“I would say that your skinny life was worth less than that. I could kill you right here as you sit and find out for myself,” said Marsh. “One hundred and seventy five, and don’t try me for more.”
The man nodded. “You are taking advantage of an injured man. But I see your point,” he added before Marsh could do anything else. “Two hundred, and that is my final offer.”
“Two hundred it is, then.,” Marsh slapped his hand on the table and then shook the man’s hand.
He pulled out his notebook and pencil. “Now give me the address of the tea house.”
The man rattled off the street name and a few directions. “You bring the money with you when we see you?”
“I will. And remember, I am under the caliph’s protection, so no funny business. I want your cousin and the driver, there or there will be no bargain. Don’t try to cheat me. I am in no mood to be trifled with.”
The man put his hand on his chest in mock outrage. “I would not dream of it, sir.”
“Very well, then, I shall see you and your cousin later.”
The man stumbled away from the table. Marsh finished his meal in silence. There was nothing he could do until after six.
After lunch, he decided to take a walk around the bazaar to pass the time. The great market of Constantinople was heaving with people going about their shopping. Marsh wandered along the avenues, past the myriad of wares on sale. Under the great blue domes one could buy almost anything. A carpet seller yelled, proclaiming the quality of his wares. Two stalls down, someone was selling finely crafted lanterns. Farther along was a shop selling brass goods built from old clock gears and springs. A tailor wearing magnifying combobulator goggles sat cross-legged on a table, sewing.
As he walked, he caught glimpses of royal gold and blue tunics. The caliph’s men were close.
He turned off the main walkway into one the sanctuary of one of the hans. A lone tree grew out of the cobbles that lined the courtyard. The walls of the workshops glowed softly despite the lack of afternoon sun. He surveyed the han. These open-air courtyards never ceased to amaze him. They dated back to the days then they had been caravanserais used as lodgings for travelers and traders. From the shop-fronts he could tell that the han specialized in making jewelry. There was a little shisha café to the side filled with locals. He sat down at a table and ordered a pot of tea. When it came, he poured himself a cup and took a sip.
Was Elle alive? Had she merely been asleep, as the man had said? The thought of her bitten and drained by Nightwalkers made his breath catch in his throat with distress. Let them try. He would hunt down and stake every last one of them. He felt the Shadow shudder and contort around him as the vehemence of his thoughts radiated around him.
Surely the Alchemists wanted her alive? There was no other logical reason why they would have bothered transporting her all the way to Constantinople if they didn’t need her alive. Did they know that she was the Oracle? Was her father part of the conspiracy? He didn’t believe that. From what he had gathered, the professor was an honorable man.
A faint shadow fell over the table in front of him and Marsh looked up.
“Could you please come with us, my lord,.” It was one of the caliph’s men,.
Marsh stood and pulled a few coins out of his pocket to pay for the tea. “Of course. Do you have any news?”
“This way, please.” Two more guards joined him as they walked.
“What’s going on?” Marsh said.
“It would be best if you come with us quietly.” One of them parted his tunic and touched the hilt of a large dagger in his belt.
Marsh did not argue.
They stepped out onto the street from one of the gates of the bazaar. Outside was an official-looking carriage. The guards helped him into the back and closed the door. He heard the door lock behind him as he sat down. The guard on the bench opposite sat upright, with his rifle by his side, eyes sternly trained on the seat in front of him. So this was not to be a social call, after all.
CHAPTER 43
I sat in the vinegary darkness for a long time and worried about what the man was planning to do with me. There were horrible stories about people boiling fairies alive to extract their essence. I wished with all my heart that I had stayed in Paris.
The rest of the day passed in a dark blur, punctuated by the sudden bursts of light when the man pulled the jar out of his satchel to show someone what he had found. Each time, I would shrink away from yet another series of distorted faces peering through the glass.
Eventually, after what seemed like an age, the man pulled the jar out of his bag. He set it down onto a table. It was hard to tell, but from the colors and lights, it looked like we were in a restaurant of sorts. The muffled noises of people talking thrummed against the glass.
The simit seller was talking to another man. I could see the white of his apron through the glass. They gestured as they spoke, haggling over something. It did not take much to work out that the something was me.
The simit seller threw up his hands and made to pick up the jar. The other grabbed his arm and shook his head. They continued to talk.
Then the other man pulled out a wad of notes. He handed the money to the simit seller. He took his time to count the notes, and with each leaf of paper, I felt my fate slip away a little further.
Satisfied, he shoved the money into a pocket inside his sagging waistcoat. The two men patted each other on the shoulder. Then the simit seller lifted up his satchel and, without so much as a glance, walked off, leaving the jar on the table.
My new owner came up to the jar and peered at me through the glass. “Please don’t boil me. I promise that you will get no power that way,” I whispered. But it was no use. He did not understand Fairy.
The man’s eyes were kinder than those of the simit seller. In a moment of weakness, I stood up and placed my hand on the glass, near where his cheek was.
The man stood away from the jar and disappeared. I slumped against the glass without a care for my wings. These things mattered little, for I would be dead soon, of that I was sure.
The man came back after a little while. He lifted the jar and studied me for a few long moments. His eyes looked huge compared to the rest of his face through the glass. With a jolt, I fell forwards, almost into the jagged edges of the air holes. I closed my eyes and waited for the end that was surely to set to come.
There was a soft rumble above me as he unscrewed the lid. I felt a gush of cool air. The jar moved and tilted slightly and I slid. I scrambled to keep my foothold on the slippery surface, but it was no use. The jar shook a little more, and with a last tilt, I plopped onto something soft.
I was sitting on a clean piece of folded cloth . I was inside a birdcage made of brass and bamboo—the type used for canaries and finches. I shivered at the irony of it; certain birds ate fairies.
The cloth under me was clean and soft. To the side of the cage was a bowl of water, and next to it, two sugar cubes.
While it could not sustain me indefinitely, there were few things in life that fairies love more than sugar. Especially tired, hungry, distressed fairies. Without a care for manners or decorum, I crawled over to the sugar and started gnawing on the edge of one of the cubes.
“That’s right, little one. Eat and rest. You are safe now.” The man spoke softly so as not to frighten me. I looked up at him. Without the distortion of the glass, he no longer looked like a monster.
Carefully, he picked up the cage and walked with it to an ornate wrought-iron hook in the wall. The cage jiggled as he hung it from the hook.
“Tonight, when we go home, I will give you to my daughter.”
The sugar in my mouth turned to dust and I started shivering. When they were naughty or wouldn’t go to bed, fairy children were told terrible stories about being sold to human children. Children pulled the wings off fairies, and squashed them while playing. They were monsters.
Outside my little cage, the chairs and tables of the market s
hisha house spread all around. A few more men in red conical hats sat about, drinking tea and smoking from tall glass jars. The water inside the glass bubbled as they sucked on the little pipes that led off them. The sweet smell of tobacco smoke assailed me again. Someone laughed. It sounded like my new owner, but then again, most humans sound the same.
The only way I could escape would be to find some absinthe to spirit into. At a push, any other bottle of strong liquor would do. I glanced around the room. There were only men here and they were all drinking tea. I briefly considered spiriting into tea, but decided against it almost immediately. It would be very hot and I’ would only succeed in boiling myself alive.
The man returned and lifted the cage off the hook and threw a cloth over it. I swung from side to side as we moved through the crowds in the street.
The sounds of many people surrounded the cage. I could smell cinnamon bark and turmeric root, the whisper of plants long dead, as we walked.
Eventually, the cage stilled and the man pulled the cloth away.
“This, little one, is my stall.” He gestured about him. Great mounds of ground spices were piled up all around. The smells and colors were overwhelming.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “I am Mustapha al Mehet, spice merchant, at your service.” He bowed before the cage.
Out of habit, I bowed back.
The man smiled. “Seeing as I saved you from that dog, the bread seller Serdat, I am sure that you will return the favor by seeing to it that my shop is blessed by good fortune?”
With a sinking feeling, I realized that this was an order, not a request.
I nodded; anything to preserve me for a little while longer. I closed my eyes and summoned up some fairy dust. With an exaggerated swoop, I scattered it about. The green and gold luminous particles glittered as the slight breath of air that wafted through the market picked them up.
The fairy dust was an illusion, but it looked impressive. And all that mattered right now was that the man should believe me.
He smiled with delight as he watched the fairy dust shimmer across his shop. Satisfied, he tied an apron around his waist and set about the business of selling his wares.
Suddenly there was shouting. Men in blue tunics trimmed with gold came into the stall and pointed at my new owner. He shook his head and spoke to them in loud tones.
They shook their heads and gestured at him.
He shook his head and raised his shoulders.
The men came up to my cage. They stared at me with stern eyes; , but I could not tell what they wanted.
One of them picked up the cloth and covered me. My cage shuddered as it was lifted from its place, and so I was borne away to yet another fate.
I reached up and held on to the bars. The door of the cage was locked with a small brass padlock, but that did not matter. I would have to bide my time carefully, for they would grow careless at some point. Men always did. And so I did what I do best. I watched and waited, for I had vowed to see sunshine and trees again.
Marsh felt the carriage jolt as it pulled up inside the walled gates of the palace. The guards opened the door. “This way, please.” A guard in formal attire and white gloves directed him through the doors. The feather in his turban quivered as he kept himself rigidly at attention as Marsh walked past. They led him down one of the palace corridors.
Marsh did his best to map the layout in his head, but the building had been designed to confuse intruders, and he gave up after about half a dozen turns.
As they walked, his hand strayed to the side of his waistcoat. Elle’s Colt revolver was safely nestled inside. He had found it on the floor next to her bunk on the train while packing their things. From the missing round in the chamber, he determined that she had managed to shoot one of the blighters. At least he hoped that she had. He prayed silently that the blood he had found did not belong to her. It was not the first time he had uttered such a prayer.
They marched down a flight of steps and entered through an archway. Marsh noted the ornate wrought-iron gate, which was cleverly disguised by a screen as he passed through the archway. Pure iron. The one thing that completely neutralized magic. If he were to hazard a guess, the walls would be reinforced with iron bars as well. As a general rule, he could handle iron fairly well in his daily comings and goings, but given his weakened state, he could end up paralyzed and helpless if he tried.
The caliph’s vizier waited inside. “Viscount Greychester. How soon we see each other again.”
“Vizier.”
“So, I have been told that you have been busy in the streets of our city today.”
Marsh inclined his head. “Depends on what you define as busy, I suppose.”
The vizier lifted his chin. “Ah, yes. This brings us neatly to the point. You see, my men questioned your informant in the café where you had your lunch.”
“Did your men manage to find out anything more from him?”
“Well, you will imagine my surprise when I learned that the woman you seek was carried off into our city, unconscious, and by a group of men and that they were accompanied by Nightwalkers. Leaving aside the fact that our city appears to have been sullied by the filthy Undead, do you know of any Order where its members deliberately scar and desecrate their faces?”
Marsh didn’t answer. He was not going to play the vizier’s silly little game.
“No? Well, I will answer that for you. And then you can tell me why the Alchemists are planning a sacrificial ceremony in Constantinople? And, more importantly, why the Council of Warlocks sent one of their members at the same time.”
A death ceremony? The man in the café would not have known that. Marsh suddenly felt sick. Clearly, the caliph was not his ally.
“It is true that the Alchemists have captured the lady I seek. But I do not know why they have taken her, and I can assure you that the Council has nothing to do with the matter. I am here on my own.”
The vizier’s eyes flashed. He reached over and grabbed the lapel of Marsh’s cloak. “You lie … my lord.”
“As do you, lord Vizier. And I should let go of me if I were you.”
The vizier let go of his lapel and started chuckling. “Do you think me a fool, sir?” he said. “Do you honestly think I am merely going to let you walk out of here, to start another war with the Alchemists?” He shook his head.
Marsh kept his gaze steady. “I can assure you that the last thing I need right now is to start a war. All I want is to find Miss Chance and to go home to England. That is my only motive.”
The vizier stared at him. “His Majesty is fond of you and so I am to be deprived of the pleasure of putting you to death. You will remain here, in the palace, until arrangements can be made for your immediate deportation.”
Marsh stared at the man. “I think you are gravely mistaken.”
The vizier looked mildly offended. “Oh, I think not.” He straightened his elaborately embroidered brocade tunic. “This audience is over. The caliph’s wishes are to be carried out without further debate. Good day to you, sir.”
At the archway the vizier paused. “Oh, and one last thing. I almost forgot.” He gestured to one of the guards. “We found this in the spice market. You may as well take whatever else you brought from the Shadows with you too.”
The guard set what looked like a birdcage covered in a dark blue cloth on the floor. Then the gate clanged shut, and the lock ground as the key turned.
Marsh stood in the middle of the room. He stared at the gate in disbelief. The caliph couldn’t be serious, could he?
He walked over to the gate and gave it a rattle. It was firmly locked. Two guards armed with rifles stood guard on either side of the arch. They looked at him suspiciously. One gripped the hilt of his rifle more tightly. “We have orders to shoot you if you try to escape. Please step away from the gate.” Those appeared to be the only words he was going to say.
Marsh let go of the gate and sank down onto one of the red and orange sofas. He tho
ught about the Colt in his pocket, but the pistol was no match for two rifles. He needed another plan.
Something rattled under the cloth. At the sound, he leaned over and tugged at the edge of the fabric. The cloth slipped to the floor, and Marsh stared in surprise. Under the cloth was a brass and bamboo birdcage, and inside was a Parisian absinthe fairy.
He stared at her through the bars. He was no expert, but even he could see that she wasn’t looking very well. Her wings were ragged and she gripped the bars of the cage as she stared up at him.
“Good heavens. How on earth did you get here?” he said.
The fairy spoke, but her speech was like the crackle of dry leaves and he had too little power to decipher and amplify what she was saying. He rubbed his eyes in exasperation. The fairy stopped speaking and buried her face in her hands. She looked like she was crying.
Marsh looked away. Watching a fairy weep was a terrible thing to see. It upset even the hardest of men.
“There now,” he said, feeling decidedly large and clumsy. Then he had an idea. He reached into his coat and pulled out his hip flask. “Here. There isn’t much left, but it should help.” He unscrewed the top and held the rim of the bottle near the cage.
The smell of absinthe reached the fairy. With a flash of green, she turned to spirit form and disappeared into the flask. Marsh slowly turned the lid back onto the flask and put it back into his coat. He sighed. At least one of them was safe for the time being.
CHAPTER 44
Elle rested her head against the cool wall. She had tried to amuse herself by counting the stone blocks in the wall, but a dull headache was nibbling around the edges of her brain and the counting was making it worse. It felt like the air was pressing against her as it did just before a thunderstorm.
We are with you. A voice spoke.
A shiver ran through Elle. “Who’s there?”
We are.
“Who are you?”
We are the voices of Oracles past. We are with you.
A Conspiracy of Alchemists Page 27
