Nejat spoke the word for orange, correcting Kaitlin’s mispronunciation. “You said the word for ‘yellow.’” She gave the smile of an exasperated mother as she approached. She plucked a leaf from Kaitlin’s hair. “Why are you so dirty? Were you climbing trees?”
“No! I swear.”
Nejat looked around the garden suspiciously.
Desperate to prevent the discovery of her escape route, Kaitlin blurted out, “I mean… Yes.” Kaitlin hung her head, feigning shame. “I was climbing. Please don’t be cross.”
“Kaitlin, we talked about this.” Nejat dropped to a knee. “You have not tried to leave the palace in weeks, and that is well. But you are not to climb, and you are not to ruin your fine clothes. If you break the rules of the garden, you will be confined indoors. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Good.” Nejat offered her hand. “Now come. Tea is ready.”
“Okay,” said Kaitlin, taking Nejat’s hand. As she walked with the mistress of the Seraglio, she cast a furtive look at the orange tree.
Tonight, Mr. Lion.
###
The crickets sang by starlight. The grass felt cool against Kaitlin’s ankles. The garden of the palace Seraglio was empty. Kaitlin passed a bubbling fountain, then ran between a pair of poplars. She came to the towering hedges that bordered her orange grove and paused to look around. Empty benches sat under whispering olive trees. The beige walls of the palace glowed the color of pearl in the half-light. No one following.
Kaitlin pulled the Islanded Lion from her pocket. “We did it, Mr. Lion. We snuck out.” She kissed the coin for good luck. “You really are magic.”
Tucking the piece of eight back in her pocket, Kaitlin rounded the hedge. She dashed under the lattice awning, eager to dive under the tree, crawl through her tunnel, and…
Kaitlin froze.
“No!” she cried, unable to believe her eyes.
The orange tree—once a tower of bushy leaves reaching to the top of the wall—was gone. A few fallen branches and a thick stump were all that remained. The trail she had worn smooth led, as it always had, to the culvert. But a new iron grate blocked the path.
“It can’t be,” cried Kaitlin.
“Looking for something?” said a rough voice.
Torchlight spilled through the lattice awning behind Kaitlin. She turned around to find Maajid, the “Master of the Girls,” looming over her. He had a handsome, clean-shaven face that belied his cruel eyes. His sleeveless kaftan revealed strong muscles. In one hand he held a torch, in the other, her ditty bag.
“You think I didn’t keep an eye on you, skulking around the garden?” Maajid tossed the bag on the ground and stomped the supplies. Kaitlin could hear the crunch of the marbles.
“Those are mine!” cried Kaitlin.
“Nothing here is yours.” Maajid seized Kaitlin’s arm and dragged her close. “You’ve crossed me for the last time.”
“Why did you cut it down?” sobbed Kaitlin. Tears poured down her face as she struggled. But it was no use—his hands were like iron. “Why? You didn’t have to do that.”
“If I have to cut down every tree on these grounds, you will learn your place.” Maajid tossed his torch on the ditty bag and it burst into flame.
“You’re a scoundrel!” Kaitlin cried and fought as Maajid dragged her through the garden. “A rotten scoundrel! I don’t belong here. I want to go home. I want my mam! I want my mam!”
Maajid came to a stop. He turned on Kaitlin, bending so close, she could smell the stale coffee on his breath. A frightening smile spread across his face. “You want your mam? Well, you will never see her again. She went to the bastedan and fetched a handsome price. And soon, you will too.”
Kaitlin didn’t know exactly what he meant, but she had a feeling.
“It’s time you learned a lesson,” said Maajid. His open palm flashed high in the air. Kaitlin flinched.
“Maajid!” Nejat cried. Her evening kaftan trailed in the night air as she approached. “Unhand the girl at once.”
The seraglio’s brutish guardian glared at Nejat. “This is no concern of yours, Mistress. The infidel brat has run for the last time.”
“I said unhand her!” The mistress glared up at him, dwarfed by his muscular frame. “Unless you would explain to Hammuda Bey why you damaged his merchandise—and the day before bidding, no less.”
Maajid’s nostrils flared. For a moment, his vice-like grip didn’t budge. Then he shoved Kaitlin roughly toward Nejat and stormed off.
An hour later, Kaitlin lay on the bed in her room, crying into the pillows.
“There, there, little one,” soothed the motherly voice of Mistress Nejat. She stirred a steaming bowl on the night table, the light of the candelabrum glinting on porcelain. “Stop those tears, now. I’ve brought you some stew. Mutton—your favorite.”
“I don’t want any,” sobbed Kaitlin.
“I’m sorry, little one.” Nejat’s tone darkened for a moment. “Maajid was doing his job, but he had no right to treat you so cruelly. I will speak to the bey tomorrow. He’ll be punished if I have my way.”
“He said…” sniffled Kaitlin. “He said I would never see my mam again. That she went to the bosto…the bosso…”
Nejat’s eyes flicked away. “You mustn’t trouble yourself about that. Maajid was only trying to scare you. We’ll talk more of your mother tomorrow. But first, I’ve brought you a gift.”
“I’m not hungry and I don’t want a gift.” Kaitlin turned her back.
“You don’t want to see?” Nejat sighed. “Very well…”
Something clicked and soft music began to play. Kaitlin turned over. Nejat held a wooden box. The lid was open, revealing a statuette of a deer with big antlers. Riding side-saddle on its back was an elegant princess, her feet dangling from the folds of a gown. The figurine turned a circle.
“I suppose I’ll take it back to the merchant…”
“Wait!” interrupted Kaitlin. She reached for the box, and Nejat let her take it. As she held it up to the light, she said, “You don’t have to do that.”
Nejat smiled and ran a hand through Kaitlin’s hair. She planted a kiss on her forehead. “As you wish little one. I’ll leave it here for a little while.”
A few minutes after Nejat left, Kaitlin looked around the room. Nejat had locked her into the second story bed chamber and sealed the window shutters with a padlock. There would be no more sneaking around the palace. No more running free in the garden. Tomorrow, she would “fetch a price” at this bastedan place. And she would never see Mam or Da or Johnny again. After sobbing a while longer, she ate. It was, after all, a delicious stew.
###
Kaitlin’s eyes flew open in the darkness. A clicking sound awakened her. She searched the room. The shadows of two feet were moving in the light under the door. The clicking got louder, and the doorknob turned. Kaitlin flew out of bed, heart thumping. She searched for a place to hide.
Under the bed? No, that had never worked with John and Isaac. In the wardrobe? Stupid. The first place anyone would look. On top of the wardrobe? It was better than nothing. She raced across the room.
Something jangled in the keyhole.
Thinking better of her strategy, Kaitlin ran back to the bed and made up the covers as best she could. Maybe the intruder wouldn’t think anyone had slept here. She ran to the tall cabinet in the corner, threw open the double doors, and climbed the shelves. Kaitlin had always been good at climbing. When she was crouching on top of the cabinet, she reached down and closed the doors.
There was a final, loud clink. The bedchamber door creaked open. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the candlelight in the hall. It looked like someone too tall and strangely dressed to be one of the girls of the seraglio. Short and lean, clad in a cloak and hood, he wasn’t big enough to be Maajid or any of the palace guards.
In a flash, he was in the room. He scurried to the nightstand and stuffed the gold-trimmed
candlestick, her music box, and the silver spoon from her stew into a satchel. Kaitlin should have been afraid, but more than anything, she was curious. He moved with speed and purpose, stealing the gold-plated bed knobs, a crystal goblet, and the finest silks in the wardrobe under her feet. Then he moved to the window. His hands worked at the lock, and again she heard the metal clicking. A minute later, the padlock came free, and the shutters flew open. The silver light of the moon flooded the room. A breath of wind stirred the edges of his cowl. The figure tossed a look over his shoulder, and she caught a glimpse of his face.
It was a boy—possibly fourteen or fifteen. He had a handsome, round face, with smooth chestnut skin. The moonlight caught his eyes. They were filled with energy and confidence—as if he possessed a secret power. The boy sprang onto the window sill, undaunted by the three story fall beneath his feet. Kaitlin wanted a piece of that power.
The moment the boy disappeared out the window, Kaitlin scrambled down from the wardrobe. She climbed onto the window sill, a wave of nausea rushing through her as she looked down to the cobbled path. The tops of garden trees swayed well below her feet. To her left, the boy was inching along the stone ledge. When he reached the corner, he straddled the stonework that ran up the building. Every few feet, the shape of the moulding provided a handhold. The boy inch-wormed from moulding to moulding, until he disappeared onto the roof above the fourth floor.
Kaitlin swallowed hard. She had always loved secret places. Hidden places. High places. But she had never attempted a climb so daring. Ruefully, she slid a foot down from the window sill, resigned that she could not follow. Before her foot touched the carpet, a butterfly stirred in her stomach. She reached into her pocket and felt for the Islanded Lion.
Feeling the cool silver, she closed her eyes and said, “Wish me luck, Mr. Lion.”
With her heart hammering in her chest, Kaitlin climbed out the window and onto the ledge. She kept her eyes forward as she took one sidestep at a time, back against the wall, taking in the panorama of Tunis. Few windows still winked with candlelight along the blocks of tenements. The sky was a treasure trove of stars. The climb up the mouldings was easier, as she could see only the stone and not the dizzying height below. At last, she climbed over the parapet onto a slanted roof shingled in green copper.
For a moment, Kaitlin breathed hard. She looked around for the boy, but saw no one.
“Who are you, girl?” someone said in English.
Kaitlin nearly jumped back over the parapet in fright. She whirled around and found the cloaked boy balanced on a ledge nearby. His eyes were narrow and suspicious. There was an odd cadence to his voice that sounded familiar. Once, on Da’s ship The Wandering Hart, they had sailed to India where the people spoke strangely and wore bright colors. He sounded like the people she remembered from those bustling docks.
“How did you follow me?” the boy continued.
Kaitlin swallowed. “I climbed.”
The boy laughed. “Of course, you climbed. But before you could climb and follow me, you must first have seen me. And this is not possible.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am the magnificent Aruna Taigar Pair,” proclaimed the boy, throwing his cloak over his shoulder with a flourish.
“So?”
“Have you not heard of Aruna the Tiger Foot of the Silver Hand Guild of Thieves?”
“No.” Kaitlin knit her brows. “That’s an awfully long name.”
Aruna laughed again. “I suppose you have a short one?”
“Kaitlin. Kaitlin Sullivan.”
“Well, Kaitlin Kaitlin Sullivan, that seems a long name to me.”
Now it was Kaitlin chuckling.
Aruna smiled, and Kaitlin decided it was a pleasant smile. He rose to standing, his feet rock steady on the parapet. “Alas, now, Kaitlin Kaitlin, I must go.”
“Wait!” Kaitlin jumped to her feet. “Give me back my music box first!”
“I can’t. It was an honest theft. To give it back would not be proper.”
Kaitlin balled her hands into fists. “Give it back! Or I’ll take it!”
Aruna’s eyebrows rose with delight. “Very well, Kaitlin Kaitlin. I will give you back your musical box—if you can catch a thief!” And with that, the boy scurried away.
Kaitlin danced in place. She looked back at the seraglio gardens. Then she looked at the thief running up green metal slats. For the first time in weeks, Kaitlin smiled.
Chapter 7
The Lake Fort
Decrepit Study
Sunday, September 11th, 1803
Day 2, After Midnight
How long have I been like this? John thought. Minutes? Hours? Longer?
The stake drilled into John’s foot. A line of agony cut from the binding on his wrist to the small of his back. No matter how he shifted his weight, his whole body ached. He often closed his eyes and imagined the ocean. In his mind, he watched the waves, listened to the gulls, inhaled the surf. Sometimes, he could summon the image of Dominique. She would stand on the beach in her Iroquois dress, bare feet digging into the wet sand, blonde hair loose in the wind. She would look back at him over her shoulder, and her smile would force the pain into the distant corners of his mind. But then a muscle would pull taut, snapping John back to reality. One more time he’d think the worst possible question: How long will I be like this?
The tower door opened. Two more Djedid soldiers carried in a wooden bench. Two metal vices were nailed to the surface. They were shaped like horseshoes encircling two horizontal bars. An auger and hand crank was attached to each. Varlick Naim strode into the room. He folded his arms behind his back and watched John for a moment. John felt like the court fool as his foot wobbled on the peg and his arm trembled in the snare.
“Care to guess how long it’s been?” Naim asked.
Two hours, at least, thought John. But he’d be damned if he gave his tormentor the satisfaction of an answer. He hawked a glob of spit at Naim’s boots. Pain lanced through John’s body with the effort.
“Right now, you’re probably thinking an hour. Perhaps two.” Naim took a few steps forward, the toe of his boot just short of the spit. “Half. It’s been half an hour.”
John’s brave face withered at the revelation.
“I think you’ve earned a rest.” Naim nodded at a guard.
A Djedid with an oddly crooked nose—as if it had healed poorly from a break some time ago—placed a block of wood beside the peg. John suspected a trick, but he was in no position to argue. He rested his foot on the surface. His body trembled with relief.
“Better,” said Naim.
Humiliated as he was, John mustered a glare.
Chains rattled on the floor as a pair of guards escorted a new prisoner into the room. They brought a young black man with short-cropped hair and cinnamon eyes to the bench. It was John’s friend from Philadelphia—the man who took John in when he was a starving orphan, despite all the risks to those of his race. He had come with John to the Barbary Coast in search of Kaitlin, and now he was yet another pawn in Naim’s terrible game.
“Ethan.” John’s voice was frail.
The eighteen-year-old surgeon’s mate looked sickened as he stared at the vices mounted on the table, sweat dampening his shirt. His eyes widened as the guards placed his hands between the horizontal bars within the horseshoe cuffs. They were the perfect size for a human palm, and their function was becoming clear. As they sat Ethan in a chair and shackled his feet to the legs, he looked up at his friend. “John. What have they done to you?”
“I’m all right, mate,” John said. But inwardly, he was wondering, Is this Katie’s plan? Where is she?
The guards turned the cranks at the top of each vice, spinning the corkscrew-shaped drill. With a high-pitched whine, the upper crossbars descended upon each of Ethan’s hands.
“Is this what Ilyas would have wanted, Naim?” shouted John. “For you to torture an innocent man?”
The sultan’s agent laid a h
and on the hilt of his curved sword—a Turkish kilij—sheathed at his belt. “The ‘hand crusher’ was a favored instrument of the Spanish Inquisition. Used against heretics, political enemies, the Moors… The sophisticated among them did not consider pain an end unto itself. Used properly, pain is a tool. One must choose the right tool for the work. One must consider the subject and what he fears to lose.”
Ethan set his jaw. He breathed hard, steeling himself for the coming pain.
A part of John wanted to scream threats at Naim. Another part wanted to grovel and beg. Anything to save his friend. But it would only be wasted breath. “Aren’t you a damn poet, Naim. But clever words won’t hide the truth. ‘The Chronicler of Constantinople?’” John scoffed. “You’re a dungeon hunchback in fine clothes.”
Naim extended his hand. A Djedid with a coarse beard shadow and eyes like a shark approached. He placed the neck of a violin in Naim’s waiting grasp. It was Ethan’s Norwegian Hardanger fiddle, and Naim turned the fiddle over like an appraiser. “A truly magnificent instrument. Sultan Selim is a great lover of art and music—one of the many glories his Nizam-I Djedid will make flourish in the new empire.”
Ethan and John followed every movement of the fiddle.
“It must have taken you years to learn, young Auldon,” continued Naim. “You cannot put a price on such knowledge. For it will always be with you…” Naim took a few slow steps until he stood beside Ethan. He laid the fiddle on the table a few inches beyond the musician’s trapped hands. “…Even if you can no longer play.”
Ethan stared at his violin, the maple wood-grain burnished to a mirror shine. It had been broken when he bought it, purchased with money from his delivery route. Over the course of months, John had watched him painstakingly repair, sand, polish, and re-string the hardanger.
Naim curled his grip around the right auger handle. He narrowed his eyes at John, his pupils dark with hatred.
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