Page 7 of Immortals and Ink

Not yet, Alexis didn't reply. He finished his coffee and paid the cousin twice the asking price, which was both polite and strategic. A man who pays twice is remembered fondly and becomes someone who can ask for a favor later.

Alexis collected his plain cloak and waited at the head of the stairs while Arslan paid his own bill and tucked his codex into a leather satchel with the gentleness of someone who cared deeply for books.

Outside, Galata was already loud in the early morning. The porters had already finished the first round of their work and were drinking salep from a vendor with a copper urn on his back. A woman on a balcony above them threw a pan of dirty water into the street with practiced accuracy, missing them both by half a step.

Somewhere, a donkey was protesting its existence, and a child was being told, at length and in rising tones, that it would be tossed into the sea if it didn't put down whatever it had picked up.

Arslan led Alexis through twisting streets without looking at the signposts. They passed a spice merchant whose shopfront was already open, and the smell that came out of it was so strong it was like a slap in the nose: cardamom, cumin, cloves, saffron, the dusty bite of dried chili, and under it all, the sweet earthy base note of frankincense that meant someone was burning it in a brazier out of sight.

"You have been smelling for a block," Arslan said without turning. "You know your spices?"

"I have been in a number of spice markets," Alexis replied carefully.

"The best are in Baghdad and Cairo. I haven't been to the latter in a lifetime."

"Neither have I." Alexis smiled at Arslan's back. "You still carry traces of the accent, however."

Arslan laughed but didn't deny it. The street climbed, and a church appeared between two buildings at a turn. It was small, with a whitewashed dome, and above the carved wooden door was a triangular mosaic with a brilliant gold background featuring Saint Christóphoros, a dog-headed saint, and Sophia, a figure in a purple robe and golden crown carrying a pomegranate with a golden bee.

"My, what a lovely mosaic," Alexis noted, familiar enough with Eastern iconography to pick out the gods who had merely put on the clothes of a saint.

"I'm so glad you like it. I did it myself." Arslan paused at the door and gave him a slow once-over. "Who are you really, Alexis?"

"Who are you, Arslan?" Alexis tilted his head. "Or should I ask what?"

"Let us go inside, then, and we can each get some answers, hmm?" his host said, gesturing to the door. "The church is rather particular about who it allows entrance. I have a feeling it won't mind you."

"Not even if I'm a heathen?" Alexis asked, unable to resist as he looked up at the mosaic again.

Arslan's eyes shone with mischief. "Dear boy, aren't we all?"

"It certainly appears that way." Alexis was grinning as he laid his hand on the dark wooden door. His magic reached out, and the wards folded into the timber responded, sending a searching tingle up his arm. After a short moment, the wards recognized him as a friend, and the door swung inward.

Arslan chuckled in delight and stepped into the dark. Alexis could only wonder at what exactly he had stumbled across with this strange man and his stranger church. Whatever they were, they were new, and when one became as old as Alexis, that was a novelty no money could buy.

CHAPTER THREE

The church opened into a small, proper nave. A threadbare red carpet drew the eye past a modest iconostasis and three oil lamps. On the altar step itself, a single cat slept with extraordinary self-possession. As Alexis entered, it cracked open one yellow eye, weighed him in an instant, and deemed him unworthy of its attention.

Rows of wooden pews faced a triptych altar piece depicting the dog-headed saint and a black Madonna.

Among these interesting aspects, Alexis noticed, with growing amusement, that the east wall of the church was also a lie. It was constructed by someone who knew the best way to hide something was to place something slightly less interesting in front of it and let years of paint and incense smoke do the rest. The murals depicted the adventures of a dog-headed saint, but the landscape he walked through was distinctly Egyptian.

Hello, Anubis. What an interesting place to find you, old friend.

Arslan went to a small wooden door in the south wall that opened to a sacristy. Robes hung on pegs, and a cabinet held communion vessels, but none of it looked like it had been used. A second door at the back of the sacristy opened when Arslan touched it, revealing a hidden staircase descending into darkness.

"After you," Arslan said, gesturing.

"I think not."

"No?"

"I'm a guest. Guests follow, and so do people who like to protect their backs from mysterious strangers," Alexis replied.

Arslan smiled properly for the first time, and it made his face twenty years younger. "You're a courteous thief, Alexis."

"I haven't stolen anything yet."