Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

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.

The Residence is in a wing at the back of the embassy building. Kamil pushes open the iron gate leading to the private gardens. The air is still crisp in the shade of the plane trees, but there is a delicate sheen of heat beyond its perimeter. Kamil looks up at the enamel-blue sky against which the silver leaves of the plane trees twist and flash. The sight cheers him momentarily, despite the new shadows that have entered his life.

His father has become more irritable and aggressive as Feride, with the collusion of her servants, slowly reduces the amount of opium in his pipe. He strides through the house, flailing at objects that fall to the floor and break; the noise seems to intensify his frenzy. Then suddenly he collapses onto a chair or bed and curls up like an infant. Feride and her daughters are terrified, her husband angry at the disruption. Kamil is unsure where this will lead. He has found nothing in books to guide him and worries that he is killing his father instead of helping him. He is too ashamed to ask the advice of Michel or Bernie. His only close friends, he realizes with a start. Perhaps today he can raise the subject of fathers with Sybil. He is reluctant to reveal himself about something so personal, but he is drawn to see Sybil. Even if the problem of his father is not broached, he thinks, he will find solace in her company.

Mary Dixon also has begun to shadow his life. At his last audience with the minister of justice, Nizam Pasha asked him pointedly what progress had been made in discovering her murderer. It has been almost a month since her body washed up behind Middle Village mosque. His impatient gestures implied that Kamil had failed not just the ministry, but the empire. And perhaps it is so. If he did not know the English ambassador, he might assume pressure was being placed on the minister from that direction. But Kamil thinks Sybil’s father too distracted to muster a sustained attack. Did the British government take such an interest in a mere governess that it would pressure the sultan’s closest aides or even the sultan himself? He wonders, could there be another reason for Nizam Pasha’s intense interest? He remembers the old police superintendent’s intimation of palace involvement in the murder of Hannah Simmons. Were they watching to make sure he found the killer this time, or that he didn’t find him?

And now Elias Usta’s untimely death. Kamil is worried about Sybil. Two Englishwomen were already dead.

Sybil opens the door herself almost as soon as he raises the knocker.

“Hello.” She smiles a brilliant welcome.

“Good morning, Sybil Hanoum. I hope I haven’t come too early.” He finds it momentarily awkward to account for his presence. The reasons he gave himself for stopping by seem fanciful now. “I hope you forgive my intrusion. I know I wasn’t expected until tomorrow evening.”

“I received your message, Kamil Bey. It’s always a pleasure to see you.” She is blushing.

“I hope I find you well.”

“Oh, very well. Very well, indeed. Isn’t it a glorious day?” Sybil steps onto the path and looks about her with the serene enjoyment of a child. She is wearing a dress of pale lilac, trimmed in maroon. The colors reflect in her eyes and give them the same depth as the sky. She walks to the edge of the patio and gazes down at the red-tiled rooftops of houses clinging to the lower hillside, suspended above a sea of fog.

Kamil stands beside her. “Thick as lentil soup, I believe you say.”

Sybil laughs. “That’s your national dish, not ours. It’s pea soup. Thick as pea soup.” She turns to him and touches his arm. “Won’t you come in? Have you breakfasted?”

“Yes, thank you. I have. But I wouldn’t mind some of your delicious tea.” For the British, drinking tea seems an end in itself, he thinks with relief, a ritual to which he can moor his visit.

She leads the way inside to the room off the garden and opens the French doors wide to let in the scented sunlight.

“How is your father?” he asks.

“He’s well, thank you. Busy as always. He’s been inquiring about some of the journalists we know. Apparently there’s been a crack-down and many were sent into exile.”

“These are dangerous days, Sybil Hanoum. Your father is a powerful man and protected by his office, but still he should be careful.” What he means is that Sybil should be careful.

Sybil stares at him for a moment. “Do you really think Father is in danger? I can’t imagine that anyone would harm the British ambassador. Think of the consequences for your regime. It would be an international incident. It could even lead to military intervention by Britain. Surely no one in their right mind would risk that.”