The Sultan's seal

47

Agibbous moon floods the Bosphorus with light and throws into sharp relief the trees and bushes rushing by as the phaeton races north.

If anything happens to Sybil Hanoum,” Kamil points out, “the blame would fall on Shukriye Hanoum, since the invitation is written in her name. Clever. I wonder why Shukriye Hanoum, though. She’s not a threat to anyone.”

“Well, someone sure doesn’t like her.”

After a while, Kamil adds, “Sybil Hanoum said she thought Perihan Hanoum was angry because she had wanted to marry Prince Ziya but he became engaged to Shukriye instead. Apparently Perihan Hanoum’s marriage is unhappy.”

Bernie slaps the reins across the horses’ backs. “Well, there’s a motive to hate Shukriye enough to set her up. What do you know about her mother, this Asma Sultan?”

“A rather formidable but harmless lady, according to Sybil Hanoum.”

Bernie grimaces. “All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.”

“Pardon?”

“Shakespeare. Macbeth.”

“It might be Perihan Hanoum at the villa, not her mother,” Kamil cautions.

“Well, we’ll see what we’re up against. The woman or her daughter. Maybe the whole harem.” He laughs nervously and turns his wind-reddened face to Kamil. “Think we can handle this?”

Kamil doesn’t smile. “We don’t know who else will be there. Perhaps the grand vizier himself.” Grimly, “But I’m ready for a fight.”

Bernie grins. “I’ll bet you are.” He pats his holster. “I’m glad you and this other friend of mine here are along for the ride.”

By the time Kamil and Bernie reach the turnoff beyond the village of Tarabya, the moon has contracted to a mottled white disk.

“Asma Sultan’s villa is farther north, I believe.” Kamil uses his handkerchief to wipe the dust from his face as the phaeton slows at a crossroad.

“Git up,” Bernie urges the horses.

The road ascends sharply again and the horses strain. A stand of pines and cypresses blocks the view before the vista opens onto an expanse of water milky in the moonlight. The phaeton picks up speed. After a while, they hurtle downhill again. Kamil can make out the enormous bulk of a house silhouetted against the reflected light.

“That must be it.” Bernie points. “Strange. I don’t see any lights.”

“They might have their shutters closed.”

The phaeton pulls up to the wrought-iron gate.

“There should be a night watchman,” observes Kamil as he jumps to the ground. “He’s probably asleep.”

He peers around the gate, but the guardhouse is empty. Bernie has come up beside him.

He looks through the gate at the dark house. “Looks like no one’s home. Do you think we got the wrong house?”

“It matches the description they gave us in the village.”

“Does she have another one? She’s a sultan’s daughter. They have cartloads of money.”

“It’s possible. I suppose the invitation could have been to Perihan Hanoum’s villa or even the vizier’s villa. They all have their own konaks and summer houses.”

“Do you know where they are? We’ll have to check them all out, one at a time.”

“I don’t.” Kamil tenses. “We’d have to go back to the village and ask the headman.”

“Well, then, let’s get on with it.” Bernie looks closely at Kamil, staring at the dark villa. “What is it?”

Kamil shudders and turns. “I don’t know. I think you have a saying, ‘A crow walked across my grave.’”

“I never heard that one, buddy.”

“You know, the old Greek name of this village, Tarabya, was Pharmakeus.” He thinks of his father’s body being washed in the mosque at this very moment, prepared for burial tomorrow morning.

“Pharmakeus. The medicine man?”

“The poisoner. Medea was said to have thrown away her poison here.”

“Well, this place gives me the dithers. Let’s get out of here.” He climbs into the phaeton.

Holding the reins, he turns to Kamil. “You don’t suppose she really did go to visit Shukriye Hanoum?”

“I suppose that’s a possibility. But why would she write something different in her letter?”

Bernie shakes his head. “Maybe showing off for her sister. There’s always been a kind of rivalry between them. Maitlin’s the successful one.” He flicks the reins. The phaeton strains after the horses. “Sybil’s the one with fantasies. She’s been stuck here too long looking after my uncle. No wonder she’s invented herself a whole Orient of her own.”