Cybele's Secret Page 8

  “Kyria,” he said, “the night guard has a little brazier down below and a kettle. I will fetch tea for you. You wish me to wake Master Teodor?”

  “No, please, don’t worry him. I’m fine. I had a nightmare, that’s all. I just don’t want to be by myself in there right now. Did I scream?”

  “No, kyria, or more than I would have woken. Sit quietly. I will not be far away. You can see the man from here, and his fire.”

  “Thank you. Tea would be good.”

  What he fetched tasted more like sugar syrup than anything, but I drank it gratefully. The glass shook in my hands. Stoyan refilled it without comment. At last he said, “This happens often? Night terrors, sleepwalking?”

  “Night terrors, no. My sisters used to tell me I walked in my sleep. They kept our bedchamber door bolted so I would be safe. There are lots of steps at Piscul Dracului, and some of them are very uneven.”

  “Piscul Dracului. That is a strange name for a house.”

  “It’s an old castle in the forest. The name could be translated as Dragon’s Peak or Devil’s Peak. It’s isolated. Full of strange surprises.”

  Stoyan nodded, not pressing for further explanations.

  “That dream was horrible,” I said. “Someone was chasing me. Underground, a dark, deep place with many ways and no map to say which was right. I knew the moment they caught me they would kill me.”

  He took my hand again. Here in the darkness, with the city sleeping all around us, the rules of custom that would have made this improper didn’t seem to apply. His touch warmed me.

  “You spoke my name,” Stoyan said. “Your father’s, and then mine. In your dream.”

  “I was awake by then. I’ve never been so glad to wake up.”

  “I could swear you were still asleep when you walked out here. I thought you would go over the railing.”

  “It felt so real. Someone was holding my hand, pulling me forward. And someone was coming after us….”

  Stoyan got up, fetched his blanket, and put it around my shoulders over my cloak. “Better?” he asked.

  “Much better, Stoyan. Thank you. I’m sorry to be such a nuisance and disturb your sleep. I don’t usually go to pieces like this. I’m generally quite a capable person.” His opinion of me must have plummeted today. First my unpleasant remark on the walk home, and now this.

  “I know you are capable, kyria.”

  “Stoyan?” It was time to swallow my pride.

  “Yes, kyria?”

  “I’m sorry I was so unpleasant to you before, when we were walking home. What I said was inappropriate and offensive.”

  “You are forgiven. Besides, I am your hired guard. You may say whatever you wish to me.”

  “It doesn’t give me an excuse for bad manners. I’m not used to servants, Stoyan. I felt quite awkward at Irene’s house when she told me some of her folk are slaves. At home, the old couple who look after things for us are viewed as part of the family. Occasionally, if they’re feeling put out about something, they address me as Mistress Paula, but mostly they just use my name.”

  “It sounds a good place, this Dragon’s Peak.”

  “It’s an interesting place. Both the castle and the wildwood around it are very old.”

  “You are fortunate to have so many sisters still living. And now some have husbands and children, Master Teodor tells me. Your father is blessed.”

  I wondered about that. There had been sorrows aplenty for Father: the death of our mother when Stela was born, the tragic accident that had claimed Uncle Nicolae, the loss of my sister Tati to a realm from which she could never return. But what Stoyan said was true all the same. Jena’s and Iulia’s children had brought a new richness to Father’s life.

  “The five of us were very close, growing up. We had exciting times. Adventures.” I would not tell him of our visits to the Other Kingdom. We guarded that story with great care for fear of being misunderstood. “Do you have brothers or sisters, Stoyan?”

  “Perhaps you should try to sleep, kyria. It is late.”

  “I don’t want to sleep. I’m afraid the nightmare will come back. But there’s no need for you to stay awake with me.”

  “I will stay.”

  He leaned against the wall by my chair, arms folded. After a little, he said quietly, “I had two brothers. One died at five years old in an accident. The other was taken in the dev shirme, the collecting. You know of this?”

  I shook my head. “Tell me,” I said.

  “The Sultan sends a Janissary, a senior officer of the army, as his representative to certain lands under his rule. This official travels with the purpose of taking a levy in boys who have not yet reached manhood. In this way, a supply of pure, healthy, and biddable slaves is maintained for the sultanate. Some go straight to the palace; some are sent to work for wealthy families until a position is found for them, generally as soldiers. Some endure surgery. A eunuch, unable to father children and limited in his capacity for physical desire, is regarded as a suitable person to guard the Sultan’s women or educate their sons.” He saw me wince and added, “My mother tried to hide us, me and my younger brother, but we were found. It is their policy not to deprive a widow of all her sons. I was allowed to remain at home. But Taidjut was taken.”

  I struggled for the right thing to say, imagining what it must have been like for young Stoyan. What a burden for a boy to carry, not just grief and family responsibility but probably misplaced guilt as well. “How terrible for you and your mother,” I managed. “How long ago did this happen?”

  “Taidjut was ten years old. He will be a man of eighteen now. I was too young to go after him then, only a boy myself. I have waited a long time to start a search for him. The farm is more prosperous now, and my mother does not need me all the time. Once I was sure she had sufficient help, I came here. When I was not in service to Salem bin Afazi or to others before him, I sought news of my brother. But there are places in Istanbul where an unbeliever, an infidel, cannot go, houses to which he cannot be admitted, secrets to which he can never be party. There are records, but they are beyond my reach. I do not think I will find Taidjut now. And if I find him, perhaps he will not want to know me.”

  “But you’re his brother! Surely—”

  “They have had eight years to educate him, Paula, eight years to impress on him that he is no longer a Bulgar farm boy running about with his dog and chopping wood for his mother. In all likelihood, he is serving somewhere in the Sultan’s army, grateful to those who offered him this fine new opportunity.”

  The sorrow and resignation in his voice made me want to weep. “That’s a sad story,” I said. “When we lost Tati, my eldest sister, at least we knew she would be happy, even if we could never see her again. Do you plan to return home eventually, Stoyan? To go back to being a farmer?”

  “I do not know. To do so is to give up hope of finding Taidjut. I made a promise to my mother that I would not return without some news at least. This journey has changed me, Paula. I cannot see the future with the clear eyes of my childhood.”

  “What does your mother grow on the farm?”

  I saw him smile then.

  “Many fruits: peaches, plums, apricots, and cherries. I would like you to taste our cherries. The winter chill makes the fruit as sweet as honey. Later in the season, there are pears and apples. And we breed dogs.”

  “Really? What kind of dogs?”

  “The Bugarski Goran, the shepherd dog of my homeland. A hound of massive build and formidable strength, of great heart and exemplary loyalty. Such an animal is an honored member of any household, treated as if he were one of the family. Ours is a land of many wolves. With dogs like this, the flock is safe. My hope for the future is to breed a purer dog, true to the ancient bloodlines. If I go back.”

  Though it was dark, I could see how his eyes came alive with enthusiasm and the way he used his hands to illustrate with surprising grace. There were hidden depths beneath that impassive exterior. A sweet kernel shiel
ded by a tough shell; dancing fire concealed in stone.

  “I am boring you, kyria,” he said suddenly.

  “No, you’re not. What you have to say is interesting.”

  “You, too, have an interesting story,” he said, surprising me. “Where did this sister go—Tati, is it? Where is so far away that you speak of her as if she were dead?”

  I swallowed. “I don’t think I can tell you,” I said.

  There was an awkward silence. Stoyan stared into space. Beyond the complicated outlines of the roofs of Istanbul, the towers and domes and minarets, the moon now set a pale gleam over the city. It showed his strong features as a pattern of light and shade.

  “You apologize,” he said softly. “And yet you do not trust me.”

  “It’s not that. It’s a story we don’t tell, that’s all.”

  “There is no need to excuse yourself, kyria. I spoke too freely. I presumed too much.”

  I got up to lean on the railing, looking down at the small light made by the night guard’s brazier. It had been placed in the center of the courtyard, well away from the chambers where precious cargoes were stored. “Some secrets are too dangerous to share,” I said.

  “I expect nothing from you, kyria,” said Stoyan. “But I will tell you that before tonight I had not spoken of Taidjut save to my family and to those I thought might have knowledge of the boys taken that year. I have held this hidden, close to my heart. As for the farm and my hopes of the future, since I left there, I have never spoken of those things. Until now.”

  So he had trusted me and I had not returned that trust. I was afraid that if I spoke of the magical journeys of my childhood, folk would dismiss it as girlish fancy. Yet here in Istanbul, the Other Kingdom loomed close. The nightmare with its darkness and terror seemed part and parcel of the odd things that had been happening—the black-robed woman with her embroidery, the mysterious words, even the pattern I had seen on that manuscript today and half remembered. What I needed most of all was someone to talk to, someone who would neither laugh nor be upset if I spoke of such things.

  I sat quietly, wondering if I could try it, wondering how Stoyan would respond. I remembered the way he had spoken about Cybele. As I held a debate with myself, he brought a second blanket to cover my knees. He went down to brew more tea and carried it up to me. The moon hung above us, pure and delicate in its meadow of stars. Stoyan’s silence and his kindness helped me make up my mind. I would risk Tati’s story. It would be a test.

  “You asked about Tati, my eldest sister,” I said. “She went through a portal to another place, a place that is not part of the human world. She fell in love with a man who had been taken there as a child and now cannot come back. She wanted to go, and we helped her, my other sisters and I. That’s only a very small part of a long, long story, and we don’t talk about it, not even with Father, because it still upsets him so much. Some people would hear it and think I was making it up. They’d assume I was a crazy girl with a wild imagination.”

  Stoyan nodded gravely. “I had guessed something of the kind,” he said. “A difficult choice for you. They say the land of the Sultan swarms with giants, peris, and djinns. I would think this a place of many such portals, if one knew how to find them.”

  So, just like that, he accepted it. No questions, no reservations. It was remarkable. I realized, in a surge of delighted relief, that in this distant part of the world, I had found a friend.

  We stayed there until the first hint of dawn lightened the sky and the early call to prayer rang out across the Galata mahalle. Gradually the han came awake, folk opening shutters, others carrying water, the tea vendor setting up shop to serve a stream of early customers. It was time to get ready for another day.

  I didn’t go back to Irene’s library that morning or for several days after. We were busy buying and selling. I had plenty of opportunity to assist my father, and word soon went around the trading quarter that I was almost as tough to deal with as he was. It was good to feel genuinely useful. But the mystery I had stumbled into at the library was never far from my thoughts. A restless urge to find answers disturbed my sleep.

  There was something I needed to do before I returned to Irene’s. I broached the subject one evening over supper. Stoyan had set out our meal on the little table: a platter of flat bread, a bowl of onion and cucumber chopped together, dark olives, and a paste of peas ground up with garlic. Father and I took the two chairs while Stoyan leaned against the wall nearby. He said he was more comfortable that way; the furniture had been made for folk of far smaller build.

  “Father, I have a favor to ask.”

  “Mmm?”

  “I’d like to go to Irene’s library again soon. I may be able to find useful information there, something about Cybele that may help us with our purchase. I want to visit her hamam, too, but I need new clothes. The gowns I’ve brought from home aren’t suitable for Istanbul. It was embarrassing that Irene needed to give me things to change into. Could we go to the public market so I can buy fabrics? Maria said she’d help me with the sewing.”

  Father glanced at Stoyan.

  “Few women venture into the çari,” Stoyan said. “You would attract much attention, kyria.”

  “Why don’t you give Stoyan a list?” asked Father, scooping up ground peas with a chunk of bread.

  I suppressed a sigh.

  “I think Kyria Paula wishes to view the goods in person, Master Teodor.” It seemed Stoyan had understood my thoughts perfectly.

  “I’d be disappointed if I came all the way to Istanbul and didn’t visit the covered markets, Father,” I said. “And didn’t you say you’d need Stoyan for a few days while you try to track down the other prospective purchasers for Cybele’s Gift?” I had passed on the gossip about the Sheikh-ul-Islam and the secret cult, as well as giving him a much-edited version of my conversation with Duarte Aguiar. That had done nothing to deter him from pursuing his round of visits. “If I’m with Maria sewing, I’ll be out of trouble while the two of you are away.”

  Father smiled. “Since you put the arguments so convincingly, I can only capitulate. We’ll all go. The çari is a hive of activity. If we ask the right questions, there may be good information to be had.”

  The next morning we walked through the Galata mahalle down to the waterfront. Here the Golden Horn was fringed by little coffee shops and resting areas. We descended a flight of steps to a rickety wooden jetty crammed with people. Stoyan conducted a rapid, intense conversation in Turkish with an official in a green turban. Once the price was agreed, this man used his silver-tipped staff to indicate a small caïque tied up amongst an assortment of larger craft. Vessels were arriving and leaving all the time, accompanied by shouting and near collisions. Similar jetties projected into the water for some distance along the bank. At this early hour, all were bustling. Both men and women were being ferried. The bigger craft had separate sections at the rear for female passengers.

  I was wearing a plain gown in a good light wool dyed blue, and over my head a white scarf. Father looked distinguished in his merchant’s robe of deep red, with a flat velvet cap to match. Folk did glance at us; if our foreignness did not ensure that, Stoyan’s height and broad shoulders surely did. But there were people of all kinds getting on and off the boats, and the looks did not linger on us. Stoyan helped me aboard the rocking caïque, and I sat in the stern. Father settled beside me, with Stoyan farther forward.

  The boatman edged us out through the chaotic tangle of vessels, and we headed across the water. He used the single set of oars to propel the caïque on a swift, bobbing course amidst the heavy traffic of the Golden Horn. The water sparkled around us. Sails of red and brown and cream passed like exotic butterflies. Looking backward and upstream, I glimpsed the Stea de Mare moored at the merchant docks and, beyond her, the taller form of the Esperança. On either side of the waterway, the towers of Istanbul rose tall against a perfect blue sky.

  Halfway across, a huge, high-powered caïque passed us at
speed, manned by a crew of eighteen oarsmen in red and white uniforms. In the stern, under a tasseled canopy, sat a grand personage clad in gold-encrusted robes. The wake nearly swamped us. I clutched the seat, imagining what it would be like trying to swim in such a congested channel. I met Stoyan’s eye and forced a smile.

  “We are safe, kyria,” he said quietly. “This man is expert.”

  “Mmm,” I murmured. It seemed important not to show how troubled I was by the shallow draft and rocking movement of the caïque. After all, I was the one who had requested this outing.

  “You do not swim?” Stoyan asked conversationally.

  “I can keep afloat,” I said. “But I’d rather not put my skills to the test clad in a woolen gown and boots.”

  Father made a comment, but I didn’t catch it. In the back of a larger boat traveling near us sat several women robed in black. That in itself was nothing unusual; most of the female passengers I had seen from the dock were dressed the same way. But one of these travelers was staring straight back at me. A piece of ragged embroidery drooped limply from her hands like a small dead creature. I thought I could see a second girl on the cloth. Next to the black-haired dancer was a thin one with a cloud of curly brown hair and a frog balanced on her shoulder. My sister Jena. I shivered. What was this all about?

  “Paula?”

  My father sounded perplexed. I turned my attention to him.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought I saw someone I knew, but I must have been mistaken.” And, indeed, when I looked back at the bigger ferry, I could no longer distinguish one woman from another. Anyway, how could I possibly have seen the details on her handiwork at such a distance? My imagination was playing tricks again. I applied my thoughts to what shade of fabric I would buy.

  The çari was a warren of narrow alleys roofed with a series of domes supported by pillars. Here and there, openings in this roof admitted thin shafts of daylight.

  “It’s so dark,” I muttered as we headed into a tiny street crowded with people. “Why aren’t there more lamps?”