Both of them glanced at Yashim as he came in.
But when Tulin turned her head, she kept on turning. Her eyes swept glassily over the valide, over the little gun, over Yashim standing in the doorway, and then, without another sound, she subsided onto the floor.
Yashim sprang forward and the valide reached out, dangling the gun from a slender finger.
“Take it, Yashim. I won’t be needing it again tonight.”
Yashim took the gun mechanically. “She was going to kill you,” he said.
“ Incroyable. And with that pillow. You have to be firm, Yashim, as I have always said.”
Yashim glanced down at the dead girl.
The bullet had got her just above her eyes.
“I have spent a great deal of time with my vieux papa, these last few days, Yashim,” the valide said wearily. “Or is it weeks? Long ago, on Martinique, he taught me how to shoot. I suppose it’s one of those things you don’t forget.”
Yashim’s legs felt weak. He sat down on the divan. “Where did you get the gun?”
“I’ve had it for years, Yashim. The sultan gave it to me. My sultan, of course-Abdulhamid. I think it amused him to watch me shoot. He was rather a dear man, in many ways.” A filmy look came into her eyes; then she tossed her head, and said: “You can put it away now. The case is under the divan.”
The pistol case was made of red leather and bore the tughra of Sultan Abdulhamid on the lid. Inside was a yellow silk lining, and the pistol’s twin, nestling in its groove. It bore an English label: J. Purdey, London.
Yashim slotted the pistol back into its case and closed the lid.
“You might ask someone to take her away,” the valide said. “I’m feeling rather tired, and these days I prefer to sleep alone.”
Yashim stood up. “Of course, valide.”
“We’ll talk in the morning, Yashim.” She yawned. “I expect I’ll have… rather exciting dreams.”
He bowed.
And went to find the colonel of the halberdiers.
146
Palewski stood by the fire with his elbow on the mantelpiece.
“And so,” he concluded, “they sped across the frozen lake, the prince and the princess, to the gates of the ice castle. And when the ice maidens flung back the gates to welcome them, they went in, and sat down to the most beautiful banquet there ever was.”
“What did they eat?”
“Yes, what did they eat? They ate, um, tiny kebabs.”
“Why were they tiny?”
“They were tiny because that way they could eat more of them,” Palewski said.
The little girl nodded, as if that made sense.
“Ah, here’s Marta!” Palewski cried. “And that, Roxelana, is the end of the story.”
Roxelana nodded again, and looked serious. “I’d like tiny kebabs,” she said.
Palewski cast a hopeful look toward Marta.
“If the young lady will come with me to the kitchen…” she said with a smile.
Roxelana slipped off the armchair. She bowed gravely to Palewski and slipped her hand into Marta’s.
At the door she gave a little shiver, and turned. “I wouldn’t like to live in an ice castle forever,” she pointed out.
Palewski nodded. “It’s unlikely, Roxelana, that you ever will,” he said, thinking of Egypt.
When the door had closed he turned to Kadri, who was sitting in a window seat, and said: “Any sign?”
Kadri shook his head. “I enjoyed the story, too.”
Palewski ran his hand through his hair. “Good, good,” he said absently, and moved toward the sideboard.
“Here he comes,” Kadri said.
“Yashim?”
“I don’t think so. No. It must be Fevzi Ahmet Pasha.”
Palewski sighed. He picked up a pair of candles from the sideboard.
He heard the sound of someone yanking on the bell; the dry slither of the bell chain in the metal eye, then muttering.
He went downstairs and opened the door.
Fevzi Pasha was standing on the steps, frowning down at the bellpull, which had come away in his hand.
“Please, do step in.”
Fevzi Ahmet dropped the bellpull to the ground. “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Yashim?”
“If you’d be so kind as to follow me,” Palewski said, holding up the candles. “Just mind the first step,” he added, as he reached the stairs.
In the drawing room he introduced his visitor to Kadri. Fevzi Ahmet looked suspiciously around the room.
“Tea, my dear fellow?”
Fevzi Ahmet scowled and shook his head.
“Perhaps-if you’ll allow-a little brandy?”
The hunted man turned and stared at Palewski.
“Yes.”
“Capital! Capital! Do you know, efendi, I think I’ll join you.”
147
The man with the knife stood in the shadows, watching the lighted window.
He did not think the doors would be locked. He was not expected.
He shivered, though the sweat sparkled on his forehead. He felt the ice on his face, and the fire in his chest.
So many doors, so many windows! Istanbul was bigger than any town he had ever seen. At first he had been bewildered; even afraid. But he could track his prey through a maze of alleys and squares more easily than hunting in the hills.
And now, standing there fingering the blade, the man with the knife swallowed and smiled a small, sad smile of satisfaction.
A pasha, too, was only a man. He would beg for mercy. He would bleed.
And then he would die.
148
Yashim came slowly up the dark stairway.
At the top he paused.
The light was drifting from beneath the door, and he could hear voices beyond.
“They say that the Greeks did have a bridge,” Palewski said. “Under Justinian.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. There was an Italian, later on.”
“Leonardo da Vinci. It was never built.”
