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  Derek shook his head, sighing. "It's a nasty business, Jamil, all of it. I might prefer a little more active part in putting an end to it, but if you think my taking your place for a while will be better, then I suppose I can give it a try."

  "You will actually do it?"

  "Didn't I just say so?"

  "You're sure, Kasim? I really have no right to ask-"

  "Christ, don't start that again," Derek said quickly. "And besides, I was asked by my government, unofficially, of course, to do whatever I can to eliminate the threat against you. With the risk of giving you the upper hand in your future dealings with England, I must admit they sort of prefer you to anyone else who might succeed you. And I suppose my taking your place, and thereby taking the threat away from you, will do pretty much what I was requested to do."

  "It is annoying that these foreign consuls know so much of what goes on inside these walls and report it to their respective governments."

  "They don't know nearly as much as they'd like to, Jamil. But tell me, am I going to have to grow one of those, or are you going to shave yours?" Derek asked, reaching over to tug on Jamil's luxuriant beard.

  Jamil sighed. "I suppose it was too much to hope that you would have worn a beard yourself. There will not be time for you to grow one to my length. Allah help me, it is almost too much to sacrifice—"

  Derek burst out laughing at Jamil's expression. "Come now, you can see for yourself how you'll look without it," he said, rubbing his own clean-shaven chin. "I get no complaints from the ladies."

  "Yes, it does make you appear younger than I," Jamil replied thoughtfully.

  "And I almost have to fight the women off."

  "Braggart." Jamil chuckled. "You cannot possibly have the same problems that I have with forty-seven concubines."

  "Is that all?" Derek prodded teasingly. "Mustafa must have had at least two hundred before he died."

  "Mustafa did not care how many languished in neglect."

  A dark brow shot up curiously. "You surprise me, Jamil. That possibly would be a concern of mine after nineteen years among the English—but you?"

  "Perhaps we are not so different after all, even with such a long separation."

  "Perhaps," Derek agreed, grinning. "Speaking of your women, what will they think when you don't summon them for so long?"

  Jamil lowered his eyes before answering, his tone subdued. "But they will be summoned—by you. You must do everything that I would ordinarily do for this to work."

  Derek was not so insensitive that he didn't hear the pain in those words. "Don't be absurd!"

  Jamil's eyes jerked up in surprise at the vehemence of that response. He had not expected this to be an objection. He objected. With every fiber of his being, he objected, for if he was anything, he was a possessive man. He might bemoan the fact that he had more women than he could possibly need or want, but they were his women. It was the hardest thing he would ever do, to open his harem to another man, with pride demanding that it be without exception. Were it any other man, he couldn't do it. But this was Kasim, his other self. There was no one he felt closer to, even after nineteen years' separation making them almost strangers to each other.

  "It is the only way," Jamil said now with enough force to conceal his own reluctance. "Omar made me see this, and I agree. The eunuchs of the harem cannot be confined. They come and go at will, and you know as well as I that some of them gossip worse than women. And the fact is that I have never ignored my women for more than two or three days at a time. Even when I travel, I take my favorites with me. So if it becomes known that I am suddenly neglecting my harem, it will naturally be wondered why. Consequently, I would be watched more closely. The slightest error on my part, on your part, would take on new meaning. Someone might remember that I had a twin who died mysteriously, whose body was never seen by anyone. Do you see now why you must take on my habits as if they were your own, all of them? You must even assume my frustration, and frankly, I have been very difficult lately, which is why anger will be your easiest defense in any situation that arises, for my temper has become the expected, rather than the unusual."

  "I suppose I don't have a choice," Derek said, though he was frowning now, "if your freedom of movement is not to be jeopardized."

  "Exactly. Neither of us has a choice, if you still agree to do it."

  "Is that what you really want, Jamil?"

  "I can see no other way."

  "I could go after Selim."

  "Yes, but you do not know him as I do, Kasim. It would take you twice as long to find him, and I could be dead by then. Besides," Jamil added with a wry grin, "I will go mad if I cannot get away from here, now that your presence offers me the chance. I don't think I can even bear the time it will take to familiarize you with my habits."

  "You'll have to try, brother mine," Derek rejoined. "I'd rather not walk into this thing blind, if it's all the same to you."

  Jamil chuckled at that very placid, dry English tone. He would indeed have to try.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jeanne Mauriac glanced curiously around the large room into which she had just been escorted. Pallets lined the floor, most occupied by women with nothing better to do than lie about, counting the passing minutes of each hour even though it was only the middle of the afternoon. Boredom, apathy, fear—she saw it all, but it was nothing new to her. She had gone this route before, three times before, sold and sold again. The only thing surprising to her was the cleanliness of Hamid Sharifs bagnio, the building where slaves were confined together before they were sold. Most bagnios in which slaves already sold were kept as a work force to be hired out, were as filthy as pigsties. But here even a fountain bubbled in the center of the room, and the fretted windows along two walls let in sun and fresh air for what would have made a very nice atmosphere—if it weren't for the boredom, apathy, and fear.

  Jeanne found an empty pallet and began to take note of the women. They were her competition, and it was a matter of competing, at least for her. She knew from experience that the best home to go to was a rich home, and the richer buyers bid only on the prettier women. Happily, she saw there weren't that many women in the room, and none appeared really exceptional except for a black beauty who reeked hostility and was, in fact, chained to the wall. If she was as hostile as she looked, it was doubtful she would be put on the block, but would be sold privately.

  Jeanne expected to go on the block. She had done so before, and it was an experience she didn't find quite as humiliating as the other women did; she was proud of her attributes, and having the dark gold hair and blue eyes that were so prized here didn't hurt. She knew that with the right posture and a few sensual looks, she could fire the lust of the bidders and thereby raise her price. She also knew from experience that the more her new owner was forced to pay for her, the more fortunate he would feel in having attained her, and the better she would be treated in his household.

  A flash of silver caught her eye and she glanced across the room to a woman she had previously dismissed as being too old, with hair like silver moonbeams. But now that her head was raised, Jeanne gasped, for it was a girl, a very young girl, an incredibly beautiful young girl. Resentment started to rise, then quickly ebbed away as Jeanne realized that this one, like the magnificent black one, wouldn't be put on the block. Beauties such as these were usually always sold by private auction. She wouldn't have to compete against them.

  Jeanne stared at this girl, unable to help herself. She was pale, and growing paler by the second. From this distance her large eyes seemed like two black coals against such white skin. They were rounded wide, staring out the window in what was unmistakable horror.

  Jeanne followed the direction of the girl's eyes and made a sound of disgust in the back of her throat. In the large, enclosed court outside the room, a public auction was taking place. Jeanne had seen it earlier but had paid it no mind. She had been told she wouldn't be sold until later in the week. Slaves were never sold the first day of thei
r arrival, usually because they arrived in such poor condition they were virtually worthless. That was not the case with Jeanne, but rules were rules.

  Jeanne had also been told that twice weekly Hamid Sharif opened his gates to the city for these public auctions, often selling between twenty and thirty souls at a time, more if he happened to be overcrowded with new arrivals. This was undoubtedly why there were so few women left in the women's quarters now. Those to be sold had already been taken out to await their turn on the block.

  And it was a block, a tall, square platform in the center of the court that allowed the crowd below to have an excellent view of the merchandise. Slaves came cheap, because there was such an abundance of them. Even a poor man could conceivably save enough to buy a slave or two to make his life easier. A young woman could go for as little as seventy piasters, a strapping man for only slightly more. Eunuchs fetched the most, upward of two hundred piasters, because they were so much in demand and because the Muslims would not castrate a man themselves, castration being forbidden by their religion. The use of eunuchs in a man's harem was not even a Turkish custom, the idea having come from the Byzantines, who had previously ruled Istanbul when the city was still known as Constantinople.

  The cheap slaves were those who would be put to manual labor. A woman of fetching beauty was quite a different matter. She would be bought as a concubine and for no other reason, and her price would be determined by how badly a man desired to own her. Jeanne had been sold for five hundred piasters her first time, when she had still been a virgin. But prices had been known to go much higher than that for rare beauties.

  She wondered if the silver-haired blonde knew that. Chances were she hadn't been told she wouldn't have to go up on that block, and that was why she was so appalled by what she was witnessing now. A woman and a young child, likely related, were being turned about so the crowd could view them from different angles. Both had been stripped of their clothes; both were crying pitifully. Jeanne wondered if it was better to know exactly what would happen to you by being able to see the auctions firsthand, as these women could, or to be kept away from the slave block and not know in advance what you would have to endure.

  She made up her mind and crossed the room, sitting down next to the girl on her pallet. "You won't have to go through that," Jeanne said gently.

  "I know," was the anguished reply in Jeanne's own language, though with a slight accent.

  "Then why do you look so horrified?"

  "It's so degrading, so utterly humiliating. It shouldn't be allowed. It's barbaric and—"

  "You're in for a lot of heartache if you go on taking everyone else's misery to yourself, petite. You're here. That won't change. And the only way you can get though this is to worry about no one but yourself.''

  The girl finally looked at her, and Jeanne saw that the eyes weren't black at all, but a dark, glistening violet. "You're not afraid?"

  Jeanne almost smiled, but shrugged instead. "I am an old hand at this. It's been nine years since I was first captured and sold in Algiers. I was known as Jeanne Mauriac then, though I've been given other names since. They always change your name, Lord

  knows why, but to myself, I've kept the name I was born with. And you?"

  "Chantelle Burke."

  ''English or American?'' When Chantelle hesitated in answering, Jeanne chuckled. "So you must be English. But don't worry, petite. I may be French and our countries may be at war, but we will leave the fighting to the men, yes?"

  Chantelle smiled slightly in answer. "How is it you're here if you've already been sold?"

  "Ah, a long story that, but then I've time to tell it. My first owner was so infatuated with me that he married me when he didn't have to. Ah, I had it so easy then, my every wish granted, silks and jewels laid at my feet. Unfortunately, he had a first wife who despised me, and when he died, she had me sold into a brothel. Don't look so shocked, petite. " Jeanne grinned. "I was having none of that. My very first night there, I set fire to the house and escaped. And I almost made it to the French consulate, too, when who should I run straight into but that very son-of-a-dog who first captured me."

  "You were taken prisoner again?"

  Jeanne nodded with a look of disgust. "And taken right back to the same filthy bagnio that I was first sold from. This time I was bought by a merchant from Istanbul and I spent the next two years in his large harem, completely ignored. Ah, that was nice, too, for a change, to not have to compete with all the other women for the master's notice. He was old, so I didn't particularly want to be noticed. The trouble was, I didn't earn any gifts that way, and so when he died and I was set free, I didn't have the money to buy my passage home."

  "You were actually set free at his death?" Chantelle asked in amazement.

  "You didn't realize that was possible?"

  "No, Hakeem failed to mention that," Chantelle replied with a frown, and at Jeanne's raised brow, added, "He was the one to instruct me on the voyage here, the only one of the corsairs who spoke English. He taught me some of the language, and what to expect."

  "Ah, so that is how you knew you wouldn't have to go on the block."

  "Yes, but there will still be an auction," Chantelle said miserably. "Hamid Sharif put the word out as soon as I arrived."

  "The auction will be private, attended only by those who can afford you, and that will not be so many, petite. You will not have to face the hundreds of spectators who just come to watch." At a visible shudder from Chantelle, Jeanne added, "Truly, it will not be so bad, and certainly not like what you see out there in the yard. You will probably not be stripped at all, for these men, serious buyers indeed, will each hope to be the one who will own you, and they will not want you viewed by the others. Do you know when it is to take place?"

  "In two more days."

  "Then you've been here for some time now? Yes," Jeanne answered her own question. "Sharif would want to allow time for buyers to come from as far away as Algiers and Tunis. And knowing what a prize he has, he has no doubt set a high starting bid. I'm surprised he didn't offer you to the Dey here."

  "He did," Chantelle replied. "But Rashid or Reshid, whatever his name is, didn't want me."

  "No? Ah, that is too bad." Jeanne sighed. "I've heard he is young."

  "So much the better, then, that he didn't want me, if I can be set free if the man who buys me dies. I'd prefer an old man, of course."

  "No, no, petite, never say so. You don't want your first time with a man to be with an old goat who doesn't care if he pleases you. And this will be your first time, yes?" A slow blush creeping up Chantelle's cheeks was answer enough. "Besides, you do not always find yourself free when your master dies. Look what happened with my first husband. And I have not even told you about my second yet."

  "You married again?"

  "There was not much else I could do when I found myself stranded in Istanbul. But at least I did the picking that time, though without a dowry there was not too much for me to pick from. I became third wife to one of the minor officials at the Sultan's court. He was an older man, too, but handsome at least, and still quite vigorous in . . . anyway, I was competing again to remain in his favor, and so earned myself enough money for a dowry, or passage home, if something should happen to him, and it did. He somehow displeased the Sultan and ended up losing his head."

  "You're joking!"

  "Not at all. Generally when such happens, the Sultan takes possession of all the condemned man's property, but my husband's oldest son happened to be favored at court, so this didn't happen."

  "But you weren't property this time."

  "That is a moot point here. I was part of the harem, of which all but two wives were slaves."

  "Then you were set free again?"

  Jeanne made a sound of disgust. "This time I had too much accumulated wealth, and my lord's son was a greedy little bastard. He confiscated everything we women possessed and sold us all, except for his mother. I was bought by a slave trader out of Tripoli. En ro
ute, we encountered an American frigate that the raw thought he could take. He was wrong."

  "You were rescued?" Chantelle gasped.

  "Yes, but enjoyed freedom for no more than a week. Late one night we were surprised by one of Hamid Sharifs ships, and so here I am, starting all over again."

  "I'm sorry," Chantelle said. "It must have been terrible, to find yourself so close to freedom."

  Jeanne shrugged. "It is all the same to me. I have no one in France to return to. If I stay here the rest of my life . . ." She shrugged again. "It is not so bad, petite, once you get used to it."