“Go, go!” Omar waved at the marines and the marines rowed some more, pulling the dory away from the ship as the behemoth began leaning toward them.
When they were clear of the ironclad, Omar wiped his brow and scanned the scene behind him. Vlad and his marines were almost finished filleting the southernmost Fury while the other Hellan boats spread out in the shadows of the warships to take careful shots at the Turkish riflemen leaning over the railings overhead.
“Looks like the last one is ours,” Omar said. “Bring us alongside her.” The marines grunted in unison and their little dory surged across the choppy waters to the side of the last of the three Furies, and once again Omar slashed the huge ship from bow to stern right at the water line, and soon it too was groaning and listing.
Just as they met up with Vlad’s boat, Omar heard a tremendous moaning echo across the water and he turned to see the first Fury, the first one he had wounded, roll sharply over toward its gashed side. The steel hull smashed down into the waves, sending a great rolling tide across the Strait, and the marines grabbed their seats and gunwales as the small boats leapt lightly on the surge. The sinking ship came to rest at a violent angle with its steam funnels pointed up over the Seraglio Point and every bit of loose gear slid down the deck to tumble into the sea. Ropes and hooks and tool boxes splashed down, as did the Turkish sailors and engineers, though the latter scrambled to grab hold of the hatches and lines and rails on their way into the cold water.
A few moments later, the ship that Vlad had attacked shuddered and groaned as its still-cool boiler came to life and its propellers clawed weakly at the Bosporus. And a moment after that, the warship rolled over completely, plunging its decks below the waves and baring its barnacle-crusted hull to the heavens, its screws spinning wildly in the wintry air.
“I like your plan,” Omar called to Vlad.
The Vlachian prince laughed. “You admire my genius?”
“Well.” Omar paused. “I admire the fact that we’re winning.”
The marines continued firing their revolvers at the sailors on the last Fury, and the sailors continued firing their rifles down at the little boats floating in the warship’s shadow.
Soon this one will be underwater, and we can all go home.
Omar glanced back at the distance sea walls of the palace and waved, wondering if Wren could see him.
When the last Eranian ship began to lean over, the Hellans scrambled to get out of its way. The third warship sank very slowly, listing gently to port and displaying its decks to the palace. On the far side, Omar could hear the Hellan steamers firing their guns at the warship’s exposed hull.
Then one of the marines pointed up at the deck of the ironclad and shouted, “Look there! It’s Koschei!”
Omar squinted up and against the glare of the winter sky he saw the small figure of a man hanging by his legs from a flag pole in the center of the deck. The Rus warrior had regrown his arms and it appeared that, for the moment, no one had any interest in hacking them off again. The sailors on deck were all scrambling to reach the small launches along the railings and the marines were gleefully picking off the fleeing Turks. But no one was minding the dangling Rus man.
When the ship rolls, he’ll be trapped underneath if his legs aren’t cut free.
Omar grimaced.
God only knows how many times he’d have to drown down there in the cold and the dark before he does get free.
The Aegyptian briefly recalled the handful of times he himself had drowned. Most had been in shipping accidents, in storms, and he’d only be gone for a moment or two. Only once had he been intentionally drowned in a fight, but that too had only lasted a moment.
A moment is more than enough.
“Vlad!” Omar glanced at the prince. “I think it’s time we rescued your lost champion.”
The Vlachian nodded and waved his men to row back toward the sinking ironclad and Omar followed suit. When they reached the edge of its shadow, the warship was still high enough above the waves that the marines had to use their hooks and ropes to snag the railing and climb hand-over-hand out of the pitching dories up onto the ironclad’s sloping deck.
Omar waited patiently below, staring up at the sharp edge of the ship for the marines to reappear with the mangy-haired Rus, but instead a single Hellan youth stuck out his head and called down, “He’s chained and locked! We need to find a key!”
Damn my luck.
Omar sighed, took hold of one of the dangling ropes, and began to climb. Every pull made his shoulders ache and his back ache and his legs ache, and when he paused to rest and catch his breath he looked down to see that he was barely a third of the way up. The marines down in the boats were grinning up at him.
“Oh, shut up,” he muttered to himself. “I was climbing ropes when your ancestors were still worshipping Zeus, you stupid children.”
He climbed, and rested, and climbed. When he reached the top, four marines were waiting to help him over the rail, and then to help him up the steep slope of the deck toward the flag pole. He shook off their hands. “I can walk, thank you very much!”
When he finally grabbed hold of the flag pole and stood face to upside-down face with the prisoner, Omar was again out of breath, but he recovered quickly.
“Koschei!”
The hanging man opened his eyes and frowned. “Grigori?”
“What are you doing, just hanging around like this?” Omar grinned. “Haven’t you heard? There’s a war on!”
Koschei frowned a bit deeper and his black eyes flicked from side to side, looking at the marines scattered about the deck. “Where are the Turks?”
“Dead, mostly. Now mind your head.”
“What?”
Omar drew his seireiken and slashed the chains around Koschei’s feet and the Rus man smashed down onto the deck straight onto his head. He flopped over and two of the marines grabbed his arms to keep him from sliding down the deck. But the thick-necked warrior shoved them away and stood up. His thin black hair was plastered to his face with sweat and sea spray, and his black mustache bristled between his scowling lips and his thrice-broken nose.
“You’re looking well,” Omar said. “Care to come to Stamballa with us for lunch? I think they’re serving something with coffee and hummus.”
The Rus immortal cast his black glare left and right. “Is the captain dead?”
“Probably. Why?”
“I’m going to cut off his arms,” Koschei said. “And then I’m going to shove a sword up his ass and set fire to his—”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Omar said with a tired look. “But this ship is about to roll over and sink, so we need to be leaving. Everyone, back to the boats!”
They stumbled down the deck to the railing, and then descended the ropes into the wobbling, wavering boats below. Omar found himself sitting nose to nose with Koschei as the marines began rowing. They angled south away from the sinking ships, but soon turned east to cross the Strait and reach the shores of Stamballa.
“I saw you come across the water,” the Rus man said. “It was very fast. My mother helped you, yes?”
“You could say that,” Omar said. “Although, I have my own mistress of the aether, these days. A very talented young girl.”
“Bah.” Koschei waved his thick, hairy hand. “Children. They know nothing. My mother, she knows everything. How long have you been in Constantia?”
“Three days now.”
“Three!” Koschei grunted and slapped one of the marines in the head. “You see? You little children have two months to rescue me and you do nothing. Grigori comes and he gets me free in three days. This is a man!”
Omar smiled and glanced up at the walls of the palace receding into the distance. The Hellan soldiers were on the move, trooping around the point toward the south tower, toward the approaching airships.
“Grigori!”
“It’s Omar now, actually.”
“Bah. You are always Grigori to me. So, you have s
een my mother, yes? How is she?”
Omar winced. “Actually, I’ve been a bit busy with the war and I haven’t been to see Yaga yet. But my apprentice has been to see her and I understand she’s doing just fine.”
“What is this? You haven’t seen her?” Koschei smacked Omar in the face. “Where are your manners? There is always time for manners. You taught me that. You will come see her with me now, when I go to her. She will be so happy to see us both, you will see.”
“Uhm.” Omar nodded slowly, rubbing his cheek. “Maybe. Although you can see we’re not heading that way at the moment.”
“Yes, yes, I see. We go to kill more Turks, yes? Fine with me.” The Rus man snorted and spat at the water, but missed and hit the inside wall of the boat instead. “So, Grigori, why so serious? You’re not the same man as before, all smiles and games. You look like these Hellans, all grim-face and pissing your pants.”
“Well, it’s the Hellans I’m worried about. I certainly wouldn’t mind if Constantia became a part of the empire, but I have no wish to see this lovely old city burned to the ground or thousands of innocents murdered in the process.”
Koschei shrugged and picked at his bent nose. “People die.”
“Yes, they certainly do.”
“What do you care? We don’t die, you and me. And you, you are looking for God, yes? Have you met him yet?”
A faint smile tugged at Omar’s cheek. “No, not yet.”
“Well, these things take time. God, heaven. Heh. Is tricky business. You’ll do it, someday.”
Omar chewed his lip. Over Koschei’s shoulder, he could see the third Fury finally rolling over and drifting lower and lower into the Bosporus. The Hellan steamers were arrayed around the wreckage, pulling Turkish sailors out of the water and shelling the sinking ironclads. The cannon fire boomed and popped and whistled across the waves.
Then Omar looked back at the walls of the palace again. The three airships loomed in the sky like dark monsters suspended in amber, but these monsters were still growing larger and the faint droning of their engines growled over the city. He sighed and rested his hand on his seireiken. “I hope you’re feeling rested. We have a long day ahead of us.”
“Fighting? Killing? Is no problem. This is what I do.” The Rus man grinned. “Remember who you’re talking to. I am Koschei the Deathless!”
Omar grinned back, momentarily infect with the other man’s dark enthusiasm. “Yes, I suppose you are.” He settled back in his seat to rest until they reached the far shore, and he muttered, “But who the devil am I?”
Chapter 21
Tycho stood in the south watch tower between Wren and the young soldier who had been ringing the alarm bell a few hours ago. He could see the airships clearly now, including the long gondolas clinging to their bellies and even the shadowy figures of the crews moving about inside. Now that they were closer, the airships looked to be moving faster and he could see them shifting slightly in formation, sometimes closer, sometimes farther apart. They nosed gently to the left and right as the wind moved around them.
“I can’t tell if they’re heading straight for us, or if they’re pointing toward the ships in the Strait,” he said to no one in particular. “They’re angled into the wind.”
“Does it really matter?” Wren asked. “You said your guns can’t shoot that high.”
“They can’t.”
“Then why are we out here? Just to wait and see what those skyships do?”
Tycho felt a sudden storm of anger and frustration in his chest and he almost snapped at her, Because I have to do something!
Instead he said, “What else can I do? I have to defend my people.”
Wren shrugged, jangling the silver bracelets on her wrists. “If you can’t fight your enemies, you hide from them. So hide.”
“Hide?” Tycho clenched his spyglass. “I can’t run away and hide in the middle of a war. There are thousands of people out there and they’re all counting on us to defend them. We have to be here. We have to do something about this.”
“Or, you could get your people to safety.” Wren poked her head out the window and looked up through her blue glasses. “Those skyships are huge and slow. You know exactly where they are, and they just drop the bombs straight down, right? So all you have to do is not be under them. Easy.”
“So what? Am I supposed to just evacuate all the houses in the path… of the…” Tycho blinked. “Of course, that’s exactly what we should be doing. You’re beautiful! Captain!” The major spun around and shouted down the stairs to the bottom of the tower. “Captain! I want your entire company assembled in the First Courtyard in five minutes. New orders! I want every building within a quarter league of the water to be evacuated. Empty every house. Tell the people to leave all their belongings, it’s just for a day or two. Get them back as far as possible.”
“Sir?”
“Go door to door, now! Move it! Move out! Go!” Tycho paused at the top of the stair, then looked back at Wren. “We need to get the Duchess to safety, too.”
“Sure. But where should we take her?”
Tycho hesitated.
We shouldn’t take her too far from the palace. If we end up spread out all over the city, we won’t be able to coordinate our forces.
He smiled.
“I think I know a place.”
Tycho and Wren rode their little pony back across the park from the wall to the palace, dashing through the columns of soldiers jogging up the shallow hill side to muster in the First Courtyard.
Back in the Chamber of Petitions, the atmosphere was strangely calm and quiet as the servants went about their chores and the clerks shuffled their papers, and the politicians argued quietly in the corners.
Tycho found Lady Nerissa in her office with the gravely pale and sleepy-eyed Salvator and several other senior officers. “Your Grace, we have to evacuate the palace.”
The Duchess’s face betrayed her worry and fear. “Vlad’s plan failed? The airships are still coming this way?”
“It’s impossible to be sure, but we can’t wait until the last minute to find out. I’ve already sent our men into the city to evacuate the homes near the waterfront, but we need to get you to safety as well. The palace will be their first target.”
“Not the most gallant recourse, but probably the most prudent,” Salvator said begrudgingly.
The Duchess nodded. “Very well. We’ll move to the Cathedral of Saint Sophia. Not even the Turks would dare to destroy that house of God.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but we can’t take that chance.”
The woman’s face hardened with resolve. “Major, I won’t simply run away to some country estate and wait for it to be safe enough for me to resume my duties. I have a war to fight.”
“I know, and I agree,” Tycho said. “Which is why I want to move you to another palace nearby.”
“What other palace nearby?” The Duchess’s look of confusion blossomed into realization. “Major, that’s an excellent idea.”
The next half hour was a maelstrom of clerks and papers and maids and orders as the palace staff were all sent away and the entire bureaucratic machinery of Constantia was bundled up into satchels and cases and bags and trunks and simply carried out through the front gates of the Palace of Constantine.
The train of porters and soldiers and clerks shuffled down the road behind the Cathedral of Saint Sophia led by Lady Nerissa, Salvator, Tycho, and Wren. When they reached the gated entrance on their right, they turned into the estate and crossed the flat lawn of brown grass.
“What is this place? Have I been here before?” Wren asked. “I thought we were going to another palace.”
“We are, and you have, although you were probably blindfolded at the time,” Tycho said. “I’m sorry about that.”
“You mean… we’re going back to the prison?”
“We call it the Sunken Palace now. It’s centuries old, and no one’s certain what it was really for or why it sank, but it�
�s down there. It’s partly flooded as well, and it’s used as a cistern. And a prison.” Tycho opened the door of the small mausoleum in the center of the field and let the ladies enter ahead of him, and then he followed them down the stairs into the darkness with the stampede of men and papers following behind him.
Down below, the air was stale and cold and Tycho saw Wren’s breath swirling around her pale lips. He led the way through the makeshift office at the bottom of the stair and headed down the narrow corridor to the first vast chamber. The walkway skirted the edge of the room some ten or twelve feet above the floor, and the level of the water reached nearly to the walkway, so that the rippling surface of the reservoir lapped and splashed gently at their feet. The light of the torches danced on the water, and dripping sounds echoed over and over into the distant shadows.
Tycho hurried on past two more cisterns that had been grand ball rooms or dining halls for the long-dead lords of Constantia. The major kept his eyes on the walkway.
Perhaps Constantine himself danced in these halls. Princes and emperors from half the world might have walked here, talking of war and love and religion and politics. Writing history with every gesture and word. And now it’s all one big well full of cold water for people who barely remember that Constantine ever really lived. What a joke.
Beyond the cisterns stood the hall of small locked rooms guarded by the pale-faced soldiers, who leapt to salute the major as he led the Duchess and her entourage past the cells ever deeper into the ancient palace.
Finally they came to another large room, one not flooded but still pocked with broken tiles and wide shallow puddles from the water that dripped from overhead. The moldy remains of the ceiling were supported by two rows of thick Hellan columns, which may have been solid marble, or merely granite, beneath the layers of moss and fungus and filth on them. A dozen other doors led out of the room in every direction, but Tycho paused just inside the entrance and said, “We should be safe here.”
“Where is here?” Wren asked.
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