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first.
    The Khatun Sultana was the Sultans mother. The Crown of Veiled Heads. Everyone knew that she was the most powerful woman in the harem. Far more powerful than Shahrazad. Far more powerful than any of the Sultan’s wives had ever been—even before he began killing them.
    As the saying goes, a man may have many wives, but only one mother.
    Another thing I knew about her—she had had three sons. The eldest had been poisoned—killed—by one of the Khatuns jealous co-wives. And I had also heard that the Khatun’s third son—this Sultans younger brother and the ruler of Samarkand—was killing wives every night as well, because his first wife had betrayed
him.
But he had no Shahrazad.
    I tried to think what else I’d heard about the Khatun. But it was hard. People didn’t talk about her.
    I had never, until this moment, found that strange.
    *  *  *  
    Her chamber was dim and cavernous. It smelled of something rotten, sickly sweet. Trying to hide my limp, I followed the beak-nosed woman across dark carpets toward a seated figure in the glow of lamplight ahead. I saw movement in the shadows on either side and made out the shapes of two slave girls wielding long ostrich feather fans. When we drew near, the beak-nosed woman knelt and kissed the floor; I did the same, just behind her.
    â€œRise.” The voice was rough, hoarse, commanding.
    The beak-nosed woman stood, moved to one side, and then I could see her clearly.
    The Khatun.
    She was hugely fat. She seemed to spill over the edges of the massive cushion she was sitting on. Her neck fell in folds over her pearls and I could see the shapes of billowing mounds of flesh beneath her robes. Though her face was bloated, misshapen, it held traces of lost beauty—an arch of brow, a curve of lip. Between pouches of soft, fleshy skin, her dark eyes gleamed.
    As she reached with a swollen, beringed hand to motion me near, I heard a tinkling sound. Her gown, Isaw, was stitched over from bodice to hem with gems: rubies, pearls, emeralds, diamonds—a staggering display of wealth.
    She looked me up and down for what seemed like a very long time. Then, “So,” she said in that hoarse voice. “So
this
is the one they told me about—Shahrazad’s cripple.”
    I recoiled as if I had been slapped. Behind her, I heard a stifled giggle. I peered into the darkness and saw a young woman standing there—a beautiful woman with pale skin and coppery hair.
    â€œPrecisely what are you to Shahrazad,” the Khatun asked, “that she would ask my son to buy you for her?”
    That smell, borne on the breeze of the ostrich feather fans, filled my nose—the sweet smell of decay. Smoke rose from incense burners all around, but nothing could mask the stench. I closed off my nostrils from inside—breathed through my mouth—but the revulsion crawled down my throat.
    â€œI. . . don’t know, my lady,” I said.
    I didn’t want to tell her. I didn’t know quite why; my mind was moving slowly, like wading through a pool of deep water. But I didn’t want to tell.
    The Khatun held my gaze. For a long time, no one spoke. I was tempted to say something—to babble—to fill the disturbing silence, but I remembered again what Auntie Chava had said:
Chew your words before you let them out.
    â€œBut you must have some ideas on the subject,” the Khatun said at last. “The first day you ever came here was yesterday and now—today—you are summoned here to live. Surely you must have
some
thoughts as to why.”
    I swallowed. Hadn’t Shahrazad told her about the mermaid story? Would it be . . .
dangerous
for her to know? I felt as if I were blindfolded, groping my way through a maze full of hidden traps.
    â€œI . . . I was listening to her as she rehearsed her tale for the night,” I said carefully. “And one time, when she said that a thing had