by Chris Paton
Voices crept through cracks in the glass of the windows and Nikolas pressed his ear against it. The wall amplified the sound of Abraxas and Venzke talking. Nikolas closed his eyes to concentrate.
“Where is the boy, old man?” said a voice Nikolas imagined was Venzke's.
“He is safe. He will not bother you again.”
“You have him then?”
“As I said,” Abraxas said – and Nikolas heard him sigh as if dealing with Venzke was more challenging than explaining the Passage of Time. “He is safe.”
“I don't care if he is safe. I want him captured. Oberleutnant,” Venzke shouted. “Search the building.”
Nikolas pushed away from the wall and clicked his fingers at Molotok. “The door,” he said. “They are coming in.”
“You are making a mistake, Venzke,” Abraxas said, loud enough that Nikolas could hear him through the window. “You should know the boy is never alone.”
“And neither am I,” Venzke said. Nikolas heard the scuffle of boots along the garden path and he searched for a way out of the building.
If they come through the front door, he thought, then we are trapped. Nikolas looked up at the loft and imagined a window at the top. But Molotok can't climb up there. He turned around and bumped into Molotok's hands. The emissary's fingers closed around Nikolas' thin ribs as Venzke's men began to hammer on the door.
“Molotok? What are you doing?” Nikolas said as the emissary lifted him up and pushed him onto the floor of the loft. “Molotok?”
The emissary looked at Nikolas as the boy gripped the emissary's grille faceplate. The soft green light of Molotok's lodestone flushed Nikolas' hands for a moment and then the emissary took a step back and turned to confront the Germans at the door.
“No,” said Nikolas as the first of the German emissaries kicked down the door and rushed into the storage room. Molotok leaped forwards and caught the emissary by the head and twisted it around and off the globus tank. The emissary crashed to the floor, trapping Molotok's left foot beneath its body. Molotok threw the head at the German soldiers and tugged at its foot only to look up as two more emissaries squeezed inside the storage room and hurled themselves at Molotok. Nikolas' friend and protector for over three months was buried beneath a flurry of brass fists.
“Molotok,” Nikolas cried out and took a step towards the ladder. More soldiers poured into the storage room, scrambling over and around the emissaries. They pointed and shouted at Nikolas.
Nikolas felt his lungs begin to squeeze like they did every time he exerted himself or became frightened. He fought for a breath and turned towards the window. There was a single chair between the beds and Nikolas picked it up and hurled it through the glass pane just as the first German soldier reached the loft. Nikolas wheezed as climbed out of the window and onto the roof. He felt the tiles slip beneath his tired shoes, the soles worn thin by rubble and running.
“Stop,” the soldier shouted and reached out to grab Nikolas by the strap of his satchel.
“Let go of me,” Nikolas said as he gasped for air. The strap buckle bent as Nikolas leaned back and the strap broke. He fell, tumbling down the tiles and into the air. The ground rushed up to meet him only to stop suddenly as Nikolas was cushioned by an electric blue pillow.
“Demonlight,” Nikolas whispered as he felt himself lowered to the ground.
“Thank you, Abraxas,” said a voice Nikolas recognised as Venzke's. “Release him and we will take him from here.”
“Where will you take him?” said Abraxas. “He is just a boy.”
“A boy that has been a thorn in my side for more months than I care to remember,” Venzke said and reached down to knock Nikolas' cap from his head. He took a handful of Nikolas' thin blond hair within his fist and pulled him to his feet. Venzke pressed his smooth-shaven face to within an inch of Nikolas' and leered at him. “You and your metal friend are finished, boy,” he said and turned Nikolas to see the cart being pulled by two emissaries and flanked by two rows of soldiers and the emissaries' controllers. On the bed of the cart, the door of its boiler hinged open and wet charcoal spread all around, Molotok lay, its lodestone was as dull as the day Nikolas had found it. Nikolas reached for his cap and used it to hide the tears welling in his eyes.
Chapter 24
The Russian Taiga
Arkhangelsk Oblast
July, 1851
The copper-infused bullet crackled through the spruce trees on both sides of the forest road and slammed into Bryullov’s chest. The Russian slumped to the ground as sparks blistered from the bullet in a frenzied helix that pinned his arms to his side and made his teeth clatter. Najma pressed the Lightning Jezail into Jamie's hands, drew the knife from the curved scabbard at her waist and walked towards Bryullov.
“Stop,” said Hari as he stepped in front of her. “Stop this.”
“Out of the way, Nightjar. I will have vengeance.”
“Truly, I understand, but we must talk to him. Don't kill him, at least, not yet.”
The knife wavered in Najma's hand as Hari opened his hands and gave her a pleading look. Najma stepped around Hari to watch as the blister of energy on Bryullov's chest fizzed and spat until it was spent. She moved around Hari only to find the mystic blocking her at every turn.
“Najma,” he said. “Please.”
“Argh,” Najma said and stabbed the knife into the closest tree. “Talk to him then,” she said and pulled the knife free and sheathed it. She turned on her heel and stalked back to Jamie. For once, Hari noted, the young Englishman's nakedness seemed not to bother her.
Hari nodded at Jamie and walked over to kneel beside Bryullov. He found the bullet embedded in the thick leather tunic Bryullov wore. Hari drew his kukri and prised the bullet free and dropped it into his hand.
“Ah, hot,” he said and rolled it onto the ground. “But not powerful enough to penetrate your tunic, eh?”
“No,” said Bryullov and groaned as he sat up. “But enough to knock me to the ground. That is twice in one day. And both times I was shot by a woman.”
“Perhaps,” Hari said and smiled, “women do not like you very much.”
“You have no idea.”
“Truly, I do not.” Hari sat down and crossed his legs. He held the kukri in a light grip, the tip pointed directly at Bryullov, something he noticed the Russian was aware of.
“So what do we do now, Nightjar?”
“Now?” Hari said and yawned. “Honestly, I could do with a rest, but time is not on our side. We must get to Arkhangelsk and you must tell us what you know to speed us on our way.”
“And then?”
“And then? Such a difficult question, Kapitan Bryullov. But I imagine our mutual friend...”
“Najma?”
“The very same,” Hari said and nodded. “I think she will have some say in the matter.”
Bryullov leaned to one side to see around Hari. Najma glared at him, while Jamie stood in the middle of the road and gazed straight ahead with blank eyes.
“Your other friend, the English lieutenant...” Bryullov said. “He seems distracted.”
“He is djinn.”
“Not right now.”
“No. Now he is but a vessel,” Hari said and shuddered at the memories the djinni had shared with him. “You may have forced him into the pit...”
“I merely gave him to Shah Orbalaye Bal.”
“Who forced him into the pit, yes. But it was I that released him and forced him to accompany me to Russia.”
“Why?”
“To fight a demon, but I fear, he has far too many demons of his own to fight.”
“If I know my djinn lore,” said Bryllov as he settled himself into a more comfortable position. “It is not quite enough to be cast into the djinn pit, one has to have something in one's past to draw out the djinni inside.”
“You are talking about Qarin? The voice of one's inner demons – the voice of all one's misdeeds.”
“Yes.”
“I see,” Hari said and sheathed his kukri. “And how strong is your Qarin, Kapitan?”
“I shudder to think.”
“Truly.”
The sounds of the forest disturbed by their meeting returned as Hari waited for Bryullov to speak. The day was growing longer and Hari felt the need to press on, if the djinni was strong enough to continue. He glanced at Bryullov's horse and noted the froth around its nostrils and the sweat beading on its flanks. The beast is not strong enough to carry more than one person, Hari realised, and even then not very far. He turned his attention back to Bryullov as the Russian opened his mouth to speak.
“The city is ringed by Cossacks. They plan to lay siege to Arkhangelsk and to free the people.”
“Will they succeed?”
“Perhaps. If they can control the river.”
“Who leads them?”
“Ivan Timofeyevich,” said Bryullov and a smile tickled his lips. “It was his daughter that shot me,” he said and showed Hari the bandage on his arm. “Timofeyevich is a wily fox when it comes to guerrilla fighting, but he is not built for a siege. He will grow bored and restless as time goes on. But,” Bryullov paused. “He is not alone. Kapitan Stepan Skuratov is with him, and he has more reason than any to get inside the city – his son is among the people under occupation.”
“Occupation?”
“Yes, Moscow made a deal with the German Confederation – mines for technology. We intend to win the fight for Central Asia, you know.”
“You have been very determined.”
“As have you – especially you, Nightjar.”
“Truly, it was my job.”
“And yet you gave it up to go where? England?”
“Yes,” Hari said and spared a quick glance at Jamie. “To find and protect the Englishman's sister.”
“And did you?”
“Not very well. Which is why...”
“You must get to Arkhangelsk. I see.” Bryullov leaned forwards and tapped Hari on the arm. “Your friend grows restless,” he said and pointed at Najma as she snatched the Jezail from Jamie's hand and reloaded it.
What a curious situation to be in, Hari mused. Truly, I am presented with a dilemma. I wish to see this man pay for his crimes, and yet I am tired of death. I don't know what to do. A breath of wind in the trees rustled the branches and brushed Hari's thoughts from his head. He studied the Russian, nodding appreciatively at his practical style of dress and taste in quality clothing. He was also a similar size to Jamie, Hari realised and stood up.
“Take off your trousers and tunic,” he said and rested his hand on the pommel of his kukri.
“What?”
“You can keep your underclothes, but my friend needs your shirt and trousers.”
“I don't see why...”
“Nor do you have to,” Hari said and drew the kukri an inch out of its scabbard. “Strip, if you please.”
Bryullov shook his head and stood up to unbutton his tunic. He dropped it at Hari's feet, removed his boots and tugged off his trousers. He added them to the pile.
“Keep your boots. I don't intend to walk,” said Hari and scooped the tunic and trousers off the ground and stuffed them into his satchel. He waved Najma and Jamie over and waited for them to come closer before speaking. “I have made up my mind,” he said and turned to Najma. “Do you wish to take this man all the way back to Afghanistan, to avenge your brother's death?”
“That's a long way, Hari,” said Jamie.
“Yes,” said Najma as she fingered the trigger of the Jezail. She met Hari's look with eyes that blazed with determination.
“Good,” he said. “Then you shall have the horse. The people in Sast will help you. And others will too if you pay them.” Hari reached into his satchel and removed a small leather bag of sovereigns. “You can halve them and they will still be of more than enough value.” He gave the bag to Najma.
“Thank you, Nightjar.”
“Good plan, Hari Singh,” said Bryullov and clapped. “Now all I have to do is...” Bryullov's words caught in his throat as Najma used the butt of the Jezail and whacked him on the forehead. The Russian dropped to his knees. Najma took a length of cord from her pocket and bound his hands. She smiled up at Hari.
“I think I have changed my mind, Hari,” said Jamie.
“It is still a long way, British.”
“Yes, but for him, not her,” he said and dipped his head towards Najma. When he looked up, Najma had already started for the horse and was going through the equipment on the Cossack saddle as Bryullov groaned from where he kneeled in the dirt.
“My British friend,” said Hari. “Can you fly again, all the way to Arkhangelsk?”
“Yes,” Jamie said and smoothed his hand on his belly. “But I will need to eat as soon as we get there, or you can forget about me doing anything else.”
“I will find food for you, British. And I have clothes in my bag,” Hari said and patted his satchel.
“Good, I don't want to see Luise like this.”
“No. That would not be a good idea.”
Bryullov groaned again as Najma dragged him to his feet. She couched the horse and dragged the Russian over its back behind the saddle. Najma made the horse stand, and, with a spare rein from the saddle bags, she looped the leather reins beneath the horse's belly and tied Bryullov's hands to his feet.
“A very long journey,” Hari said to Jamie as they watched.
Najma stopped by Bryullov's head and bent down as he whispered in her ear. She nodded once and stood up.
“He says to tell Kapitan Skuratov that he was acting on orders. That Arkhangelsk is just the first city the Germans have been offered. So long as the Germans supply them with technology to defeat the British, the Russian Empire will turn a blind eye to three, maybe four more cities. All of them in the north,” Najma said and shrugged. “That is what he says.”
“Very well,” said Hari and stepped forward to embrace Najma. “Farewell, and give my best wishes and condolences to your father,” he said and stepped back to make namaste.
“I will.”
“If I had clothes, Najma,” Jamie said and bowed his head.
“Take care of yourself, Jamie Hanover,” Najma said and urged the horse into a slow walk with a click of her tongue. She looked at Jamie as she walked past, turning her neck to watch him until she was walking backwards alongside the horse's head. Hari and Jamie waved and Najma waved once before turning and leading the horse down the road.
“It will take a long time for her to get home. What are the odds, Hari, that Bryullov is still alive at the end of the journey?”
“Najma will see him all the way home to her father. Truly, that is what I believe,” Hari said and watched as Najma disappeared into the forest. “And now, British. Are you ready?”
Jamie answered by gripping Hari around the waist as his legs twisted into smoke and his upper body swelled. Hari felt the tightening of Jamie's muscles as he turned djinn, the young man's sunburned flesh turning a deep blue with a touch of orange in the fingertips. So long as he keeps that in control, Hari thought as he watched Jamie's hands flicker between shades of blue and fiery orange, then we should be all right. Jamie, now djinn, lurched from the ground and into the air, streaking along the treetops to Arkhangelsk. Hari closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. We are almost there, Luise, he thought. We are coming.
Chapter 25
The Gates of Arkhangelsk
Arkhangelsk Oblast
July, 1851
As diversions go, Stepan thought as he clambered over the wall surrounding the city, a frontal assault on the gate by a platoon of angry Cossacks, wasn't the worst. And it has got us this far. Stepan dropped to his knees and rested the butt of the musket on the ground. It was not a sniper's rifle of choice, but it would suffice on the streets if they got into trouble. The trouble, however, is more likely in our own company, Stepan thought as he watched the Cook get caught up on his bandoliers for the second time s
ince they had climbed down the wall and into the city. Lena rolled her eyes and moved to cover the street in the opposite direction to Stepan, the two flintlock pistols she favoured were in her hands, primed with the hammers cocked. The Cook twisted on the wall to unhook the leather strap and grumbled down the last few feet until he stood, sweating and red-faced in front of Stepan.
“Bloody wall,” he said. “Will there be more of them?”
“Maybe,” said Stepan. “Now shut up, and get out of sight. We're a long way from the shipyard.”
“Feeling a tad touchy, Kapitan? Must be good to be home though,” the Cook said and tightened the bandoliers across his chest. At a hiss from Lena he ducked out of sight as a patrol of four men and two emissaries marched down the street from the east. The Cook's hands twitched over his knives, but Stepan shook his head.
“Wait,” he mouthed.
“Why?” the Cook mouthed back and grinned.
Stepan was beginning to understand Ivan's reluctance in having this man anywhere near a secret mission inside the city. He wondered how long it would be before the mission was no longer a secret, and, judging by the Cook's mental state of mind, he didn't imagine it would be long. The patrol passed by their hiding place and Stepan collared Lena as soon as they were out of sight.
“I'll lead the way. Your job is to keep him quiet.”
“Methinks the Kapitan doesn't like me,” said the Cook. “Now that shouldn't stop us being friends, eh?”
Stepan turned to say something but stopped when Lena placed herself between the two men.
“He is here for one purpose only, Kapitan. Trust me, da?”
Stepan gripped the musket and nodded. “Yes. I trust you.”
“Oh, goodie, we shall be friends,” said the Cook and he danced a short jig, spiralling out into the street. Stepan glared at Lena and then pushed past the Cook, growling at him as their shoulders bumped.