by Sara Pascoe
Inside the box was another one, circled in silver and on a pretty chain.
‘You know, people are calling you ‘Rachel Nazarlik’ because of your light eyes,’ Abbas said. He looked bemused. ‘I think some of these people actually think you are a living good luck charm. This one’s from me and Macide, to keep you safe,’ he said.
Raya rolled her eyes. Abbas frowned. ‘I see. You transport yourself at the blink of an eye, see the future in the mud at the bottom of a coffee cup, yet you laugh at keeping safe with this well-known power?’ Abbas looked serious. Raya decided not to argue about what she thought was nonsense.
She was touched by their concern, but in spite of her getting her head around being a witch, time travel, and other previously unimaginable ideas, this – the idea that a bit of coloured glass could protect her – was hard to believe.
‘Thank you, Uncle Abbas. I’ll wear it always.’ She fastened it around her neck.
* * *
Raya woke up on the ninth day to the sound of birds, the soft padding of camels’ feet in the courtyard and the occasional chiding of groundsmen. She opened the shutters to let the strong sunlight in. The warmth still felt good. Oscar jumped from the balcony walkway up onto her windowsill.
‘You ready?’ Raya said.
‘Yessireebob – I’m all yours, kid,’ he said and closed his eyes in the sun’s caress.
‘Where’s Bryony?’ she was keen to keep avoiding her.
‘Macide’s taken her to the baths and then they’re going to hang out with her friends.’ Raya felt guilty relief – maybe Bryony would be OK staying here.
Raya got her veil ready. ‘You can come in, you know,’ she said.
‘If it’s all the same to you I’ll stay here. Feeling a bit twitchy – like something’s about to happen,’ he said.
‘A premonition or good hearing?’ she asked the cat, an eyebrow hitched up. But he didn’t answer. He flattened himself on the windowsill, ears plastered to his head.
Strong footsteps pounded up the staircase outside, then the balcony shook. Oscar gave a small hiss and pressed himself against the window frame. Raya popped her veil on and peered out the window.
Two tall men were approaching, one white and one black. They were wearing the most ornate clothing she’d ever seen. A groundsman was simpering behind them, saying things they ignored except for an occasional nod. Oscar jumped down to the balcony and sidled past them. Raya closed the shutters, pretty sure they hadn’t seen her.
She didn’t know why, but her heart was thumping. There was a sharp rap at Macide’s door. She heard Abbas’s voice.
‘Greetings, Kizlar Agha and Kapi Agha. To what do we owe this great honour? Please do come in. You’ll have to forgive my less than splendid hospitality: the woman of the house, my mother, is out, I’m afraid. Can I offer you some coffee? Some nourishment?’
‘No, thank you. We won’t be staying. The Sultan’s wife, Turhan Hatice Sultana requests the services of Rachel Nazarlik. We will bring a coach here for her tomorrow morning at ten o’clock,’ one of the men said. There was a pause.
‘Of course, Kizlar Agha, we will do everything in our power to have Rachel of London, I mean Rachel Nazarlik, waiting for you at the gate. But you better than most know how hard it can be to guarantee the behaviour of young women.’
The visitors chuckled. The voice that spoke before, spoke again. ‘You have no idea. Yet, we would hate to disappoint the Sultana.’
There was a pause. Raya’s heart was pounding so hard, she thought they might be able to hear it.
After goodbyes, the men left, insisting they show themselves out. Raya remained with her ear to the door.
‘What an honour,’ one of the groundsmen crowed to Abbas. ‘A request from Topkapi Palace!’
‘With this Sultan – Crazy Ibrahim? You know what they’re like, brother killing brother, executing enemies, what they did to my uncle. I don’t want her anywhere near that place,’ Abbas said.
‘But think of all that luxury. And hardly anyone gets into the innermost quarters. I’m sure you could accompany her. Aren’t you just a little curious?’ the groundsman persisted.
‘Over my dead body,’ Abbas growled.
‘Oscar, did you hear that?!’ Raya was about to explode with excitement. ‘Topkapi Palace? Me? And invited to give the Sultana a reading!’
‘I don’t know. I got a bad feeling from those two – didn’t like ‘em.’
‘The groundsman didn’t think it was such a big deal. You get things wrong sometimes, don’t you?’
‘Of course he does.’ It was the reedy voice of the bottlebrush jinn.
‘Let me go get Bryony – get rid of this idiot,’ Oscar jumped onto the windowsill ready to leave.
‘No! I mean, she’s on her way to the baths and everything. Let her have a nice day,’ Raya said. The last thing she wanted was to see Bryony, between her guilt and now this amazing opportunity that she had a feeling Bryony would be against. And Raya was so excited she knew it would leak out of her, no matter how hard she locked down her thoughts.
Oscar jumped from the windowsill to the bed, hunkered down and twitched his tail like an angry clock. ‘OK, but if you go to this Topkapi Palace, I’m going with you.’
That’s all she needed. Bring a cat along with her to a royal visit? She’d look like a right plonker. ‘I don’t know, Oscar – that’s really sweet of you and everything, but–’
‘No discussion – I’m going.’ He sat up straight, then narrowed his eyes. ‘Or I’ll grass on you – tell Bryony what you’re up to, sneaking off to the Palace, eh?’
‘All right, all right. You can go.’ People seemed pretty blasé about her bringing the cat around with her so far. The excitement was bubbling through her. ‘Come on, let’s get going. We’ll transport to the bazaar – like I’m doing my regular practice – and touch base with Musta. And anyway, I’ll need a new dress for our visit to the Palace.’
‘Of course you do.’ Oscar was excellent at sarcasm.
She put her veil and headscarf on, ready for transport.
* * *
She stepped into the doorway of Musta’s regular coffee house and let Oscar jump down from her arms. Musta wasn’t there at the moment, but they thought he’d arrive in about an hour. Too wound up to wait, she decided to go shopping for that dress first and return to check in with Musta later. Maybe she’d get some matching shoes, too.
‘So remind me – why do you need a new dress to go to the Palace?’ Oscar asked as he trotted to keep up with her as she threaded through the streets of the bazaar.
‘I don’t want to be easily recognized when I’m waiting outside of the han for those royal guys tomorrow.’
‘Fashion stealth – I like that,’ Oscar said.
Strolling from stall to stall, she decided on a pale rose-coloured dress with lots of beads and pearls sewn on, once again, not her usual style. She still had time and looked for shoes. She found a gorgeous deep rose pair with darker rose beads in a geometric pattern on the pointed toes. Bliss.
When she and Oscar returned to the coffee house Musta was seated at a table with other men. He had his back to the door. He was telling them something in his calm, authoritative voice. She waited in the doorway as she wasn’t working there today.
One of the other men nudged Musta.
‘Hello, dear niece. How nice to see you, and of course, your fine cat companion,’ he said and crouched down to give Oscar a stroke. ‘How are your studies going?’ He crooked an eyebrow. This was how he referred to her practising transporting and any other magic she might know when he was in earshot of other people. From what she could tell, it was more to do with him wanting to keep these wonders to himself until he was ready to publish them, rather than worrying that others might disbelieve.
Raya was dying to talk to someone about this amazing opportunity – someone besides a cat and a jinn. It was one of the few times she really missed having a friend her own age around here. She also wanted to ma
ke sure Abbas’s concerns weren’t grounded, and for that, Uncle Musta would be perfect. If only she could steer the conversation in the right direction without telling him, because he’d be sure to tell Abbas and the others.
She reached up to bite her nails, but her veil was in the way.
Musta laughed. ‘Are you all right, dear niece? You seem distracted, burdened. Let’s take another walk.’
As they strolled through the Grand Bazaar, she listened and hoped for a chance to steer the conversation to the Topkapi Palace. Then one of his mates stopped him to talk politics – one of Musta’s favourite topics. After a brief chat about what each thought of the current Grand Vizier, apparently a shameless kiss-up and yes-man, they said their goodbyes and parted ways. Perfect.
‘So you actually KNOW the Grand Vizier, Uncle Musta? Does that mean you’ve been to the Palace?’ Raya said.
Musta darkened. ‘Yes, my good friend, Kemankeş Kara Mustafa Pasha used to be Grand Vizier. He got me into the second courtyard of Topkapi Palace once…’ He trailed off.
‘So, he’s named Mustafa, too.’
Musta came back from his thoughts and chuckled. ‘Ah yes, it’s quite a common name. But never mind about that. Topkapi Palace – beauty beyond your imagination, young Rachel. One thousand times more beautiful than any grand mansion you’ve ever seen.’
‘Even nicer than the Karatays’s divanhane on the Bosphorus?’ Raya was more and more intrigued.
Musta bought two sherbets from a passing seller and handed one to Raya, as had become their habit. ‘Oh, dear niece, that place is like a nomad’s tent in comparison. The Palace is a self-contained jewel of a city in its own right,’ Musta said. He made sweeping gestures as he described the glorious furnishings, the sumptuous scents from the twenty kitchens, the musicians playing, and all the marvellous clothes people wore there. He went on to describe the three courtyards, the splendid park-like grounds and more.
Raya wasn’t foolish and she knew that Abbas’s uncle was executed by the Ottoman rulers, if not exactly by this Sultan, so she pressed on to make sure she’d be safe as best she could without asking directly.
‘Uncle Musta, I know Abbas’s uncle was executed by a former government. I mean, is that common?’
Musta threw back the rest of his sherbet and gave their empty cups back to the seller. ‘I don’t know if the Ottoman rulers execute more than other royal leaders do. They all do this to some extent. I’m not saying it’s right – and a lot of times it isn’t. Like going to war – there’s always a lot of questionable death.
They walked along some more, Oscar at their feet. She thought about this. She was aware enough to realise that modern governments, including from her own time killed people, sometimes designated bad guys, sometimes their own citizens, and of course plenty of regular people got killed in wars, too. Maybe this wasn’t so different. When she thought about it some more, she figured there were probably more murders in some place like London, or certainly in New York, and people still went out and had fun. It couldn’t stop you. You just had to be careful. And like Musta had been saying the other day, part of becoming independent, an adult, was making these difficult decisions for yourself.
Raya listened at the door to Macide’s for Bryony to leave after breakfast for her jinn work.
‘I think you should talk to the girl – I agree she’s been avoiding you,’ Macide said. She must have been stirring her tea. There was the rhythmic clink of metal spoon against glass. And as much as the velocity of Macide’s stirring was a gauge of her emotional state, she seemed a bit stressed. That her relationship with Bryony would affect other people hadn’t occurred to Raya.
Bryony was pretty good at thought reading and now with her increasing ability to understand Turkish she could often fathom the gist of what people were saying. She must have pantomimed her response – probably shook her head and shrugged her shoulders to say, ‘What can you do?’, because after a beat Macide said. ‘Well, you know her best. I only hate to see this invisible rock between you two.’
After Bryony was through the front gate, and Raya heard the carriage leaving, she ventured into Macide’s for breakfast. More to keep up appearances; she was far too excited to eat. She excused herself explaining she was going to transport to the bazaar first today, and practise her transports within the han later this afternoon, although these seemed too easy to bother with any more. Macide didn’t question it, and Abbas had gone out to the mosque.
Back in her room with Oscar, she changed into the rose-pink dress, headscarf and veil. Then Rachel Nazarlik and cat companion transported to a spot in front of the han, about fifty metres away from the entrance. Veil on, perfumed and ready at a quarter to ten on her tenth day in Istanbul, waiting to meet the Sultana – not bad for a foster girl from east London. A carriage pulled past her up to the entrance, and one of the two men from yesterday got out and started towards the gate. She ran up to him.
‘Yes?’ the man said.
Raya didn’t know if these guys were royalty themselves, or what to do exactly, so she gave a small curtsey but then tripped on her dress. He caught her by the arm.
‘I am Rachel Nazarlik. I believe you’ve come for me.’
The man did a double take, then stared at her eyes. ‘Oh yes, so you are.’ He didn’t smile. He opened the door. ‘Please, get in. I’m Kizlar Agha, Chief of the Girls, and my colleague here,’ he gestured towards another man inside the carriage compartment, ‘he’s Kapi Agha, Lord of the Door.’
Raya nodded as she got in and Oscar hopped in, too. No one said a word about the cat. She could only suppose these two saw much odder things in their time.
It looked like Cinderella’s carriage before it turned back into a pumpkin, but on steroids. She sat on the red-and-gold velvet seat. The walls were painted with intricate flower designs lined with more gold. The Chief of the Girls was black. He settled on the seat across from Raya, next to the Lord of the Door guy who was white. They made a stunning team, both tall, handsome, and dressed resplendently. From the way they interacted, it seemed the Chief of the Girls was the higher up of these two. She took a second to memorise their titles. After hearing about what Macide’s brother went through working at the Palace, she wondered where these two might be from and what they might have gone through, too.
The Chief instructed the driver to go. Raya glanced out the back window as the carriage jolted forward. Other carts and carriages were getting on with the day’s work – two, a fancy yellow one and a plain one stopped at the han. The guard at the gate was talking to one of those drivers. Great. It looked like she had got away. The ride was bumpy on the cobbles.
‘Turhan Hatice Sultana will be delighted you could come,’ the Chief said.
The carriage continued rattling along the maze-like winding and hilly streets of Istanbul.
The Chief turned to the Lord of the Door. ‘This one looks a little like Turhan Sultana, don’t you think? A bit younger, of course.’ The Lord considered Raya, then asked her, ‘Where are you from? Turhan Sultana was from Ukraine, originally.’
‘Me? I’m from England,’ she said. Oscar burrowed next to her, pushed his head under her arm.
‘I’m not liking the vibe, Raya. I don’t think they’re being straight with you. I can feel it in my tail.’
‘In your tail?’
‘Ah, that will make you the first one from England. The girls are from all over. But none from England,’ the Lord of the Doors said.
She looked out the window. Girls? People turned to look at the carriage, some nodded, others gave little gasps of awe – quite a different reception than the carts of accused witches got in Colchester. After about twenty minutes, the carriage slowed and turned again. Raya glimpsed through the front window and around the driver – a grand marble gate. People, on horses, camels, or with donkeys, and many more on foot poured through the gate in both directions. It felt busier than Colchester, what now felt like a lifetime ago, and here it was in Technicolor compared to that drab tim
e in England.
On the other side of the gate was a vast park. Just as Musta described, it was like a whole town, loads going on. And like in the rest of Istanbul, all shades of humanity from across the planet milled about. Everyone but them stopped and dismounted their horses and handed them over to staff. Their carriage drove on through the park.
To the right was a high wall around the park. To the left was a mosque. There were statues and fountains. A clutch of people stared up at some marble pillars.
‘Oscar, do you think that’s like Nelson’s Column?’ she said.
‘Umm, I don’t think so.’
Then she saw it, human heads on top of the columns. Boy, those are realistic.
The Chief followed her gaze up to the heads. ‘It doesn’t pay to be on the wrong side of the Sultan.’
‘So, those are real?’
‘Oh, yes,’ the Lord said. ‘That first one, that’s Kemankeş Kara Mustafa, the–’
‘Grand Vizier,’ Raya finished the sentence. A hot flush rushed through her.
The two men nodded to each other, made comments about her being better informed than they’d thought. But it sounded as though they were underwater. Her heartbeat thundered in her head. Everything started to look very far away. She clenched and unclenched her fists repeatedly.
‘I knew this wasn’t a good idea. Now, breathe, breathe, Raya,’ Oscar said. He sunk a claw through the delicate fabric and into her thigh.
‘Thanks, that’s helping,’ she told him through head chat. She fought the transport with all she had. She could feel herself being pulled, like the other accidental transports, and who knows where this one might take her. She was gaining more control, she reminded herself. She dug her nails into her palm – strong sensations in the here-and-now to help hold her in place, like Bryony had taught her. She was about to see the Sultan’s wife, as an invited guest. She wasn’t going to miss this for the world.
* * *
The carriage came to a halt in front of another gate. She struggled to stand up – she was still a bit dizzy – and stepped out.