by Karen Kincy
“You can’t be a genius all the time.”
“You think I’m a genius?”
Grinning, Himmel shook his head. “That’s not my final verdict.”
Konstantin grabbed a pillow and whacked him across the ass. Himmel caught the pillow, fighting for it, which devolved into wrestling. The pillow forgotten, they fell on the bed together. Himmel pinned him in a clinch hold.
Breathless, struggling, Konstantin laughed. “I surrender!”
After a manly grunt of victory, Himmel loosened his grip. Their eyes met while the silence stretched between them.
Konstantin cleared his throat. “You never answered my question.”
“Which?”
“Will you help me find the laboratory?”
Himmel glanced heavenward like that could save him. “Fine.”
As the Nachitgall gained altitude, Konstantin adjusted the focus on his camera, testing his Zeiss anastigmat lens. He leaned over the railing of the observation deck and framed the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood. Morning sunlight glittered on its domes.
“Falkenrath.”
Konstantin lowered the camera, pretending he wasn’t startled. “Yes?”
“Careful.”
“I’m not about to plunge to my death.”
The captain folded his arms across his chest. “Waving that thing around isn’t subtle. The Russians will see you a mile away.”
Konstantin rolled his eyes. “How do you suggest I take photographs subtly?”
“Wait until we see something interesting.”
They soared over St. Petersburg, the zeppelin’s shadow floating from building to building. Beyond the city, icebreakers escorted ships across the frozen Neva Bay. A grim factory loomed over the snow, chimneys belching smoke.
“That’s interesting.” Konstantin peered through the viewfinder.
“That’s a canning factory.”
How was it humanly possible to sound so skeptical? He glared at Himmel. “Look at the size of the electrical transmission lines.”
“Look at the side of the building. ‘Finest Canned Foods.’”
“I can’t read Russian.”
Himmel grunted. “Right.” He held out his hand. “Give me the camera.”
“What? Why?”
“No need to splutter, Falkenrath. This isn’t my first aerial reconnaissance.”
Indignant, Konstantin gripped the railing of the deck. “Why wouldn’t they disguise the laboratory as a canning factory?”
Himmel commandeered the camera. “Because.” He focused the lens. “This factory doesn’t have doors large enough for the clockwork dragon. Not to mention, those trucks are actually transporting canned goods.”
“Where would you look for the laboratory?”
“Kotlin Island.”
“Why?”
“Shipping manifests list it as the main destination for Siberian chrysoberyl.”
Konstantin peered across the icy bay. The town of Kronstadt dominated the island, fortified by armored earthworks and batteries of guns. Steam drifted over ironclad Russian battleships docked at the military base.
“Let me guess,” Konstantin said. “It would be a poor plan to fly over battleships?”
“Good guess.” Himmel squinted at the blinding sun on ice. “We can fly over the bay itself, but remain at a distance acceptable for diplomacy.” He tinkered with the camera. “What’s the shutter speed on this beauty?”
“One thousandth of a second.”
“Pneumatic actuator?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.”
Konstantin shivered at Himmel’s confidence. He loved a man who loved technology.
The Nachtigall soared over Neva Bay. Wind gusted across the bow of the zeppelin, stinging Konstantin’s skin like a thousand icy needles. He tightened his scarf and blinked fast, his eyes blurring as they watered.
Himmel offered him a handkerchief. “Here.”
“Thank you.” Konstantin blew his runny nose. “Good lord, it’s cold.”
“It’s Russia.” Shaking his head, Himmel waved away the dirty handkerchief. “There’s the Kronstadt Naval Cathedral.”
Arches of white stone held blue-and-gold domes aloft. The cathedral stood as the island’s crown jewel, ringed by snowy rooftops. Magnificent, though Himmel didn’t bother taking a photograph; he waited as they flew north.
“I hear there’s a Fort Konstantin on Kotlin Island.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Maps.” Himmel’s smile flickered, gone in a second. “Look down. That’s the St. Petersburg Naval Engineering Institute.” The shutter clicked as he photographed what looked like any other forbidding building.
Konstantin scratched his beard. “What’s your expert opinion?”
“That’s our primary target for the laboratory’s location.”
Hope floated in Konstantin’s chest before fear dragged it down. “Strolling into a fortified naval base does seem a bit daunting.”
Himmel grunted. “Certainly isn’t your average jaunt in an airship.”
Staring through the viewfinder, Konstantin scanned the horizon. Silver flashed between the skyline. When the beast flew into view, his heart stuttered and stopped beating for a moment. A skeletal clockwork dragon, devoid of scales, soared across the heavens on wings of duralumin, every cog and rivet gleaming in its steel body.
“God,” Himmel croaked.
“The next iteration.” Konstantin breathed the words almost reverently.
Himmel gripped the railing, his knuckles white, as he watched the dragon spiral skyward. “Must be a test flight. Looks rough.”
It looked like a machine of sleek brutality, but Konstantin didn’t argue. The dragon flattened its wings before diving like a silver thunderbolt. An instant from hitting Neva Bay, its wings snapped open and slowed its fall. Skimming the surface, the dragon opened its jaws. Flames whooshed between its fangs and sizzled on the water. Hissing steam obscured the beast. When the cloud cleared, it had vanished.
Paler than bone, Himmel stared at the drifting haze. “Damn.”
“Are you all right?” Konstantin touched the back of his hand.
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “We need to write a report.”
“What good will that do?”
Himmel grunted. “A fire-breathing dragon might interest the ambassador.”
“More useless paperwork.” Konstantin gritted his teeth. “We won’t win this war by writing down every move our enemy makes.”
Fortunately, he knew who could help him, even if the man wouldn’t do so knowingly.
It wasn’t hard to find Alexsandr Dmitriev.
The Russian loitered in the hotel restaurant, his elbows on the bar, toying with a shot glass. Konstantin greeted him with a nod.
“Good afternoon,” Alexsandr said. “What do you think of St. Petersburg?”
“Nice city.” Konstantin stared at the mirror behind the bar. His reflection looked pale, dark shadows under his eyes.
If only deception weren’t so damn complicated!
“Alexsandr, you have such lovely churches and cathedrals in St. Petersburg.”
“Are you a religious man?”
“Catholic.” Though lapsed, since he hadn’t attended church in years. “And rather curious about Russian Orthodoxy.”
Alexsandr grunted, a neutral noise, and glanced at his hands. “Understandable.”
“I’m enchanted by ecclesiastical architecture. The Kronstadt Naval Cathedral looks beautifully Byzantine.” Konstantin inhaled. “I plan to tour the island this evening. How would you recommend traveling there?”
Looking sideways at him, the Russian ran his thumb over his lip. “This evening?”
“Isn’t the evening light quite wistful? Might bring my camera, take a few photographs. Mean to collect an album of Russia.”
His eyes unreadable, Alexsandr smiled. “Ferries do not run to Kotlin Island in the winter. Take a ride on an icebreaker.”
“Excellent.” Konstantin faked a frivolous laugh. “An icebreaker sounds thrilling.”
St. Petersburg impressed him with yet lower temperatures.
Konstantin huddled below deck on the icebreaker, his teeth chattering, smiling and nodding whenever the Russian sailors glanced at him. They seemed perfectly content to guzzle vodka while wind howled outside.
Damn, he should have packed warmer clothes. Wolverine, or whatever they wore here. He tugged his scarf closer around his neck.
“Archmage.” An officer stared down at him. “Ready?”
Konstantin smiled through gritted teeth. “Yes, sir.”
As the icebreaker docked, he trudged above deck. Christ, it was even colder on Kotlin Island. He hoped his camera would function. A few degrees lower, and the shutter might freeze. He cradled the poor machine in his gloves.
The Kronstadt Naval Cathedral towered above the city, a guardian angel. Walking closer, he ignored the stares of Russians in the street. He stopped in the snow and photographed the cathedral, holding his breath so he wouldn’t fog the lens. Sunset gilded arch upon arch of milk-white stone and domes in celestial blue.
Nobody questioned him, the absentminded tourist.
The St. Petersburg Naval Engineering Institute wasn’t far from here. Only a few blocks to the west; when he closed his eyes, he could see the photographs Himmel had taken. Konstantin meandered through the streets, stopping only to raise his camera. He pretended to take pictures; he had a limited number of plates.
When he arrived at the Naval Engineering Institute, he hit the riskiest part of his plan. Since he didn’t speak a word of Russian, he had to improvise with his tourist disguise. Biting the inside of his cheek, he tried the door.
Unlocked. Perhaps luck was on his side.
He let himself into the building. In the chilly marble lobby, a uniformed official at a desk frowned and fired off some important-sounding Russian.
“You speak German?” Konstantin attempted an aloof smile.
The man shook his head, abandoned his desk, and left him alone in the lobby. In a minute, he returned with a boyish cadet.
“Good evening,” Konstantin said. “I’m here on behalf of the Archmages of Vienna.”
He was an archmage, wasn’t he? It was a believable lie.
“Can I help you?” The cadet spoke with a thick accent.
Going for imperious, Konstantin looked down his nose at him. “You have laboratories here, yes? I was promised a tour.”
The cadet glanced at his superior. “By who?”
“Whom.” Konstantin arched his eyebrow. “Alexsandr Dmitriev, to be specific. They say St. Petersburg produces the finest technomancy in Russia. Am I in the wrong place? Or will you be so hospitable as to enlighten me?”
The cadet squinted; perhaps he didn’t understand the polysyllabic words. His superior huddled with him, and they conversed in rapid Russian, their eyes darting back to Konstantin. Fear gripped his gut in its fist.
“Well?” Konstantin fetched his pocketwatch. “I don’t have all day.”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
Sweating, Konstantin followed the cadet deeper into the Institute. The camera strapped to his neck felt heavier and heavier. He stopped himself from fiddling with it so he wouldn’t look suspicious. They ventured down an endless corridor lit by kerosene lamps, portraits of important Russians glowering from the walls.
How big was this building? Where was the laboratory?
What if there was no laboratory, just a dungeon where they would torture him until he confessed all the archmages’ secrets?
How ridiculous. Konstantin fought a nervous laugh.
“This way, sir.”
A door groaned open on rusty hinges. Beyond, darkness gaped like the belly of a whale.
“This is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Konstantin gripped the camera to hide his trembling hands. “The lights?”
“Yes, sir.”
The cadet ducked into the shadows. A heartbeat later, electric lights buzzed on above. Adrenaline spiked Konstantin’s blood.
This was the laboratory.
onstantin would recognize psychothaumaturgy equipment anywhere.
A sinister steel chair dominated the room, looking as if it might electrocute whoever sat on its black leather seat. Tubes of tempered glass flickered with unearthly violet light—likely one of the noble gases, best suited to channeling souls. On a worktable, a colorless crystal glittered on velvet. His throat tight, he walked to the gemstone, hesitant to touch its icy facets. Within its heart, a wisp of light flickered.
Some unfortunate soul, imprisoned by technomancy.
“Konstantin Falkenrath.” Countess Victorova’s voice startled him.
He composed himself before turning around. “This must be your laboratory.”
Zinoviya eyed him with a flawless smile. Her gown of cobwebby silk lent her the look of a ghost. “Did you receive an invitation?”
Konstantin’s heart raced so fast he felt dizzy for a spell. “Forgive my curiosity.”
“May I see your camera?” She slinked closer, her gown rustling on the concrete. “It looks like a lovely piece of equipment.”
He couldn’t refuse, not without abandoning his charade.
Konstantin lifted the camera from his neck. One moment, Zinoviya cradled it as sweetly as a baby; the next, the camera tumbled to the floor. He lunged with outstretched hands, too late, the lens cracking upon impact.
Zinoviya’s lips curved in a pout. “Goodness, pardon my ineptitude.”
“Jesus Christ! You can’t do this.”
Her laugher chimed like shattering crystal. “Konstantin, dear, you really haven’t a clue.”
“Psychothaumaturgy is illegal.” He stared her down, his hands clenching and unclenching. “Immoral.”
“You’re such a bumbling idiot.” She smiled as if teasing him, toying with his scarf.
Konstantin gritted his teeth. Her perfume clouded his nose, the cloying smell of lilies at a funeral. “They will hang you for this.”
Zinoviya stroked her fingertips along his cheekbone; he jerked back. “Calm yourself.”
“That’s hardly appropriate, considering the circumstances.”
“For a man with your abnormal proclivities, you mustn’t be so obvious.”
Ice chilled his veins. “What do you mean?” It sounded unconvincing, even to him.
“How coy of you.” Her eyes gleamed in the electric lights. “My poor dearly departed husband preferred the company of other men, when he was sober enough to perform at all. God knows how much time I wasted on him.”
Konstantin grimaced. “I’m uninterested in gossip.”
“The Archmages of Vienna may be very interested. What is the punishment for sodomy in Austria-Hungary? Imprisonment? Death?”
He laughed hollowly. “A crime I have never committed, I assure you.”
Zinoviya curled her lip. “You aren’t much of a liar.”
“Go ahead. Blackmail me. They must already suspect me, if it’s so very obvious.”
She stepped back, her face blank. “True, though it wouldn’t be the most expedient option.” Her gaze flicked over his shoulder.
Tensing, Konstantin turned—a blow to the back of his head knocked him sprawling.
Blackness edged his eyesight. He crawled to his knees, brain aching against his skull, and hunted for something, anything as a weapon.
“Just do the job properly,” Zinoviya said to her henchman.
Bracing himself on a table, Konstantin dragged himself to his feet and fumbled for a wrench. The Russian officer raised his saber’s pommel; Konstantin swung the wrench wildly and cracked him in the teeth. Cradling his jaw, the man swore and spat blood. Konstantin scrambled back and put the table between them.
Adrenaline roaring through his blood, he stumbled toward the exit.
“For heaven’s sake,” Zinoviya said, “use the barbiturates.”
With a bur
st of energy, Konstantin reached the door. The Russian officer clenched a fistful of his hair and yanked back his head. Pain stabbed Konstantin’s neck—the needle of a syringe, he realized, collapsing on the floor.
“Don’t do this,” he slurred, tongue thick, before the anesthesia knocked him out.
Eyes shut, Konstantin swayed back and forth. Rattling deafened his ears.
A train rushing over tracks. He was on a train.
Head pounding, he opened his eyes. Sunlight pierced a crack in the freight car. Sacks of potatoes lumped around him. It smelled of mold and blood—his blood. Rope twisted around his hands and feet, digging into his skin.
They hadn’t gagged him, which meant no one could hear him.
Acid rose in his throat, and he retched before gasping. Where was the train bound for? Countess Victorova hadn’t been so gracious as to hint at that before her goons rendered him unconscious. At least he wasn’t dead.
Yet.
Muscles straining, he lurched to his knees. With his hands behind his back, he staggered to his feet. The train cornered a bend; he fell sideways. God almighty, his skull might split open. On his knees again, he shuffled to the door. A rusty nail jutted from the wood. He backed against it and sawed at the rope around his hands.
This worked for the heroes of dime novels, but in reality he gouged himself and snagged the sisal rope on the nail. Swearing, he reevaluated the situation. He yanked the rope taut and wormed one of his wrists free, then the other. Being skinny had its benefits. Bruises purpled his raw skin. When he touched the back of his head, his fingers came away crusted with blood. Wincing, he unknotted the rope at his ankles.
What time was it? He squinted at the sunlight. Morning, perhaps, maybe even afternoon. How far had he traveled from St. Petersburg?
Konstantin stumbled to the door. Once unlatched, it rumbled open with a clang. Blinded, he shaded his eyes with his hand. Snow and pines and no sign of civilization. If he jumped, and didn’t break any bones, he would freeze to death in the Russian wilderness. If only Himmel were here with his maps.
Oh no, Theodore.
Konstantin sank onto a sack of potatoes. Would the countess tell everyone about his… proclivities with the captain? They would be fired. Convicted. Or punished outside of the law, like so many men before them. Even worse, he hadn’t told Himmel were he went. Not even about boarding an icebreaker to Kotlin Island.