“Sultan Mehmet was young four centuries ago, Resid Pasha, when he took this city from the Greeks.”

“But one would say that Mehmet had more experience.”

Is that what you have? Yashim wondered. At twenty-five-experience?

“Mehmet judged his interests very well,” Resid continued. “He also overruled advice. But times have changed, I think.”

Yashim nodded. It was well put.

“Each of us must strive to serve the sultan’s best interests in our own way, Yashim. There will be occasions, I am sure, when you will be able to serve him with your special talent for peering into men’s hearts and minds. Many others-it is natural and no shame to them at all-serve him by their mere alacrity.”

His dark eyes searched out Yashim’s.

“I understand,” Yashim murmured.

The young vizier seemed unconvinced. “We Ottomans have many generations of understanding the ways of princes, Yashim. They give us-the sultan is pleased to give us his orders. And we say, the sultan has said this, or this. It shall be done. Among these orders, though, we have recognized a class of-what? Watery commands. Written on water, Yashim.”

Yashim did not stir a hair.

What is written on the water cannot be read.

“I believe the sultan will receive you this afternoon.” Resid raised his hand in a vague gesture of dismissal. “You will have many opportunities to show-alacrity,” he added. “I can see that it shall be so.”

Yashim stood and bowed, one hand to his chest.

The elevation of the new sultan, like the rising of a planet, was creating new alignments, shifts in the weight and composition of the cabals and cliques that had always flourished in the palace around the person of the all-powerful sultan. Resid had been singled out for advancement by Mahmut; now Abdulmecid had confirmed his father’s choice.