The Fallen (The Sublime Electricity Book #3)

by Pavel Kornev

  The spacious room was packed to the brim with guests. Servants were carrying dishes with flutes of champagne. At the far wall, there was a woman's choir lined up and, to the accompaniment of a piano, they were performing the cantata Les Sirenes by Lili Boulanger. The less sophisticated public was being entertained by the Incredible Orlando, the same mime from the cabaret. That fact jarred me considerably but Liliana, on the other hand, was utterly elated.

  "Sometimes, I come to the cabaret a bit early so I can watch him perform," she whispered, before running off to the performance of the wordless buffoon.

  I sighed fatefully, took a flute of champagne from a passing servant, but didn't drink any, simply held it in my hand, not wanting to stand out from the crowd. I managed to avoid attracting attention for fifteen seconds, no more.

  "Lev Borisovich!" shouted Yemelyan Nikiforovich. He was so glad to see me, one might get the impression we were related. "I never expected to see you here, at a society event!"

  "I wasn't expecting to end up here myself," I smiled, feverishly searching for an excuse to easily snub the man. What I wanted now was to hole up in some distant corner and keep to myself. The constant din was making my head split. Also, my talent was getting intrusive, and every time Krasin cast his gaze on the champagne bubbling in my flute, the back of my head was pierced through with the needling echoes of his astonishing phobia.

  In the end, I left the glass on a table, picking up a plate of miniature baked goods in its place. The meringue simply melted on the tongue.

  "The whole beau monde is out tonight. All the creative elite of the Empire!" Yemelyan Nikiforovich laughed.

  "So then, where is Ivan Prokhorovich?" I asked, reminding him of my other rescuer. "Was he not invited?"

  "How do you mean 'not invited?' Of course he was invited!" Krasin assured me. "But Ivan Prokhorovich has forgotten everything in a hunt for sensational rumors."

  "Aahh, what is it this time?"

  "In the lake, a body was found with a silken parachute, then our friend was reminded of the story of the burning dirigible. He hired guides and headed off for the mountains."

  "What balderdash!" I furrowed my brow.

  "You're telling me, Lev Borisovich!"

  Krasin took a moment to grab a canape from the buffet table. It was red caviar. I took advantage of the opportunity and bowed out, pointing to urgent matters. I walked through the room, looking out for Brandt, but it seemed as if the poet had disappeared into the earth itself.

  I finished my pastries, placed the empty plate on a window sill, then found myself in the cameraman's lens.

  "Respected guest!" came the man, his eyes flickering in a disarming smile. The swarthy handsome man with a fashionable strip of mustache started jabbering away: "Please, say a few words on the occasion of today's event, for posterity. It won't take much time, I assure you. We'll just make a phonograph recording and take a few photographs for a souvenir album."

  I’d always had a distaste for such slippery gents, and his strong accent, characteristic of the southern states of the united New World colonies was grating, so I refused without particular concern for the rules of social decorum.

  "Come now, just don't."

  I had no plans of being captured, neither on camera, nor phonograph.

  "But why?" the cameraman marveled. "It’ll only take a minute..."

  Without particular difficulty, I grabbed onto a fragment of the man’s fear, smiled and told him trustingly:

  "Do you want overexposed negatives? When filming the illustrious, such things are known to happen quite often."

  My invective hit its mark: the cameraman gave a noticeable shudder and even went slightly pale. After a brief farewell, he headed off back where he came from. I, meanwhile, went in search of Lily.

  But I first found her father. Or to be more accurate, it was George that found me.

  "Lev!" the Marquess tousled his mustache. "I see such mobs are not to your liking."

  "I feel out of my element," I replied, admitting the obvious.

  "As do I," George smiled craftily, pulling me after him. "But let me tell you a secret. These society events are not just some crowded bore – they give one the opportunity to meet with important figures. Allow me to introduce you to the organizers..."

  I didn't want to be introduced to anyone, but my desires currently played no role whatsoever, so I gave a facile nod and left the building after the Marquess through the wide-open back door. We walked down a path that wound among carefully manicured bushes to a pavilion wrapped in dense ivy; inside, there were two gentlemen puffing away on cigars at a folding table laden with drinks. They looked to be men of substance and, without a doubt wildly successful. A trained eye can recognize that sort of thing: bespoke suits, gold tie clips and cufflinks with diamonds, the aroma of expensive cologne, self-assured hand gestures.

  And at that, they were the complete opposite of one another. One was heavy-set and shaved bald with a round face and the powerful jaw of a bulldog. The other was tall and slender with the calm demeanor of a man assured of his own powers and the thin fingers of a musician. He was illustrious, but his companion was not.

  "Gentlemen!" the Marquess drew their attention. "Allow me to introduce my daughter's beau. Lev has already nearly become part of our family!" He then pointed at one, then the other. "Joseph. Adriano."

  But I already knew that. Liliana and I had already seen these two before on Maxwell Square on our first visit to the restaurant there. Joseph Malone and Adriano Tacini. The millionaire and the architect. The only one missing now was the director-producer.

  "Make yourselves at home, gentlemen!" Malone implored us, pointing to the table.

  The Marquess threw back the lid of a wooden box, took out a cigar and started lighting it. I limited myself to a glass of soda water.

  "You don't smoke?" the millionaire reacted with surprise.

  "I don't drink either," I confirmed.

  "What a bore!"

  "I have plenty of other vices."

  Joseph Malone gave a polite smile and turned to the Marquess.

  "So then, we were discussing the navy being sent to aid the rebels in Rio de Janeiro. George, what have you got to say on that issue? As a resident of the colonies myself, I am in complete support of the operation. But Adriano is convinced that we should have reinforced our fleet in the Sea of Judea and the Persian Gulf."

  The Marquess puffed his cigar, exhaled smoke and answered with the natural evasiveness of a diplomat.

  "Losing control over the south of the New World seems to have been Emperor Clement's greatest misfortune but, at present, the chance of defeating the Aztecs by military methods is not so great, and we'd have to use all available means to weaken the blood-thirsty savages."

  "George, are you for or against?" the architect couldn't resist.

  "Why force one's self into such narrow parameters?" the Marquess smiled and started selecting a cognac.

  "I see, George. Your position is clear," Joseph Malone snorted and pointed a cigar at me. "And what do you have to say on the matter, young man?"

  "Well, that depends what you want to hear," I replied, not effacing myself. "Her majesty's political opponents will express dissatisfaction in any case. Sending the fleet to the New World will be called unacceptable due to the growth of tensions in the Sea of Judea. In the opposite case, they would have criticized the criticized the authorities for their patient outlook and cried their crocodile tears for the sacrifices of the valiant Cariocas, abandoned to the hands of fate. The views of the loyalists are all the more predictable."

  "So then, Lev is a cynic," the millionaire shook his head.

  "All of her Majesty's political opponents were sent to Siberia long ago," the architect cringed and suddenly clapped himself on the forehead. "Ah, gentlemen! Her Highness will be gracing the gala-concert with her presence!"

  "News to me as well," said Malone, puffing importantly on his cigar.

  I glanced at the calendar built-into my
timepiece and decided that, on the day of Crown Princess Anna's arrival, I would pretend to be sick and not leave my apartment. Of course, if I could manage to handle all my affairs and leave town before the rarified event, that would be all the better.

  At that moment, a disheveled gentleman jumped into the pavilion with his hair combed back and greased to hide a bald patch. His eyes were darting feverishly from side to side, not holding on any one thing for longer than a few seconds. The strong scent of absinthe could be detected even from three steps’ distance.

  "Has anyone seen Albert Brandt?" the distantly familiar man blurted out. "I have most unpleasant news for him!"

  "What's happened now, Franz?" Joseph Malone inquired with a mixture of indulgence and annoyance.

  Franz squirmed and blurted out:

  "Ida Rubinstein has categorically refused to perform her new poem if Brandt is to go on stage!"

  "That isn't so much unpleasant news for him as it is for you and me, Mr. Ruber!" the millionaire snarled, pouring himself some cognac and slamming the glass angrily on the table. "I asked for everything to be done to the highest standard. Is that really so difficult?! You were given unlimited funds!"

  "Well, it seems to me that this is just an empty ploy," said the architect, pouring oil on the fire. "Ida is with Debussy now, trying to rework the myth of Saint Sebastian."

  "Who cares about such fairy-tales in our enlightened era!?" the director shouted. "I was counting on her! Now, we won't manage to reach an agreement with Pavlova or Duncan, either!"

  "Curses!" Joseph Malone exclaimed and jumped out of the pavilion, mad as a devil.

  The embarrassed director hurried after him, but was caught in the doorway by Adriano Tacini.

  "Stop, my friend. I have an intriguing proposal...."

  They went out into the park, leaving the Marquess and I alone in the pavilion.

  "These art people are unbearable!" George laughed uncontrollably. "You'd never get bored with them! The vivacity bubbles over! I adore them! I simply adore them!"

  I nodded. The Marquess put out his cigar butt, and we headed into the manor where everything was running its course. The women's choir had given its place up to the orchestra, and the public was respectfully taking in an unfamiliar melody.

  "What are they playing?" I asked, not ashamed to demonstrate my own ignorance.

  The Marquess shrugged his shoulders.

  "This is from a ballet which will be performed next week in Paris. Ruber told me the name, but I can't remember. Something from Slavic mythology. I can't remember the composer's name either..."

  George noticed his wife, who was speaking with a woman of striking beauty, swarthy and black-haired. George then suggested:

  "Let's go, I'll introduce you to Belinda Tacini."

  I nodded, but kept noticeably back on the way. The architect's wife was, without a doubt, pleasant in all matters, but the company of Liliana's mother threw me into a panic. I can't even begin to imagine why.

  Strolling about the room, I was looking for Albert and soon found him in a circle of poetry lovers. Getting through them seemed an impossible endeavor, so I just walked past, but suddenly found my arm clenched in a set of powerful fingers.

  "Have you considered my offer?" Elizabeth-Maria whispered, emerging from out of nowhere.

  "Let me go!" I demanded soundlessly, not wanting to argue in public.

  "My offer remains in force," the succubus reminded me, unclenching her fingers and walking over to the poet. The light tapping of her cane instantly attracted everyone's attention, and they all made way for the slim figure in a black dress and hat with thick veil.

  I wiped the sweat from my face and hurried away. Yemelyan Nikiforovich appeared in my path and waved a hand to attract my attention, but I pretended not to notice and slipped into one of the far-off rooms where a dapper looking man of middling years in a velvet mask with eye slits was pontificating in an empty and pompous manner. By some strange coincidence, Liliana was among his audience. I walked up and stood behind her.

  "It's well known that the world is deeper and more multifaceted than it seems to those, who adhere to purely mechanistic viewpoints. They limit themselves by cutting out the unknown as people did with the natural sciences in the dark ages. Some consider mysticism a shameful and illicit business, but judge for yourselves: one of the greatest scientists of modern times, James Maxwell, was known to associate with the quintessence of the otherworldly – the fallen! Mysticism does not contradict scientific knowledge one bit, it only adds to and completes it!"

  "Let's go!" I exhaled into Lily's ear, given that such ranting usually ended in a police interrogation.

  "Wait, Leo!" she shushed. "This is interesting!"

  "The existence of the soul is a proven fact!" the lector continued. "So then, why is it considered a heresy to attempt to contact the soul of a dead person and receive answers to our questions? Many great people consider seances similar to telephone calls, but not to a mythical otherworld, to the noosphere or, if you will, to nirvana!"

  The public started buzzing at these words. Liliana was entranced by the notion, which filled me with unease. Conversing with spirits? I had no question such a thing was possible, but what did that have to do with spirit-rapping? Conversing with spirits means drawing pentagrams in blood, making sacrifices, black magic. And I knew that for certain. I had once been present at the arrest of a malefic...

  "Arthur Conan Doyle himself, a man of sharp mind, is known to hold these viewpoints!" the lector announced with pride, and there my patience burst.

  I raised a hand, attracting the self-appointed medium’s attention, and asked with a smirk:

  "My good man, what do you make of the fact that, on their arrests, all mediums have turned out to either be fraudsters or malefics?"

  "There!" the lector immediately pointed at me. "It's all the fault of sceptics like you! For many generations, my family has possessed the gift of speaking with the spirit world, but the mechanism isn’t fully understood, like magnetism. And, just as a magnetic device can be thrown off balance by a small piece of metal, strong psychic resistance is capable of upending spiritual contact! All it takes is one sceptic to block a medium's abilities, and police are renowned for their limited outlooks and low intellects."

  Some laughter followed his hateful tirade, and I felt an insistent need to get the dandy one-on-one. Curses! My arms were scratching with the desire to clean his clock!

  Fortunately, after his rebuff, the adept of spiritism immediately returned to his favored topic:

  "You and I are in a surprising place! A place where science and mysticism come together. This is the place where the great Maxwell himself met his fate. That means, this should be the easiest place to establish contact with his spirit! And I'm calling for volunteers to join me for a test of that theory. Any takers?"

  A forest of hands sprouted up above the audience. The lector rubbed his chin and looked thoughtful.

  "We'll have to draw cards, then," he decided. He noticed the mime darting about the rows of listeners and waved a hand. "Hey, my good sir! I need to choose ten people, can you help? You're a master of such tricks!"

  The Incredible Orlando was offended and headed to the exit, but the spiritualist was a fairly good judge of character.

  "I'll give you ten francs!" he announced.

  The mime quickly turned. The lector extended a bank note, and it immediately disappeared in his white-gloved hand. In its place, there appeared a deck of cards. The trickster fanned them out, showing that it was only clubs and spades. Another wave of his hand and the rare spots of red were diluted with a stripe of black.

  After that, Orlando put the cards back into the deck and offered to let the audience try their luck. The first two brave-hearts drew black. The third was fortunate, and walked up to the lector with the ace of diamonds.

  I wasn't planning to take part in all the tomfoolery, but that only lasted until Liliana was left with the queen of hearts. I pulled a card at random,
and it was the jack of clubs.

  "Don't worry," Lily assured me as she went to join the group of chosen.

  After ten people had been selected, the lector led them into the basement.

  "There won’t be any music or light to distract us down there," he explained.

  I didn't want to leave Liliana with that scallywag and, with the rest of the black-card cohort, I walked off after the crowd. But not out of curiosity, nothing of the sort.

  I had a plan. The illegal ritual had the public so worked up their knees were shaking. I could hear a slight ringing in my stretched-thin nerves, and I didn't fail to make use of it.

  "I envy you," I said, bowing to a fat man drenched in sweat as he froze for a moment near the dark basement entrance, "but being totally in the dark... brrr... I've got ants running on my skin."

  "In the dark?" the simpleton was taken aback, himself prone to nyctophobia.

  "Well sure," I confirmed, not batting an eye. "In total darkness."

  The well-nourished young man overpowered himself and descended into the basement, which was lit by kerosene lamps, but his decisiveness ran out again there. In the corners, there were evil-looking shadows growing dense. At the far end of the corridor, the shadows were totally impenetrable.

  "And what about the candles?" the simpleton remembered, having seen a candle and matches in the lector's hands.

  "At the climax, it will blow out. Didn't you know?"

  "I didn't," the fat man prattled out, now feeling incapable of moving another centimeter.

  "So, are you going?" I clarified.

  "I-I d-don't kn-n-ow..." the young man hiccupped, squeezing the words out of himself and moving back. "Ah-h, I just remembered! I have an important meeting!"

  He turned around and ran to the stairs, not even having noticed as I pulled the king of diamonds from between his fingers.

  To be honest, the basement really did look uncommonly ominous, but I wasn't feeling too upset about that. Spiritualist seances, though, were covered by several articles of the Criminal Code, and attracting the attention of law enforcement was the last thing I needed.