by Jean Rabe
When the Kapitan’s tall form had long since melded into the darkness, Savil pulled the spectacles from around his ears and closed his journal. He stared deeply into Maks’s eyes. “What has happened to you, Maksim?”
Maks sat, feeling sick. “Yevgeniy—”
“Yevgeniy or not, you are master of your orrery, are you not? You are a seer trained by the oracle Vadrim, himself, are you not?”
“It is a run of bad luck, Savil. Nothing more.”
“There’s no such thing as luck.”
“I need no reminding of that.” He motioned to the Braga, where the men were beginning to stow the equipment. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Savil stood and stared, a confused look playing over his face among the shadows of the nearby fire. “We’ll see each other again, da? After the season? We have some things to talk about.”
Maks stood and embraced him. “Such as?”
“After the season, Maks.” Savil hugged him and slapped his back. “I’m glad we came upon you in time.” His words were strangely spoken, as if Savil felt them more deeply than he had a right to.
Maks pulled away and stared into his brother’s eyes. “You saw it, did you not?”
“Still”—he winked—“a bit of luck never hurts, da?”
Maks laughed and embraced him one last time.
Within the hour, the Braga and the Drozhnost had gone their separate ways.
By the edge of a tranquil mountain lake, Maks sat before his orrery, confused. The stars and the delicate gauze of the universe that lay beyond them were bright, casting a perfect reflection over the placid surface of the lake. By the light of a bulls-eye lantern, he studied the detailed notes he’d taken of his own sightings and those of Savil. The dials had been set and reset, but the location it was giving for the next meteorite strike was over a thousand miles to the southwest, placing it somewhere along the northern coast of the Black Sea. The orrery had been built in Delphi by women handpicked by the Pythia herself. It could not be the fault of the machine. And yet Maks was doing nothing different than he had for years. He had gauged the amount of sunlight, he had measured the wind, he had taken the mood of each and every crew member. Even Yevgeniy and the angst and uncertainty he brought had been taken into account. His use of the sextant was impeccable despite his aging eyes.
Menippe still burned in the northern sky, but its tail was growing dim. He had struggled with her presence ever since Yevgeniy had spotted her. She and her sister, Metioche, had sacrificed themselves when Aonia was visited by a plague. They had invoked the names of the infernal gods, and Persephone and Hades had responded, turning them into comets. Maks knew that his fate was tied closely to Menippe, the younger of the two sisters, and he was more than conscious that her light was fading, which could not be good unless he could unravel her mystery before she faded entirely. The only trouble was that there were so many aspects to consider that he was driving himself mad. Sacrifice, plague, rising to a higher station. The shuttle, back and forth, the weaving of fate.
The reading he’d drawn on the hills leading up to the Urals had been Nemesis, Dysnomia, and Moros. Indignation, lawlessness, and doom. His fate was clearly wrapped within that first augury. But how?
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. The stars were beginning to fade, and the eastern sky was brightening—golden light over an indigo field.
The Kapitan approached. Behind him were Yevgeniy and Leonid.
“Where do we go, Maks?”
Maks, his heart sinking, shook his head slowly. “I’ll know soon, Kapitan.”
“You’ve had two nights.”
“These things take time.”
“More time than we have.” Shimon paused, perhaps debating on whether to act upon his instincts. “Why have you not allowed Yevgeniy to perform an augury?”
“I told you, his presence now will only interfere.”
Shimon, shivering, pulled his heavy fur cloak tighter about his frame. “Perhaps you’re afraid he’ll succeed where you have failed.”
Maks stood, facing Shimon squarely. “Whether or not he had anything to do with the pirates is irrelevant. He will foul my readings, Shimon, and he is unprepared to make his own.”
“And if I say different?”
“It is not your place to say.”
“It is,” Shimon said, his face ruddy in the growing light of dawn. “He will perform a reading, Maks, with or without your consent.”
“He will not.”
Shimon stood stock still, his breath coming quickly. His gaze darted to the orrery, and then something inside him seemed to break, and he motioned to Leonid.
Leonid stalked forward, his eyes intent on the orrery—or, more accurately, not intent on Maks.
Maks placed himself in Leonid’s way, but the stout crewman merely shoved him to one side. Then he snapped the lid of the orrery shut and hefted it up from the blanket.
“That orrery is mine! You have no right!”
“We have a contract, Maks. If you’re no longer able to uphold your end of it, we must find someone who can.”
“He will fail.”
“We’ll take our chances.”
Leonid moved behind Shimon, continuing to avoid Maks’s gaze.
“You may come with us to Unladansk,” Shimon said. “But from there you’ll be on your own.”
“The oracle will hear of this.”
“I’m no thief. You’ll have your orrery back. But don’t think that the oracle won’t hear of your treatment of Yevgeniy as well. It’s shameful, what you’ve done”—Maks opened his mouth to object, but Shimon spoke over him—“holding him back when his gifts are plain to see . . .”
Shimon waited, daring Maks to reply, but when Maks did not, he turned and headed for the Braga. “We leave on the hour.”
Maks didn’t follow. He couldn’t remain with these men, certainly not with Yevgeniy.
Shimon stopped and turned. “You’ll freeze, Maks.”
Maks breathed in the cold morning air, feeling small, as light began to fill the valley.
“Suit yourself,” Shimon said, and off they went.
Yevgeniy watched for a time, but then he too turned and followed.
Maks, his mind swimming in a haze of vodka and bitters, lifted his head as the door to the tea house opened and five men filed in. The patrons spread among the tables in the warm, smoky room looked up but quickly returned to their conversations. Maks recognized the Kapitan of the Drozhnost and thought surely Savil would be right behind him, but his brother was not to be seen. Had he been sober, he would have asked what had become of him, but he was not, and he was content to sit and wait.
Over an hour later, Savil finally came.When he entered the inn, Maks felt a mixture of shame and relief. Savil was headed for the table his crew mates were sharing in the corner, but when he spotted Maks, he stopped—a look of mild surprise on his face—and changed course. “I didn’t think you’d be here for a month.”
“Neither did I.” His words were slurred, but he didn’t care.
“What happened?” Savil asked as he sat down at Maks’s table.
“Can you not guess?” Maks answered.
After Shimon left him near the mountain lake, it had taken Maks well into the following day to reach the trail leading up to Narodnaya. He had accepted a ride on another walker. The Kapitan had been a superstitious man, unwilling to take on a seer both lost and alone, but in the end he had agreed to take Maks on, for they were heading back to Syktyvkar with a haul the size of a mountain. Maks had debated continuing on with them, but something wouldn’t allow him. His business in the Urals was unfinished.
Savil waved a serving girl for a drink. “I never thought Shimon would do it.”
“Well, he has, Savil, and I’m finished.”
“You’re drunk, Maksim. Don’t be so glum.”
“It’s true!” Maks roared. “What walker will have me when word gets out?”
“Lower your voice. The world isn’t endi
ng.”
“It is for me.” Maks downed the last of his drink and slammed the heavy glass snifter back down onto the table. “I’m ruined, supplanted by a boy who two years ago couldn’t tell his ass from the belt of Orion.”
Savil glanced sidelong toward his Kapitan. “I wanted to wait Maks, but since you’re . . . no longer employed, I might as well tell you now.”
“Tell me what?”
“As it happens, I’ll soon be in need of a seer.”
Maks stared, his eyes suddenly refusing to focus.
“For my first walker,” Savil continued.
“You can’t afford such a thing.”
“I’ve been saving.”
Maks was shaking his head before Savil had even finished speaking. “Two years ago you barely had two kopeks to rub together.”
“Things change.”
Maks felt the blood drain from his face. His fingers began to tingle, and though his mind was fogged with drink, he heard Savil’s words from their talk beneath the larch ringing in his head: I’m glad we came upon you in time.
“What have you done, Savil?”
Savil paused, running the tips of his fingers around the rim of his glass. “Nothing dozens haven’t done before me. Nothing that won’t be done as long as men live and meteorites fall among the Urals.”
“You sold them?”
Savil looked up, his jaw set grimly. “Why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I have some money to put away before I die? Why shouldn’t I have money to leave for my grandson?”
“But pirates, Savil?” The words came out in a whisper. Maks could hardly believe them.
“Brother, don’t be like this. They would have found out anyway. Why shouldn’t I profit from the sightings I’ve collected?”
Maks stood unsteadily, staring down at Savil’s bald head and wiry white hair. He had been wrong about Yevgeniy—so wrong—and it had taken all this for the truth to come clear. How could he have been so blind? How could he have failed to piece together the clues that had settled around him like flakes of gentle snow?
A cold realization washed over Maks. He stared into Savil’s eyes, knowing the answer before he’d even uttered the question.
“Did you sell them my sightings?”
“What does it matter?”
Maks could hear the Moirae laughing as they tugged at the threads of fate, leaving him to struggle with all that had happened and all that lay before him.
“Come with me, Maks. Come with me to Syktyvkar. I know a man with a walker. We’ll buy it cheap, and by the time next season ends, we’ll be living like kings.”
Maks spat on the table, spraying both Savil and his drink.
With Savil staring, confused, Maks left the tavern and headed for the stables. His mind was awhirl, his memories of Yevgeniy reordering themselves into a new understanding of who and what he was. Yevgeniy’s flighty nature, his inability to perform auguries, Maks’s growing difficulties with his craft from the day Yevgeniy had entered his life—all of it was adding up to one inescapable truth. And now it was important—more than ever—that he reach Yevgeniy, that he save him from his fate.
Riding the stout mountain pony he’d purchased from the stable master, Maks headed up a steep rise. He reigned his pony to a stop and listened for the hiss of a steam release, or the clang of an articulated leg cycling, or the crack of a tree as it succumbed to the passage of a man-made beast.
He had spent the last three nights studying the stars carefully. Menippe could barely be seen, but the fact that it was there at all was a positive sign. It meant that Yevgeniy was still alive, and that there was time to save him. He had marked more than a dozen shooting stars. By careful observation of how they crossed certain constellations—as well as his constantly changing mood—he was able to see with some accuracy where he would find the Braga.
And it was here. In this valley. He was sure of it.
A boom somewhere ahead made him sit up in his saddle. The faint crack of musket fire came soon after. He kicked his pony into a trot, but the snow was deep, the going rough. Several more cannon shots sounded, and the battle reached a fever pitch—musket fire going crack-crack-crack, men shouting and screaming. A massive boom rent the cold mountain air, but then, just as he was cresting the ridge, it all stopped.
Far ahead, deep within a dense forest, a column of black smoke trailed up into the clear blue sky. Maks descended the slope and entered the forest, hoping he would make it in time. He lost his way among the landscape that was at times impassable and at others dense and confusing. Finally, though, hours after entering, he came to a clearing where the Braga lay fallen.
Maks swallowed, suddenly unable to clear his throat.
The walker was a blackened shell. The rear magazine had clearly been struck, causing the entire back half to be shorn free in the explosion. The rest was little more than a broken husk. He approached, jaw clenched, eyes watering. The crew lay all around. Aleksei. Danila. Leonid. Vitaliy. Andreyu. All of them dead from gunshot wounds.
Maks approached the hull and found Shimon hanging over the gunwale, his throat cut.
But of Yevgeniy there was no sign.
Maks looked up to the sky, praising the Moirae for their kindness. He dismounted and climbed into the hold through the gaping maw at the rear. All of the ore had been taken, but he cared nothing about this. He searched the entire ship, including Shimon’s cabin, praying he wouldn’t find Yevgeniy dead. He came at last to the small cabin he had shared with his apprentice. He opened the door slowly, but when he found it empty he brought his fist to his lips and kissed it three times, for again the Moirae had been kind.
There was one last thing. The ornate blanket hanging on the wall looked untouched. He pulled it down and maneuvered the wooden panel behind it. In the small space hidden there he found the orrery, still in its leather case. He had always kept it here, just in case, and—he kissed his fist again—apparently so had Yevgeniy.
He took it and moved from the ship as quickly as he could. After placing a coin under each crewman’s tongue, he mounted his pony and rode for all he was worth.
The pirate’s walker was not difficult to find. It had crashed through the forest, making a line for the western passes, perhaps heading for Syktyvkar to sell the ore that now filled its belly. Most likely they were planning to sell Yevgeniy as well—a seer, even an apprentice, would fetch a handsome price in the Egyptian slave markets.
As the sun was going down he found their ship at a thin mountain stream refilling its water reservoirs. He approached openly, knowing how foolish it would be to hide his presence. When the pirates saw him, he waved his hands high over his head, making it clear he was unarmed.
Several of them—men wearing long threadbare cherkesskas and bright scarves around their heads—trained their muskets on him.
“I would speak with your Kapitan.” It was difficult granting the leader of the pirates the same title as Shimon, but he would not risk offending them.
“You were with them, were you not?” This came from a man standing on the walker’s deck. He was nearly as old as Maks, and he had a long face and a graying beard. He was pointing a cocked flintlock pistol at Maks’s chest. Maks could feel where it was aimed from the tickle just below his breastbone. It took all his courage not to cringe, not to look away from this man who had murdered the men of the Braga.
“You have one of my own,” Maks said as boldly as he could manage.
The Kapitan smiled. “Yours no longer.”
“He is a seer of Syktyvkar, a man trained in the arts of fate, a man anointed by Vadrim Khemiliov himself.”
They knew who Yevgeniy was—it was why they had taken him instead of shooting him like a dog—and clearly they were not the sort of men inclined toward repentance, but to be faced with what they had done, to have their sacrilege spoken aloud, was quite another thing.
“You would sell him?” Maks continued. “You would treat him like a prized goat when the gods themselves watch his every step
?”
“You could join him if you wish.” The Kapitan’s face was bold, but his words were hollow.
“Then you know who I am . . .” Maks could see in his eyes that he was not willing to speak sacrilege a second time. After allowing those words to sink in, Maks continued, “I propose a trade.”
The Kapitan’s hold on his pistol wavered. “Speak on.”
Maks swung the leather case that held his orrery around until it rested in his lap. “You had hoped to find this, had you not?” The Kapitan remained silent, but his gaze drifted down to the case more than once. “You may have it. It is mine to give. In return you will give me Yevgeniy.”
There was a long pause as the Kapitan considered his offer. The wind was blowing among the nearby trees, a soft sigh among the bleak winter landscape. The Kapitan raised his pistol, and Maks thought surely this had all been for naught, but the pirate merely held it steady while staring intently at Maks, as though he could see into his soul—or wished that he could.
“Why were there two?” he asked.
“Two what?”
“Two seers.”
“I was the only seer.”
The Kapitan shook his head. “Then what of the other? What is he?”
“Do you not know? Can you not feel it?” Maks paused, suddenly afraid to speak, but after a moment the feeling passed, and he knew that by speaking it aloud, he would declare it to the world. And it felt right.
“He is an oracle.”
In the heart of Syktyvkar, within the Temple of Apollo, a line of supplicants waited to speak with the oracle. Maks had brought Savil in his wheelchair and had waited his turn like any other. After five hours he was next in line to step onto the dais and speak with His Eminence. Gripping the handles of Savil’s wheelchair, he studied this oracle who not so long ago had been a young, unburnished man navigating his way through life in the wilds of the Urals. He was speaking with a prim young woman, an aristocrat. The woman was stunning— she commanded attention—but she was nothing next to Yevgeniy, who had grown into a proper man these past four years. He was confident, now—Maks could see it in the way he spoke, the way he drew the eye of each and every one of his supplicants.