Seize the Fire (51 page)

He let her hold him: his anchor to earth and life. Her eyes caught the green of the landscape, so earnest—like the nightingale in the tree, like all the small, ordinary, beautiful creatures of the world. There was peace in her, and part of him wanted it, cried out for it, but he was afraid to reach past the barrier. If he opened himself to that, other things would come for him.

He had to contain that part of himself, cram it down and keep it hidden. He could not risk letting it out, not for any hope, not for joy or forgiveness or love.

He drew his hands deliberately from hers.

She pressed her lips together and bent her head. Without another word, she turned in her embroidered slippers and walked back into the room, the bells a faint music fading with her into shadow.

Olympia had been wakened at dawn, bathed and perfumed and dressed until she felt like an oversized doll painted for presentation. While she'd been at her endless toilette, a whole fleet of battleships had come into the little bay: they lay at anchor in silent rows across the narrow water, the yards manned. Below, in the palace garden by the shore, tents had blossomed in gay colors and troops in European and Turkish dress milled with scurrying servants.

Sheridan was splendid—not in native dress, but in the glittering blue-and-white uniform of the British navy they'd provided him. His gold epaulettes sparkled as the two of them were escorted beneath the trees to the tents in the garden. They were received, coolly, by one of the Sultan's ministers. This caimacan lifted a hand and motioned toward a little barrel-shaped velvet stool at his feet.

Sheridan ignored that silent assumption of authority and led her up to the divan as he had before, though this time he left out the insult of wiping his boots on it. No one seemed to take notice. The stool was quietly removed, along with a screen which Olympia had a feeling she'd been expected to hide behind.

The most extravagant exchange of compliments between attendants followed, their translation whispered in Olympia's ear by the Greek girl, who kept her head strictly bowed before the Sultan's minister. After Olympia had heard herself described as the most royal Princess of Oriens and all Christendom, beloved from China to India to the Falkland Islands, daughter of the Conquerers of France, sister of the Kings of England and cousin of all the Lords of Europe; heard Sheridan called the Savior of the Sultan, Lord of His Oceans, Scorner of His Enemies, Bearer of His Standard across the vast face of the Earth, Prophet of Allah, Friend of the Poor and Abuser of Traitors; then been made to understand that they were welcome, their coming was blessed by Allah, the list of their honors covered the ends of the earth, her beauty outshone the moon and stars and planets, Sheridan's glorious deeds would be known unto the tenth generation and it was hoped they would both live a thousand years—they were allowed to retire and eat.

The thirty-two different platters had scarcely been removed when the ships' guns boomed out their salute. A great cheer rose from the mob that had gathered outside the garden walls. Sheridan and Olympia stood at their tent as the salute boomed again, echoing around the bay, and from behind the nearest headland came the Sultan's gilded caique, rowed by silver oars that flashed in the sun.

From a tent by the water steps, a white Arabian horse was led forth: the loveliest mount she'd ever seen, its back covered with trappings of gold and jewels. The moment the Sultan's boat touched the shore, the view was blocked by rows of pages with tall, peacock-plume headdresses.

"It is to protect him from the Evil Eye," the Greek girl whispered to Olympia as they watched the Sultan proceed in slow, concealed state on the splendid Arabian. The troops salaamed and the crowd let out a tremendous cheer.

She'd been warned that he would repose for a lengthy period of time before they were summoned, but there was no such wait. Just a few moments after he'd disappeared into the largest tent, a black eunuch hurried to escort them to the royal presence. Someone threw a transparent scarf over Olympia's head, another precaution against the Evil Eye—
hers!
—and then they were inside for their audience with Mahmoud, the Sultan of All the World.

In the midst of the pomp, Mahmoud was a simple figure. He wore only a western-style military cloak and breeches with spurred Wellington boots. There was a single diamond in his blue fez. He stood before the cushioned throne, not tall, not imposing, not much older than Sheridan: alone except for two armed attendants.

For a moment after they entered, he stared at them, his dark eyes and fine, pale features intent. His eyebrows and hair seemed very black. Olympia was wondering if she should bow or kneel or just stand silently when suddenly he gave a low cry and walked rapidly forward.

He fell on Sheridan with a hard embrace, gripping his shoulders and kissing his cheeks with an enthusiasm that amounted to violence. Then he stood back, still holding Sheridan's shoulders, and bared his white teeth in a grin as he bestowed a quick, fierce shake. Neither spoke. Mahmoud was weeping—the tears slid openly down his smooth cheeks and into the glossy, pointed beard.

"My friend," he said finally, in hoarse, heavily accented English.

Sheridan put his right hand over his heart and bowed. Mahmoud smiled. He turned and went back to the throne. As he sat, he nodded at his feet. This time, Sheridan took the plump, embroidered stool that waited there, lowering himself on it cross-legged, his ankles resting on the floor.

Olympia stood uneasily, feeling conspicuous. Mahmoud glanced at her, clapped his hands and spoke to one of the servants. She was led forward and seated on the carpet beside Sheridan. A moment later, the Greek girl knelt silently behind her. "I am to interpret everything that is said for you, madam," she whispered.

Olympia looked up at the Sultan to nod her thanks, and then realized he could not really see her through the veil. "Please tell him I'm much obliged," she said.

The Greek girl, her voice shaking, made a little speech. Mahmoud grinned, looking at Sheridan, and asked a question.

"He wonders if you belong to the Man of the Sea, madam," the interpreter whispered.

Sheridan answered affirmatively, to Olympia's bewilderment.

"May I see her?" Mahmoud's request came through the Greek girl.

It was only after Sheridan put his hand on her shoulder and lifted the scarf that she realized that he himself was apparently this Man of the Sea.

"A rose of dawn," Mahmoud was understood to say. "A pearl. Very beauteous, cheeks as blossoms, and hair as the rising sun. The Man of the Sea has always been a judge of the fair sex."

She felt her face burning.

"I am well inclined to your gift," was the next bland translation of the Sultan's words. "I will take great pleasure in her."

Olympia looked at the Greek girl with a start.

"With respect and sorrow," the girl translated as Sheridan answered in Turkish, "I cannot give her to you. We are married."

Mahmoud's amiable expression altered a little. He looked puzzled. "I was told that you brought me a gift."

There was a tension around Sheridan's mouth. "I come empty-handed," the girl translated him. "I own the air that I breathe, and nothing else."

There was a silence in the tent.

"You have not prospered since you left me."

"I have not."

Mahmoud smiled. "And you have come back. That is very well. I have work for you, and rewards in plenty."

Sheridan said nothing.

"Tell him," Olympia whispered to Sheridan, "that you're escorting me to Rome."

He didn't glance at her, nor did he say anything else to Mahmoud.

"I lost much of my navy in the conflict at Navarino," the girl interpreted as the Sultan continued. "It is the will of God—a perfect time for complete reform. I wish to take the opportunity to rebuild on the English model. You will tell me what is best, inspect my new ships—teach strategy and seamanship to my capitan pashas. I will make you Grand Admiral."

The matter-of-fact assumption that Sheridan would be staying made Olympia jump to her feet. "Tell the Sultan," she said, to the Greek girl this time, "that he's already the Lord High Admiral of the Navy of Oriens, and isn't available for the Sultan's service."

The girl looked horrified.

"Tell him," Olympia insisted.

In a barely audible voice, the girl spoke rapidly, ending the speech with a series of bows with her forehand to the floor.

"Did she tell him?" Olympia demanded of Sheridan.

He flashed a look sideways at her. "Yes," he muttered. "Now sit the devil down!"

She hesitated a moment and then lowered herself onto the rich rugs. But she kept her gaze leveled at Mahmoud. She wasn't the foremost Princess of Oriens, the Falkland Islands and Points In Between for nothing. She hoped she gave him the Evil Eye. "And tell him—" she began.

"Olympia," Sheridan murmured, without looking at her. "Do you see those guards?"

She glanced at the impassive guards who stood on either side of the divan. Their curved scimitars gleamed dully in the delicate blue light of the tent.

"If he raises his hand," Sheridan said in a soft, neutral voice, "all our heads will go out of here in silver bowls."

Olympia bit her lip. She glanced again at the silent guards. Then she lifted her chin and said to her interpreter, "Tell him that I don't wish to insult him, but I am a princess, and if he executes me, it will create an international incident."

The Greek girl fumbled out a squeak of translation.

Mahmoud tilted his head. A wry smile curled in the trimmed beard. He spoke.

"He says Madam reminds him of his mother," the girl whispered.

Olympia lifted her chin. "Thank you," she said clearly.

Mahmoud laughed even before he heard the translation. "The Man of the Sea has taken a lioness to wife."

"A sultana," Sheridan responded, which sent Mahmoud into a great howl of amusement.

"Yes, I know the like," he said. "Daughters and sisters I have in plenty. I will bestow another such upon you, and they can growl at one another and leave you to your pipe and God's peace."

Olympia stiffened, but Sheridan answered by gently skirting the topic. "You make me feel old, Mahmoud. Do you have grown daughters?"

"Beautiful daughters. You have none?"

"No. No children."

Mahmoud looked with vague disapproval at Olympia. She felt like announcing that it was certainly no fault of hers, but decided the subject was beneath her dignity to recognize.

Mahmoud sighed. "Life is fleeting. You should have children, my friend." He looked at Sheridan, his dark eyes wistful. "You would not be a beggar if you had stayed with me. Your life would not be barren of family and friends."

Sheridan said nothing again. Olympia reached up and took his hand. For a long, long moment he didn't react, and then his fist tightened firmly around hers. He spoke—paused, and spoke again.

"I have what God has seen fit to give me," came the girl's whispered interpretation. "I am more fortunate than I deserve."

Mahmoud's dark eyes rested on them. "You are modest, but that is good; it is God's grace in you. I have recently been told of your deeds with the English." He tilted his head quizzically as the Greek girl quoted him to Olympia. "You were a favorite with me, always. I searched for you many years, do you know that? I sent out pursuit. But no one knew the name the English call you, and I had no word of the man who wore my crescent."

The girl sucked in a dismayed breath at Sheridan's answer, making Olympia listen anxiously to the quiet translation.

"With respect," the gift interpreted him, "I did not wish you to have word."

Mahmoud sat still, his hands on his knees. Only his eyes moved, flicking toward Sheridan and away and back again, almost shyly. "Do you remember the day I found you?" the girl translated his murmur. "The first day I ever dared venture outside the palace, I found you hiding from your owner and the dogs in the Street of Nail. Do you remember how I felt compassion when I saw how you had been beaten, and put off my disguise, and ordered him to give you up to me?"

Sheridan bent his head in silent assent.

"And I do not forget," the girl whispered as Mahmoud spoke. "I do not forget how the crowd in the street gathered when they recognized their prince, and howled and pushed, and I was stupid with fear of them—and you were clever and calm and showed me the way to safety. That was the first time. Many times after that we went outside together in secret masquerade. Outside The Cage. And then when the upstart's dogs—may they burn for eternity—came for Selim and I, you showed me safety again. I have not forgotten. We are the same, you and I. We like to roam outside the walls."

"We are not the same," came Sheridan's answer. "Mahmoud—the walls belong to you."

The Sultan sat silent for a moment. Then he looked at Olympia and spoke suddenly.

"He asks—do you enjoy this palace at Beykoz?" the girl murmured to her.

"Oh, yes. It's magnificent," she said, relieved to go on to a neutral subject. "Truly superb."

His dark eyes slid to Sheridan, rested on him intently. "I will give it to you."

Sheridan's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on hers. Before he could answer, Mahmoud spoke again.

"The Grand Admiral of the Fleet must have a worthy residence. The Chief Eunuch will see that it is staffed properly, and a household purse dispensed with regularity. It is a post of many gifts, my friend. You will prosper. The capitan pashas will be diligent in pursuing their favor with you."

"You would do better to have them diligent in pursuit of the enemy's ships." The girl's murmured translation was serious, but Olympia caught the slight curl at the edge of Sheridan's mouth. "If it is a navy you desire."

Mahmoud gave his quick, white grin, unoffended. "That is your task."

Sheridan lifted his chin. He said something—soft and even.

The smile faded from the Sultan's face, and the Greek girl moistened her lips without translating. Olympia glanced toward her, and in a barely audible voice, she muttered breathlessly, "No, he says; no, it is not his task. Oh, madam—he says his loyalty is to you, madam."