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.