The Venetian Contract by Marina Fiorato Page A

would not understand the significance of the holy name, but swallowed the words a little, just in case. ‘Here you will find those who will shelter you and give you succour, sanctuary and sustenance. Then you will be able to sail safely back to Turkey.’ He delivered the lie breezily.
    The sea captain, looking down at the map, was silent. The Sultan was used to silence in his presence but this one went on so long as to irritate him. Then it occurred to him that this man, who had been in his father’s presence many times but never in his, was cowed by his power and person. He was pleased. His mother, God rot her, always said he was as different from his father as night was from day.
Of course
this man was afraid of him. He was not his father Selim, a weak man, kind and merciful, a sop and a sot. ‘You may speak,’ he said to the sea captain magnanimously.
    Timurhan bin Yunus Murad was not, in fact, cowed by the Sultan. He thought him a vicious young puppy and not fit to lick the boots of his late father. He was silent because he was attempting to come to terms with this latest blow that fate had dealt him.
    Timurhan was used to loss. He had found a woman he loved and loved him, and lost her to this Sultan’s father. Hehad thrown himself into his seafaring, risen to prominence at Lepanto, and lost his fleet. The only thing he had managed to keep hold of in his life was Feyra, and now he was to lose her too. The irony was not lost upon him. When his daughter was born, he had made a pledge of allegiance to Selim and his heirs in return for being allowed to take his daughter home and raise her in peace in the city. That very pledge had brought him here, to this room, to accept the mission which would separate him from Feyra for ever. He spoke at last, asking the one question that consumed his mind.
    ‘O light of my eyes and delight of my heart, what will happen to Feyra?’
    ‘Ah, your clever daughter. Yes, very clever,’ the Sultan said, thinking back to his illuminating conversation with the Kizlar Agha. ‘She already knows that which she should not.’
    Timurhan held out both his palms, as if to ward off a blow. ‘Sire, I know that she has too much learning, but if you would, of your kindness, just let her remain in your mother’s employ—’
    The Sultan interrupted. ‘My mother has chosen her side in this war, and for this, she will no longer be needing your daughter.’
    ‘But—’
    ‘Calm yourself. I do not deprecate your daughter’s knowledge of medicine, which I can only commend. No, a clever wife is an asset. But she is also beautiful, a fact, I note, that she is at pains to disguise.’
    Timurhan asked the question with dread. ‘What are you saying?’
    ‘I am saying that in recognition of your services to my empire, I will take care of her personally. I have decided toconfer upon Feyra the great honour of taking her to wife in the Harem as my
Kadin
.’
    Timurhan was trapped. How could he reveal to the Sultan that Feyra was his half-sister, that he, a humble sea captain, had once lain with Murad’s mother? He would be cut down where he stood, and Feyra likely murdered too. Should he bow and accept the honour, go on the mission of death, and accept that Feyra would be safe and well but importuned by her brother on a daily basis?
    The choice was not really a choice. He bowed.
    The Sultan watched him walk to the door, smiling. Timurhan had underestimated him, as so many people did. Feyra was not the only one who knew something that she should not.
    He knew that Feyra was sister to him, and he did not care.
     

     
    Timurhan walked through the precincts of the Topkapi palace, aware that he was never likely to walk those courts again. As he passed the Harem, he wondered as he often did, if
she
was within. Always, the door was closed to his eyes, and the black eunuchs guarding it.
    Except for today.
    The outer doors were thrown open and the inner doors too. Reluctantly, as if even his male gaze were as