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“It’s late, Tulin. I feel tired, I want to sleep.”
Tulin hovered. “Yes, valide.”
The valide turned her head. “You can go now. Leave a lamp.”
She gestured to the lights.
“The Kislar aga did not come?”
“No, valide. I sent the message.”
“Well, well. No doubt he is busy.”
“No doubt, valide. Perhaps you should tell me what you wished to talk about, and then-”
“And then?” The valide’s glance was quizzical.
Tulin shrugged. “He has many calls on his time.”
“Ah, yes.” The valide turned over and rested her face on her pillow. “I suppose you are right.” She closed her eyes and nestled down. “I wanted to tell him I can’t go to Besiktas.”
“Valide?”
“Too old, Tulin. Too much change. It makes me ill.”
Tulin’s fingers twisted the button on her jacket. “Once we’ve made the move, you’ll feel much more comfortable.”
“Nonsense.” The valide munched her lips. “Let’s talk about it in the morning.”
“You promised me, valide. You promised the Kislar aga, too.”
“Promised? I promised nothing, Tulin. I made a plan-and now I have changed my mind. You may still go to the orchestra, every week.”
But Tulin didn’t want to go to the orchestra every week.
For months she had sat at the feet of the woman who had been-still was-the most powerful woman in the Ottoman Empire. Old as she was, and frail, her memories had been instructive.
Tulin certainly had made plans.
She twiddled the button very fast, between her fingers; and her eyes grew narrow.
The valide lay back on her cushions, her eyes closed.
Tulin picked up a pillow, and very slowly she crept toward the divan.
142
Yashim closed his eyes, and closed his mind: he was a machine, an automaton, back, forward, back. His lungs were ready to burst. Back again!
His mind was fixed on the old jetty beneath the seraglio gardens. Once, in former years, it would have provided him with an instant sanctuary: two Janissaries at the gate, a couple of hefty bostancis to guard the imperial caique. These days the jetty was likely to be deserted; the gate sealed. It was many years since the valide had expressed a wish to go scudding across the Bosphorus.
And the water gate was now his only hope.
His pursuers were almost on him. Two caiques running almost side by side, twenty yards behind him. He could see the muscles bulging in the rowers’ necks. He glanced back, over his shoulder.
It would never work. He still had two, three hundred yards to go.
He grunted, and dragged the sculls through the water. They had to board him first, of course. Yashim set his mind to the coming fight when something quite unexpected occurred.
The caique nearest to him gave a sudden lurch, and the rower was almost hurled overboard; at almost the same moment the second caique swung around with such force that spray flew into the air. It was as if some unseen hand had reached out from the depths and taken both caiques in its iron grip.
As they bobbed and dipped, Yashim could hear shouts of anger, or surprise. One of the caiquejees stood up and appeared to be driving his oar into the water.
Yashim pulled hard, not letting up, almost superstitiously eager to get away from the commotion that had overtaken his pursuers.
He cleared another hundred yards. Over the icy waters he could hear the shouts of the caiquejees. One of them, indeed, seemed to have regained his stroke: but the distance was on Yashim’s side.
He turned his head and saw a lamp at the landing stage, with a knot of men around it.
His heart sank.
They’d beaten him to it.
And then, with a second glance, he saw something else: the bobbing prow of an imperial caique, with its boxlike pavilion, tethered to the stage like a thoroughbred in its stable.
He pulled up. A man bent down to gather in the painter, and Yashim half crawled from the pitching craft onto the stage.
“On the sultan’s service,” he gasped. “Yashim, for the valide.”
143
Not far away two very cold, very unhappy young men crawled out of the icy water and sank down in the mud.
Fizerly’s knuckles were covered in blood. He thought he’d lost a tooth.
“Blasted caiquejees!” Compston spat. “Think they’d want to save a life-almost killed us!”
Dark figures approached, gingerly, over the slippery ground.
“Towels, gentlemen. And my congratulations!” Esterhazy snapped his fingers. “I have brought rubbing spirits. My man will see that you get warm as quickly as possible.”
“Rubbing be damned,” Compston gasped, and shot out a trembling arm. “Good man!”
The bottle rattled against his bloody mouth.
144
Yashim reached the garden door of the harem and crashed on it with his fist.
A startled eunuch stood in the open doorway.
“Yashim!” he squeaked. “But how-?”
Yashim brushed past him and began to run down the Golden Road. He darted out into the court of the valide, and swerved to his right.
He heard a noise like a champagne cork being popped.
He dived at the valide’s door and flung it back.
In three steps he crossed the vestibule and entered the valide’s apartment.
Tulin was standing by the divan with a pillow clenched against her chest.
On the divan the valide was half sitting up, half lying, on her elbow.
She held a little gun in her hand, and the gun was pointed at Tulin.
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