An Evil Eye

151

“ Yashim?”

The old pasha raised his eyes to the door, but the shadow was deep, and his eyes were ruined by years of scrutinizing papers.

“Yashim? Is that you?”

A figure stepped into the lamplight.

“Who are you?” The pasha was not afraid. Not yet. “What do you want?”

Whatever he expected, it was not that voice.

“You won’t remember me, Husrev Janovic. Why should you?” The stranger used the language of Husrev’s youth; the language of the mountains of Bosnia. “I saw you when you came to our village. Your village.”

Husrev’s hand moved slowly toward the little bell. “Our village?”

“Polje, Husrev. The family home.”

“You want money?” Husrev Pasha growled. “Or work? Why are you here?”

The man stepped closer. “I want vengeance, for the girl you stole.”

Husrev Pasha blinked hurriedly. “Girl? What girl?”

“Janetta. The woman you stole to be a sailor’s whore.”

“Janetta-?” The grand vizier frowned.

“My wife.”

Husrev’s yellow eyes flickered to the shadow that stood before him. “She will become a queen,” he said, slowly. “You are-what? A shepherd? What can you give that woman now?”

The man hesitated. Husrev Pasha’s hand closed around the bell.

“My wife is dead. She died. In a fire at the sailor’s house.”

“No, no.” Husrev Pasha lifted the bell and shook it.

The peal startled the man.

He saw his journey coming to nothing. His vengeance unappeased.

But he was swift with a knife. He had always been good with the knife.

Husrev Pasha caught the spark of metal in the light.

The man with the knife knew how to kill.

A weight caught him below the knees. He was a big man and he fell back, seeing the ceiling spin, and the raised knife in his hand-and then the room was full of voices.

He let the knife drop.

He could not remember if he had killed the pasha or not. He thought, after all his trouble, that he would feel something. Elation, or satisfaction. Even disappointment. Instead, he felt only very tired.