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it represents what he wields. He deals in death, with all that implies. Also to demonstrate that he knows the worst that can happen to him. You conquer—and you heap up those skulls, the skulls of your enemies, as a warning and a recognition.”
    “Like Tamerlane,” Yashim said.
    “Tamerlane was a puritan. He stood against luxury and citified ease. To him, and to others like him, we are simply bones robed in flesh. In death, the reality is revealed. The soul, on the other hand, has nothing to do with all that. The skull reveals itself for what it is—an earthly prison. In Europe, the image became associated with the reformed church. Lutherans and Calvinists. Protestants in general. Most especially, among the Germans.”
    Yashim took a deep breath. “The Germans. He was a German?”
    Palewski shook his head. “Yes and no. I think we’re looking at a Russian brand. A Russian regimental badge.”
    Yashim looked puzzled.
    “Medieval Germans,” Palewski began. “ Drang nach Osten —the eastward push. Teutonic knights settling the pagan lands of the Baltic, pushing into East Prussia, Estonia and Latvia, up the coast. Later on, the Russians moved in, and the Baltic Germans had no choice but to accept the tsar as their overlord. They gave up their independence for jobs in the Russian army. The Baltic Germans take to the military life.”
    Yashim nodded. “Like the Albanians, in our armies.”
    “Very like. In Russia, the foot soldiers are Russians, pig-thick and loyal. The generals are Russians, too—loyal, but not necessarily so thick. But the officer corps is stuffed with vons —minor Baltic German aristocracy.”
    “I see. And the Baltic Germans—how loyal are they?”
    “Good question, Yashim. Obviously not considered quite as loyal as the generals—nor quite as dumb as the foot soldiers.”
    “And the death’s-head? This brand?”
    “Belongs, as far as I know, to a regiment that doesn’t officially exist.”
    “What is that supposed to mean?”
    Palewski shrugged. “It isn’t listed in the army book. You hear rumors. Stories about men with that insignia snatching a Tatar warlord, for instance. A platoon spotted in Afghanistan, to discomfit the British in India. It may be that the men who carry the death’s-head badge belong to other regiments but take orders through another channel, which remains secret. That’s what I think.”
    Yashim backed away from the desk and slumped into an armchair.
    “A secret service?”
    “A military secret service, yes. Not the same as the tsar’s spies, quite—the ones I have to deal with,” he added, a little grimly. “My position may offend the tsar—but it’s a tactical detail. It doesn’t affect Russian strategy.”
    Yashim blinked. The sun still shone, but the shadows had lengthened on the floor.
    He glanced at the desk. The skin was curling up: as he watched, it gave a tiny start and rolled back and forth.
    Yashim shuddered. “I think I need to take some advice.”
    Palewski nodded. “Don’t forget to take the skin. I don’t think Marta would like it at all.”

16

    I N the far-off mountains, a shepherd prepared himself for death. He had lived many summers, but now he felt no warmth from the sun and he knew his time had come.
    The shepherd explained everything to his son about the sheep, and the new lambs, and the standing corn.
    He said nothing, however, about the feud. Of the dishonor that could only be cleansed with blood.
    He blessed the boy, and turned his face to the wall.

17

    “ I T seems we have two options.” The grand vizier raised his heavy lids. “Instinctively I would prefer to do nothing.”
    Yashim coughed politely. “The Russians almost certainly know what happened.”
    The vizier blew through his nostrils. “Your little friend on the boat.”
    “If he was working for them—”
    The vizier waved a hand. “Yes, yes. You know the situation with Russia is delicate. We have certain treaties, certain … obligations.”
    Yashim