Aside from the starkly utilitarian servant’s deck, each floor seemed to introduce an unique theme through the placement of certain motifs: one floor evoked China, with red paper lanterns, porcelain knobs, and a sinuous dragon in brass inset along the total length of the corridor. Another seemed Venetian, with frescoes and statuary, and even a marble fountain in a kind of courtyard – if the space the size of a generous parlour could be considered a courtyard. Upon examination the thing was a conceit, likely hollow porcelain, and only a small trickle of water flowing over glass. Of course, she thought, on an airship, even one such as this, weight was at a premium.
At the end of the Venetian hall, an ornately carved door opened to a comfortable stateroom, furnished in the Italian style. There was a broad bed with satin pillows, an upholstered chair for reading, a small draped side table with tea service, a writing desk, vanity, and wardrobe. Eleanor could hardly believe that such a thing existed in flight.
“Miss... Amsaa?” Eleanor asked.
“Yes, Miss Eleanor.”
“What is to become of me?”
Amsaa took Eleanor by the arm and gently ushered her into the room. “What kind of ship do you suppose this is, Miss Eleanor?”
“Mr. Farouq told me it belonged to the Wali.”
“Indeed. This is his personal pleasure craft, a gift from the Sultan.”
“A harem!” exclaimed Eleanor.
“Don’t be shocked. I have no idea why the impression of a harem has such an impact on Europeans.”
It is a difficult thing to convey, one’s surprise at another’s lack of it, but Eleanor’s expression did its best. Amsaa pressed on.
“I don’t wish to be rude, but please do appreciate that I have much to attend to. My aim is to settle you here, and I trust you’ll be comfortable. I shall leave you with two things; the first, that a young lady will be with you shortly to see to your needs, and to attire you appropriately. Secondly, this thought: for centuries, a harem has been a place of relaxation, education, conversation, and beauty. It appreciates that beyond its walls there are difficult decisions to make, and that such decisions are best informed by tranquility and an appreciation for what is at stake–learning, happiness. Love. I take my role here with no shame, and no modesty, for I know its worth.”
Eleanor had been suitably lectured. Again, Amsaa reached out to touch her cheek. “Now,” she continued, “I must go. But we shall be friends, you and I. I take the weight of a woman at once, and I see your care, but so too I see your sharp mind, and some learning. The Wali will enjoy your company, as shall I. Do not be afraid.”
Emboldened by this, Eleanor exhaled after realizing it had been some time since she had done so.
“I appreciate your kindness. I seek only passage to Constantinople, and understood from my associate that this ship was bound there. I sought to earn my way.”
“Oh, my dear girl,” Amsaa smiled. “You shall.”
---
Avery’s doorstep had begun to collect small puddles the size of his thumb, and these migrated and merged in the pre-dawn gloom into palm-sized blobs on the stone sill. It seemed like he had been waiting for ages in the rain for time to right itself, and laughed aloud when he wondered if it was now yet.
He was soaked through, but still he pulled his riassa around him, huddling in the doorway for warmth and shelter. He was still trying to unpack what he could possibly have been doing in that intervening period between the djinn conjuration and the present moment, but he’d be damned if he knew what it was.
Somebody must know, he thought. And the implications of that idea troubled him more than his previous efforts at reaching across time.
Oh dear.
Well, there was no sense in putting this off any longer. The sooner he knew where he’d been, the sooner he could determine his next course of action–next, of course, to ensuring his promised reunion with Eleanor. He merely had to utter the name.
“Mnemosyne.”
And he was dreaming. He was in the same alley, on the same doorway, but he was no longer wet, it was no longer raining, and he was no longer alone. A woman stood upon the cobbles in a white gown which crossed her breasts and girded round the waist. Her dark hair was loose against her shoulders, the familiar bow of her mouth smiling in the dark.
“Celeste?” Avery asked in disbelief.
“No, Sinjin. But the memory of her. I thought you’d like it.”
“I do. This is no small kindness you do me.”
“I do nothing of the sort, as you well know. There’s a price for such things, as always.”
“But for now–”
“You look a right disaster, Sinjin.”
“I was hoping, Mnemosyne, you could tell me why.”
The Muse of memory took a step closer to look into Avery’s eyes. Her perfume was heady, and summoned images of young kisses, summer evenings, a joke his father had told one Christmas, and–no, he would not drown in recollection. He had to be selective.
“Good heavens, Sinjin, you practically reek of demon. What has that creature done to you?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Well, I can see that much. Come on, on your feet, let’s get you sorted.” She offered her hand. To his surprise, Avery stood without stiffness or discomfort. The hold of her hand was a warmth in his chest.
In the alley darkness gathered, but a glow emanated from an open archway he hadn’t noticed before. She led him on.
He began descending a staircase, following a lighted torch down into a catacomb with walls the colour of sand. The torch was held by a man in silhouette, wearing a long black fitted cassock. Avery recognized the man as himself, weeks earlier. He followed, still holding Celeste’s – Mnemosyne’s hand.
Myriad twists and turns lengthened then shortened the shadows. Then-Avery seemed to have tremendous confidence, counting lefts, rights, advances, not even affording a glance into recesses and alternate corridors.
“Such memory!” commented Mnemosyne, delightedly. “I’m flattered.”
“Shh!” hushed Avery.
“Oh, he can’t hear us, he’s you. And when you made this memory, we weren’t here, were we?”
“I’ll have to think about that,” Avery replied. They continued their pursuit.
Finally, then-Avery paused, his hands on the doorway of an arch, his fingers tapping out a rhythm, double-checking his progress. He seemed assured of his destination, and entered a small chamber hewn from the stone, now deep underground. The room had a low, vaulted ceiling, with an ancient fresco still discernible above a small shelf. At one point, thought now-Avery, this must have been an ossuary. Something had been hidden here.
Then-Avery seemed frustrated, running his hands along the rough stone of the empty shelves. There was nothing to be found, save a short burn-mark on the stone. He swiped the soot from the spot, and rubbed his fingers together experimentally. Then-Avery paced the small room, the torchlight dancing madly at each punctuated turn. Finally he froze, a thought having occurred to him. He closed his eyes and reached out to place his hand flat against the stone wall.
“Clever,” said Mnemosyne. “Clever clever. Look what your little demon made you do.” And at that, then-Avery faded, while now-Avery and the Muse remained in the chamber. Slowly, a different figure emerged: a tall, thin man with large hands, a high brow and a prominent nose.
“Grigori,” Avery said. “But how is this possible? Where am I, to remember this?”
“Because it is not your memory you purchased, here, but the memory of this place.”
The Russian, clad in a riassa of his own contrasted by a large silver cross from a heavy chain, reached upon the same shelf that then-Avery had found fruitless only moments ago, to remove a large bound book, secured with a braided leather strap. Grigori’s hands brushed the tome’s cover, it seemed as though to release the strap, and then to open the book. But he seemed to think better of it, and raising the burning torch from the stone shelf upon which he’d set it, turned to
leave the chamber, walking right through the space Avery was standing in observation. A chill went through him.
“What,” asked Avery, “was that book?”
The Muse looked very serious, and sad, and extracted the memory from the walls themselves.
“The book was alchemical in nature, a relatively recent copy of an older work, and placed here against such a discovery. And in the book, a formula.”
“What formula? What could Grigori possibly want? Immortality? We’re already effectively immortal. The Stone? The man has worlds of wealth at his disposal...”
“Vitriol,” Mnemosyne interrupted. “A formula for vitriol. And that is all that is remembered by this place, except tool marks, and bones, and silence. Your friend George arranged for this, for your trade of memory for loss, and made you pay twice–first for the memory here, and then for its recovery. Cruel, yet ingenious. Honestly, Sinjin, you should have no truck with such things.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” Avery paused in appreciation and reflection. “How is it,” he asked, “that I can remember this, if the price for recollection was in fact my own amnesia?”
Celeste/Mnemosyne leant forward to kiss him on the mouth, sweetly.
“You can’t, darling. You’re dreaming.”
And he awoke, wet in the alley, with the first light of dawn.
THIRTY ONE
The Celerity’s time had been restored to her American-record speed, and Siberia slid steadily beneath her airborne hull at some seventy knots. By the end of the second day, they had made just over three thousand miles. This bolstered Colt’s spirits tremendously. Their westward journey may as well have been southward for the daily increase in sunshine and glimmers of spring, as though the ship shed winter with her Pacific crossing.
Billings had been in his room with a novel–an uncharacteristic diversion, but there were only so many hours a day a man could be expected to look out the window at trees–when he heard the clamour of the all-hands alarm. He bolted to the bridge.
Outside the stern’s windows, a telescoping brass arm had been deployed, and bolted to it was a curving plate of polished steel about a yard across, stuttering in the buffet. This served as a convenient mirror, giving the bridge a view of the terrain immediately below. He briefly wondered why this hadn’t been used to facilitate the Aleutian landings, but then he thought perhaps it had, at least when treacherous winds were less of an issue.
Colt and the captain peered forward, looking at a small clearing at the trees nearly a thousand feet below. It was a settlement of some kind; some cottages, a stone building that may have served as a granary or storehouse, a barn, a ramshackle mill alongside a brown snaking creek. From just beyond the hamlet, a flash of light like a spark. Then another.
Colt guffawed. “They’re taking pot-shots at us! With whatever the hell these half-wits are using as firearms. Muskets, I’ll be damned.”
“Would you like us to gain altitude as a precaution, Mr. Colt?”
“Precaution? What the hell of? Sudden change of the laws of physics? Goddammit, they’re more likely to have those balls fall back on their heads than hit us.”
“As you say, Mr. Colt,” replied the Captain.
Colt grinned and nodded, a twinkle in his eye. “Y’know what, Captain? Come about. Let’s put the fear of God into ‘em.”
“Come about, port side, engines half,” ordered the captain, only to have the mate repeat this into the gaping speaking tubes above the map desk.
Slowly, the Celerity did a wide wheel to the left, and the village became visible out the port side windows.
“Deploy the port side guns, if you’d be so kind, Captain.”
This was so ordered, and Billings felt a shift in balance as the heavy barrel guns rolled out their ports, canted towards the ground.
“Send ‘em a little American greeting, port guns,” continued Colt.
The captain gave the order to fire, and ship rattled in flight. Billings could not see the guns, but he could feel them, and he could see the trees around the compound explode in green and brown and plumes of dust as lead slugs hit the rocky ground. The broad swath of destruction crunched a barren rectangle into the forest, and elongated towards the tiny village.
“That’s enough, hold your fire,” ordered Colt. The order was given, but the staccato continued. As the airship drifted almost lackadaisically towards the outer buildings, the onslaught continued unabated. “I said hold your damn fire!” shouted Colt. The captain waited for a mate’s report from the speaking tubes.
“Chain’s jammed, sir, the guns won’t stop firing!”
“Then change course, goddammit!” Colt roared. More shouting into tubes. But the mass of the airship, moving slowly, resulted in a delayed response. Billings watched in horror as devastation was visited upon the settlement. Roofs collapsed and ignited. Stone walls chipped into clouds of gravel. Green swards, presumably for livestock, became brown, tilled earth, circled by felled and splintered trees. What had been a creekside habitation was now a testament to the apathy of highly efficient machines designed only for annihilation.
Eventually, ammunition spent or jammed-chain solved, the shuddering fire ceased. All stood aghast at what they had done, what they had so effectively erased so effortlessly.
“Dear God in heaven,” said Colt, in a kind of shock.
“That’s not God up here, Mr. Colt,” said Billings. “It’s us.”
Sick, he turned to descend back to his stateroom, leaving the pale crew to their own guilt and horror.
“That’s us.”
THIRTY TWO
As Blake’s mechanical crested the hill, he and Price were greeted by the sight of neat rows of white tents, a parade of green-jacketed riflemen, the neatness of the English army drilling, polishing, and setting things square. Farther off, they could see the horses grazing beside the stable-tents by the hundreds. Grey-ironed mechanical Dragoons with their long, squat legs were parked with their gun-carriages attached, hauling the massive long cannons behind like tails. And at the end of this long colonnade of order was perhaps the most absurd thing Blake had ever seen in his life.
A mechanical, much like his own, placed at the far end of the encampment as if to lord over all. It was painted the most garish colours: red lacquer gleamed along the legs, while its torso was the blue of Blake’s own Hussar jacket. Even gold braid befitting a colonel’s rank draped from the gun-bolts of its arms across the thing’s massive, garish chest. And as the thing lacked a head, what seemed like an upturned bucket had been placed upon the pilot-house, and painted jet black, like a Busby hat. It resembled less an engine of war than it did a German nut-cracker.
“Price,” Blake said. “I’ve never said this, and I’ll not say it now so you’re not to hear it, but if Cardigan has a brain in his head then I’ve a fourth testicle.”
“Only heard about the third one, Captain.”
“Yes, well, there’s a song about it.”
“No doubt, sir.”
“Damnably impressive, though, the rest of it, wot?”
“The testicle, sir?” said Price drily.
“Damn you, man, the army!” Blake laughed. It was all here. The entirety of the Light Brigade and a good portion of the Heavy, with a smattering of French zouaves and even the odd Turkish officer strutting about. Blake steered the giant to where the other Hussar mechanicals were marshaling.
Mere moments later, Blake buttoned his jacket over his sweat-drenched form, and descended the steel ladder as it skittered down its railings from the giant’s bowels. Mercifully, Landau had arrived ahead of him, although Blake had no idea how, and greeted him with a pitcher of water–although ice was absent. Blake pretended not to notice.
“Apologies, sir, there’s no ice to be had.”
“Understood, Corporal. This is the front, not my club back home.” Landau was leading the way, Blake presumed, to his tent. The dry grass made a susurrus against their boots.
“That being said, sir, your shirts
have arrived.”
“My shirts? Whatever do you mean?”
“From your tailor, sir. I took the liberty of ordering more to coincide with our arrival. I was...unable to remove the blood from your skirmish, sir, with much regret. So I had a wire sent. I do hope it was not presumptuous, Captain Blake.”
Blake was hot and it took him a moment to wrap his head around the conversation.
“Landau, how did you pay for these shirts?”
“Out of my own packet, sir.”
“Did I not give you a gentleman’s purse for such things?”
“No, sir. Not that I recall, sir.”
“Good heavens, man! You should have said something. Look, I do apologize, and I’ll set accounts right...”
Landau moved to protest, but Blake raised a hand.
“No, no, you’ll take what’s owed and I’ll not hear another word about it. I’ll have funds set aside for eventualities, at your discretion. I must say I’m rather terribly embarrassed to have overlooked this.”
“Don’t mention it, sir, you’ve had other things on your mind.”
“Not much of a mind left, truth be told. I suspect the tedium of train has ground my noggin into a paste.” The crisp white canvas of the officer’s tent was drawn aside by the corporal, and Blake entered. It was a welcome relief from the heat. On the grass was an Indian carpet, a well-made cot atop; to the side a generous canvas and teak folding chair, a small writing desk, card table with neatly stacked envelopes, and even a bar set upon his chest-of-drawers trunk. After the weeks of the shared officers’ car, it seemed palatial.
“I say. Bravo, Landau. Is there gin to be had?”
“Yes sir, but it’s a bit warm I’m afraid.”
“Can’t be helped, it’ll be cooler than I, regardless.”
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes. No, actually. Three things; one, pour me that drink, will you? I’m knackered. Two, I noticed some camp-followers at the perimeter.”
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