The Winter Thief

83

“What?” Huseyin croaked. “Why haven’t you told me this before?” He stood up, steadying himself on the arm of the chair. It was the time of day that he usually took a restorative sleep, and he felt tired. He wondered where Feride had gone. He hadn’t seen her since she had brought him his tea that morning. Something was bothering her. Since his return, she had refused to look him in the face. He caught sight of himself in a gold-framed mirror on the wall and saw the pink scar that stretched across his cheek from his ear to the side of his nose. Did Feride find him ugly now? Too ugly to love? He felt suddenly incapable of standing and sat heavily on a chair.

Yorg Pasha was dismayed to see that he had overtaxed and upset Huseyin. Doctor Moreno had told them that although Huseyin was able to move about with a cane, his lungs were still not healed, and it wouldn’t take much for the toxins in his lungs to infect other tissues. Huseyin was not to leave the house, Doctor Moreno had impressed upon his family, and he was not to be distressed.

“Kamil still has two weeks to report back before Sultan Abdulhamid sends troops to the valley,” Yorg Pasha lied. He didn’t tell Huseyin about the reports Simon had been receiving that the entire region was preparing for an attack, or that after the recent attempt on his life the sultan had decided not to wait for Kamil’s report. The troops were on their way to the east. Yorg Pasha had sent Kamil a telegram in Trabzon warning him of the impending attack, but Kamil had inexplicably continued on to New Concord. He hoped Huseyin would know a way to help but hadn’t wanted to upset him by telling him the full extent of the danger Kamil was in.

“Get my coat,” Huseyin told a servant, “and get the carriage ready. I’m going to my office.” He rose from the chair and leaned on his cane.

“Really, Huseyin. There’s no need.” Yorg Pasha reached out a hand to stop him.

“You don’t understand. I’m the sultan’s minister for the east.”

He looked at Huseyin in surprise. “That doesn’t matter. You need to stay home and rest. Write a letter and I’ll take it to the palace.”

“Bah,” Huseyin growled, and hobbled from the room.

Yorg Pasha hurried after him. Wrapped in furs, they stepped out onto the drive, where Vali waited with the carriage. It had rained overnight and the air was chilly. Huseyin stopped for a moment and swayed, then took a breath, which Yorg Pasha could see was painful for him. Vali helped the two men, one after the other, into the carriage, which he had padded with felt against drafts.

“Is this really necessary?” Huseyin rasped, indicating the ten Albanian mounted guards following the carriage. “I’m not afraid of Vahid.”

“You should be,” Yorg Pasha told him.