Page 18 of Silver Angel

“Forgive me, my lord. You understand, my master did not wish to offend yours by not offering to him the fairest jewel that has ever come into his possession.”

“Ever?” Omar was amused.

“It is so, my lord. I have seen her myself.”

“Then my regret is no greater than yours. English, isn’t she?”

The man’s eyes widened as he nodded, but he should have known the palace spies would have ferreted out this information, probably the moment the girl arrived. If it was not palace spies, then it was spies of the foreign consuls, who liked to keep abreast of things. Very few secrets were kept in Barikah, which was why no one could understand why the head of the man behind the attempts on the Dey’s life had not long since rotted away hanging on the palace gate.

“You may tell your master that we appreciate his offering this jewel to the Dey first,” Omar continued. “His thoughtfulness will be remembered. And although the Dey has not bought any new slaves for some time, that does not mean he will not in future. But come to me next time. The Dey cannot be bothered with such trifles.”

It was a shame, Omar thought later, that Jamil scorned the collection of women for the sake of prestige. Most Turks who could afford it filled their harems to overflowing. Three or four hundred concubines were not unheard of for someone as wealthy as Jamil, yet he possessed less than fifty women, and half of these had been given as gifts or were purchased by Lalla Rahine in her efforts to please her son by providing him with variety when he stopped doing so himself. He had not been pleased, and had finally forbidden her to make any more purchases.

It was not that Jamil did not like variety or love women. What he didn’t like was to see women go to waste, and that was certainly what happened to the majority of women in a large harem. There could only be so many favorites, and the rest, though they might catch the master’s eye occasionally, spent their days in bored idleness with nothing to look forward to, and their nights alone.

That this should concern Jamil was amazing, but it did. He had felt this way even before the rumors started circulating that he was in love with his first wife, thekadineSheelah. He was a man unique to his culture for the belief that every woman in his harem should feel herself cherished by her master. And he wore himself out ensuring that none of his women were ignored for any great length of time, which was why the thought of even one more woman added to the ranks appalled him.

But it was still a shame, for someone new at this time could serve to take Jamil’s mind off his troubles and, in turn, ease what was becoming a formidable temper. But you couldn’t tell Jamil that.

What was needed was a day spent away from the palace, for being confined to the palace was Jamil’s main frustration. But the Divan would never agree. It was simply too dangerous, the one thing the assassins were undoubtedly waiting for. What was truly needed was for the many messages they had sent out to bear fruit.

Chapter Twelve

Early in the afternoon four days later, the Grand Vizier was still receiving the more important supplicants requesting an audience with the Dey when his clerk informed him a desert sheikh had arrived with tribute in the form of two Thoroughbred horses. Omar was not impressed and would have put the sheikh off until another day, but his clerk insisted he must see these particular animals himself—they were even now being admired in the outer court.

Omar could not help being annoyed. Jamil’s own clerk had obviously thought this fellow important enough to send to him, when all he had to do was accept the tribute and send the sheikh on his way. But then he could see the clerk’s dilemma. Most of the desert tribes that paid tribute to the Dey according to their respective treaties did not send their headmen to do so. That this sheikh had come in person with his gifts could only mean that he wanted something from the Dey.

So be it. Jamil’s policy was to appease these desert tribes whenever possible, which kept the peace. The desert sheikh might not even be aware of what was happening in Barikah, or why this was not a good time for the Dey to receive his gifts personally.

Impatiently, Omar stepped into the room adjoining his office that had a fretted window facing the outer court. There he could see the horses clearly, for even though a crowd of palace officials and servants had gathered around them, they kept their distance, the two young Arabs in attendance having difficulty keeping the high-spirited animals under control.

Omar was finally impressed. They were magnificent, pure white Thoroughbreds of the like never before seen in Barikah. And then he realized the reason they couldn’t be controlled. One was a stallion, the other a mare. By the Prophet’s beard! This was a breeding pair.

He shook his head as he returned to his office and bade his now smiling clerk to show the sheikh in. Was it possible the man didn’t know the value of such a gift, a tribute worthy of the Sultan himself? These weren’t desert Arabians, by any means. Where could they possibly have come from?

And then Omar groaned heavily as it dawned on him how this gift was going to affect Jamil, who was a superb horseman but had had to give up his daily rides since the trouble began. He was going to be delighted with this pair, ecstatic in fact, until he realized, as Omar just had, that he couldn’t ride them now and wouldn’t be able to for some time to come. This was going to make his present disposition even worse.

Understandably, Omar was glowering by the time the tall desert headman was brought before him. His name had been given as Ahmad Khalifeh; it was a name Omar could not immediately recall, nor find among his papers at first glance. He might have been able to recognize him if it weren’t for the bulky burnoose, the hooded robe of the desert that covered him from head to toe, and the fact that he kept his head lowered so that the hood fell forward to further enshroud him.

In his irritation, Omar dispensed with the customary preliminaries of welcome and came right to the point. “Your name is not familiar to me. From which tribe do you come?”

He was answered with a question. “Is that you, Omar?”

The Grand Vizier stiffened. That voice he recognized all too well. “Jamil? What games do you play?”

Laughter greeted this, full and deep. How long had it been since anyone had heard Jamil laugh? Omar frowned darkly, for the man’s head had been thrown back, and it was a smooth-shaven chin he could see under the shadowed hood.

“Who are you?” Omar demanded in an ominous undertone.

“Come now, old man, you can’t have forgotten me. It’s only been nineteen years.”

Omar’s mouth dropped open in utter amazement. No one spoke to him in such a disrespectful tone. No one! He stood up to call the guards to have the arrogant dog removed, but was arrested by the sight of the hood being thrown back and a pair of laughing green eyes that met his without fear or contrition. He sat back down, or rather, dropped back down on his cushioned pillows, his mouth again hanging open.

“Kasim? Is it really you?”

“None other,” came the cheeky answer.

Omar leaped up again and went around the long, low table littered with official documents and letters of petition. “You came! Allah be praised, you actually came!”