Free SERAGLIO by Colin Falconer Page B

key creaked in the lock and the handle began to turn.
    God help me in my sorrow!
    The door swung open.
    There were five of them, all Nubians. The bostanji's assassins were eunuchs prepared for their unique assignments by further alterations to their physique; their eardrums had been pierced with needles and their tongues had been cut out. This way they could not succumb to the pleas of their victims or tell anyone what they had done.
    Ibrahim took out his dagger and staggered to the door that separated his room from the Sultan's. He hammered on it with his fists. 'My Lord!'
    The bostanji edged towards him.
    'My Lord! Suleiman! Please! Stop this!'
     
    ***
     
    Suleiman jerked awake. 'What was that?'
    Someone was hammering on the door. Ibrahim! Ibrahim needed his help!
    Hürrem covered his ears with her hands and cradled his head against her breasts. She started to sing, to drown out the shouts from the next room. Ibrahim is dying, he thought, and yet I am still awake.
    'While I yet live …'
    He heard a scream. I have broken my oath. I have murdered my friend.
     
    ***
     
    Each of the five bostanji held a silken bowstring, the ritual instrument of execution for those of high position or with royal blood. It was a silk bowstring that had dispatched Suleiman's own uncles, cousins and nephews.
    Ibrahim held the dagger in front of him and turned to face them.
    The first of them grinned and moved in, as if he had not even seen the knife, perhaps overconfident of his ability to evade it. As he lunged Ibrahim sidestepped him easily and the knife flashed up and out.
    The assassin stared at him in surprise. Blood spurted rhythmically from his neck and up the wall. He out his hands to his throat in a vain attempt to staunch the flow and fell to his knees.
    Ibrahim backed against the wall, as the other bostanji fanned out across the room, more wary now. Their comrade died, noisily.
    They signalled to each other with deft, almost imperceptible hand signals. He tensed, ready.
    When they moved again it was quickly and in unison; Ibrahim struck out in a broad arc in front of his body and leaped back. One of them moaned, a deep mournful sigh from deep within his chest. Blood poured from a gash in his arm.
    His assassins moved in again. Ibrahim slashed again, and one of them fell, but Ibrahim's shout of defiance was cut off as a bowstring closed around his throat. The other two went to grab him and he slashed again, and saw another of them reel back, clutching at his face.
    But then the other had hold of his arm and had twisted it behind him, trying to break his grip on the knife. The bowstring tightened around his throat.
    Most men clawed at the bowstring; it was instinctive, he had been told. Instead Ibrahim used his free hand to plunge two splayed fingers into the eyes of the second attacker. The man screamed his grip loosened just enough for him to twist his dagger arm free, the blade slicing through the man's hands and arms as he pulled it free.
    He turned it in his hand and stabbed behind him. He felt a rush of warmth on his back and the noose around his throat loosened. He stabbed twice more, but the second time the dagger was torn from his grip. It had jammed between the bostanji's ribs as he fell and it would not pull free.
    Another bowstring closed around his throat. His attacker was one he had already wounded; he could feel the blood dripping from the man's arm and down his neck. He tried to twist around but the assassin jerked backwards with the noose, pulling him off balance.
    He put his hands to his throat, and in that moment when his reflexes took over from his warrior's training he knew he was lost. He tried to slide his fingers under the bowstring, but it was drawn taut, biting deep into the flesh of his throat. His chest spasmed and he kicked out in panic, all reason gone. Bright flashes of light exploded in front of his eyes.
    He tried to scream Suleiman's name, but no sound came. He could no longer control his limbs. Black