An Evil Eye Read Free

front door, scurrying down corridors where anxious faces peered at them in the candlelight, where doors opened noiselessly at their approach.
    Yashim knew exactly where they were going. He’d been there before, to the private chamber of the grand vizier, the man who held the reins of the empire for his sultan’s sake.
    The cadet threw open a door and ushered him in with a sweep of the hand.

8

    A lamp was burning on a great mahogany desk.
    “Come.”
    The rumble of the vizier’s voice came from the divan, placed in an alcove at the far side of the room. Yashim half turned, in puzzlement.
    “Husrev? Mehmet Husrev Pasha?”
    As he approached the divan, he could make out a heavy figure sitting cross-legged in the half-light, wearing a Circassian shawl and a tasseled, brimless cap.
    As the pasha gestured to the edge of the divan, his ring caught the light. It was a sign of office, but until now Yashim had seen the ring of the grand vizier on someone else’s hand.
    “Changes, Yashim efendi,” the old pasha growled, as if he had read Yashim’s mind. “A time of change.”
    Yashim settled on the edge of the divan. “My pasha,” he murmured. He wondered how the change had been made, what had become of Midhat Pasha. “I was detained at the palace. I offer you my congratulations.”
    Husrev fixed him with a weary stare. His voice was very deep, almost a whisper. “The sultan is very young.”
    “We must be grateful that he can draw upon your experience,” Yashim replied politely.
    The old pasha grunted. He pressed his fingertips together in front of his face, brushing his mustache. “And at the palace?”
    “Sultan Mahmut’s women were slow to leave.” Yashim bit his lip; it was not what he should have said. Not when Husrev himself had moved so fast.
    Perhaps Husrev Pasha thought the same, because he gave a dismissive snort and slid a sheet of paper across the divan. “Report from the governor of Chalki. A dead man, in the cistern of the monastery.”
    “Who was he?”
    The pasha shrugged. “Nobody seems to know.”
    “But—he was killed?”
    “Perhaps. Probably. I want you to find out.”
    “I understand, my pasha.” For the second time that day, he was being asked to do someone else’s job.
    Husrev Pasha’s heavy-lidded eyes missed little. “Have I said anything to displease you, Yashim?”
    Yashim took a deep breath. “Is it not a matter for the governor, my pasha? The kadi , at least.”
    “Would I send for you if it was enough to direct the kadi ? The governor?”
    Yashim heard the anger in his rumbling voice. “Forgive me, my pasha. I spoke without thinking.”
    To his surprise, the old vizier leaned forward and took his knee in his massive paw.
    “How old are you, Yashim?”
    “Forty.”
    “I have seen what may happen when a sultan dies. When you were a little boy, Yashim. We thought the sky was falling on our heads. Bayraktar’s Janissaries stormed the Topkapi Palace. In the provinces there was fear—and fighting on the streets of Istanbul. The Muslims afraid of the Greeks.”
    Yashim listened, and said nothing.
    “The city is quiet today,” the old pasha continued. “But the weather is hot, and the sultan is young. I am a little afraid, Yashim. Men have hopes I do not yet understand. Some have demands. Between demand and threat you cannot pass a horsehair. And the state is weak. Russia, as you know, gains every day at the expense of our people. Moldavia and Wallachia are occupied by the tsar’s troops, to the mouth of the Danube. Serbia rules itself, with their aid. Georgia and the Armenian lands are under Russia now.”
    He cracked his huge knuckles. “Egypt is strong. Long ago, we could count on Egypt; that time is past. Mehmet Ali Pasha is not to be trusted. We are caught, Yashim, between hammer and anvil.”
    He picked up a pile of documents at his elbow and let them drop heavily onto the divan. “With these, I must govern this empire. I must keep the peace.” He shrugged.