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unawares I had no time to be afraid。 Even so； I panicked when I saw the
respect and astonishment in the expression of the master velvet maker
standing at the door。 I stepped inside and was at once terrified； I thought I’d
be unable to speak。 He wore the gold embroidered headdress that only he and
the Grand Viziers wore； yes； I was in the presence of the Head Treasurer。 He
was gazing upon the illustrations that rested on a reading table where the clerk
had placed them after taking them from me。 I felt as if I were the one who’d
made the paintings。 I kissed the hem of his robe。
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“My dear child；” he said。 “I haven’t misunderstood； have I； your Enishte has
passed away？”
I couldn’t answer out of excitement； or perhaps guilt； and simply nodded。
At the same time the pletely unexpected happened： There before the
sympathetic and surprised gaze of the Head Treasurer； a teardrop slid ever so
slowly down my cheek。 I was at a loss； I was oddly affected by being in the
palace； by the Head Treasurer having taken leave of Our Sultan to speak to me
and by being so near to Him。 Tears began to stream from my eyes； but I didn’t
feel the slightest tinge of embarrassment。
“Cry to your heart’s content； my dear son；” said the Head Treasurer。
I sobbed and whimpered。 Though I’d assumed the past twelve years had
matured me； being this close to the Sultan； to the heart of the Empire； one fast
realizes he is but a child。 I cared not whether the silversmiths and velvet
makers outside heard my sobbing。 I knew I’d confess to the Head Treasurer。
Yes； I told him all； just as it came to me。 As I once again saw my dead
Enishte； my marriage to Shekure； Hasan’s threats； the difficulties relating my
Enishte’s book and the secrets borne by the illustrations； I regained my
posure。 I felt certain that the only way to extricate myself from the trap I’d
fallen into was to put myself at the mercy of the infinite justice and affection
of Our Sultan； Refuge of the World； and so I withheld nothing。 Before
digesting all that I said and handing me over to the torturers and executioners；
would the Head Treasurer convey my story directly to Our Sultan？
“Let Enishte Effendi’s death be announced in the workshop without delay；”
said the Head Treasurer。 “I want the entire artists’ guild to attend his funeral。”
He looked at me to ascertain whether I might have any objections。
Emboldened by his interest； I expressed my concerns about the culprit； and
the possible motive behind the deaths of my Enishte and the gilder Elegant
Effendi。 I hinted that the followers of the preacher from Erzurum and those
who were targeting dervish houses where music was played and men danced
might be involved。 When I saw the doubtful expression of the Head Treasurer； I
eagerly shared my other suspicions： I informed him that the moary rewards
and honor involved in being invited to illustrate and illuminate Enishte
Effendi’s book had likely led to unavoidable petition and jealousy among
the masters。 The secrecy of the project alone could very well have instigated
these hatreds； grudges and intrigues。 As the words left my mouth； I sensed
nervously that the Head Treasurer had somehow grown suspicious of me—the
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way you have as well。 My dear Allah； let justice be done； that is all I ask；
nothing more。
Within the ensuing silence； the Head Treasurer cast his glance away from
me； as if embarrassed on my behalf for my words and my destiny； and fixed his
attention on the pictures resting on the folding table。
“There are nine plates here；” he said。 “The arrangement had been for a book
with ten illustrations。 Enishte Effendi took more gold leaf from us than has
been used here。”
“That murdering heretic must have stolen the last illustration； upon which
much of the gold was applied；” I said。
“You haven’t told us who the calligrapher…scribe might be。”
“My late Enishte hadn’t yet pleted the book’s text。 He was anticipating
my help in its pletion。”
“My dear child； you’ve just explained how you’re newly arrived in
Istanbul。”
“It’s been one week。 I arrived three days after Elegant Effendi was killed。”
“You mean to say that your Enishte Effendi has been illustrating an
unwritten—a nonexistent—manuscript for an entire year？”
“Yes； sir。”
“Had he； then； revealed to you what the book was to recount？”
“Precisely what Our Sultan stated He wanted： A book that depicted the
thousandth year of the Muslim calendar； which would strike terror into the
heart of the Veian Doge by showing the military strength and pride of
Islam； together with the power and wealth of the Exalted House of Osman。
This was intended to be a book recounting and depicting the most valuable；
most vital aspects of our realm； and just as with the Treatises on Physiognomy； a
portrait of Our Sultan would be situated at the heart of the book。
Furthermore； since the illustrations were made in the Frankish style using
Frankish methods； they would arouse the awe of the Veian Doge and his
desire for friendship。”
“I’m aware of all that； but are these dogs and trees the most valuable and
vital aspects of the Exalted House of Osman？” he said； gesturing wildly at the
illustrations。
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“My Enishte； may he rest in peace； insisted that the book show not Our
Sultan’s wealth alone； but His spiritual and moral strength along with His
hidden sorrows。”
“And Our Sultan’s portrait？”
“I haven’t seen it。 It’s probably wherever that heretic murderer has hidden
it。 Who knows； it’s probably in his house at this very moment。”
My late Enishte had been diminished to the status of a man who’d
missioned a menagerie of odd pictures that the Head Treasurer