The Sultan's seal

33

Kamil can go neither forward into the second courtyard nor back out the wrought-iron gates. He sits in the guardhouse and waits with increasing impatience for the soldiers to allow him entry. They stand implacably at each entrance to the squat stone building, clutching their rifles. The air smells faintly of flint and leather. Kamil stood waiting at the outer gate of Yildiz Palace for over an hour before he was allowed to advance to the guardhouse. He bided his time at the gate with pleasurable thoughts about Sybil, with whom he is invited to dine the evening after next.

At least, he thinks, here I am allowed to sit. On the opposite bench sits a clearly irritated sharp-nosed Frank in stately clothing.

When the shadows have fallen the length of the courtyard, a blue-turbaned clerk appears at the door. The guards snap into rigid poses and bow in unison, their leather armor creaking as they make the gesture of obeisance. The clerk barks at the ranking soldier and motions peremptorily to Kamil to follow him. The Frank also stands expectantly, but one of the guards steps in front of him, hand on the dagger at his belt. With a heartfelt comment in his own language, the Frank falls back onto the bench. Kamil bows but the clerk’s back is already turned and he is hurrying away. Kamil lengthens his stride to keep up with him. The young man’s lack of decorum and self-importance amuses him. At that moment, the clerk swings around and catches the expression on Kamil’s face.

Cheeks flaming, he demands, “You. Show proper respect. You are not in the bazaar.”

Kamil’s clothing identifies him as a magistrate. He is surprised at the disrespectful tone. The clerk is very young. Probably a youth raised in the palace, Kamil decides, one of the many children of the sultan’s concubines. They are educated and given responsibilities without ever having set foot beyond these yellow walls. Certainly never to the bazaar.

Kamil smiles at the clerk and bows slightly. “I am honored to be received by the palace.”

Mollified, the clerk turns on his heels and hurries through an ornate gate. From behind, Kamil can see the young man’s slight shoulders straighten as more guards snap their weapons into place and salute him. Kamil notes, with pleasure, that the wall is covered in white and yellow banksia roses, passionflowers, sweet verbena, and heliotrope. Silver-gray pigeons waddle complacently on the lawn. In the distance, behind a marble gateway, Kamil sees the square classical façade of the Great Mabeyn, where the everyday business of the empire is conducted by palace secretaries, where the sultan’s correspondence is composed, and where his spies send their reports. His father must have reported to the sultan in that building, Kamil thinks.

They approach a two-story building so long that it stretches out of sight on one side. The clerk leads him through a door, along a narrow corridor, then out again into the blinding light of a large yard. Small workshops line the back of the building. Faint hammering and tapping, a strange creaking leak from their windows. The clerk stops by a room larger than others they had passed. Inside, a group of middle-aged men in brown robes and turbans sit drinking coffee from tiny china cups.

When the clerk appears, the men bow their heads in respectful greeting, but do not rise.

“I’m looking for the head usta.” The clerk’s voice is unnaturally high-pitched.

A man with a neatly trimmed white beard looks up.

“You’ve found him.”

“Our padishah requires you to assist this man”-he looks disgustedly at Kamil-“with his inquiries.”

“And who is this man?” asks the head craftsman, looking benignly at Kamil.

“My name is Magistrate Kamil Pasha, usta bey.” Kamil bows and makes the sign of obeisance.

The usta sweeps his hand toward the divan, ignoring the clerk standing by the door.

“Sit and have some coffee.”

The clerk turns abruptly and leaves. Kamil hears laughter blow through the room, faint as leaves rustling.

A servant brews coffee in a long-handled pot over a charcoal fire in the corner and hands Kamil a steaming cup properly crowned with pale froth.

“So, you are one of those new magistrates.”

“Yes, I’m the magistrate of Beyoglu,” Kamil answers modestly.

“Ah.” Knowing nods circle the room. “I’m sure you have your hands full with all those foreign troublemakers.”

“Yes, I suppose so, though bad character knows no religion.”

“Well said, well said.” The usta glances at the door through which the young clerk had left.

After the required pleasantries and answers to the men’s request for news from outside the palace, the head usta asks, “How can we help you?”

“I am looking for the workshop and the usta that produced this pendant.” He passes the silver globe to the head usta, who looks at it with an experienced eye.

“This is Elias Usta’s workmanship. It must have been made years ago, though. Elias Usta has long been retired. When his hands were no longer steady, he went to work as keeper at the Dolmabahche Palace aviary. We have heard nothing about him for many years. But this is definitely his work.”

He signals an apprentice to bring a lamp and peers inside the silver ball.

“Yes, this is an old tughra. It belonged to Sultan Abdulaziz, may Allah rest his soul.”

“Sultan Abdulaziz’s reign ended ten years ago. Could it have been made after that time?”

The head usta ponders this. “It would not have been officially approved. But it is true that, with Allah’s will, anything can be done at any time.”

“Would Elias Usta have needed permission to engrave a tughra?”

“Permission must be obtained for each item to be inscribed with the seal.”

“Who can give that permission?”

“The padishah himself, the grand vizier, and the harem manager. She would need instructions, however, from one of the senior women.”

“I would like to speak with Elias Usta.”

“I will send him a message. If he agrees to meet with you, I will let you know right away.”

Kamil tries to hide his disappointment at yet another wait, but he needs permission to approach anyone inside the palace.

“Thank you.” He bows.

Another man chimes in, “And we’ll make sure they send an adult with a mustache to fetch you!”

To the sound of laughter, Kamil bows out of the room and follows an apprentice through the warren of corridors and courtyards to the front gate.

The next day, the apprentice appears at Kamil’s office with a note:

It is with great regret that we inform you that Elias Usta was found dead this morning in the palace aviary. May Allah rest his soul.

Paper still in hand, Kamil stares unseeing out the window. It is the first sign that he is moving in the direction of the truth. Was it worth this man’s life? He feels cold, but, as a sacrifice to the dead usta, does not move to close the window against the chill.