The Venetian Contract Read Online Free PDF Page B

anything you wish to say? Something you want to tell me? Do you have any messages for your son, bequests to your family, directions for your interment? Or,’ she said with significance, ‘the identity of Cecilia Baffo?’
    The Valide Sultan drew herself up on her pillows, her eyes flashing. ‘I will say that goat’s milk and hard tack be damned. What nonsense, to speak of death on such a golden day! I will have my breakfast, Feyra. And theGenoese Dogaressa is my friend. I will hear no more of this nonsense.’
    Feyra nodded. ‘I know at present you do not believe me, and I understand you. Your spirits feel well, your body tingles with health. But it will not last and there is no antidote. The poison is tasteless and takes some time to work, so even your taster, had she been on time –’ here she mumbled shamefacedly, ‘– would not have saved you. As a judicial poison it cannot be rivalled. And that is why, I suppose, the Genoese favour it so. I must leave you now, and wait for your body to tell you what I cannot.’
    Nur Banu Sultan opened her mouth to shout but Feyra stood her ground braced for battering. The Valide Sultan’s anger could be great, and she could be as fearsome as she was kind. Feyra had never, in all her years of service, had the rough side of the Sultana’s tongue, but she understood. No one wanted to accept that they were dying.
    She had seen all the reactions in her years as a Harem doctor; denial, anger, dread. Some broke down at once and pleaded for a cure. She had had to tell women with a canker on the breast or the womb that death was coming for them, but that it could take weeks or months or years. But her mistress would be dead by noon, and that was something it was impossible to comprehend. Bracing herself for a blast of recrimination, she knew that it was futile to stay. The Valide Sultan had to come to terms with the truth and then put her affairs in order in the short time she had left. At last Feyra thought of something to say. Feeling as if she were throwing a stone into a storm, she said quietly, when Nur Banu paused for breath, ‘Cecilia Baffo.’ At the sound of the name, Nur Banu fell silent, breathing heavily. ‘When you were in your greatest suffering, and did not know what yousaid, you asked not for your son, nor for me, but for Cecilia Baffo. She is clearly very important to you.’ Feyra knelt by the bed. ‘Time is short, mistress. If you want me to find her, or get a message to her, tell me now.’ She got to her feet again. ‘Only think of this. I have
never
lied to you. But
you
have lied to
me
. You know who Cecilia Baffo is.’ Feyra spoke with utter certainty. ‘And when you are ready to tell me, I will be in the Samahane.’
    She hurried down the steps from the dais, tore open the door and found the five Odalisques crowded eavesdropping at the keyhole. ‘Attend your mistress,’ she snapped, and she walked out of the room and away, on swift slippers, until she could no longer hear Nur Banu’s angry calls.
    Feyra walked through the quiet courts to the Samahane, the ritual hall. She entered and climbed to the mezzanine, for women were forbidden to attend the rituals. She seated herself beneath one of the ornamental arches and drew the silken curtain behind her. She needed time and space to think.
    She peered down over the balustrade. The Mevlevi order – the Dervishes – were whirling. Nine of the order revolved around their priest in the centre of the group, white skirts flying out to a perfect circle, tall brown hats seemingly motionless, forming their central axis as they turned. Their feet spun almost noiselessly on the tiled floor of the Samahane, pattering gently like rain.
    Feyra fell into a trance, her thoughts pattering in her head like the soft footsteps of the Dervishes as they turned. She knew the symbolism of the order’s attire – their white robes were the colour of death, and their tall brown hats, like an elongated Fez, represented a