A Conspiracy of Alchemists

by Liesel Schwarz

  I sat there for a little while to soak up the rays of sun. It wasn’t exactly warm this early in the morning, but it was better than the stone cell below where the girl lay

  The girl. Something had to be done. Desperate for an answer, I peered through the branches and looked up and down the cobbled street. I needed to find someone who could speak Fairy, but this was a large city and I could not fly that far.

  I waited for a while, until an old man in a turban slowly walked by. His waistcoat was worn and saggy at the pockets and his short beard was graying. On his head he carried a very large wooden tray piled high with ring-shaped bread. The tray was supported by a frame that rested on his shoulders.

  People eat bread. People speak Fairy. If I followed the bread, perhaps I could find someone who would help.

  Like a leaf in the wind, I fluttered down from the branch and landed on the tray as it passed by below the tree. Careful to not make a sound, I stowed between the red-brown rings of bread. The shiny sesame-studded crusts felt slightly warm under my fingers. I picked a sesame seed off one of the rings and nibbled at it. Wormwood it was not, but it tasted lovely. So I ate it, and another. In fact, I ate until I could eat no more. Sated, I settled down at the bottom of the bread pile. The platter bobbed and swayed as it made its way through the streets. The warm bread against my back made me feel very sleepy. And so I closed my eyes for just a moment.

  The train whistled and discharged a final blast of steam. The Orient Express had arrived at the end of a journey, that spanned almost all of Europe.

  Marsh stepped onto the platform.

  Constantinople. The locals called it Istanbul, which simply meant “City” in Turkish. He preferred the old name.

  He secured the services of a porter and trolley for the luggage, and together they strode though the multi-colored crowds, dodging sellers and slow-moving women dressed in layers of veils. Outside the station, he hailed a cab. He watched them load the trunks onto the trap. Two portmanteaus. One of them a lady’s.

  His hotel was in the old quarter, near the Sultan’s palace. It was an elaborate building, wood-carved in the old Ottoman style. The walls were brightly painted in whites, gold and turquoise. Two rooms were reserved, only one occupied.

  He did not tarry at the hotel, but set out almost as soon as his luggage was delivered, pushing past startled porters in the corridor.

  Downstairs, at the desk, he ordered a cable telegram. With a little pencil tied to the desk with a piece of string, he addressed the envelope to Patrice in Oxford.

  ALCHEMISTS HAVE SUCCEEDED STOP ELLE TAKEN STOP BRING REINFORCEMENTS TO CONSTANTINOPLE STOP MATTER OF UTMOST URGENCY STOP.

  He handed the communication to the hotel telegrapher and strode out into the street with grim determination. It was time to elicit the help of an old friend.

  The road rose steeply up towards the Topkapi palace. The marble home of the Caliph of Constantinople sat on top of the hill like an ornate brooch on a woman’s shoulder.

  At the great white carved gates of the palace he stopped and had a word with the a guards. It took some head nodding and explanation, but eventually he was led along the winding garden paths and through the royal gardens to the inner palace. The open arched walkways were adorned with painted birds and flowers. He remembered the patter of silk slippers and the rustle of harem silks from his last visit to this place, as a boy, over two centuries ago.

  He was shown to a fine white summer house that overlooked the bay. The view of the famous Golden Horn spread out before him. Hundreds of low narrow banana-shaped fishing boats floated in the harbor below. At a distance, they looked like logs rising and falling in the water.

  This morning the sky was gray, and no sun glittered on the blue waters of the strait. He sniffed the cool briny air that wafted towards him.

  “Viscount Greychester! What a lovely surprise to see you.” The caliph of Constantinople was behind him.

  Hastily, he lifted his hat and bowed deeply. “Your majesty, forgive me. I did not hear you approach.”

  The caliph smiled and shrugged. “I see you have been seduced by the beauty of my city.” He glided towards the stone seats that lined the summer house. “I fear you may have missed the best of the year’s weather.”

  He gestured to seats covered in opulent blue-and-gold fabric. “Come. Please sit. Let us talk for a while.”

  Marsh sat down on one of the pillowed seats so that the caliph’s head was higher than his own. It was prudent to observe protocol when one could. The caliph was a man of about sixty. His white beard and moustache were carefully groomed and he wore an elaborately folded linen turban. He had the face of someone loved and feared in equal measure.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Marsh said.

  The caliph waved his hand. “Think nothing of it, Mr. Marsh. You are an old friend of the family. Legend has it that you used to run through the palace and tease the harem girls terribly when you were a boy.” He chuckled.

  “The old caliph was a most excellent friend. I missed him when he passed.”

  A silent servant stepped forward and put down a gold tray, upon which were two exquisite brass kettles, the smaller stacked on top of the larger, delicate tea glasses and a selection of delicious-looking pastries. With deft hands, he lifted the small brass teapot and poured them each a cup.

  “Please, have some baklava. My pastry chef tells me he makes the best in the kingdom. This is why I employ him.”

  Marsh helped himself to a square of the syrup-soaked pastry. “Thank you.” He washed the intensely sweet little square down with some tea.

  “So tell me, what brings you to my kingdom, Master Warlock? I am sure you are not purely here for a taste of the caliph’s pastries. Excellent as they might be.”

  Marsh inclined his head. “Indeed, I am not.”

  “You are, I am sure, aware that we have disavowed ourselves of all involvement in matters involving the Shadow realm. This is a city of Light, and Creatures of the Shadow are not welcome here. My kingdom claims neutrality on all other issues.”

  “I am here on a matter of a more personal nature. I have come to you as a friend, and not as a Warlock. My Council has nothing to do with my visit.”

  The caliph considered his words. “Please continue.”

  Marsh told the caliph about Elle and their search for the professor, carefully leaving out the part about her being an Oracle.

  The caliph played with his beard before he spoke. “And I take it that you feel affection for this woman?”

  “I love her.” A strange warmth filled his chest. He loved her.

  “Then I commend you on your quest. There can be no more noble a quest than a man seeking to rescue his beloved.” The caliph smiled and leaned forward. He looked Marsh in the eye. “Don’t tell anyone, but I am a hopeless romantic. Personally, I have sixty wives and concubines and I try to romance each one of them. Sometimes I hardly have time for anything else, I tell you.”

  Marsh nodded. He felt a grudging admiration for the caliph. He was struggling to keep up with one woman, never mind sixty of them. “I must find her before it is too late. Can you help me?”

  “We do not know for sure that they are in my kingdom though. My vizier has reported no sightings of the Shadow. Nothing strange has happened.”

  “Your majesty, I know she is here.”

  The caliph nodded and stood. “For you, my friend, I will ask my informants to sweep the city to see if there are any unusual visitors. But I will not be seen to support the Shadow. If there is even a single hint of my involvement in this matter, then my assistance will cease immediately. Is that clear?”

  “Your majesty, I am deeply indebted to you. I shall give the details of my hotel to your vizier. If you hear anything, please let me know.”

  A liveried servant had sidled up to the entrance of the pavilion. Marsh caught the discreet signal from the corner of his eye. “The visitors have arrived, your majesty,” the servant said with a reverent bow.

 
“Ah, so be it, then. You are going to have to excuse me. Duty calls.” The caliph rose and took his leave. At the door, he paused. “Remember, this is a favor to an old family friend. We will do nothing that could be seen as taking the side of the Council. If I see even a hint of spell craft, I will have no option but to have you executed for breaking my laws. Is that clear?”

  Marsh bowed. “Of course, your majesty. As you wish.”

  The caliph left, followed by his entourage, who had materialized as soon as he had stepped out of the summer house. A few stayed behind to help escort Marsh back to the gates. He noticed that a few lingered, watching him for just that little bit longer than was necessary.

  Outside the palace, Marsh hailed a rickshaw to take him to the harbor. His ribs were still very tender and he had no desire to reopen the wound. He regretted his decision almost immediately. The rickshaw driver was a sinewy man in baggy white trousers and sandals. He skidded and skittered the rickshaw down the hill, narrowly dodging other carts and people. Marsh got out at the bottom of the hill, dazed, but relieved that he wasn’t dead.

  “What have we here, then?”

  I woke with a start and looked around in confusion. The towers of bread were gone, but I was still on the wooden platter, now surrounded by a circle of faces. Staring at me from all sides were dark-haired and dark-eyed men who wore red hats with black tassels on them.

  “Eh, Serdat. Looks like you have a stowaway in your simit bread,” said the voice. I tried to crawl backwards, away from the one who spoke, but a finger came out from behind and poked me in the back. I looked around, and shrieked in fright. The face of a boy was peering at me. He grinned at me with a row of very white, very menacing teeth.

  “What is it?” one of the other men said.

  “Not sure,” said the first, stroking his chin. A thin layer of silver stubble made a scratchy noise under his hand. “It’s either some sort of Shadow creature or a very large insect. If it’s an insect, I am going to ask for my money back on that bread!”

  “Hush, Ashim. I’ll not have you insult my bread like that.” It was the old simit seller who spoke.

  Another finger reached out, and tried to touch my wings. I managed to move away, but I was too slow. A shimmer of blue-green fairy dust drifted off one of my wings and settled onto the breadboard like sorrow.

  I folded my stinging wings up against my back as tightly as I could, but it was difficult, because the shivering had started again.

  “Careful, you are hurting it!” said the man with the beard. “Look how frightened it is. It might be worth something, and I’ll not have you kill it before I can make a profit.”

  The other men laughed and called out in protest.

  “Come, friends. Let us not hurt Serdat’s pet,” one of the men said. He gave the man with the beard a rough shake. “But be careful. Small things can sometimes be vicious. It might curse you and make your balls fall off.” He hacked out another laugh. I could feel the mist of his garlic-laced breath settle over us.

  Still grinning, he reached into the folds of his white cotton tunic and drew out a packet of thickly rolled cigarettes. He pulled one out and lit it. Acrid smoke curled around us and I started to cough.

  “It doesn’t like the smoke.” The one called Serdat peered at me. Then, without warning, he lifted a glass preserve jar and plopped it over me. All sound was extinguished. I watched them laugh and pat one another on the shoulder, pleased at my capture, their bodies grotesquely distorted through the curved glass.

  The simit seller lifted the jar and screwed the lid on. Panicked, I flew up and hit the lid with all of my strength. Without the power of wormwood, I could not change to spirit form. In fairy form, I needed air to breathe. The air in the jar was stale and hot. It smelled like vinegar and pickles. The smell stuck in my throat. I slipped down to the cool sides of the jar, leaving a soft streak of blue-green behind.

  Through the mottled glass I saw that the man had produced a large dagger from his baggy trousers. The tip of the knife pierced the lid as he punched a few holes into it. Air streamed into the jar and I gasped with relief.

  Rage returned and filled me as the air flooded back into my lungs, but without the power that absinthe gives, there was little I could do. I folded my arms and glared at the men, powerless against their brutishness.

  They were still smiling, and staring at me through the glass, when the simit seller lifted the jar. Through the distortion of the glass I saw something open up below me. The jar tilted as he slipped it inside his satchel, and then things went very dark.

  The harbor was busy. Fishermen dragged large woven baskets filled with fish onto the bare-wooden planks. Passengers clambered out of boats of all shapes and sizes from their crossing of the straits that split Constantinople into east and west. It was a thronging, vibrant mix of noise and smells.

  Marsh pushed through the crowd, asking questions as he went along. Has anyone seen an English woman with red hair? A woman in the company of unsavory men?

  After about an hour he sat down on a bench and rested his head in his hands. Nothing except blank stares.

  It was nearing lunchtime and the sun was breaking through the clouds. He put his notebook away and walked back up the hill and into the city. He wasn’t going to risk another ride in one of the rickshaws.

  Halfway up the steep street, he spotted a water seller with a barrel strapped to his back. The man was speaking behind his hand to a man in an apron. They both looked at Marsh and nodded. He was being watched.

  At the top of the hill, he caught a tram in the direction of the Grand Bazaar. As he stepped onto the street, he noticed a man in a dark blue tunic stepping off the tram behind him. Their eyes locked for the briefest moments. The man nodded and crossed the road. He was being followed too, by the looks of things.

  Outside one of the entrances to the Bazaar, he found a kebab shop with a proprietor who spoke French. The shop was small and dark inside. He ordered grilled lamb and a glass of watermelon juice, then chose an inconspicuous corner to sit. The patrons in the shop stopped eating to stare at him. Marsh ignored them and dipped his hot flatbread into the bowl of garlicky yoghurt that came with the meat. The restaurant slowly turned back to its business, but he felt the stares and the hushed conversation around him.

  A man sidled up to him and sat down at his table. Marsh looked up, but carried on eating.

  “You are the Englishman asking questions down at the docks.” He smiled at Marsh, displaying a row of crooked teeth.

  Marsh looked at him. “I might be. What business is it of yours, friend?”

  “I hear that you pay money for information.”

  Marsh bit into a piece of lamb. It tasted of herbs and wood smoke. “I might be. What business is it of yours?”

  “I might know something.”

  “And what might that be?” Marsh said in measured tones.

  “I might know of some newcomers to our beautiful city. They arrived on an airship not so long ago.”

  Marsh looked at him sharply. “What newcomers?”

  “A group of painted men and a woman with red hair.” His face cracked into a fine sneer.

  “And how do I know you’ are not lying?”

  “You don’t. But my cousin works as a ground attendant at the airfield. He saw them with his own eyes.”

  “Who did he see?”

  “A group of men and one of them.”

  “Them?”

  The man made a gesture. It was symbol for the warding off of evil. “One of the dark ones. The cursed ones. I cannot say its name.” He spat on the ground.

  “I’m sorry, what do you mean by dark ones?”

  The man glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening. “One of the undead. The ones who drink the blood of the living.”

  Marsh started. A Nightwalker? What would they be doing in Constantinople?

  “They had a woman with them. My cousin says that he did not see her properly, but she had long red hair and she was dr
essed in a white dress. They carried her like she was dead, or under a spell or something. My cousin says that he thought she might even have been bitten. It was dark, so it’s hard to tell for sure. Serves her right for being a blood-whore.”

  Marsh grabbed the man by the throat. “What do you mean, bitten?”

  The man sputtered under his grip. “Please, you are choking me,” he wheezed.

  Carefully Marsh loosened his grip, but held on to the man’s throat. “Speak, damn you.”

  The man’s eyes watered as he struggled to breathe. “All right. My cousin says that the woman looked like she was sleeping. They hailed a carriage and rode off into the night.”

  “Where did they go?” He released his grip a little.

  “I don’t know, but if you gave my cousin a few coins, he might remember who the driver was and which way they said they were going.”

  Marsh let go of his throat. The man sat back in his chair and coughed. “That is no way to treat a friend,” he croaked.

  “You are lucky that I didn’t kill you. Friend.”

  The man rubbed his neck and looked at Marsh with reproach.

  Marsh ignored the look. “So where is your cousin now?”

  “He is at work. His shift ends at six o’clock tonight, and then I will meet him for a glass of tea before we go home for dinner.”

  “Where are you meeting him?” Marsh was in no mood for games.

  “At one of the tea houses near the Hagia Sophia.”

  “Which tea house?”

  “I will write it down. But first you must agree a price.”

  Marsh glared at the man.

  “Four hundred,” the man said. “My cousin won’t talk without the money.

  “Hundred and fifty.”

  The man rolled his eyes. “Are you crazy? My cousin is risking his life by speaking to you. Would you say a man’s life was worth that? Three hundred and fifty.”