Panther's Prey

by Doreen Owens Malek

  Sarah released his hand. “There’s no life for me without you, Kalid.You know that.”

  “Then think of the children,” he said gently.

  Sarah swallowed. “Are things that bad, Kalid?” she asked quietly.

  “Not yet. But they could be. I just want to be ready.”

  “I thought the problem was solved. I thought Malik Bey said he would turn Amelia over to you when you asked for her.”

  “Bey did say that, but the Sultan is another story. He’s volatile, unpredictable. His men are dealing with new outbreaks of rebellion every day, and Hammid blames Bey for all of them. The janissaries were roundly trounced in that raid in the Armenian quarter and Hammid knows the Armenians are Bey’s allies. If he manages to kill Malik before I redeem the girl I don’t know what will happen to her.”

  Sarah put her hand over his on the table. “How awful for you to be caught in the middle of all this,” she said softly.

  He stood abruptly. “I’ve been in worse spots. If Bey keeps his word all should be well.”

  “Do you trust him?” Sarah asked.

  “I did trust him when I looked into his eyes and saw Osman looking back at me. Let’s hope I wasn’t wrong and they are not that different after all. Now let me go after Tariq and make sure my horse survives his encounter with my son.”

  He walked out as Sarah stared after him unhappily.

  Then she sighed and tried to go back to her work, but the numbers on the pages were meaningless.

  Kalid was not an alarmist; if he was taking action to enable his family to leave the Empire he was worried.

  Sarah folded her hands on her work table and stared into the distance, lost in thought.

  * * *

  Constantinople straddled the continents of Europe and Asia along the narrow river of the Bosporous, the “throat” which opened into the Sea of Marmara, its gleaming waters then passing on to mix with the blue Aegean. Amy was fascinated with the sight of the city as they neared it. Its minarets climbed toward a scarlet sky next to the domes of Christian churches, its stone and wooden structures clung to the hills overlooking the edge of the land. A blend of east and west unduplicated elsewhere in the world, its name in Turkish, Istanbul, meant “into the city,” as if there were and could be no other.

  Amy had seen very little of it when she arrived in Turkey, spending most of her time in the train station waiting for the coach, so now she stared at the inner harbor, the “Golden Horn” filled with boats of all kinds. Some were under sail, European schooners as well as Asian junks, but there were many more caiques, slim rowboats which slipped smoothly under the Galata Bridge with rhythmic oars hardly splashing. The traffic on the bridge was dense and noisy: Arabs leading camels, horse drawn coaches, farmers herding bleating goats, nomads in trailing robes with donkeys, even Daimler carriages. Amy craned her neck backward as they turned down a dusty side street toward the market and her horse objected to the change in pace; Amy leaned over to stroke Dosha’s neck.

  “Come on,” Malik called to her, glancing up at the darkening sky. “This way.”

  Vendors shouted at them as they rode past, hawking simits, or crescent shaped doughnuts, as well as grilled fish and lamb kebobs and borek, the flaky, cheese filled pastry. By the time Malik and Amy reached the walls of the Buyuk Charsi, or enclosed market, the sun was declining and some of the merchants were starting to pack up their wares. Amy followed Malik through the gate, gawking at the crowded aisles where each stall or open stand seemed to display some new and exotic item. But their mission was to get back to Anwar as soon as possible, so she concentrated on guiding the horse until the lanes became too narrow and they got down to walk. She tried to ignore the manic scene around her–the squawking of live chickens and geese flapping in cages, the smell of drifting incense and meat grilling over charcoal braziers, the Europeans in homburgs arguing with turbaned rug and skin traders, the rainbow of varicolored costumes representing every ethnic group. It was all too much to take in at once and would have to wait for another, better time.

  They reached a turn and the path beyond was just wide enough for two people to walk abreast. Malik stopped and said something to one of the barefoot boys scampering underfoot everywhere, shouting at one another or begging from the passersby. The child stopped and took the coin Malik offered, then accepted the reins of their horses, tying them to a pole.

  “Will he stay with them?” Amy whispered, worried about their transportation.

  “If he wants the rest of the money I promised him, he will,” Malik replied, taking her arm and steering her into a doorway draped with ropes of garlic. A wooden sign depicting a mortar and pestle swung in the light breeze drifting in from the water, proclaiming the wares of the shop to the mostly illiterate population.

  “Why garlic?” Amy asked, pointing to the garlands.

  “An offering to the grey wolf,” Malik replied.

  Amy didn’t know what that meant, but was soon distracted by the interior of the stall. It was dim and crammed with shelves containing glass bottles and jars, some of them so dusty it seemed they hadn’t been moved for years. They were filled with every form of plant and mineral life, indistinguishable from one another. She had to get a better look to determine what she needed. The slanting sunlight drifting in through the shutters did not provide much illumination, but even if Amy had been able to read the jar labels the lettering was all unfamiliar.

  The attendant pushed open a kilim curtain which screened off the back of the shop and came forward, the dark eyes above her veil watchful.

  Malik sighed, his face changing.

  “What is it?” Amy asked anxiously.

  “She’s a Kurd. They’re a mountain tribe, very independent. Even the Sultan deals with them at a distance, through their tribal overlords. I hope I can make her understand me,” Malik replied unhappily.

  “Don’t they speak Turkish?”

  “Some do, but most speak a language like Pharsi. They rarely come out of the eastern hills. Their women are bold, though it’s still unusual to see one of them running a shop.”

  “What’s the lettering on the jars?” Amy whispered.

  “Arabic,” he replied.

  The Kurdish woman looked inquiringly at Malik. He said something to her in Turkish and she nodded, replying in a long stream of liquid syllables which made Malik look hopeful again.

  “What did she say?” Amy asked.

  “She’s a Yezidi, a sect known for the supernatural and healing powers of its priests. This is her father’s store, he sells his cures here and has taught her his art. She says you can look around and pick out what you want, she has samples from Europe and Asia and all over the world.”

  “First I’ll need marjoram to reduce the tissue swelling,” Amy replied, her eyes roaming the shelves. “My herbal instructor was English and the plants I want are mostly from England, derived from John Gardner’s Herball . Maybe if you tell her why I require the plant, she can pick out the most likely candidates from what she knows, and I’ll be able to identify it when I see it.”

  With Malik at Amy’s side translating, the process went as quickly as they could have hoped. By the time they left as darkness was falling, Malik’s pouch was full. They had not only marjoram and foxglove, lady’s mantle, St. John’s wort and marigold, but also mustard seeds and oil of wintergreen to extract the healing sap from leaves. Amy was so thrilled with her unexpected success that she didn’t see the two men standing next to their horses.

  But Malik did.

  “Get behind me,” he said suddenly, and she looked up, alarmed, as the two figures moved forward menacingly. When she froze Malik thrust her out of their path and tossed the pouch at her feet.

  The first man jumped Malik so fast that his motion was a blur; there was a swirl of clothing and then both men were struggling on the ground. Amy gasped and shrank back against the adobe wall of the shop, the flaring torch in a niche above her head illuminating a scene from hell. She saw a flash of metal and realiz
ed that Malik’s attacker had a knife. She ran forward when a long arm swept her up and a large hand covered her mouth, holding her tightly. She struggled fiercely but was helpless in the grip of the second attacker.

  Amy was forced to watch as Malik and his opponent rolled in the dust, and she screamed behind the grimy fingers pressed into her teeth when she saw the knife sink into Malik’s arm. He grunted, but somehow was able to gain leverage against the other man and flip him onto his back. Malik grabbed the hand which held the knife and slammed it into the ground repeatedly until the fingers loosened and dropped the weapon. Malik knocked it out of range and punched the man under him in the throat. The man’s eyes bulged, then closed as his head lolled to the side.

  The second man released Amy when he saw his friend had lost the fight and then lunged for the knife. Amy stuck out her foot and tripped him, and Malik got up quickly, kicking the attacker as he went down. He tried to rise and Malik kicked him again, then laced his fingers together and brought both hands down forcefully on the back of his neck. The man slumped and lay flat.

  Malik held his good arm out to Amy and she flew to him. He embraced her and she buried her face against his chest.

  “Are you all right?” he panted.

  “Am I all right? You just got stabbed!” she cried.

  He looked down at the cut in his tunic sleeve, which was seeping blood. “It’s not bad,” he said.

  She could hear his heart pounding under her ear. When she put her arms around his waist his grip on her tightened and he put his cheek against her hair.

  “We have to go,” he said to her. “Even in this alley somebody’s bound to stumble across these two soon. The janissaries patrol the market at closing time to protect the merchants bringing home the day’s take.”

  “Why did they attack us?” Amy asked, drawing back to look at him.

  “The kid probably told them we were bedouins come into town to trade. After a deal they always have money.”

  “Why would the boy do that?”

  Malik shrugged. “They gave him more money than I did, or he’s a decoy they use to set up their marks. The Sultan has turned us all into thieves, he has us preying on each other.” He took her hand and led her away, increasing the speed of his steps until she was running to keep up with him.

  “If they wanted to rob us,” Amy said, looking back at the prone bodies as they flew down the alley, “why didn’t they just take the horses?”

  “I think they planned to have both our money and our animals,” Malik said, untying the horses and handing her Dosha’s reins. The horse, spooked by their haste, the close quarters and the unfamiliar atmosphere of the market, reared and then took off down the alley, her hooves kicking up clods of dirt.

  “Oh, no!” Amy wailed, lunging forward even though the horse was already long gone. Malik put a restraining hand on her arm.

  “Let her go,” Malik said. “She’s trained to return to the camp, and we can ride double on Mehmet.”

  “She’ll never go back all that way alone, Malik, you can’t afford to lose a good horse,” Amy replied, still staring in dismay after the vanished mare.

  “She will go back alone, and we have no time to waste,” he said. “Get up on Mehmet like a good girl before we wind up in the Sultan’s parrot cage.” He lifted her bodily and she flew through the air, landing on Mehmet seconds before he did. She hardly had time to grab the pommel before he had the horse trotting down the alley they had walked before, passing the Kurdish woman as she closed the shutters of her shop. Mehmet picked his way through the narrow passage and then gathered speed when they reached the wider street, finally cantering as they passed through the double gates of the market just as they were swinging closed.

  “We made it,” Malik said in her ear, a clear note of triumph in his voice.

  Amy rested back against his shoulder as the scenery which had fascinated her before passed now in a blur. She was so relieved to be out of the market in one piece that she hardly felt the horse moving beneath her. Once they left the congested area behind them the animal picked up speed, and Amy closed her eyes, content to feel Malik’s arms around her and know that she was safe.

  When she looked again they were riding across the open plain and the moonlight streamed down upon them, making their path as bright as day. Mehmet, who seemed remarkably fresh for all his recent efforts, pounded along at a brisk pace and Malik’s solid presence behind her made her feel as if she were suspended in time and space, as if the ride would go on forever.

  But she knew that it wouldn’t. In just a short time Kalid Shah would arrive to take her to Aunt Beatrice, and this chapter of her life would end.

  Amy tightened her grip on the trim Asian pommel and looked up again at the glowing disk of the full moon.

  She was not going to think about that now.

  Malik drew in the reins and the horse began to slow down. Amy looked around, puzzled; there was a verdant area to their left but it was not where they had rested on the way into the city.

  “Why are we stopping here?” Amy inquired, as Malik jumped off the horse and then lifted her down to the ground. “Isn’t it too soon?”

  “The horse needs a rest and so do you,” he replied.

  “I can keep going,” Amy said.

  “Then think of Mehmet. He’s done this journey twice in a row and now he’s carrying both of us. If he collapses with our double weight neither of one of us will get back.” He took off the robes and the headscarf he was wearing and made a bundle of the clothes, tying it to his saddle. When he turned back to her she saw that the left arm of his tunic was soaked with blood.

  “Malik, I have to bandage that cut,” she said firmly, discarding her own robes and walking toward him. “Give me the water bottle so I can wash it.”

  “We need the water to drink,” he said.

  “Then let me at least tie it off, for heaven’s sake–the blood is running down your arm!”

  He sighed and looked annoyed but sat obediently on a patch of grass and held out his arm. Amy knelt next to him, ripping his sleeve back to the elbow to expose the cut on his forearm.

  “Let me have your knife, please,” she said.

  He withdrew the blade from the sheath at his belt and handed it to her.

  “Why didn’t you use this when that thief jumped you?” she asked, cutting away the blood drenched linen.

  “The more weapons exposed in close combat, the more dangerous the situation,” he explained. “I knew I could overpower him, it was just a matter of choosing the right moment.”

  “What about your pistol?”

  “Noise. I couldn’t afford to attract attention.”

  “Doesn’t this hurt?” she asked, wincing as she dabbed at it with the clean cloth of her discarded veil.

  “Not any more. Now it’s....” he searched in vain for the English word.

  “Numb?”

  He nodded, watching as she cut strips from the veil and bound them tightly across the wound.

  “So tell me, Amelia. What was it like to grow up in the United States with enough to eat and nice clothes and a big, warm house full of servants?” he asked challengingly, studying her face.

  “It was absolutely lovely,” Amy replied, looking him directly in the eye. “I would heartily recommend it to anyone.”

  He had the good grace to laugh.

  Amy wrapped his arm with the makeshift bandage and then split the last piece of the veil, tying the ends securely to keep the binding in place. She handed him his knife when she was finished and said, “That should hold until we get back.”

  He flexed his arm, staring down at her work admiringly. “It should hold for a lot longer than that. You’re a good woman to have around in a crisis.”

  Amy turned away from him, flushing with pleasure. Malik so rarely made such a personal remark that she was thrilled at the slight praise.

  “You don’t look like you would know much about combat dressings,” he added.

  “How do I
look?” Amy asked, facing him again.

  “Ornamental,” he said, and smiled.

  She didn’t smile back at him.

  He rose and put his hand on her shoulder. “That’s not an insult,” he said softly. He tilted her face up to him with his forefinger under her chin. “The moonlight turns your hair and eyes to silver,” he murmured.

  Amy stood still, gazing up at him–at the black hair disordered by their ride, the rough stubble on his cheeks, the strong nose and full, sensual mouth, the wide dark eyes that seemed to see into her very soul.

  At that moment she was his to command.

  His hand fell away and he turned his back on her.

  “You should see if you can take a nap,” he said neutrally. “A little sleep will help you get through the rest of the trip.”

  Amy didn’t move, her eyes filling with scalding tears of disappointment. She clenched her fists, trying to regain control, as he waited and then said, “Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you,” she whispered, stifling a sob.

  “Are you all right?” he said to her back.

  “Fine,” she said in a louder tone, surreptitiously wiping her eyes with the palm of her hand.

  “Then come over here and sit down, you can’t rest standing up,” he said.

  Amy obeyed, keeping her face in shadow so he couldn’t see her expression.

  “In just a few hours we’ll be there,” Malik said.

  And in just a few days I’ll be gone, Amy thought.

  She pillowed her head on her arms so he couldn’t see that she was crying.

  Chapter 7

  The Woolcott home outside of Constantinople had been planned to take advantage of every breeze, no matter how slight, since Beatrice suffered grievously from the heat. Both floors were surrounded by wide “sleeping porches” and the main rooms had floor to ceiling glass doors which could be opened to create a cross draft in high summer.

  Beatrice was sitting on the verandah outside the dining room, fanning herself with a letter she was reading, when James arrived home from work.

  “I’m out here, James,” Beatrice called when she heard his step in the front hall. James handed his hat to a servant and followed the sound of his wife’s voice, bending to kiss her flushed cheek and note the dew on her upper lip as well as the wisps of ginger hair escaping from her bun. Bea had pale, freckled skin that turned scarlet in the heat, and the kind of hair that wilted like lettuce when the temperature went above seventy. No matter how many times she changed clothes or wiped her brow with her crumpled handkerchief, the summer weather kept Bea, as her favorite author Jane Austen once wrote, “in a continual state of inelegance.”