The Kadin - Bertrice Small [94]
The sultan smiled grimly. “You are more valuable to me than all those who serve me put together. How I wish now I had taken your advice regarding Besma, but I will remedy that on my return. Stay here and see that my orders are carried out I can trust no one but you. Now, leave me to dress. We go within the hour.”
They bowed and left him. The agha took Kasim to see that he was fed before he began his long journey back home. Selim returned to his quarters and called his men to him.
26
TOWARD DAWN of the second day, the black-garbed soldiers rode off, tired of seeking their elusive prey, and now afraid of possible retribution. The villagers who had fled them were loyal to Prince Selim. Someone was sure to have reached the capital by now, and the sultan’s Janissaries would be on their way. The black-garbed mercenaries had been paid to kill, not be killed, and so they departed.
From his hiding place, a young boy watched them go. When he was sure he could not be seen, the boy walked across the ravaged estate of Prince Selim. He was tall and lanky, with a thin, handsome face, and dark, haunting eyes. His dress was that of a peasant, and he meandered along as any young boy would who was out wandering on a fine spring morning. Occasionally he spun about as if in pure joy, but the more careful observer would have seen that he was really trying to see if he was being followed. Coming upon the serai, he gazed a moment at the devastation, then whistled softly.
The fire had completely gutted the interior, which had fallen within the now-blackened white walls in a charred pile. Although the main fire was out, the rubble still glowed despite the gentle rain. Content that he was indeed alone, the boy headed for the beach and went directly to the entrance of the Jinn’s Cave. When the door refused to open at his touch, he bent down, picked up a rock, and tapped out a code against the stone door.
The noise reverberated through the cave, and for a split second the hearts of all within swelled in terror. The sound came again, and this time Suleiman ran to the door, pulled the iron bar from its cylinder, and swung wide the great stone. The tall boy entered quickly and without a word helped Suleiman shut and bar the door again. Then with a whoop they fell into each other’s arms.
“Ibrahim!”
“Suleiman! I knew you would be here,” said Ibrahim. “Kasim rode through the village on his way to the capital and warned us.”
“Are the villagers all right? We saw the flames and knew they had been burned out”
“Yes, they’re safe. There was plenty of time to hide anything of value. The herds are already in the high pastures for summer, so all that remained was for the people to disappear—which most of them did. A few stubborn ones remained and were tortured by the soldiers for their pains. The village was burned out of spite. But tell me, Suleiman, why? What was it all about? Those were not the sultan’s men.”
The young prince’s face hardened. “Besma!” He spat out the name. “May she die a thousand times, and each death be more horrible than the last.”
“By Allah!” exclaimed Ibrahim. “She grows bold! When the sultan hears, she is one already dead.”
“I pray it with all my heart,” murmured Suleiman devoutly. “But you, my friend. Is your mother safe?”
“Yes,” grinned Ibrahim, “and absolutely delighted with the destruction of our house. Now my father has no excuse to keep her in the country while he dallies with those plump wenches he keeps in our house in Constantinople.”
Ibrahim’s mother was a constant source of gossip and amusement to the local village. Ibrahim’s father was a wealthy merchant from the Greek portion of the empire who had settled his family in Constantinople. He had married early—a girl from his native village—and she had dutifully produced three sons and two daughters for him. However, as his wealth grew, his ideas changed, and after their