“I need an escort, Palewski,” Yashim was explaining. “You know, somebody with an in with the sultan. He’d expect that. And you two are very pally, aren’t you?”
It was Saturday morning. The rain that lashed against Yashim’s windows had been falling steadily since before dawn, much to the advantage of the New Guards struggling to extinguish the city fires. With the breaks their cannon had opened in the night, the fire had been contained to the area of the port, and although the damage was said to be serious, it did not approach the scale of 1817, or 1807, or of almost a dozen major fires that had broken out in that district in the previous century. And the port, when all was said and done, was not the most prized Istanbul quarter.
Palewski put up two fingers and touched his mustache, to hide a smile.
“Pally’s the word for it, Yash. I’ve a mind to present the sultan with a little something that arrived for me this morning, saved by providence from the fire in the port.”
“Ah, providence,” echoed Yashim.
“Yes. I happened to notice that stocks were getting rather low last Thursday, so I ordered another couple of cases out of bond immediately. What do you think?”
“Yes, I think that the sultan would appreciate the gesture. Not that he’d drink it, of course.”
“Of course not. No bubbles in it, for one thing.”
They smiled at each other.
“I’m sorry about the thug last night,” Palewski said.
Yashim yawned, shaking his head.
“I don’t know what you hit him with. He was gentle as a lamb when I got back. Preen and her friend were chatting away with him, you can’t believe. Not that he said much, naturally, but he seemed to be enjoying their company. Preen said she could take him to a doctor. I think she said a horse doctor, but there you are. He seemed very grateful when I explained it to him.”
“In mime?”
“In sign. It’s a language I learned when I was at court.”
“I see.” Palewski frowned. “I didn’t hit him, you know.”
“I know. I’m glad. Will you call for me at six?”