Various manuscript pages lay before me and the great Master Osman—some with calligraphed texts and ready to be bound, some not yet colored or otherwise unfinished for whatever reason—as we spent an entire afternoon evaluating the master miniaturists and the pages of my Enishte’s book, keeping charts of our assessments. We thought we’d seen the last of the Commander’s respectful but crude men, who’d brought us the pages collected from the miniaturists and calligraphers whose homes they raided and searched (some pieces had nothing whatsoever to do with either of our two books and some pages confirmed that the calligraphers, as well, were secretly accepting work from outside the palace for the sake of a few extra coins), when the most brash of them stepped over to the exalted master and removed a piece of paper from his sash.

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