Yashim nodded slowly. This is a man, he thought, who feels easy with power. He glanced again at the master’s hands. The massive fingers were loosely curled.
“You could say that.” More briskly he added: “When did you last come in here?”
The soup master drew breath through his nose, and as he exhaled Yashim wondered what he was considering: the answer to the question? Or whether to answer the question?
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “About a month ago. Maybe more. Nothing was missing.”
“No. Who guards the place at night?”
In Istanbul it was always people who mattered. Who you knew. The balance of favours.
The soup master’s breath was rapid.
“How is the guild house guarded after hours?”
“We employ guards. I myself sleep overhead.”
“How many guards?”
“Oh, two, maybe three.”
Yashim’s face remained expressionless.
“They have keys?”
“I told you, I sleep with the keys. They have the key to the main gate, of course—I give it to them at night and collect it back first thing in the morning.”
“May I see it?”
The master fished up the loop and ran his fingers through a bunch of keys. Finding the right one, he showed it to Yashim, who raised his eyebrows. It was another of the old-fashioned sort, something like a big comb of wood, with pegs of varying length for teeth.
“You say two or three guards. Do you mean two? Or do you mean three? Which?”
“Well, I—” the master broke off. “It depends.”
“On what? The weather? Their mood? What I see here is a place that runs by the book, yes? No deviation from routine, no innovation, no coriander in the soup. Right?”
The master lifted his chin.
“But when we come to the regulation of the night watch, you don’t know how many guards are employed. Two
The master of the soup-makers’ guild lowered his head for a second. He seemed to be thinking.
“It’s like this,” he said slowly. “There are always enough guards. Sometimes it’s two, sometimes three, just as I said. They aren’t always the same men, night after night, but I know the bunch. I trust them, always have. We go back a long way.”
Yashim noticed something imploring in the man’s tone. He caught his eye.
“They’re Albanians, aren’t they?”
The master blinked. He looked steadily at Yashim. “Yes. What of it?”
Yashim made no answer. He reached out and took the master’s hand in his, and with the other he gripped the man’s sleeve and rolled it back. The master jerked away with an oath.
But Yashim had already seen what he had expected. A small, blue tattoo. He had not been quick enough to recognise the actual symbol, but there was only one reason why a man would carry a tattoo on his forearm.
“We can talk,” he suggested.
The master compressed his lips and closed his eyes.
