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. “This is a dangerous time for all of us, Yashim, and I do not know exactly where the danger lies. Perhaps from a corpse in the Christians’ well.”

“I understand, my pasha,” Yashim replied. “Your eyes must be everywhere.”