by Kage Baker
Bell-Fairfax stepped up to the window and peered out. “Where it wouldn’t be seen by anyone looking out?”
“Just so.”
Bell-Fairfax raised the little weapon to eye level and, sighting along it awkwardly, fired a bolt no more than a half-inch long. It hit its intended target with a bang, sounding as though a bird had flown into the casement, and nearly buried itself in the window frame. Bell-Fairfax ducked back, and Ludbridge swiftly closed the window. “Well done! You may light the lamps now, Pengrove. Hobson, it’s nearly six. You’re on duty at the transmitter.”
“What was the purpose of the bolt, sir?” Bell-Fairfax inquired. “All in good time,” said Ludbridge, as a knock sounded at the door. Ludbridge waited until the lamps were lit before opening it to admit Mr. Polemis, who had swathed himself in a cloak.
“He will see you now,” he said quietly.
“Very good. Bell-Fairfax, you’ll come along. Hobson, make your report at six precisely. Lock the door after us, please, Pengrove,” said Ludbridge.
They slipped out a side entrance of the hotel and proceeded along streets black but for starlight and the occasional pool of lamplight from the windows of a house. Far down on the harbor they could see the lamps of ships at anchor, and the many dim lights of Stamboul beyond. At the end of a winding lane was a coffee house, from which came the clicking of backgammon counters, the rattle of dice and a low hum of conversation; a single lamp flickered above the door, casting its light on a single painted tile set in the keystone of the door’s arch. The tile appeared to depict a green lion with a golden ball in its jaws.
“The side entrance,” murmured Mr. Polemis. He led them around to a low door, unlit. It opened to his knock, and they hurried in; Bell-Fairfax was obliged to remove his hat and bend low in order to pass through. Up a narrow flight of stairs, then, and down a corridor. A Turk in the uniform of the palace guard stood before the door at the corridor’s end, watching them closely as they approached. Mr. Polemis made a certain sign. The Turk nodded and stood aside.
They entered a room overpoweringly fragrant with the scent of coffee, no doubt emanating from the bags of beans stacked along the walls. In the center of the room was a low table surrounded by cushions. A Turkish gentleman sat at the table, unconcernedly sipping coffee.
“My lord.” Mr. Polemis bowed to the ground. “The visiting English.”
The gentleman lifted his head. He wore a military tunic; his beard was still dark, neatly trimmed, and his black gaze was opaque. Ludbridge bowed, motioning Bell-Fairfax to do likewise. They removed their hats. Their host did not remove his fez.
“Please, seat yourselves,” said the gentleman, in perfectly accented English. “Have you dined?”
“We have, sir.” Ludbridge lowered himself onto a cushion, and Bell-Fairfax followed suit somewhat awkwardly.
“Will you have coffee?”
“We should like that very much, sir.”
The gentleman waved his hand. Polemis brought a coffee urn on a tray and two more cups, filling them with thick rose-scented brew. Ludbridge and Bell-Fairfax drank, and after a contemplative silence of a moment or two the gentleman continued:
“I trust your voyage was a pleasant one?”
Ludbridge replied that it had been. The conversation proceeded in the same vein for some few minutes, formal small talk of the most noncommittal nature. By degrees it proceeded to the subject of hunting, and whether or not Ludbridge or Bell-Fairfax had ever attended a foxhunt in England (they had not), and whether it was customary to kill the fox once it was caught. Ludbridge explained that the hounds generally did that, and the gentleman nodded thoughtfully and observed that it was a good thing to own hounds, when killing was necessary. And why was it necessary to hunt the fox?
Ludbridge explained that foxes were great destroyers of poultry. The gentleman nodded once more, and called for Polemis—who sat patiently by the door—to fill the coffee cups again. Another pause, while coffee was sipped and savored. The gentleman reached into his tunic and drew forth a few sheets of folded paper, and set them on the table beside Ludbridge’s cup.
“These are the names of two foxes,” said the gentleman. “Their observed habits and where they make their dens, also.”
“Very good,” said Ludbridge, tucking the papers into his coat. The gentleman looked into his coffee cup a long moment, swirling its contents around and around.
“Have you ever heard the word tanzimat, may I ask?”
“No, sir.”
“Its meaning is very similar to your English word reformation. Ancient and corrupt systems dismantled, and new systems, closer I think to the will of Allah, put in place. Undeserved privileges taken from petty authorities. Bribery and perjury punished. Justice, mercy and compassion guaranteed for the poor. Nor is this all: the state made strong again by the adoption of modern arrangements, rather than a medieval bureaucracy. Our empire is manifestly weak and ill, gangrenous I might say; what will save it but the amputation of its festering limb?”
“It seems an excellent policy,” said Ludbridge.
“Any wise man would say so,” said the gentleman, and sighed. “But not the greedy ones who profit under the old system. Not the narrow-minded zealots who regard any change as heresy, and use their scholarly authority to condemn it. Do you see?”
“We, of all people, see!” said Bell-Fairfax heatedly. Ludbridge gave him a sidelong look.
“Kindly be indulgent of my young friend,” he said. “He too is a devout believer in the need for reformation.”
“Commendable,” said the gentleman, with a slight bow in Bell-Fairfax’s direction. “To continue: my master’s father saw that the empire must reform, and worked with the Magi to begin the process. My master is a wise and gentle man, and a dutiful son moreover, for he has carried our banner forward and decreed sweeping changes in the old laws. And, of course, this has made him many enemies.
“By the grace of Allah and the vigilance of his servants, my master has narrowly avoided assassination on several occasions. Interpreting the law of the All-Merciful and Compassionate to mean that he himself must be a model of mercy and compassion, my master has declined to sign the death warrants of his would-be assassins.
“Unfortunately, while meritorious and admirable in itself, his clemency has resulted in making other conspirators bolder. So is leniency repaid.”
“I perceive the difficulty,” said Ludbridge.
“I was certain you would.” The gentleman had another sip of his coffee. He set the cup down on the table. “My master is troubled by illness; it may well please Allah to take him into Paradise sooner rather than later, and so it is therefore important that he accomplish as much as he can in his allotted time.
“When the hour of his passing comes, and may it come a thousand years from this hour, I would not have my master’s virtuous soul weighed down with any consideration of executions ordered in his own defense. I, his servant, will gladly bear the weight of any sin incurred for his safety’s sake—but secretly.”
“Commendable,” said Ludbridge. His hand strayed to the breast of his coat a moment, and touched the bulge of folded paper there. The gentleman’s eyes followed his gesture.
“I am glad that you understand,” he said solemnly. “Let us speak of pleasanter matters. I was delighted to learn that our fraternity of scholars and artificers has a counterpart in England! Truly it is said that we are everywhere. I have brought something with me that might interest you.”
He leaned down to a satchel he had placed under the table, and withdrew a small parcel wrapped in silk. Unwrapping it, he revealed an ancient codex bound in a frame of silver.
“This is a manuscript, formerly in the possession of the illustrious al-Jazari,” he said. “His own translation of a work by a certain Greek. Your brotherhood owns the companion volume, I understand . . . this, however, was locked away, and has never been copied.”
He opened it for their inspection, and turned a few pages. Ludbridge and Bell-F
airfax glimpsed an image of a chariot and horses, floating over the heads of spectators who held up their stiff hands in astonishment. Ludbridge caught his breath. “Why was it never copied?”
“The subject matter was pronounced blasphemous,” the gentleman replied. “It contains detailed instructions for creating wonders—such as this iron charioteer and horses that float like clouds—but their purpose was to encourage belief in the power of false gods. Unfortunately, this consideration outweighed the fact that the science might be put to other uses that are not sinful, and so the book was kept in a library of other forbidden works, under lock and key and closely guarded. It took us years of patient work to find it.
“Of course, in this modern age in which we live, no one has any desire to build temples to Zeus. Therefore I think it will do no harm if a few fellow monotheists are allowed to copy the text and illustrations.”
He closed the book and wrapped it in silk once more. “When you visit me again, the book will be available for your closer inspection.”
“I look forward to the occasion,” said Ludbridge.
“Excellent.” The gentleman turned his empty coffee cup over and set it on the serving-tray. “Good evening to you both. Walk safely in the streets.”
Mr. Polemis accompanied them back as far as the hotel, where he bid them good night and took his leave.
“Have we just been asked to commit murder?” Bell-Fairfax asked Ludbridge in a low voice, as they climbed the stairs.
“No indeed,” said Ludbridge. He was puffing a little as they reached the landing, and paused there a moment as he fumbled in his coat for his cigar case and match safe. “Merely to assist the pasha in a couple of slightly irregular executions. Have you qualms? I was under the impression you had blooded your sword on a few occasions whilst in the Navy.”
“I did. Yes.”
“Consider what’s at stake, then, if you like. And consider the reward.”
Edward was silent as they climbed to the next landing. “With or without the reward, the task seems necessary.”
“That’s the way.” Ludbridge lit a cigar and exhaled smoke. “You’ll do well, dear boy. Quite well.” They reached the door of their room and he rapped briskly on the panel. “Here, Charley, let us in! We’ve just had an adventure!” he called loudly.
Pengrove unlocked and opened the door to them. His eyes were wide. “So have we,” he said.
“What d’you mean?” Ludbridge and Bell-Fairfax entered, and locked the door. Hobson was sitting by the Aetheric Transmitter, turning and turning the earpieces in his hands.
“I got on at six to call in, just as you told me,” he said. “Got through to London easily, too. Greene says he wants your expense reports weekly, not all in one huge report from the last place on the itinerary.”
“So noted,” said Ludbridge. “That’s not all that happened, is it?”
“No,” said Hobson. “After London signed off I sat awhile practicing, you know, seeing if anyone else was talking out there. I picked up a few voices, quite far away and faint. I recognized Bainbury—he was transmitting from a ship in the North Sea. But then, as I was turning the dials, suddenly I got a conversation. Quite loud! Actually had to reduce the volume. Two men talking, and sometimes a third. They seemed to be in the same room, not transmitting to each other. They were speaking English, but they weren’t English at all.”
“Really? What were they?” Ludbridge sank onto a chair and tipped ash from his cigar.
“Well, one of them was a Russian,” said Hobson. Ludbridge nodded. “The other one—or two—were Americans.”
“Really.”
“And they were—as near as I could tell, the one who did most of the talking seemed to be some sort of missionary, and the other fellow was his assistant. They weren’t our people, you see! That’s the strangest part. Didn’t seem to understand they were speaking through a transmitter at all. And I still can’t think how—”
Ludbridge held up his hand. “I can. It means the hidden transmitter we planted works admirably.”
“When did we plant a hidden transmitter?” asked Pengrove.
“What did you imagine the business with the little crossbow bolt was?” said Ludbridge impatiently. “It has a remarkably tiny receiver built into it. A gift from our Informant, who has suggested that the Society can learn something to its advantage by spying on the Russians. Everything it hears is transmitted directly to the London office, for the translators. But what was Brother Jonathan discussing with the Russian Bear?”
Hobson rubbed his chin. “It was . . . well, the Americans did most of the talking. Telling the Russian about the dreadful treatment they’d witnessed the Eastern priests receiving at the hands of the Roman Catholics. How they’d taken their seminary class to see the Holy Land and everywhere they went, it was the same: the Papists having at the Eastern Orthodoxers, you know, being insolent and trampling them down and all that sort of thing.”
Pengrove sniffed. “The Easterners gave as good as they got, from what we could see.”
“Perhaps these fellows saw a different fistfight from the one we watched,” said Hobson. “Anyhow, they went on and on about it, how it was all the Pope colluding with the French and the Jews, and what did the Czar intend to do about it?”
“What did the Russian say?”
“He seemed as though he didn’t know what to say,” replied Hobson. “But trying to be polite, you know. The Americans were so insistent! Saying that true Christians needed to support each other against the wicked wiles of the Pope.”
“I thought most of the Americans were Catholic,” said Pengrove. “All those Irish who emigrated, what? Never expected they’d turn out a lot of raving Calvinists.”
“Did they identify themselves?”
“The one who did most of the talking left his calling card,” said Hobson. “He’d hoped to get an audience with the Russian Ambassador. He read it out for the Russian chap. Reverend Amasa Breedlove, of the Norvell Bible College of Nashville, Tennessee. I think the other fellow’s name was Jackson.”
“Extraordinary,” said Ludbridge. “And absurd. Had a rather exaggerated sense of his own importance, evidently. Anything else of note?”
“Not that I heard,” said Hobson.
“You don’t suppose these would be the filibusters we were asked to watch for?” said Bell-Fairfax. Ludbridge scowled, tugging at his beard.
“Unlikely, I should think; this chap sounds more of a religious busybody. Still . . . never hurts to pass these trifles on to London. Never know what may come of it. If nothing else, we’ve learned that our bolt receiver works a treat! Well done, Hobson. As for our other business: Pengrove, you’ll take a stroll with Bell-Fairfax tomorrow.”
“Must I wear the hat-camera?”
“I’m afraid so.” Ludbridge reached inside his coat and drew out the folded papers. Opening them, he smoothed them out on his knee and studied what had been written there.
“No, no!” Pengrove cried, waving his arms at the boatman. “I need the camera too!” The boatman, who had resumed his seat, glared up at the mound of photographic paraphernalia still piled on the paving stones and shook his head. Bell-Fairfax leaned forward and said something to him in Turkish, at which he expostulated, leaning forward on his oar. At last Bell-Fairfax reached into his pocket and paid out a few more coins, and rose on the thwart to haul the rest of Pengrove’s equipment into the caique himself. Muttering, the boatman backed and steered them around, and took them across to Stamboul.
“He said you had so much gear with you, it constituted another passenger,” Bell-Fairfax explained.
“Horrid man,” said Pengrove. “Horrid place. I don’t mind telling you, this is not at all what I expected of the glorious East. Not a bit like the Arabian Nights, what?”
“You’ve only seen the docks, so far,” said Bell-Fairfax. “What if you were a foreigner, and had heard a great deal about the power and majesty of Great Britain, and then went there and all you saw was Lime-house
? Stamboul is quite picturesque.”
“I suppose,” said Pengrove, looking across the leaping sea at the dome of Hagia Sophia. “Did you really mean it, about that brothel?”
“Yes.”
“Plump beauties with veils and beads and things?”
“Yes.”
“Is it expensive?”
“No. Quite reasonable.”
“Really.” Pengrove set his monocle more firmly in place. “I could quite fancy a visit, you know. Do you suppose we might go there first?”
“We have a job to do, Pengrove.” Bell-Fairfax looked at him askance. “Can you see yourself making a report to Ludbridge? ‘Well, the first thing we did was slip off for an hour’s pleasant fornication’?”
“Oh, I suppose not.”
“And, in any case, you’ll want to purchase some French letters first.”
“Why the devil would I want a French letter?”
Bell-Fairfax stared at Pengrove. “A prophylactic sheath,” he enunciated carefully. Pengrove blushed scarlet and his monocle fell out.
For several hours that morning, the inhabitants of Stamboul were treated to the sight of a pair of Englishmen lugging photographic equipment here and there about the city. The smaller of the two seemed intent on photographing his outlandishly tall friend against a variety of backgrounds: crumbling old medieval fortifications, modern artillery barracks no less crumbling, decrepit mosques, the immense warship Mahmudiye lying at anchor with her rigging in disarray and her hull grown with seaweed.
After each shot the taller gentleman would hurry to put up a tiny portable tent, into which his friend would vanish for several minutes. Any curious onlookers venturing close were driven back by the dreadful chemical reek. Any who remained might see the smaller man stagger forth at last, waving a paper negative image on which his tall friend had been transformed into a black-skinned ghoul with silver eyes, the sight of which caused small children and less educated adults to flee screaming.
At some point the Englishmen produced a bottle, and thereafter their behavior became somewhat disorderly, at last drawing the attention of a hostile policeman. Suspicious, he took to following the Englishmen about, fuming as they posed in a disrespectful manner before the Sublime Porte itself. When they made their wobbly way to the ostentatiously grand mansion of a local official, and seemed intent on photographing it from every possible angle, the policeman decided the pair of idiot infidels had gone too far. He descended on them in wrath, threw their camera down on its tripod, stamped on it twice for good measure, confiscated their half-empty bottle, and told them in no uncertain terms to depart. With a few dismayed cries of “Oh! I say!” they slunk away.