Not Less Than Gods (22 page)

“It would, sir.”

“Bloody brilliant,” said Ludbridge, and shook Mihalakis’s hand.

The
Heron
cast off and moved gently away from Pera, gliding up the Bosporus as effortlessly as though she were under full sail, despite the clatter and steam of her sham engine. Bell-Fairfax stood with Pengrove
and Hobson on the stern deck, watching the dome of Hagia Sophia silhouetted against a golden sunset. Constantinople dwindled, and darkened, and sank into memory at last as they entered the Black Sea. The first stars pricked through the evening sky while the steward came out to light the stern lanterns. Having done this, he bowed and said, “Gentlemen, supper is prepared. Will you go inside?”

“I shall miss Pera,” said Pengrove mournfully, as they crossed the deck.

“Hallo! Perhaps I won’t,” he added a moment later, as he stepped into the saloon. Hobson and Bell-Fairfax stared openmouthed. Rich carpets, teak paneling inlaid everywhere with mother-of-pearl and ivory, gleaming brasswork, tapestry cushions, the whole lit by heavy silver lamps. One hung just above a low table in the Eastern fashion. The table was set out with silver dishes containing an excellent supper of roast lamb and baked mullet, as well as a great mound of saffron rice garnished with nuts and pomegranate seeds. The cook was just setting down a bowl of sliced melon as they approached.

Ludbridge and Mihalakis sat on cushions by the table, idly smoking Turkish cigarettes. “You took your time,” grumbled Ludbridge. “The pilaf’s getting cold.”

They took places on cushions around the table, though Bell-Fairfax had to fold up his legs rather awkwardly. The supper was consumed rapidly and in virtual silence; it was only when the port had been served around, with a box of cigarettes, that Hobson ventured to say:

“I’m afraid I missed the six o’clock report.”

“Quite all right,” said Ludbridge. “I sent word to London over the ship’s transmitter. They won’t expect a full report until we’ve arrived.”

“May we know what we’re to do next?” asked Bell-Fairfax, with a cautious glance at Mihalakis.

“Oh, he’s in on all our little schemes,” said Ludbridge, raising his glass to Mihalakis, who saluted in kind. “We’ll be gathering intelligence, as it happens. Greene’s project. It may be a bit tricky, and so the Magi have kindly offered some of their personnel and equipment to assist. We’ll share our information, of course.”

“I fear we may find it more useful than London will,” remarked Mihalakis, lighting another cigarette.

“The Magi are a different group of fellows, then?” said Pengrove.

“Your cousins, perhaps,” said Mihalakis. “Sons of a long-lost brother, if you like. When Constantine took the empire east, our people went with it. The name was the Fellowship of the Green Lion then, as you are probably aware. They operated in Byzantium throughout the millennium, until her fall.

“Things were rather difficult for a long while, then, regardless of the aid they received from your people in the West, until they were contacted—with infinite caution, using ancient signs and countersigns—by the counterpart group who worked under the Ottomans.
They
were descended from a group that had worked in Egypt for many centuries. We joined forces and have operated successfully ever since, though the coming age is likely to present certain challenges.”

“And your Greek and Mussulman chaps don’t hate each other?” said Hobson.

“We work toward the same great day,” said Mihalakis, spreading his hands. “What else matters? And each of us has reached the same private conclusion in his soul, which is that no religion will ever bring that day about. Nor will great men in power, I think. The Sultan, may he live for a thousand years, but fortunate to manage another twenty, is well-meaning but too weak. Any real change here must come through the efforts of Fuad Pasha and the others, and even they see that the best they are likely to accomplish is to salvage a modern state from the ruins of the empire. Nations rise and fall, my friends, but we are everywhere. Only
our
work has ever lasted.”

“Hear, hear,” said Ludbridge, raising his glass again. Bell-Fairfax, eyes shining, held his glass aloft and drank deep.

Before the glass had been emptied, the steward entered the saloon and leaned close to murmur something in Mihalakis’s ear. He frowned and rose to his feet, making his excuses, and hurried into the pilot’s cabin.

“What ho,” said Pengrove, looking after him. “Something amiss, I  wonder?”

The cook came in and cleared the remains of the supper away. He removed the table as well, folding its legs and rolling it into a bracket against a bulkhead. Mihalakis came in as he was pulling feather mattresses from a locker, and waved him from the room.

“We have received a report from Stamboul,” Mihalakis said. “There has been a singular incident. The police are searching for a group of Americans who engaged in a duel of some sort. Pistols were fired.”

“Not surprised,” said Ludbridge. “That lot were spoiling to shoot somebody.”

“They appear to have been pursuing their slave,” said Mihalakis. “The man eluded them by leaping from a quay. He never hit the water, however. He appears to have detonated a bomb in midair.”

“Well, that wouldn’t be a duel,” said Hobson. “A duel is when two fellows have it out—”

“A bomb?” Ludbridge frowned. “What sort of a bomb?”

“Pyrethanatos, I am afraid.”

“Hell,” said Ludbridge, with feeling. Hobson, Pengrove and Bell-Fairfax were staring at him, and so he explained: “It’s one of our formulas. Consumes in a flash. We’ve used it for millennia. You’re quite sure?” He looked at Mihalakis, who nodded.

“The unfortunate man was reduced to dust and ashes. Samples from the water were analyzed afterward, and left no doubt he had used pyrethanatos. There were reports that a second man was shot, in fact, but neither he nor the other parties involved could be located.”

“Profoundly unfortunate,” said Ludbridge. He met Mihalakis’s steady gaze. “You received that warning from the Franklin group, I imagine?”

Mihalakis nodded again. “An alarm has been raised. The Magi are seeking them even now, I am informed.”

“D’you want us to return to Pera, and assist? We saw the buggers, after all.”

“I took a photograph of them,” Pengrove volunteered.

“By God, you did!” Ludbridge’s eyes brightened. “Full marks, Pengrove!”

The photograph was duly located and couriered back to Stamboul by the steward, using a steam launch. They sat up long hours, emptying the box of cigarettes before a transmission came through informing them that the picture had arrived.

“And we’re to go on to Sebastopol,” said Hobson, slipping off the earpieces. “Greene conferred with Fuad Pasha, and they seem to think the Magi can deal with the problem.”

Ludbridge grunted. “If they say so, then. Generally these things are only resolved one way.”

“You mean there have been other occasions when the . . . the
technologia
has been stolen?” said Bell-Fairfax. Ludbridge and Mihalakis exchanged glances.

“It happens, once in a great while,” Ludbridge admitted. “But the less said the better, for now. We have our own job to do.”

The harbor official at Sebastopol found nothing much to interest him in the steam yacht that moored and sent a Greek dragoman ashore. The fellow was deferential when he explained that he had been chartered by a party of English tourists, who expressed a wish to see the ruins of Chersonesus, perhaps make a couple of talbotype prints, and take some refreshment in the taverns. They were well-to-do and inclined to spend money, the dragoman added, and followed this remark with a substantial bribe.

The harbor official pocketed it and facilitated the permits. He then ordered his nephew, newly appointed as his assistant, out to accompany the party. Ostensibly the nephew was to be their guide, but in reality to he was to oversee their activities. The nephew, a sullen youth addressed as Noman Ismailovich, went with ill grace.

He accompanied the dragoman back to the steam launch, and stared around enviously at its accoutrements while the Englishmen dithered about packing all their photographic equipment into the shore boat.
When Noman was introduced, the Englishmen seemed to find his name funny, and babbled on about it a great deal. He demanded of the dragoman what was so amusing, and the Greek, looking rather embarrassed, hastened to assure him they were paying him a compliment by comparing him to the ancient hero Odysseus.

Noman’s annoyance was not lost on the Englishmen, however, and the older man clapped him on the shoulder and said something placatory. He called out some sort of order and a moment later champagne was brought out, with a trayful of glasses. Noman gladly took a glass of champagne, and then a second when it was offered. He felt a good deal more cheerful by the time they all climbed into the shore boat and rowed across to Chersonesus.

They wandered around awhile in the ancient ruins. The absurd-looking Englishman in the straw hat set up his camera and spent an interminable amount of time getting exposures of broken columns, with the warships and fortifications guarding the harbor incidentally in the background. Noman grew bored and restive; the older Englishman observed this. He pulled out a brandy flask and offered it to Noman, with a wink. Noman had a little brandy. He had a little more. The older man shared the brandy with him but there still seemed to be a great deal remaining in the flask.

The other Englishmen grew bored too, and presently insisted they should go see something more interesting than a lot of ruins. Were there any notable sights hereabouts, they wished to know? When this was translated for him by the dragoman, Noman volunteered to show them the fortifications immediately to the west. They trudged over the fields and found the battery there nearly deserted.

A bribe to the few men on duty, as well as a bottle of brandy from the boat, won them permission to take a few photographs of the two other Englishmen clowning on the parapet battery. Noman found particularly funny the shot of the short Englishman pretending to have his head stuck in the barrel of one of the great guns there, a visual feat he accomplished by simply putting his head behind the barrel and letting perspective create the illusion for the camera. Then, of course, they had
to take a number of shots of the tall Englishman trying to pull the short one free, with Fort Constantine across the harbor in the background. The older man once again shared his flask with Noman, which Noman appreciated very much, for the wind off the sea was particularly cold that day.

Noman suggested that they might go look at the fortifications on the hills to the east, though he thought it might be a good idea if the camera was left behind. The absurd one pouted at this, but the other Englishmen jeered at him and he was compelled to pack his equipment back into the boat.

After a long ramble during which Noman proudly showed the Englishmen how well Sebastopol was fortified, everyone was hot and thirsty. The older Englishman proposed that they go back and row themselves to any pleasant tavern where they might get a fortifying drink, and asked whether Noman knew of any. Noman did, and so off they went to his favorite waterfront tavern.

The rest of the day was a little hard to recollect, afterward. The English insisted on paying for all the drinks, and by the time they reeled out into the afternoon Noman felt they were perfectly splendid fellows. They rowed all around the inner harbor, up and down, and Noman entertained them by singing the filthiest songs he knew, to show them he was a man of the world and not the hapless seventeen-year-old he seemed. The Greek seemed at a loss to translate some of the lyrics, but his English friends seemed to get the meaning nonetheless, and roared with laughter.

When his voice was hoarse and his mouth dry, Noman’s friend with the flask miraculously produced a fresh bottle of brandy from under the thwarts, and passed the bottle around. Noman hazily tried to remember what sort of terms his czar was on with their Queen Victoria. He had the general impression the two nations were at peace; all the same, he thought he might impress the Englishmen by showing them how very well the harbor was guarded, in case they should ever dare to attempt to invade.

Noman remembered waving farewell to his new friends as they
pulled away from the harbormaster’s office, where they had thoughtfully deposited him with the rest of the brandy. He sat on the harbor wall and watched them steam away into the sunset, and was just finishing off the last of the brandy when his uncle found him.

The next half-hour was not a happy one for Noman Ismailovich.

“Don’t wanna go anyplace today,” Pengrove whimpered into his pillow. “Got a wretched headache. Besides, if I have to develop the beastly photographs I’ll get beastly sick.”

“You’re in luck,” said Ludbridge, leaning down and fixing him with a bloodshot gaze. “Mihalakis developed them last night in the lavatory. You wouldn’t remember that, however, I expect. You were speaking in tongues by that time. We got some fine shots of the city’s defenses and we’ll get more today.”

“But I’m too awfully ill, really!”

“No, you’re not. A little red pepper sauce on some nice crisp toast and you’ll be good as new,” Ludbridge told him.

“I very much doubt that,” said Pengrove sullenly, sitting up. He clutched his head. “You’re a wicked cruel old uncle, to make a poor invalid in my condition get up. Why don’t you go hector the others? Except I think Hobson died in the night,” he added, looking over at the motionless heap on the pallet to his right. “Go rouse Bell-Fairfax first, why can’t you? I’ll get up after he does.”

“He’s already up.”

Pengrove focused his eyes enough to see Bell-Fairfax half-in and half-out of the tiny lavatory cabinet, bending down to peer into the mirror as he shaved himself. He was only slightly green. “Morning, Pengrove.”

“And you’ll want a decent breakfast in you, because we’ve got another long walk to make today,” said Ludbridge, reaching past Bell-Fairfax to grab a wet sponge from the washbasin.

“What for? And where the deuce are we?” Pengrove pulled himself up the bulkhead and stared out a porthole, appalled. “This isn’t Sebastopol!”