his life. If it was this that had made him save her from the brink, she could use his obligation to her advantage.
She scarcely knew what she must look like – dashed by sea-spray, her shift and breeches bespattered with filth, and now soaked and clinging. She had watched the Concubines practising their alluring glances and the Odalisques simpering before the looking-glass. She had no such arts, but she used all the power she had ever hidden beneath her veils, and put every pleading effort into her gaze. ‘Please,’ she said, looking only at Takat Turan. ‘Take me to my father.’
Takat looked above her head at the man who held her. ‘Do it,’ he said sharply.
The fellow shrugged. ‘Very well. I’ll take her to him. It comes to the same thing in the end.’
Behind her, Feyra heard the gantry doors being closed and secured. She willingly let herself be hauled up on deck and into the blinding light once again. She wasfrogmarched to the aft end of the maindeck, astern of the great citadel doors, given over to the captain’s quarters.
As she was led to the night cabin on the starboard side, she wondered what her father would say when he saw her. As the door to the cabin was unlocked she was so eager to see him again that she did not even stop to wonder why he was under lock and key. But when the door was opened and she was propelled into the little room the reason became very clear.
Timurhan lay pale and sweating on his cot, and the fingers that clasped his heart as she entered were black.
Chapter 10
A s the door closed behind her Feyra sank to her knees in front of the bed. She did not even hear the turn of the key in the lock.
The captain’s cot, suspended by ropes from a swinging bar attached to the deckhead beams, nearly knocked her over as she knelt. The bed was a symbol of status, a larger version of the common seamen’s hammock with wooden sides to maintain its shape and draped curtains to provide additional shade and privacy. But the rocking bed made her father seem as if he were a child in a cradle. Timurhan seemed diminished in her eyes as he lay twisted on the fine lawn coverlet; for a moment she was the mother and he the babe.
Feyra took the blackened hand and forced herself to regard her father with a professional eye. He was pale, and hot to the touch, his breathing laboured. She slipped a hand under his chemise and found the telltale swelling in each armpit. He knew her at her touch, for his eyes widened at once and he smiled weakly, trying to mouth her name with parched and cracked lips. Then the smile turned to distress as he realized what her presence might mean. The flicker of pain rent her heart and she embraced him hard and kissed his hectic cheek. ‘Do not fret,’ she said. ‘I have had the sickness and it left me. You will heal too.’
Feyra forced herself to believe it.
This
was why she was not cast into the waves,
this
was why ‘it comes to the same thing in the end’: it did not matter to the Janissaries whether she perished at sea or in this septic cabin. Well, she would defeat the pestilence once more, this time on her father’s behalf.
She stood, with difficulty, against the lurch of the ship and surveyed the cabin. There was a canvas drugget on the floor, painted to give the appearance of tiles, and carpets. There were paintings and pictures on the bulkheads and even a coalfired stove to provide heating in winter. But the aroma of woodruff and frankincense that sweetened the air was underlaid by a scent of putrefaction and decay. All this luxury served no purpose to her father now.
On the desk at the forward end of the cabin, Feyra found a crystal jug of water and a pewter one of wine. She swiftly poured a little wine into the water to cleanse it of any impurities, watching the grape must cloud like blood in the crystal. Then she took an ink sponge from the desk topper, tore off the stained blotter and dunked the sponge into the water. She carried it to her father and
She scarcely knew what she must look like – dashed by sea-spray, her shift and breeches bespattered with filth, and now soaked and clinging. She had watched the Concubines practising their alluring glances and the Odalisques simpering before the looking-glass. She had no such arts, but she used all the power she had ever hidden beneath her veils, and put every pleading effort into her gaze. ‘Please,’ she said, looking only at Takat Turan. ‘Take me to my father.’
Takat looked above her head at the man who held her. ‘Do it,’ he said sharply.
The fellow shrugged. ‘Very well. I’ll take her to him. It comes to the same thing in the end.’
Behind her, Feyra heard the gantry doors being closed and secured. She willingly let herself be hauled up on deck and into the blinding light once again. She wasfrogmarched to the aft end of the maindeck, astern of the great citadel doors, given over to the captain’s quarters.
As she was led to the night cabin on the starboard side, she wondered what her father would say when he saw her. As the door to the cabin was unlocked she was so eager to see him again that she did not even stop to wonder why he was under lock and key. But when the door was opened and she was propelled into the little room the reason became very clear.
Timurhan lay pale and sweating on his cot, and the fingers that clasped his heart as she entered were black.
Chapter 10
A s the door closed behind her Feyra sank to her knees in front of the bed. She did not even hear the turn of the key in the lock.
The captain’s cot, suspended by ropes from a swinging bar attached to the deckhead beams, nearly knocked her over as she knelt. The bed was a symbol of status, a larger version of the common seamen’s hammock with wooden sides to maintain its shape and draped curtains to provide additional shade and privacy. But the rocking bed made her father seem as if he were a child in a cradle. Timurhan seemed diminished in her eyes as he lay twisted on the fine lawn coverlet; for a moment she was the mother and he the babe.
Feyra took the blackened hand and forced herself to regard her father with a professional eye. He was pale, and hot to the touch, his breathing laboured. She slipped a hand under his chemise and found the telltale swelling in each armpit. He knew her at her touch, for his eyes widened at once and he smiled weakly, trying to mouth her name with parched and cracked lips. Then the smile turned to distress as he realized what her presence might mean. The flicker of pain rent her heart and she embraced him hard and kissed his hectic cheek. ‘Do not fret,’ she said. ‘I have had the sickness and it left me. You will heal too.’
Feyra forced herself to believe it.
This
was why she was not cast into the waves,
this
was why ‘it comes to the same thing in the end’: it did not matter to the Janissaries whether she perished at sea or in this septic cabin. Well, she would defeat the pestilence once more, this time on her father’s behalf.
She stood, with difficulty, against the lurch of the ship and surveyed the cabin. There was a canvas drugget on the floor, painted to give the appearance of tiles, and carpets. There were paintings and pictures on the bulkheads and even a coalfired stove to provide heating in winter. But the aroma of woodruff and frankincense that sweetened the air was underlaid by a scent of putrefaction and decay. All this luxury served no purpose to her father now.
On the desk at the forward end of the cabin, Feyra found a crystal jug of water and a pewter one of wine. She swiftly poured a little wine into the water to cleanse it of any impurities, watching the grape must cloud like blood in the crystal. Then she took an ink sponge from the desk topper, tore off the stained blotter and dunked the sponge into the water. She carried it to her father and
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