An Evil Eye

149

Roxelana came in reluctantly, her eyes on the carpet. As she advanced she glanced once over her shoulder, and at the door Marta nodded with an encouraging smile.

Roxelana bowed, lowering her hand to the floor.

“Efendim,” she whispered. She did not look up.

Fevzi Pasha took a step toward her. “You-you know who I am?” He grinned awkwardly and thrust his head forward. “Your baba!”

The little girl shrank back. “I’m Roxelana,” she whispered. “I’m big now. I’m five.”

Fevzi Ahmet dropped to one knee and opened his arms.

“My-little-girl,” he said.

Yashim and Palewski both turned their heads and looked at each other; but out of the corner of his eye Yashim saw the little girl take a hesitant step forward, twisting her fingers.

“Baba?” Her whisper was scarcely audible.

Fevzi lunged and snatched her up. Then he took her off, toward the window, whispering something in her ear.

“It’s a cold night,” Palewski said. “Have a glass.”

Yashim declined. “Too many surprises in one day,” he said, and dropped into the armchair. “I’ve come from the valide.”

There was a silence. Marta spoke from the doorway.

“The little girl was just eating her dinner,” she said.

Fevzi Ahmet let her down. “Finish your dinner.”

When she had gone, Fevzi turned to the window. “Long ago,” he said, addressing his own reflection in the glass, “I lost someone very precious to me. Never again.” He glanced around. “My daughter comes to Egypt. With me.”

Yashim considered him. His enemy. His mentor.

“My men are waiting.”

They went downstairs, Yashim holding the candles. In the hall Marta came through with Roxelana, who climbed sleepily into Fevzi Ahmet’s arms, and wound her own around his neck.

Fevzi Ahmet stroked her hair. Over the top of her head he said, “We had a deal, Yashim. Or have you forgotten?”

Yashim shook his head.

“Then you are afraid?”

“Yes. I am afraid.”

Fevzi Ahmet bent and peered into Yashim’s face. “Why do you think I chose you, all those years ago? Why?”

“Because I spoke Greek and-other languages,” Yashim answered. He looked into Fevzi Ahmet’s face, watched the shadows flicker across his scars. “Because I can be invisible.”

Fevzi Ahmet gave a dry laugh. “It takes some courage, Yashim efendi. I think you have some. That’s why I chose you.”

Yashim said nothing, but for a moment the candles dipped in his hand.

Fevzi’s voice was a whisper. “Shamyl.”

Yashim stood woodenly at the door.

“Shamyl? That’s not possible.”

“The Lion of the Caucasus,” Fevzi said. “The great hero.”

Yashim blinked. Almost single-handedly, Shamyl had fought the Russians to a standstill in the mountains of Georgia. He was a figure of myth, pure and beyond reproach.

It made no sense.

“Ask Shamyl.” Fevzi laughed. “A promise is a promise.”

He wrenched at the door and flung it back. The candles guttered in the sudden draft, and Yashim heard his boots on the stone steps. He heard him cross the graveled courtyard. He heard the sound of men assembling on the road outside. He saw a lantern, and its feeble light swinging in the air; and then the light and the pasha were gone.

The candelabra was still in his raised hand.

He lowered his hand, closed the door, and made his way back, slowly, treading carefully up the dark stairs.