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Yashim sprinted back up the steps, crossed the empty hall and took the stairs three at a time. At the top he slowed and put his hand on the doorknob of the vestibule.
What if there was another footman, as before, standing sentinel in there?
He squeezed the handle and stepped inside.
The room was almost dark. Two candles burned in their sconces at the far side of the room, really too far away to be of any use to him. He turned to the right, gliding along the gallery. The oils were hard to make out, but as he passed one of them he paused. He stepped aside, to let the meagre light reveal it, and even though it was mostly shadow, the composition of figures closely grouped at its centre was unmistakeably that of the czar and his amorous czarina, with their little children.
He went back up the gallery.
Two shoulder-length portraits. A full-sized rendition of a man on a horse. A scene he could not decipher, including a river and a mass of men and horses surging towards it. Another portrait.
And he was back at the door. He could hear the footman banging the door downstairs.
He looked around in astonishment.
The vestibule still housed, as he remembered, a positive Parliament of Russian nobles, a Hermitage of royal heads. As for landscapes, well, many versts of the Russian steppe had been crammed in there, too, where Cossack hussars stooped in village streets to kiss their sweethearts farewell.
There wasn’t a map of Istanbul to be seen.
Where the map had been, he was looking at a portrait of a gouty czar.
He took a step closer. The czar looked surprised: perhaps he didn’t like to be ignored. Even in the feeble candlelight Yashim could still make out the faint outline of the frame, bleached against the painted woodwork.
They had got rid of the map.
Yashim hardly had time to register this appalling thought when he heard footsteps mounting the stairs.
Without a second’s hesitation Yashim lunged for the door at the far end of the room. The handle turned easily, and in a moment he was through.