Traveling With The Dead(54)

But none molested him. In time he felt his way back to the stair—painfully, endlessly, across the baths, thanking God that navigating in the dark was a skill he’d kept up from his spying days—and up to the grass-grown court, where the little light of the stars seemed bright to his eyes. As he crept through the courtyard, he heard the silvery clashing of vampire laughter from within the salon, and the young woman’s voice pleading incoherently. It seemed to him, as he bolted his own door behind him and sank to his knees under a sudden wave of nervous shaking that the sound came to him still—that, and the moaning of the prisoner behind the crypt door.

It was a long time before he managed to get to his feet and stumble to the divan, where he lay shivering as if with killing fever until the muezzins of the Nouri Osmanie cried the late winter dawn.





Chapter Seventeen


“I suspected my remark about how valuable you thought the information would yield results.” Prince Razualmovsky slashed with his riding whip at the two curs sleeping on the marble steps. They slunk a few feet away and stretched out again in the dust of the plaza that had once been the Hippodrome, tongues lolling an incongruous raspberry against wolfish coats which, even without her eyeglasses, Lydia could tell were half worn away with mange.

Constantinople had more dogs—and, as she had seen last night, more cats—than any city she’d ever been in.

The animals seemed to operate on two different levels, as indeed, she reflected, they would have to. As Prince Razumovsky’s carriage had worked carefully through the streets of the old city, where wooden Turkish houses appeared to sprout spontaneously from more ancient walls, the dogs had been everywhere, lying in the muck or against the walls of ochre or pink stucco. The cats had the overhanging balconies or shared the sills of heavily barred windows with potted geraniums, or lay on the walls and trellises of tiny cafes where Turkish men sipped tea and talked under stringy canopies of leafless vines.

“Someone always knows someone,” the Russian continued, white teeth gleaming under tawny haystacks of mustache. “The good brass seller mentioned our questions to his friends at the cafe that night, or perhaps a beggar overheard us or the man selling baklava. One of them knew a street sweeper whose sister knew the hakawati shair by sight or had a cousin who’d heard one of the muezzins mention that a new hakawati shair had taken up residence in this place, or one of the neighborhood children mentioned it to another child… It was a Syrian boy who brought me the information.”

“What did you pay him?” Lydia reached for the small reticule of silver mesh that hung at her waist. “I can’t let you…”

“An entirely negligible sum.” His Highness waved dismissively. “It will support his family for two months, doubtless—or buy one member of it two days’ worth of opium, if that’s their choice.” He held out his hand to help her over the marble sill of the narrow door.

He had been treating her all morning as if she were made of cut glass, apparently under the impression that her haggard eyes and pallor were the result of a night of sleepless worry over her husband, not a night spent single-mindedly plowing through four and a half months’ worth of the investor listings of the two biggest banks in the city.

There were more than a score of corporations and investors that seemed to fit the criteria. More people than a single vampire had guessed the way the wind was blowing back in July and started transferring funds into less vulnerable forms than real estate and gold. She wondered if it were possible to obtain the long-term banking records of the oldest banks—how long had there been banks in the empire, anyway?—or of property holders, to see whose lives went on for a suspiciously long time before they transferred their money to equally long-lived successors. The various names under which the palace chamberlain laundered money came up again and again in everyone’s accounts— and given the general level of corruption in Constantinople, it was almost impossible to track how money appeared and disappeared.

By five in the morning Lydia had a dozen names—two of which Margaret had completely missed in the Deutsches Bank records—and Margaret had long since fallen asleep with her head on her arms.

Had she not reviewed the records, Lydia suspected she’d have had the night of sleepless worry in any event, so it was just as well she’d had work to occupy her.

“Are you sure this is all right?” Margaret asked, flushing an uncomfortable red. “It isn’t allowed, is it?”

“The courtyard is free to all,” said Razumovsky. “But it would probably be best if you let me speak.”

The Blue Mosque was one of the greatest in the city, a place where there were always people.

That, Lydia realized a moment later, was the point.

Razumovsky led them—Lydia burningly conscious of her Western gown and the gauzy excuse for a veil depending from her stylish hat—toward the north wall of the court, where wintry light fell upon the men along the colonnade: a bearded man in a turban selling small loops of bright-colored prayer beads on a blanket; another cross-legged behind what looked like a little desk, complete with brass inkwell, standish, and shaker of sand. There was the inevitable shoe-shine boy with his little brass-bound kit. Two men in rags, sitting near the small marble pavilion in the middle of the court fingering their beads, glared at the women as they passed, but neither spoke.

The man they sought occupied a worn carpet next to the bead sellers pitch. He was conversing with a thin, elderly man in a white robe and yellow turban, but looked up as Razumovsky drew near, and Lydia had an impression of a huge hooked nose and a tangle of dirty white beard, a green blob of turban, and, when she cast down her eyes, of grimy, horny feet with toenails like a bear’s claws poking from beneath his robe. He was ragged, and his clothing smelled of filth and sweat; he gave off anger and distrust like a blast of heat in her face.

“Qabih… qabih …” he muttered ferociously, glaring up at her and then past her at Margaret. “Qahbdt …” He averted his face then and added in hoarse French, “An unveiled woman is an abomination in the eyes of God.”

“Maitre conteur.” Lydia curtseyed deeply. “Please forgive me. Do you call me ill names because I wear the veil which my husband gave me to wear?” She touched the thin net veil of her green taffeta hat. “Do you blame me for wearing clothing, and dressing my hair, as my husband wishes to see me adorned?”

The man in the yellow turban had stepped tactfully away, leaving Lydia, Razumovsky, and Margaret alone with the old hakdwati shah. Lydia knelt on the worn marble paving of the mosque’s court, reflecting that after journeying all the way from Oxford, the bottle-green skirt needed cleaning anyway. “And if my husband has disappeared,” she went on, still in French, which the old man seemed to follow well enough, “and I know him to be in danger, am I impure for wanting to aid him?” Ysidro, she thought, should hear me now.

The black eyes glittered, chips of coal. She could see the dark line of downturned mouth amid the tangled beard, hear the anger in his voice when he replied, but she saw, in the set of his shoulders, the way he drew back from her and looked, for one fleeting instant, past Razumovsky to the courtyard gate, that he was afraid.

“You are the wife of the Ingileezee in the brown clothing, the man who asked all the questions about the Deathless Lord.”

Lydia nodded. She wondered how close Razumovsky was standing behind her and how much he heard. “I am.”

“He was a fool,” snapped the old storyteller. “To seek the residence of Wafat Sahib is the act of a fool, and a fool’s fate overtook him.”

“Did you tell him?”

The old man looked away. “I told him nothing,” he said sharply, and Lydia knew he was lying. James had probably offered him money. With feet like that, and the characteristic roughening of pellegra on the skin of his face, he was beyond a doubt desperately poor.

“It was my boy Izahk,” the storyteller went on, too quickly. “A discreet boy; one I thought too clever to be seen. But when he did not come back that night, I knew he had done that which is forbidden: he had spoken of Wafat Sahib, and that lord is not a lord to tolerate such chatter.” His black eyes narrowed, and his voice, almost a whisper to begin with, sank lower still, so that Lydia had to draw close, within reach of the gusts of breath that smelled of strong coffee and rotting teeth.

“Wafat Sahib, he has been lord in this city since my great-grandfather’s time and before. He knows what is said of him in the streets, even by light of day. Even for the Ingileezee to ask me, to offer me money—which of course I did not touch,” he added loudly, “made me afraid. So I came here, out of the sight of the men who serve him. Now they tell me the hortlak, the afrit, the gola, have been seen among the tombs outside the city, walking among the cypress trees by the tomb of Hasim al-Bayad, stopping travelers who walk late upon the road and killing them in the darkness.”

Ysidro ? wondered Lydia, recognizing one of the words as the Turkish for vampire. Or had Ysidro in his search missed something, some clue? Been deceived by the concealing glamours of the vampire mind?