Kismet Ch. 13

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Surprises continue.
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Part 4 of the 4 part series

Updated 09/22/2022
Created 04/10/2008
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In a barn outside the capitol, the Sultan Azlan watched intently as the head of the Guild of Weaponeers crawled over the War Car. The man alternately chuckled and hissed between his teeth as he sketched parts, turning assemblies this way and that for several hours. Finally he descended from the vehicle and bowed deeply.

"Majesty, this is a remarkable device and I deeply regret to advise you that there is no one in all of Azerbaidistan who could possible repair and maintain, let alone build such a thing. Obviously, as the Black Squadrons demonstrated, it can be operated but once something breaks down, and as with all machinery something will, it would be useless. However, I do have good news. If we disconnect it from the steam pipe that powers it, the rapid fire gun on top will be easy to make!"

The sultan smiled, his brows knit in calculation. "Then, Master Habib, we could mount them on light artillery carriages and draw them with horses?"

"Indeed, my Liege. It would greatly increase the firepower of our forces. Give the Guild a week to properly design the carriages and caissons and our cavalry and dragoons should be able to sweep any enemy from the field of battle like beetles from the barn floor."

Azlan's grin broadened, showing white teeth against his sun-darkened face. "Then do so at once! My Vizier will stall the British ambassador long enough for you to copy and replace the gun before we hand the car back to them. And so we will kill two birds with one arrow. Our military will be stronger and our relationship with the English will be warmer. Having so mighty a sea power as an ally will be very helpful, now that we have the Georgian port cities, at least until we can develop a coastal fleet of our own. And since border clashes with the Ottoman slime are inevitable, it will be well to have so fearsome a weapon deployed at the earliest opportunity. Well done, Master Habib, very well done, indeed."

Outside the barn in the shade of a large tent, Afsoon and Fasira reclined on pillows and sipped tea. Their vests and pantaloons had been exchanged for caftans more suited to women of the court but their scimitars still hung from bandoleers over their shoulders. The weapons, though, did not give them great confidence. Four dragoons from the Black Squadrons sat at the corners of the pavilion. Though they chatted cordially with the women, Afsoon noticed that the men bristled with revolvers as well as their swords and kept carefully out of range of attack, should the women be so foolish as to try one. Obviously they were on guard but whether they were guarding the woman from outsiders or outsiders from the women was impossible to tell.

When the sun reached its apogee, a change of guard appeared and with them servants bearing sashlik and fresh fruit. Afsoon and Farisa shrugged. There was no point in going hungry and since it was unlikely that they would be allowed to go looking for something to eat, they accepted the meal and set to it.

They had just finished the halva when two men approached them from the barn. One could only be the sultan. No other man in Azerbaidistan walked as though he owned the land around him and wore the landscape like a cloak. The other seemed unworthy of notice. The guards rose to their feet with serpentine grace and bowed. With only a moment's hesitation, Afsoon and Farisa rose to one knee and bowed their heads. The man's projected personality required it.

Azlan stood before the two of them and placed a hand gently on each head. "Rise, daughters."

Farisa stammered, "D—daughters?"

"Indeed, young Nubian, one who campaigned so bravely with my own daughter can only be her sister." He took them by the hand and helped them to their feet and led them back to the barn. Silently he walked them around the War Car to where Captain Al-Hassad stood patiently at attention.

"Captain, tell me again the whole story of how you acquired this amazing device."

The captain repeated how the women had rescued his outnumbered patrol, how they all came across the War Car and its slaughtered crew and then how they led the charge from inside the War Car so that the brigands were scattered like straws before a storm. The sultan listened without a word until he completed his tale.

"Captain, the Dragoon's Deputy Commander lost his life in the final assault on Poti. I would promote your battalion commander to replace him but have been unable to decide who to take that position. I now know,Major Al-Hassad, who has the right combination of daring and initiative. Well done." He turned to the two young women, "And as for my daughters, my valiant, valiant daughters, how am I to respond to what you have accomplished?"

Afsoon and Fasira shared a glance, "We would join the Black Squadron, Father. Let us join with those who protect you and further your empire."

Azlan guffawed. "And no doubt you hope for positions on the Major's staff? Word has come to me of the attraction the three of you have for each other. However, I must refuse. Though the Black Squadrons are warriors above warriors they can, when necessary, be replaced. What you two may be capable of, cannot. Mahmood!"

The non-descript man standing behind the sultan stepped forward. Afsoon gave him a puzzled glance and then froze when as she looked him in the eye. Never in her life had so many layers of person looked out without revealing the innermost layer.

The sultan continued, "It is a father's duty to find suitable husbands for his daughters. It may take time to find such men so for the present I am sending you to theharim of Director Al-Bezier."

Director Al-Bezier? The head of the Secret Service all of Azerbaidistan wanted to know as little about as possible for fear of attracting its attention? "Father, no! We have just only escaped from the clutches of that swine of a general Risay. Surely you will not send us back into that life again?"

Afsoon tore her eyes away from Mahmood's and looked at her father's. He, too, seemed to be a man of layers. The outside was the sultan, ruler of all he could see but beneath that was a father, a proud one. But at the core was resolve.

"Daughter, know this. You are of royal blood. Others believe this means a life of power and privilege. It does not. We who rule are born for the kingdom, live for the kingdom and too often die for the kingdom. The kingdom is everything. What we want for ourselves is meaningless; there is only duty. I send you with Al-Bezier for two reasons. He is my subtlest and most cunning of servants and has much to teach you. Also, he is beyond my most trusted servant, beyond any brother and as such is the only man on the planet I would entrust you to. Go with him. Learn. The kingdom will eventually have need of your bodies and what they can do but more importantly it will need your brains. Go."

"Father?"

"Yes?"

"What of Mother? Where . . .??

Azlan's face broke into a benevolent smile. "Afsoon, your mother is safe, now. She has healed from her injuries and lives safely and comfortably in the household of a valiant and upright commander. No one can harm her there and I will send word to her that you, too, are now safe. Now go with the Director. His household expects you."

*****

In a discrete office in London, an imposing man sat behind an imposing desk reading and re-reading a telegraphed report while endlessly shaking his head. "Sherlock, who was it that said somethin' about genius being related to insanity?"

His younger brother took the pipe from his mouth, "Seneca, I believe. Something about there is no genius without a touch of madness?"

"Hmpf! Well, in Braxton's case it was more likely a large touch of stupidity! Imagine—droppin' the Empire's most advanced land war system on the ground of a foreign power where it could be snapped up like—like some beetle a hungry duck was after. What was he thinkin'?"

"Nothing, now, Mycroft. Air Commodore Barnes-Wallis believes that the Azerbaidistanis attacked and slaughtered the crew and drove off with the War Car. I have my doubts. The Sultan Azlan is a cagey one and I cannot see him deliberately offending the Empire over one vehicle he cannot use."

"Quite so. And just the rotten luck that Ambassador Fitzhugh is on holiday in the Western Ghats leavin' that muttonhead Cadwallader-Helms to try and get it back. Barnes-Wallis called for a relief ship since he was low on coal oil. That would be theIndisputable, I imagine, but she's just as limited. We must do better. Sherlock, I'll commandeer theAquila and a squad of Ghurka for you. Take Watson and make the best possible time there. Her compression ignition engine gives her half again the speed and twice the range of theIndisputable. You may not need to do anythin' at all, but if you can't get the War Car back, at least set it afire. The last thing we need is for old Al-Barakh to sell it to the Caliph or worse, the Prussians."

"Suggestion? Leave the Ghurkas and send Roger Merely and Mia La Touche with us, instead. A squad of Ghurkas would do nothing but die bravely against an attack by the Black Squadrons. On the other hand, Merely has this strange talent for solving problems . . ."

"Hah! And Miss La Touche would distract anyone, if she were of the mind—and she so often is! Good thought, that. But, no. The woman is too important where she is. The Ultra-Babbage is just now startin' to produce results. She's the only one who can make it work smoothly right now and we need its ability to process all the intelligence wired in from the embassies. Sorry, old chap, but you're going to have to solve this one on your own. I've no doubt you will."

*****

Fasira lay on her bed that night with Afsoon snoring softly in her arms. The Nubian girl, though, was wide awake, the day's events still spinning in her brain. A Royal Princess—by decree! It should have been any little girl's dream come true but as with everything else that went on this day, appearances were deceiving. Whether you were born to the throne or adopted by it, life turned out not to be a long series of gala parties, handsome suitors and having every whim catered to. Princesses had jobs. It was a surprising turn of events. She was grateful that hers was not to marry some spavined geezer the sultan needed an alliance with. Afsoon's tale of her mother's misfortune with Queen Mada clearly showed that happy royal marriages were rare and that queens took their pleasures where they might—and it was seldom in the king's bedroom!

And this Director Al-Bezier—again appearances deceived. After the sultan dismissed them a carriage rolled up. No banners flew from staffs on the corners, nor was there any gold leaf or bright work. Though the inside was luxurious the face it displayed to the world was plain to the point of boredom. And the coachman and footman—whereas the Royal Dragoons displayed their martial prowess with a swagger, these men were silent and blandly garbed in robes of khaki tan. The Al-Bezier nodded to them curtly and once the three of them were aboard and the doors closed, the carriage went immediately to the rear gates of the Royal Palace.

Mahmood and the women disembarked and entered through gates that were guarded by the same sort of men as drove the carriage. Afsoon had swallowed hard and whispered to Fasira, "These are The Clerks. They are the Director's eyes and ears and, when necessary the hands that hold garrotes and daggers. Pretend you don't see them. With luck, they will have no reason to see you!"

They padded down a long corridor and went through an unadorned doorway and when the door shut behind them, the world changed again. Six children, from toddler to medium sized rushed out and swarmed all over the Director. To the young women's amazement, the man swept them up in his arms and tossed the littlest high in the air, sending her shrieking with giggles. He herded the mob to an alcove and sat down to listen as they recounted all that they had learned or done during the day.

Two women in their thirties, one heavily pregnant, with their arms intimately wrapped around each other, sat down to watch the amazing scene while an older one took Afsoon and Fasira by the hand and led them deeper into theharim of Al-Bezier.

"Welcome. I am Zaafira, senior wife to the Al-Bezier. Come with me and I will show you your quarters and the way to the baths. When you are clean and comfortable once more, we will talk. I'm sure you have many, many questions."

Clean and reclothed in light linen, the two younger women did indeed have questions.

"Are we to wed the Al-Bezier?"

"Only if you choose. Our husband is only what he seems outside theharim. Here he is who he is, fond husband and loving father. Only a tiny handful of men know this, the sultan, of course, among them. That is why there are no men's rooms here. When our husband is outside the doors he is at work, whatever the hour, whatever the time. He does not entertain nor socialize over coffee and he never, ever smokes anything. It is the price of genius.

But within our walls he can take comfort and his ease. We ensure that. He sleeps with each of us in turn and should you choose to join in, he will surprise you with his vigor. If not, we will see that he is kept satisfied just as we do now. We have been told you take pleasure in each other and if you wish to stay together, so be it. If you wish to dally with Nadira and Hadiya, our husband and I will watch—for a while. The sight of so much lovely flesh disporting itself on the pillows and rugs will ignite him and I will then be too busy to pay attention to you.

But marriage is not why you are here. It is the sultan's command that you learn all the ways of our husband's Clerks and many other skills besides. Though it pained you, part of what you need to know, Risay has already taught you. The rest you will develop here. Then, when the time is right, our husband will send you like a dagger to the most vulnerable parts of our enemies."

Fasira's white teeth gleamed against her dark skin. "We are to be assassins?"

"Only when necessary. Mostly you will spy. It is the sultan's belief that too little has been made of women's wiles in the service of the kingdom. You two are the first echelon. If you are as successful as we all believe, others will follow and in time you can retire to enjoy the large fortune Hera's husband left Afsoon—and the caresses of the handsome Al-Hassad should you so choose. The evening meal will be served in an hour. Rest until then."

Lying in the dark, memories still churning though her head, Fasira finally fell asleep.

*****

Deputy Head of Mission Cadwallader-Helms straightened his shoulders and clenched his jaw. The letter he was carrying to the Grand Vizier of Azerbaidistan had been very carefully written to be both tactful and unwavering. The War Car must be returned to British hands at once while maintaining good relations with the Sultanate. Ambassador Fitzhugh should have been the one to deliver it but with him out of the country it was up to his Deputy to carry out what could be a very unpleasant interview. He strode forward to where the kingdom's chief executive sat calmly smoking his hookah, ready to put on a very stern face to deal with the man. Instead, to his surprise, the Vizier put aside the mouthpiece and rose to his feet, worry and concern painted broadly across his face.

"Deputy Cadwallader-Helms, the sultan has directed me to express his deepest condolences for the loss of poor Professor Braxton and his men. He wants me to assure you that the brigands who perpetrated this foul deed will be swiftly brought to justice and publicly executed as decreed by Q'ranic law. It is a terrible embarrassment to Azerbaidistan that so heinous a crime should have taken place on our soil and I have been directed to do everything possible to assist you."

The Deputy goggled. At a loss for words, he could only mumble his thanks as the Vizier continued, "As it happens, the officer who discovered the tragedy is in the capitol right now. I will have him lead you with a squad of escorts to the site where they buried the unfortunate professor. It is a six day ride from here and by the time you return we will have your device shrouded, packed and ready for shipment by rail to our newly incorporated territory of Georgia. Her Majesty's fleet can then transport it and the remains home from Batumi."

In the dark behind a screen Afsoon, Fasira and Mahmood listened in silence to the interchange until Afsoon, unable to contain herself any longer whispered softly into the Director's ear, "Does the Vizier actually believe what he's saying?"

Mahmood gave a dry chuckle. "Perhaps, but what is more important, does the Englishman believe it? If so, Master Habib will have plenty of time to completely disassemble the Gatling gun, make a duplicate, try it out and then remount the original invisibly on the War Car while the Guild of Weaponeers manufacturers more of them. They may even come up with improvements."

Afsoon shook her head in amazement. Politics. When she was simply the pampered child of an expatriate English baron, living on the Indian frontier she thought that the rajahs lives consisted of parties and hunts. Now that she was a princess of the blood things had turned out to be more complicated.My half brother will become the next sultan and I, I am sure, am being groomed to be his Director. Will one of my sisters marry the King of the Kazakhs? And what of the Ottomans, how will they play out in this Great Game?

The following morning, well before first light, both Afsoon and Fasira were escorted to the roof of the palace. There they met Clerk Ben-Ali who produced three practice scimitars and handed them each one.

"Major Al-Hasaad reports that you are skilled sword fighters. Show me." He raised his weapon and stood relaxed as both young women rushed in to attack.

Ten exhausting minutes later, their pantaloons and tunics soaked with sweat, Afsoon and Fasira stood back panting for breath as Ben-Ali nodded judiciously.

"You do well. In perhaps six months time you would become expert, provided I could work you each morning. However, that is not what we are here for." He took back the practice swords and replaced them in their case. "As useful as a scimitar is on the plains and in the mountains, down the city streets and in the halls of the palace and the Kasbahs you will have more use for this." There was a flicker of gleaming metal and a long stiletto appeared in his hand. "One reason the Clerks all wear loose clothing is that it permits the concealment of so much. The Director has arranged for you to wear our garb while you train, at least until you are ready to train naked. The Weaponeers have yet to perfect a dagger sheath you can wear in your hair but I have no doubt that they will. Now, we will begin the way of the assassin."

*****

Six weeks later the head of British Secret Service paced back and forth in front of a large map of the eastern Black Sea. He shook his head and scowled as he spoke.

"Muttonhead, I called him? Far too generous. Any sheep would have realized what was up. Yes, yes, gettin' Braxton's remains back was a good show and the Azerbaidistanis were good as their word. The War Car was sent back apparently untouched."

"I like that word, 'apparently', Mycroft. But they had twelve days to look it over and now we know result. It shows brilliance, really. Mounting Gatling guns on light caissons and deploying them with the flying columns of the Black Squadrons. A few more campaigns like the most recent and Ottoman Hyrcania will be part of Azerbaidistan. It's well that Braxton's secrets of that steam design died with him."

Mycroft snorted. "As if it mattered! Sherlock, that steam engine design was too delicate and finicky for combat. But now, with Bohun and Merely producin' their engine in quantity, the blasted Azerbaidistanis can just buy one and put it into a copy of the War Car. The next thing you know, Istanbul will be peerin' down from the top of their walls at a fleet of steel."

12