The Mirror Thief(171)

Rest assured, Tarjuman effendi, that others can accomplish these things.

Narkis’s cryptic tone is ugly to Crivano’s ear; it flavors his restrained panic with a new disquiet. If that’s so, he says, then perhaps we might now consider how best to save ourselves. What if we leave for the mainland tonight? With a few days’ advance travel we can meet the ship in Trieste, and then go with them to Spalato.

Our party may not be going to Spalato after all, Tarjuman effendi.

Or, Crivano says, we could risk the uskoks, and sail directly for Constantinople.

They will not be going to Constantinople, either.

Crivano’s teeth chatter; he’s suddenly cold. So damp: he feels as if he’s been ingested by some leviathan. What, he says, are you talking about?

Narkis doesn’t answer. He begins to walk toward the corte again; Crivano stumbles after him. In the opening he can see a small carved wellhead, and fallen tiles littering the pavement. Old friend, Crivano asks again, what do you mean?

In arranging the passage of the two craftsmen, Narkis says, I have had assistance from other interested parties. These parties have made suggestions that may alter aspects of our scheme.

Who? What parties?

I am speaking of certain instruments of the Mughal Empire.

Crivano stops again. Narkis walks ahead for several paces, then slows and turns back. Somewhat sheepishly, it seems. Tarjuman effendi, he says. Come along.

What in the name of God did you just say?

The Mughals. They have been lately challenging our Safavid enemy along his eastern borders, and have conquered Gujarat and Bengal. It seems—

Do I understand correctly, Crivano says, that you intend to take the craftsmen not to Constantinople, but halfway across the world, to Hindustan? To install them among savages, where not a single soul can speak or comprehend their language? Is this what you mean, Narkis? Because, if so, you are insane.

Speak low, Tarjuman effendi. Please.

Crivano’s voice is shot through with hot veins of hysteria; it trembles and cracks like a fuzzy-cheeked boy’s, but he does not hold his tongue. How in the name of the Holy Prophet, he says, can the Mughals assist us? They’re separated from Frankish lands by the breadth of our own empire, and another empire besides. Between us and them lies not only a continent, but an unceasing bloody war. What can they do?

They have arranged to escort us through the lands of the Tatars and the Turkmen, across the Caspian Sea, up the valley of the Amu Darya, to Kabul. We need never enter Safavid territory.

Ah! Crivano half-shrieks. Splendid! I wonder, though, if you have considered how the emperor of Japan might also help us? Now, there is a resource we have not yet exploited! And neither must we ignore the New World, of course. Perhaps we can hitch our craftsmen to a team of parrots and fly them to safety! Oh, it sounds mad, sure. But is it really?

Narkis steps forward and slaps him. Crivano recoils, then raises his stick; it strikes the low ceiling and clatters from his hands. Trembling, he sags against the slimy wall, his eyes full, his breath coming in rapid gasps. After a moment he feels Narkis’s gentle hand on his head. Calm, Tarjuman effendi, he says. I am truly sorry for this. It is not what was intended.

Crivano gulps air, hiccups, picks up his stick. They continue together toward the corte. What do you expect of the craftsmen? Crivano says, when he can speak again.

They will be angry. That is inevitable. But this cannot be avoided. After all, they already believe they’re going to Amsterdam. Is Lahore a much greater deception than Constantinople?

I’d say so, yes. What will you do? Cage them like beasts bound for a menagerie?

If I must, yes.

As they approach the end of the sottoportego, Narkis’s features come gradually into view: first his eyes, reflecting blue light from the corte, followed by his pale face, the fabric of his caftan. A black ribbon runs from the edge of his turban down his cheek and onto his shoulder. Crivano remarks it vaguely; he’s not seen Narkis wear such an ornament before.

I’m not going to Lahore, Narkis, Crivano says. I won’t.

Yes. I expected that you would not.

What, then, should I do?

Sequester yourself for a few days. Once the craftsmen have escaped, come forth and cooperate with the constables. They will be lenient; you can tell them much that will be of value to them. You can continue your life here. Have you a place you can go now? A safe place?

I think so. The Contarini house.

Yes. The senator will protect you. The Morosini, also. These men are powerful, and opposed to the faction that now controls the Council of Ten. You will survive.

Could I return to Constantinople?

Narkis is silent for a long time. That would be difficult, he says.

They enter the corte, stepping around debris to lean against the wellhead. Its hexagonal base bears the emblem of an ancient family, disgraced or devastated by the accident of history. Crivano pays it little mind. Overhead, coppery Mars shines, along with a few bright stars, dulled by the glow of the waxing gibbous moon. Dense scattered clouds still rake the sky, slate-gray against the deep blue.

What are we, Narkis? Crivano asks. Whom have we betrayed, and on whose behalf? Of whom are we agents?

Narkis’s chin is tucked against his chest; he pushes a chip of terracotta back and forth with his boot’s toe. We are agents of the haseki sultan, he says. And agents of the Mughal emperor. We are agents of no one. We are agents of ourselves. And, as we are both scholars, I believe us to be agents of the truth. I truly believe this, Tarjuman effendi.