The Steel Seraglio (6 page)

“The girl herself, meanwhile, visited the sultan with honeyed wine and gentle looks. In the days that followed she schooled herself to do whatever was pleasing to him: she danced for him, and learned to play chess. She listened when he cursed his grasping neighbours and his heavy responsibilities, and gave him soft answers. And in time, over many months, he came to trust her, and to call for her whenever he was troubled, knowing that she would listen to him.

“The whole household learned what to do. When their master was angry, he was offered the finest food and the sweetest music, and everyone gave way before him till he relented, feeling that here at least, he had the honour that was his due. Then the women suggested that their lord might show his greatness to his neighbours by inviting them to feasts rather than to battles. And when the other sultans round about came to the palace, they found such a welcome that they, too, were soothed. The sultan became famous for his great hospitality, and for many years there was peace between the kingdoms.

“So that is the story. That’s how a poor village girl rose to be one of those who ruled the sultan.”

The children considered this for a while. It was not the sort of ending they were used to hearing.

“Thank you, auntie,” Soraya said at last. “That was a good story.”

“But it’s not finished!” Huma objected. “What happened to Fouad?”

“Fouad? He lived to be old. He rose to be stable-master in his turn, and never had to fight again.”

“And did they really stop wars forever? Just by being nice to the sultan?”

“Did I say that? No, war always comes back. They kept peace for a time, that’s all. Long enough for Fouad, not for his children.”

“Fouad had children?” Soraya was shocked. “Did he marry someone else, then?”

“No,” said Gursoon shortly. “He was true to his first love.”

“But in that case,” Huma protested, “where did the children—?”

Gursoon was Soraya’s favourite among the aunties, for sure. But she had a scary way of looking at you sometimes, like the sultan’s falcon when you got too close to it. She used that look on the girls now.

“The Increate provides,” she said.

Soraya and Huma exchanged a quick glance and fell silent.

There was a small commotion beyond the fire. Zufir’s mother dragged her son and Jamal back to their place, scolding in frightened whispers. They had thrown their stones too far. One of the men at the big fire was standing, looking around him and calling out angrily. Soraya clung to Gursoon’s soft thigh; everyone was suddenly very still. Then another of the guards said something in a jeering tone, and all of them laughed. The standing man shrugged, and sat down again.

No one felt like talking any more. They watched the bulky shapes of the men through the flames, willing them not to turn round again. Finally Zufir broke the silence, in a voice as scratchy as a cricket’s.

“What will those men do with us, auntie?”

“Nothing bad,” Gursoon said firmly. “They’re too afraid of their master to disobey him. They’ll takes us to Perdondaris as they’ve been ordered, and we’ll join a new household. There are rules for such things. The Caliph will respect those rules: he’ll find us a place.”

“He’ll do more than that!” Jamal broke in. “When he hears who I am he’ll reward all of you for saving me. And he’ll help me get my revenge.”

If Soraya had been sitting any closer to Jamal she’d have kicked him. Gursoon had turned her falcon-look full on him, but the fool boy seemed not to notice. “You’ve rescued a prince of the line of Al-Bokhari,” he said. “You can ask for whatever you like, I dare say.”

When Gursoon spoke, her voice was harsher than Soraya had ever heard it. “We rescued a child,” she said. “Nothing more.” Jamal’s jaw dropped, and Halima, one of the new aunties who was usually too shy to speak around Gursoon, ventured a protest. “Oh no, sister.”

“Yes!” Gursoon said. “Hakkim Mehdad has just killed a sultan, in a well-defended city. And his wives, and his sons, and his bodyguards. He’s sending us as a gift, but also to show what he can do to his enemies. And Caliph Kephiz Bin Ezvahoun has no reason to involve himself in another city’s wars. Do you think he’d even take us in, if we came bringing that kind of trouble?” She glared full at Jamal. “You’ll say nothing in Perdondaris, child—unless you’re stupider than I ever thought you.” To Halima she added, in a gentler tone, “That life is over, girl. Put it out of your mind.”

The old aunt’s eyes glittered: Soraya could not tell if it was with anger or tears. Over by the big fire some of the soldiers were getting up, casting glances in their direction. Gursoon rose too, and gestured towards their row of makeshift tents, set up as far away as they could manage from those of the men.

“And now it’s time for you children to sleep,” she said. “Take the tent nearest to the fire; I’ll get you blankets. It will be a hard day tomorrow.”

It was not wise to disobey Gursoon when she spoke like that. The girls said a hasty goodnight, and ran for the shelter of the tents.

And as the fireside conversations died, one by one, the desert night enfolded them into its silence.

As Bessa receded behind them, and the deep desert opened its arms to receive them, the fear and sorrow of the women and the children abated somewhat. They were not yet reconciled to what they’d lost, or to the new life that now awaited them, but they could at least contemplate both without absolute despair. The wisest among the women considered the fate of the sultan’s wives and heirs, and reflected that things could be a lot worse.

Whenever anyone thinks “things could be a lot worse,” the Increate seems to see that as a personal challenge.

In Bessa, the sultan’s palace was still a ferment of mostly uncoordinated activity. Lists of those condemned to death as enemies of the new regime were drawn up by the hour, and then revised by the minute. A lot of actual executions took place, many of them
ad hoc
and based on quick answers to yes/no questions. Did you serve the old sultan? Did you live here in the palace? Are you loyal to the new regime? Do you drink or fornicate?

The nursemaid, Sharissia, kept her head down, did as she was told, and wherever she saw the men with the lists and the intent expressions walked the other way. Her position had effectively been terminated with the slaughter of Bokhari Al-Bokhari’s wives and children. The memory of that horror was fresh in her mind, and she yearned to walk out of the palace gates and never look back. But the palace gates were guarded by grim-faced men in black robes with naked swords: Sharissia didn’t want to have to pass them and potentially answer awkward questions about her former duties.

So she stayed put, and employed pretty much the same kind of camouflage that ostriches do.

On the third day after the coup, a harassed servant yelled an order to her as he ran by the door of a storeroom where she was pretending to count jars of olive oil. “Bring His Excellency a jug of water! Now!”

With a sinking heart, Sharissia obeyed. She filled a jug in the kitchen, put it on a tray with a pewter goblet, and took it to the throne room. The guards glanced at her once and stepped aside without challenging her. In a matter of seconds, long before she was mentally prepared for it, she was in the new sultan’s presence.

In some respects, he was less terrifying than she’d imagined. He was less of a monster, certainly: slight of build and not overly tall. But the grim set of his features cowed her, all the same. Or perhaps it was just that in his black robes he looked like an executioner. In any case, her hands trembled as she set the jug down before him.

Hakkim Mehdad indicated with a curt nod that the girl should pour for him. She lifted the jug, but her hands betrayed her. Unable to keep them from shaking, she splashed water down the front of the sultan’s robes.

Hakkim Mehdad clicked his tongue impatiently, and waved for the girl to leave him. Rooted to the spot with fear, she did nothing. A guard stepped forward to remove her. As his hand clamped down on Sharissia’s shoulder she gave a great start and almost fell into a swoon.

Believing she was about to be killed, Sharissia began to beg and bargain for her life in a torrent of words, which spilled out just as uncontrollably as the water had. “I meant no harm! I’ll do better! I was trained for the nursery, not the throne room! I have an elderly mother, and she can’t survive without me!”

The guard was already dragging her towards the door, and as she thought, to execution. “I know where the crown prince Jamal is!” Sharissia shrieked.

Hakkim Mehdad looked at the girl for the first time. “Stop,” he commanded the guard.

The guard released the girl, who fell on her knees before the sultan and performed a series of abject obeisances. Without even being asked, Sharissia blurted out her story: of how Oosa had come to her and given her the child, and bade her run with him to the seraglio; of how the Lady Gursoon had accepted him, and promised to hide him; of how the most merciful Hakkim, bless him, oh bless him, had been most indefensibly betrayed by odalisques and whores!

Hakkim listened to this spew of words calmly and silently, his brow set in a solemn frown. There was no need to have the girl tortured—the story was only too plausible, and beyond her wit to make up. He ordered the guards to take her away and put her in a cell; it was possible, although not likely, that he would have need of her again later. That done, he called for a scribe and a messenger.

The scribe being the first to arrive, Hakkim dictated to him a letter ordering the immediate execution of all the concubines, their children, and any servants who still attended on them. This was no time for half-measures.

The messenger arrived soon afterwards. He was a vain and self-important man, inordinately fond both of the perks that came with his job and of the sound of his own voice. He was one of the many who had joined the Ascetic movement when it became clear which way the wind was blowing, but had no instinctive sympathy with its goals. He began a speech summarising his good wishes for the new regime and his desire to serve it to the best of his ability until the breath died in his throat. Before he had got halfway through the first sentence, Hakkim Mehdad thrust the sealed letter into his hand. “Ride with all speed in the direction of Perdondaris,” he instructed the slightly deflated emissary. “Find the caravan that set out two days ago, and give this to the legate, En-Sadim.”

“As His Excellency wishes,” the messenger murmured, bowing low.

As he retreated toward the door, bowing all the way, Hakkim fired further instructions at him. “Stay to see it done. And then bring word to me, here. At once. Day or night does not matter.”

The urgency of the commission flattered the messenger’s estimation of his own worth, which was already high. He positively beamed as he backed out of the throne room, parting the doors with his backside so that he could continue bowing until the last moment.

Then he went to the stables and demanded, with much ado, that the fastest horse should be brought to him forthwith.

In the deep desert, meanwhile, another event was taking place which would prove to be full of consequences.

The legate En-Sadim, who was as horny as a stoat, decided to dip his finger in the cookie jar.

He didn’t put it to himself quite so baldly, of course. He was surrounded by beautiful women, he was far away from his own wife and hearth, and it seemed to him—chopping logic with his dick rather than his brain—that this was a victimless crime. In Bessa, the concubines had belonged to the sultan Hakkim. In Perdondaris, they would belong to the caliph Bin Ezvahoun. Here in the desert, though, they were his sole charge and his sole responsibility. Who could fault him if he carried out a little quality control testing? Surely it fell squarely within the bounds of his job description?

The woman who had brought En-Sadim to this Jesuitical crisis was named Zuleika. En-Sadim had noticed her on the first day, and had not failed to notice her as often as he could thereafter.

She was slender of figure—almost too slender, but with a wiry firmness of frame that suggested athletic possibilities in the bedroom department. Her breasts were small, but well defined. Her eyes were huge and dark, and her hair fell in black ringlets about her shoulders. There was in her face a contemplative calm that was more sultry than the sultriest of pouts. This woman would draw you into her stillness and show you her storms.

The legate indulged a fantasy in which he took Zuleika out from among the concubines and made her his servant: but sadly, it had to remain a fantasy. En-Sadim’s wife would kill the both of them on the evidence of Zuleika’s looks alone, and the caliph of Perdondaris almost certainly had scribes who knew how to count. No, it would not do.

But what happens in the deep desert, stays in the deep desert. On the journey, at least, En-Sadim could enjoy Zuleika’s company and her person without reproof.

And so, when they ceased their march on the third day and stopped for the night at the oasis of Khuzaymah, En-Sadim called for the guard captain, a stolid and long-suffering man named Numair, and gave instructions for the girl to be brought to him.