The Janissary Tree

[ 46 ]

Preen had found it hard to believe what the imam seemed to be saying. A revival of the Janissaries? New Guard cadets found murdered in despicable ways?

She picked up a pair of tweezers and began to pluck her eyebrows.

She wondered, looking into the mirror, if the imam’s message had anything to do with the information she had brought her friend Yashim.

Murder.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Today she would take the line ever so slightly higher: she could always heighten the curve with kohl. She began to hum.

Nothing she’d heard in the mosque had anything to do with Yashim, or her, or that disgusting pimp.

She worked briskly with a practised hand along the arch of her brow, watching herself in the mirror.

But Yorg could be involved in anything. With anyone.

She’d only peddled a little ordinary gossip. It was nothing.

Though Yashim had been pleased. Gold dust, he called it.

But Yashim wouldn’t tell. She moved her hand and began on the other eyebrow.

Yorg would tell. Yorg would tell anything, if he was paid enough.

Or frightened enough.

Preen sucked in her breath. The idea of Yorg being afraid was, well, scary.

She lowered her tweezers and snapped up a piece of kohl between their jaws. Carefully she started to thicken the line.

What would Yorg do, she wondered, if he heard about the murdered soldiers? Not at mosque. The Yorgs of this world heard nothing at mosque. They wouldn’t even go.

But if he heard, and started putting two and two together?

The kohl wavered. The face in the mirror was very white.

He’d squeal, for sure.