beneath a great turban of whitest muslin, wrapped around the conical red hat of his office; so Yashim was unable to gauge his expression. But he saw how the other eunuchs lowered their eyes to the ground, as if they didn’t quite dare to look him fully in the face. Yashim knew that face, wrinkled like an ape: the bloodshot eyes, the fat, blubbery cheeks, it was a face that carried the stamp of vice, and wore its vice with an air of blank unconcern.
The eunuchs had now formed two wedges, leaving the Kislar Agha standing alone between them, facing the valide across the court. He didn’t raise his hands: he didn’t need to. Nobody stirred.
“The Hour has come.”
He spoke slowly in his high, cracking voice.
“We, who are the sultan’s slaves, proclaim the hour.”
“We, who are the sultan’s slaves, assemble for his protection.”
“We, who kneel beside the throne, uphold the sacrament of power.”
“We will speak with your son, our lord and master, the Shah-in-Shah!”
The chief eunuch’s voice rose as he cried out: “The hour has come!”
And a wavering cry rose from the ranks of the eunuchs: “The Hour! The Hour!”
The Valide Sultan never moved, except to tap one dainty foot on the stone step.
The chief eunuch raised his arms, his fingers curled like talons.
“The banner must be unfurled. The wrath of God and the people has to be appeased. He shall draw back from the abyss of unbelief, and wield the Sword of Osman in defence of the faith! It is the Path.
“It is written that the knowing shall approach, and become one with the Core. Caliph and sultan, Lord of the Horizons, this is his destiny. The people have risen, the altars are prepared. It is God who has awoken us, at the eleventh hour, the Hour of Restoration!
“Produce him!” He bellowed, in a terrible voice. He curled his fingers into loose fists and let them sink to his sides. His voice sank to a hoarse whisper. “Reveal the Core.”
Like Yashim, the Valide Sultan seemed to find the chief’s performance somewhat hammy. She turned her head to murmur something to an attendant, and Yashim saw her perfect profile, still clear and beautiful, and recognised the lazy look in her eyes as she turned back and focused on the chief eunuch. Lazy meant danger. He wondered if the Kislar Agha knew.
“Kislar,” she said, in a voice that rang with amused contempt. “Some of our ladies present are not at all well dressed. The night, I may point out, is chill. As for you, you are not suitably attired.”
She raised her chin slightly, as if inspecting him. The eunuch’s eyes narrowed in fury.
“No, kislar, your turban seems to be in order. But you do seem to be wearing
Good work, Yashim thought, bunching his fist. The valide certainly knew how to use information.
The chief eunuch’s nostrils flared, but he looked down quickly. Whether that movement—made, as it were, under the influence of a woman more powerful than him—put him off his stroke, or whether it was the sheer unexpectedness of the valide’s remarks, Yashim could not guess. But he opened his mouth and shut it again, as if he had a speech he couldn’t make.
The valide’s voice was like drawn silk.
“And you murdered for them, too, didn’t you, kislar?”
The eunuch raised a forefinger and pointed it at the valide. Yashim saw that he was trembling.
“They are—for my power!” he screeched. He was improvising now, drawn into an argument he didn’t mean to have, and couldn’t win. His power was lessening with every word he spoke.
Out of the corner of his eye, Yashim saw a white shape stirring close to the wall. A girlish figure sprang forwards, like a cat, and began to run towards the eunuch.
The eunuch didn’t see her immediately: she was blocked by his outstretched arm.
