What are we doing here, Master?
‘We are checking the library catalogue, Ootapi.’
A short silence. Reading a book?
‘Yes. What else does one do at a library?’
A longer silence followed. There is nothing dead in here, is there.
‘I doubt it. Maybe a mouse or two.’
Mice. The serpent’s tone was heavy with disgust. Not a single corpse! Nothing.
‘Just books.’
Ootapi heaved a great, slithery sigh and sank a foot or two in the air, until his sinuous, incorporeal body hovered barely a few inches over Konrad’s head. His eerie glow took on a dejected green colour.
‘Ootapi. I cannot read if you are going to sulk right in front of my face like that.’
Good.
‘Which means we will be here for much longer than necessary.’
Amid much muttering, the serpent rectified both his posture and his hue.
‘Keep your brother in line, Eetapi, if you please,’ sighed Konrad. ‘This task is trying enough as it is.’
Yes, Master, but you should know that I hate you as well.
‘Your objection is acknowledged.’
The book was truly vast, Konrad was disheartened to observe. It was two feet tall and almost the same again in width, its pages a few inches thick. What’s more, there was a second, matching volume still in the desk.
His plan had been to browse the library’s catalogue in hopes of matching the fragmented title against the records. He had found another stack of smaller volumes containing lists of books currently checked out; it was his hope that, by cross-referencing the two, he might be able to discover the title of the burned book, or at least to narrow it down to a list of possibilities. The Volkov Library was small and obscure; surely their catalogue could not be unmanageably huge? But he began to realise why the librarians had yet to identify the missing book, even after a week.
‘Neither of you can read, I suppose?’ Konrad said to the serpents.
No, they said in chorus.
‘Curses.’ Konrad relinquished this faint hope with a stab of regret, and settled in to read.
Much later, he had a headache, a crick in his neck, a throbbing pain in his lower back, and a short but growing list of titles which appeared to match the fragmented words gleaned from the spine of the burned book.
He was halfway through the first volume.
So long had he sat in silence, unbroken even by the complaints of the serpents, that when a voice spoke from the depths of the darkness he almost expired of fright on the spot.
‘You look bored,’ said Nanda.
Konrad jumped violently, and a tiny tearing sound split the silence anew. He’d ripped the page he had been in the process of turning. ‘Hello, Nan,’ he said weakly. ‘Um, what are you… doing here…?’
‘Ootapi fetched me. He said his life is in danger.’
Konrad blinked in confusion. He could barely see Nanda, as she stood beyond the pale circle of ghost-glow. ‘He lied.’
‘I know. He does that a lot. But he may have stumbled over more truth than he realised, for the tedium looks likely to carry you off before too much longer. What is it that you’re doing?’
Konrad explained. The plan that had seemed so promising hours before now struck him as foolish in the extreme, and he fretted over how much time he had wasted on the pursuit. Two hours at least, surely?
‘Madness,’ Nanda said firmly, and his heart sank a little. ‘What did you mean by embarking upon such a task without help? You should have called me sooner.’
‘You were busy.’
‘Do you have any idea what time it is? My guests left some time ago, or they are asleep.’
‘You should be asleep, too.’
‘So should you. What is your excuse?’
‘Um. Murder and mayhem?’
‘That should suffice for both of us, shouldn’t it? Hand me that book.’
Nan, of course, proved to be far more skilled at the task than he. She had a way of skimming lightly over the page, her eyes gliding past title after irrelevant title and only pausing when she encountered the word folklore. Her pace far outstripped his, and by the time he had laboured his way to the end of the first volume, Nanda had gone through the whole of hers. Her company, too, seemed to speed the process along, for her mere presence leavened the heavy, hushed atmosphere of the deserted library, and made Konrad forget his headache and the pain in his back.
Their list, when finally compiled, consisted of more than fifty titles. Nanda immediately took up her pen again, and began skimming through that, too, crossing off title after title.
‘What are you doing?’
‘These do not fit. Look at the book. Not every single volume containing the word “folklore” could be a match. It has to be a short title, and “folklore” must be the first or second word — and if the second, the first word could only be something short like “the”.’ She crossed off a few more with thick, decisive black lines.
‘You put me to shame,’ Konrad said. ‘I wouldn’t have thought of that.’
‘You probably would have, if you were not so tired, or thinking of twelve other things at once.’
Kindness in her, but Konrad knew it was not the truth. In many ways, Nanda was simply smarter than he. Particularly about anything remotely scholarly; it was not Konrad’s strength.
‘Nineteen left,’ Nanda said when she had finished. ‘Now let me at the list of checked out books.’
Once the cross-referencing was complete, Nanda presented him with a final list of only eleven titles. The other eight were listed as on loan at the time of the robbery, so they could not have been the book that Ivorak took.
Konrad browsed through them, uninspired, until he reached the title second from the end of the list.
Lost folklore of Kayesir.
‘That one,’ he said, indicating it with a forefinger.
Nanda’s brows rose. ‘Why that one?’
‘Because…’ Konrad sought for a way to put his vague thoughts into words. ‘Because Kayesir keeps coming up. The killer asked for Kayesiri claret at Vasily’s wine shop. The Vasily family’s main rivals are the Kaysiri family, Iyakim. I would be willing to bet that the wine Vasily gave out to the Parel’s Bridge gathering was Kayesiri, too.’
‘It is a rather thin list of associations,’ Nanda pointed out.
With which observation he could not argue, because she was right. But his instincts told him not to discount the links, however tenuous they appeared to be.
He put the whole list into his pocket and stood up, wincing as the cramped muscles in his neck and back stretched. ‘I won’t discount the rest,’ he promised. ‘But I think the Kayesir connection should be explored first.’
‘Very well, I have no argument to make there.’ Nanda smiled tiredly at him, and followed it up with a vast yawn. ‘Do you suppose we have time to sleep a little?’
Konrad thought about that. ‘You do,’ he decided. ‘And I hope you will. I want to go back to the station. Nuritov must have more information about Albina Olga by now, and Tasha may have returned with her report about Parel’s Bridge.’
Nanda gave a soft, barely audible sigh, then straightened her shoulders manfully. ‘You know I will not leave you to manage alone.’
‘I can manage alone! I have been doing so for years.’
‘Badly.’
‘That’s not—’ Konrad broke off, sentence incomplete, for a faint sound caught his ears: the sound of a soft footfall.
Serpents! he snapped. Who or what approaches?
They were asleep, the slithering wretches. They came awake with a start, gabbling excuses.
Hush! Find out who brings us company!
He did not truly require their aid, for his heart and his gut told him exactly who had entered the library. The confirmation came quickly.
It is him! The man who followed us to the docks!
The killer, stalking Konrad again. And Konrad had Nanda by
his side.
Chapter Six
In an instant, Konrad threw off all the wards and guards he kept up day by day; the mask that hid his true nature as the Malykant, that allowed him to pass for an ordinary gentleman. He grew taller, stronger, more formidable by the second, and an icy, implacable resolve filled his heart.
He let The Malykt’s chill, deathly energy fill him until he shook with it, his mind and heart focused with brutal clarity on the need — the duty — to kill.
Then he went after the shrouded killer.
He let his senses and his instincts take over, followed them with blind single-mindedness. The footfalls had echoed from the back of the building and thither Konrad walked, implacable and unstoppable. Eetapi and Ootapi flanked him, their glow dampened, twin terrors on the hunt.
A shadow loomed out of the near total darkness, and the serpents dived as one.
He is ours!
Konrad leapt after them, found his hands filled with the cool, snow-dampened wool of a winter coat, the scent of aromatic, unwashed man filling his nostrils. His captive thrashed, but the serpents inexorably tightened their grip until they had him bound fast. The man had only time for a few gasped syllables before he crashed to the floor like a felled tree, and lay there in stiff immobility. ‘No!’ he cried. ‘Please — you must—’
The words seemed odd, out of place. Not fitting for the man who had complacently hacked his way through three victims tonight.
Light him up, Konrad ordered.
Ootapi glowed with delight. Do you mean set him on fi—
No! Make it light in here! Illuminate him!
Oh. Crestfallen, Ootapi obeyed, and a pale light lit up the felled man’s features.
‘Ivorak,’ said Konrad.
The man could not move, not even to nod his head. He stared back at Konrad, his eyes wide, his hair a wild mess. His coat was still stained with the blood that had gushed from his torn throat, only a few hours ago.
More lamaeni. That was Konrad’s first thought, and he growled with irritation. He was running into those irksome, undead nuisances far too often of late, and he wished they would mind their own business and get out of his way.
But no. His sense reasserted itself, and he pushed his annoyance aside. The lamaeni were undead, but when body and soul were melded as in life, they did not look it. To look at Tasha, one would not guess that she dined not upon cheese and wine but upon life energies; that she could, at will, divide soul from body and roam Ekamet as a ghost.
Ivorak did not look nearly so dead as he ought to, considering the state in which Konrad had discovered him. But nor did he look alive. His skin had the pallor of death, the lines deepened around his eyes and mouth. His hair was rapidly turning grey. And there was an air of… of savagery about him, of wild brutality, that had nothing to do with humanity.
Ivorak stared at Konrad, breathing deeply and sharply through his nose. Reading in his eyes both horror and terror, Konrad realised belatedly that he still wore his Master’s energy like a mantle. In this state, he was a study in contrasts, all death-like pallor himself and night-black shadow, his eyes blazing ice-white: a reaper, a vision of death itself come to deliver souls to his Master’s care.
Konrad took a breath and let the energy fade. When the usual warm brown colour was restored to his skin, his eyes an ordinary dark once more, he quietly ordered the serpents: Loosen up. Not too much.
They did, and Ivorak began to shudder violently. He gasped and panted for breath, shaking like a frightened animal, and the horror in his gaze did not lessen one bit.
‘Who are you?’ he croaked.
That surprised Konrad, for everyone in the realm of Assevan knew of the existence of the Malykant, even if they did not know who occupied the role. He had assumed that this knowledge had travelled beyond its borders as well, but perhaps his fame was not as widespread as he imagined.
It might work to his advantage here. ‘That does not matter,’ he replied. Let Ivorak come up with his own theory about Konrad’s identity; if he was frightened enough, hopefully he would co-operate. ‘Who are you? What are you? How is it that you died tonight, and now you live?’
Ivorak shuddered harder, and icy tears crept down his cheeks. ‘This,’ he choked, looking with wretched horror and sadness at his trembling limbs. ‘This is not living.’
‘Nor is it death.’ Konrad waited, inflexible.
But Ivorak’s suspicion and distrust only grew. ‘Are you one of his?’ he spat.
‘I do not know who you mean.’
‘You know. You are. Only one of them could — could—’
Could what? Ivorak did not finish the sentence, for he grew wild and frenzied in his fear and began to thrash.
Hold him— Konrad warned, but he was too late. Ivorak, crazed with horror and terror, was frighteningly strong, and his sudden fight had taken the serpents by surprise. He broke free of their grip; moving faster than Konrad would have believed possible, he fled the corridor.
After him, Konrad snapped, but he knew it was hopeless. He had heard the rear door open and slam. Ivorak had vanished into the night.
Nuritov slumped in the well-worn armchair in his office, a vision of weariness to rival even the dark shadows under Nanda’s eyes. It was three in the morning. Konrad and Nanda occupied other, less comfortable chairs nearby, and if Konrad’s own state was anything to judge by, nobody felt like moving again for the rest of the night. A tray of tea, coffee and biscuits occupied one corner of Nuritov’s desk, though where it had been spirited up from at such a time of night, Konrad could not guess.
The serpents hovered near the ceiling, livelier by far than they had any right to be.
‘Albina Olga,’ said Nuritov. ‘Narolina by marriage, but Voronina was her birth name. She had one son, who died in infancy. No husband or children living.’
The name Voronina disappointed Konrad; he had been hoping for something else. ‘No connection with the family Vasily?’
‘Her mother was the daughter of Boris Belyaev, who is a cousin of the Vasily family on his mother’s side. A second cousin, I believe.’
So there was a link, but a flimsy one. Was the connection strong enough to matter? He wanted to cling to the theory; it was the only one he had.
Nanda, as ever, appeared to read his thoughts. Reader she was, but Konrad felt that her abilities were not limited to the direct flashes of insight she sometimes received upon touching another’s skin. She was gifted with an unusually profound intuition, too. ‘It is probable that much of Ekamet can trace some part of their heritage back to the Vasily family. They are numerous, after all.’
True, true. Konrad sighed, and gave up the idea, for he could think of no reason why, of all Vasily, these two might have been singled out.
He and Nanda had already related their night’s adventure, and the product of their research. Nuritov had no light to shed upon the possibility of a connection with Kayesir, and he seemed as unconvinced of its relevance as Nanda. Which left Konrad at a loss, for with his Vasily theory demolished and his hunch about Kayesir dismissed, what did that leave?
‘Is Tash—’ he began, but as the girl herself entered the office before he had finished enquiring after her whereabouts, he was not obliged to finish the sentence.
‘I have news!’ she said, beaming.
Her lethargic audience did not greet her announcement with as much enthusiasm as she was hoping, for her face fell and she sighed. ‘Good work, Tasha! You’re wonderful! What would we do without you?’
‘Tell us the news,’ said Konrad wearily, ‘And we will duly decide how wonderful you are.’
She aimed a kick at his leg, stretched as it was across her path. ‘Yes, your lordship. All three of them were at Parel’s Bridge.’
That did interest Konrad. He sat up a little, a flicker of hope ignited. ‘Go on.’
Tasha shrugged. ‘That’s it, really. Albina Olga was there, giving out hand-made gifts that nobody much wanted. Sweet of her, but largely useless. Ivorak w
as seen by a few people, prowling around and scowling and generally upsetting everyone. And Illya Vasily delivered the kegs of wine himself.’
‘Were they all there at the same time?’
‘I don’t know. Those who linger at Parel’s Bridge aren’t over supplied with toys, if you follow me. Timekeeping isn’t their best art.’
Konrad abandoned that line of questioning. ‘What kind of wine was it?’
Tasha blinked, nonplussed. ‘That is a question I did not ask.’
Ah well. Supposing she confirmed his hunch and it was Kayesiri, would that help him? Not much.
‘So our killer must have been at Parel’s Bridge,’ he concluded. ‘Early in the evening. He may have chosen his victims there, for reasons we cannot yet imagine. Perhaps he followed them, when they departed.’
‘Could be.’ Nuritov did not speak with conviction, but his manner was more thoughtful than dismissive. He had his pipe lit again; the aromatic smoke wreathed around his chair, mesmerising Konrad’s tired mind with its gentle, hypnotic swirls. He averted his gaze.
He realised he was at a loss for a next step. Where could they now go? The Vasily connection hardly seemed worth pursuing, and he would not know how to investigate further anyway…
…no, he could. If Kristina Vasily was right, then some member of the Iyakim family was involved somewhere. That meant either that there were Iyakims living in Ekamet, or that one or more of them had recently arrived.
There was also the question of Ivorak; not merely his bizarre revival from death, but also from whence he had appeared in the first place. He was not a native of Ekamet, or even of Assevan. Konrad would have staked his best hat on the likelihood that Ivorak was Kayesiri, and that was something he might be able to find out.
And why had Ivorak returned from the dead, but Albina and Illya had not? What made Ivorak different?
‘I need to go back to the docks,’ he said.
‘At this time of night?’ Nanda cast him a worried look.
‘Yes. I need to check the immigration records for anyone with the name of Ivorak, or the surname of Iyakim. I want to find out if any Iyakims have entered the city this past week or so, and where it was that Ivorak came from.’
The Spirit of Solstice Page 5