The Sultan's Seal (19 page)

Hamza threw the almond into his mouth without peeling it. In a swift movement he was next to me and had wrapped his arms around me. My face was crushed to his chest and my head scarf fluttered to the floor. He smelled of leather.

“Jaanan.” His voice was thick and rough. I thought of the carnations embroidered on Mama’s velvet cushions in stiff gold thread. They scratched my cheek when I laid it against the rich velvet.

I didn’t struggle. This, then, is the path, I thought. Without hesitation, I opened the gate and stepped out.

K
amil can go neither forward into the second courtyard nor back out the wrought-iron gates. He sits in the guardhouse and waits with increasing impatience for the soldiers to allow him entry. They stand implacably at each entrance to the squat stone building, clutching their rifles. The air smells faintly of flint and leather. Kamil stood waiting at the outer gate of Yildiz Palace for over an hour before he was allowed to advance to the guardhouse. He bided his time at the gate with pleasurable thoughts about Sybil, with whom he is invited to dine the evening after next.

At least, he thinks, here I am allowed to sit. On the opposite bench sits a clearly irritated sharp-nosed Frank in stately clothing.

When the shadows have fallen the length of the courtyard, a blue-turbaned clerk appears at the door. The guards snap into rigid poses and bow in unison, their leather armor creaking as they make the gesture of obeisance. The clerk barks at the ranking soldier and motions peremptorily to Kamil to follow him. The Frank also stands expectantly, but one of the guards steps in front of him, hand on the dagger at his belt. With a heartfelt comment in his own language, the Frank falls back onto the bench. Kamil bows but the clerk’s back is already turned and he is hurrying away. Kamil lengthens his stride to keep up with him. The young man’s lack of decorum and self-importance amuses him. At that moment, the clerk swings around and catches the expression on Kamil’s face.

Cheeks flaming, he demands, “You. Show proper respect. You are not in the bazaar.”

Kamil’s clothing identifies him as a magistrate. He is surprised at the disrespectful tone. The clerk is very young. Probably a youth raised in the palace, Kamil decides, one of the many children of the sultan’s concubines. They are educated and given responsibilities without ever having set foot beyond these yellow walls. Certainly never to the bazaar.

Kamil smiles at the clerk and bows slightly. “I am honored to be received by the palace.”

Mollified, the clerk turns on his heels and hurries through an ornate gate. From behind, Kamil can see the young man’s slight shoulders straighten as more guards snap their weapons into place and salute him. Kamil notes, with pleasure, that the wall is covered in white and yellow banksia roses, passionflowers, sweet verbena, and heliotrope. Silver-gray pigeons waddle complacently on the lawn. In the distance, behind a marble gateway, Kamil sees the square classical façade of the Great Mabeyn, where the everyday business of the empire is conducted by palace secretaries, where the sultan’s correspondence is composed, and where his spies send their reports. His father must have reported to the sultan in that building, Kamil thinks.

They approach a two-story building so long that it stretches out of sight on one side. The clerk leads him through a door, along a narrow corridor, then out again into the blinding light of a large yard. Small workshops line the back of the building. Faint hammering and tapping, a strange creaking leak from their windows. The clerk stops by a room larger than others they had passed. Inside, a group of middle-aged men in brown robes and turbans sit drinking coffee from tiny china cups.

When the clerk appears, the men bow their heads in respectful greeting, but do not rise.

“I’m looking for the head usta.” The clerk’s voice is unnaturally high-pitched.

A man with a neatly trimmed white beard looks up.

“You’ve found him.”

“Our padishah requires you to assist this man”—he looks disgustedly at Kamil—“with his inquiries.”

“And who is this man?” asks the head craftsman, looking benignly at Kamil.

“My name is Magistrate Kamil Pasha, usta bey.” Kamil bows and makes the sign of obeisance.

The usta sweeps his hand toward the divan, ignoring the clerk standing by the door.

“Sit and have some coffee.”

The clerk turns abruptly and leaves. Kamil hears laughter blow through the room, faint as leaves rustling.

A servant brews coffee in a long-handled pot over a charcoal fire in the corner and hands Kamil a steaming cup properly crowned with pale froth.

“So, you are one of those new magistrates.”

“Yes, I’m the magistrate of Beyoglu,” Kamil answers modestly.

“Ah.” Knowing nods circle the room. “I’m sure you have your hands full with all those foreign troublemakers.”

“Yes, I suppose so, though bad character knows no religion.”

“Well said, well said.” The usta glances at the door through which the young clerk had left.

After the required pleasantries and answers to the men’s request for news from outside the palace, the head usta asks, “How can we help you?”

“I am looking for the workshop and the usta that produced this pendant.” He passes the silver globe to the head usta, who looks at it with an experienced eye.

“This is Elias Usta’s workmanship. It must have been made years ago, though. Elias Usta has long been retired. When his hands were no longer steady, he went to work as keeper at the Dolmabahche Palace aviary. We have heard nothing about him for many years. But this is definitely his work.”

He signals an apprentice to bring a lamp and peers inside the silver ball.

“Yes, this is an old tughra. It belonged to Sultan Abdulaziz, may Allah rest his soul.”

“Sultan Abdulaziz’s reign ended ten years ago. Could it have been made after that time?”

The head usta ponders this. “It would not have been officially approved. But it is true that, with Allah’s will, anything can be done at any time.”

“Would Elias Usta have needed permission to engrave a tughra?”

“Permission must be obtained for each item to be inscribed with the seal.”

“Who can give that permission?”

“The padishah himself, the grand vizier, and the harem manager. She would need instructions, however, from one of the senior women.”

“I would like to speak with Elias Usta.”

“I will send him a message. If he agrees to meet with you, I will let you know right away.”

Kamil tries to hide his disappointment at yet another wait, but he needs permission to approach anyone inside the palace.

“Thank you.” He bows.

Another man chimes in, “And we’ll make sure they send an adult with a mustache to fetch you!”

To the sound of laughter, Kamil bows out of the room and follows an apprentice through the warren of corridors and courtyards to the front gate.

T
HE NEXT DAY
, the apprentice appears at Kamil’s office with a note:

It is with great regret that we inform you that Elias Usta was found dead this morning in the palace aviary. May Allah rest his soul.

Paper still in hand, Kamil stares unseeing out the window. It is the first sign that he is moving in the direction of the truth. Was it worth this man’s life? He feels cold, but, as a sacrifice to the dead usta, does not move to close the window against the chill.

T
he Residence is in a wing at the back of the embassy building. Kamil pushes open the iron gate leading to the private gardens. The air is still crisp in the shade of the plane trees, but there is a delicate sheen of heat beyond its perimeter. Kamil looks up at the enamel-blue sky against which the silver leaves of the plane trees twist and flash. The sight cheers him momentarily, despite the new shadows that have entered his life.

His father has become more irritable and aggressive as Feride, with the collusion of her servants, slowly reduces the amount of opium in his pipe. He strides through the house, flailing at objects that fall to the floor and break; the noise seems to intensify his frenzy. Then suddenly he collapses onto a chair or bed and curls up like an infant. Feride and her daughters are terrified, her husband angry at the disruption. Kamil is unsure where this will lead. He has found nothing in books to guide him and worries that he is killing his father instead of helping him. He is too ashamed to ask the advice of Michel or Bernie. His only close friends, he realizes with a start. Perhaps today he can raise the subject of fathers with Sybil. He is reluctant to reveal himself about something so personal, but he is drawn to see Sybil. Even if the problem of his father is not broached, he thinks, he will find solace in her company.

Mary Dixon also has begun to shadow his life. At his last audience with the minister of justice, Nizam Pasha asked him pointedly what progress had been made in discovering her murderer. It has been almost a month since her body washed up behind Middle Village mosque. His impatient gestures implied that Kamil had failed not just the ministry, but the empire. And perhaps it is so. If he did not know the English ambassador, he might assume pressure was being placed on the minister from that direction. But Kamil thinks Sybil’s father too distracted to muster a sustained attack. Did the British government take such an interest in a mere governess that it would pressure the sultan’s closest aides or even the sultan himself? He wonders, could there be another reason for Nizam Pasha’s intense interest? He remembers the old police superintendent’s intimation of palace involvement in the murder of Hannah Simmons. Were they watching to make sure he found the killer this time, or that he didn’t find him?

And now Elias Usta’s untimely death. Kamil is worried about Sybil. Two Englishwomen were already dead.

Sybil opens the door herself almost as soon as he raises the knocker.

“Hello.” She smiles a brilliant welcome.

“Good morning, Sybil Hanoum. I hope I haven’t come too early.” He finds it momentarily awkward to account for his presence. The reasons he gave himself for stopping by seem fanciful now. “I hope you forgive my intrusion. I know I wasn’t expected until tomorrow evening.”

“I received your message, Kamil Bey. It’s always a pleasure to see you.” She is blushing.

“I hope I find you well.”

“Oh, very well. Very well, indeed. Isn’t it a glorious day?” Sybil steps onto the path and looks about her with the serene enjoyment of a child. She is wearing a dress of pale lilac, trimmed in maroon. The colors reflect in her eyes and give them the same depth as the sky. She walks to the edge of the patio and gazes down at the red-tiled rooftops of houses clinging to the lower hillside, suspended above a sea of fog.

Kamil stands beside her. “Thick as lentil soup, I believe you say.”

Sybil laughs. “That’s your national dish, not ours. It’s pea soup. Thick as pea soup.” She turns to him and touches his arm. “Won’t you come in? Have you breakfasted?”

“Yes, thank you. I have. But I wouldn’t mind some of your delicious tea.” For the British, drinking tea seems an end in itself, he thinks with relief, a ritual to which he can moor his visit.

She leads the way inside to the room off the garden and opens the French doors wide to let in the scented sunlight.

“How is your father?” he asks.

“He’s well, thank you. Busy as always. He’s been inquiring about some of the journalists we know. Apparently there’s been a crack-down and many were sent into exile.”

“These are dangerous days, Sybil Hanoum. Your father is a powerful man and protected by his office, but still he should be careful.” What he means is that Sybil should be careful.

Sybil stares at him for a moment. “Do you really think Father is in danger? I can’t imagine that anyone would harm the British ambassador. Think of the consequences for your regime. It would be an international incident. It could even lead to military intervention by Britain. Surely no one in their right mind would risk that.”

“Unfortunately, these days one can’t count on rational thinking. There are other forces too, not under our control. Even in the palace. This is strictly between us,” he adds quickly.

“Of course. I wouldn’t breathe a word.”

Her pleasure at this confidence inspires him to continue. “The palace has destroyed other powerful people who became, shall we say, difficult. Besides, these things can be made to appear an accident. As you know, relations are strained between our governments. Some might wish them to deteriorate further. But I don’t mean to worry you, Sybil Hanoum. It was, perhaps, impolitic of me to speak of this to you. But I know how much you care for your father. Perhaps a word or two from you about being careful and always taking a retinue with him, his clerks, a dragoman, a few extra guards. There are other means of protecting oneself that are less obtrusive. I’d be happy to speak with him about it, if he’s so inclined.”

Distressed, Sybil shakes her head. “Father has never been careful. I’m sure his safety doesn’t concern him a bit. He has always lived just for his work,” she says sadly. “It’s as if he has put to bed all other parts of his mind, so that he has no distractions from his duties. But if you think it necessary, I’ll try to get him to take some precautions.”

Kamil understands from the flatness of her voice that her father, like his father, inhabits a land inaccessible to his family. He remembers a conversation he had with Bernie about Western and Eastern civilizations. Bernie argued that people in the West saw themselves as individuals, each with his own rights and responsibilities, in charge of a destiny of his own making. This could lead to sharing, if one had the same interests, or selfishness, if one did not. In the East, on the other hand, people were first and foremost members of their family, their tribe, their community. Their own desires were irrelevant; the solidarity and survival of the group paramount. Selfishness couldn’t occur, because there were no selves, only fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives. Bernie’s comparison seemed to make sense, at least in a general way, although Kamil could think of numerous exceptions, including himself. Yet he couldn’t deny that there was in Ottoman society a widespread belief in kismet and in the evil eye that brought misfortune. And family feeling was very strong.

Still, he remembered thinking that his fellow classmates at Cambridge, young Englishmen away from home for the first time, were not so dissimilar from the young men he knew at school at Galata Saray. One loved one’s parents, certainly. But once out from under their supervision, there was plenty of personal ambition and mischief. If, as the English say, ‘Boys will be boys,’ then why couldn’t ‘fathers be fathers,’ regardless of which society they belonged to? And here is Sybil, a representative of the individualistic West, tending to her father like any good Ottoman daughter.

“Perhaps you could simply be a fly in his ear. The important thing is to be aware of the risk.”

Sybil giggles. “A flea in his ear.”

“Ah, of course. Although I find that image, well, rather unappetizing. I think I’d prefer a fly in my ear.” Kamil laughs. “English expressions. I’ve never gotten used to them. I think you have to be born English.”

“It’s the same with Turkish sayings. You have sayings for everything. But even when someone explains them to me, I don’t understand them.”

“Oriental inscrutability. It’s what has kept us independent for so long. No one understands what we’re saying, so they can’t conquer us!”

The sun falling through the French doors has become hot and Sybil stands to draw the lace curtains. She sits again on the couch and, eyes lowered, adjusts and readjusts the folds of her dress. The room falls into a hush.

After a few moments, flustered, she raises her chin and says, “Oh, I promised you tea.”

“That would be lovely. Thank you.”

Sybil jumps up and runs to the velvet bellpull by the door. Her skirt catches Kamil’s leg as she passes. They wait in companionable silence for the tea to be brought. Each spark of conversation is muffled by the still, amber air, then extinguished, as if the air in the room is too thin to support speech. The click of fine china, the sough of tea poured, and the thin rap of spoons against the porcelain cups embracing their warm liquid take the place of conversation.

Sybil slides her cup and saucer onto the side table. They seem too fragile suddenly in her hand. She is excited about what she thinks of as her investigation, but also nervous about Kamil’s reaction.

“I saw Shukriye Hanoum, the woman who was engaged to Prince Ziya. She remembered Hannah.”

“I see.” He looks surprised. “Where did you find her?”

“She’s here in Istanbul. Her father is dying. She came to pay her last respects.”

She tells him about the death of Shukriye’s children, her accusations against her mother-in-law, and the young kuma.

“That’s barbaric. Did she tell you all this in front of the others? You said there were many visitors.”

“No. I joined her and her sister in a private room afterwards.”

“How did you manage that?” he asks, smiling and shaking his head at her audacity. “I thought you didn’t know them.”

“Asma Sultan and her daughter were there and, when they moved to another room, they took me along.”

“What did you learn about Hannah?”

“Shukriye and her sister Leyla remembered Hannah from their visits to Asma Sultan’s household where she was employed. I presume they were visiting Perihan, who seems to be a close friend. That surprised me, since Shukriye was engaged to the man Perihan loved. Perhaps Perihan is a more generous soul than she appears.”

Kamil smiles at the innocence of Sybil’s assessment. He knows better the unforgiving nature of royal intrigues that rage among the women as much as the men.

Sybil relates the conversation as she remembers it: Shukriye’s belief that the secret police were responsible for Prince Ziya’s death; Arif Agha’s discovery that Hannah was meeting someone every week.

Interrupting the easy lope of her story, Sybil pauses and reaches for her tea.

“A carriage?” he prompts her impatiently.

She sets the tea down, clattering the cup. “Yes. The eunuch told Asma Sultan that the driver had light-colored hair like a European, but tightly curled like an Arab’s. She thinks he might be a Kurd.”

At this, Kamil is speechless. Ferhat Bey had claimed to know nothing of the driver. Perhaps the eunuch had told the superintendent a different story. Too many links in this chain, Kamil thinks irritably, and he doesn’t know if one is connected to the next.

Sybil looks at him with a worried frown.

“Did they know where the carriage was going?” he asks brusquely.

“No.” Puzzled, she adds, “Asma Sultan said her eunuch told all this to the police.”

“The superintendent wasn’t as forthcoming as I would have liked,” he admits. “What else did you learn?”

“The women remembered Hannah wearing the silver pendant. They don’t remember Mary wearing it. I told them the pendant was made in the palace, with the sultan’s seal inside. They thought Hannah’s pendant must have been a gift, maybe from the person she visited every week, perhaps a lover. Or from someone in the harem.”

“You told them all this?” Kamil’s back is suddenly tense.

“It just came up in conversation,” Sybil equivocates uncomfortably. “Are you angry?”

“I’m not angry, Sybil Hanoum. I’m just very concerned.” To calm himself, he reaches for his cup. The tea has developed oily streaks on the surface but he draws it down his throat. The room is stifling hot.

“You are not to repeat these things to anyone, do you understand? Shukriye accusing the palace, the necklace, or what is in it.” He thinks of Elias Usta, dead among his birds. He had questioned the apprentice and learned that the usta died of a weak heart, but that none of his family had known the usta was ill. Kamil is certain Elias Usta’s death was meant as a warning not to seek the door to which the pendant is the key.

Sybil is taken aback and a little offended by his stern tone.

“Why not? After all, that’s how I got the information about the carriage. I tell the women something to get the conversation started in the right direction. It’s like putting a grain of sand into a clam. It irritates the clam so it coats it a bit at a time and eventually you have a perfectly lovely, usable pearl.” Sybil is proud of her skill in obtaining information and of her metaphor. She doesn’t understand why, instead of thanking her, he has become so angry.

Kamil’s face has drained of color. He rises to his feet. “You have no idea what you’ve just said, have you?”

Sybil stands also. They are face to face, only a few feet apart.

“What’s the matter? I try to help you and now you’re angry with me.”

Sybil has backed against the door. She begins to cry.

“What have I done? What’s wrong? What harm can any of this do?”

“What harm?” echoes Kamil hoarsely. “You have no idea, no idea. What else did you say to these women? Allah protect you, Sybil Hanoum. Did you think there were no spies in that room? Every word has been reported to the secret police, I can assure you of that.”

He wipes the palms of his hands over his face.

“Don’t you know that you’ve put yourself in great danger—and perhaps other parties to that conversation?”

“I didn’t know.” The pearl at the base of Sybil’s neck rises and falls rapidly. Her cheeks are flushed and wet with tears.

“I’m sorry. My tone was unforgivable,” he says in a low voice. “But, please, Sybil Hanoum, promise me you won’t go to see these women again, at least not without my approval.”