Free The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire by Linda Lafferty Page A

heads across their folded arms, their long hair spread over them like a shawl.
    The Princess stared past the flickering candles to the windows that opened onto the Bosphorus.
    She could hear some incomprehensible sound, like the howl of a dog, but more human in pitch. A howl of pain, terror. As it came closer, growing louder, she watched the girls to see if they woke. Neither stirred, even as wind from the Sea of Marmara filled the open window, billowing the muslin upward towards the high ceiling.
    The Princess knew she could scream. Her screams would shatter the silence and bring legions of sentries, eunuchs, and harem girls to her side in seconds. There were guards just outside her window; wouldn’t they have heard the hideous cry from the waters below?
    Esma Sultan did not—would not—scream. In her veins ran Ottoman blood, shrewd and cold as it was noble. Her mother had taught her always to be in command, never to let her inferiors see weakness.
    You must rid yourself of weakness, daughter. Even the subtlest whiff of doubt will send your enemies an invitation. And the handmaidens, slaves, and sentries who surround you will spread the word if they suspect hesitation or cowardice. An Ottoman is strong. Or strangled.
    Esma knew now that the stench that gagged her was not detectable by anyone else in the court. The doctor had all but declared it was imaginary, a creation of her fancy. She had seen the two harem girls exchange looks, and then drop their gaze to the floor.
    Fantasy. Weakness.
    So they might consider these sounds to be the same. She would not permit that to happen.
    The doctor had asked her of her troubles. What kind of doctor asks a sick patient of her thoughts? The doctor’s job was to cure her, not question her. She had no one to answer to but Allah himself—she was an Ottoman. Her nostrils flared in contempt at his boldness.
    The strange sound over the Bosphorus grew in volume and clarity, not so much a howl now as a wail.
    And now she knew that sound.
    It was a drowning man’s last gasps, cursing as his fingernails clawed at the coarse hemp bag in the depths of the Bosphorus. In the candlelight, she could see a drowned man’s eyes staring cold and glassy through the billowing fold in the curtain.
    Esma Sultan fought the scream that climbed to her throat.
    I will not show weakness,
she told herself
. I cannot—
    The entire palace was awakened by her wail, pitiful and violent, helpless in its terror.
    “What is it, Your Highness?” shouted the head guard, racing into the chamber, flanked by two other sentries.
    “Bring the Topkapi doctor at once!” cried the Sultaness. She covered and uncovered her mouth, touched her throat and gagged.
    Nazip brought her rosewater in a golden cup, her hand trembling, splashing big drops on the bed linen.
    “I want him here at my bedside before this hour is over, do you hear me?”
    “Your Sultaness, he shall be here immediately,” promised the guard. “I shall send our fastest runner to the Gates of Bliss.”
    “Send for Ahmed Kadir,” commanded the Turk, over his shoulder. “While I am attending the Princess, we must have all sentries and reinforcements posted outside this door.”
    A fast-running boy was sent to the fort to fetch the janissary. As he raced to the gate of the barracks, a sentry called from the wall, “Ho! Who goes there?”
    “I’ve come from the palace of Esma Sultan to bring the giant Ahmed Kadir,”gasped the runner. “If you will tell me where to find him, I’ll wake him. He must come with me at once!”
    “You do not know his nightmares or you would not dare to wake him,” said the gate guard. He motioned to another guard to take his position. “I’ll fetch him myself. Allah be with me!”
    The guard entered the barrack, a lantern held high. Among the many sleeping men, one shadowed figure loomed huge, contorted with fitful sleep. The great body shifted restlessly, the mouth agape, dry lips moving in agitation, mumbling in