by Chris Paton
Hari caught another and his mind turned black. The memory tickled his palm but did not favour one direction over another, and Hari could see no point of reference upon which he could navigate. He was alone in a cold, blank, black world. The void, as he imagined it, began to reverberate with a thrum of noise, like a thin sheet of brass whipped up and down in the air. He spun his body to find the source of the noise and saw the shadow of a black circle grow in the distance until it was a hole, a tear in the void. He was drawn to it, and heard the whispers and screams of a mad man trapped within a tube, and yet, it wasn't a tube. Hari knew exactly what it was as he drew nearer to the hole and felt himself sucked into a conduit, a pit, the pit of the djinn. Was he moving from top to bottom, or from the base upwards? Hari could not say, but the whispers and cries increased and Jamie's emaciated, naked form, dirty and pale, sharpened within his tubular vision and Hari merged with the Englishman.
The void was a place of refuge, calm, calmer even than the soothing surf of the water cave. With every second Hari spent in Jamie's body, he longed for the void, to be free of the chaos within the man. No, not a man, a vessel. He wanted to be free of the vessel, he tore at the walls of skin, flesh and bone. His fingernails scored Jamie's bones, and the flesh beneath Jamie's skin clung to the space between his nails and the tips of his fingers. And then he understood. The vessel versus the void.
Hari willed the djinni to let him be free of the vessel. Either that, he tried to speak but thought the words instead, give me a new memory instead. I cannot bear this.
“And neither can I, little man,” said the djinni. Hari opened his eyes at the sound and realised he was in the djinni's arms once more, flying above the taiga.
“I think I understand now, djinni.”
“You know the vessel?”
“I think so. Yes.”
“And you understand the need to be free of it...”
“To be in the void, to long for the void...”
“Yes, the void, but to be free of the vessel, that is enough.”
“Is it always like that? When you are inside the vessel.”
“Yes,” the djinni said and was silent once more.
Hari didn't press the djinni. Thoughts of being trapped inside Jamie's skin reeled within his mind and Hari had to pinch his arm to remind himself of where he was. Never had he felt so glad for a returning wave of sickness. Hari retched again, pleased to be free.
“You are still sick, Nightjar?” said Najma as she stirred within the djinni's palm.
“Truly,” Hari said and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I am blessed.”
“Blessed? That doesn't make any sense.”
“Never mind. How are you? Are you rested?”
“Yes, quite rested. Where are we?”
“The djinni says we are close. We crossed the border some time ago, I think.” Hari tried to remember, but had no recollection of how much time he had spent in the cave, the void or the vessel.
“We are getting closer,” said the djinni. “Arkhangelsk lies to the west. Along the road, down there, between the trees of the forest.”
Najma and Hari looked down towards the road. Galloping ahead of a small cloud of dust was a rider upon a horse. Najma gasped as she recognised the man.
“Bryullov,” she said and reached for the Lightning Jezail. Slung across her chest, the rifle was pinned between her body and the djinni's hand. “Djinni, release your grip. Let me get to my rifle.”
“You will fall,” the djinni said. “I cannot let that happen.”
“Then take us down to the road,” said Hari. “We must talk with that man.”
The djinni slowed and sank towards the road. The treetops softened as they descended and the smell of pine needles in midsummer filled the warm air. The smoke beneath the djinni coiled into two great legs and large, flat feet. Hari dropped to the road and stumbled around the djinni as Najma fiddled with the sling of her rifle. Hari gripped the barrel and shook his head as the rider's mount reared and whinnied twenty feet in front of the djinni.
“Steady now,” Bryullov called to the horse as he struggled to settle it. “Easy now.”
Najma wrestled the rifle from Hari's grip as the djinni twisted into Jamie's naked form. With the djinni gone, the horse lowered its front legs and the rider walked it from one side of the road to the other as he stared at the three unlikely travellers before him.
“What is this?” he said. “And where did you come from?”
“I can explain,” said Hari with a look at Najma. “Lower your rifle.”
“Najma?” the man said as he fought to control his horse.
“Yes,” she said. “And I intend to kill you, Kapitan Bryullov.”
“Well,” Bryullov laughed. “That seems to be in keeping with the rest of my day.” He lifted his leg, slid out of the saddle and landed on the road. Bryullov wrapped the reins around the pommel of the saddle and let the horse wander to side of the road where it calmed itself with a mouthful of long, green grass. “And who do you have with you?” He peered around Hari and laughed again. “The Englishman? I see life has not treated you well at all, Jamie Hanover. However, I honestly thought you would be dead, so this is quite a surprise.”
“That's one word for it,” said Jamie.
“And the Nightjar? Hari Singh. It's really you?”
“Truly.”
“Well,” Bryullov said and ran his hand through his hair. “I would never have imagined such a meeting. The four of us. Together again. In Russia. Incredible.”
“And yet,” said Jamie. “Here we are, naked as the day we were born. Some of us, at least.”
Bryullov slid his hand behind his back and took a step forwards. Najma took hold of the charging handle and began to crank it.
“Stop that now, Najma,” Bryullov said as he pulled the pistol from his belt and pointed it at Hari. “Stop that or I clip the Nightjar's wings.”
“You can do that,” Hari said and spread his arms with his palms open. “Or we can talk.”
“What about?”
“Arkhangelsk. We need to get inside the city.”
“Really?” Bryullov lowered the pistol. “You are too late. I have just come from there. The Cossacks are about to lay siege to the gates.”
“No,” said Najma. “It is you who is too late. This,” she said and raised the Lightning Jezail, “is for my brother.”
Chapter 21
The Gates of Arkhangelsk
Arkhangelsk Oblast
July, 1851
“Mishka is dead?” Ivan said and thumped his fist on the blackwood crate he was using as a desk. “I don't believe it.”
“I am sorry, Ivan,” Stepan said.
“And Bryullov? He escaped?”
“Da,” said Lena. “I should have shot him in the heart, not the arm. He will pay.”
“Maybe,” Ivan said and sighed. “I will miss Mishka. We must take care of his family. But first,” he said and gestured towards the door of the canvas tent. “Let me show you what we have done since you have been away.” Ivan took two pistols from the crate and stuffed them into his belt. “Come, let us see how preparations are going.”
The Cossack numbers had swelled since Stepan had met Ivan on the riverbank. He scanned the plain leading to the city gates and estimated that no less than two hundred Cossack men and women were laying siege to the city, digging trenches and lighting fires to cook over. Lena pointed at the walkers Ivan had captured. They were positioned to the east and west of the city, with a band of Cossack sharpshooters on each and a reluctant Russian driver bound with rope to the driving seat. Scouts rode in and out of the camp with reports fielded by Ivan's officers and processed into bite-sized chunks to be delivered at the evening briefing around the campfire. Stepan recognised the familiar shape of the Puckle Gun, the rapid firing machine gun the Cossacks called the Drakon. Two Cossacks lifted it while a third repositioned the tripod in a better position. The men lowered the gun and sighted it on the gates of t
he city.
“Arkhangelsk is secure,” said Ivan. “No one gets in or out.”
“From the land,” said Stepan. “What about the river?” He pointed at the crimson hulls of the transport ships sailing in and out of the city. “This will be a very long siege if we do not control the river.”
“I leave that to you,” Ivan said and thumped Stepan on the shoulder. “Of course, I would like your long rifle on top of one of the walkers, but I think your other skills are needed to close the river.”
“You are thinking of the submersibles?”
“Da,” Ivan nodded. “I will give you three men. The best. You enter the city tonight.”
“Three men? That will make four – one too many for the submersible.”
Lena fidgeted beside Stepan.
“Two then. I will choose them myself.”
“I will go with him,” Lena said and tucked her fingers into the broad belt at her waist.
“Nyet,” Ivan said and stabbed his finger towards the ground. “You will stay here.” He gave Lena a look that Stepan recognised – the look of a father. But a quick glance at Lena confirmed her place on his team as she scowled at Ivan.
“I know the city as well as the Kapitan. I am the perfect choice.”
“But you are my daughter. What will I tell your mother if you are killed? Eh?”
Lena took a breath. “The same thing you will tell Mishka's mother.”
“Lena,” Ivan said and sighed. He shook his head, his gaze lingering on the gunpowder and dirt smudging his daughter's cheeks. “Be grateful you only have a boy,” he said to Stepan.
“A boy I hope to find soon,” Stepan said and turned away from Ivan to study the city.
“The river first, Kapitan. Otherwise we will not be able to free the city.”
“I know what I must do,” Stepan said and fingered the clasp of his wristband. He tapped the false watch face and pictured the photograph of his wife and child hidden beneath.
“I will find the third member of our team,” Lena said as she stepped forwards to kiss her father on the cheek. “I will meet you here, in one hour.”
“It will take you an hour to find one man?” said Ivan. “Who are you looking for?”
Lena giggled and skipped backwards a step.
“No, not him,” Ivan said. “He is not fit to be inside a tiny boat.”
“It's a submersible,” said Stepan. “Not a boat. It sails under the water.”
“This is my point. The man she is going to find...”
“Yes?”
“Pah,” Lena said and clapped her hands at her father's words. “The Cook is a very reliable Cossack. One of our best.”
“Not one of mine,” Ivan said and whispered to Stepan. “The man she is looking for comes from one of the other bands.” He spat on the ground. “Most disagreeable, but handy in a fight.”
“Da. This is why we need him,” said Lena. “See you in an hour.”
“The Cook?” said Stepan as Lena made her way between the trenches, tents and cooking fires of the Cossack siege force. She turned once to wave at her father and then disappeared into a large tent.
“She is a good girl,” said Ivan. “But too much like her father. And, like her father, she listens only to her mother.” Ivan reached into his pockets removed his pipe and a pouch of tobacco. Stepan watched as the Cossack leader pressed a plug of tobacco into the bowl of the pipe. “Lena is very dear to me, Kapitan Skuratov.”
“I understand.”
“And you will keep an eye on her, in the city?”
“Of course.”
“Good,” Ivan said and pushed the pipe between his lips and lit it. He puffed three clouds of sweet smoke into the air, the corners of his mouth twitching as he smoked. “Tell me about your son, Kapitan.”
“I should really get ready, Ivan.”
“No, stay with me a while, I am waiting for someone. I told them I would meet them here. You can tell me about your son while we wait.”
“All right,” said Stepan. He paused for a moment before describing Nikolas, a small, thin boy who had suffered many illnesses as a child. “His lungs are not the best. It is almost as if he worked the mines, not his mother. But he does not complain.”
“Ah,” said Ivan. “Strong of mind, like a good Cossack.”
“Perhaps,” said Stepan with a nod. Thinking of his son reminded Stepan of the day the ships had arrived at the docks in Arkhangelsk. Nikolas had been so excited that day. He had eaten the last of Vladimir's sweets, just minutes before the emissaries had turned on the people. Stepan felt a lump grow in his throat as he imagined how scared Nikolas must have been, caught in the middle of a stampede of people, trampling upon one another to escape the swing of the emissaries' swords. Stepan swallowed and tried not to think of the following months, but the image of his son, hungry, frightened, and alone stuck in his mind and Stepan was quiet.
“Kapitan?” said Ivan. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine. I am just thinking about Nikolas.”
“You need cheering up, eh?” said Ivan with a wave to two Cossacks standing close by. Stepan watched as the shorter of the two Cossacks helped the other around a trench. There was something familiar about the way the second Cossack walked. But the face was hidden with a scarf. “Kapitan,” Ivan said as he stepped forward to take the Cossack's hand. “I think you know your wife, Anna Skuratova.”
“Anna,” breathed Stepan as Ivan led his wife to him. Stepan ran his hands along Anna's arms and removed the scarf to see her face.
“Stepan,” Anna said and licked at the first of the tears on her cheek to reach her lips. “I thought I had lost you.”
“And I...” he said and wiped the tears from Anna's cheeks. He tugged the scarf gently from her head, freeing the thin blonde hair that twitched with the wind. Anna lifted a hand to her mouth and coughed. She sank onto Stepan's shoulders as the cough continued. Stepan kissed his wife's ear and whispered to her as drowned in the smell of her hair.
Anna caught her breath and lifted her head to kiss Stepan's lips. The sweet smell of Ivan's pipe tobacco drifted past and she broke free to hold Stepan's face in her hands, running her fingers through the light beard on his face as she searched his eyes. “Nikolas?” she said. “Where is our son?”
“He is in the city. Ivan says he is alive,” Stepan said and glanced at the Cossack. Ivan nodded and took another puff of tobacco. “I am going into the city tonight.”
“To find Nikolas?”
“Yes, but first I have to block the river.”
“You are going to war again,” Anna said and closed her hands into fists and pressed them upon Stepan's shoulders. “I hate it when you fight. I am sick of all the fighting. But,” she said. “I am sick of being sick. The emissaries should have been put to work in the mines, and now they force our people to work there, and more and more people become sick, like me. Like Nikolas.”
“Nikolas is not so sick, Anna. He has not been in the mines.”
“But his lungs are weak, like mine.”
“I will find him, Anna. Whatever it takes. I promise.”
“And I, for my part, will accept that you must do whatever you must to bring our boy home.”
“I will.”
“Go then,” she said. “Bring our son home.” Anna kissed Stepan once more. The smile on her face lingered for a moment as she stepped back, disappearing with another bout of coughing that tore at Stepan's heart. He pulled Anna into his arms and held her.
The sound of a breathy whistle drifted around Ivan as a short and stubby Cossack waddled into view. Stepan saw Lena stop and wait as the man greeted her father. The Cook, Stepan noticed, was scarred with crude crosses on both cheeks, and armed with two bandoliers of knives crossed over the man's wool jacket. Two broad Saami knives dangled from the man's belt, but apart from the many blades, the Cook was unarmed.
“Anna,” Stepan said as she stopped coughing. “I must go.”
Anna lifted her head and nodded.
Stepan kissed her on the forehead and brushed errant strands of hair from her face with his fingers. He studied her face, her pale cheeks, thin mouth and tear-red eyes.
“Go,” she said. “I will be here when you get back.”
“I will find you,” Stepan said and gave Anna one last kiss before he walked away to join Ivan and the Cook.
“Kapitan,” said the Cook. “Lena says we are going into the city?”
“Yes.”
“Won't that be fun,” the Cook said and pulled Stepan into a rough embrace. Stepan wrinkled his nose at the man's breath – cabbage and vodka – and pulled himself free.
“Lena chose you over all the Cossacks here,” Stepan said and waved his hand in an arc that took in the entire camp. “Why?”
“I don't know,” said the Cook. “Maybe because I can do this?” The Cook's question had just reached Stepan's ears when he drew a long knife with a narrow leaf blade from the bandolier and threw it at the Cossack who had escorted Anna through the camp. The knife pierced the ushanka on the Cossack's head and wobbled there for a moment as the man stared up at the knife just inches from his forehead.
“I think I understand,” said Stepan.
“Da,” said Lena as she walked up to the Cossack and pulled the knife from his hat. “We are going to have a lot of fun.”
Chapter 22
The Tanfana
Imperial Russia
July, 1851
Emilia kicked her heels to the rhythm of the waltz as the Wallendorf controllers guided their emissaries through a regimented dancing routine in front of the engineering car. Kettlepot observed from a small stage in the middle of the dancing arena, and Luise, sitting beside Emilia, could have sworn the emissary was smiling. The concept, she agreed, was sound and the means of encouraging the Şteamƙin to inhabit the emissaries was nothing if not novel. But Luise was bothered by a detail she didn't quite understand.
“Emilia,” she said. “What will happen to Kettlepot if the Şteamƙin leave his pipes in favour of one of the other emissaries?”