Cybele's Secret - Juliet Marillier - Cybeles Secret
I was disappointed. Secretly, I had been hoping there might be a new message there, something that began to make sense of the clues that were coming my way. Never mind; perhaps that was too easy. I had not gone through the entire box last time. I would check the full contents today to see if there were other papers that matched this one. More pictures; perhaps more clues. If someone wanted me to solve a puzzle, I needed more information.
Because so many of the papers were old and fragile, it was a slow job. Time passed as I lifted them out onto the table, first the leaves I had looked at before, then those that were new to me. Just when I was deciding it was a wasted effort, I found it—another piece with matching borders and the same assured, ornate calligraphy, the letters curling and decorative, each a small masterpiece of control and flow. On this page there was only one picture. My heart gave a jolt; I knew immediately what I was looking at. It could not be coincidence. Whoever was setting me clues knew about Cybele’s Gift. The woman and her embroidery, the mysterious words about a quest and finding the heart, the cryptic border symbols—they were all tied up with Father’s business in Istanbul. I felt it in my bones.
The miniature was no taller than my thumb, but it captured her vividly. She was painted in ocher, a squat, round person, her face a mask with a flat nose, a wide mouth, and dark holes for eyes. Her hands were on her hips, her legs tucked under her. Gold earrings hung from her lobes, and her hair streamed out like a wild tangle of snakes. Around the exuberant locks, the artist had added a swarm of bees. I looked into the cavernous eyes and heard a deep voice say, I am the beginning. Make me whole. I started in shock. When I looked up, thinking others in the library must have heard the same strange words, the woman in black was seated opposite me at the table, her eyes fixed on my face through the narrow opening in her veil.
“Who are you?” I murmured, my gaze dropping to the embroidery that lay partly unrolled on the tabletop, far enough to show me that the two dancing girls had been joined by a third, curvaceous and graceful, with artfully dressed dark hair and bright blue eyes. My sister Iulia. After her, it would be me. Then Stela. Was that how long I had to work out the mystery, two more encounters with this woman? “Tell me! What do you want with me?” I looked at her veiled face once more. All I could see was her beautiful eyes, eyes of an unusual violet-blue shade, fringed by long dark lashes. They were just like my sister Tati’s. My skin prickled with unease. “Tati?” I whispered, not quite daring to believe.
She did not speak. I heard it in my mind instead, my sister’s voice saying, The signs—you’ve got to look for the signs, Paula. And you haven’t got much time left. Then I was by myself at the table again, my lips still framing a question that would not be answered, for where Tati had been there was only empty space. Across the library, Ariadne worked on, oblivious to what had happened.
I was cold with shock. Tati—Tati, who had not once come back from the Other Kingdom in the six years since she went there to be with her sweetheart, Sorrow. What could this mean? That a quest had been set not just for me but for my sister as well? In our forest at home, the Other Kingdom paralleled the human world, the same hills and hollows, lakes and streams existing in both. They were linked by hidden portals, doorways guarded by magic. Did that apply everywhere? Was there an Other Kingdom in Istanbul, in Bulgaria, in Portugal? I remembered the mission on which Sorrow had been sent by Ileana, the forest queen, to win Tati’s hand. That had involved an extraordinary journey, taking him to places within both our world and the other. So perhaps it was true. Perhaps concealed in the streets and gardens and palaces of Istanbul there existed secret entrances to another world, the same as the ones my sisters and I had discovered in the forest and castle of Piscul Dracului when we were growing up.
Think, Paula. My mind was awhirl. I prided myself on my scholarship, my ability to use my learning to work things out. There had to be a logical way of approaching this. I must set aside the thrill of seeing my lost sister and the bitter disappointment that she had disappeared before I could speak to her. Step by step, that was the way to handle things. I would proceed as I’d planned, starting by making a copy of the odd little patterns from the border of the first manuscript page. I could examine them at leisure back at the han.
I put them in my notebook, using the same order in case that was a clue to their meaning. There were thirty squares, each with its own decoration. As I worked steadily through the sequence, the tiny writing reappeared on the page. Find the heart, for there lies wisdom. The crown is the destination. I stared at it, looked away, looked back, half expecting it to vanish before my eyes. But it was still there. I drew more squares. Twenty-five, twenty-six…The more of them I set down, the more familiar they seemed. Perhaps they marked out some kind of mathematical sequence. I tried various possibilities for a while and got nowhere. Maybe they were a code that related to words in another manuscript or well-known book. If that was the case, it would probably be in Persian and I would have to trust someone to help me. I imagined the squares turned in various ways and tried to make them match the letters in the manuscript’s text.
“Ready for some coffee, Paula? Or the hamam?” Irene was coming across the library, smiling. “You’re looking quite pale. I can’t have you fainting from overwork.”
I slipped the manuscript pages back into their box and closed the lid. As I did so, I saw that the line of tiny writing had vanished.
Today even the hamam did not succeed in relaxing me. Ideas were racing around in my head, wild guesses as to what it was I was supposed to do and why Tati would be involved. Was I to ensure Father succeeded in buying Cybele’s Gift? Stop Duarte Aguiar from “liberating” it? Or was the quest something entirely different, related to hearts and crowns? I was a scholar; I excelled at puzzles. I hated myself for being too stupid to work this one out.
“You seem tense today, Paula,” Irene remarked as we sat together in the camekan after our bath. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I’m not looking for anything in particular,” I lied. “I am rather frustrated at my inability to read Persian.”
“I hear you’ve had another confrontation with the dashing Senhor Aguiar,” Irene said.
The change of subject caught me off guard. I felt myself blush and lowered my eyes. Inwardly, I kicked myself. If I’d wanted to give Irene a perfect impression of a gauche country girl, I could hardly have done better. “I saw him briefly at the markets,” I said, trying to look as if I was not the least interested in the dashing Senhor Aguiar.
Irene chuckled. “Paula, this may be a very big city, but in certain circles news travels fast, and gossip even faster. I heard he was showing a marked interest in you. I was told the good senhor and your large watchdog exchanged glances like sword strokes while you busied yourself intimidating the hapless merchants of the çarşi. I wish I’d been there to see it.”
I was mortified. “A gross exaggeration,” I said hastily. “It was just ordinary shopping. I’ve no idea why Duarte Aguiar decided to put himself out to help me. I hardly know him. He had stolen my scarf. That was how it started.”
“Really?”
The story of the near collision at sea, the scarf, the appearance of Duarte at the markets, and his extravagant gift had her enthralled. After rewarding my narrative performance with laughter, Irene turned suddenly serious.
“It’s an excellent story that can only improve with retelling,” she said. “However, you should steer clear of Aguiar, as I advised you earlier. His past is shadowed by a hundred tales of dark deeds. This is a man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.”
“I know that,” I said. “And I know his manner is sometimes inappropriate; I told him so. But he is interesting to talk to. We had a discussion about books. My father was present throughout,” I added hastily.
“A man such as that does not offer a young woman gifts for no reason,” Irene said with a crooked smile. “Duarte cuts a fine figure; women admire him. A man with a reputation has more glamour than an upright fellow with a spotless record. And, of course, girls love the notion that a bad man can be turned to good, as long as he has the right woman to help him.”
“You sound very cynical.”
“Your father allows you considerable freedom, Paula. I respect him for that. But you should heed my warning where Duarte is concerned. If he thinks he can use you to achieve a goal, he will do so without scruples. If he continues to pay you attention, you should question his motives at every turn.”
I said nothing. Her speech had left me more than a little deflated. It was not possible, apparently, that a man like Duarte Aguiar could admire me for myself, as an intellectual foil. And as a woman.
“Do you think you will see him again?” Irene asked casually, rising to slip off her wrap, stretching like a cat, then stepping into her delicately embroidered undergarments.
“Maybe,” I said. “My father has been invited to a supper; it’s likely Duarte will also be there. I will be careful. The thing is, I did like talking to him. It made me feel…alive.” It had made me feel as full of life as I had long ago in the Other Kingdom, debating all night with the scholars, wizards, and sages of that mysterious realm. There, nobody had worried about who liked whom or whether anyone had hidden motives. All had loved ideas; all had been excited by theories and argument. I thought of Tati, who had made that strange world her home. How could she have shown herself to me, then vanished before I could say any of the things I wanted to?
“You look sad.” Irene’s tone was soft. “What’s troubling you, Paula?”
“It’s nothing.” I dropped my own wrap and dressed myself in the fresh set of clothing I had brought: my gray gown and a plain white scarf. I was saving the plum outfit for supper at Barsam’s house.
“Come back in the morning,” Irene said. “You need company, books, stimulation.”
“Thank you. I will come if Stoyan is available to bring me. He may be busy again; Father has a lot to fit in.”
“How long until this supper?”
“Two days.”
“If you need Murat to fetch you again, just send a message,” Irene said. “I do not want you to be alone at the han and unhappy, Paula. Besides, here you are safe from predators such as Duarte Aguiar.”
I heard Murat’s voice from outside and, answering, Stoyan’s. I felt unaccountably relieved to hear him.
“Is it the supper that is worrying you?” Irene asked delicately. “A Muslim household, perhaps?”
“I don’t think so, or I wouldn’t have been invited,” I told her. “All I was told was to bring a chaperone. Maria will probably come with us. I wish I understood a little better about the rules governing women’s behavior here in Istanbul.”
“If it is a Muslim household, Paula, you might perhaps accompany your father there, but you could be admitted only to the haremlik, the women’s quarters. If the purpose of the supper is to conduct a business transaction—I am assuming this may be so in view of your father’s occupation—any Islamic traders attending would not be prepared to continue if you were present. You might consider that grossly unfair, but it is the way things work in this part of the world. Those of us who live here discover our own forms of freedom, as no doubt you will if you stay among us long enough.”
I did not answer. I could not do so without revealing the nature of our business and the purpose of Barsam’s supper.
“You hesitate to say more.” Irene was fastening a row of tiny clips down the front of her braided tunic. “I think it is time for complete honesty, Paula. There should be no secrets between friends.”
I opened my mouth to say that the secret was Father’s, not mine, but she spoke first.
“I will tell you what I know, and you can confirm it as truth or falsehood. I’ve recently been provided with some information. It concerns a rare artifact that is for sale in Istanbul. I’ve been told the vendor lives near the Mosque of Arabs and that competition for the item is fierce, with a number of merchants having traveled to the city for the purpose of bidding. I heard that the transaction is cloaked in the utmost secrecy.”
“Secrecy?” I echoed, stunned. “It cannot be so secret if you’ve heard all this.”
“I know more. Duarte Aguiar is one of the interested parties, and Teodor of Braşov another. I see you are shocked. You should not be. All I am demonstrating to you is that a woman can be more capable than a man of putting two and two together and making four. I have a wide circle of acquaintances in the city, Paula, and I’m a good listener. In this particular instance, it may set your father’s mind at rest if I tell you I obtained my knowledge from a single source: a former acquaintance of Murat’s at Topkapi Palace. The information will go no further, I promise you. The fact that I have not mentioned this to you earlier I offer as proof that I know when to keep my mouth shut. Your father’s trade secrets are perfectly safe with me. My own collection consists solely of books and manuscripts, none of them particularly rare. I have no interest whatever in religious artifacts. Now tell me, is this supper to be held at the house of an Armenian?”
She had indeed shocked me. There seemed no point in holding back what she evidently knew perfectly well already. “Barsam the Elusive,” I said, nodding.
“This is exciting for you, Paula. I see that. To be involved in the purchase of such an item must quicken the blood of any merchant. I have a warning for your father. You may pass on what I have told you, in confidence, of course, and add that Murat’s source believed it will not be long before the Mufti’s representatives carry out raids on the premises of all the potential buyers for this item. This relates to the matter the women were discussing on your first visit here—the revival of an ancient cult in Istanbul. It is Cybele’s cult the rumors refer to. The Sheikh-ul-Islam, of course, is outraged at the possibility of pagan rites taking a grip in this devoutly Muslim city and will be keen to shut them down. On this issue, his Jewish and Christian counterparts in Istanbul are very likely to agree with him. His men will be looking for any evidence that will allow them to track the artifact and, through it, the leaders of this supposed cult, who, it is assumed, will be just as keen to acquire Cybele’s Gift as everyone else seems to be. Let Master Teodor know it may be expedient to conceal any documentation related to this purchase. Such a visit will not be conducted gently.”
“Thank you,” I said, shocked that she knew so much and horrified at the thought that, without the warning, Father might have been caught unprepared by the Mufti’s men. “I will certainly tell him. Now I must go; I hear Stoyan.”
“Of course, Paula. I hope we will see you again tomorrow.”
