by Nathan Long
Finally, after a time without time, they lay together, sated and exhausted, naked in each other’s arms. Ulrika rested her head on Stefan’s strong, smooth chest, utterly at peace. This was what she had been looking for. This was the thing that had been missing. This was why she had felt trapped among the Lahmians, and condemned to her eternal life – because she had no one to share it with. This was how being a vampire was meant to feel. Now she was on the right path. Now she knew what she wanted.
Stefan shifted and stroked her hair. ‘This,’ he murmured sleepily. ‘This is right.’
Ulrika caught his hand and kissed it. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘This is right.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE VANISHED
Ulrika and Stefan woke at dusk to the sounds of shifting and shuffling and found that the slaver was crawling weakly for the stairs, trying to make his escape. They stopped him at the door, dragging him back and sharing the last of his blood, then broke his neck, threw his corpse in another room, and dressed to go out.
There was an awkwardness between them as they went about these mundane, earthly tasks. What had seemed so perfect and certain in the midst of the morning’s afterglow now gave Ulrika pause, and she thought she saw the same wariness in Stefan’s eyes. Neither seemed to want to broach the subject of what had been said, however, and for a moment it made conversation stilted and strange.
Fortunately, the urgency of their quest gave them safe things to talk about, and soon they were discussing what to do next. They were on their own now, cast out by the Lahmians, and with only this last night before the concert to find and stop the cult and destroy the violin.
‘Once again,’ said Stefan, pacing the cellar room, ‘we have lost their trail. We know not where or who they are. I fear we will have no choice but to go to the concert and wait for them to strike.’
‘That may be too late,’ said Ulrika. ‘If only we could–’ She cut off as an idea struck her. ‘Ha!’
‘Yes?’ said Stefan.
Ulrika sat forwards, smiling. ‘The simplest way to foil the cultists’ plan is to call off the concert. We don’t dare go to the authorities ourselves.’ She certainly didn’t, Ulrika thought. If she tried to reach her cousin, Duke Enrik, there would be all sorts of awkward questions, and most likely a wooden stake at the end of them. ‘But Padurowski, Valtarin’s tutor, is to be the conductor. If we told him of the cult’s plans, perhaps he could warn the duke or someone at the Opera House.’
Stefan frowned. ‘Would he believe us? He was certain the violin was destroyed. And if he does, would the authorities believe him?’
‘With the duke’s life at stake, could they dare risk not believing him?’ asked Ulrika. ‘The hole in the wall that guards the Sorcerers’ Spire must have been discovered by now, as well as the bodies of the cultists inside the entry chamber. The duke’s protectors and the chekist must have an inkling something is in the wind. A word passed through Padurowski might frighten them enough to cancel the concert. And if not, we will continue our search.’
Stefan nodded slowly. ‘Do you think it would be worth trying to convince Boyarina Evgena to help again? She may have more influence at court than a lowly conductor.’
Ulrika snarled. ‘Evgena thinks I am your dupe. She thinks we want to kill her. I don’t want anything to do with her any more.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Stefan. ‘But if she can save Praag…’
‘She is too worried about bloodlines and betrayals to be concerned with the fate of the city,’ said Ulrika bitterly. ‘She will turn from defending herself against us to find it has burned down behind her.’
‘Very well,’ sighed Stefan. ‘Then let us go see the maestro.’
Stefan was quiet and withdrawn as they hurried through the shattered nighttime streets of the Novygrad and then across the teeming Merchant Quarter. He hardly seemed to watch where he went, just weaved, head down, through the jostling crowds of soldiers, beggars and drunks, until, just as they stepped onto the Karlsbridge, he looked up, frowning thoughtfully.
‘You should rule in her stead,’ he said.
‘What?’ said Ulrika.
He turned to her. ‘You are right about Evgena. She is a fool, a mummified dowager too long shut up in the mausoleum of her house. You should rule in her stead.’
Ulrika laughed. ‘Me? I don’t want to rule. And I’m done with the Lahmians.’
‘Damn the Lahmians!’ said Stefan. ‘Why do you need their consent? You could be queen here, on your own.’
Ulrika shook her head. ‘They would come after me. The Queen of the Silver Mountain would hear of it and I would be killed.’
‘Aye, aye, I know, but–’ He cursed, then suddenly took her hand and looked her in the eye. ‘This morning. What I said. I meant it. This is right, what we share, and I don’t want it to end.’ He stopped walking in the middle of the bridge and swept his hand to encompass the whole of the city, its lights mirrored and glittering in the waters of the Lynsk. ‘Praag could be our home. We–’
He cut off, smiling wryly, his grey eyes glinting. ‘Foolish though they are, I find myself strangely attracted to your silly idealistic notions of good stewardship, and preying only on predators. Think what Praag could be like if we ruled it. Think what we could do.’
Ulrika blinked, staggered, as a vision, a perfect gleaming future, rose up complete before her at his words. Praag, whole and healed, as it hadn’t been for two centuries – a place where the people lived without fear, and cultists and gangsters and slavers feared to tread – and hidden at the centre of it, herself and Stefan, living in easy luxury in Evgena’s mansion, the secret saviours behind it all. It was an intoxicating dream, and for a moment she nearly lost herself in it, but then she drew back.
‘You weave a tempting tale,’ she said at last. ‘But it is impossible. Despite the fact she has driven me out, I still owe fealty to Evgena. I couldn’t usurp her. And the Queen would never allow it. I… I don’t want what we share to end either, but… it can’t be like that.’
He nodded sadly. ‘No. No, I suppose not. But…’ He looked up at her again. ‘But, you’d be with me, whatever happens?’
Ulrika hesitated. What she felt for him was strong, but again eternity reared its head. Was she ready to pledge herself to him for so long? She swallowed. ‘Let me… let me give you my answer when this business is finished. It may be we won’t live past it.’
Stefan frowned, but then inclined his head. ‘Very well, m’lady,’ he said. ‘You give me incentive to survive.’
They turned and continued across the bridge, once again in silence.
Ulrika stole glances at Stefan as they twisted through the student quarter towards the Music Academy. He looked so grim that, more than once, she nearly spoke up and told him she was ready to give her answer, but each time she held off. She wasn’t ready. She had made too many vows recently, and had too often regretted them immediately afterwards. She would be certain before she did it again.
There were more students than usual in the quarter tonight, all talking to each other in hushed voices. Some of the girls with them were weeping. But it was only after Ulrika had passed half a dozen gatherings that a name, repeated and repeated, broke through the din of her own thoughts – ‘Valtarin.’
She slowed her steps and listened closer as she and Stefan passed another cluster.
‘Gone,’ said a young man with a cello on his back. ‘Vanished. Foul play, they say.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ laughed a bearded companion. ‘He’s probably drunk somewhere.’
‘Maybe some girl killed him,’ said another. ‘Out of jealousy.’
Ulrika spun the cello player around. ‘What is this?’ she asked. ‘What’s happened to Valtarin?’
The young man glared to be manhandled so, but his urge to gossip won over his outrage. ‘He vanished from his rooms last night,’ he said. ‘At least that’s what I heard. His landlord heard him go up with a girl, as usual. Then in the morning he was gone, and th
e girl was weeping and carrying on, saying he went to answer the door and never came back to bed.’
‘Ha!’ said the bearded boy. ‘He found the girl was uglier in the morning than she had been the night before and slipped out. I’ve done it before.’
Cello shook his head. ‘He hasn’t been seen all day. He was to play at the Kossar’s Return tonight, and he didn’t show.’
‘Then he’s drunk in a kvas parlour somewhere,’ said the bearded one. ‘Like so many times before.’
‘I hope so,’ said Cello.
‘So do I,’ said Ulrika, and let the young man go. But as she turned back to Stefan she shook her head. ‘But I fear it isn’t so.’
‘Aye,’ said Stefan. ‘It makes me wonder. All those souls the cult collects. Do they feed them to the violin? And are they feeding it the souls of musicians now?’
Ulrika shrugged, then stopped in her tracks. If that were true, then… Suddenly she turned and ran down a side street, beckoning Stefan to follow.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked as he caught up to her. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I have to check on someone,’ she said.
Ulrika stopped in the door of the Blue Jug and stared, her guts sinking. A girl was singing and playing the balalaika on the stage, but it was the wrong girl, a brassy blonde singing dirty songs.
Ulrika crossed to the bar and waved down the barkeep. ‘The blind girl,’ she said. ‘Does she not sing tonight?’
‘She was meant to,’ said the barkeep. ‘But she didn’t come in. I sent Misha around to her place to see if she were asleep or something, but she wasn’t there.’
Ulrika groaned. ‘Is there any other place she might be?’ she asked.
The barkeep shook his head. ‘She’s blind. She don’t go nowhere. Has a little friend who brings her food, and walks her here and back. That’s all she does.’
Ulrika closed her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she said at last, then turned away.
Stefan was waiting for her at the door. ‘Bad news?’
‘She has been taken,’ Ulrika said, her voice dead and cold. ‘They will pay.’
She strode out into the street and started again towards the Music Academy. She would give Padurowski the warning, but whether or not the concert was cancelled, she would still hunt down the cult. This was no longer for Praag, no longer for some noble idea of protecting the weak. This was for vengeance.
Ulrika and Stefan banged on the door of Maestro Padurowski’s offices on the second floor of the musty faculty building. There was no answer. Ulrika looked up and down the narrow hall, looking for signs that any other faculty were still in their offices, but all the doors were closed, and no light shone from beneath them.
‘We must find out where he lives,’ she said.
‘Perhaps he’s at the Opera House,’ said Stefan, ‘rehearsing.’
They started back down the cramped wooden stairs, and found a stooped old lady in a headscarf looking up at them suspiciously from the bottom step.
‘What you want?’ she said. ‘You are not students.’
‘We’re looking for Maestro Padurowski,’ said Ulrika. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Gone,’ said the old lady.
‘Yes,’ said Ulrika. ‘I am aware of that. Do you know where?’
‘He didn’t come today,’ said the old woman.
Ulrika clenched her jaw, struggling for patience. ‘So he is at home?’
The old lady shook her head. ‘The duke’s men said no. They went there to take him to the opera, then came here.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘What you want with the professor? Do you know where is?’
‘If I knew where he was, I wouldn’t be asking, would I?’ snapped Ulrika.
She and Stefan pushed past the old woman and crossed to the door. She followed them with her eyes as they stepped out into the Academy grounds, muttering under her breath.
Ulrika sighed as they started across the campus. ‘I fear you are right,’ she said. ‘These disappearances must be in preparation for tomorrow night. The cult will kill the blind girl and Valtarin and the professor in some ritual. If only we could find–’
She stopped short as she heard someone whistling in the distance – a wild, haunting melody, and very familiar. ‘The song!’ she said, looking around. A fog had risen while they had been looking for Padurowski, and the grounds of the Academy were thick with it, the trees and buildings looming out of it like towering ghosts. She could see nothing.
Stefan listened too, his eyes growing hard. ‘The Fieromonte played that song.’
‘Forget I spoke,’ said Ulrika, smiling wolfishly. ‘The cult seems to have come to us.’
‘How courteous of them,’ said Stefan.
They stalked across the quadrangle in the direction of the whistling, but as they neared the fountain in the centre, another whistle repeated the melody off to their right. They turned towards the new sound, drawing their swords and going on guard. A third whistle came from behind the faculty building, then a fourth far to the left. Still they could see nothing. The fog and the shrubs and trees that dotted the Academy grounds hid everything, though Ulrika could detect heart-fires on the perimeter of her perceptions. There were dozens of them.
‘Surrounded,’ said Stefan, growling.
The whistling stopped, as suddenly as it had begun, and the night was utterly silent. Ulrika and Stefan turned in a slow circle, staring all around. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. Ulrika didn’t like it.
‘What are you waiting for!’ she shouted. ‘Come out and fight!’
A sharp snapping came from all sides, and a dozen black shafts darted out of the mist. Ulrika and Stefan dodged and batted them from the air with their rapiers. Crossbow bolts. One passed so close that the fletching brushed Ulrika’s left ear. Stefan snatched another out of the air.
‘Silver-tipped,’ he said, looking at it. ‘Naturally.’
Ulrika turned in a circle, snarling and spreading her arms. ‘Face me, you cowards! Steel to steel!’
Another volley of bolts shot towards her, but Stefan tackled her and they zipped harmlessly overhead.
‘We can’t win here,’ he hissed. ‘We must fall back.’
‘But we’ll lose them again.’
‘We won’t,’ he said. ‘We’ll draw them off and take them when they spread out to find us. Come on!’
Ulrika saw the sense of that. She rolled up with him and ran in the direction of the street, on the far side of the lecture halls. A rain of bolts whistled after them, but they dodged and weaved and the missiles shot past. Three cultists rose from the bushes before them, waving swords. Ulrika and Stefan cut them down without slowing.
As they sprinted on, Ulrika saw more than a score of hooded silhouettes coursing through the grounds after them, crossbows and swords in their hands. Most were falling back, unable to match their speed, but a few paced them, as swift as greyhounds.
‘They’re separating,’ said Stefan. ‘Just a little further.’
Ulrika nodded. They burst from the trees and clattered onto the cobbled street. There was an alley opposite, a darker grey in the grey of the fog. They ran for it, the swiftest of the cultists close behind.
‘Now we must lose them,’ said Stefan as they splashed through the alley muck. ‘Then double back as they split up to search.’
Ulrika grinned. ‘You’ve done this before.’
‘An old trick with vampire hunters,’ said Stefan. ‘They think they have you, and you have them.’
They led the cultists a twisting chase through the back alleys and mews of the student quarter, leaping fences and dodging around heaps of garbage, then finally Stefan stopped at the back of a stone carver’s shop and listened. Their pursuers’ footsteps echoed to them out of the fog, a block or so behind.
‘Now!’ he said. ‘Up to the roofs. We will watch them pass from there.’
He motioned for Ulrika to start up before him. She jumped and caught a jutting beam end, then spidered up the wall of the workshop. Stef
an started up after her, but just as she was pulling herself onto the roof, he grunted and slipped, then toppled back into the alley.
Ulrika turned and saw him lying in the mud below her, writhing in pain. ‘Stefan!’
He did not reply. Her chest constricted with fear. She clambered swiftly back down to kneel beside him. Their pursuers’ footsteps were getting closer.
‘Stefan,’ she whispered. ‘What’s wrong?’
He jerked something from the back of his leg – a silver-tipped bolt. It was running with blood. Ulrika swore. She hadn’t even heard the shot.
‘Help me up,’ he said, wincing.
Ulrika took his arm and lifted him to his feet, looking nervously for the shooter. She saw nothing in the fog. Stefan’s knees buckled and he fell against her.
‘On!’ he rasped, motioning to a nearby corner. ‘I can’t climb!’
Ulrika threw Stefan’s arm over her shoulder and helped him around the corner, trying to look at his leg. The wound was hidden by the cloth of his breeches, but they were drenched with blood.
‘Don’t slow down,’ he hissed. ‘Hurry.’
Ulrika ran on, hauling Stefan along. The sounds of pursuit were all around them now and he was hissing with every step.
‘It’s no good,’ he said, lurching beside her. ‘They will follow the trail of my blood. We will not escape them.’
‘Just keep going,’ said Ulrika.
She pulled him into a yard and around the side of a tenement. She could hear the cultists coming into the alley behind them as they hurried towards the front.
‘Yes,’ he said, nodding. ‘Keep going. But not together. We must part ways. They will follow my blood and you can get away. I will see if I can catch one and speak to him.’