His first commission from the new regime-and already it was compromised! Resid wanted him to stay and forget. The sultan wanted him to go. Resid was right: Palewski said so, but the sultan ruled.

Yashim laid a finger on the map. “You’re right. I can’t go.” He picked out the Latin inscriptions. Adriaticum. Ragusa. Venetia. “But you can. You can go and buy the sultan’s Bellini, my old friend.”

Palewski opened his mouth and shut it again in astonishment. “Me?” He sat up. “Yashim, you must have taken leave-”

“The grand tour-resumed,” Yashim interrupted. “And more important, the sultan’s gratitude.”

Palewski looked at him uncertainly.

“The Conqueror, restored by the Polish ambassador to the city he won? I think it’s worth an invitation to the inaugural ball.”

His friend looked up into the branches of the mulberry tree. “Yes, but-the Austrians, Yash. My position. All-this.” He waved a hand around the ill-kempt lawn. “What would Marta say?”

Yashim smiled. “Leave her to me. It’s summer, and all the ambassadors are away. As for the Austrians, well.” He paused. Palewski was scarcely regarded favorably by the Habsburgs. He’d been a thorn in their side ever since he arrived in Istanbul, a refugee from his own estates in southern Poland. The Habsburgs had sequestered his country, and they ruled over Venice, too.

“The answer, my friend, is that you will travel in disguise.” And seeing that Palewski was opening his mouth to protest, he added, “And I’ll have a drop more lemonade.”

^* See The Snake Stone.

7

The sun rose from the sea in a veil of mist so fine that in twenty minutes it would burn up and be gone.

Commissario Brunelli took the papers between his thumb and forefinger and dropped them into his satchel without a second glance. The aged pilot grunted and gave him a narrow, toothless smile.