Chapter Nineteen
Chantelle sat with her knees tucked under her, her hands gripped prayerlike in her lap, the whites of her knuckles revealing her inner tension.
The dull white of her clothes was stark against the deep blue satin of the plump pillow beneath her.
This served as her chair, for there were no ordinary chairs in the room, no chairs in all of Barikah, if what she had seen so far was any indication.
Across a low table, Haji Agha sipped his second cup of the thick, foam-topped brew that was Turkish coffee.
Chantelle’s first cup was cold by now, untouched.
Across the room, a clerk sat on another pillow, his hand poised over his writing tablet, waiting for the interrogation to continue.
No one else was in the room. And it was an interrogation, a prying into her life from the day she was born until the night she was captured beneath the Dover cliffs.
Her name, family, home, position, even her birth date were demanded.
Her education was picked apart, her accomplished skills, which included the piano, a fine stitch, excellent horsemanship, sailing, and a passable voice for singing.
Only the sailing had drawn a note of interest from the Chief Black Eunuch, who did all the questioning while the clerk diligently recorded the answers.
If she weren’t in a state of nervous exhaustion after her ordeal in the Dey’s presence, she never would have been so cooperative, answering almost absently anything put to her, her mind still back in that other room, still shuddering in embarrassed memory.
When her mind did finally clear enough to wonder about the reason for this interrogation, there wasn’t much left to know about her.
It was a particular question about her guardian, bringing back an old anger, that snapped her out of her lethargy.
“What is the point of all this? I thought it was encouraged to forget the past when you enter this hell!”
The old man smiled at her choice of words. It always amused him, the boldness and defiance these new slaves possessed on arrival, before they learned to fear him. He would give this one a week before her tone became respectful, her manner subservient. She wouldn’t dare to question him then.
“You are correct,” he deigned to answer her. “But before your past is forgotten, it must be recorded for our information in case inquiries are ever made of you.”
“For ransom, you mean, so you know how much to ask for?”
He nodded, but added deliberately, “That is not likely to happen in your case.”
“And why not?” she demanded. “I believe I told you I’m an heiress.”
“But who, unless Hamid Sharif’s ship was seen off your English coast and recognized as belonging to Barbary corsairs, will ever guess you are here?”
She had realized that herself, but to hear him state it so plainly was demoralizing indeed.
She almost pointed out defensively that if Barikah’s English consul knew about her, then her release would be immediately demanded, but she didn’t want anyone knowing that she still harbored hopes of contacting the consul.
Those hopes were not very high at the moment.
In fact, her only hope at this particular moment was that Jamil Reshid would decide not to keep her.
“Aren’t these questions a bit premature?” she pointed out testily. “It hasn’t even been determined yet—”
Chantelle broke off when a guard hurried into the room and bent down to whisper a few words to Haji Agha. The old man nodded, not in the least surprised, and stood up.
“Come, Shahar.”
He directed her with a wave of his arm toward the door. She didn’t move, her limbs feeling suddenly leaden.
“Don’t call me that.”
“It is all you will be known by henceforth. Chantelle Burke is dead.”
“Then—”
She couldn’t finish. She didn’t have to. The old eunuch nodded again, reading her mind.
“Did you really think it would be otherwise after he was so generous in his dealing with you?”
“Generous!” she burst out, gaining an immediate frown from him.
“Enough,” he said softly, but with the stern authority he was known for. “You will follow me, or you will be dragged along in my wake. I would think your pride would prefer to walk.”
He was correct. She was a Burke, after all, not a sniveling coward, and she was grateful for the reminder.
It was bad enough that she had pleaded with his horrid master earlier, and for what?
A little modesty? There would be worse things in store for her, she was sure.
But, by God, she wouldn’t beg again, not for anything.
She followed him out of the room and didn’t even blink when his personal bodyguards fell in behind her just beyond the door.
She was led back outside the building into the large court where the litters had dropped her off, through an arched gate into yet another garden court, and toward a pair of iron-studded doors at least fifteen feet high.
Her step faltered as she saw the eight heavily armed eunuchs at guard outside these massive doors, intuition warning that this gateway was the last she would pass through.
This was the entrance to the palace harem, and once she was beyond these doors, there would be no turning back.
Chantelle Burke really would be dead to the rest of the world.
The panic that overwhelmed her had nothing to do with reason and her own wishes.
She stopped dead, took a step backward, and would have run like hell if a hard chest hadn’t slammed into her back.
She was surrounded closely now, two of Haji’s bodyguards having moved up on either side of her, and the one behind her shoving gently, but with enough force to get her moving again.
Still, the panic was riding her hard and she would have struggled in earnest, screamed and disgraced herself utterly, if Haji hadn’t taken that moment to turn and raise a knowing brow at her, as if to remind her how futile were her efforts.
There were a half-dozen hulking black men surrounding her, another eight in front of her, two at that moment opening those horrid doors.
Her backbone stiffened, but her knees felt like jelly.
The eunuch behind her still had to help her along, and she realized he was helping her take those last few steps, his hand beneath her elbow supporting, rather than forcing.
And then those heavy doors slammed shut, and there was an echo, an awful, deafening echo, like a death knell.
Chantelle closed her eyes, stopping, listening, aching with the knowledge that it was over.
She had entered the Babylon of hell, and there was no way out.
“Does it feel easier now, Shahar?”
She opened her eyes and stared at Haji Agha.
How did he know? But it was obvious, wasn’t it?
She was inside. There was nothing left to fight against. She didn’t answer him.
He represented the authority here. He had picked her out of a roomful of women when he could have picked any one of the others instead.
Because of him she was here, owned by a man she found loathsome.
She turned around to look up into the eyes of the man who had helped her not make a complete fool of herself.
He was a Nubian like the others, tall and muscular and dark as sin, but unlike the others, he had warm, amiable brown eyes; and when she smiled her thanks to him, he understood without having the words said, and flashed a dazzling white grin at her.
It made her feel somehow stronger, more herself, and not quite so lost in this foreign world.
“What was his name?” she asked Haji as they moved away together, his guard dismissed now that they were inside the harem walls.
“He belongs to me, Shahar. His name is of no import to you.”
“Dammit, why can’t you just answer my question?” she replied without thinking. “You’ve got me in here. I’m not going anywhere. Is it too bloody much trouble to just answer a simple question?”
He stopped, making her plow into his back.
She jumped back, realizing she might have sounded a bit impertinent.
But what the hell. She was the Honorable Chantelle Burke, no matter what they called her.
She might as well establish right up front that she wasn’t going to be pushed around, ignored, or remain ignorant, as they seemed to prefer their women.
“Well, is it?” she asked in a more reasonable tone when Haji turned to glower at her.
For a long moment he said nothing, and then he resumed walking, expecting her to follow, and she heard a mumbled “Kadar is his name, if you must know.”
She grinned to herself. “Thank you,” she allowed, to which he grunted, picking up his pace.
They moved deeper and deeper into the harem, through countless doors that had to be unlocked and then locked again, through a labyrinth of corridors, alleyways, and richly tiled hallways, down narrow stairways leading to courtyards, along colonnaded torchlit walks, and gardens where small, domed pavilions called kiosks could be seen dimly in the moonlight.
Even at this late hour they passed people along the way, mostly women, and these mostly servants, or rather the harem slaves, recognizable by their white cotton trousers and tunics, which seemed to be the standard dress of the lower menials.
But there were eunuchs, too, and young boys in bright-colored outfits who, Chantelle was horrified to later learn, were castrated pageboys.
Those women who were concubines stared at Chantelle in either curiosity, hostility, or plain surprise. The servants, however, fell into an attitude of deep obeisance as Haji Agha plodded by, ignoring one and all.
“Why do they all bow to you?” Chantelle wondered aloud.
“I am the Chief Black Eunuch.”
“Really? That would make you the third most powerful man in Barikah, wouldn’t it?”
He glanced at her with a degree of surprise. “Who told you that?”