The Janissary Tree

[ 93 ]

How do I look now, old man?”

Fizerly looked his friend up and down with a critical eye.

“Capital, Compston. Or should I say, Mehmed? If we’re going out to explore the old city, just remember that you’re Mehmed from here on.”

Compston chuckled and looked at himself in the embassy mirror. Fizerly had been awfully clever with the turban—in the end, they’d arranged it so that not a hair of his blond head straggled out, and even if the balance of the turban had suffered slightly in consequence it wouldn’t show. “Just keep moving your head about like a good chap,” Fizerly had suggested, helpfully. Not Fizerly, that is. Ali. Ali Baba, at your service.

Compston-Mehmed giggled and rubbed a little more soot into his eyebrows.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t rain,” he said.