Cybele's Secret - Juliet Marillier - Cybeles Secret Страница 18

“I’d be happy to do so.” Flattering as this was, it was starting to look unlikely that I’d have the opportunity. Whatever quest the powers of the Other Kingdom wanted me to complete, I doubted very much that it would involve cataloging.

Over coffee, Irene questioned me on what I planned to wear to the supper and how I would dress my hair—she suggested putting it up so I would look older. I found it difficult to show interest in such matters. Stoyan was looking worried, and I was feeling confused. Tati’s words to Stoyan had suggested urgency; the supper was tonight. And still I couldn’t put the pieces together. I believed in the mission. I believed we had a task to accomplish. I just hoped it wouldn’t be too much longer before I worked out what it was.

It was nearly time for the midday call to prayer when we got back to the han, and the Mufti’s party was long gone. It seemed they had not discovered anything of interest, though their search had been extremely thorough. Father and Stoyan spent a good part of the afternoon restoring order in the chamber where our remaining cargo was stored, while I tidied up the living quarters, which had been turned upside down. It looked as if even my storage chest had been searched. I did not like the thought of those guards handling my clothing and my little personal things. Nothing seemed to be missing. Father did not say where he had hidden his papers, but they were safe. He had been a merchant for many years and knew how these things were done.

The invitation to the blue house had said we should be there as soon as convenient after the evening call to prayer. Timing was everything. To arrive early was impolite. To be late was to give the other merchants an advantage, for whoever reached Barsam’s house first might gain a brief opportunity to speak with the Armenian in confidence. As it happened, all the merchants had the same idea, so we arrived en masse. The exception was Duarte da Costa Aguiar, who, with his usual flair, had managed to get there before anyone else. He was seated cross-legged on a cushion in the courtyard, chatting with our host to the accompaniment of murmuring fountains. Lanterns cast a warm light over the stone pillars and soft greenery of the enclosed space. Discreet servants, all male, moved about silently. There had been armed guards outside the gates. Before they had let us in, we had been required to answer a set of questions to prove our identity.

Barsam rose to greet us. He was wearing an embroidered caftan of pearly gray silk; his hair and beard matched the fabric. When my father introduced me in Greek, the Armenian murmured a greeting in the same tongue. I responded courteously, thanking him for his hospitality. The moment Barsam turned to speak to Irene, Duarte took my hand, bowed over it, then with a look in his eyes that was plain mischievous drew me away from the group of folk exchanging pleasantries.

“In this color,” he said, keeping his voice down, “you resemble a rare butterfly, Mistress Paula. Or a tempting fruit, perhaps, rich red on the outside, palest cream within.”

I struggled for a reply. If this was the man who had sent that horrible threatening letter to Antonio, I was not sure I wanted to speak to him at all. And yet his outrageous flattery made me want to smile. “I should thank you for this,” I said coolly, adjusting the crimson veil. The fringe of delicate shell disks tinkled across my brow. Now I wondered if wearing it had been a mistake.

Duarte was clad in plain clothing of superior quality: trousers in a deep blue, a pale linen shirt that contrasted dramatically with his tanned skin and ink-dark hair, and a tunic of blue-gray linen with bone fastenings. His belt was the brightest note, a strip of fabric woven in exotic colors.

“It seemed a rather individual way to compensate me for the loss of my own scarf,” I added. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Stoyan watching us. He was standing guard at one side of the courtyard as the supper guests mingled. The scar on his cheek was especially noticeable tonight; I thought he had his teeth clenched. On the other side stood Murat, impassive as always, his blue eyes watchful. I looked back at Duarte, who had reached into his belt to tweak up a corner of something red that was tucked beneath it.

“Isn’t this fun?” the Portuguese murmured. “You’re wearing mine and I’m wearing yours.”

He certainly had a talent for the inappropriate. “Are you so superstitious, Senhor Aguiar, that you actually believe my scarf is lucky?” I asked him.

The devastating grin spread across his lean features. “Quite the opposite, Mistress Paula. I have no time for the fears and fantasies that beset so many seafaring men, the charms and amulets borne to ward off evil forces, the songs and tales of mermaids and monsters lurking in the deep. I carry this to remind me that I have something to prove.”

“Oh? And what is that?” I noticed Father looking at me, his expression unreadable. He would not order me to stop speaking to Duarte. After all, I had offered to use my feminine charms to aid our mission if I could. But he was keeping an eye on me, ready to get me out of trouble if I needed him.

“That, with sufficient work on my part, you might begin to see that I am not the out-and-out rogue folk love to paint me,” Duarte said. “Given time, I think you and I could become friends.”

He must be joking. “Recent events suggest to me that such a development is not possible,” I said. Across the courtyard, Irene, eye-catching even in her sedate dark blue, had most of the other merchants gathered around her. She lifted her brows at me, evidently displeased that I was not heeding her warnings about Duarte. Trapped as she was by her admirers, she could not fulfill her duty as a chaperone. “I could not befriend a man who gets what he wants by threats.”

“Threats? Me?” His brows went up. “Mistress Paula, I think you’ve been listening to gossip again. My methods may not always be orthodox, but they are quite gentlemanly on the whole. Violence is a last resort. And it is generally not necessary to threaten. I am a more subtle man than that.”

I scrutinized his features, trying to see past their charm and work out whether he was playing games again. “I’m not sure I believe you,” I said. “It is hardly subtle to draw the wives and children of trading rivals into danger.” Perhaps I should have kept my mouth shut, but I was angry on Antonio’s behalf and on behalf of all honest merchants. And on my own. I felt a strong inclination to like this man, but if what my father suspected was true, I could not allow myself to give in to it.

“I cannot imagine what folk have been telling you, Mistress Paula. Ah—I believe we are being summoned indoors. I feel your watchdog’s awful glare on me. I fear he does not trust me.”

“Stoyan is doing his job. I had some difficulty persuading my father that I would be safe here.” I made to turn away.

“Wait,” Duarte said, his tone suddenly serious. “When you speak of threats, what do you mean? Threats to you personally?”

For the first time, I began to wonder if he did not know about the reason Antonio had pulled out of the bidding.

“Someone sent an unpleasant note to one of the other bidders,” I said. “That’s as much as I’m prepared to say. If you were not responsible, I apologize. If you were, I don’t want to talk to you. I can’t be plainer about it than that.”

“I see.” Duarte was not smiling now. “This is a dangerous business, Mistress Paula. For all of us, I believe.”

“I don’t suppose anyone would threaten you, senhor. Folk appear to be in awe of you. Or in fear.”

Duarte shrugged. “Let people believe what they will of me. What do I care for them? But you are an exception. I hope in time I may earn your good opinion. Shall we go in?” He was ushering me ahead of him toward an arched doorway into the house. As we moved forward, he whispered in my ear, “Please call me Duarte. The other thing makes me feel so elderly.”

I attempted a quelling look, designed to freeze his inappropriate familiarity. His lips twitched and a dimple appeared at each corner of his mouth. I was unable to prevent myself from smiling. “I cannot do as you ask,” I murmured. “It would shock everyone at this supper and embarrass my father.”

In a generously spaced chamber inside the house, Barsam’s guests were settling on the floor around a low table. The walls were tiled in blue and white, and a blue cloth with colored borders had been laid over the table. If our host was married, there was no sign of his wife—Irene and I were the only women present. My father had been waiting for me to come in and indicated a place beside him. Irene sat on my other side, and Duarte, with an eloquent shrug, settled himself a distance away, between Alonso di Parma and a man in a skullcap. Stoyan stood close behind Father and me. Murat had not come inside.

Servants brought bowls of scented water for us to wash our hands and immaculate embroidered towels for drying. Various dishes were then placed before us to share: goulash, fragrant rice, cucumbers with mint and yogurt. Stoyan did not eat.

“Alonso,” my father said after a while, “I am a little surprised to see you here. I had thought your interest lay more in textiles and carpets.” It seemed tonight’s conversation would be in Greek, which suited me, as it meant I could follow the proceedings.

“I surprise myself.” If deviousness could be given a voice, it would sound just like the Venetian merchant with whom I had struck my first Istanbul deal. “Of course, it is less the item to be displayed that has brought me here tonight and more the prospect of meeting you and your delightful daughter once more. You’ve been working hard, Teodor. You should not overstretch yourself; not at your age.”

I opened my mouth to deliver a withering response. Irene gave me a subtle nudge, and I restrained myself.

“Overstretch?” Father did not sound in the least put out. “I’ve been in the business too long to make such a basic error of judgment. When you are a little older, you will begin to get an understanding of such matters, I suppose.”

“Barsam, we thank you for your hospitality,” said Enzo of Naples. “I know you must be aware of how eager we are to view the artifact at last. Can you tell us a little more about it? There has been much discussion of how it was acquired and from whom.”

“We do understand,” put in Duarte smoothly, “that such details may be commercially sensitive. It is up to our host how much he chooses to divulge.”

There was a silence, which I interpreted as the merchants at the table refusing to acknowledge the Portuguese as an equal in the field of mercantile transactions.

“Of course,” someone said delicately, “each of us will have performed his own investigations into the nature and history of Cybele’s Gift.” There was a collective release of breath, almost a sigh, as the item was named. “I am interested to discover if the information you possess, Master Barsam, supports or contradicts the scant knowledge we have of the piece.”

“My guests, please enjoy your meal,” said Barsam in softly courteous tones. “Time for this when all have eaten sufficiently. I welcome you to my modest dwelling.” Out in the courtyard, someone began to play music, a plaintive tune on a reed instrument punctuated by the clash of small cymbals. The timing was impeccable; it was almost as if Barsam had planned it thus.

“We lack patience,” my father observed. “My apologies, Master Barsam. Your hospitality is very fine. I do appreciate your extending the invitation to include my daughter, who, as you may know, is in Istanbul as my assistant.”

“You have no sons, Master Teodor?” That was Duarte. “Nobody to carry on your trading business?”

“I was blessed with girls, senhor. The five of them possess sufficient funds of wit, beauty, and scholarship to make any father happy. I am fortunate enough to have three grandchildren as well, two of them boys. As it happens, I am in partnership with my son-in-law.”

“You are blessed indeed, Master Teodor,” said our host. “As fathers, we know it matters not if our children and our children’s children become warriors or merchants, dervishes or administrators. We wish for them only good health and good fortune, love of family, respect for their ruler, and devotion to their God. Whatever our faith, whatever our origins, we are united in this.”

There was a general murmur of acknowledgment.

“Irene,” I whispered.

“Yes, Paula?”

“They will let us see Cybele’s Gift, won’t they?” I could barely eat; my stomach was churning with nerves. The presence of Duarte just along the table, glancing mischievously in my direction from time to time, did nothing to calm me.

“Don’t worry so, Paula. You’re giving yourself a permanent frown. Have a little more of the goulash; it is very good.”

The men were talking about silk carpets now. My mind drifted from Tati to Stoyan to Duarte…. I was somewhat ashamed to realize the pirate’s compliments had pleased me. The admiration of such an outrageously good-looking man was unsettling. I did have a strong instinct to like him despite all the bad things I had heard about him. Such a response could only make things complicated. I pondered this as I picked at my meal.

Some time later, I snapped back to the present when Barsam mentioned Cybele.

“…an Anatolian scholar,” the Armenian was saying. “He told me the piece was being conveyed toward Samarkand by a man who almost certainly did not appreciate its rarity. I then set out to pursue the caravan to which this traveler had attached himself, catching up with it halfway to Tabriz. I was able to secure Cybele’s Gift with a payment in…Well, let us not go into details. I know the piece is genuine. It has been examined and valued in strictest confidence by an expert on religious antiquities. It is of the correct age and style, and the markings it bears are appropriate only to that particular region and period. I believe one glimpse of the artifact will convince you of its authenticity.”

I hoped we would get more than a glimpse. I was intending to read the inscription—or at least remember it so I could have it translated in due course—and find out what it was Cybele had said before she left the world forever. Those words were the element that made Cybele’s Gift so much desired; they created the belief that the piece would confer lifelong good fortune on its holder.

“Valued,” echoed my father. “I am intrigued to know how this expert went about setting a value on a unique piece of such antiquity.”

“If this is the real Cybele’s Gift,” put in Duarte, “I would say it is beyond measuring in terms of silver or gold.”

“Nonetheless,” said Alonso di Parma, “it would be pointless to pretend we are here tonight for any other purpose than to bid for the piece, and I imagine each of us has offered a price that can indeed be measured in just those terms.”

“I stand by my comment,” Duarte said quietly. “Whatever value a merchant may place on this particular piece, it cannot be treated in the same way as a silk carpet or a piece of fine silverware. This is a symbol of genuine faith. And faith cannot be bought and sold.”

It was an astonishing speech for such a man to make. I wanted to ask him what he meant but felt awkward in the company of the others, whose expressions, where not carefully masked, were cynical.