迪文小说

第58部分（第4页）

your　　work；　　your　　beloved　　miniaturists　　have　　already　　begun　　scheming　　to　　see

who’ll　bee　Head　Miniaturist　upon　your　death。”

Was　this　gossip　I　hadn’t　already　heard？　Had　he　informed　me　of　something

new？　Restraining　myself；　I　didn’t　respond。　The　Head　Treasurer　was　more　than

aware　of　the　fury　I　felt　toward　him　for　missioning　a　manuscript　from　that

deceased　half…wit　behind　my　back；　and　toward　my　ingrate　miniaturists；　who’d

secretly　prepared　these　illustrations　to　curry　favor　and　earn　a　few　extra　silver

coins。

I　caught　myself　pondering　the　methods　of　torture　that　might　be　inflicted。

They　　wouldn’t　　resort　　to　　flaying　　during　　the　　interrogation；　　because　　that

inevitably　leads　to　death。　They　wouldn’t　impale　anyone；　either；　as　they　do　with

rebels；　because　that’s　used　as　a　deterrent。　Cracking　and　splintering　the　fingers；

arms　or　legs　of　these　miniaturists　was　also　out　of　the　question。　Of　course；　the

removal　　of　　an　　eye—which　　I　　gathered　　was　　a　　measure　　of　　increasing　　frequency

these　days；　to　judge　by　the　growing　numbers　of　one…eyed　people　on　the　streets

of　Istanbul—would　be　inappropriate　for　master　artists。　So；　as　I　imagined　my

dear　miniaturists　in　a　secluded　corner　of　the　Royal　Private　Garden；　there　in　the

ice…cold　pool　among　the　water　lilies；　shivering　violently　and　glaring　hatefully　at

one　another；　I　had　the　passing　urge　to　laugh。　Nevertheless；　it　caused　me　agony

to　imagine　how　Olive　would　shriek　when　his　hindquarters　were　branded　with

a　hot　iron　and　how　dear　Butterfly’s　skin　would　pale　when　he　was　shackled。　I

couldn’t　bear　to　conjure　the　scene　of　dear　Butterfly—whose　skill　and　love　for

illumination　brought　tears　to　my　eyes—as　he　was　given　the　bastinado　like　a

mon　thieving　apprentice。　I　just　stood　there　dumbfounded　and　hollow。

My　elderly　mind　was　mute　under　the　spell　of　its　own　internal　silence。　There

was　　a　　time　　when　　we’d　　paint　　together　　with　　a　　passion　　that　　made　　us　　forget

everything。

“These　　men　　are　　the　　most　　expert　　miniaturists　　serving　　Our　　Sultan；”　　I　　said。

“Make　certain　no　harm　befalls　them。”

Pleased；　　the　　Head　　Treasurer　　rose；　　grabbed　　a　　number　　of　　pages　　from　　the

worktable　　at　　the　　other　　end　　of　　the　　room　　and　　arranged　　them　　in　　front　　of　　me。

Next；　as　if　the　room　were　dark；　he　placed　beside　me　two　large　candle　holders

whose　　portly　　tapers　　burned　　with　　bobbing　　and　　twittering　　flames　　so　　I　　could

study　the　paintings　in　question。

How　might　I　explain　what　I　saw　as　I　moved　the　magnifying　lens　over　them？

I　felt　like　laughing—and　not　because　they　were　humorous。　I　was　incensed—it

seemed　　that　　Enishte　　Effendi　　had　　instructed　　my　　masters　　as　　follows：　　“Don’t

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