4

"You know you've just been hired as a guard, right?" Alexius says. "Though I suppose Dr. Sabbatine might need guards who can do more than sharpen their knives and growl at street urchins. I'm sure she picked you for a reason."

The golden mist surrounding Byzantium starts to fade. Your little ship leaves the Bosphorus and crosses beneath the first of a dozen colossal bridges that span the Golden Horn, and there it is: Byzantium, shining in the sunset.

You've seen postcards and photographs, but those don't capture the sheer size of the city, how it has spilled out of its ancient and medieval confines to sprawl across the land, or how smoke and steam hide three-quarters of it at a time. Smells and sounds arrive: the acrid reek of burning coal, the clanking of enormous machinery, the aroma of a thousand spices hauled in from every corner of the empire, and the clattering of bells as a million merchants trade with a million more.

Other travelers bearing letters from Dr. Sabbatine crowd the ship's bow, all of them trying to see the city. You jostle against a soldier, who apologizes as you're both pressed against the railing.

"I'm Cyril," the soldier shouts over the crash of waves. The wind whips his long auburn hair around his face. A Byzantine from his clothing; his accent indicates birth in the countryside. "You're here to guard the doctor, too, eh?" Then he takes in your unusual appearance: your torn and travel-stained garments and broad-brimmed hat.

"You're from the Triple Alliance, right?" Cyril says. "There's a Mexihcan clock in my house, you know! But, blast, you're a far way from home! How did you make it across the Atlantic, especially near Europe? There are so many pirates!"