Crivano looks at the walls that edge the corte. He can see dim lamplight in some windows. What does your emperor want with our craftsmen? he says.
He is interested in mirrors. He keeps a sizable collection of them. The ones he showed me were quite old, and inferior to what Murano now produces. He confided to me that he dreams of building a mirrored palace, where everyone can be seen always, where everyone can always see himself. Everything is always clear. The emperor’s grand unlettered mind is itself like a mirror, Tarjuman effendi. Its surface can hold anything, and yet remains unscarred by error and falsehood. I believe him to be the perfect sovereign. The Guided One foretold by the hadith.
A long silence. Then more muffled shouts from the street, and a flash of lantern-light down the sottoportego. Crivano tenses in fear, but Narkis doesn’t react. After a moment the light moves away, and the voices cease.
They will return soon, Narkis says. With more men. They know that we have come here.
Is there another way out?
There is. A moment, please.
Narkis’s face is slack with weariness, or disappointment, or grief. Crivano has never learned how old he is; at this moment he looks very old. What about you? Crivano says. Where can you go?
Vacant buildings, Narkis says. Since I do not speak the local language well, it will be difficult for me to arrange passage from the city. Perhaps I will hide myself among the Greeks and escape to Dalmatia on one of their boats.
What happened to your head, Narkis?
Narkis looks up, touches his cheek, looks at his fingers. This? he says. This is nothing. A group of boys throwing stones. They were trying to knock off my turban, I think. It happens often enough. They meant no real harm.
Crivano watches him with a mixture of sorrow and revulsion. Millennial fervor abounds in Muslim lands this year, the thousandth year of the Hegira, but it has never occurred to Crivano that Narkis might be susceptible to it. He remembers something Trist?o said about the Nolan, about how he’d been searching the courts of Christendom for a philosopher-king to instruct. Perhaps he should have traveled farther east. What produces credulous fools like these?
He remembers something else. Might not Trist?o be in danger? he says.
Who?
Dottore de Nis. How much does he know of our plot?
Narkis’s eyes narrow in the dark; the hint of a furrow appears on his smooth brow. I know of no one by that name, he says.
Of course you do. The Portuguese alchemist. The converso. When you and I met in Ravenna, you instructed me specifically to seek him out. You said that his activities could serve as a blind for our own conspiracy. Like the gecko who drops his tail, you said. You must remember.
Narkis offers a tentative nod. Yes, he says. I suppose I do. His name came to me from the haseki sultan, by way of her lady-in-waiting. My recollection is faint, I confess. My attention has since been directed to other matters.
But you must know him, Crivano persists. He arranged our meeting at the bookshop. He introduced me to Ciotti. He suggested you as a translator. I’m sure I saw sbirri watching us when we left Minerva, so I thought that surely—
Crivano’s voice trails off. The crease in Narkis’s brow deepens, stretching his skin, reopening his cut, but now his eyes are wide. My summons came from the bookseller himself, he says. I have never met the person of whom you speak.
The scrape of a boot echoes from the far terminus of the sottoportego; a half-hooded lantern glints along its slick wall. Crivano can hear gruff whispers. They’re coming, he says.
Narkis has moved to the corner of the corte almost before Crivano has turned around. A thick piece of pinewood is propped against the wall there; Narkis climbs it to grab a loop of rope that dangles from a narrow window, then squeezes inside as Crivano pushes his feet from below. Crivano hands Narkis his walkingstick and ascends, planting a toe on the cracked dentil molding long enough to kick the wood aside, dragging himself through the window as Narkis pulls him by the arms. Shouts from the sottoportego, and a bobbing light: the sbirri must have heard the pinewood fall. Crivano pulls up the loop of rope after himself.
They’re in a dark and musty storeroom, cluttered with empty and broken crates; many are rotten, fuzzed with moss. Soft footfalls come from overhead. Someone is upstairs, Crivano whispers.
Narkis waves a hand, as if this is no concern, and steps out of the moonlight. Crivano takes hold of his sleeve to follow him. They emerge in a hallway, which leads in turn to an ancient staircase; as they descend, it groans menacingly under their weight. Narkis leads him to a heavy door, then stops, his hand on the bolt. They must be near the street now; Crivano hears strident commands, heavy boots on pavingstones.
Beyond this door, Narkis says, is a storefront. The shopkeeper and his family are upstairs; they will be down soon when they hear it open, so you must be quick.