The Janissary Tree

“The seraskier. Where is he?”

The nearest soldier looked uneasy.

“Couldn’t say. He’ll be busy anyways.”

The second soldier frowned.

“Who are you?”

Yashim saw his chance. He jabbed a finger.

“No. Who are you} I want your rank, and your number.” He didn’t know much about military organisation, but he hoped he sounded better than he felt. “The seraskier is going to be very unhappy if he gets to hear about this.”

The soldiers glanced at one another.

“Well, I don’t know,” one of them muttered.

“You know who I am,” Yashim asserted. He doubted that, very much, but there was an angry edge to his voice which wasn’t faked. “Yashim Togalu. The seraskier’s senior intelligence officer. My mission is urgent.”

The men shuffled their feet.

“Either you take me to the Imperial Gate right now, or I will speak to your commanding officer.”

One of the soldiers glanced round. The Imperial Gate loomed black and solid in the darkness only a hundred yards away. The corps commander—he might be anywhere.

“Go on, then,” said the soldier quickly, with a jerk of his head. Yashim walked past them.

After he’d gone, one of the men let out a sigh of relief. “At least we didn’t give our names,” he remarked.

[ 118 ]

Yashim felt the hairs prickling on the back of his neck as he picked his way among the soldiers waiting patiently on the ground. At any minute he expected to be challenged again, delayed again. A shout was all it would take.

There it came. One shout, and another. He saw the men around him turn their heads.

But they weren’t looking at him. Another shout: “Fire!”

Yashim swivelled, following the men’s gaze. Over their heads, beyond the silhouette of the great mosque, the sky had lightened like an early dawn. A dawn rising in the west. A dawn rising upwind of the city of Istanbul. As he watched, he saw the light go yellow and flicker.

For a few seconds he stood transfixed.

Around him the men strained uneasily, taking up their rifles, awaiting the order to rise.

Yashim broke into a run.

[ 119 ]

The flap in the lattice dropped open with a click as Preen and Mina reached the corridor at the foot of the stairs, but they sailed past it without a word, noses in the air. On the street they nudged each other and giggled.

For ten minutes they walked eastwards, looking for a chair to carry Preen, at least. Preen seemed to have recovered her poise on leaving the house, leaning only slightly on Mina’s arm, looking hungrily around as if she had been in bed for a month instead of a couple of days. A few men threw them curious glances, but finally she could bear it no longer.

“Where are the handsome soldiers, then?” she demanded.

Mina snorted.