah did not know what to say. Kalid had been such a constant in her life since she came to the Orchid Palace, such a wall of solidity, that the idea of something happening to him had never entered her mind.
“Doesn’t the pasha have his own doctor?” Sarah asked Memtaz, after a long pause.
“He is away, mistress. The pasha sent him to tend a friend in Kucuksu, on the Asian side of the Bosporus.”
“How do you know this?” Sarah asked.
“It is the talk of the palace, mistress. It just happened early this morning, but already there is much concern.”
Sarah walked over to her sleeping couch and sat down on it heavily, her thoughts in turmoil. Memtaz waited patiently until Sarah looked up and said, “Memtaz, do you think I could get permission to see the valide pashana?”
Memtaz looked doubtful. “You are under house arrest, mistress. It took a great deal of talking to persuade the khislar to allow the bundle woman to visit you.”
“But circumstances have changed! The pasha’s life is in danger and I might be able to help him. If Kosem gives her permission for me to tend him, that is.”
“Tend him? Oh, no, mistress, that would never be allowed. Only the khislar and members of the family—”
“Memtaz, will you talk to Achmed when you go to get my evening meal?” Sarah said, interrupting her. “Kosem will listen to him. I would do it myself, but I can’t get out of here.”
Memtaz bent her head in acquiescence. “I will do as you ask, mistress. But I am puzzled as to why you want to help the pasha. I thought it was your heartfelt desire to escape him. Are you afraid of what might happen to you if he dies?”
Sarah hadn’t even considered that aspect of it. If Kalid died, her only value would be what she might bring at a slave auction, and she was sure the khislar would not hesitate to sell her. Or leave her in the harem for the next pasha, whoever that might be.
“I’m not thinking that far ahead, Memtaz. Just see if I can visit the valide pashana tonight. Please.”
Memtaz bowed and withdrew. Sarah walked over to the window and gazed out over the tiled roof of the Bird House, praying that Kosem would see her.
Kosem’s caramel skin was very pale as Sarah was ushered into her presence that evening. The valide pashana was composed, but the hand that held the chibuk was shaking as she raised the ornately carved pipe to her lips.
Sarah had dressed carefully for the interview, donning a silver tissue shalwar and a caftan of imperial purple shot with silver thread. She advanced on the pasha’s grandmother, who was alone in her antechamber, surrounded by the finer
y that was the comfort of her old age.
“You may be seated,” Kosem said, and Sarah obeyed, sitting on the edge of a damask couch opposite the one Kosem occupied.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Sarah said.
“The khislar said your servant was most persistent. You seem to have won her allegiance in a short time.”
“It is important that I have your permission to tend Kalid.”
“Why?” Kosem’s gaze was direct.
“My father was a doctor in Boston, valide pashana. Until he died two years ago, I used to assist him in his surgery all the time. I think I may be able to help.”
“You misunderstood my question. Why do you want to help Kalid? I thought you saw him as your captor, your tormentor. Just the other day you abused my trust and fled through the bazaar to get away from him. I should think you would want to see him suffer. I do not understand your motives in coming to me.”
Sarah sighed. “I’m not happy being held against my will, that is true. But Kalid has dealt with me . . . humanely, and I have never wanted revenge on him. I have always known that by his lights he was treating me very well.”
“By his lights?” Kosem said, not familiar with the idiom.
“By his own standards.”
Kosem puffed for several seconds and then said, “I do not think you are being honest with yourself, but I also know that self deception is an honored Western tradition. Your feelings about my grandson are confused, and deeper than you will admit. But that concern is for another time. Right now we must get him well. Come with me.”
Kosem rose and Sarah followed her. The two women left the valide pashana’s chambers, and her escort of eunuchs fell in beside them. They walked quickly through the palace to the mabeyn, past a corps of janissaries and halberdiers, who parted automatically when they saw the pasha’s grandmother.
Sarah had never seen Kalid’s private apartment. The anteroom was surprisingly austere, sparsely decorated with trophies of war and family heirlooms, two of the walls lined with book filled shelves. Inside the inner chamber, attended by the khislar and several retainers, Kalid lay unconscious on his sleeping couch, naked to the waist. The wound on his shoulder was red and angry and surrounded by a charcoal powder burn. His eyes were closed, his long lashes fanned on his cheeks, his breathing shallow. His abundant black hair had lost its sheen; now it was dull and stringy, matted with sweat. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead and upper lip, and his color was bad, almost gray. A table by the bed held a basin and pitcher, soap and clean cloths, and a wastebasket under it was filled with bloodstained linen.
Sarah looked at Kosem, who was watching her closely. Careful not to let the older woman see her alarm, Sarah turned away and sat on the edge of the couch, touching the skin around Kalid’s wound gently with trembling fingers. It was fiery hot.
“This is getting infected,” Sarah said, with more authority than she felt, since she wasn’t sure she was capable of handling this alone. But she knew that she could not leave Kalid to the barbaric practices of whatever witch doctors the khislar might summon. “The ball is still in his shoulder, and it must come out.”
“What does that mean?” Kosem said, peering at Sarah anxiously.
“I have to remove it,” Sarah replied.
“You!” the khislar said. His English was almost non-existent, but this much he understood.
“Can you think of anyone else?” Sarah said, switching to Turkish. “Kalid’s doctor is away, and I have experience doing this sort of thing.” She was exaggerating wildly, praying every minute that she would not do more harm than good.
“The Empire is full of medical men, surgeons and herbalists, Greeks and Cypriots with potions and curatives of every kind. Any one of them could be brought here in an instant at my command,” Achmed said, outraged.
“Sarah will do it,” Kosem said quietly.
The khislar shot her a mutinous glance, but they both knew her word was law in this situation.
“You may go,” Kosem said to him. “Take up your post in the anteroom, outside the door. And take these others with you.”
Achmed obeyed, the muscles in his jaw quivering, standing aside as the little procession preceded him out the door. Then it slammed shut behind him.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to upset Achmed,” Sarah said nervously, wiping Kalid’s brow with a cloth from his bedside table.
“He is jealous of your influence,” Kosem replied. “Before you came, Kalid listened only to him. Now there is another.”
“I have not noticed Kalid listening to me,” Sarah said dryly.
“You underestimate your power,” Kosem said, watching as Sarah washed Kalid’s shoulder with tallow and lye soap, rinsing it carefully with water from his beside laver. The wound was beginning to suppurate, draining watery blood and serum, the skin around it tightening. Sarah would have to work fast.
“I’ll need a small, sharp knife and the strongest liquor you have, something with a high alcohol content.”
“Raki?” Kosem suggested.
Sarah shook her head. “Rum?” she said hopefully.
Kosem wrinkled her nose. “Rum can be purchased at the bazaar,” she said disdainfully. It was obvious that her opinion of the drink favored by Europeans was not very high.
“Then send someone for it. Now. And I’ll need green leaves from a broadleaf tree, like an oak or maple. When crushed and applied to the wound as a poultice, they have healing properties.”
“What trees are these, oak and maple?” Kosem asked. The English names meant nothing to her.
“Tell Memtaz to get them. She’ll know.” Memtaz came from a Black Sea village where almost everyone studied natural cures. “And I’ll need her help to remove the ball.”
“You shall have everything you need,” Kosem said firmly, and turned to go.
Sarah went back to wiping Kalid’s forehead, taking his pulse with her free hand. It was rapid, his heart pumping more strongly to make up for the blood he had lost. Sarah tried to remain objective and remember everything she had learned observing her father, but she found herself staring down at Kalid as tears formed in her eyes and she choked back a sob.
When she was fighting with him, it was possible to dismiss how she really felt, to concentrate on the anger and let that block the other emotions she didn’t want to experience. But seeing him like this, ill and defenseless, brought out all the tenderness and longing she’d managed to suppress since she met him. She picked up his limp hand and held it to her cheek as warm tears coursed over it and into her mouth.
What would she do if she couldn’t save him?
She indulged in a combination of panic and self-pity for about five minutes, then let Kalid’s hand fall to his side and searched in her sleeve for her handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, composing herself just as Kosem returned with a gleaming knife displayed on a silver salver.
Sarah picked it up and studied it. “I think this will be fine,” she finally said. “What is it?”
“A craftsman’s knife for carving wood,” Kosem replied. “Achmed sharpened it on a whetstone.”
“How is he?” Kosem asked.
“The same.”
By the time the rum arrived and Memtaz came in with the leaves Sarah had requested, Kalid was beginning to toss and mutter with fever. Sarah uncorked the bottle of liquor and dribbled some of the liquid between his parted lips. He choked and turned his head.
“Hold his head, Memtaz,” Sarah said quickly. “He has to take a good bit of this, or the pain will cause him to buck too much for me to keep a steady hand.”
Memtaz held Kalid as Sarah opened his mouth and poured the liquor down his throat. He gasped and sputtered but swallowed most of it, lapsing into semi-consciousness as soon as the women let his head slip back onto the pillow.
“I think we should let Achmed come in and hold him down when I cut him,” Sarah said to Kosem. “The liquor is not enough to put him out completely, and he will react. I jus
t don’t know how much.”
Kosem nodded, gesturing to Memtaz to summon the khislar.
“Do you have a strong stomach?” Sarah asked the valide pashana. “Maybe you should go.”
“I will stay,” Kosem replied flatly.
Sarah sighed. Arguing the point would waste time, and Kalid’s fever was getting worse every minute. “Then you must be quiet,” she said, and Kosem did not protest.
Memtaz returned with the khislar, and Sarah positioned him to keep Kalid’s torso as immobile as possible. Then she poured the rest of the bottle of rum over the wound, ignoring the others as they exchanged doubtful glances.
“Are you ready?” Sarah said to Achmed.
He nodded.
“Hold him tight,” she said warningly.
His supple hands gripped Kalid more closely.
Sarah placed the knife at the edge of the wound and inserted it carefully. As she began to probe Kalid moaned and tossed from side to side. Achmed increased his pressure on Kalid’s arms, pinning him to the couch.
“Have you found it?” Memtaz said urgently, wiping Kalid’s brow briskly.
Sarah shook her head, biting her lip. She changed direction with the knife and encountered something solid as Kalid groaned and tried to lift himself off the couch. She slipped the knife under it and extracted a flattened bit of metal about the size of a Liberty Head nickel.
“Got it,” she said triumphantly, tossing the spent ball on a tray. The wound was now pouring blood and she stanched it, then opened another bottle of rum and doused it with liquor again.
“You can let him go,” she said to Achmed, who relaxed his hold. Kalid subsided, muttering unintelligibly, tossing his head on the pillow.
“Now we have to dress it,” Sarah said to Memtaz, who nodded and rose, returning with the leaves she had gathered. She crushed them with a pestle to release the green sap as Kosem watched, looking somewhat strained but in control.
Sarah selected the largest leaves and placed them against the open wound, then covered the poultice with a cotton cloth and tied it in place. When she was finished, her hands were aching and she was blinking from the perspiration running into her eyes, but she was smiling.
The Panther and The Pearl Page 11