The Snake Stone

114

One hand outstretched, the other coiled loosely around the thread in which he had placed his faith, Yashim scuttled forward in the dark.

Somewhere up ahead, linked to him by the slenderest filament of cotton, a woman was advancing to her death. Whether she was brave or ignorant, Yashim could not judge, but the penalty would be the same.

Grigor had talked about the city’s boundaries. Between faith and faith; between one district and the next; between the present and the past.

But the watermen patrolled another boundary few people in Istanbul were even aware of: the frontier between light and dark. Beneath the streets, hidden from view, the pulsing arteries of Istanbul.

The dead, cold, dark world that gave the city life.

And the watermen were prepared to kill to preserve their unique knowledge of that world.

Yashim’s turban brushed against the low roof, dislodging a shower of mortar. Amelie had a lamp, he was sure of that, any moment he would see it.

He glanced over his shoulder. For a moment he was confused, disoriented. Had he somehow doubled back-moving away from her lamp? For there it was: a dim brightening that came and went behind him.

He shook his head. His eyes, in that darkness, were playing tricks.

He kept going.