The Snake Stone

10

As Yashim followed the footman down to the hall a door opened and a young man stepped forward.

“One moment, you,” he said. “Go along, Dmitri. I’ll see the fellow out.”

The young man was in his early twenties. He had a thick mop of black hair and was strongly built, with broad shoulders and a big jaw that hadn’t lost its puppy fat. He was dressed in a well-cut stambouline, a starched collar with a silk cravat, black stovepipe trousers and a pair of slim black leather pumps. He was almost as handsome as his mother-the resemblance was very striking-but his eyes were smaller, harder, and there was a contrasting softness around his mouth that Yashim liked rather less.

“Good morning,” he said politely.

The young man scowled and stared at Yashim. “I saw you come in. You were talking to Mother.”

Yashim raised an eyebrow and made no reply.

“Did you talk about me?” the young man asked abruptly.

“I don’t know. Who are you?”

“My name’s Alexander. Mavrogordato,” he added bullishly, as if he half expected Yashim to deny it.

Yashim thought for a moment. “No. No, we didn’t discuss you at all. Should we have?”

The young Mavrogordato gave him a suspicious look. “Are you being clever?”

“I hope so, Monsieur Mavrogordato. But now, if you will excuse me-”

The young man reached out and grabbed Yashim’s sleeve. “Why are you here, then?”

Yashim looked down slowly at the hand on his sleeve and frowned. There was a pause, then Mavrogordato let go. Yashim brushed a hand across his sleeve.

“Perhaps you might wish to discuss it with your mother. Please don’t detain me again.”

He stepped around the young man. As he passed, he felt his breath on his face, sour like a tavern.