The Janissary Tree

“1677—”

“One moment please.”

He popped the card face down on the open drawer, picked up the candle, and in a moment had vanished behind the stacks. Yashim stepped forward, picked up the card and read:

Janissary rolls; 7-3-8-114; digest:fig., 1825.

By command.

He put back the card, puzzled.

A minute later, as he and Ibou pored over a thick roll of yellowing parchment which smelt powerfully of sheepskin and on which, to his infinite lack of interest, various sums and comments were recorded relative to the Varna beyerlik for the year 1677, he popped the question.

“What does ‘By command’ mean, Ibou? The sultan?”

Ibou frowned.

“Have you been peeping?”

Yashim grinned. “It’s just a phrase I’ve heard, somewhere.”

“I see.” Ibou’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “Don’t touch the scroll, please. Well, it could mean the sultan. But it probably doesn’t. It certainly won’t mean, for instance, the Halberdiers of the Tresses, or the gardeners, or any of the cooks. Obviously we’d put them in, by their rank and place.”

“Then who?”

Ibou gestured slyly to the parchment roll. “Are you interested in this, or is it just an excuse to come and chat?”

“It’s just an excuse. Who?”

The archivist carefully rolled the parchment up. He tied it again with a length of purple ribbon and picked it up.

“Just let me set everything in order.”

Yashim chuckled to himself as he watched the boy prowling, loose-limbed and insufferably fluid, over to the drawers. He tucked the card back into its place, ran the drawer shut with his long fingers, and disappeared into the stacks with the candle. God help the older men! He’d never known such coquetterie. But he was also impressed. Ibou looked and sounded like a bit of African fluff but he certainly knew his way around. And not just among the dusty records, either, as he could see.

He came back very quickly.

“By command,” Yashim prompted.

“The imperial household. The sultan, his family, his chief officers.”

“The imperial women?”

“Of course. All the sultan’s family. Not their slaves, mind you.”

“By command.” Yashim mused. “Ibou, who do you think wanted the book?”

“I don’t know.” He frowned. “Could it be—”

He shrugged, gave up.

“Who? Who are you thinking of?”

The archivist flipped his hand dismissively.

“No one. Nothing. I didn’t know what I was going to say.”

Yashim decided to let it pass.