Cybele's Secret - Juliet Marillier - Cybele's Secret

“Ah,” Duarte said smoothly, “but did you not in your turn make a swift judgment of my character? Admit it, you have already dismissed me as a man of no principles, grasping and immoral. But with a certain dashing charm. Yes?”

“I did not base my assessment solely on appearances, senhor. You must know you have a certain reputation.”

“You trust gossip and rumor?” His dark brows shot up in disdain.

“I’m an ignorant girl, aren’t I?” I said. “How would I know the difference between rumor and fact?”

Duarte smiled, lifting the little coffee cup in elegant hands. His eyes were dancing with pleasure—it seemed he had appreciated my attempt at humor. “Shall we call a truce?” he murmured. “I never thought you ignorant, Mistress Paula. Your Greek is far too fluent. Has your father been training you as a merchant since infancy?”

“In fact, no. I study languages out of interest; I speak several others as well as Greek. When I’m at home, I spend most of the time reading.”

“Of course, you are a scholar! How could I forget? Alas, while Istanbul is rich in culture, its libraries are not readily accessible to infidels. I have found this frustrating. Unless I experience a religious conversion, much of the city’s wealth of knowledge remains beyond my grasp.” He grimaced. “That was an unfortunate choice of words. You understand, I do not wish to liberate any of these works of scholarship, only to read them.” He turned slightly, clicking his fingers in the direction of the brazier where the coffee vendor was working.

“You like books?” I studied his face, trying to decide if he was teasing me.

“Don’t look so surprised, Mistress Paula. As you kindly reminded me, I am of mature years, at least by comparison with yourself, and I have had plenty of time to gain an education. Yes, I like books. I like anything with an interesting story attached. Myths, fables, folktales. Accounts of the strange and the heroic.”

This remark hung between us, full of unspoken meaning. I was sure he was referring to Cybele’s Gift, but I knew enough of merchant dealings not to mention that.

“Persephone’s journey to the underworld,” I said, an image of Tati dancing through my mind. “Atalanta, who could outrace all her suitors. I enjoy those, too, but I prefer the Greek dramas—Sophocles in particular. The plays may concern legendary figures, but they’re really about human nature and human frailty. They are very strong stories.”

“Some would say too strong for a young woman to be reading,” Duarte said, smiling. “Oedipus, Antigone—their fates were terrible.”

“Terrible things happen in real life,” I said, warming to the discussion. I thought of Stoyan’s brother and of the strange events that had overtaken my own family six years ago. “I think those plays were written to help people make sense of that.”

“I am revising my opinion, Mistress Paula. I see that you are a woman of culture and learning.”

“I hope you’re not making fun of me. I don’t care for that.” I felt a smile creeping onto my lips, despite my best intentions.

“I would not dare. Not with the eyes of your guard fixed on me in that intimidating fashion. Where did you get him? He’s a tough-looking specimen.”

I was not about to be drawn into a conversation about Stoyan and his former employer. “I want to ask you something,” I said.

“Go on.”

“You used the word liberate before. Can you possibly mean acquiring goods without making fair payment for them?”

It was unfortunate that I spoke these words during a lull in the other conversation, the one Father was conducting with the Neapolitans. Suddenly everyone was looking at me.

“You will hear me called a pirate,” said Duarte. “Among other things. Some of what folk say is true, some not. I’ve plied these waters a long time, Mistress Paula. A man uses what methods he must to make a living.”

“All the same,” I said, delighted that he was prepared to engage me in a proper debate, “surely even the most admirable end should not be served by dishonest means.”

“Paula.” My father’s tone was soft, a warning.

“Dishonest? I am more honest than a man who pretends to integrity while readying a noose for his rival’s neck.” Duarte’s tone had changed; I could tell I had annoyed him this time. “I have never lied about what I am and what I do. I have been known to remain silent in the face of questioning. It has proven convenient once or twice, I admit.”

The awkward moment was ended by the arrival of a fresh tray of coffee, carried by the vendor himself. A platter of sweetmeats followed. Duarte had procured these without needing to utter a word.

“Folk run to do your bidding,” I observed. “Now why is that? From fear?”

“Do not discount my natural charm, Mistress Paula.” He glanced at me, and I saw the flash of white teeth before I looked away. He was dangerous, all right—dangerous and irresistible.

“Thank you for the information about the supper, Senhor Aguiar,” said my father politely. “We’ll bid you good day.”

“I deduce I have outstayed my welcome.” Duarte glanced toward the steps to the street. A man I recognized was waiting there: the short, thickset fellow I had seen on board the Esperança. “We may meet in five days’ time,” the Portuguese said. “If so, we can resume this interesting conversation. Enjoy the sweetmeats.” And, with the effortless grace of a wild creature, he was on his feet and away.

“Strange fellow,” observed Antonio, helping himself to a dried apricot.

Father and I exchanged looks. We both knew that the conversation had yielded useful information and that we did not plan to discuss it in front of the Neapolitans.

“That was a little unsettling,” Father said mildly. “More coffee, Paula?”

As we sailed back across the Golden Horn, I felt an unexpected sense of well-being. Maybe the caïque was bobbing about more than I cared for, and maybe I had not coped with the çarşi as well as I had expected to, but I did have two lengths of good silk and enough trimmings to make a pair of very becoming outfits, and all at an excellent price. Better still, I had just had a discussion of the kind I most enjoyed, one in which my opponent could match me for cut and thrust. I wasn’t sure I liked Duarte Aguiar much. But I very much hoped I would talk to him again. Back in my tiny chamber at the han, I unpacked the purchases that Stoyan had carried for me. Plum silk, moss-green silk, braid and muslin, veils and shoes—I did like the elegant tooled finish on those. I might send Stoyan out another day to get a pair for Stela. Ah, there was the little package Duarte had so politely brought to the coffee shop, the item he’d said I left behind.

I unfastened the twine around the bundle—not easy, as the knot was a sailor’s—and unfolded the wrapping. Inside was a length of cloth in deep red-purple, a darker version of the plum-colored silk I had purchased. As I lifted it, there was a faint tinkling sound. I shook it out, the fabric smooth in my hands, and saw that it was a generously sized headscarf of the kind I had so admired on Irene of Volos: smoothly draping and fringed at the front with a row of tiny medallions. Not gold; such headdresses were reserved for the storage and occasional display of the wealth of an entire family. These were disks of polished shell, each a small miracle of swirling light, in every shade from cloud to spindrift to stream-in-shadow. It was a garment for a fairy-tale princess, delicate, exotic, one of a kind. Not valuable, yet of a value beyond measuring in merchants’ currency. As a gift, it was the kind of item that would appeal only to someone with a taste for the unusual. Instantly I loved it.