Chapter Twelve
Early in the afternoon four days later, the Grand Vizier was still receiving the more important supplicants requesting an audience with the Dey when his clerk informed him a desert sheikh had arrived with tribute in the form of two Thoroughbred horses.
Omar was not impressed and would have put the sheikh off until another day, but his clerk insisted he must see these particular animals himself—they were even now being admired in the outer court.
Omar could not help being annoyed. Jamil’s own clerk had obviously thought this fellow important enough to send to him, when all he had to do was accept the tribute and send the sheikh on his way.
But then he could see the clerk’s dilemma.
Most of the desert tribes that paid tribute to the Dey according to their respective treaties did not send their headmen to do so.
That this sheikh had come in person with his gifts could only mean that he wanted something from the Dey.
So be it. Jamil’s policy was to appease these desert tribes whenever possible, which kept the peace. The desert sheikh might not even be aware of what was happening in Barikah, or why this was not a good time for the Dey to receive his gifts personally.
Impatiently, Omar stepped into the room adjoining his office that had a fretted window facing the outer court.
There he could see the horses clearly, for even though a crowd of palace officials and servants had gathered around them, they kept their distance, the two young Arabs in attendance having difficulty keeping the high-spirited animals under control.
Omar was finally impressed. They were magnificent, pure white Thoroughbreds of the like never before seen in Barikah. And then he realized the reason they couldn’t be controlled. One was a stallion, the other a mare. By the Prophet’s beard! This was a breeding pair.
He shook his head as he returned to his office and bade his now smiling clerk to show the sheikh in. Was it possible the man didn’t know the value of such a gift, a tribute worthy of the Sultan himself? These weren’t desert Arabians, by any means. Where could they possibly have come from?
And then Omar groaned heavily as it dawned on him how this gift was going to affect Jamil, who was a superb horseman but had had to give up his daily rides since the trouble began.
He was going to be delighted with this pair, ecstatic in fact, until he realized, as Omar just had, that he couldn’t ride them now and wouldn’t be able to for some time to come.
This was going to make his present disposition even worse.
Understandably, Omar was glowering by the time the tall desert headman was brought before him.
His name had been given as Ahmad Khalifeh; it was a name Omar could not immediately recall, nor find among his papers at first glance.
He might have been able to recognize him if it weren’t for the bulky burnoose, the hooded robe of the desert that covered him from head to toe, and the fact that he kept his head lowered so that the hood fell forward to further enshroud him.
In his irritation, Omar dispensed with the customary preliminaries of welcome and came right to the point. “Your name is not familiar to me. From which tribe do you come?”
He was answered with a question. “Is that you, Omar?”
The Grand Vizier stiffened. That voice he recognized all too well. “Jamil? What games do you play?”
Laughter greeted this, full and deep. How long had it been since anyone had heard Jamil laugh? Omar frowned darkly, for the man’s head had been thrown back, and it was a smooth-shaven chin he could see under the shadowed hood.
“Who are you?” Omar demanded in an ominous undertone.
“Come now, old man, you can’t have forgotten me. It’s only been nineteen years.”
Omar’s mouth dropped open in utter amazement.
No one spoke to him in such a disrespectful tone.
No one! He stood up to call the guards to have the arrogant dog removed, but was arrested by the sight of the hood being thrown back and a pair of laughing green eyes that met his without fear or contrition.
He sat back down, or rather, dropped back down on his cushioned pillows, his mouth again hanging open.
“Kasim? Is it really you?”
“None other,” came the cheeky answer.
Omar leaped up again and went around the long, low table littered with official documents and letters of petition. “You came! Allah be praised, you actually came!”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Derek got out before he was enthusiastically embraced. For a little old man twice his age, Omar had sufficient strength left to make him grunt, he was squeezed so hard.
“We didn’t know,” Omar said, standing back to fill his eyes with the many changes nineteen years had wrought. “We couldn’t know. So many messengers were sent out, so many found dead.”
“So Ali ben-Khalil told me.”
“Then he was the one to finally reach you? The sherbet seller?”
Derek nodded, grinning. “He insisted I lock him up, after he had seen me.”
“A smart man. And you were wise enough to come in disguise. I was afraid you would not, but there was no way to warn you in the message without making the simple code obvious.”
Derek shrugged. “It seemed the thing to do to avoid confusion.”
“Jamil was sure you would realize.”
“How is he?”
“Still unharmed, though there was still another attempt on his life last month.”
“Do you know who’s behind it?”
Omar threw up his hands in disgust. “We have learned nothing. Nothing! Whoever is hiring these assassins does not reveal himself to them.”
“Is it Selim?”
“We can think of no other, but then no one is above suspicion.”
“Where is he?”
Omar sighed. “He was last seen in Istanbul at the Sultan’s court. We have a veritable army out looking for him now, but he hides himself well.”
“Have you considered the possibility that he has already been eliminated?” Derek ventured. “How old is Mustafa’s last-born son now?”
“Murad is only eleven, and yes, we have considered that, and all of Jamil’s enemies, too.”
“And his wives?”
Omar chuckled. “You still think like a Muslim, Kasim.”
“I can remember my mother telling me of the fierce rivalry among Mustafa’s wives and how twice Mahmud nearly died from poison.”
“And did Jamil later write you that it was Mustafa’s fourth wife who was responsible, and that she also was foolish enough to make an attempt against him, which earned her a grave at the bottom of the sea?”
Derek grunted. No, he hadn’t been told, but he wasn’t surprised.
To be trussed up alive in a weighted sack and dropped into the sea was the Sultan’s favorite mode of doing away with the women of his harem who had displeased him, women kept veiled from other men in life—and so in death as well.
Why should Mustafa be any different? Rarely was a woman executed any other way.
Omar continued. “But Jamil’s wives? Of course it has been thought of, and security in the harem has been increased also, but Jamil will hear nothing said against them, and I am inclined to look there only as a last resort, too.
First, they each of them adore Jamil. But more to the point, none of their sons would benefit unless Selim and Murad both died as well as Jamil, and although Selim is missing, Murad is here in Barikah, and no attempts have been made on his life. ”
“But if every one of Mustafa’s sons died?”
“It would be up to the Divan to decide whether to accept Jamil’s firstborn.”
“It is not unheard of for a kadine to rule through her son,” Derek reminded him.
“But he is only six years old, Kasim. If he were older…It is more likely the Divan will choose a new Dey, and Mustafa’s line will rule no more.”
“But your vote could sway them either way?”
Omar laughed. “By Allah, you are bringing new thoughts to this problem that even I have not considered. Yes, it is true I could sway the Divan. After thirty-five years of serving as Grand Vizier of Barikah, I assure you my opinion is second only to the Dey’s.
But it is also true that no one can know how I could vote, least of all Jamil’s wives, when I haven’t even thought of this possibility myself.
But come, Kasim, sit down, sit down. We will have ample time to discuss who is causing all this trouble.
Tell me, how did you get here? No new ships have arrived these past few days, and all those before I have had checked. ”
“A friend of mine got me passage on one of the Royal Navy’s warships.
I would have been here yesterday…only we ran into a little trouble with some Algerian corsairs and became separated from our escort.
I imagine they’ll arrive either later today or tomorrow, once they regroup.
I was dropped off up the coast late last night and rode in this morning.
I needed a good enough excuse to get in to see you, and what better way than as Ahmad Khalifeh, come in from the desert with tribute for the Dey? ”
“Ah, the horses!” Omar chuckled. “Wherever did you find such magnificent beasts?”
“Find them?” Derek’s lips curled with a touch of pride. “I raise them. And Jamil had better be around long enough to start a new line in Barikah.”
“Inshallah,” Omar replied in all seriousness.
“Yes,” Derek agreed, just as seriously now. “If God wills.”