Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection (31 page)

"He's protective of the both of you."

Bartleby rolled his eyes. "Don't I know it. It's tiresome. Anyway, I'm pleased to see that you've reconsidered how children fit into your lifestyle."

"It's not a matter of children, it's family," Aldora said. "We all have them; most people have two. The family we're born into, and the family we choose. It's only by way of rare accident that the two happen to coincide."

Bartleby watched the two girls disappear around the corner of the house. "And which is this Penelope?"

"Whatever the matter of the former, she is firmly the latter. I have chosen that she be raised in my home, as my daughter. I trust, dear fiancé, that you do not object?"

"I wouldn't dare."

Fine Young Turks

Aldora Fiske navigated the shifting patterns of the quadrille effortlessly. Her evening gown was cut was to the very edge of fashion, a diaphanous teal tunic over her draped narrow pastel blue skirt, waistline cinched high just below the bust in a precise Empire style, her hemline just above the cuff of her high curved heels. To the untrained eye her movements were casual, effortless, and relaxed, but there was purpose behind every step, intent behind every turn, a reason behind every change in partners. There were many she would speak with this evening, many she would listen to, and it was the shuffling steps of the quadrille which would bring dancers together and take them apart again.

The band played on, Turks with European orchestral instruments, playing with precision and largely ignorant of the subtle conflict filling the Constantinople palace's ballroom around them, the dancers an international sea of muted European style amid opulent Ottoman decor.

Her partners in these movements were almost as adept at this social chess as she, and everyone had their own political agenda for the evening. None were so inexperienced that an unexpected twist would trip them up or make them lose their pace, and so the lunges and feints of this dance were intended to channel individuals towards and away from one another, as desired. The experienced players, such as Aldora herself, knew how to think several movements and motions ahead. The game became one of understanding and anticipating the choices in partner other dancers were apt to make, and then presenting attractive alternatives to get them where you wanted them to be.

Having finished flirting with the eligible and noble Italian Comte Montagni, Aldora moved with the changing measure, displacing Mme. Viviani, wife of the French Minister of Labour.

She smiled as her movements began to mirror those of her new partner, the wealthy industrialist Brugmann. "Only in Constantinople would I dream to see a French woman dancing with a German."

Brugmann laughed. "Perhaps the atmosphere puts us in a conciliatory mood, Miss Fiske. It is yet Miss, is it not?"

"I do approach the end of my spinsterhood," she said. "But you needn't fear my fiance minding my dancing with another man."

"A trusting man, your Mr. Bartleby. And you trust him enough to travel half the world away."

"If the Reich can trust the Third Republic..."

"It isn't France that concerns us, but their chosen ally."

The dance had brought Minister Guignard Viviani himself alongside the couple, no doubt a manoeuvre the Frenchman had initiated soon after seeing his wife dancing with the industrialist, and had been compelled to complete even after she had moved on.

"You needn't concern yourself with the Tsar," he said in passing. "Russia is in no position to initiate a war, not after the trouncing the Japanese gave them."

"If they're so weak an ally, then why waste your time courting them?" Brugmann asked.

Guignard smirked and the dance shifted, Aldora moving to join him.

"As a counterweight to your own ambitions, of course," he said. "The French and Russian governments are not inclined to start a war, but you can rest assured that together we are well equipped to end one."

"I'm sure you find great pleasure in rattling your sabres," Aldora said, subtly moving the Frenchman away from the German, "but I can assure you that none here are impressed."

"Forgive me, of course," the Frenchman said.

"It is from our elusive host that you should beg forgiveness."

"Ah! Perhaps the opportunity is upon me."

Guignard turned slightly, allowing Aldora a glimpse of the curtained archway leading into the ballroom. A handsome Turk stood there, dressed in a long emerald robe with tight sleeves over a pale blue and navy tunic. He was tall and thin, with an olive cast to his features that Aldora found quite appealing. The dance's steps turned her away from the man, and far be it from her to make a scene craning her neck around for him.

"Our host joins us," Guignard said. "Cemal Yavuzade Bey."

"What do you know of the man?" she asked, careful to keep her interest sounding mild.

"He's a representative of the Ottoman Empire's ruling Committee of Union and Progress parliamentary party."

"A mouthful of a label."

"Perhaps you've heard of them by their other name, the Young Turks?"

"That does sound familiar. I remember hearing something about a coup?"

"From what I can recall the Young Turks marched on the Sultan and demanded he reinstate the constitution he'd suspended. The man capitulated, and the Turks seized power. This ball is most likely a calculated ploy by the Committee to show off the empire's reforms to the great powers of Europe, to inspire confidence in the "Sick Old Man of Europe's" financial future."

Aldora chuckled. "For a transparent ploy to inspire confidence in ones debtors, it certainly is a pleasant one."

While she had expected spectacle at the ball -- the familiar European style was a considerate touch -- she did not expect their host to be so young and handsome. As the dance progressed and she passed from Guignard to a new partner she spared Cemal a second glance -- and to her fluster he caught it, deep hazel eyes locking her own pale blue. She found it impossible to look away from their intensity at first, and when she finally managed found herself partnered with Mr. Herbert, the loathsome American industrialist whose great airship had brought most of her fellow guests all the way to Asia.

"Miss Fiske!" His greedy eyes sought out her décolletage. "How delightful it is to have the opportunity to dance with you."

"Forgive me, Mr. Herbert. I do feel a bit faint. You will excuse me?" She backed away, still moving in time to the music but increasing the distance between herself and her temporary partner.

Mr. Herbert nodded but frowned, finding himself alone in the quadrille. He made a game attempt to dance with an invisible partner for a few movements, then walked awkwardly off the floor to titters just loud enough for him to hear.

***

Aldora swayed between dancing couples, away from the centre of the ballroom, instinctively navigating between their complex steps as easily as when she had been part of the pattern herself. Cool air across her flushed skin drew her through a tapered arch onto a vast balcony, and she chided herself for having had such a public reaction. It was unthinkable for a lady of her stature to show such obvious interest. She could but hope the ballroom's lighting was such that none noticed her blush, her gaze, her obvious stare.

She leaned against the balcony, letting the cool Mediterranean breeze soothe her embarrassment, and looked out over Constantinople's skyline, its domes and towers silhouetted against the setting sun. Black shapes silhouetted against the fading light, passing between the minarets, both European airships and the smaller Turkish ornithopters with their articulated wings, the distant lights of their swaying, darting movements almost seeming like fireflies one might reach out and grasp.

"Would you like to go for a ride?"

She'd never heard the Bey speak, but she knew it was his voice without turning around. She daren't. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're watching the ornithopters. I'm told they never took hold in Northern Europe... my personal 'thopter sits on the roof of this palace. Perhaps you'd like to take a ride in it some time?"

"Thank you for the offer," Aldora said. "But I was merely enjoying the view."

"Do you like it?"

"It's breathtaking."

"Tell me," he said, standing next to her. "Tell me what you see."

She spared him a sideways look, fixating on the inches between their hands on the railing. "I see the setting sun. The rising moon. I see the bay, and ships of all sorts."

"The harbour is the Golden Horn, and across the Bosporus Strait is Stamboul, the Byzantium of the Greeks and Constantinople of the Romans."

"I thought this palace was in Constantinople."

Cemal chuckled. "It is. Stamboul is the old city, the old way, built on seven hills, each topped with an extravagant mosque by Sultans gone by. On this side of the bay is Pera. Both are Constantinople, but Stamboul is its past. Pera is its future. Pera is what I've invited you all here to see."

"What makes Pera its future?" Aldora glanced at her host, caught him looking at her, and looked away quickly.

"Pera exists on the cusp of Europe and Asia," he said. "The embassies are here. The trading houses of Europe have their offices here. On the streets of Pera you might think yourself in any of the great cities of England or France, with just a taste of what makes Constantinople Turkish. On its streets you will pass citizens from across the Empire, from Egypt to Macedonia to Kuwait to Armenia."

"It sounds wonderfully cosmopolitan." Somehow her hand had moved closer to his, and she could almost feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"As the empire has been for centuries."

"Cemal Bey?"

The gruff voice startled Aldora, and she stepped quickly away from Cemal. One of his servants -- or guards -- waited in the doorway. "
Sizin misafirler sizi soruyor.
"

"
Ben hemen orada olacaktır
." He turned to face Aldora straight on, and she found herself almost lost in the deep hazel of his eyes. "If you will excuse me?"

"Yes," she said. "Of course."

***

Aldora stayed, waiting on the balcony, watching the airships drift above the harbour long after her host had left.

"There you are." Penelope, her eleven year-old ward, stomped towards her, her white skirts bunched in her hands, broad velvet sash around her middle.

"Have you been behaving yourself?" Aldora asked, taking a moment to compose herself, hands flying lightly to her hair.

"I'm being a Lady," Penny said. "I was wondering if we might go visit Kalil tomorrow."

"Your friend. He lives across the bay, in Stamboul?"

Penny nodded. "Yes, in the Aksaray neighbourhood. I know the way. I can show you."

"Perhaps," Aldora said. "I would like to see more of the city."

"Kalil and I can serve as your guides," Penny said. "Father and I visited the city often."

The girl's smile faded slightly, and she turned to overlook the city alongside her guardian.

"I miss Father."

"I know you do, dear." Aldora slipped an arm around the girl's shoulder. "I miss him as well. Henry... he was one of the finest men I've had the pleasure of knowing."

Taking care of Henry Robinson's daughter was the only way she could make things right with herself. She'd arrived too late to save him from the Spanish madman who'd taken his life in the jungles of Mexico, but she had rescued the girl. Adopting her was the closest she would get to reconciliation with the girl's father. It would have to be enough.

"Let's return indoors," Aldora said. "It should be almost supper."

The girls turned and headed back towards the ballroom. A tall woman -- lean and graceful, with dark black skin and dark amber eyes, mahogany hair tied in a long braid, dressed in simple but elegant sleeveless silk vest over a long layered tunic -- met them at the archway.

"Miss Fiske?" she asked.

"Yes?"

"I am Safiyya, Cemal Bey's
uşak
."

"An
uşak
is a valet," Penny whispered.

"The Ottomans have female valets?" Aldora asked.

"The Young Turk's reforms allow women to do many things that before we could not," Safiyya said. "Cemal Bey wishes your company at his table for supper."

Aldora smiled brightly at the unexpected news. "You may of course relay to him that we accept."

Safiyya looked down at Aldora's ward. "The invitation was but for one, but I am sure he would not object--"

"No, that's okay." Penny gave Aldora a sly grin. "You needn't concern yourself with me. I can entertain myself while you entertain the Bey."

"Penelope!"

Penny's grin only widened. Safiyya chuckled.

***

"This is what now?" Brugmann sniffed at the clear liquid the palace servants had set before him. "An aperitif? It smells of anise. I thought your Muslim faith forbade you alcohol?"

Brugmann sat to Cemal's left, across from Aldora, who counted herself fortunate to be seated next to the handsome Turk. Mme. Viviani sat on Aldora's right, next to her husband, who himself was across the round table from the Italian aristocrat Comte Montagni, and the American industrialist Herbert.