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Snow White & the Eighth Dwarf
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Sneak Peak
One Arabian Night
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The streets of Istanbul were crowded, noisy, colorful, and scented with the spices of fried meats hawked by street vendors, but that was always so. The sun beat down relentlessly on the white buildings and striped awnings of the bazaar, the white robes, blinding the eye, over-heating the air; that was also always so. Murad had lived in Istanbul long enough he could hardly remember any other way. The robes he wore in the street had kept hundred of previous generations cool as they roamed the merciless sands of the desert in temperatures far hotter than this day proved. Yet Murad sweated profusely beneath his robes. If anyone discovered the purpose of his journey, it would mean his death.
He wove his way through the crowded bazaar as though his path were laid out and painted gold, slipping through oscillating openings like a seasoned pickpocket, making for the quiet street beyond. On the Street of Fortune, it was said, one could find nearly anything for a price, even things thought forever lost.
The price of what he sought would be great indeed, but he had the resources this day to pay the price and the desperation to risk everything.
He found the shop he sought, but a rush of fear glued his feet to the ground.
What if someone saw? What if someone guessed?
But how could they guess? Murad himself didn't really believe the woman he'd been told of could help him. He thought of all he had to gain—the dream dearest to his heart—and took his courage in his hands and entered.
The shop interior was cool—at least by comparison to the street outside—and dimly lit. Small, as most shops were, the plank counter split the space in half, the few feet in front for patrons no deeper than the space behind it. The dark blue and brown of the bottles shelved behind the counter camouflaged their contents. Even though he could read Arabic, as well as Spanish, Italian, French, and a little English, the symbols that marked the bottles meant nothing to Murad. But the shop owner, who was undoubtedly illiterate but well versed about herbs and simples, would understand them.
The beaded curtain to the left that separated the backroom from the front split to allow an old man to enter. He moved to the center of the counter. “How may I serve you, sahib?”
Murad could not meet the man's eyes. He hadn’t expected a man, could not possibly explain to a man what he needed. He did not even have words prepared to explain what he needed to the woman. Flustered, he stuttered something unintelligible and backed, bowing slightly, toward the door, his hands pressed together, supplicating forgiveness for the interruption.
“Wait!” the man said. He parted the beaded strands and yelled, “Old woman!”
Murad held his breath until the woman came into the shop. She wore a silk feradge, a long square tunic that hung nearly to the ground, like a shapeless black cape with loose sleeves. Her face was hidden by a yashmak, the diaphanous veil of fine muslin binding her head like a bandage, over the forehead and across the lower part of her face, leaving only her eyes visible. Judging by those eyes, she wasn't as old as he expected. Small lines were just starting to etch themselves in the fine, fair skin at the corners, but those eyes . . . They were exotic. Blue with long, dark lashes under finely arched black brows. Whatever else the veil hid, she had once been an exceptional beauty.
But of course she had. She probably still was. Only the most beautiful of women resided in harems, and if what he’d been told was true, she had lived in a harem most of her life. The daughter of the old sultan, she had been married off to a pasha. At his death, she'd been offered to a lesser court official only to be released, at last, when he also died. She would understand the need that drove him.
If he could find the words.
Her eyes traveled from his face downward, then she inclined her body in the sketch of a bow, the gesture of a merchant to a patron. “How may I serve you, hadim?”
Hadim.
Beardless.
Eunuch.