Chapter Forty-two
A chair arrived along with today’s summons.
Chantelle found that amusing, but also a little embarrassing.
She wasn’t an invalid. She felt fine now.
But Jamil obviously didn’t want her overtaxing herself on the long walk to his apartment, and she knew why.
So would everyone else who saw her carried through the harem.
But of course, every woman summoned was expected to share Jamil’s bed.
She would have to get over these feelings of discomfiture each time it was her turn, especially if Jamil kept his promise and she was the only one.
When she arrived just after evening prayer, it was to find Jamil not alone.
The old man she had seen the other night was there, arguing with Jamil about something.
When she had described him to Adamma, the girl had thought he sounded like the Dey’s Grand Vizier, the second most important man in Barikah.
She hoped not, remembering the way he had glowered at her that night.
He did it again now, plainly annoyed that Jamil had motioned her to stay when their business wasn’t finished.
“I don’t see that it makes any difference, Omar,” Jamil was saying. “He was my brother. I have to go.”
“No one will expect it, not after this most recent attempt on your life. And you, you didn’t even know—”
Jamil made a sudden slashing motion with his arm and Omar glared once again at Chantelle. “Send her away until we are finished.”
“No. We are finished now. It is my duty to attend the funeral, the Dey’s duty,” Jamil emphasized.
“Duty be damned. The Divan has voted unanimously against it. You must heed the advice of your councillors!”
“Must?”
Omar threw up his hands. “Allah save us from a man who loves danger. Do you think these fanatic assassins will respect the sanctity of the funeral procession? No, they will be in the crowds, just waiting for you to appear. They cannot afford to let such an opportunity pass. Nothing else has been able to draw you out of the palace.”
Chantelle frowned. She had heard that before, those exact words, or almost those exact words.
“Jamil?”
He didn’t even glance at her. “Be patient, Shahar. This will only take a moment more.”
“But, Jamil, I’ve heard that before.”
Now he turned around. “What?”
“What he just said to you, that nothing else has been able to draw you out of the palace. Only she said ‘him,’ instead of ‘you.’”
“You are not making much sense, Shahar. Come here and tell us what you are talking about.”
She approached, but reluctantly. Omar wasn’t frowning at her now. Jamil was. She should never have interrupted them. From what she had just overheard, apparently one of Jamil’s brothers had died. He had to be upset already. But there was nothing for it now.
“Well?” he demanded.
“I am sorry about your brother,” she began, but he waved that aside, so she told him what she remembered.
“It was a few days ago in the baths. I was alone in the steam room when I heard someone outside. It was a woman and a man, I think. I never heard his voice clearly, but she called him Ali. I assumed he was a eunuch. I could hear the woman plainly, though, because her voice was raised in anger. She told him she didn’t want any more excuses, that it should never have taken this long.
And then she gave the man something and told him to sell it.
She said, ‘If that doesn’t buy some courage, I’ll have to—’ But the man interrupted her then, and…
oh, my God!” Her eyes flared in sudden understanding.
“What?”
“None of it made sense to me, so I forgot about it, but I didn’t know someone was trying to kill you then.”
“So? What you have said does not signify, Shahar. The woman could have been talking about anything.”
“I know that, but…was your brother young? Was he just a boy?”
“Yes, but what has that to—”
“How did he die?”
Chantelle could see he was fast losing patience with her by the tightening of his mouth, but he answered her just the same.
“He appears to have suffocated. But whether he choked on a piece of food—he was apparently eating at the time—or whether someone smothered him to make it appear so has not been determined.”
“Do you think it was murder?”
“He was not a strong boy. It would not have been at all difficult for a man to hold something over his face until he expired. There was an emergency that drew his servants away. When they returned, they found the table in a shambles and Murad lying beside it, dead.”
“And if it was murder,” Omar told Jamil at this point, “it was arranged specifically to lure you outside the palace. There is no other reason to kill the boy.”
“Omar—”
“But, Jamil, he’s right,” Chantelle insisted.
“No one can know that for certain—”
“Will you just listen?” she said in exasperation.
“After the woman was interrupted, she asked Ali, ‘What about the boy?’ and when he answered her, she said, ‘Go ahead and arrange it. Nothing else has been able to draw him out of the palace, so maybe that will. But if it does, there had better be results. No more bungles or I will take it out of your hide.’ Ali must have told her to lower her voice then, for she got even angrier at him, but they moved on and I couldn’t hear any more. ”
Jamil exchanged a long glance with Omar. The old man was smiling now. Jamil wore a half-amused, half-chagrined expression that bemused Chantelle.
“It seems ‘our friend’ has made a useless trip to Istanbul,” Omar remarked.
“It does look that way, does it not?” Jamil agreed, before his emerald eyes fell on Chantelle again. “Who was the woman, Shahar?”
She grimaced, having to admit, “I don’t know.”
“But you saw her?”
“No, the door was closed.”
“Damn—”
“But I think I would recognize her voice if I heard it again.”
“That is something anyway, and how many eunuchs can bear the name Ali?”
“Dozens, unfortunately,” Omar supplied.
“Then I leave it in your capable hands to narrow the number down to our culprit. And I think that is enough on the subject for now.”
Omar nodded in agreement but had to add, “You will not go to the funeral?”
“No. Arrange it so I can pay my respects here.”
That this was Omar’s original suggestion made his expression quite smug as he left. Jamil wasted no time in drawing Chantelle into his arms.
“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “Without your help, we would have continued to flounder, suspecting the wrong man. Will you help again and listen for the voice?”
“Of course, but, Jamil, why would one of your women wish you harm?”
“Who can guess what is in a woman’s mind?” he said with a shrug.
Chantelle snorted. “I could say the same thing of a man’s mind.”
“But women are so much more contrary and unpredictable. And speaking of women…” He pulled her closer, meshing their hips together. “I have missed you.”
She gave in gracefully to the change of subject. “It was only one night—”
“And two days. We will have to make up for it.”
“Is that so?”
“Unless you are too weak.”
“Do I look weak?”
He grinned at her. “Just to be sure, I should get you off your feet.”
And he did, carrying her straight to his bed.