The Fall of Eva Pryor

I shall never forget the moment Constantinople appeared before us.

The sun was just rising as we drew near to the city, and even at a distance I could see the graceful spires and domes of palaces and minarets piercing the morning fog that lay on the Bosphorous like a blanket of down. The city seemed an ancient sage on the verge of awakening, mysterious and exotic, bathed in the golden light of dawn. It evoked memories of travelogues I had read as a youth, such as the accounts of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. I found myself hoping vaguely that if we weren't killed on the spot after landing, we might have the chance ride upon a Camel's back or visit a Bazaar --not to mention the Zenana of which Lady Montagu so famously wrote, where the Queens and concubines of the Sultan's household were kept.

Unfortunately, my Oriental dreams did not survive the shock of contact with reality. Once we cleared the low ceiling of cloud and began to approach more closely, I observed a city much different than what I had expected from far above. Even from considerable height, dockyards lined with steam-loading arms were visible, the great machines plucking crates from waiting ships and loading more crates onto others bound for Europe or Asia. Moving closer still, one could see tracks in the streets on which street-cars and omnibuses zipped to and fro. The minarets and domes of antiquity were matched by towers of decidedly more modern design. And everywhere rose steam, clouds of steam, as the waking populace stoked their engines for the morning's commerce and commute. Constantinople was a glittering metropolis of Science rising out of the mythic landscape of its history.

"Why, she rivals London and Paris!" I exclaimed aloud.

Eva nodded.

"Fatima has said as much. Now I truly believe her."

"Fatima? Ah, your 'Ulupi,' the poet-scientist."

"Yes. Fatima Aliye. We must find her as quickly as possible upon landing."

"So, you anticipate that we will be received politely and not, oh, beheaded as spies the moment we step off the ship?"

Eva laughed.

"You've read too many adventure novels, Benjamin. The Ottomans may be ruthless on the battlefield and expansionist in their foreign policy, but they are a civilized people in their own land. Their Empire is diverse, with Christians and Jews, Moslems and Sufis, all living together under the Sultan's rule. They do not behead people simply for being from another country. And the Ottomans are not officially at war with the Unified Nations -at least, not yet. They will wait to learn all they can from us before making any definitive moves. We must simply act faster than their doubts can fly."

"Well, then, let us see what we can do here. Perhaps I will ride upon a Camel after all."

And so I began our descent into the Port of Constantinople. Once upon the ground, we were greeted immediately after disembarking by the Commander. He had removed his steam-suit, but he was still an imposing man: swarthy, mustachioed, and immaculately dressed in a European-style uniform topped with a tall brimless hat that only increased the impression of his height. His gaze skated over me to rest on Eva, who stood taller than her slight stature would give credit for. Ordinarily she took pains to cover her steam-driven framework, but on this day she wore her well-fitted travelling jacket without a neckerchief underneath and pinned her dark hair up so that the ingeniously jointed armature that supported the back of her neck was visible. On her back, as always, was the miniaturized steam-engine in its leather casing. She also left off her gloves, so that the tracery of her wiring was visible as she held out her hand in greeting. There could be no doubt that she was who I had claimed, but she introduced herself nonetheless, saying simply,

"Eva Pryor, at your service."

If he was affronted by her brusque, forward tone, he did not show it. He merely took her hand and shook it, bowing very slightly as he did so. He introduced himself as the Kaymakam, or Colonel and Commander of the Aerial Division. He also gave his regiment name, his squadron name, his honorary palace titles, and I assume his family name at some point, but it all came so thick and fast that I lost track. Just as I was beginning to worry about my ability to keep up, he spoke in accented but quite correct English, adding,

"Miss Pryor, your name is known to us. You have been on quite an adventure, yes?"

"Indeed we have, Commander. Allow me to present my pilot and translator, Benjamin D'Aville."

"So here is the man who made that dive!" The Commander said to me in Turkish. "Don't worry, I will take good care of your warbird. She will not go without her exercise."

He clasped my hand with his two in a comradely gesture, as of a man who understands what it is like to give up a favourite vessel. My heart gave a pang to realize he was taking possession of the Vimana then and there. I had grown fond of her. But I couldn't think much on it, as the Commander turned to indicate the way out of the docks. For Eva's benefit, he switched back into English.

"Come, this way. You are summoned to an audience with the Sultan."

"Now?" Eva's voice would have sounded steady to anyone else, but I heard her surprise and anxiety. "We are honoured, but we have travelled long and we are not suitably dressed to enter the presence of the Sultan."

"That will all be taken care of, Madame. My autocar is this way. Come."

With that, the Commander strode forward swiftly, and Eva followed after a moment's hesitation as her mechanism clicked into gear. It felt strange to just walk away from the Vimana, but we had not packed anything worth going back to retrieve. The only things we carried from the ship with us were a small kit with specialized tools and fuel for Eva's engine, the lodestone still tucked in her skirts, and the pack of her personal papers which I had stashed in my inside breast pocket. The gang of entrepreneurial dockyard porters who had gathered around us dispersed when they saw that we had no luggage to be carried out. The Commander strode quickly ahead of us, with three or four guards bringing up the rear. We had no choice but to follow.

Despite my misgivings, I was relieved to reach the auto in short order. True, it was no Camel, but since the sun was already blazing hot and the streets around the port were choked with soot, it was a relief to go inside. The interior of the auto was kept clean and cool by a small ivory fan in a gilt cage which I assume was attached by a crankshaft to the autocar's engine, for as soon as the engine started up in earnest, the fan turned more vigorously. I leaned towards the draft, trying to loosen my neckerchief and wishing that I had left the d--d thing off as well.

"Don't fuss with it." Eva said from the seat opposite me. I sat back with a huff and looked around. The Commander sat up in the closed cab driving the auto himself and the guards stood on the running boards. We had the interior to ourselves -and her first words were to scold me for fiddling with my neckerchief!

"Oh, leave off. What we really need is to come up with a plan to find your Ulupi."

"Just so. I expected a meeting with the Commander, but I didn't anticipate that the Sultan would want to meet with a few scientific defectors so soon. Indeed, I rather thought it would be difficult to get an audience should we want one."

"Perhaps your reputation precedes you, Madame Heiress to the Pryor fortune."

Eva made a grimace, but it was a comical one.

"Yes, I suppose I underestimate how quickly money moves the hearts of men."

"Besides, I promised them that you came bearing gifts of knowledge from the Vaults of Unified Science. And, well, I said they could have the Vimana."

"You did what?!"

"It seemed like the best way to get us here alive. They had us in their sights, and we had nothing else to give as proof of our goodwill."

"Then we have no way to find Ulupi, and no way to escape should we find her."

"So it seems."

I braced myself for her wrath, but all Eva did was sigh like the little engine on her back.

"Ah well then. As always, the best we can do is throw ourselves into the course of events and see what befalls us. Follow my lead."

"I will. Just be polite, Eva. You're very forthright, and the Sultan may not be used to women who speak their minds. Don't anger him, please."

Eva nodded her agreement. Somehow, I wasn't convinced.

~~~~~~~~~~

Once we cleared the port, we made our way slowly along the Bosphorous towards the famed Palace of the Filled-In Garden, where the Sultan had his residence. I had heard it was of new construction, built to provide all the luxuries and comforts of the modern age, but I had no clear conception of what that might mean until I saw it. From a distance it appeared to run directly alongside the mighty river, with barely a courtyard or garden in between, as if it drew its very life from the Bosphorous (and indeed, with so many engines in need of cooling, it probably did.) Its facades were white, but with so many immense fluted columns and balustrades that it seemed ribbed like bone: a Baroque hashish dream wrought in marble. It struck me as more Italian than Oriental in design, though features here and there seemed to reflect the Eastern arts, such as the pierced fretwork patterns that graced the rooftop balconies. I wondered how we were to enter, since the face of the building was to the water, but it seemed that the main gates were not on the face, as is usual with a European palace, but at the South end where the building was narrowest. I learned later that this strange design was in fact to keep the areas for public reception at the farthest possible remove from the Harem, where the women were kept in seclusion.

The gates to the palace, as one might expect, were monumental: a massive stone arch in which was contained a portal gate made of the most lacy, delicate iron-work imaginable, all painted in white to form a screen made of curves, diamonds, and circular devices. The gates opened themselves in smoothly oiled obedience at our approached, as if at the command of a magical djinn. I drank it all in avidly, and for once I believe Eva did too, abandoning her habitually critical regard in the face of sheer majestic spectacle. Just hours ago we had been sleeping in a single bunk and eating beans out of tins; now, we were immersed in splendor!

My quarters in the Palace, too, could not have presented a stronger contrast to the Vimana's cramped hold. They were spacious and airy, with columns of marble styled as palm trees gilt at the tops with pure gold. I wandered the rooms and found I had an entire apartment all to myself. It was inconceivable that an unmarried man and woman should share a suite, even if they had until recently shared a bed, so Eva was taken to chambers closer to the women's quarters to prepare for our meeting, while my rooms were closer to the ambassadorial suites. It may sound strange to say, but in this suite filled with every imaginable material pleasure, from cool water and sweet dates to silks and fine Egyptian cottons, I somehow felt less sensual allure than in a cramped bunk on an airship with Eva there. I refreshed myself in the baths and partook of the light victuals provided, but I did so with a sense of hollow impatience, longing to see her again.

Whether Eva missed me or not I cannot say, but I have no doubt that she luxuriated in her bath. She had complained many times on the ship of missing the relief bathing gave her from her suit straps. I suppose that she must have had a lady's maid or two to help her into the bath, to dress her hair, and to outfit her in Ottoman style. I wondered idly if any of those ladies would provide Eva with the same release she found in servicing her suit. But I had to put that thought aside, lest it tempt the Imp into action.

Instead, I concerned myself with my own grooming. I had feared that they might expect me to wear a Turban or some other strange costume, but I found to my surprise that the clothing provided was cut along European lines, if ornamented in Oriental fashion. I still recall the rather handsome dinner jacket I found laid out for me: deep blue silk it was, with gold embroidery tracing two curved shapes not entirely unlike wings on the back, well suited for a pilot. It was a bit longer in the hem than I would consider usual in England, but fit quite well at the sleeves, which were finished with black ribbon jaquarded in a minute gold paisley pattern. I felt quite the dandy in my new jacket and silk cravat, having never been able to afford such luxurious raiments before or since.

A short while after I had finished dressing, a large man came to lead me to the reception hall. I believe he was a eunuch, as his skin was smooth as glass. He spoke not a word but only beckoned me onwards to the main entrance hall.

As one might expect, it overtopp'd in glory all that had come before: a marble cavern of a room with a golden ceiling carved in rich, flowing patterns and hung with numerous crystal chandeliers. Around the room were life-sized automata in the shape of tortoises wrought of brass with jewelled eyes and shells. They crawled about the room bearing sweet-scented beeswax candles on their backs, so that the light shifted and sparkled in the hall's crystal fittings like the inside of a giant kaleidoscope. I stopped and stared as one passed me by. Its path was clearly programmed by ingenious mechanical means to follow alongside the guests' route, but at enough distance to ensure even the largest hoop skirt would be safe from the flames.

"Do you like our mechanical turtles?" A smooth, rich voice asked in English. "Back in the Tulip Period of our great Empire, live turtles were employed to light the gardens of the old Topkapi Palace for feasts and parties. Ours are humble imitations of nature, but rather easier to control than the real reptiles, wouldn't you say?"

I looked up and saw before me a bearded and well-dressed man whom I took the be the Vizier. He had Eva on his arm. My heart gave a kick at my ribs to see her escorted by another man, her slender hand folded under his. She was splendidly arrayed in a layered gown of gold damask and rose silk, with a long top coat over skirts that ended just below the knee to show loose pantaloons gathered at the ankles beneath, in the Oriental style. The coat was so tightly fitted at the waist that it could not accommodate the harness for Eva's engine, so she wore the entire leather harness and supporting corset over her jacket, with a wide, fringed scarf slung low on her hips beneath it. It gave her an air that was at once refined and rakish, like an exotic pirate queen. Her expression was schooled to porcelain perfection, but I saw her grey eyes admonishing me for the increasingly long stare I was aiming at her, as if to snap, 'Say something, idiot!'

"Indeed, effendi, the marvels of Dolmabahce Palace have me quite dumbstruck," I recovered quickly.

"Ahh, surely a gentleman of London and a member of the Royal Aeronautical Society has seen greater wonders than these. But I assure you, I am most flattered. I am Abdul Aziz."

"Your Highness!" I gasped, going to one knee. "Please forgive my breach of courtesy, I had no idea-"

"-that the Sultan would greet you personally? It is unusual, I admit, and my Viziers are running mad behind the scenes trying to figure out the protocol for our entrance into the Ceremonial Hall. But I've spent much time abroad, enough to know that the Lady Pryor is no ordinary guest and deserves an extraordinary welcome."

His hand tightened over hers. A lump tightened in my throat. I swallowed before it could choke me altogether.

"You do me too much honour, your Highness," Eva interjected. "I am but a poor girl born into great times. You, however, have brought your Empire back from the brink of extinction of your own accord. From crushing debt and stagnation, you built a prosperous economy, a strong army-"

"-and all thanks to this." The Sultan cut in softly, stroking the steam engine at her back.

"The steam-suit."

I could see Eva stiffen to be touched there. She considered the engine a vital, even intimate, part of herself, as I knew more than most. It gave me a feeling of foreboding, that he would lay hands on it -on her- so easily.

Before either of us could respond, however, there was a furtive motion ahead of us: one of the Palace functionaries sending slightly desperate signals to the guards stationed behind us. The guards approached one formal step, signalling their readiness to depart. Sultan Abdul Aziz sighed dramatically.

"Time for dinner, my friends," he said, as casually as if we were back in the clubhouse on Saville Row. "Let us see what protocol dictates."

Of course, protocol dictated that we should not to enter the dining hall arm-in-arm with the Sultan like a pack of sailors in a pub. But mechanical means had been devised for saving face when the ruler of the greatest Empire in the East insisted on going off-script. While we were given over to the escort of the guards, the Sultan and his pasha slipped onto a gilt metalwork platform and promptly vanished as a system of pulleys and gears spirited them away. Via the platform, the Sultan was gracefully elevated into the dining hall and seated as if he'd been there all along. Meanwhile, Eva and I entered on foot, as guests always must, by the route most suited to impress and overpower us: up the Crystal Stair, where every rung was fashioned of flawless Baccarat crystal carved in liquid spirals and whorls. From there, we went into the Ceremonial Hall.

If one can become numb to wonder, it was perhaps at this point that my senses were overwhelmed with the excess of the palace and I ceased to be so occupied by all the luxurious furnishings. Or perhaps it was just my proximity to Eva and to the possible dangers posed to her that made me return to my senses. Either way, just before we entered the hall, I made a point of taking Eva's arm in mine and glancing at the guards to be sure there was no intention of removing her. I had read somewhere or other that women were not allowed in the Ceremonial Hall, but were forced to watch ceremonies through little grates in the hallway that lead to their Harem. This time, however, the guards ignored my glances and ushered us both to our places.

We were seated side-by-side at a dinner table that faced the Sultan, who occupied a golden throne some distance away on a dias of his own. A page (also perhaps a eunuch) announced our entrance formally to the members of the court, of whom some 50 or more were present. There was a short speech of welcome by a man who actually was the Vizier this time. I translated his speech in a whisper for Eva. Then we were then invited to partake of a meal that was among the strangest in my life.

It was not so much the food that was strange. Airships regularly brought Eastern delicacies to London, and Ottoman food had become fashionable in recent years, all patriotic rivalries aside. I recognized the soft white flat-breads, the richly-spiced rice dishes with dates and raisins, the stuffed eggplants, and the particular aromatic blends of herbs they used to flavour roast pigeons, stuffed geese, and creatively-dressed wildfowl. At least 35 meat dishes with accompanying broths and sauces graced our table, though none of pork, which is forbidden to the Moslems. The food was richer and fresher than ever I'd had it in London, but it was not entirely foreign to my palate.

No, what was strange was the way in which conversation took place that was clearly for our benefit, without actually involving us. We were not allowed to speak directly with the Sultan during his meal (though whether this was a palace protocol or his personal preference, I cannot say.) Rather, he would murmur to his Vizier, and through some osmotic miracle, tidbits of knowledge he wished us to know would circulate through the hall as diners spoke among themselves.