The Winter Thief

66

Omar and Yakup stood by while the guard unlocked Kamil’s cell. It was early morning on the fourth day of his imprisonment. They found Kamil curled on a quilt, coughing. His face was sallow and unshaven.

“The warden wouldn’t let me bring a doctor last night,” Yakup said, his voice hushed with concern, “despite the bribe.”

“The son of an ass doesn’t want anyone to see how bad the conditions are in here.” Omar turned to the guard. “Get the warden up here right now.”

“I’ll have to lock you in,” the guard said officiously. “I can’t just leave…”

Omar thrust his face into the guard’s and bellowed, “Get that son of a whore Abdulkadir up here now or you’ll lose your job.” As the guard fell back, Omar smiled and added, “And if you don’t hurry, you might lose your teeth as well.” The guard paused a moment longer, hand on the baton hanging from his belt, but then retreated, cursing under his breath.

Yakup squatted beside Kamil. “Can you stand, pasha?”

Kamil struggled to sit upright, then began coughing again. Yakup helped Kamil to his feet. As they were going out the door, the warden appeared, followed by five guards, and blocked their way. The guard who had fetched the warden pointed at the cell door and said something, then stepped back when Omar filled the doorframe.

“What’s going on?” the warden demanded.

“We’re leaving,” Omar said, unruffled. He pushed past the guards and cleared a way for Yakup and Kamil, who needed to lean on his servant as they descended the stairs.

“You can’t just walk out,” the warden shouted. “This is a prison!”

“Sounds like your cough is better, my friend. Don’t forget who you have to thank for that. You might have shared some of that medicine with the pasha here.”

“Allah damn you. Come back here.”

They had reached the path to the main gate. While Yakup helped Kamil into the carriage, Omar turned to the warden. “We’ll be back for the furniture. And I’ll count every candlestick, you crooked son of a bitch.” He thrust into the warden’s hand a folded document that bore the large and impressive seal of the minister of justice, then pushed past him and went into his office. Omar grabbed the pot of ointment his wife had sent and brushed the food on the table onto the floor with his arm. He looked with interest at the warden’s new wool curtains.

When Omar came out, the florid-faced warden confronted him, waving his fist. “How dare you. Never expect anything from me again.”

Omar grabbed the warden’s fist and stuck it into the clay pot, then smashed fist and pot against the side of the warden’s head. The warden dropped to his knees, keening.

“You should be more careful,” Omar admonished him, then went back inside and pulled down the curtains. Humming happily and trailing the material like a toga, he walked to Kamil’s carriage.

Later that evening at Kamil’s, Omar told him about his attempt to use a plaster cast of a boot sole to prove that someone besides Kamil had put Sosi’s body in the church garden.

“Very clever of you. Did it work?” Kamil sipped the warm chamomile and honey mixture Omar’s wife had sent. He could taste other, more bitter undertones, but according to Omar, Mimoza refused to reveal her formula.

Omar looked sheepish. “Well, not exactly. The cast had dirt stuck in it, so it wasn’t very clear. And I didn’t have a chance to get an impression of Vahid’s boot to compare.”

“How did you talk them into releasing me then?”

“It seems you’re a well-connected guy. How come I never knew that? Yorg Pasha and some other pashas, friends of your father’s, it seems, ganged up on the minister of justice and forced him to sign your release.”

Kamil couldn’t imagine his superior, Nizam Pasha, being forced to do anything. He had a will strong enough to face down a division of Russian cavalry. The minister was of an age with his father, and Kamil wondered whether they had been friends. It seemed unlikely, given Nizam Pasha’s dislike of Kamil, the source of which Kamil had never understood.

“It’s not a full pardon, though,” Omar explained, looking away. “Vizier Köraslan is insisting on a trial.”

“That’s absurd!” Kamil exclaimed, his hands grasping the arms of his chair. “I hope he doesn’t expect me to stand in the dock in my own court. Donkeys will fly before I allow that.”

“Think where we could go with rides like that, pasha,” Omar said with half a smile.

Kamil frowned, thinking that among everything he had lost, the ability to laugh was not insignificant.