YASHIM, as it happened, was already dealing with his second visitor of the evening.
Palewski had come up the stairs to sniff the aroma on Yashim’s landing, but for once he was disappointed. There was a faint smell of onions, he imagined, and perhaps boiled carrot, but the insubstantial clues failed to gel: it could be any number of recipes. Then he noticed the shoes, a pair of sturdy leather sandals.
Company, he supposed. He knocked on the door.
There was a slight delay, and the door opened an inch.
“Thank God it’s you,” Yashim said, pulling the door open and scooping Palewski through into the room.
Palewski almost dropped his valise in surprise. Yashim was holding a large kitchen knife, not that it mattered. What struck his notice instead was the body of a huge man, facedown on the carpet, largely enveloped in a knotted sheet.
“I’ve got to do something about this maniac,” Yashim said shortly. “I’ve tied his wrists with the corner of a sheet, but now I’m out of ideas.”
Palewski blinked. He looked at Yashim, and back at the body on the floor. He realized that the man was breathing hard.
“Perhaps what you need,” he said quietly, fumbling at his waist, “is this.”
He held out a long cord, made of twisted silk and gold thread.
“It went with my dressing gown. My Sarmatian finery, I should say.”
Together, they bound the man’s wrists tightly behind his back. Yashim undid the sheet and wrapped it around his legs: the man was so docile that Palewski found it hard to credit what Yashim was saying.
“A wrestler?” Then he silently mouthed the word: “Janissary?”
“Don’t worry, he can’t hear, poor bastard. No, not a Janissary. It’s odder than that. Worse than I thought. Look, I have to reach the palace immediately. I don’t know what I could have done with this fellow if you hadn’t come. Will you stay? Keep an eye on him? Prick him if he tries to move.”
Palewski was staring at him in horror.
“For God’s sake, Yash. Can’t we get him to the night watch?”
“There isn’t time. Give me an hour. There’s bread and olives. You can leave him here after that. If he gets free, so be it—though you could try knocking him on the head with a saucepan before you go. For my sake.”
“All right, all right, I’ll stay,” Palewski grumbled. “But it’s not what I joined for, you know. One night, intimate conversation with the sultan. Next night, quiet evening with friends. Third night, silent vigil over murderous three-hundred-pound wrestling deaf-mute. I think I’ll have a drink,” he added, sliding his valise closer.
But Yashim was hardly listening.
“It’s two I owe you,” he said over his shoulder, as he cleared the top flight of stairs in a single jump.