The Janissary Tree

[ 74 ]

Back again?”

“Stanislaw Palewski,” Yashim announced, “we have exactly four hours. You are going to a party.”

Palewski smiled and shook his head.

“I know what you’re thinking: the ambassadors’ concert at the palace. All very tempting, but I don’t do them any more. These days, I—” He spread his fingers. “To be frank, Yash, it’s a question of dress.” He lowered his voice. “A question, you might say, of moth.”

Yashim held up an imperious hand. “We aren’t talking about those horrible beetling jackets you people all wear. You have the most splendid clothes, and four hours in hand. I have already sent for the tailor. Tonight, you are set to appear at the palace as the living embodiment of Polish history.”

“Eh?”

“You’re going as a Sar—what’s it?”

“Sarmatian?”

“Exactly.”

The Polish ambassador folded his arms stubbornly.

“Of all the fool ideas. Who do you think you are? My fairy godmother?”

Yashim blinked, and Palewski gave a dry chuckle.

“Never mind, it’s an old story.” He frowned. “What are you doing?”

For Yashim had raised his arms and flicked out his hands, taking a backward step, as if Palewski were the djinn he had just conjured up out of the thin air.

Palewski narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “I’m sorry, Yash. I’d do anything for you, you know that. But only within reason. As the ambassador of Poland to the Sublime Porte I have a higher responsibility. Mine is a fallen nation, I know that. But stubborn, sir, very stubborn.” He wagged a finger. “Call it pride, or vanity if you like—but I tell you this. Not for your sake—not even for the sake of the Black Madonna of Czestechowa herself—will I mingle with my peers in a mouldy old dressing gown.”