by Chris Paton
“Ja,” Hannah said. “I am sorry.”
Luise wondered how many people were going to die before this mission was over, before Khronos was stopped, and the different pieces of the puzzle were finally put into place, resolved, or eradicated. Thoughts of Khronos made her turn back to Hannah.
“You are wondering about Khronos, ja? There has been no sign of him. But, I admit, once we were engaged by the Cossacks, we did not pay attention to anything else. If he is inside the city, he got there without our knowledge.”
“What else have we missed, I wonder?”
“The Cossacks have a small team inside the city. They are trying to stop Venzke...”
“Who?”
“The man Herr Bremen put in charge of the Arkhangelsk operation. He is being resupplied from the sea, although Schleiermacher should put a stop to that soon.”
“But until then?”
“The Cossacks plan to sink a ship and block the channel.” Hannah shrugged as Luise raised her eyebrows. “I have no idea how.”
“But, if the Cossacks can get inside the city, then perhaps we can too?”
“To find your contact?”
“Abraxas, yes.” Luise glanced at Kettlepot as she considered getting into the city. The emissary turned its head and took a step past her to greet Emilia as she arrived with a distressed emissary in tow.
“Kettlepot rescued you then, Miss?” said Emilia.
“Yes,” said Luise. “He saved me on several occasions. And I have you to thank for that, don't I?”
“Maybe,” Emilia said as her cheeks blossomed with a healthy glow.
“And what about him?” Luise pointed at the emissary hovering behind Emilia.
“I think he might be a her, but she is not going to be the fighting type. I think she had best stick to dancing.” The colour in Emilia's cheeks burned even stronger as she cast a nervous glance at Hannah.
“Just keep it away from the others, if you must keep it,” Hannah said. “I will return to Ivan and the Cossacks. Now that we have stopped fighting one another, we should begin planning how to help one another.” Hannah looked at Emilia and shook her head before turning and walking towards Ivan's command tent.
Kettlepot leaped in front of Luise and pulled Emilia behind his tank as shouts from the Cossack camp and the sporadic fire of muskets crackled through the air. Wallendorf's soldiers arranged themselves in a defensive square and the controllers marched their battle-ready emissaries into a shield wall in front of the men. Luise stared in the direction the men were pointing their rifles and caught her breath at the sight of a large blue figure hurtling through the air towards the camp. A smaller figure in familiar maroon robes and a white turban was clutched to the other's side.
“It can't be,” Luise said as a huge smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“It can't be what?” said Emilia as the figure landed with a thump in the middle of the Cossack camp. With a wave of one blue hand the figure swirled a fierce wind around itself and the man it carried, deflecting the lead bullets from the Cossack muskets and forcing the men and women into cover. As the Cossacks covered their faces from the dust stinging their eyes and peppering their cheeks with grit, the wind lessened and the mystic in the maroon robes stepped forwards.
“My name,” he said in a loud voice, “is Hari Singh. And this is Lieutenant...”
“Jamie Hanover,” whispered Luise as she pressed her hands to her face. She held them there as the djinni shrank to his naked human form and staggered upon his feet. Hari gripped Jamie around the shoulders and pulled what looked like clothes from the satchel he wore around his chest.
“We are here to help,” Hari said and held up his hands as the Cossacks returned from cover, muskets raised and hands upon the hilts of the swords sheathed at their belts.
“Who are they, Miss?” said Emilia.
The look in Emilia's eyes reminded Luise of when she had first seen a demon. “Hari is a very dear friend of mine,” she said, pressing her hand to feel the quick beat of her heart as she said it.
“And the other one. The demon?”
“The demon,” said Luise, “is my brother.”
Chapter 27
The Administrator’s Building
Arkhangelsk
July, 1851
“Lock him up in the cellar,” Venzke said to the Oberleutnant as he bent down and pressed his face close to Nikolas'. “I don't have time to deal with you. But once my emissaries have dealt with the horse thieves and murderers camped outside the gate, then I will be back, and we can have a little chat – amusing for me, and most unpleasant for you.”
“What about his emissary?” the Oberleutnant said with a nod towards the cart where Molotok lay, its furnace cold and wet.
“Leave it here where the boy can see it.” Venzke cuffed Nikolas on the head and sent the boy's cap spinning onto the floor. “It will only make his captivity more poignant – seeing his saviour and knowing he has been let down.” Venzke paused and then added, “Of course, you should be used to that by now, Nikolas Skuratov. Your father was the first to fail you, and now your machine too. Life must be one long disappointment. Get used to it.”
At the Oberleutnant’s orders the guards cut Nikolas' satchel from his body and threw him inside an empty wine cellar. They locked the iron grille door with a heavy key that the shorter guard stuffed into his pocket. With a quick rattle of the door and a kick to the lower hinges, the guard sneered at Nikolas and followed his comrade and the Oberleutnant out of the room. Venzke, Nikolas realised, had already left, but his words still stung when he thought about them.
There was a low bench leaning against the far wall of the stone cellar and Nikolas dragged it past the empty wine rack all the way to the door, curling the edge of the reindeer skin covering the stone floor. That is what I will sleep on, Nikolas supposed as he flattened the edge with his toes and returned to the bench. He sat there and stared at Molotok, his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. He thought about the adventures they had shared since Nikolas found the emissary abandoned in the rubble. He thought too about how the most feared of all the emissaries had become the people's greatest symbol of hope.
“And now even that is gone,” Nikolas said and started at the hollow echo of his words as they trembled around the cellar. He followed them with his eyes, noting the horizontal slits in the stonework – for ventilation, and the lack of windows. The only way into the cellar that Nikolas could see was the double blackwood doors, beneath which the guard's shadows flickered as they moved back and forth.
Nikolas turned his attention to Molotok, wiping away silent tears as he saw the wet charcoal that spilled from the emissary's boiler onto the bed of the cart, and the lifeless position of Molotok's arms and legs, even his head was rolled back skywards with not even a glimmer of light from the lodestone behind the grille faceplate. The irony, Nikolas realised, was that he had plenty of fuel for Molotok. The wine rack was made of seasoned pinewood. It was dry and hinged with small lengths of dowel. Nikolas stood up and walked over to the rack. He gripped two pieces in his hands and twisted them until they snapped and came free in his hands. The snap echoed like a muffled musket shot and Nikolas froze, expecting the guards to come in at any moment. But nothing happened. He broke another length of wood from the rack, and then a fourth, until, with nothing better to do, Nikolas reduced the wine rack to a pile of kindling. Just enough, he thought, to get Molotok moving, if only I could get to him. Nikolas sat down on the bench and rested his hands on the iron bars. He sighed and looked around the cellar for inspiration.
While the doors were unyielding, other objects scattered about the stone shelves and on the floor of the cellar proved useful. Infuriatingly so, as they were all beyond Nikolas' reach. The lamp oil and flints would be perfect to light the kindling from the wine rack. The stack of books could be burned to give Molotok a little more range. They might even be able to run as far as the cathedral, Nikolas realised, if only he could get out of his ce
ll.
“And how do I do that?” he said and turned away from Molotok to study the wine cellar more closely.
Beyond the wine rack, now better described as firewood, Nikolas saw nothing of interest other than the reindeer skin. The corner he had lifted when dragging the bench was still creased and Nikolas walked over to inspect it. He pulled away the skin and revealed a small trapdoor that, he reckoned, he could just about squeeze through. A pang of guilt flooded through his body as Nikolas looked over his shoulder at Molotok lifeless on the cart.
“I can't get to you from here,” Nikolas said. “But, maybe I can find a way to get you from outside, if I go through the trapdoor.” He bent down and lifted the trapdoor to reveal a short drop down to a stone ledge that ran alongside a channel of water. Nikolas wrinkled his nose and considered closing the trapdoor. “No,” he said. “I have to get out.”
The trapdoor stayed upright if he leaned it over, and Nikolas left it in that position while he pushed and carried the stumps of the wine rack to the grille so that they could be reached from the outside. He glanced again at Molotok and then returned to the trapdoor and swung his legs over the side.
“I will come back for you, Molotok,” Nikolas said and slipped through the trapdoor to land on the ledge. He grabbed at a railing bolted into the smooth wall as he stumbled on landing. The railing held and Nikolas pulled himself to the side. He looked up and realised the trapdoor was clearly visible, but it was too high for him to reach, and the wall revealed no means of climbing up. Nikolas was committed, he realised, and all that remained was to decide in which direction to go.
“Left to the river,” he said and clapped his hand to his mouth as the echo rocked around the walls of the tunnel. He squinted into the light, and, with one hand on the wall, he shuffled his way along the ledge until he felt comfortable with the light and began to walk faster. The algae on the walls oozed and slithered beneath his fingers as Nikolas continued, wrinkling his nose at the smell and taking shorter breaths than he was used to. He stopped at the first corner. He looked back to gauge the distance back to the wine cellar, but it was too dark to see. Nikolas pushed the guilt-ridden images of Molotok on the cart out of his mind and turned the corner, only to stop at the flicker of blue light coming from the direction of the river. He shrank to the wall and waited for the light to fade, but it didn't. The blue flame flickered all the way along the ledge until, less than twenty feet from where Nikolas pressed himself against the wall, the light was strong enough to reveal the beard and face of the man that carried it.
Abraxas, Nikolas said to himself and clenched his fists by his sides. Betrayer.
Nikolas waited as the man shuffled towards him, the shush of his smooth-soled shoes whispering along the wall. He thought about pushing the old man into the river, or battering him with... With what? I have nothing. With few options available for revenge, Nikolas waited, adrenalin coiled within his chest and pressing upon his lungs. He started to wheeze and the sound of it slowed Abraxas to a stop.
“Who's there?” he said and let the demonlight flicker from his palm and onto the ledge where it grew to the size of a small child and danced along the wall towards Nikolas. “Is that you, Nikolas?” Abraxas said and chuckled for a moment as the demonlight cast Nikolas' shadow along the tunnel, over the channel of water and onto the arched roof. “Here I am coming to set you free, and you have beaten me to it.”
“I didn't ask you to set me free,” Nikolas said. He clutched his chest at a sudden stab of excitement that knifed though his lungs. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can,” said Abraxas and he took a few small steps closer to Nikolas. “And I am sorry for what happened. I should very much like to make amends.”
“How? By breaking me out of my cell? Hah.”
“You're angry. I understand. But you are also alone. Tell me, Nikolas, how did you plan on releasing your friend, the emissary?”
“I'm still working on that,” Nikolas said and unclenched his fists.
“I can help.”
“Like last time?”
“Ah, Nikolas,” Abraxas said and sighed. “I did not lead Venzke's men to you.”
“But if you hadn't made me stay with you, I could have been free.”
“Made you stay? I did not make you do anything, but...” Abraxas curled his fingers and drew the demonlight back into his palm. “If you do not want my help...”
“I didn't say that,” said Nikolas, faster than he liked. “But I can't get Molotok out of the cellar alone. There are guards and,” he pointed over his shoulder, “I could not unlock the door to my cell.”
“Then I would like to help.”
“But why?” Nikolas searched the man's face for signs of deception, but found none. “What do you get out of it?”
“Beyond helping a small boy out of trouble? If that wasn't enough,” Abraxas said and smiled. “However, it is true, like I said to you before, I am expecting a visitor, someone like me, only more powerful. He seeks to send me back to a place where I do not wish to go...”
“The Passage of Time?”
“Yes.” Abraxas nodded. “I will not lie, Nikolas. I want to help you because I want Molotok to fight for me. I cannot defeat Khronos alone.”
“Who is Khronos?”
“He is the Father of Time, and if he finds me, my time in this world will end. I cannot let that happen, I have far too many things left undone.”
“And you think Molotok can help you defeat Khronos?”
“Molotok is but one part of my team, I hope you will be another, and I am waiting on several more. Actually, from the rumours I have heard among the people of the city, they may even have arrived.”
Nikolas considered his situation, the fact that he was lost without Molotok, and he had no way of rescuing him alone. And my father is never coming back. This thought had been growing for some time, and each time Nikolas had suppressed it. But here, in this tunnel, trapped between Venzke's guards and a crazy old man with a handful of magic, he realised he needed at least one friend if he was going to survive another week on the streets.
“I have done well to make it this far,” he said to himself. “Mama would be pleased, and papa,” he added although the thought was desperate and sad. “All right,” he said and straightened his back. “What do we do?”
“First,” said Abraxas with a smile that made his whiskers bristle, “we have to put you back inside your cell.” The demonlight in his palm flickered and Nikolas felt his stomach turn.
Chapter 28
The Imperial Navy Submarine Pen
Arkhangelsk
July, 1851
There were two submarine pens hidden beneath the shipyard, and Stepan was relieved to see the snub-nosed hulls of both vessels under his command. He let Vladimir shuffle in front, with Lena by his side, and paused for a moment to do a quick visual check of the pens and the alcoves tucked into the walls on each side. The Imperial Navy's Submersible Research Unit was cramped like the vessels they sailed. Pipes snaked at right angles around the walls and hung from the ceiling. The steam piffing out of the pipes above the port side pen confirmed that the pen was functioning and that Vladimir had made sure at least one of the two submersibles was operational. Stepan smiled as he realised it was his own command, Akula. Vladimir's Kosatka was tied to the dock of the starboard pen, the thick glass of the command turret revealing a dark and cold interior. The furnace was empty.
Vladimir stopped by a cot tucked inside the space between two stacks of crates. He lowered his massive frame onto the bed to let Lena examine the stubborn knife wound in his side. Stepan walked on and entered his office space, ducking beneath the gear hanging in hawser nets from the ceiling to sit at his desk. He leaned back in the chair and smoothed his hands along the surface of the blackwood desk. Akula was docked in front of him and he admired the lines and dull reflection of the marine blue hull as he reached for the framed portrait of his family.
“I saw you,” he said and smooth
ed his finger around Nikolas' image. “Just hold out a little longer and I will come and get you. I promise.” Stepan clutched the portrait to his chest and turned his attention to Akula.
The Imperial Navy's submersibles were experimental by design, hot and noisy to sail. Stepan smiled at the thought of Vladimir squeezing himself inside them, and how he managed to steer and stoke the craft, moving from one end of the ship to the other like a rat inside a tunnel blocked at both ends. Akula, like its sister ship, burned small, expensive blackwood pellets, about the size of a fist. They were turned by a local sawmill until they were as smooth as cannonballs. The mill's apprentices gouged flecks and wings into the sides to allow flames to catch the surface. Stepan thought they resembled headless wooden chickens. Carved in the likeness of the apprentices, he mused and allowed himself a quiet chuckle. Each pellet burned hot and clean, tumbling into the furnace from the brass tubes attached to the pellet pods bulging from each side of the submersible. When looking at Akula from the bow, it resembled a sausage pressed between two curved loaves, just like the ones the butchers and bakers sold on the first day of spring in Arkhangelsk. Stepan swallowed at the thought.
Akula expelled smoke from thin exhaust tubes, pressing the smoke under pressure into the water before it had a chance to protest. With two full pellet pods, Stepan and his crew of two could sail for three days before refuelling. If Vladimir was strong enough to have Akula ready to sail, Stepan knew the Poruchik would have filled each pod, and lodged more pellets between and behind the pipes inside the submersible. The torpedo tubes will be loaded too.
The torpedoes were wound by hand with a brass lever stowed in a secure pocket of every submariner's uniform. It was ingrained in their culture. Stepan smiled at the memory of the numerous official dinners and ceremonies he had attended, spotting the secret brotherhood of submariners from the right-angled bulge in their breast pockets. He placed the family portrait on the desk and opened the top drawer to find his own. Stepan tucked the lever into the breast pocket of his jacket.