Ismet

Tension ran high in the palace. Even within the safe confines of the

harim

there was a feeling something was amiss. The sultan was on campaign again and as usual Mohamar, the Grand Vizier, maintained peace and order in Azerbaidistan. But unlike other times the wiry, silent 'clerks' who normally stayed in the background were everywhere, their eyes taking in everything—and everyone!

Al-Bezier hunts!

The rumors passed in whispers, low whispers for no one dared give voice from fear that those glinting dark eyes might be turned in the their direction. Not one person in a thousand within the palace knew the man by face, but all knew his name and shivered when it was spoken. The sultan's secret service prowled the city like lean, unspeaking cats and the Black Squadrons coursed the countryside casting to and fro like hounds on a scent.

In his own compound General Risay paced around the courtyard, snapping at the servants who attempted to meet his demands. It was all going wrong. He had loyal troops, the sultan's queen as his mistress and one of his daughters as a sex toy. By all rights he should be able to launch a

coup

on the palace and take the throne himself. But as Mada had pointedly reminded him, so long as the Al-Bezier lived any attempt to overthrow the king would result in the General being torn apart by wild horses in the city square. The Director, as he was called, was a fiend and known to have spies in every aristocratic and mercantile home in the kingdom. Why, there were probably some in Risay's own harem!

The General stopped pacing. In his own harem—the thought was alarming. And if true, who might it be? He ran down in his mind the list of those who served him. Women and slaves, he dismissed as unworthy of notice but among the servants there were some who might be in a position to do him harm. And chief among them was that oily, scheming head eunuch, Ahmed. The man never seemed servile enough to suit the General and far too intelligent for his own good. What better choice could Mahmood Al-Bezier have to infiltrate the Risay palace? The idea was worrisome. Ahmed knew of the General's clandestine trysts and the tunnel that led to the queen's quarters in the palace. If word ever reached the sultan, Risay would find himself castrated and chained to the oar of a Turkish galley. Ahmed would bear watching.

*****

In the palace proper, Mahmood gratefully accepted the tea his second-in-command offered him and sank back into the cushion behind his writing desk.

"Did you have an enjoyable game with the Grand Vizier, Director?"

"I did, Ahmed. The man's end game is improving greatly. Why, it took me twenty-seven moves to bring him to check-mate. That may be a new record," Mahmood drank and sighed happily, "What news have you?"

"Delbar reports that the daggers you sent are in her safe-keeping and that she has stolen a pistol from an inattentive guard."

"Was the guard suitably rewarded?"

"Yes, Director. He said it helped mollify the shame he felt at having his pocket picked so clumsily."

Mahmood nodded and sipped his tea. According to Delbar's regular reports, Afsoon's training was progressing nicely and thus the General would be allowed to keep his head a bit longer. The girl had acquired a lover of her own within the harim and while that would complicate her "escape" Mahmood was sure the sultan would want them both free from Risay's clutches.

"And of the girl's mother?"

Ahmed refilled both cups, "There is a rumor . . . ."

Mahmood sat up attentively.

*****

Manes and tails flew in the air; burnooses snapped and hooves beat a rhythm as the troop cantered over the plateau. First Troop, Second Squadron of the Sultan's Own Dragoons, the Black Squadrons, ate up the distance toward the far horizon. Bandits and private militias charged out to intercept the small band of horsemen and then fled in full gallop at the sight of the pennant that snapped over their heads. The captain might have smiled had so grim a man ever smiled. The Black Squadrons! In combat they guarded the sultan himself and none would be left alive err any infidel crossed swords with his majesty. Other troops patrolled the kingdom dealing summary justice to rebels, bandits and invaders. The only thing worse than their reputation was their reality and it was with dread that the watchmen on the walls of Captain Ulvi Naseed 'Abbas' fortress viewed their approach.

Reaching the gates, the captain and an older man swung down from their saddles and listened with grim satisfaction as bolts were thrown open and the great bar lifted to give them swift entrance. Guards and servants bowed and scraped as they gestured the riders into Captain Ulvi's reception room where they found the master of the house waiting with tea and hot towels.

Once seated and the customary hospitalities and acceptances finished the troop leader looked Ulvi in the eye. "You recently purchased an Englishwoman," he snapped.

"Yes, that is true . . . ."

"For a pittance."

"Yes, she had been badly beaten and was very weak. Many would have considered her not worth a groat."

"But you did. And got healers for her."

"As I say, she had been badly beaten. No woman should be treated so. We have done what we could but her arm is broken. I have sent for a bonesetter . . . ."

The squadron leader gestured brusquely at the greybeard seated next to him. "He has arrived." He reached down to his belt and took out a pouch that weighed heavily in his hand, "Here is the purchase price of the woman, an accounting for your expenses to this time and enough to pay for her care until she is well enough to travel. Additionally, his majesty the sultan extends his gratitude and a reward for your charity towards one of his own."

Ulvi eyes widened in alarm. "One of the sultan's own? But—but I acted in good faith!"

The response was a curt nod. "You acted in good faith and in charity within the law. There is no quicker way to the sultan's favor." He handed the pouch to the master of the house and then unbuckled the bandoleer that held the scimitar across his back. Laying it aside, he undid the belt at his waist and laid the new American revolver on top of the scabbard. There might have been just a flicker at the corners of his mouth and the entire room exhaled and relaxed.

Ulvi gestured to a servant. "Convey the good doctor to the lady. Sir," he turned to the squadron leader, "I will have a courier with my fastest horse on call to advise the sultan the instant his lady is well. Do you wish us to send her to him or to await your return?"

"That remains to be seen. The Englishwoman is well beloved by the sultan but she is not of his household. At present she is a widow. As such she is by law under his majesty's protection, but as a woman free to marry and with no brothers to speak for her, her future actions are her own. The sultan's only concern is that she be healed and protected. There are powerful personages who wish her great harm."

Ulvi's back straightened and his eyes flashed fire. "They will have to ford a river of blood! A thousand years to his majesty and tell him the Englishwoman is safe within my walls and will be, so long as one of my household yet lives."

"Your reputation precedes you, Captain. The sultan is confident in your charity and in your family's good name. When word of her recovery reaches the palace you will be advised of what is next required. For now, know that the Black Squadrons are less than a day's ride away. Should at anytime you require reinforcement, you have but to fire a skyrocket. The sultan will not have the hospitality of those he favors interrupted."

"Will you and your men join us for the evening meal?"

"Gratefully, Captain, and then we must go."

*****

Mahmood read the troop commander's report with satisfaction. Ulvi 'Abbas was well known in Azerbaidistan as a man of chivalrous courage and compassion. Hera was well placed in his household. In time the two might be attracted to each other and if they decided to marry the royal wedding present would be generous. The sultan himself, if matters of state permitted, would attend the wedding and, the Director chuckled at the ironic thought, the look on the queen's face would be worth a bag of gold to see.

The clock on the wall rang the hour for the evening meal. Mahmood neatened his desk and left for his family quarters, deep in thought. The problem of the sultan's old lover seemed, for the present at least, to be solved. She would heal in a safe location far from the machinations of the queen and her minions. In the unlikely event that word reached them of Hera's whereabouts any attempt to act on the information would require avoiding 'Abbas' very specific ideas about the duties of a host, of a man of honor and of one who enjoyed the sultan's personal approval. Add the nearby supporting firepower and valiance of a unit of the Household Dragoons and the odds were now strongly shifted in Hera's favor.

The question of Afsoon remained. Her training, it appeared, had progressed to the point that anything else she needed to learn would be best taught by a different master. Mahmood recollected the sultan's jovial comment about placing Afsoon in the Director's

harim

for a while. Naturally Mahmood had agreed. After all, it was the sultan suggesting the arrangement but internally, he shuddered. As if he really needed another strong-willed woman to deal with! How it had happened was beyond him but somehow the second most powerful man in Azerbaidistan had acquired three wives with intellects and personalities fully a match for his own. It was a matter of secret shame that Zaafira, his senior wife, was the only person in the kingdom who could regularly defeat him on the chessboard. Fortunately, she always suggested a rematch on the daybed and happily lost it but still . . .

Nadira, his second wife, insisted on personally tasting every dish set before the director even though the cook had been vetted by the sultan's staff and had served them for decades. She fussed over his eating habits like a mother hen and grumbled when she thought the Director's appetite was lacking. It came as a surprise that she was also cousin to his youngest wife, Hadiya, and her lover, as well. Happily the two of them were always eager for their husband to join their games but playing with two women at once after an intense day in the palace was tiring. Mahmood shook his head in resignation as he entered his suite and then brightened up to greet his several children, approve the progress of their lessons, pat them fondly on the head and settle down on the dining cushions before a warm

bastilla.

Once dinner was finished and coffee steaming in his cup, Mahmood looked up to see three mischievous faces fixed in his direction. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"Husband," Zaafira as the senior initiated the conversation, "the kingdom is abuzz with rumor. It is whispered in the halls and Kasbahs that you are hunting someone, very intently hunting someone."

Al-Bezier waved the question aside. "This is the palace. It attracts spies and assassins like a dead horse attracts flies. I am always hunting someone."

Hadiya sniffed disdainfully. "You are being deliberately opaque, our master. Never before have the 'clerks' moved about so openly and so menacingly. Something is up, our husband, and as the Prophet took good counsel from his first wife Khadija, you might do well to let us know what is afoot. There is ever the possibility we might be of some help."

They always did this! Whenever his ladies felt a need to meddle in affairs of state they raised the example of Muhammed and Khadija and, with good reason, expected him to take them into his confidence. He sighed internally and told them the story as he understood it to the present time.

When he had finished bringing his wives up to date, Mahmood leaned back waiting for their reaction. They burst into delighted applause.

"Oh thou jewel in the sultan's crown!" Nadira exclaimed, "Were ever any women lucky to be wed to so brilliant a man? Now the woman Hera is safe with the dashing Captain Ulvi and her daughter is about to be sprung from the wretched Risay's claws. You have served our master well, our husband."

Zaafira wrinkled her nose. "Do not think we failed to notice your attempt to downplay the sultan's suggestion for the girl's placement. If the opportunity arises, be very sure we will have a comfortable place for her here, and for her lover, of course. Who knows? The two of them may have learned things we could all enjoy."

Murmurs of approval passed around the women as Mahmood groaned silently. Now he would be forced to redouble his efforts on Afsoon's behalf. The peace of his home was at stake.