The Janissary Tree (36 page)

The
porter protested. "I think we didn't ought to go in there. It's not allowed."

"I'm
allowed," Yashim said shortly. "And you're with me. Come on."

It
was darker this time, but Yashim knew where to go. At the head of the steps he
put his finger to his lips and led the way down. The tekke was just as he'd
left it the day before. He tried the door: it was still locked. The porter
stood nervously at the foot of the stairs, looking around in surprise. Yashim
went over to the chest and raised the lid. Same collection of plates and
glasses. Still no cadet.

Yashim
straightened up.

"Come
on, we'll go back now," he said.

The
porter needed no second bidding.

103

***********

The
efendi had told him to keep his eyes open, and Eslek had been doing just that
for several hours. He wasn't sure what he was looking out for, exactly, or how
he would recognize it when he found it. Something out of the ordinary, perhaps,
Yashim had suggested. Or something so very ordinary that no one would give it a
second glance--except, he had explained, perhaps Eslek himself. Eslek knew what
went where, and who might be expected at a Friday market.

He
scratched his head. It was all very ordinary. The stalls, the crowds, the
jugglers, the musicians: it was like this every time. The market was busier, it
being a Friday. What had happened that didn't happen every day of the week? The
meatball man had given him a free breakfast, that didn't happen to you every
day!

Thinking
about the meatballs had reminded him of something.

He
tried to remember. He'd been hungry, yes. And he'd seen that the meatballs were
done, before anyone else. Seen that much out of the corner of his eye while he
poached a cube of bread--

Eslek
jerked his chin. The little cube of bread. Nobody had noticed. There'd been no
one manning the stall, and the little dog running around to turn the spit. Something
he'd never actually seen before today, not in the market, at least. But so
what?

He
decided to take another look. As he threaded his way through the crowd, he
caught sight of the meatball vendor with the flat knife in one hand and a pita
bread in the other, serving a customer. But he was looking the other way. When
Eslek reached him he was still standing, as though transfixed, and the customer
was beginning to grumble, "I said yes to sauce."

The
vendor turned back with a puzzled look on his face. Then he looked down at his
knife, and the bread in his hands, as if he wasn't sure why they were there.

His
customer turned away with a snort. "Forget it. Life's too short."

The
meatball man seemed not to have heard. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder
again.

Eslek
followed his gaze. The little dog was still trotting in the wheel, with his
tongue hanging out. But it wasn't the abandoned dog that attracted Eslek's
attention so much as the meat hanging on the spit. It had been tightly bound to
set it once the heat caught it, but with no one about to baste the meat, it was
beginning to shrink. The pack of meat was gradually unraveling, stiffening,
revealing to Eslek the shape of the beast it had once been. Two of its legs,
paring away from the surprisingly slender body, were thick; the other two were
smaller, wizened, in an attitude of prayer. It could have been a hare, except
that it was ten times bigger than any hare Eslek had ever seen.

The
meatball vendor must have noticed him, because he suddenly said, "I don't get
what's going on. There's been no one at that stall all morning, not since I
come. The dog must be exhausted." He swallowed, and Eslek could see his Adam's
apple bobbing up and down. "And what the fuck's on the spit?"

Eslek
felt the hairs prickling on the back of his neck.

"I'll
tell you one thing, mate," he growled. "It sure as shit ain't halal."

He
put a hand up to his amulet and gripped it hard. The meatball vendor began to
mumble something: he was praying, Eslek realized, running through the
ninety-nine names of God while he stared in horror at the trunk and limbs of a
human being, popping and blackening over the smoldering coals.

104

***********

YASHIM
didn't hear the shouts until he was almost out of the tower. He and the porter
stood on the parapet, trying to see around the aged cypress tree. In a moment
the space below them was thronged with people trying to get away, cramming into
the alley, voices raised. He heard several people shout, "The kadi! Fetch the
kadi!" and a woman screamed. One of the jugglers' wooden batons sailed up into
the cypress and clattered down again, striking against the branches, as the
crowd jostled against him.

Yashim
looked out over the square. There was no point trying to get down there, he
realized, while crowds were still pouring down the alley. Someone beneath him
stumbled, and a basket of vegetables went flying. "Go! Go!" The porter was
hopping from foot to foot.

He
could see the kadi now, stepping out of his booth into a knot of men all
gesticulating and pointing. Farther to the left he saw that a ring had formed
among the stalls, leaving one of them isolated in the middle. He glanced below.
The crowd had stopped running. People were standing in little groups, while
those closest to the mouth of the alley had turned around and were craning
their necks nervously to watch the square.

Yashim
broke into a trot along the parapet, leaped down the steps, and darted up
through the passageway. Somebody clutched at his arm, but he shrugged him off,
dodging his way back into the square between the knots of bystanders. As he ran
toward the ring of men, he saw Murad Eslek leading the kadi forward. The men
shuffled aside to let them through, and Yashim dashed through on their heels.

One
glance showed him all he needed to see.

The
kadi was speechless. The spit was still turning; at every turn one of the
wizened arms flopped toward the ground. Yashim stepped forward and put his hand
on the wheel, and the little dog simply sank down inside it, panting.

"We
need to rake out the fire," Yashim said, turning to Eslek. "Get the porters and
a barrow. A donkey cart will do. We've got to get this--this thing out of here."

Eslek
closed his eyes a moment and nodded. "I--I never thought--" He didn't finish his
sentence but turned away to organize the porters.

The
kadi, meanwhile, had started ranting at the crowd, waving his fists.

"Get
away! Go back to work! You think I'm finished, do you? I'll show you! Some kind
of joke, is it?" He clapped his fists to his temples and stared at them all,
rocking on his heels. In his market! Disgrace. Disgrace and shame. Who had done
this to him?

He
stalked forward, and the men stumbled back to get out of his way. He strode to
his booth and went in, slamming the door.

In
the stunned silence that followed, a few men, like Yashim, seemed to notice the
smell for the first time. Pleasant, rich without being heavy, like veal. They,
too, turned away.

The
meatball vendor was loudly and violently sick.

Yashim
saw Eslek returning with the porters, carrying brooms and rakes.

He
spoke to him for a few minutes. He interviewed the meatball vendor, who was
unable to stop himself shuddering.

No
one had seen anything. As far as the meatball vendor was concerned, the spit
was already running before he started setting up. He'd thought it strange, yes,
but he had work to do and hadn't given it another thought until after daybreak.
He'd been concerned for the dog, really.

It
was the dog that had caught his attention, at the first.

105

***********

The
valide's jewels sparkled in the yellow light. In that greasy chamber they were
the only objects that could catch the eye.

There
was magic in them. The magic that conferred power. No one could look away from
these jewels, any more than a rabbit could take its eyes off a snake.

The
smooth fingers stole forward and stroked them.

Ferenghi
magic, maybe.. What difference could that make? The fingers stiffened. There
might be words that needed to be said. Invocations. Incantations. That was an
unforeseen possibility. This zigzagged figure that appeared on each of the
jewels could be a word, perhaps, or a sound.

No.
Possession was what mattered most. Whoever held the jewels enjoyed the power
they conferred. Napoleon, to scatter even the armies of the faithful--everyone
knew that he had luck beyond the ordinary share. Fool! He had parted with the
jewels and his luck had changed. And the valide, too: she'd done well for
herself ever since the jewels arrived. Clawed her way to the top, across a
battleground far more dangerous than any the French emperor had ever faced,
where whispers were lances, and knowledge battalions, and beauty marched in the
ranks.

We
knew all about that, didn't we? Knew how hard it was to emerge standing from
that melee, not to be kicked back, pulled down, to wither in obscurity. And
then to reach one's goal, to stand at the apex, to have complete power over
creatures who groveled and cringed at a single word!

Nothing
could destroy that. No one could take that away.

Not
with these in one's possession.

And
a pair of lips puckered and came forward to kiss the jewels.

106

***********

YASHIM
curled his fingers around the little cup and stared down gratefully at the
black liquid settled heavily inside. No spice and a hint of sweet. As he
brought it to his nose, a shadow fell across the table and he looked up in
surprise.

"Please,"
he said, motioning to a stool.

The
soup master placed his enormous hands on the table and sank his weight onto the
stool. His eyes swung around the cafe, taking in the other customers, the two
stoves, the glittering wall of coffeepots. He gave a sniff.

"The
coffee smells good."

"It's
fresh arabica," Yashim replied. "They roast the beans here every morning. Too
many people buy the Peruvian kind, don't you think? It is cheap, but it always
tastes stale to me."

The
soup master nodded. Without moving his hand from the table, he raised his
fingers and nodded solemnly at the proprietor, who came forward, bowing.

"Coffee,
very sweet, with cardamom. No cinnamon." The cafe owner walked over to his
stove. "I don't like cinnamon," the soup master added.

They
discussed the question politely until the coffee arrived. Yashim was inclined
to agree with the soup master that cinnamon in bread was an abomination.

"Where
do we get these ideas?" The soup master's eyebrows shot up in perplexity. "For
what?"

Yashim
shrugged and said nothing.

The
soup master put down his cup and leaned forward.

"You
wonder why I am here. Last night the guards did not show up for work. It is the
first time. I thought you might be interested."

Yashim
cocked his head. He was wondering why the big man had come. He said, "I'd
rather talk about the past. Twenty, twenty-five years ago. The Janissaries
kicked up trouble, didn't they? What did they do, exactly?"

The
soup master ran his fingers over his mustache.

"Fires,
my friend. We had men in the corps who could lead a fire easy as a gypsy with a
bear. I said we--I meant they. I was not involved. But this was how they made
their feelings known."

"Where
were the fires, mostly?"

The
soup master shrugged. "In the port, in Galata, over here by the Golden Horn. Sometimes
it was as if the whole city was smoldering, like underground. They had only to
lift a cover somewhere and--whoosh! Everyone felt it. Danger all around."

Like
now, Yashim thought. The whole city knew about the murders. People understood
what was happening. The place was tense with expectation. There were three days
to go before the sultan proclaimed his edict.

"Thank
you, Soup Master. Did you notice the direction of the wind today?"

The
soup master's eyes suddenly narrowed.

"Off
Marmara. The wind has been set from the west all week."

107

***********

The
seraskier pursed his lips.

"I
doubt it can be done. Oh, operationally, yes, perhaps. We could flood the city
with the New Guard, a man at every corner, artillery--if we could get it
through--in the open spaces. Such as they are."

He
scrambled to his feet and went to stand by the window.

"Look,
Yashim efendi. Look at these roofs! What a mess, eh? Hills, valleys, houses,
shops, all straggling around little lanes and alleys. How many corners do you
think I could find out there? Ten thousand? Fifty thousand? And how many open
spaces? Five? Ten? This is not Vienna."