Resid’s mother was from the Crimea, an exile; his family were poor. He was in his midtwenties, maybe four or five years older than the sultan he served, but reputed to be a hard worker, pious without ostentation, quick thinking, and very sure of himself. Certainly he had advanced very rapidly under the eye of the old sultan, who insisted that he learn languages and had sent him on missions to Paris and Vienna, for Mahmut had lost confidence in the official dragomen, or interpreters, most of whom were local Greeks. No doubt he had considered him, too, a useful influence on his son.

The pasha shrugged. “Languages, of course. It saves time.”

Yashim lowered his eyes. He spoke eight languages perfectly, including Georgian, and loved three: Greek, Ottoman, and French.

“The sultan has called for you, Yashim efendi. He is aware of the services you have rendered to his house. It was I who reminded him.”

Yashim inclined his head politely. There had been times when old Mahmut would roar for Yashim and present him with some dilemma that suited Yashim’s peculiar talents. Many things in the harem, and beyond, had required his attention, not all of them mere peccadilloes. Theft, unexplained deaths, threats of mutiny or betrayal that struck at the very stability or survival of the oldest ruling house in Europe-Yashim’s job was to resolve the crisis. As unobtrusively as possible, of course. Yashim knew that the air of invisibility that surrounded him should also envelop the mysteries he was called upon to penetrate.

“And I would remind you, Yashim efendi, that the sultan is very young.”

Yashim almost smiled. Resid Pasha’s only visible affectation was a small mustache that he waxed with care, but his chin was smooth and soft. He wore the stambouline, that hideous approximation of Western dress that the old sultan had officially prescribed for all his subjects, Greek, Turk, Armenian, or Jew, and that people were still learning to adopt. Yashim, long ago, had decided not to bother.