As she had hoped, Hideo Charged Hideyoshi with overseeing their transfer into Ottoman hands on the mainland, where they held a constant presence and offices. The local Bey — the chieftain or governor of the province — even had a small palace.

As luck would have it, Hideo did not appoint any additional men for what would be a short trip from the Japanese islands to the once Chinese held city port, so their journey was in reasonable comfort.

Once there, though, Hideyoshi bid them farewell, and wished her luck as best he could, disguising his concerned look as one of distaste as he handed them both to Ottoman soldiers. His father ordered that he remain in Iga to assist in rallying the men and re-organising for the potentially calamitous backlash he expected from the Sultan to the Shogun, and thus onto the Iga.

“My only regret,” Hideyoshi said, “is that I will not be there to see what becomes of you.”

With that, he turned and left them for what could very well be the last time.

The city was eye opening when they left the port — which in itself had been awe inspiring, replete with steamships of varying size and shape, both of Japanese and Ottoman design.

The carriages they were led to were horseless, powered much like Yardley’s aeolipede, Angelique suspected. Though these horseless carriages, and others like them, were far more advanced, their wheels coated in thick, dark red material, she did not see a single vehicle like the two wheeled banshee she had ridden. That it was unique in itself indicated the man clearly had a creative flair as an inventor.

A vehicle hissed passed them on the road, its wheels creating hardly a sound compared to traditional carriages, the body of the thing juddering far less, also, than conventional buggies.

“Yürü!”

The guard behind prodded her in the small of the back with a pistol. Turning to look at the man, she saw the weapon and gasped, mostly for show, but also as she was shocked at the sight of the thing.

It had two small glass canisters atop it, one filled with the glowing Greek Fire. She could not see its complete workings, what it might fire, nor its capacity, but she was more than certain it would be capable of multiple shots, much like Wake’s revolvers.

Her curiosity earned her a hard shove, and she fell against another uniformed man with his back to her talking to another. The man stopped in annoyance and turned about face.

She didn’t hear his words, only assumed they were aimed at her, as the anger washed over her as dew off an oiled cloth. She had never before been so taken with a stranger’s face. He looked so kindly, rugged and handsome in a way that she would never have thought possible. The light seemed to hit his face just right, as if the beams were carved to fit his face. His eyes spoke of both sweetness and resoluteness.

It was certainly not a singular occasion that setting eyes on a man for the first time had an affect on her, though it was the first time that she could rightly say that affect was purely on her heart, for want of a better word.

“Pardon?” she said.

“My man? He is not very polite. I was apologising for his rude behaviours.”

Beechworth wondered if she had been injured due to her acting out of character. He inserted himself into the conversation to save her. “You’re very generous, Mister, ehh…”

“Captain Hasan.”

“Captain.” Beechworth nodded in respect. “Now, if you couldae unlock these shackles…?”

Hasan smiled. “As rude as he is, I am under order, and obligated to take you to the city commander for questioning.”

The captain nodded to the two men behind his prisoners, and they were loaded into the rear of a carriage, most if it comprised of sturdy iron bars. As they watched, a new vehicle approached to load their crate onto a large flat bed steam carriage. This much smaller machine thundered along on metal wheels and had a lift type mechanism at it’s front, to which they attached ropes and thick canvas straps that were fastened around the massive wooden box.

“Be careful with that!” Beechworth shouted. “You’re gonnae damage mah propertae! That wee thing willae never—”

With barely any trouble, the crate was hoisted aloft by the machine and then lowered gently to the surface.

The captain smiled and gave a nod of his head as he walked away to oversee things.

“Are you alright?” Beechworth asked her quietly.

“Eh? Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” She sounded distracted as she watched the man go.

“What the blazes is wrong with you then?” Beechworth scowled at her, then followed her gaze. “Egads, woman, not here of all places.”

“Remember that little conversation we had about your opinions, husband mine?” Her voice held a hint of menace.

Beechworth sat back. “If I recall correctly, that particular conversation was with a certain French mademoiselle.”

She turned to him with a grin. “I’m beginning to like you more and more, Constable.”

“I shall try to take that as intended. A compliment.”

She tutted. “Be careful, Donald, we may just become fast friends at this rate.”

The constable raised a brow. “You’re absolutely right, I should be careful. Something tells me being your friend may be hazardous to one’s health.”

#

The questioning by the city commander had been brief, and their stories consistent enough that he believed it wholesale. Donald Bailey had purchased a small amount of Greek Fire and sketches of steam engines from an American sailor, who had in turn traded it from another sailor who was in the employ of the United States navy. Where he had gotten them, they didn’t know.

They also made sure to slip into their story that there had been a great hullabaloo in the port of San Francisco when a great steam locomotive had appeared when they were leaving. From there, they had arranged to pay a captain with flexible morals to rendezvous them with an Ottoman ship, which was in no way far-fetched.

They could see the thoughts reeling in the commander’s head, putting the rest of the story together for himself, and weighing risks.

His expression was sombre, to say the least.

He paced, muttering to himself in Turkish. Angelique listened intently to make out what he was saying, catching a great deal of the one-sided conversation.

“How did these British get it? …Americans… …how have they… …defected ship… engineered a locomotive… How much Greek Fire do they have? …danger… We must alert the Sultan at once.”

Whatever the man thought it hardly mattered. It was not his decision to make. Either way, the result was the same, exactly what they wanted.

The commander motioned to the captain who had brought them. “Yüzbaşı,” he said, calling him by his Ottoman rank. His voice was then too low to discern.

Hasan nodded, indicated the guards to follow him, and they were marched out of the commander’s office.

“Where are you taking us, Captain Hasan?” Angelique asked.

“Your ‘gift’, along with you and your husband, will be getting the audience you wished for.”

“Gift?” Beechworth asked, confused. “I dinnea ken,” Beechworth said to Angelique

“Captain?” Angelique batted her eyelids rapidly. “What gift are you speaking of?”

“Your machine, of course. It, and you, will be carried to Istanbul and presented to the Grand Vezir, where you will be guests of the Ottoman empire. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have preparations to make.”

Soon after — much sooner than either of them would have thought practical — they were aboard a train far more lavish than The Pony. More surprising to them, it was faster again, despite that it pulled over double the number of cars. They were confined to a small cabin in one of those cars. It had to be one of the most comfortable prisons in the world.

They spoke little on the voyage, and when they did they maintained their assumed identities rigorously. There was no telling just who was listening, or how much.

Their captivity apart, it took rather more adjustment than travelling on The Pony. For one, it was crowded, and all those aboard the vessel spoke Turkish or, in few cases, Japanese or Chinese. They were also woken early every morning by a mechanical clock that that was in synchronicity with others like it in every cabin. Each played a wax cylinder recording to the call for prayer, and this was repeated on four other occasions throughout the day.

On the fifth morning, Beechworth took it upon himself to locate and disable the device, swearing and cursing like the highlander he portrayed.

“Cheer up, husband,” Angelique said when he looked crestfallen a week after his daily self-imposed duty had begun. “We’ll be there soon. Think of the heroic stories you can regale your friends with.”

He tried to smile, but the thought of his fiancé, Abigail, made him all the more sullen.

She put her hand on his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “We shall succeed.”

Her voice rang with such certainty that something within him said that they just might at that.

#

If the Sino-Japanese city had been a marvel, then Istanbul was an entirely different level of civilisation. Even Beechworth’s mood lifted when he saw the spectacle of it as the train glided towards its goal on a high, arched construction, much like the aqueducts of old Rome. And only fifteen days later, despite the circuitous distance of the journey.

The city gleamed with polished brass domes of mosques and their minarets, the buildings throughout painted and maintained to almost match their lustre.

As they neared the Bosphorus — the Turkish strait dividing Europe and Asia — they saw a great bridge, and along the waters another being built.

A knock came at the door and Captain Hasan entered when Beechworth called out.

“We will be arriving at the station soon. Please follow me.” Hasan held his hand out, pointing the way.

As they emerged, they saw several guards, each armed with a Greek Fire weapon, however these were rifles. At each man’s belt they also had the smaller weapon. In the closer quarters they now found themselves, and owing to the fact they were not clapped in irons and being pushed around, Angelique saw a second chamber of water beside the glowing red, but no chamber for projectiles.

“Please,” Hasan said, showing the way again.

With guards ahead and behind them, they walked the carriage as it jostled, people peering from their cabins as they were led.

Throughout the inner city, science shone, without blotting out the historical strata that it was built on. In fact the reverse seemed to be the case. The Turks had put their stamp on everything wherever they went, that was a given and the way of empire builders in time memorial. The chief, and most infamous, example of that being the conversion of the Hagia Sophia from church to mosque once the city had fallen from Byzantine grasp.

The accounts that had come from those travellers and reports disseminated by the Turks spoke of the great changes that had taken place in the century since they had been given steam technology by Osman III, but those accounts did not do Istanbul justice.

There were steam ships up and down the Bosphorus ranging from the smallest vessels — that looked like converted row boats — to mid-sized sloops. The streets were filled with vehicles, some conveying goods to a market. There was what seemed to be a smaller variant of a locomotive that travelled a wide thoroughfare, amounting to a single carriage on sunken tracks, full of people.

Everywhere the streets were busy with people of a variety of shape, size, colour and nation, all used to the traffic and pace. London, in comparison, seemed antiquated.

The view only grew in magnificence as they came in view of the main palace, Topkapı, before the vista was obliterated by buildings, only to emerge again, even more resplendent, as they crossed a bridge that spanned the strait. To one side of the rails, a road with both pedestrians and conveyances. On the other, the open water, shining like the sapphire she had stolen from The British Museum.

A stone that had originated from the very same palace she now stared at from the lounge car.

As much as beauty and wonder surrounded them, her heart was filled with malice and dread.

She was finally here.

#

Not long after crossing the bridge, still some kilometres away from the palace, the train stopped, despite that the rails continued on.

“Are we not going on to Topkapi Palace?” she asked of the Captain.

“Only the Sultan and Yeniçeri can go further,” Hasan said.

“Forgive mah ignorance, Cap’n, but you said we were tae present The Tur— The machine, tae the Grand Vizier hisself!” Beechworth grumbled.

“And you are. But not at Topkapı Palace. You will see him in the Vezir’s palace, Yıldız Palace.”

They, along with other soldiers and officers, were led out of the carriage before any of the general passengers. Angelique looked over the men that exited with them, paying special attention to those with a uniform altogether different than the soldiers, who made way for the men.

The Janisary.

The steamcar they boarded was lush and had large open windows to see from, as opposed to the wooden benches and bars they had first encountered.

“Definitely an improvement over the last mechanical carriage ye had us in,” Beechworth said, clapping his hands.

“With security, one can not be too careful,” the captain said with an apologetic smile.

As they pulled away, what few passengers who had alighted were already filtering out, and the train began to reverse.

They were driven through opulent gardens and were in awe of Yildiz Palace when they saw it. It was a construction far more modern than others than they had seen, with the grounds a mix of natural woodland and geometric gardens with varying plant species. They did not have long to admire it, though. If there was one drawback to travel by steamcar, this was it. They moved far too rapidly to take in such a view at leisure.

That also meant, of course, that they were now to confront the Grand Vizier of the Ottoman Empire.

An imposing man stood at the steps to the palace, hands behind his back in a military posture. He watched with a keen eye as footmen and soldiers alike ran about.

Angelique and Beechworth stood amid the guards while their other things were unloaded under Captain Hasan’s watch. Another loading vehicle approached to lift and bear away the crate, taking it on a road around the building.

Beechworth lifted his hand in protest.

“It will not go up the steps and through the doors,” Hasan said to him, and pointed by way of explanation. “It will be waiting for you both inside, where you can present it.”

Beechworth hemmed and hawed, but otherwise remained silent.

As the box disappeared, so too did the Grand Vizier.

They followed Hasan up the steps and within to find the man now watching over the crate, already open.

“Welcome to İstanbul, Donald and Fenella,” the man said, and gave a forced but amiable enough smile.

He was dressed with a fine red fez, a pin at its front emblazoned with the crest of his position. He wore a dark blue jacket and a sash cut diagonally across his torso. It held several insignia stitched and pinned upon it, whose meaning she had no idea about — nor the inclination to learn. White gloves covered his hands, one of them resting on a sword hilt at his hip, the weapon decorated beautifully. She knew the steel would be from the finest Japanese swordsmiths. At the opposite hip, a Greek Fire pistol, though decorated with the gold, jewels, and Arabic-Ottoman script.

“I am Ali Pasha.” He gave a shallow bow. “Grand Vizier of the Ottoman Empire.”

They returned the gesture. The man’s English was almost as good as either of theirs. Were it not for his accent, they would have been hard pressed to be any the wiser.

“This is grand work, your lordship,” Beechworth said. His neck craned to take in the surrounds in genuine admiration.

“As is this,” he gestured to the machine. A fine work of craftsmanship, and sleight of hand.” He smiled almost slyly. “However did you convince Herr Mälzel to part with it? I hear he was making quite the living touring the machine since he purchased it from the inventor’s son.”

“Fenella,” Beechworth motioned to Angelique. “Please explain tae his lordship. I fear he may not ken my tongue as occurred in—”

“I can understand you quite well, Mister Bailey.” Ali Pasha held his hand out with a slight nod. “Please?”

“You’ll have to forgive my husband, Ali Pasha,” Angelique said and smiled after looking to Beechworth in annoyance. “He lacks certain social niceties, which is why my presence has been a boon to his business.”

The man shrugged. “Very well. Please, continue, Mrs Bailey.”

“Herr Mälzel — have you met the man himself, Pasha?” He shook his head, swiftly losing patience, she could see. “Herr Mälzel was in the American mid-west when we encountered him and—”

“Yes, I have had all this from Lord Ishinari Hideo’s account, and that of his son, Ishinari Hideyoshi.” Ali Pasha was making a definite show of the extent of both his knowledge and reach. But he was also showing his true nature. His face gained colour and became more animated. Tendons in his neck stood out. “What I am most interested in, as you well know, is how you came by the steamworks within that you claim to have fitted?” He was almost yelling by the time he finished.

“Ali Pasha, I am trying to explain—” Angelique began anew, keeping her own temper in check, which for her was no easy thing when confronted with men such as this.

She had dealt with their ilk all her life. From Ishinari Hideo and his men, to men from the ships as she escaped Japan at the tender age of fifteen. Men in France, where she first went, and then in other countries. She usually dealt with them in short order, and despite that she knew she and Beechworth were lying — or perhaps because of it — all she wanted to do was put this man in his place also.

The Pasha surged forward with surprising speed and gripped her by the throat. Spittle foamed at his lips, which trembled across clenched teeth. The muscles in his jaw bulged.

Beechworth took a running step, but the Vizier’s hand whipped and produced the pistol to point at his face. Men ran forward and took his arms.

“You are a liar!” He spat words and spittle both in Angelique’s face. “You are both liars! There is no Donald and Fenella Bailey. You are spies sent by the Americans to steal our secrets. Admit it now and your lives might be spared.”

Angelique blinked into the man’s eyes, unable to speak.

“Thank the heavens for that,” Beechworth said in his natural voice. “I really was getting quite tired of feigning that Scottish accent.”