Palewski blinked. He looked at Yashim, and back at the body on the floor. He realised that the man was breathing hard.
“Perhaps what you need,” he said quietly, fumbling at his waist, “is this.”
He held out a long cord, made of twisted silk and gold thread.
“It went with my dressing gown. My Sarmatian finery, I should say.”
Together they bound the man’s wrists tightly behind his back. Yashim undid the sheet and wrapped it round his legs: the man was so docile that Palewski found it hard to credit what Yashim was saying.
“A wrestler?” Then he silently mouthed the word: “Janissary?”
“Don’t worry, he can’t hear, poor bastard. No, not a Janissary. It’s odder than that. Worse than I thought. Look, I have to reach the palace immediately. I don’t know what I could have done with this fellow if you hadn’t come. Will you stay? Keep an eye on him? Prick him if he tries to move.”
Palewski was staring at him in horror.
“For God’s sake, Yash. Can’t we get him to the night watch?”
“There isn’t time. Give me an hour. There’s bread and olives. You can leave him here after that. If he gets free, so be it -though you could try knocking him on the head with a saucepan before you go. For my sake.”
“All right, all right, I’ll stay,” Palewski grumbled. “But it’s not what I joined for, you know. One night, intimate conversation with the sultan. Next night, quiet evening with friends. Third night, silent vigil over murderous twenty- stone wrestling deaf mute. I think I’ll have a drink,” he added, sliding his valise closer.
But Yashim was hardly listening.
“It’s two I owe you,” he said over his shoulder, as he cleared the top flight of stairs in a single jump.
[ 117 ]
The Kara Davut was always busy on a Friday night. The shopkeepers and cafe owners set out lanterns above their doorways and after mosque families paraded up and down the street, stopping for a sherbet or an ice, queuing for hot street food and thronging the coffee shops. Children chased each other in and out of the crowds, shouting and laughing, only occasionally called to order by their indulgent parents. Young men gathered round cafe tables, those who could afford it sitting with a coffee, the others at their elbows chatting and trying to catch a glimpse of the local girls, decorously swathed in chador and yashmak, who walked accompanied by their parents, but all the time signalling with their gait and the movement of their heads and hands.
Yashim didn’t think he was imagining that the atmosphere tonight was different. The street was as full as ever, even more crowded than usual; but the children seemed quieter, as if they were playing on a shorter rein, and the knots of youths in the cafes seemed larger and more subdued than usual.
This impression of subdued expectation didn’t evaporate as Yashim hurried towards the palace. He had failed to find a chair, and guessed that the chair-men would contribute to the confusion approaching the city: if not ex- Janissaries, they were still a rough crew, the sort of men who went to swell a mob or serve the rabble if they scented an opportunity.
As he half-walked, half-jogged through the streets and alleys, he was surprised to meet no soldiers on the way, none of the little platoons the seraskier had forecast at every street corner. How soon would they secure the city?
He had an answer of a kind as he swept out of the maze of streets behind Aya Sofia and onto the open ground that lay between the mosque and the walls of the seraglio. A pair of uniformed guardsmen ran towards him, shouting: behind them he could see that the whole space was occupied by soldiers, some on horseback, several platoons in what looked like a drill formation, and others simply sitting quietly on the ground with their legs crossed, waiting for instructions. Beyond them he thought he could make out the silhouettes of mounted cannon and mortars.
This has the makings of a complete disaster, he thought fiercely—an opinion confirmed on the spot, as the two soldiers ran up to block his way.
“The way is closed! You must go back!”
They were holding their guns across their chests.
“I have urgent business at the palace,” Yashim snapped. “Let me through.”
“Sorry, mate. These are our orders. No one is to come through here.”
