The Fallen (The Sublime Electricity Book #3)

by Pavel Kornev

  "I'll take it," I decided and set fifteen of my newly acquired francs back on the counter. The remaining forty franks was enough for a ticket to New Babylon and some food. But a weapon is an item of first-order importance. One simply cannot get by without one.

  The appraiser put the money into the register, handed me the extra magazine, and set a box of twenty-five caliber rounds on the counter. I loaded the magazine, pushed it into the handle and stuck the pistol into my pocket. As not to make the pawn shop worker too worried, I then loaded the extra. I stuck it in my pants pocket, thus balancing out the folding knife in the other. I didn't take the cardboard box with me, instead sticking the remaining bullets into my empty sugar-drop tin.

  After my preparations, I patted down my sides and decided that, if my jacket had started bulging, it was only very slightly. All in all, just fine.

  "Have a successful day," the appraiser bid me farewell.

  "You too," I answered and slammed the door shut.

  I walked outside, took my dark glasses from my chest pocket and immediately felt the prick of another's fear cutting into my nerves. I turned my head from side to side and saw my acquaintance from yesterday, Yemelyan Nikiforovich. With a doughy and unhealthy face, he was sitting at a table of a street cafe by himself, staring at a cup of coffee in agitation. His arm was shivering.

  After whispering out a curse, Krasin set the cup on the saucer, picked up an appetizing looking croissant, dipped it in the coffee and took a bite.

  "The shock therapy didn't help?" I asked compassionately.

  Yemelyan Nikiforovich raised his gaze, grew glad and pointed at the seat opposite.

  "Join me, Lev Borisovich! They have wonderful croissants here!"

  I decided I could easily allow myself a second breakfast, and asked a waiter who ducked outside to bring me a cup of coffee and a pastry. To be perfectly honest, the two pieces of toast in the Montague home were impossible to consider a fully-fledged meal.

  "No, Lev Borisovich," sighed Yemelyan Nikiforovich dipping another croissant in his cup of coffee, "the shock therapy, as you so boldly put it, did not help. Fire did not fight fire, but I didn't have much faith in that wild theory. That was all Ivan Prokhorovich. I lost to him in cards, and a wager is something sacred, you know."

  "And where is old Ivan?"

  Krasin shrugged his shoulders:

  "He and I aren't particularly close. We just latched onto each other, as countrymen tend to do in foreign lands. I mean, we also have plenty of acquaintances in common."

  They brought my order. The croissants were no less tasty than they were nice to look at. And they were also hot, with a crispy crust. The coffee didn't let me down, either.

  "Let me give you some advice, Lev Borisovich," said Krasin with a wistful look, watching me. "Think twice before getting sucked into adventures with Ivan Prokhorovich. He's an expert at leading people into such situations. And you know," he leaned trustingly over the table, "I suspect that he has anarchist sympathies!"

  "Is that so?" I smiled politely, but inside I was still bracing myself. If the man really did have politically dangerous affiliations, I would do well to avoid him. Department Three could have been watching him, and I did not want them seeing me. "What makes you think that?"

  "Beyond his keen observations?" Yemelyan Nikiforovich laughed. "He's just too stubbornly interested in Chaliapin. He keeps track of where he goes, who he meets. And it isn't professional interest, either. Anarchists tend to have a taste for Chaliapin."

  "As do many in the law-abiding liberal society, to which every other Russian vacationer here belongs," I replied, trying to soften Krasin's observation.

  As a matter of fact, I was in Russia for the famous incident in which Feodor Chaliapin had gone down on his knees before the Imperial governor after a theater performance. And that was after the repression of the unrest of seventy-two, which was known in certain circles as "Bloody '72." The scandal was quite massive. Some found the very fact of his knee-bow an act of disgusting adulation. Others reminded the great singer of his fairly recent support for rebelling laborers. The art community as a whole turned its back on Chaliapin. The newspapermen had slandered him black. The anarchists were threatening retribution. It wasn't surprising that Chaliapin left for Europe soon after and hadn't returned to his homeland since.

  Yemelyan Nikiforovich shrugged his shoulders:

  "My business is to warn. But all and all, feel free to drop by," he said, pointing at the neighboring building. "There's a white wing in the yard. I rent apartments there."

  "If the need should arise, I'll be sure to come visit," I promised, setting a silver franc on the edge of the table as I got to my feet. "See you later."

  "Wait!" Krasin shuddered as soon as I'd stepped out into the baking sun. "I've got a tab open here. My treat!" And he threw the coin back to me.

  It all happened too fast, and I didn't manage to react in time. My side flicked around. My arm shot out to the side, and the silver coin flew past. It clanked on the paving stones, and rolled into the stone skirting.

  "Sincerest apologies!" Yemelyan Nikiforovich gasped, but immediately laughed and wagged a pointer finger. "I see I'm not the only one who had a sleepless night!"

  I smiled at the joke, picked up the coin and, after giving Krasin a salute, started off down the street.

  Silver. Werebeasts have a complicated relationship with silver. It can kill us. That relationship, though, is what gives hereditary werebeasts the ability to contort themselves away from silver bullets. I'd had to expend considerable effort on a number of occasions simply to pick up a simple silver franc with my hand.

  This franc, for the record, I didn't put in my wallet, slipping it to a paperboy, who was standing watch over passers-by at the intersection, just like yesterday. I took a fresh edition of the local Morning Times, stuck the copper change into my wallet and headed down our route from yesterday.

  I was preparing to make a visit to the cabaret. And although the pleasure house wasn't open at such an early hour, today, it wasn’t the bare legs of the ballet troupe bringing me in, but unpleasant questions for the staff. More concretely, for the bartender.

  Good for nothing Indian...

  On my way, I came across the telegraph office. The reception area reeked of paper dust. The fountain pen and inkwell were occupied, so I had to wait.

  A young man, an errant student to look at him, was filling something into the telegram blank, taking nips of the tip of his tongue in agitation; next to him, there were several smudged sheets. Not wanting to embarrass him and provoke another blotting incident, I unfolded my newspaper and immersed myself in reading. The first page was devoted to local events. After that was a digest of world news, generously interspersed with advertisements. The publication was not particularly yellow, despite the odd headline abuse.

  For example, on the first page, the headline was: "Mysterious Catastrophe in the Mountains." But other than an inarticulate story from one of the locals about a flaming dirigible falling from the sky to the northwest of the city, there was nothing interesting in the article. No wreckage was found, and considering the difficult geography, if anything would be found, it would take some time. No dirigible owners would be reporting the loss of a flying machine, though, so everyone would forget about this story by tomorrow.

  The schoolboy finally left the table; I took his spot and quickly filled out a telegram form.

  "Urgent passport renewal. Coming. Lev."

  I had nothing more to explain or add. My attorney should have understood my message perfectly. The Russian Empire passport under the name Lev Borisovich Shatunov was already in all the necessary registries. Getting a new one within a day should have been no problem. I wasn't even sure that I'd have to grease anybody's palms.

  The telegrapher, wearing a shirt that was less than fresh and office-worker armbands, accepted the form, calculated the fee and stated the total. I set a few copper coins on a saucer. He scraped them up and tossed them into a cash re
gister slot, then told me:

  "We also provide intercity telephone service."

  "Thank you. Perhaps next time. Is that all?"

  "Yes, the telegram will be sent within five minutes."

  "Wonderful."

  I left the telegraph office and pulled my tin of sugar drops from my pocket, but immediately remembered that it now contained bullets, returned it to my jacket and headed for the cabaret.

  I didn't even try to enter Three Lilies through the main entrance. Instead, I turned down a familiar alley, walked to the back of the joint and leaned my shoulder on the fence of the neighboring manor, waiting for the right moment to get inside. And it didn’t take long for an opportunity to present itself: soon, a cart rolled down the street loaded with bottles of beer.

  The driver knocked on the back door a few times and returned to the cart. There, he took out a tobacco pouch, spit on a wad of paper and started rolling a cigarette. A sullen waiter came out to drag the box in.

  Neither were paying any attention to me, which I immediately took advantage of. With a decisive look on my face, I took the heavy box, loaded it onto my shoulder and carried it into the bar. No one said a word. The driver took me for a worker, and the waiter thought I must have been an expeditor.

  I set the box down on the bar inside, and looked around. There was no Indian man anywhere; I had to go up to the second floor in search of the manager. In the dark corridor, a cracked door met the eye, which is where I went. Sitting in the small room was yesterday's master of ceremonies. He was smoking and ashing out the window.

  "Sleepless night?" I inquired, stepping over the threshold.

  The master of ceremonies choked on his smoke in surprise and coughed. Then, he stared at me with blood-shot eyes.

  "Who are you?" he asked after catching his breath.

  "I'm here on business," I answered calmly. I then took a seat and turned it so I could watch both the man and the door.

  "We don't need anything!" the master of ceremonies cut me off.

  "And I'm not selling anything. I just want to ask a few questions."

  The master of ceremonies threw the butt out the window and jumped to the floor.

  "Get out or you'll be thrown out!" he said threateningly, having taken me for either a criminal or a private detective.

  "I doubt that."

  The man pulled a cord, which made a bell ring down below.

  "Get out of here!" the master of ceremonies repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. "While you still have the chance."

  "People always make things so complicated," I said with a shake of my head. But when a bearded hulk ran into the room, I took my hand out of my jacket pocket and pointed him to the far corner: "Stand there!"

  The doorman obeyed without a word. I don't even know what caused his facile nature, the memory of last night's scuffle, or the pistol in my hand.

  But the master of ceremonies wasn't at all scared by the Mauser and erupted:

  "Why'd you do that?! He isn't going to shoot!"

  I smiled. The hulk shivered uncomfortably and didn't move from place.

  "I'm not so sure," he muttered, looking down at his feet.

  I could only be glad at the brute’s lack of confidence. I wasn't planning to shoot no matter what, and a fight couldn't possibly end well. I didn’t have the money for a new suit, either.

  "Do you know him?" the master of ceremonies shuddered.

  "We've run into one another before. Yesterday."

  "You didn't say!"

  "Enough!" I barked. "The Indian from the bar, where is he?"

  "He no longer works here," the MC answered after a short pause.

  "Since when?"

  "He finished the register, totaled it up and said he wouldn't be coming into work again."

  "How did he explain that?"

  "A relative called, saying he had a job for him. In New Babylon."

  "Well, of course!" I replied, making a face.

  "It’s true!"

  I sighed and demanded:

  "I need his name and address."

  "That's against our policy!" The MC objected, but he grew intimidated by my gaze and tried to smooth things over: "Do you think I could, at the very least, know what he did?"

  "He slipped something into my lemonade," I answered the pure truth.

  The brute and entertainer exchanged quick glances and it became clear that, if such accusations hadn't been made before, this was at least not the first time someone had raised doubts on the bartender’s character. And I also felt fear. Not the slight confusion of the burly bouncer, but the dread of his boss. If this was uncovered, the man was worried they might lose their business license.

  Done! Now, I had him wrapped around my finger.

  "You don't look like the kind of person who keeps company with money," the MC shot back nevertheless. "No one would have slipped you something like that! And also, we don’t serve lemonade!"

  As soon as I got up from my chair, the master of ceremonies flattened himself against the wall. I didn't cause a scene, though. I smiled just the way my attorney smiles when seeing overly bothersome clients.

  "Business is what led me to your wonderful establishment. Important business," I said in an even tone, lacking all emotion. "And the Indian ruined everything. I didn't want to waste time on empty formalities, but I see that I'll have to bring this matter through official channels. I can't really see why you want that. I'm sure you have an idea of how quickly rumors fly in this town."

  "Stop!" the master of ceremonies threw up his hands. "Hold your horses!"

  The Indian’s unexpected departure combined with his past sins were sure to cause suspicions, so the unfounded accusations and artless blackmail was plenty to reverse the situation in my benefit. I didn't even have to make use of my illustrious talent. Well, perhaps just a bit...

  "His name is Akshay Roshan," the master of ceremonies said in reply to my expectant gaze. "But everyone here knew him simply as Ro. From what I know, he rented a room in the Lurie guesthouse. It was on Nicholson boulevard, right past the train tracks."

  "And which of his relatives called him, do you know?"

  "He didn't say. He didn't really say anything. He just took his money and left."

  "And you?" I turned to the enforcer. "You don't know either?"

  "I wasn't in a good state yesterday," said the doorman, giving me the stink eye.

  "Was he a real Indian or a local?"

  "He came over from India a few years ago."

  "Friends, acquaintances?"

  The master of ceremonies just threw up his hands.

  "I'm full of workers who come and go. What do I care about their business?"

  "And your other Indian?" I reminded them of yesterday's performance. "Might the fakir know something about him? They must have spoken!"

  "The snake charmer?" the master of ceremonies exchanged glances with the bouncer and suddenly started snickering. "Forgive me, I couldn't resist," he apologized, hiding a smirk. "The snake charmer is Persian. And no, they didn't get along. Akshay hated that the old man was pretending to be Indian, and the old man couldn't bear the charade either. No, I do not think any of the staff could tell you anything of use."

  "Just wonderful!" I winced and said with unhidden threat: "I hope I don't have to come back here..."

  I watched carefully over the men, as if playing poker, but if they were bluffing, they didn't show it in any way.

  "Well, don't come back then!" was all the MC said.

  "There’s no need," the bearded hulk confirmed.

  "Well, my dears, that depends exclusively on you," I said weightily, leaving the room. I raised my voice: "No need to show me the way. I can find the exit on my own!"

  And I really did, not getting lost.

  Outside, I looked carefully from side to side and headed off in search of the Lurie guesthouse. Although the chances of catching the Indian there weren't great. Why would he have left his job so quickly, otherwise! But I didn't disco
unt the possibility that I might have simply been lied to. People tend to wheedle when it starts to smell of burning flesh.

  Alas, Akshay Roshan really had moved away. In the words of his landlord, he picked up his room deposit at around nine in the morning, promised to return for his things soon, but never showed his face again.

  "Over there, it's all still there." The man, sitting on the upper step of the stoop, pointed to a plywood suitcase, scratched up and unpresentable.

  I grabbed it by the handle and lifted the suitcase to get an approximate weight, then asked:

  "Is the train station far from here?"

  Just then, as if replying to my question, I heard the whistle of a train, and the windows started shaking in their dried-out frames from the nearby rattling of wheels on rails.

  "It's near at hand," the man yawned.

  "What do you think, will he be back?"

  The caretaker folded up his newspaper and pointed a calloused finger at the train schedule on the next page.

  "The only train to New Babylon today left at eleven o'clock. But it’s already slipped past midday. He left, don't you doubt it."

  "Please," I asked the man for the paper and made sure he was telling the truth. At the same time, I noticed that the next train on that route would be going through town tomorrow at five in the morning. "And did you see a ticket?"

  "Was I supposed to?" the landlord balked, picking up the paper and asking: "What has he done now?"

  He threw out without particular interest, just staving off boredom. The Indian had stopped existing for him as soon as he'd stopped renting the room, but I considered it necessary to answer.

  "The till came up short this morning," I said, running for the simplest lie and hurrying to bow out.

  "What should I do with his things?" the caretaker shouted, now at my back.

  "That's up to you!"

  The Indian's possessions were of no interest to me. But as for the bartender himself, I was very intrigued. If he'd fled the city so hastily, there must have been good reason. He must have been bribed to poison me, and the total he was given must have been sufficient for him to buy passage to New Babylon.