The Janissary Tree (16 page)

"Indeed.
A ring. Just the one. She did wear the ring."

The
kislar agha tugged at his earlobe. He turned a bloodshot eye on Yashim, who
said, "And the page of the chamber found the body. Can we talk to him?"

The
page of the chamber, whose task was to lead the
gozde
to the sultan,
was produced: he knew nothing about a ring. The kislar agha, who had been next
on the scene, gave Yashim his answer only by a slight lowering of his eyelids.

"She
was laid out in the bridal chamber, just as you saw her."

"By--?"

"Among
others, the dresser."

The
dresser could not remember if the ring had been missing then.

"But
you might have noticed if it had been gone?" Yashim suggested.

The
dresser hesitated. "Yes, yes, I suppose that would have struck me. After all, I
arranged her hands. Put like that, efendi, it's obvious that she was wearing
the ring when she--Ali--she--"

"She
died. Can you describe it?"

The
dresser swallowed. "A silver ring. Not of account. I've seen it quite often. Different
girls wear it, pass it around. There are a lot of small pieces like that, not
very special, that belong to the women in general, as it were. They wear them
for a bit, tire of them, give them away. Frankly, I consider those sort of
trinkets as beneath my notice--unless they are ugly, or spoil a composition, of
course."

"And
you let her wear this ring to attend the sultan?"

"I
thought it more prudent that she should keep the ring than have an unsightly
mark on her finger. I didn't mention it."

The
dresser turned and twisted involuntarily from side to side.

"I
did right, Chief, didn't I? It was only a ring. It was clean, silver."

The
kislar agha fixed him with a stare. Then with a shrug and a wave of his hand,
he dismissed him from the room. The dresser backed out, bowing nervously.

The
kislar agha picked up a peach and bit into it. The juice ran down his chin.

"Do
you think he took it?"

Yashim
shook his head. "A bit of silver, why would he bother? But somebody took it. I
wonder why."

"Somebody
took it," the kislar agha repeated slowly. "So it must still be here."

"Yes,
I suppose so."

The
black man leaned back and examined his hands.

"It
will be found," he said.

36

****************

His
Excellency Prince Nikolai Derentsov, Order of Czar Peter, First Class,
hereditary chamberlain to the czars of all the Russias, and Russian ambassador
to the Sublime Porte, watched his knuckles whiten against the edge of his desk.

He
was, as he would have been the first to admit, an extraordinarily handsome man.
Now in his late fifties, well over six feet, his broad shoulders exaggerated by
a high-collared, cutaway coat, his neck in a starched cravat, lace at his
sleeves, he looked both elegant and formidable. He wore his steel-gray hair
short and his side-whiskers long. He had a fine head, cold blue eyes, and a
rather small mouth.

The
Derentsov family had found that life was expensive. Despite vast estates,
despite access to the highest positions in the land, a century of balls, gowns,
gambling, and politics in St. Petersburg had led Prince Nikolai Derentsov to
the uncomfortable discovery that his debts and expenses greatly exceeded his
income. His success in attracting a very beautiful young wife had been the talk
of the late season--although beautiful young women are as common in Russia as
anywhere else.

What
animated the talk--what spurred the envy and congratulation-- was that through
his marriage the prince had also secured the benefit of her considerable
fortune. Not that the people Derentsov moved among always put it that way. Behind
his back they sniffed that the girl--for all her beauty--was trade. Her father
had made millions in fur.

"It
appears that you have been careless," Derentsov was saying. "At my embassy I
cannot afford to maintain people who make mistakes. Do you understand me?"

"I
am so sorry, Your Excellency."

The
young man bent his head. Nikolai Potemkin certainly looked sorry. He
was
sorry, too: not for what he had done, which was not his fault, but because the
chief was angry and unfair and sounded as if he was going to sack him on the
spot. He had been here only two months, slipping from a dead-end desk job in
the Russian army to the diplomatic service on the back of an elderly relative's
interest at court--a distant relative, the slenderest interest. The chance would
not come again.

He
was, like his chief, over six feet tall, but he was not handsome. His face,
scarred from a saber cut received in the Turkish war, had never healed well: a
livid weal ran from the corner of his left eye to his upper lip. He was very
fair, and his almost lashless eyes were watery and pale. In that struggle with
a Turkish cavalier, he had grappled the saber with his bare left hand, and
three of his fingers were now curled into a useless hook. Young Potemkin had
come to understand that it was the diplomatic service or-- nothing. Five
thousand acres on the borders of Siberia. A third-rate estate, shackled with
debt, a thousand miles from anywhere at all.

Prince
Derentsov drummed on the desk with his fingertips.

"The
damage is done. In a few minutes we will talk to an emissary of the Sublime
Porte. Let's get it clear. You met the men once. You spoke in French. You gave
them a lift and dropped them--where?"

"Somewhere
near their barracks, I'm not sure. I've only been out in the city a few times."

"Hmph,"
the prince grunted. "Nothing else, understand?" Potemkin nodded. "Very well."

He
rang a bell and asked the orderly to bring in the Ottoman gentleman.

37

****************

The
Russians noted Yashim's appearance.

An
insignificant fellow, the ambassador thought. No rank.

Junior
Attache Potemkin felt a surge of relief, struck by the thought that if the
Turks themselves gave this interview such low priority, his chief could hardly
rank his error as a sacking offense.

They
watched Yashim bow. The ambassador did not offer him a seat.

"I'm
grateful for your help today," Yashim said. The prince sneered and looked away.
Yashim caught the expression and smiled.

"We
understand that Count Potemkin spent some time with four officers of the
Imperial New Guard last week. You are Count Potemkin."

Potemkin
bowed.

"If
I may ask, were you friends? You have not been long in Istanbul."

"No.
I still hardly know my way around." Potemkin bit his lip: that was supposed to
come later. "We weren't friends. Just friendly."

"Of
course. Then you had met before?"

"Not
at all. We met at the gardens, by pure chance. I suppose we were all slightly
curious. We spoke, in French. I'm afraid my French is not good," Potemkin
added.

Yashim
saw no reason to flatter him.

"And
you discussed--what?"

"To
tell the truth, I hardly remember. I think I told them about this." Potemkin
raised his palsied hand to his face. "War wounds."

"Yes,
I see. You are a man of experience in battle."

"Yes."

"What
were you doing in the gardens?"

"Looking
around. Taking a walk."

"A
walk? What for?"

"I
thought maybe I could get some exercise. Somewhere quiet, where I would not
attract so much attention."

Yashim
thought the mangled Russian could probably cause quite a stir in a city street.

The
ambassador yawned and prepared to stand.

"Is
that all? I am sure we all have our duties to perform."

Yashim
bowed. "I merely wanted to ask the attache, how did he leave the gardens?"

The
ambassador sighed, stood up, and waved a hand.

Potemkin
said, "We left together. I dropped them off, somewhere near the barracks, I
think. I don't know the city well."

"No,
I understand. You took a cab?"

Potemkin
hesitated and glanced at his chief.

"Yes."

"How
did you share the fare?"

"I'm
sorry?"

"You
dropped them off. I assume you came on here, to the embassy."

"That's
right."

"So
how was the cabman paid? Did you share the fare?"

"Oh,
I see what you mean." Potemkin ran his fingers through his hair. "No, no, it
was my treat. I paid. I was coming back anyway, as you say."

"Can
you remember how much? It might be very important."

"I
don't think so," the ambassador intervened, in a voice of deep scorn. "As I
just said, we are all busy. So, if you will allow us--"

Yashim
had turned to face the ambassador. He cocked his head slightly to one side and
put up a hand.

"I
am sorry," he said, very deliberately, "but I must insist. Count Potemkin, you
see, was the last man to see the guards alive."

The
ambassador's eyebrows flickered for an instant. Potemkin's eyes widened.

"Good
Lord!" he said. He did not look at Yashim.

"Yes,
it is very sad. So you see, anything we can do to trace the men's last movements
could be helpful. Such as finding the cabdriver."

"I
am quite sure that Count Potemkin will not remember how much the cab cost," the
prince said smoothly. "We do not encourage our officials to carry much money. Cabs
are paid off by porters, at the entrance."

"But
of course," Yashim said. "I am afraid I have been stupid. The porters,
naturally, would keep a record of their disbursements."

The
prince stiffened, realizing his mistake. "I will have Count Potemkin look into
it. If we learn anything, of course we will inform you."

Yashim
bowed. "I do hope the count has no travel plans. It may be necessary to speak
with him again."

"I
am sure there will be no need," said the prince, gritting his teeth.

Yashim
went out, closing the door.

The
prince sat down heavily at his desk.

"Well!"
he said.

Potemkin
said nothing. The interview, he felt, had gone rather well.

He
would not, after all, be going home.

38

****************

ONCE
outside the prince's office, Yashim stood for a moment in the vestibule,
frowning. A liveried footman stood at attention by the open mahogany doors. Lost
in thought, Yashim walked slowly around the room until he found himself
standing in front of a framed map, which he pretended to examine, seeing
nothing.

Nobody,
he reflected, had asked him any questions. Was that odd? The work of an embassy
was to pick up information, but they had shown no interest in his inquiry. They
might have heard that the men were dead, true. But he said that Potemkin was
the last man to see the men alive, and nobody asked him how he knew. It was as
if the subject failed to interest them, and that was interesting.

Even
more interesting, though, was the lie about the cab. The lie--and the fact that
the prince had known about it. The fact that the prince himself had attempted
to cover up.
"Excusez-moi, monsieur."

Yashim
turned. For once, he was almost nonplussed. He hadn't noticed her come in.

Yet
standing beside him now was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

39

****************

"MADAME,
" he murmured. She was tall, almost as tall as him, and he guessed that this
was the princess, the ambassador's wife, although he might have expected
someone older. The princess looked barely twenty. Her hair was drawn up to
reveal her slender neck and shoulders, though a few black ringlets danced
exotically against her fair skin. He noticed the tips of her ears, the soft
curve of her chin, the almost Turkish slant of her cheekbones. Her large black
eyes sparkled.

She
was looking at him with an air of amusement.

Yashim
could hardly understand how the footman could stand there unmoved, when the
most ravishing creature, dark eyed, black haired, her face seemingly sculpted
from the virgin snow, glided in front of him un-chaperoned. Was he blind?

"I
am Eugenia, monsieur.
La femme de I'ambassadeur le prince
."

The
ambassador's wife. The ambassador's woman. Her voice was singularly low. Her
lips barely moved when she spoke.

"Yashim,"
he murmured. He noticed that she had extended her hand, the fingers pointing to
the ground. As if in a dream he took it and pressed it to his lips. The skin
was warm.