NINETEEN
"The Sultan, Your Highness," a maid announced.
Maram dropped her embroidery and rose to her feet. "Father. What an unexpected surprise."
He smiled. "I have something that will surprise even you, I think, for I find it so unbelievable I must show you to be certain I have not imagined it all." He pulled off his jewelled turban and scratched his head, a sure sign that this was no official visit.
Maram ordered refreshments and settled her father in the place of honour before taking her place across from him. "I feel like a child, waiting for a bedtime story," she admitted. "Will you tell your tale, Father?"
He sipped from his cup, then set it down. "I hardly know where to begin. After you left this morning, I held my usual audience. The petitions were so dull I found myself falling into a doze. If it weren't for Ali at my side, I suspect I might have snored. But he is a loyal vizier who would never let me do such a thing. An hour ago, I decided I wanted to retire, and opened my mouth to say so. Yet as I raised my eyes, they met the gaze of a woman who refused to look away. I fancied those dark eyes seemed to accuse me of something, though I knew not what. Instead of signalling an end to the audience, I told Ali I would see one last petitioner – her.
"When the guards brought her forward, at first, I thought they were mistaken. She threw herself face down before the dais, barely daring to say a word for some time. Long enough for me to see she wore mourning black, but both her veil and gown were so well-worn it had faded to grey. Cheap stuff, too, like she was one of the poorest in the city. What could one such as her wish to accuse me of? Curiosity baited me, so I commanded her to speak."
Father drained his cup and indicated he wanted it refilled.
"She raised herself onto her knees, and I found myself staring into those same eyes, but perhaps I had imagined the accusation I thought I'd seen before. Instead, now she seemed resigned. She laid a bundle at my feet and begged me to accept her son's gift."
Father waved a servant forward. The gift, if indeed that was what she carried, filled her arms, and she seemed relieved to set it down beside Maram.
"Is this it?" Maram asked, her hand hovering over the coarse cloth wrapping the item.
Father nodded.
Maram twitched back a corner of the cloth, then gasped in surprise. She peeled away the wrappings until she had revealed the whole thing, though she didn't dare touch it. To touch it would be to spoil its magnificence.
The jewelled thing looked like a blackberry bush from the cold climates far to the north, with ripe fruit begging to be picked and flowers promising more for tomorrow. And so lifelike – whoever had crafted this knew the real thing. Why, she could almost taste the delicious sweetness on her tongue, a delight she had not known for far too long. She reached out to touch a berry, the reassuringly cold jewel reminding her that this cunning creation was not real.
"Who made this?"
"I do not know, for she did not say. All she said was that it was a gift from her son."
Maram's eyes met her father's. "Who is her son, who can afford to part with such a priceless gift? And why does his mother wear cheap widow's weeds when he has the coin for such magnificence?"
"I will find out on the morrow, for I have invited the man to a private audience with me."
Maram blew out her breath in a rush. Disappointment clouded her face. "Is that all you have to tell me?"
Father laughed. "Indeed it is. Like the audiences of the legendary storytellers of old, you must wait another day to find out what happens next." He rose to depart.
"Wait, Father, you forgot your shrub." She cradled the treasure in her arms, and offered it up to him.
He smiled. "You keep it. I see in your eyes you appreciate its beauty truly, like your mother would have. Consider it a wedding gift, for something tells me it should be."
He left, but Maram scarcely noticed, so busy was she in examining her new work of art. For that's what it was. A precious thing – why would anyone part with it, unless they needed to sell it to live?
What kind of man gave such a gift?
She wished she'd thought to ask her father to be present at tomorrow's audience, so that she might see the man for herself. But Father would have asked her to be there if he'd wanted her presence. He valued her opinion, and if he meant to keep this man at his court, she would meet him soon enough.
And when she did, Maram resolved to ask him who his jeweller was, so that she might give the jeweller's name to Hasan and insist he create a garden of such things in her palace. One such shrub would bankrupt him for sure.
Best not to have Hasan assassinated yet, then. First he had to build her a ruinously expensive palace. With emphasis on the ruin.