by Kage Baker
Bell-Fairfax watched a star fall. “And I suppose the . . . the killing is to be expected, in a war.”
“It is, yes.” Ludbridge reached for his cigar case and thought better of it, looking up at the balloon with suspicion. “A mad dog must be shot, for the good of all society. So must the undesirables who keep the world ignorant and poor for their own gain, like that Turk, or the ones who keep old quarrels going for spite’s sake, like that Greek.
“One learns to do the job quickly and efficiently, and that’s the important thing.”
They had been riding there in the wind about an hour and a half, watching the stars and discussing history, when the gale brought them the distant impact of cannon fire.
“Good God.” Ludbridge swung around to stare. “Where’s that?”
Bell-Fairfax pointed. “Sebastopol,” he cried. They saw the red flare of distant guns, and heard a very faint pop-pop-pop that might have been rifle fire before the dull thunder of the big guns reached them.
“Jesus Bleeding Christ,” murmured Ludbridge. He gripped the cable as the gondola swung to and fro in the gusts. They watched the eastern horizon closely, but saw no more flashes. Five minutes crawled by, and then ten, and then—
“There!” Bell-Fairfax flung out his arm. “There they come.”
The black wings soared out of the night, a silhouette against the stars, growing nearer with each heartbeat. Ludbridge caught his breath as they swept by, and came back around the balloon in a steadily narrowing circle.
They heard Mihalakis cry, “Catch!” and he flung out a line with a hook on the end. Bell-Fairfax snatched it from the air and turned with it, passing it around the cables as the flying machine made its second pass around, yet closer in. Just before it came level with them, Bell-Fairfax and Ludbridge hauled together on the rope, pulling sharply down and in, until Mihalakis’s feet found the edge of the gondola. A moment he poised there, while they tied off the line; he caught the cables to steady himself as they reached out and dragged the levers down. The vast black wings closed up, the shuttered machine sagged backward and swung the gondola with it for a moment—Ludbridge heard Pengrove scream again, and noted with relief that he must not have been shot—and then the whole affair swung back.
Mihalakis vaulted free, into the gondola. Bell-Fairfax reached past him and hauled Pengrove out of the wicker seat.
“What in hell happened out there?” said Ludbridge, as Mihalakis leaned down and signaled to the crewmen waiting on deck. They set to work reeling in the tether, coiling the gas lines as they went, and the balloon began to descend.
“I got quite a lot of infrared pictures,” said Pengrove, through chattering teeth. “I hope Greene appreciates them. The whole of the Woronzoff Road right up to the back of the city, with all those hills and bastions, and even the beastly marshes and the river and that bridge, the Inky-something. But the swooping was too much, you know. Stomach couldn’t take it. We were over some fortification or other and I had to lean out and puke. And, er, apparently I hit someone below.”
Mihalakis was shaking with laughter. “There will be stories about vomiting vampyrs now. We were well away before they started shooting, never fear.”
When they were safe on deck again they went into the saloon, to find that Hobson had nodded off beside the Aetheric Transmitter, in a positive sea of yellow dispatch-sheets covered in hasty scribbling. He sat up with a snort as Ludbridge and the others entered, and grabbing up a paper thrust it at Ludbridge.
“We’re to move on,” he said.
They stood forlornly on the quay at Varna, watching the Heron steam away.
“I enjoyed that,” said Pengrove. “Except for the flying machine, of course. ‘And so they came to windy Thrace,’ what?”
“This next part may be a trifle rough, by comparison,” said Ludbridge. Pengrove gave him an incredulous look.
Bell-Fairfax managed to find a porter with a wheelbarrow, who trundled their baggage to a hotel and dumped them there, either because there were no other hotels or because he was simply unwilling to go farther. They secured a room at some expense, and hauled their trunks up a steep, narrow flight of stairs to find that furniture had not been included in the agreed-upon room price.
“Why, yes, it is a trifle rough,” Hobson observed, surveying the bare chamber. The one window had a view of the wall of the house opposite.
“Look at it this way: where there are no beds, there are no bedbugs,” said Ludbridge.
They spent a comparatively uncomfortable night rolled up in their coats on the floor. The next morning they found a coffee house where they got breakfast.
“And to what charming spot am I dragging the old talbotype box?” asked Pengrove sullenly, dipping dry pastry in his coffee.
“You aren’t,” said Ludbridge.
“Thank God for that, anyway.”
“You’re going on a rowing excursion instead.”
“Oh, what fun.”
Ludbridge ignored the tone in Pengrove’s voice. “D’you remember the body of water you saw from the Heron’s deck as we were coming in, that you thought was a deep harbor? It isn’t. It’s a lake. Here’s a map.” He pulled a folded sheet of flimsy paper from his pocket, and handed it to Pengrove, who opened it. It was indeed a map, printed in violet ink, showing the long lake west of Varna. Certain locations along the lake’s shore were marked with circles.
“In the event you’re accosted by the authorities, drop that over the side into the water. Greene particularly wants those places photographed.”
“What on earth for?”
“You’re not to know. Neither am I, for that matter. You and Hobson hire a boat and row out for some good shots of those locations.”
“You mean I’m to go along?” Hobson brightened. “Not spend the whole day turning pictures into thousands of tiny lines of code and transmitting the damned things?”
“Yes. You could use some fresh air and exercise. Bell-Fairfax and I will go see about arranging our transportation to the next place.”
“You mean we’re not stopping long in lovely Varna? Jolly good!” said Pengrove. Bell-Fairfax knitted his brows.
“But . . . sir . . . does it seem quite wise to leave our trunks in that room unattended?”
“It does if one takes precautions,” said Ludbridge. He took out his watch and held it up, displaying the seal pendant from its chain. “And I did, before we left the room. In the event someone unauthorized shifts my trunk, a concealed gyroscope will trigger a single-channel transmission to this receiver on my watch chain. Then something nasty involving pyrethanatos will happen to the burglars. And that, I think, is all you need to know at this time.”
“The chaps in Fabrication have spared no expense to protect your socks and singlets, Bell-Fairfax,” said Pengrove. “Underwear is a sacred trust, you know.”
They parted ways outside the coffee house. Pengrove and Hobson went off toward the western edge of the waterfront; Ludbridge led Bell-Fairfax into a remote part of the city, looking for a certain address.
“Did I hear Mihalakis correctly?” Ludbridge wondered aloud, peering along a narrow lane. “Ought to have had him tell you too, Bell-Fairfax, you’ve got young ears . . . It ought to be this street, but I don’t see a house with a green door.”
“There, sir?”
Ludbridge shaded his eyes with his hand. “By God, so it is. Come along, then.”
The door in question, very far down the lane, belonged to a residence of slightly shabby gentility. Ludbridge climbed the steps, looking here and there for any kind of mark or symbol, and finding only a small ornate case vertically affixed to the right-hand doorpost about three-quarters of the way up.
He knocked anyway. A girl opened the door, clearly a servant, wiping her hands on her apron. Bell-Fairfax removed his hat. Ludbridge cleared his throat and spoke in Greek: “Er . . . what becomes of illusions?”
The girl looked bewildered. “. . . Perhaps you are here to see the rabbi?” she replied, also in
Greek.
“I suppose we are, yes.”
“I’ll talk to them, Flora,” said a young man, coming quickly to the door. He wore a skullcap and, like Mihalakis, a Western-style suit. He waited until she had gone back to the kitchen and, looking Ludbridge in the eye, said in a low voice, “We dispel illusions.”
“Ah.” Ludbridge exhaled. “And we are everywhere. Thank you.”
“Come, please.” The young man stood back and bowed them in. “You are English, I believe? From the Society?”
“We are, yes. I am Mr. Ludbridge and this is my friend, Mr. Bell-Fairfax. A Mr. Mihalakis advised us we might find assistance here.”
“Ah! You must have come on the Heron. I am Asher Canetti. Please, gentlemen, follow me. I will take you to my father. He will do whatever he can for you.”
He led them through the house and out into a back garden, at the far end of which was a stable and carriage house. A pair of horses could be glimpsed within the stable, but the doors to the carriage house were closed. A rhythmic clanging noise came from within, suggesting that the rabbi kept his own blacksmith. Asher opened one of the two broad doors. The hammering stopped at once but a certain low roaring continued.
“Babbas, we have visitors.”
“I’m busy,” someone replied irritably, and with a hollow and echoing voice.
“These are Green Lion visitors,” said Asher. At this the door was opened from inside by another youth, wearing a blacksmith’s apron over his suit. He was formidable, six feet tall and broad shouldered, with a black beard, but at present he looked a little apologetic.
“Gentlemen,” said Asher, “this is my brother Mordekhay, and this—.”
“Close the damn door!”
“—is our father, Rabbi Yakov Canetti,” said Mordekhay, waving them inside and closing the door after them. A figure was bent over beside an immense black coach, welding with a wand from which jetted a continuous blue flame, and which was the source of the roaring noise. He wore a helmet with a visor. Mordekhay bent down beside him and shouted, “Babbas, this is Magi business!”
The figure stood, hastily beating sparks from his beard. Asher took the welding wand from him and turned a knob, extinguishing the flame at once. The rabbi pushed up the visor of the helmet and stared at them. He groped in his waistcoat pocket for a pair of spectacles and put them on. Blue-white light flared on the lenses, from a lamp hung in the rafters; glancing up at it, Ludbridge saw that it was clearly something like de la Rue’s vacuum lamps, and that all along the rafters and hanging from the walls were tools and machine parts of unknown purpose.
“Excuse me,” said Rabbi Canetti.
“Quite all right,” said Ludbridge.
Asher introduced them. “Pleased to meet you. May I offer you a glass of tea?” said Rabbi Canetti.
“We should be very obliged to you,” said Ludbridge. The rabbi started out of the carriage house, and after Asher caught his arm and Mordekhay removed the welding helmet for him, they all proceeded to a little summer house under a grape arbor and Asher went indoors to bespeak the tea.
“And how may we be of service to our brothers?” the rabbi inquired, when the tea had been brought and poured.
“We need to get to Silistria, on the Danube,” said Ludbridge. “Perhaps you might tell us the best route?”
The rabbi stroked his beard. “That would be, hmmm, in English I think about a hundred miles. There is a diligence that goes through Bazargik that can take you there. I suppose you are not at liberty to provide me with any details?”
“Unfortunately, we are not,” said Ludbridge.
“Perfectly understandable,” the rabbi replied, with a wave of his hand. “Would you be able to tell me how many travelers?”
“Four. And a great deal of luggage.”
Mordekhay and Asher sat upright and exchanged glances.
“That is a shame,” said Mordekhay. “The diligences are small and cramped.”
“And their rates are outrageous, especially if you have many trunks,” said Asher. The brothers were both bright-eyed with suppressed excitement.
“Babbas, it’s a good road to Bazargik!”
“Smooth and straight and not very crowded!”
“And there’s no moon tonight!”
“And who knows whether there aren’t highwaymen on the prowl?”
The rabbi looked at his sons and raised an eyebrow. He glanced over his shoulder at the carriage house.
“Ahem. I wonder, Mr. Ludbridge, whether you would be averse to traveling at night? If you are not . . . we may be able to save you a great deal of trouble.”
“I shouldn’t think we’d have any objection at all, would you, Bell-Fairfax?”
“No, sir.”
“Excellent,” said Rabbi Canetti, and drank down his tea. “When you have refreshed yourselves, I will show you something interesting.”
“Based on the splendid Concord design, but look! Steel panels inside the walls,” he was saying, fifteen minutes later, as he ran a loving hand over the coach. “And, you’re thinking to yourself, plate steel? What kind of horse could draw a coach made of plate steel? Ah, but, you see, it isn’t. Doesn’t need to be. My sons and I have developed a tempering process to give steel greater strength and flexibility. The panels are made of thin strap steel, woven like basketwork. They will stop a bullet at ten paces, standing still. When the carriage is moving, they are even more effective.
“And look at the suspension! Improved elliptical springs. Extra thor-oughbraces. Gutta-percha blocks to absorb impact. Coach lanterns here at the front. And what provides the light? Candles? Ha! Oil lamps, you say? Not at the speeds we can attain. Regard this lamp.” He pointed at the glowing orb mounted in the rafters. “An electrical current makes it glow, from a galvanic cell array hidden in that trunk in the corner. But look at these!” He indicated the carriage lamps gleefully. “Each one fitted with its own electrical lamp, and the rotation of the wheels charges the galvanic cell arrays concealed under the driver’s box. Genius, no? My Asher’s work.”
“A work of genius indeed, sir,” said Bell-Fairfax.
“And a self-lighting, bulletproof coach impresses, but! It has other remarkable properties, which I will demonstrate tonight,” said Rabbi Canetti. Asher and Mordekhay gave him a stricken look.
“But, Babbas, we thought we would go.”
“It hasn’t really been road-tested, and we thought—.”
“What if it breaks down? We’re young men—.”
“So you think I’m too old?” said the rabbi, with a dangerous light in his eyes, and both his sons turned red and looked at their shoes.
“No, Babbas,” they said in meek unison.
“We will all go. That is my decision,” said the rabbi. He looked at his coach and smiled again. “After all, it seats eight in comfort.”
They went back to their hotel, accompanied by Mordekhay with a wheelbarrow for their trunks. Ludbridge carefully deactivated the gyroscopic alarm, and Mordekhay lifted the great trunk and swung it up on his shoulder without any difficulty; Bell-Fairfax was able to carry most of the rest of the luggage, precariously stacked, leaving Ludbridge with nothing more troublesome than a carpetbag and the Aetheric Transmitter. They left a note with the concierge for Pengrove and Hobson, and went back to the house with the green door.
Having spent a pleasant afternoon in the rabbi’s parlor discussing the state of the Ottoman Empire, during which time enticing aromas began to drift from the kitchen, they at length heard a knock at the front door. Mordekhay went to answer it and returned with Pengrove and Hobson, both of whom looked windblown. When they had been introduced, Pengrove saluted Ludbridge somewhat unsteadily.
“Lake expedition accomplished, sir!”
“Quite.” Ludbridge frowned at him. “Have you been drinking?”
“Well, we had to, you know, to keep from freezing out there,” said Pengrove, and Hobson nodded in solemn agreement. “Took us hours and hours. We were half-dead by the time we
were halfway round the lake. And three-quarters dead by the time we were three-quarters around. So of course we ought to have been entirely dead by the time we got back, only the chap who owned the boat was most awfully jolly and directed us to his brother, who has a wine shop, and he sold us the most curious brandy!”
“Made from blue plums,” said Hobson, swaying a little. He was clutching a brown paper parcel to his chest.
“That would be slivovitz?” said Asher.
“To be sure!” said Pengrove, looking a little uncomfortable under the weight of Ludbridge’s deepening scowl. “Well. Er. Very pleased to meet you all, and terribly sorry if we’ve delayed you, and if you’ll just excuse Hobson and I a moment we’ll go dress for dinner—”
Bell-Fairfax directed them out to the carriage house, where the trunks had been left. A few minutes later they returned in formal supper attire, redolent of peppermint.
The dish served was braised chicken in a kind of tomato sauce with hot buttered noodles, and there was a decanter of muscatel on the table. Pengrove and Hobson, however, politely declined when the bottle passed their way, at which Ludbridge was a little mollified. The meal was rounded off with a splendid cheese tart. After Flora had cleared the dishes away, Rabbi Canetti went to the window and drew the curtain aside to peer out at the evening.
“I believe we ought to set out,” he said. “You might wish to dress warmly, gentlemen.”
Asher and Mordekhay leaped to their feet and ran upstairs, followed at a more sedate pace by the rabbi, apparently to change their garments. Ludbridge and the others went out and, by the dim light of the stars, retrieved coats from their trunks and put them on. They were standing by the cucumber-frames, watching their breath smoking in the night air, when the back door opened and three figures in voluminous long coats—dusters, they saw—appeared, framed by lamplight. They hurried up the path to the carriage house. Ludbridge recognized the rabbi, who wore a broad-brimmed hat securely held on by a leather strap under his chin.
