keep the key with you all the time?"
"In
the name of God, I sleep with my keys!" the master snapped.
"You
might update the lock."
The
master cocked his head and leaned slowly toward Yashim.
"You
say you come from the palace," he growled. "What is this? You are some
inspector?"
Yashim
nodded slowly. This is a man, he thought, who feels easy with power. He glanced
again at the master's hands. The massive fingers were loosely curled.
"You
could say that." More briskly he added, "When did you last come in here?"
The
soup master drew breath through his nose, and as he exhaled, Yashim wondered
what he was considering: the answer to the question? Or whether to answer the
question.
"I
don't know," he said finally. "About a month ago. Maybe more. Nothing was
missing."
"No.
Who guards the place at night?"
In
Istanbul it was always people who mattered. Whom you knew. The balance of
favors.
The
soup master's breath was rapid.
"How
is the Guild House guarded after hours?"
"We
employ guards. I myself sleep overhead."
"How
many guards?"
"Oh,
two, maybe three."
Yashim's
face remained expressionless. "They have keys?"
"I
told you, I sleep with the keys. They have the key to the main gate, of
course--I give it to them at night and collect it back first thing in the
morning."
"May
I see it?"
The
master fished up the loop and ran his fingers through a bunch of keys. Finding
the right one, he showed it to Yashim, who raised his eyebrows. It was another
of the old-fashioned sort, something like a big comb of wood, with pegs of
varying length for teeth.
"You
say two or three guards. Do you mean two? Or do you mean three? Which?"
"Well,
I--" the master broke off. "It depends."
"On
what? The weather? Their mood? What I see here is a place that runs by the
book, yes? No deviation from routine, no innovation, no coriander in the soup. Right?"
The
master lifted his chin.
"But
when we come to the regulation of the night watch, you don't know how many
guards are employed. Two
or
three? Maybe it's five. Maybe none."
The
master of the Soup Makers' Guild lowered his head for a second. He seemed to be
thinking.
"It's
like this," he said slowly. "There are always enough guards. Sometimes it's
two, sometimes three, just as I said. They aren't always the same men, night
after night, but I know the bunch. I trust them, always have. We go back a long
way."
Yashim
noticed something imploring in the man's tone. He caught his eye.
"They're
Albanians, aren't they?"
The
master blinked. He looked steadily at Yashim. "Yes. What of it?"
Yashim
made no answer. He reached out and took the master's hand in his, and with the
other he gripped the man's sleeve and rolled it back. The master jerked away
with an oath.
But
Yashim had already seen what he had expected. A small blue tattoo. He had not
been quick enough to recognize the actual symbol, but there was only one reason
why a man would carry a tattoo on his forearm.
"We
can talk," he suggested.
The
master compressed his lips and closed his eyes.
"All
right," he said.
17
****************
THOROUGHLY
shaken and repelled by the condition and appearance of the naked corpse, the
seraskier returned to his apartments to find Yashim--in a state of ignorance and
unconcern--examining the spines of the military manuals and regulation books
that filled the bookshelves opposite the divan.
While
he waited for the seraskier's anger to blow itself out, Yashim questioned him
about the discovery of the second corpse, asking for details about the position
of the drain and the condition of the body. The effort of describing the way
the corpse was trussed seemed to rob the seraskier of his temper, but he
kneaded the back of a chair with his fingers, making it creak. Yashim wondered
if he would sit down.
"I
had thought," the seraskier concluded bitterly, "that we might have got
somewhere by now. Have we got anywhere?"
Yashim
pulled at his nose.
"Efendi.
I still do not understand how the men went missing.
"In
the name of God, I sleep with my keys!" the master snapped.
"You
might update the lock."
The
master cocked his head and leaned slowly toward Yashim.
"You
say you come from the palace," he growled. "What is this? You are some
inspector?"
Yashim
nodded slowly. This is a man, he thought, who feels easy with power. He glanced
again at the master's hands. The massive fingers were loosely curled.
"You
could say that." More briskly he added, "When did you last come in here?"
The
soup master drew breath through his nose, and as he exhaled, Yashim wondered
what he was considering: the answer to the question? Or whether to answer the
question.
"I
don't know," he said finally. "About a month ago. Maybe more. Nothing was
missing."
"No.
Who guards the place at night?"
In
Istanbul it was always people who mattered. Whom you knew. The balance of
favors.
The
soup master's breath was rapid.
"How
is the Guild House guarded after hours?"
"We
employ guards. I myself sleep overhead."
"How
many guards?"
"Oh,
two, maybe three."
Yashim's
face remained expressionless. "They have keys?"
"I
told you, I sleep with the keys. They have the key to the main gate, of
course--I give it to them at night and collect it back first thing in the
morning."
"May
I see it?"
The
master fished up the loop and ran his fingers through a bunch of keys. Finding
the right one, he showed it to Yashim, who raised his eyebrows. It was another
of the old-fashioned sort, something like a big comb of wood, with pegs of
varying length for teeth.
"You
say two or three guards. Do you mean two? Or do you mean three? Which?"
"Well,
I--" the master broke off. "It depends."
"On
what? The weather? Their mood? What I see here is a place that runs by the
book, yes? No deviation from routine, no innovation, no coriander in the soup. Right?"
The
master lifted his chin.
"But
when we come to the regulation of the night watch, you don't know how many
guards are employed. Two
or
three? Maybe it's five. Maybe none."
The
master of the Soup Makers' Guild lowered his head for a second. He seemed to be
thinking.
"It's
like this," he said slowly. "There are always enough guards. Sometimes it's
two, sometimes three, just as I said. They aren't always the same men, night
after night, but I know the bunch. I trust them, always have. We go back a long
way."
Yashim
noticed something imploring in the man's tone. He caught his eye.
"They're
Albanians, aren't they?"
The
master blinked. He looked steadily at Yashim. "Yes. What of it?"
Yashim
made no answer. He reached out and took the master's hand in his, and with the
other he gripped the man's sleeve and rolled it back. The master jerked away
with an oath.
But
Yashim had already seen what he had expected. A small blue tattoo. He had not
been quick enough to recognize the actual symbol, but there was only one reason
why a man would carry a tattoo on his forearm.
"We
can talk," he suggested.
The
master compressed his lips and closed his eyes.
"All
right," he said.
17
****************
THOROUGHLY
shaken and repelled by the condition and appearance of the naked corpse, the
seraskier returned to his apartments to find Yashim--in a state of ignorance and
unconcern--examining the spines of the military manuals and regulation books
that filled the bookshelves opposite the divan.
While
he waited for the seraskier's anger to blow itself out, Yashim questioned him
about the discovery of the second corpse, asking for details about the position
of the drain and the condition of the body. The effort of describing the way
the corpse was trussed seemed to rob the seraskier of his temper, but he
kneaded the back of a chair with his fingers, making it creak. Yashim wondered
if he would sit down.
"I
had thought," the seraskier concluded bitterly, "that we might have got
somewhere by now. Have we got anywhere?"
Yashim
pulled at his nose.
"Efendi.
I still do not understand how the men went missing.
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