An Evil Eye Part 40

"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."

Fevzi Pasha spat. "I saw the plans. Too complex. It would never have worked."

Yashim pushed the door. "Good evening," he said, with a bow. "I'm afraid I was detained at the palace." He advanced into the room. "Where's Roxelana?"

Palewski came past him, to the door. "Marta!"

149.

ROXELANA came in reluctantly, her eyes on the carpet. As she advanced she glanced once over her shoulder, and at the door Marta nodded with an encouraging smile.

Roxelana bowed, lowering her hand to the floor.

"Efendim," she whispered. She did not look up.

Fevzi Pasha took a step toward her. "You-you know who I am?" He grinned awkwardly and thrust his head forward. "Your baba!"

The little girl shrank back. "I'm Roxelana," she whispered. "I'm big now. I'm five."

Fevzi Ahmet dropped to one knee and opened his arms.

"My-little-girl," he said.

Yashim and Palewski both turned their heads and looked at each other; but out of the corner of his eye Yashim saw the little girl take a hesitant step forward, twisting her fingers.

"Baba?" Her whisper was scarcely audible.

Fevzi lunged and s.n.a.t.c.hed her up. Then he took her off, toward the window, whispering something in her ear.

"It's a cold night," Palewski said. "Have a gla.s.s."

Yashim declined. "Too many surprises in one day," he said, and dropped into the armchair. "I've come from the valide."

There was a silence. Marta spoke from the doorway.

"The little girl was just eating her dinner," she said.

Fevzi Ahmet let her down. "Finish your dinner."

When she had gone, Fevzi turned to the window. "Long ago," he said, addressing his own reflection in the gla.s.s, "I lost someone very precious to me. Never again." He glanced around. "My daughter comes to Egypt. With me."

Yashim considered him. His enemy. His mentor.

"My men are waiting."

They went downstairs, Yashim holding the candles. In the hall Marta came through with Roxelana, who climbed sleepily into Fevzi Ahmet's arms, and wound her own around his neck.

Fevzi Ahmet stroked her hair. Over the top of her head he said, "We had a deal, Yashim. Or have you forgotten?"

Yashim shook his head.

"Then you are afraid?"

"Yes. I am afraid."

Fevzi Ahmet bent and peered into Yashim's face. "Why do you think I chose you, all those years ago? Why?"

"Because I spoke Greek and-other languages," Yashim answered. He looked into Fevzi Ahmet's face, watched the shadows flicker across his scars. "Because I can be invisible."

Fevzi Ahmet gave a dry laugh. "It takes some courage, Yashim efendi. I think you have some. That's why I chose you."

Yashim said nothing, but for a moment the candles dipped in his hand.

Fevzi's voice was a whisper. "Shamyl."

Yashim stood woodenly at the door.

"Shamyl? That's not possible."

"The Lion of the Caucasus," Fevzi said. "The great hero."

Yashim blinked. Almost single-handedly, Shamyl had fought the Russians to a standstill in the mountains of Georgia. He was a figure of myth, pure and beyond reproach.

It made no sense.

"Ask Shamyl." Fevzi laughed. "A promise is a promise."

He wrenched at the door and flung it back. The candles guttered in the sudden draft, and Yashim heard his boots on the stone steps. He heard him cross the graveled courtyard. He heard the sound of men a.s.sembling on the road outside. He saw a lantern, and its feeble light swinging in the air; and then the light and the pasha were gone.

The candelabra was still in his raised hand.

He lowered his hand, closed the door, and made his way back, slowly, treading carefully up the dark stairs.