Accidental War Mage

The women’s market differed from the men’s market in several ways, one of which was the more visible presence of both mechs and eunuchs. In spite of everything I had read about the traditional use of eunuchs as harem guards, I was caught off-guard by the apparent fact that the sultan’s preferred purveyors of certified virgins were in many cases eunuchs with mech guards. I cannot say I was certain in every case whether a seller was an intact man, a eunuch, or a woman, but at least a third of them seemed to belong unambiguously to the second category. Perhaps Vesel’s future in Constantinople would involve such a transformation, even if he was granted the opportunity to pursue his natural talents.

As I searched the women’s market, I found no familiar faces there, though Katya seemed surprisingly interested in browsing the wares of the market, making inquiries about pricing and skills that I often had to translate (though some of the slave-sellers spoke Slavonic).

After she lingered in getting a firm price on a Serbian virgin with generous physical endowments and no discernible useful skills, I took Katya aside to ask if she was looking to purchase a concubine and to assure her that I felt I had no need of any such. She agreed with me, and then dragged me to the next slave-seller. Within ten minutes, she was inspecting the teeth of a Circassian dancer.

At the end of nearly two increasingly uncomfortable hours in the women’s market, Katya told me that she thought that Zaneta could sell for upwards of two hundred ducats, perhaps as much as three or four hundred ducats if the seller could be convinced of her alleged talents in illusion magic; and that we could probably get another three or four hundred ducats selling the other five servants Constantine had pressed on us.

“It is not as if they are very useful,” Katya said. “Constantine said they were a gift, and a useless gift is best sold. Especially since Zaneta will probably soon become less valuable if she is not watched carefully.” Katya gave me a guarded look.

“I don’t…” I paused, realizing first that Zaneta was a virgin; and second, that Katya was concerned that I would alter that status. “Katya, you’re the one that I want. To me, you are far more precious than Zaneta. But for the third time, I am not going to sell her in slavery simply because you feel jealous.”

Katya crossed her arms over her chest angrily, her artificial arm clunking against the supporting breastplate underneath her shirt. “I do not feel jealous,” she growled angrily. “It is the smart course of action. You are smart. So, you should do that.”

I glared at her; she glared at me. With the silence between us, my ear caught the whispers passed between two Circassian women in the tent behind us, near the edge of the market, whispering in quiet tones only just audible above the rumbling boilers of the pair of mechs stationed by the front of the tent.

“He promised he would see us free even if he had to break us out of the sultan’s palace,” one of them was saying fiercely. “And take us to Kalmar! That’s where the Varangians came from in the first place, I read all about it in the stories.”

“Put aside all that nonsense about Varangian oaths! I wish you’d never begged the captain for that romance, you’ve read it half a dozen times now, and it’s given you all sorts of stupid ideas.” The second Circassian woman sighed loudly.

The first one must have shaken her head or made some kind of other negatory gesture, but did not speak.

“Besides, even if he would, and it wasn’t a grandiose statement, I don’t want to be broken out of the sultan’s palace!” The other woman seemed irked. “I thought I would be sold to some fat loathsome merchant and put to work washing dishes for his wife if I didn’t convince that foreigner to buy me. The sultan himself? I’m sure we will be very well treated, and Sultan Allaedin is by all accounts a vigorously healthy man, at least. And his agent asked for both of us! A matched set, blonde and brunette.”

It is that point that Katya turned away from me, walking briskly out of the women’s market. I followed, leaving the conversation behind.

Bereft of further conversation with my companion, Katya and I explored the city mutely for the rest of the day. She watched warily as I wondered at the sights of a city that I had read about in history books as well as heard about in the news. This had been the second capital of the Roman Empire and now was the home of the Turkish sultan who styled himself as the Emperor of Rome.

In keeping with the former and surprising given the latter, significant parts of the city were in ruin and disrepair, including the Hippodrome, the great entertainment center of the Romans of the East; others had been renewed and repurposed, in keeping with the differences between the religion and customs of the conquerors and conquered. I found every part of the city worthy of great curiosity, to Katya’s impatient annoyance.

I myself was subject to some curiosity in my turn; Corsican brass is an unusual material for armor and the cerulean of my cloak was a rarer sight in Constantinople than it had been in the Gothic Empire or Venice, both of which trade more extensively with France. However, while I attracted many stares, few people were willing to approach me for casual conversation; at least, until after I stopped to converse with a bookseller and examine his wares. I had sampled my way halfway through a slender freshly-printed volume of Persian poetry when a voice interrupted me.

“Good day to you, stranger. I am called Mahmud. Who are you, and what brings you to this city?” The greeting was offered in French.

Thus confronted, I lowered the book, making a short polite bow. “I am Colonel Marcus Corvus,” I said in Turkish, sensing that some formality was called for on account of the fact that the man who had greeted me was quite well-dressed and had two bodyguards near to my own height (and somewhat greater in bulk). His attention seemed dangerously similar to the attention of local law enforcement. “I am just passing through the city, pausing to take a break from a long journey with many miles yet to go. Pleased to meet you, Mahmud. Have I transgressed against local customs?”

“No, no. I was simply curious. You look very French. Do you read Persian?” The man seemed hopeful.

“Of course,” I said. “But I am not French,” I added, switching from Turkish to Persian. “I have really only read a little bit of Persian literature, though, in the largest part just Omar Khayyam.” Then I tried to name the few other Persian authors I could remember reading, or the titles of their works if I could not remember the author; I recall that Mahmud corrected me on the pronunciation of one name I had not remembered correctly.

“And, as a cosmopolitan reader, an educated man, what did you think of the poems you were just reading?” He leaned forward, unconsciously licking his lips.

“I am no expert in poetry, but I thought it pleasing,” I said. “This Adni writes very lyrically. I can imagine singing those verses.”

“Excellent,” Mahmud said, a smile on his face. “The book is yours, then,” he said, shifting to Turkish and making a quick cryptic gesture to the bookseller. “You will take coffee and baklava with me as we converse further.”

The bookseller loudly refused my attempt to pay him, though when I tried handing him the coins a second time, they vanished in his palm while he continued his protests, glancing quickly over at Mahmud. While Mahmud’s attitude seemed imperious to the point of rudeness, I was keenly aware that I did not actually know Turkish customs or manners especially well; and if I considered his statement as an invitation to join a wealthy local for coffee and baklava (whatever that was), it seemed an invitation I should be delighted to accept.

***

The coffee was served in tiny cups, exceptionally strong and sweet with a thin layer of foam on top. It was accompanied by crisp layered pastry filled with pistachios, walnuts, drizzled with almonds and a mixture of rosewater, citron juice, and honey, in which had been steeped something that I recognized only by virtue of having smelled a box full of little red threads earlier, when I had bribed the naval captain, a spice that Mahmud informed me was called saffron.

I had read the name before, but reading a word in a book does not tell you what a thing is. I told him that I found the coffee and the baklava delightful, for it was; and then we spoke of poetry, mathematics, natural philosophy, and other such subjects for a little while. In time, as the sunlight dimmed, I turned my questions to the city and the happenings therein; after all, it was my first visit, and I was greatly curious. Both of us were by that point quite animated, and after the eighth or ninth refill of our little tiny cups, Mahmud confided in me that the city was in a bit of excitement.

An enchanted rope had just arrived in the city that morning, a gift sent all the way from an eastern prince. Its bearers had stopped to see the great Aya Sofya mosque and participate in prayers there; while so distracted, a bold thief had somehow made off with their basket containing the magic rope. Unfortunately, this necessitated closing the port to departures, news which I took with equanimity. After all, I was having a delightful time in the city, other than the fact that Katya was refusing to talk with me. (Which, I will confess, had slipped my mind.)

From his having brought up the Aya Sofya, the topic of conversation in our quiet lantern-lit garden then turned to architecture for another two cups of coffee and three platters of sweet snacks, until such time as we were interrupted by one of Mahmud’s bodyguards. The large man brought unfortunate news; he did not wish to interrupt his master, but the messenger had insisted.

Mahmud excused himself while I took advantage of the privacy to kiss Katya’s hand, tell her that I was sorry, and then feed her a piece of sticky baklava from my own fingers.

“And Mustafa is certain of this?” Mahmud’s voice had a questioning note.

“Yes, my lord. His astrologer is never wrong. The thief is acting on the orders of the very same devil who stole the princess.”

“How does the thief appear?” Mahmud frowned. “You must give the description to the guard at once.”

“My lord, the astrologer’s art does not work so precisely. The astrologer could describe the thief’s master only because he had seen him in person. Find the master and the thief will surely come to you. The devil is an uncommonly tall man, with dark hair. He speaks fine classical Turkish as if he is from the old Seljuk court. His aura is strong, and turquoise.”

I froze in shock, leaving thumb and index finger in Katya’s lips partway through feeding her another piece of baklava. My magic always looked turquoise to me; I was tall; and my hair was dark.