THE sleeping quarters of the harem slaves lay above the colonnade that spanned one side of the valide’s court: quietly trying the door, Yashim found himself in a small, bare chamber strewn with rugs and mattresses and dimly lit by a few short candles set on plates on the floor. The beds were empty: dark shadows at the latticed window showed him that the harem slaves were crowding there for a better view.
One of the slave girls gave a gasp as Yashim stepped up behind her. He put a finger to his lips and looked down.
Never in all his life would Yashim forget that sight. To the left, the valide sultan stood at the doorway to her apartments, at the head of a crowd of harem women that spilled from the doorway and lined the walls three deep: a hundred women, maybe more, Yashim guessed, in every state of dress and undress. Some, roused from their beds, were still in their pajamas.
Across the courtyard, massed in their finery, stood the palace eunuchs, black and white. Their turbans sparkled with precious jewels, nodding egrets. There must have been three hundred men, Yashim guessed, rustling and whispering like pigeons roosting in a tree.
A silence fell on the eunuchs: they turned their faces to the doorway below Yashim’s window, and slowly they began to move aside, creating a corridor. Yashim could see them better now, even recognize a few faces: he saw sables, and caftans of cashmere, and an imperial ransom of brooches and precious stones. They were more like magpies than pigeons, Yashim thought, drawn to everything that glittered, amassing their nests of gold and diamonds.
He reached up on tiptoe to see who was coming through the crowd, though he already knew. The kislar agha looked magnificent in an enormous dark pelisse so spangled with the moisture in the air that it sparkled. He walked slowly, but his tread was surprisingly light. His hand, clutching at the baton, was thick with rings. His face was lost beneath a great turban of whitest muslin, wrapped around the conical red hat of his office, so Yashim was unable to gauge his expression. But he saw how the other eunuchs lowered their eyes to the ground, as if they didn’t quite dare to look him fully in the face. Yashim knew that face, wrinkled like an ape’s: the bloodshot eyes, the fat, blubbery cheeks, it was a face that carried the stamp of vice and wore its vice with an air of blank unconcern.
The eunuchs had now formed two wedges, leaving the kislar agha standing alone between them, facing the valide across the court. He didn’t raise his hands: he didn’t need to. Nobody stirred.
“The Hour has come.”
He spoke slowly in his high, cracking voice.
“We, who are the sultan’s slaves, proclaim the Hour.
“We, who are the sultan’s slaves, assemble for his protection.
“We, who kneel beside the throne, uphold the sacrament of power.
“We will speak with your son, our lord and master, the shah-in-shah!”
The chief eunuch’s voice rose as he cried out, “The Hour has come!”
And a wavering cry rose from the ranks of the eunuchs: “The Hour! The Hour!”
The valide sultan never moved, except to tap one dainty foot on the stone step.
The chief eunuch raised his arms, his fingers curled like talons.
“The banner must be unfurled. The wrath of God and the people has to be appeased. He shall draw back from the abyss of unbelief and wield the Sword of Osman in defense of the faith! It is the Path.
“It is written that the knowing shall approach and become one with the Core. Caliph and sultan, Lord of the Horizons, this is his destiny. The people have risen, the altars are prepared. It is God who has awoken us, at the eleventh hour, the Hour of Restoration!
“Produce him!” he bellowed, in a terrible voice. He curled his fingers into loose fists and let them sink to his sides. His voice sank to a hoarse whisper. “Reveal the Core.”
Like Yashim, the valide sultan seemed to find the chief’s performance somewhat overdone. She turned her head to murmur something to an attendant, and Yashim saw her perfect profile, still clear and beautiful, and recognized the lazy look in her eyes as she turned back and focused on the chief eunuch. Lazy meant danger. He wondered if the kislar agha knew.
“Kislar,” she said, in a voice that rang with amused contempt. “Some of our ladies present are not at all well dressed. The night, I may point out, is chill. As for you, you are not suitably attired.”
She raised her chin slightly, as if inspecting him. The eunuch’s eyes narrowed in fury.
“No, Kislar, your turban seems to be in order. But you do seem to be wearing my jewels.”
Good work, Yashim thought, bunching his fist. The valide certainly knew how to use information.
The chief eunuch’s nostrils flared, but he looked down quickly. Whether that movement—made, as it were, under the influence of a woman more powerful than him—put him off his stroke, or whether it was the sheer unexpectedness of the valide’s remarks, Yashim could not guess. But the kislar agha opened his mouth and shut it again, as if he had a speech he couldn’t make.
The valide’s voice was like drawn silk. “And you murdered for them, too, didn’t you, Kislar?”
The eunuch raised a forefinger and pointed it at the valide. Yashim saw that he was trembling.
“They are—for my power!” he screeched. He was improvising now, drawn into an argument he didn’t mean to have and couldn’t win. His power was lessening with every word he spoke.
Out of the corner of his eye, Yashim saw a white shape stirring close to the wall. A girlish figure sprang forward, like a cat, and began to run toward the eunuch.
The eunuch didn’t see her immediately: she was blocked by his outstretched arm.
“Produce the sultan, or suffer the consequences!” the kislar agha screamed. Then his head turned a fraction, and at the same moment Yashim recognized the girl.
The girl who had stolen the gözde’s ring.
Yashim closed his eyes. And in that second he saw her beautiful, unyielding face again, when she had closed her mind to him.
Only now he recognized that look. A mask of grief.
A slave girl gasped at his side, and Yashim opened his eyes. The girl had hurled herself upon the enormous eunuch: he swatted her aside like a fly. But she was on her feet in a moment, and for the first time Yashim saw that she carried a dagger in her fist, a long, curved steel like a scorpion’s sting. She sprang again, and this time it was as if the two embraced, like lovers: the slim white girl and the huge black man, staggering as she clung to him.
But she was no match for the kislar. His hands closed around her neck, and with a tremendous thrust of his arms he pushed her off. His long fingers spread around her neck like a stain. Her feet kicked wildly but skidded on the wet stone. Her hands came up to his, clawing at them, but the kislar agha’s strength was far greater. With a grunt he flung her aside. She crumpled back against the ground and lay still.
Nobody moved. Even the valide’s foot had stopped tapping.
Suddenly one of the women screamed and clapped her hand to her mouth. The kislar agha swung around, his head moving from side to side as if expecting another assault. Yashim saw the women shrink back.
The kislar agha opened his mouth to speak.
He coughed.
His hands went to his stomach.
Behind him the eunuchs stirred. Their chief started to turn toward them, and as he moved Yashim saw very clearly what had made the woman scream.
The jeweled hilt of a Circassian blade.
The kislar ăgha spluttered as he turned, and then he began to twist toward the ground, his enormous torso slowly sinking as he wheeled. His legs gave way and he sank to his knees, still holding the hilt of the dagger in his abdomen, wearing the look of horrified surprise that he would take to the grave.
Yashim heard the thump as the kislar agha’s body pitched headfirst to the ground.