HYACINTH shuffled across the frozen cobbles. The lady Talfa had gone home but the valide had been fretful all afternoon and he was feeling tired. His feet ached and the cold a.s.saulted him when he stepped outside.

One little thing, Hyacinth thought, might cheer him up right now. The old lalas were drinking coffee, but coffee was always bitter, however much sugar you put in.

Tulin would never mind if he took a little piece of chocolate.

He would have asked her to prepare him some, the way she did; but there was orchestra rehearsal at Besiktas and Tulin was not due back until later.

He reached her door and turned the handle. It was almost dark inside, but the room was small and he had no doubt that he could find the chocolate easily. There would be a jar somewhere, and he could dip a finger into the dark, bitter flakes. Perhaps she would never have to know.

There was a jar. Hyacinth opened it expectantly, and shook it, and sniffed. It wasn't chocolate.

He set the jar back on the floor and squatted on his hams, surprised. The corner of the room was full of jars. Not only jars: there were packets in paper, and little wooden boxes, and clay pots, and some tiny bra.s.s containers with lids. He opened one at random: it was a sticky paste that smelled familiar.

Hyacinth's mouth turned down at the corners.

Chocolate was one thing. But as he opened one pot after another, and poked his fingers into packets and boxes, the turn of Hyacinth's mouth deepened.

It was his duty now to talk to the girl, he thought.

But his desire was to speak to Yashim.

94.

THE man with the knife crossed the mountains in snow. He was used to the snow, to the cold, to picking his way along the mule tracks.

He did not consider the barking as he made his way down toward the valley. At this time of year dogs would be chained close to the sheep, to warn of the approach of wolves-or a stranger.

At last he lifted his head, and listened. The barking was growing closer. The man tightened his grip on his stick and loosened the knife in his belt.

With a strange dog you had to look big. Talk loud. Dogs understood firm signals. The man prepared by shifting his sheepskin coat onto his shoulders, just in case.

95.

THE Court of the Favorites, in the Topkapi Palace, was an open and airy s.p.a.ce surrounded by a colonnade on three sides. It was the work of the great Ottoman architect Sinan, who created the sublime panorama of Istanbul's domes, which move forward and retreat in dignified counterpoint as the traveler approaches the city by sea.

Sinan also worked on buildings that were to be seen by very few people. The fourth side of the Court of the Favorites was enclosed by a low bal.u.s.trade, beneath which Sinan had constructed a delightful bathing pool as a grateful addition to the amenities of the harem. Stretched out in the sun below the bal.u.s.trade, part of the pool filtered back through the old Byzantine arches into deep, almost subterranean shade.

As autumn came, and the days shortened and the air grew cool, the eunuch of the baths would test the water with his skinny elbow, until the sad day arrived when he p.r.o.nounced the pool closed for the season. Then the pool was drained, to protect the tiling from frost and ice; because it stood on a hill, the draining was swift and effective. The entrances were locked, to await the return of summer, and the sultan's girls.

The girls were warned not to approach the bal.u.s.trade, which was quite low; in spite of salt and gravel, the surface of the courtyard in winter was sometimes slippery with ice. But in recent years the filling and the emptying of the pool had become no more than a formality. The girls had gone. The pool became a seasonal tradition that continued because it was seasonal, and no one had thought, or would ever think, to order it stopped.

Hyacinth did not find it necessary to repeat the warning to the older women who had returned to the palace from Besiktas: they knew the danger already, and they rarely ventured out now that the frosts had come. Instead they remained indoors, cl.u.s.tering around the barely adequate fireplaces that warmed their lodgings, and complaining incessantly about the cold. Palewski was right: the Ottomans seemed not to reckon with winter until it was already upon them.

Thus the Court of the Favorites was largely deserted, and only Melda, who had the heat of youth in her veins, sought it out as a quiet place to sit, under the colonnade.

96.

"HYACINTH,"the valide remarked as she watched the flakes settle in the tiny court outside her window, "should order someone to sweep away the snow. I never liked it, Tulin."

Tulin smiled, and put down her embroidery. "That is because you were raised in a hot country, valide," she pointed out. "Most of the ladies are Circa.s.sians, and it does them good to see the snow again."

The valide made a moue. "I'm surprised any of them are capable of remembering that far back. If they are Circa.s.sian, which I doubt. You all pretend, Tulin."

Tulin laughed pleasantly, and stretched. The valide shot her a surprised glance. "I would like Hyacinth to order the court swept," she said.

"Of course, valide. If you are comfortable, I will attend to it right away."

Tulin gathered her embroidery and set it on a footstool, then plucked a fur-lined pelisse from a hook by the door and whirled it around her shoulders.

Outside she moved fast, one hand to the wall to steady herself over the icy cobbles. A blast of cold wind hit her as she turned into the corridor that linked the valide's court with the little suite of rooms set aside for the black eunuchs, and the cape fluttered.

She approached the door of the halberdiers. She could hear them beyond, conversing in low voices; now and then she caught the sound of a laugh, and of dice rattling on a table.

She stood and listened to the mesmerizing voices of the men. Her breath made puffs in the chill air.

The sound of a door opening in their room, and closing with a bang as the wind caught it, made her jump.

"I'm sorry, valide," she said later as she shook the snowflakes from her pelisse and hung it back on the peg. "I looked everywhere, but I think that Hyacinth has gone out."

The valide put her head on one side. "Hyacinth? Why do you want to find Hyacinth? It's cold, cherie. I think you might want to put another log on the fire."

It was true; the room had grown colder while she was out. Tulin reached into the basket and picked up a log. She noticed that her fingers were trembling slightly.

"There," she said with a grunt as she heaved the log into the fire. "That's much better."

"Much better," the valide echoed as she felt the warmth on her face: but she was aware that there had been something else she wanted, not fire, quite. She could not remember what it was. "Much better, yes."

97.

HYACINTH had not gone out. Indeed, just as he had feared, he would never again leave the palace, which had been his home for so many years.

There was no one alive, except the valide herself, who could have remembered the stringy little African boy who had arrived at the Topkapi Palace in the cold winter of 1789. When he had first seen snow, he had shrieked with terror: for a whole day he sat in the antechamber of the eunuchs' apartments, with his hands over his funny little ears, and shrieked every time someone opened the door. The old eunuchs had found this quite hilarious; and some of the more mischievous girls had come to tease him, pretending the sky really was falling on their heads, until the Kislar aga of the day had shooed them all away, and sentenced Hyacinth to stand in the snow in bare feet until he understood what it was.

Which was also how he got his name, Hyacinth, growing most incongruously out of the snow-covered ground.

Hyacinth no longer minded the snow, of course. As it settled on his hair, and on his back, and drifted between his curled fingers, he was quite dead to the ancient terror it had once inspired.

He lay in the pool, on the tiles, exactly where he had fallen, as snow covered the lake of blood that seeped from his smashed forehead, and turned to dark ice on the frozen ground.

98.

THE man with the knife saw and heard the dog before the dog saw him.

It ran howling out of the pine trees, a big mastiff with a thick, matted yellow coat. A proper shepherd's dog. When it stumbled and lurched sideways, snapping at its own tail, the man with the knife felt a tremor of fear.

He stood very still, thinking the mastiff might not see him if he did not move. Its eyes were sticky, foam lashing at its jaws, and it whirled from side to side, stumbling nearer to him across the frozen ground. But there was no purpose in its erratic course. There was a chance that the dog would simply pa.s.s him by.

When the dog was only a few yards away, the man reluctantly lifted his stick.

At no moment did the frenzied animal recognize the man, or make up its mind to attack: it seemed lost in its own suffering. But as he raised his stick, the dog flung itself at him, suddenly, with its lips peeled back and jaws wide.

The man was caught off guard, but he was strong and his aim was good. The stick connected with the dog's muzzle in mid-spring, as the man stepped back. The dog landed heavily, shook its huge head, and bared its teeth with a strangled sound.

He hit it again, a more considered blow on the side of its head.

The mastiff staggered, and seemed about to fall, but as the man raised the stick again it sprang disjointedly. The vicious jaws snapped shut on the stick, and with a heave of its head it almost pulled it out of his hands.

The man pressed the stick to the ground, lowering the dog's head, watching the saliva run toward his hands. It took great strength to hold the stick down. He wanted his knife.

The dog shook the stick a few times, then yelped and dropped back, jaws agape.

That was all the time the man needed. He plucked his knife from his belt and raised the stick, and when the dog came on again, grinding its fangs from side to side, he slammed the stick against its jaws with one hand and with the other stuck the knife straight and hard into the dog's neck, behind the ear.

He felt its hot breath against his chest; he felt the heat of its blood running over his hand. He twisted the knife and dragged down savagely, once, twice, grunting with exertion as he pulled the blade through the matted fur.

The dog sagged, overbalancing them both. The man fell back, unable to keep the weight of the dog from sinking against his chest. Blood from its gashed neck spurted out over his legs and he scrambled backward, the slippery hilt of the knife sliding from his fingers.

On the ground the mastiff jerked spasmodically, working its jaws while its hind legs scrabbled for purchase. But the man knew it was over.

He held the back of his wrist to his mouth and watched the dog die.

It died with a sort of ragged gasp. One moment it had muscles, and a form; the next, it was splayed on the ground, haunches high, the head lolling and blood staining the gra.s.s.

The man waited for a few minutes, until his heartbeat settled. He bent down and pulled the knife clear. He wiped it on the gra.s.s: he did not wish to touch the dog.

99.

YASHIM woke early, groping for the quilt that had slipped from his legs. He squinted at the unaccustomed brightness and then sat up, yawning, and rubbed the condensation from the window pane. Snow lay thick on the rooftops of Balat.

He drew up his knees and leaned back against the cushions, watching his dragon's breath.

After a few moments he began to grope for his clothes, drawing them under the quilt to warm up, before he sprang with a shiver from the divan and began to dress, hurriedly wriggling his arms into the sleeves of the cambric shirt he wore over his woolen vest. There was ice in the washbasin: Yashim pulled a face, plunged his hand through the ice, and splashed freezing water over his eyes, his mouth and ears. He dried himself quickly on a towel, feeling newly awake. Over his shirt he put on a woolen waistcoat and a quilted jacket; then he tucked his feet into a pair of slippers.

Outside the door he bent down and carefully fastened a pair of galoshes over his feet. The alley was covered in snow, but once he reached Kara Davut the way was better; shopkeepers had shoveled the snow into the middle of the road. He entered his favourite cafe, rubbing his hands, and the proprietor nodded and put a small coffee pan on the coals.

Yashim ate his breakfast by the steamed-up window, coffee and a corek as usual, which is how the palace chaush found him a few minutes later. Several heads turned in the cafe as he presented Yashim with a note, bound in vermilion ribbon; then they looked hastily away. Among the Turks, curiosity was not reckoned a virtue.

Yashim read the note, frowned, and put it into his breast pocket.

"Let's go," he said.

100.