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for him to go on. “And then?”
    “Yashim efendi, what shall I say? I am not a hunter. I sit and I wait, and if treasure makes its way to me now and then, I am content. Whereas Lefèvre—he is an archaeologist.”
    “He digs at sites, yes.”
    “I think he digs, but not always with a spade.” Malakian tugged at his earlobe. “I have a cousin, Yashim efendi. He is a monk in Erzerum. A Frenchman visited his monastery a few years ago, to study—they have a famous scriptorum. Many, many rare old books—and many ignorant old priests. The Frenchman showed the librarian some books which were badly damaged. Out of gratitude for their help in his work, he offered to have these books repaired.”
    “In Istanbul?”
    Malakian turned his head this way and that, like an elderly tortoise.
    “Tchah! Where is that tea? In Istanbul, yes. But later he wrote to the librarian, explaining that the best bookbinder for the job was in France—in Dijon. That was almost three years ago.”
    Yashim arched his eyebrows. Malakian put up a hand.
    “In fact, the books came back. This year, I think. It was a long time—but they were well bound, and the librarian was pleased. I am sorry to say, his pleasure was short-lived. Some of the original illustrated pages were missing. The binder in Dijon—was he careless or perhaps dishonest? It is hard to say. Lefèvre has stopped answering letters. Do you see? I do not think this was an isolated case. Lefèvre seems to be a clever man, well informed. He is a good judge of quality—better than the poor monks he works on. But he has been lucky, also.”
    “Lucky? You mean he sometimes finds what he wants by chance? Surely all antiquarians have that experience.”
    “No, efendi. That is not the luck I mean.” He gazed sadly at Yashim. “Three days ago I sold a counterfeit coin to a dragoman at the Russian embassy. I got a very good price.”
    He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, you are shocked. I see it. Perhaps, you are thinking, I will not buy anything from Aram Malakian again. So, what is lost?”
    “My trust, perhaps.”
    Malakian smiled and nodded. “But you see, efendi, both of us knew this coin was a counterfeit. Because it was made in the same era as the real coin, it is a collector’s item. Now, like this”—he snapped his tapering fingers—“your trust is restored, I hope.”
    Before Yashim could answer, the tea boy suddenly reappeared, flinging himself against the folded gates.
    “The night watch!” he gasped. “In the book bazaar. They say there’s blood everywhere. I’m going to see!”
    Malakian turned slowly. “Blood?”
    The boy darted off, his empty tray swinging madly from his fingers.
    “Tomfoolery,” Malakian muttered. He looked anxious. He began to shovel the coins back into the linen bag, and Yashim noticed that his hands were trembling. “I was speaking of trust. A few words and—puff! Trust is gone.” He dropped the bag into a drawer and locked it.
    Yashim nodded slowly.
    “Sometimes I think Lefèvre must have forgotten that ignorant monks, cloistered from the world, still have powerful friends and protectors. We Armenians are a small people and do not choose to make enemies. But the Greeks? I am surprised that Lefèvre has come back to Istanbul. I think maybe he pushes his luck too far.”
    Malakian paused and looked around his cubicle. “I’m sorry, efendi, but one can’t be too careful. The boy talks of death, and blood. It could be the work of thieves, to make us frightened. We leave our shops to look and—paff, they get in. You understand?”
    Yashim was on his feet. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll go and see.”

13
    T HE market was in an uproar: Malakian was not the only trader to be hurriedly securing his goods, ringing down the shutters, while anxious shoppers streamed for the gates. Following on the tea boy’s footsteps, Yashim had expected an increasing hubbub as he approached the book bazaar; instead the atmosphere grew tense and frozen,