Book 2, Chapter 9: Gunboat Diplomacy
Three smaller boats detached themselves from the wall of imperial ships and crept across the strait. The lead boat flew three separate flags—at the center was the half-purple, half-red Byzottoman flag, with an eagle on the left side and a crescent moon on the right, and at its sides were smaller banners Clara couldn’t really make out. White suns shooting rays over fields of black?
Luisa lowered her spyglass. “Admiral-Duchess, I admit I am not familiar with imperial heraldry. Those are not naval ensigns that I am aware of.”
“May I have a look?” Conrad asked. Luisa handed him the spyglass, and he looked through it.
“The two-pointed sunburst on the left, and the five-pointed sunburst on the right. That makes it the standard of two imperial princes—the second eldest and the fifth eldest. Those would be Prince Justan and Prince Sellem, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Oh my. I do hope Byzottoman princes are rather more pleasant than Arcadia’s,” said Iris. She was wearing the same burgundy outfit she’d worn the other day, and Clara wasn’t sure how the girl wasn’t sweating bullets under the Istantinople sun.
Bel chuckled. “Your hopes may be misplaced, Little Iris. All I’ve heard about Prince Sellem is that he has a position at the treasury, but Prince Justan’s reputation is formidable. One can’t help but wonder why someone of his standing would come greet us directly.”
“He is infamous,” said Conrad, with unusual respect in his voice. “But as for his reasons for being here, that is hard to say. Byzottoman princes are always involved in their power struggles.”
Warren had taken the position at Clara’s left shoulder. “What do we know of him?”
Bel’s eyes did not leave the approaching ships for even a second. “He commanded an imperial army to quell the Misraegian revolt a few years ago. Not only did he brutally succeed, but the three other of the Sultan-Basileus’s children who went with him were slain in combat. Conveniently, that put Prince Justan at the forefront of the battle to succeed his father.”
“So you’re implying he led them to their deaths?” asked Clara.
“It is tradition for a new Sultan-Basileus to execute their siblings upon ascension to the throne. It would not surprise me if Prince Justan decided to accelerate that to help secure his position. I might’ve done it too, if I were him—better that than civil war.”
Luisa frowned. “Admiral-Duchess. That is inappropriate.”
Bel raised her hands and laughed. “I am, of course, merely jesting. I do love your uncle so very much, Commodore.”
As the Byzottoman ships came alongside the Esperança, the hail of tubas began. A wide gangway was extended between the two sides, and the princes came aboard, followed by an honor guard of a dozen janissaries with red robes and long hats, and several more attendants.
The prince in front, who Clara assumed was Justan, looked perhaps thirty, with a square jaw and a thick mustache, and wore a large, onion-like turban and a beautiful purple-and-red tunic. A heavy gold chain hung at his neck, with a medallion bearing the stern face of a man Clara could only assume was the Sultan-Basileus.
At his side was a taller, similarly dressed man who should be Prince Sellem. His mustache was shorter, and his outfit was still ornate, but somewhat more subdued, with paler colors and a smaller turban.
The first one spoke. “Admiral-Duchess Isabel de Bragança. I am Prince Justan, second among the blood of His Imperial Majesty Sultan-Basileus Konstantinos Murad the Seventh, and this is my brother Prince Sellem. You have brought a great many ships into our strait.” The prince kept his arms wide open as he spoke.
“Your Imperial Highnesses.” Bel offered a careful nod. “It is gracious of His Imperial Majesty to send his own children to receive me. Has the foreign ministry grown so empty that imperial sons need to stand in?”
It was reassuring to learn that Bel, when she wanted to, could use proper decorum. With a jab at the end, of course.
Sellem frowned, but Justan didn’t react.
“My father felt the matter merited the attention of his blood,” said Justan.
“Then I assume you are here, as a man of the blood, to apologize for the inconvenience the Empire has caused my House?”
The janissaries’ hands went to the hilts of their sabers with an impressive degree of coordination. From what Clara had read in the Byzottoman history book, janissaries here were not slave soldiers as they famously had been in her original world. Instead, the institution was a praetorian-like voluntary force that served as guards of the imperial family, and wielded considerable prestige and political influence, more similar to the janissaries of the late Ottoman Empire than to their initial incarnation. Still, it seemed they didn’t lack discipline.
Justan calmly raised his hand.
“You are amusing,” he said in a perfect monotone. “I had been told you were.”
“Oh, I am terribly amusing,” said Bel. “It is one of my cherished virtues. The list is short, so I cling dearly to each one.”
“I shall be brief, Admiral-Duchess. The former Duke de Bragança is accused of the murder of an honorable citizen of the Empire, a merchant of some standing. Lord Pedro was to stand trial yesterday, but since we heard news of your coming, we have graciouslypostponed it until tomorrow. He may appear and defend himself, or he may not appear and be judged in his absence. Those are his choices, regardless of the presence of your fleet—the Empire must uphold its laws,” said Justan.
“Murder,” said Bel slowly. “Of a ‘merchant of some standing’. The Empire has truly grown reckless if it seriously intends to prosecute an Arcadian high noble for this. What evidence do you have?”
“Reckless is the man who entered our borders without properly identifying his station. We aim for nothing but justice, and the due evidence will be presented in court tomorrow, under the laws of the Sultan-Basileus.”
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“Your Imperial Highness, may I be candid?”
“I am not sure you are capable of being otherwise, Admiral-Duchess.” There was a very slight tug at the corners of Justan’s lips.
“Hah. It seems you, too, can be amusing.” Bel smiled. “House de Bragança does not recognize the legitimacy of any trial conducted by a Byzottoman court against the former duke. It is, by binding international treaty, none of your Goddess-damned business, regardless of any formalities my father may have failed to fulfill. And so, I have sailed here, ready to render Arcadian justice upon those who threaten my family.”
As soon as Bel finished speaking, the Esperança hissed, and the heavy grind of machinery came from behind them. The front turret, which had been pointing up into the sky, was rotating.
It moved slowly until it aimed straight at the wide dome of the Hagia Topkapi—the imperial palace.
Justan’s severe face finally showed a flash of fear, which he quickly suppressed, while Sellem was openly scowling.
Clara gulped. Are we the bad guys?
Bel continued, “Now, on my way here, I happened to stumble upon, purely coincidentally, two private persons with great experience in legal matters. And even though I do not recognize the legitimacy of your courts, I have graciously brought over these two persons who, through their own initiative, seem to want to defend my father.”
Bel gestured at Clara and Warren.
“Private persons? That is obviously a papist lie,” said Sellem.
“I would be careful when insulting my integrity aboard my ship, Your Imperial Highness. I assure you these two Arcadians have absolutely no association with House de Bragança or sanction from any Arcadian authority.”
Justan looked at Warren first, then at Clara. There was only indifferent appraisal behind his eyes.
“You may consider them friends of the accused,” said Bel. “They shall appear in your court tomorrow, and, if the Goddess is willing, resolve this matter in a way that is satisfactory to both Arcadia and the Empire, and allows the friendship between our nations to remain intact.”
Justan was silent for a moment. He glanced at his janissaries, then at the Esperança’s turret.
“My father’s law,” he said at last, “does not forbid the accused’s friends from defending his honor. If these private persons wish to do so, they shall not be stopped.”
“But Brother—” Sellem spoke up in protest, but fell quiet when Justan raised his left hand.
“A most sensible law,” said Bel. “But I will have to add to that. Not only shall they not be stopped, but they—as well as myself, my daughter, and my other guests—shall be granted the full diplomatic protection that should have been granted to my father, during the entirety of our stay in Istantinople,” said Bel.
“The Empire shall, as ever, respect its treaty obligations. You have our word as a guarantee of that,” said Justan.
“Your word is not enough. The only guarantee I need is my fleet. Which shall remain here and ready.”
“Out of the question. You are violating Imperial waters. The strait must be kept open—it is a vital shipping route. Even a few days of closure would harm Istantinople’s trade.”
“The strait is open. My ships are anchored, and there is plenty of room for your trade vessels to pass.”
The part Bel left unsaid was ‘if we allow them to’.
“You threaten the Empire on its own waters?” Justan’s voice rose for the first time.
“It is no threat, unless you make it one.”
Justan glanced at the turret again. Then he came to the inevitable conclusion, nodded, and turned back to his ship.
The Arcadian Embassy was a white-walled, heavily guarded mansion a short ride up from Istantinople’s western docks, close enough that Clara could still see the Esperança’sfunnels from the window of her allocated quarters. After settling into her allocated room, she made her way to the embassy’s study, hoping to find some useful information for the trial and to take her mind off the idea that she’d just participated in naked imperialism.
Regardless of any background politics, her job as a lawyer was to give her client the best defense she could. It would help if she could speak with her client, but that didn’t seem to be in the cards, given that even the diplomats in the Arcadian Embassy had lost contact with Lord Pedro.
When she entered the study, she found Warren sitting at a desk at the back, surrounded by papers and bookshelves. He looked to be reviewing Clara’s notes from Professor Baird’s book, which she’d shared with him during the trip, and the shadows under his eyes had only gotten worse.
“Righton. I see you’re making yourself busy.”
“The trial is in fifteen hours.” He didn’t look up. “Busy is the appropriate state to be in.”
Clara pulled out the chair across from him and sat. “Then let’s be busy together. I’ve been thinking about the accuser’s standing. Since it’s a private prosecution, the victim’s family will have to—”
“Casewell.” He set down his pen. “I’d like to discuss how tomorrow will proceed.”
Something in his tone made her sit up a little straighter. “Go on.”
“I shall take the lead.” He said it matter-of-factly, with no smirk on his face or arrogance in his tone. “I’ll address the kadi, handle the examination, and make the arguments of substance. If I require your assistance, I will indicate as much.”
“Righton.” She kept her voice level, even though inside she was already fuming. “Bel hired both of us. You’re not going to run this by yourself. I have more defense experience than you do.”
“It’s not a comment on your ability. This is a foreign court, Casewell, and one wrong word tomorrow can have consequences for all of Arcadia, regardless of how much the duchess insisted we are ‘private persons’. Not to mention that the Byzottomans have a strict system of order, and you aren’t a noble. If something happens, it would be difficult to—” He cut his sentence short.
“Difficult to what?”
Warren looked at her, tired and unreadable. But he said nothing.
“Right.” Clara gathered her notes off the desk and tucked them under her arm. If he was going to be like this, she wasn’t going to share her work. It was one thing to be arrogant; it was another to be patronizing. “I’ll be in my room, planning my defense tomorrow. Whatever stick has lodged itself inside you, let me know when you manage to remove it, because I have no patience to deal with this.”
She turned her back on him and walked off.
“Wait, Casewell—”
“Get some sleep, Righton. You look terrible.” She shut the door behind her harder than she’d intended.
She’d almost gotten used to his overconfidence and arrogance, in this world and the other. But whatever this newfound attitude of his was, it was certainly much more maddening. There was definitely something going on, but whatever it was, he didn’t seem keen to share.
Fine. Keep your secrets. I have a trial to win.
She made her way back to her room and stepped inside.
The window was open.
Clara was certain she’d left it shut. She’d considered opening it earlier, for the breeze, but the embassy guards had been very insistent that the windows facing the rear garden should stay latched. And what was this bitter smell in the air?
Then she noticed a large dark overcoat hanging on the coat rack, and her hand drifted toward the wand in her satchel.
“Please, there is no need for that.”
The voice came from the corner of the room, unhurried and pleasant, and Clara turned to find that there was someone sitting at the small writing table by the wall.
It was a large, elderly man, with one leg crossed over the other, hand resting on a cup of coffee. He had to be past sixty. He had thick, carefully swept white hair, and a long beard spilled down over his chest, full and well-kept. His eyes were a dark blue, deep-set under heavy brows, and he wore a plain dress shirt under a black vest.
Clara stared.
She knew that face.
Not personally, but from portraits. A bearded patriarch, dignified and a little melancholic, the very picture of a famed nineteenth-century monarch in his twilight years—though in this world he was ‘just’ a former duke, and not an emperor. She’d assumed he’d look different, since Bel looked nothing like the pictures of her counterpart from Clara’s world, but clearly consistency wasn’t to be expected.
The man in front of her was, undoubtedly, her missing client, Pedro de Bragança.