Cybele's Secret Read Online Free Page A

“You are the merchant seeking a personal guard?” he asked in fluent Greek.
    I grinned. I couldn’t help myself. If it had been up to me to interview further applicants, I would have hired this giant on the strength of that question alone.
    “You laugh?” the large young man said.
    “Not at you. My father is the merchant. I am his assistant.” I glanced over my shoulder. There was still no sign of Father, and the men down in the courtyard were starting to look restless. It was against the rules of social etiquette for me to conduct an interview alone with a young man, even if, as his behavior suggested, this one was not a Muslim. Should I ask him to go back down and wait, or make a start and save Father time and effort? I was here to help, after all, to prove my worth. I gathered my composure and arranged my features into a severely capable expression. “Your name?”
    “I am called Stoyan,
kyria.”
He used the polite form of address for a lady. “A Bulgar.”
    “My name is Paula. My father is Master Teodor of Braov.” This was the name my father used in his official dealings; the merchant town of Braov was his birthplace and mine. “We come from Transylvania. Is it too much to hope you speak Turkish as well?”
    “My previous employer was the merchant Salem bin Afazi, kyria. My Turkish is not that of an educated man, but I speak and understand the language adequately. I am twenty years of age and in good health. I am very familiar with the city and well trained in the skills required for a bodyguard.”
    Salem bin Afazi; that was an odd coincidence. I could hardly say what sprang first to my mind: that Stoyan did not seem to have done a very good job of guarding his last employer. I hesitated. Only twenty. He looked older. Stoyan remained kneeling in front of me, his eyes fixed on the floor of the gallery. He offered nothing further. I willed Father to return, but he remained invisible along the gallery. In the end, I decided to come right out with it. “Salem bin Afazi was a friend of my father’s,” I said. “We were shocked to hear of his death. What happened?”
    Stoyan addressed himself to my feet. His voice had shrunk to a murmur. “He gave me three days’ leave. I traveled away from the city. When I returned, he was dead.”
    This was uncomfortable. “Look at me,” I said.
    Stoyan looked up. His eyes were desolate. “If I could have that time back, Kyria Paula, believe me, I would not move a finger’s breadth from my master’s side. I would defend him with the last breath in my body. But I cannot. I was not there. He died.”
    “Why have you come?” I asked him, fighting back an urge to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder, then offer him the job immediately. I was supposed to be Father’s assistant; I must behave in keeping with that. “You must realize that what you’ve told me hardly inspires confidence in your abilities as a bodyguard. And we have other suitable applicants.”
    Stoyan rose to his full, towering height. “Of course,” he said quietly. “Forgive me.” Before I had time to start framing a reply, he was at the bottom of the steps.
    “Curse it,” I muttered as at last Father came along the gallery to join me in gazing down to the courtyard. At the rate this young man was able to travel, there would be no calling him back. “Why did I say that?”
    As I spoke, the Bulgar paused for the briefest moment to glance back over his shoulder, straight up toward where I was leaning on the rail. The piercing yellow eyes met mine. Shouting would be unseemly. I framed one word with my lips, making it quite clear:
Wait.
    I had thought Stoyan might march right on out the gate, but he moved to stand by the fountain, brawny arms folded. One look at him would be enough to scare off a small army of assailants; surely I’d be safe with him. I looked at Father, and he looked back with a question in his eyes.
    “That one,” I said.
    Father smiled. “He’s certainly the