by Chris Paton
“To Arkhangelsk?”
“Yes,” said Luise. “We must stop Khronos, and, with your help,” she said and looked up at Kettlepot. “I think we might just have a chance.”
Chapter 18
The Svyato-Troitsky Cathedral
Arkhangelsk
July, 1851
Nikolas Skuratov watched the German Confederation ship as it entered the River Dvina and sailed past his hiding place in the rubble of the cathedral grounds. The crimson hull of the ship was familiar to Nikolas. Despite the pain and suffering each ship unloaded at the Arkhangelsk docks, he loved the colour and had even painted the star on the globus tank of his emissary in the same deep crimson shade that most of the people of the city associated with death. As he watched the ship manoeuvre alongside the dock he nibbled at a piece of stale bread, sucking at the corners until they were moist, and then biting one chunk after another until his mouth was full. He sat there every evening, his cheeks stuffed like a hamster, watching the German boats unload a troop of blue liveried emissaries at one end of the ship, while taking on great buckets of ore at the other.
Nikolas turned at the crack of masonry behind him. He chewed the bread in his mouth as fast as he could, forming the words he wanted to say as soon as he swallowed.
“You can't come in, Molotok,” he said and picked at the crumbs that tumbled out of his mouth. Nikolas licked them from his fingers and scrambled over the broken chunks of cathedral and into the evening light. “How many times must I tell you?” Nikolas said and reached up to place his hand on the emissary's blue dented plates. “You can't fit in my hiding place. You have to stay in your own,” he said and pointed at a three-walled building with a dilapidated roof of black timber. The emissary's neck joints whined as it shook its head. “Fine,” said Nikolas. “Stay outside and get caught. See if I care.” Nikolas turned to hide his face as he knew the emissary could read him like a book.
It had been almost three months since the occupation began, and over four weeks ago when Nikolas found Molotok lying in a heap of scrap metal where the Germans had discarded him. Nikolas still wondered why they had thrown away the most vicious of the emissaries, the one everybody was afraid of, the one that had slain Mayor Chelyuskin right there on the docks opposite the cathedral. Nikolas remembered the grey star on the emissary's chest, the same star he had since painted crimson like the ships.
Nikolas' life changed that day he found Molotok. He had been running from hiding place to hiding place ever since he had been parted from his father, when the people of Arkhangelsk fled from the emissaries' swords. Bullied by the street gangs into stealing, and living hand to mouth on stale scraps and smelly water, Nikolas had lost weight, lost his parents, and had almost lost hope until he found Molotok. With nothing to lose, Nikolas had filled the emissary's boiler with water and its furnace with kindling, stoking the fire with broken chair legs and rotten timbers from the warehouse roof. As the emissary steamed into life, Nikolas had fiddled with a discarded control box, only to find it was both broken and unnecessary. The emissary, it seemed, had a life of its own. It was also fiercely loyal and had taken to Nikolas like a dog, an eight foot tall dog with a devastating number of combat moves. Each day Nikolas stoked the emissary's furnace, his own fire, the fire of hope, was rekindled.
It had not been difficult to name the emissary. When the largest members of the street gang discovered Nikolas and the emissary, they had beaten him for neglecting his duties. It was the last beating he had received, and the first time he had seen the emissary in action since that day on the docks. With a single hammer-like punch, the emissary had slammed the gang leader into the opposite wall of the warehouse. The others fled and Nikolas dropped his jaw in awe.
“Wow. That was incredible.”
Nikolas stopped the emissary as it clanked through the debris on the warehouse floor towards the man on the ground. He ran in front of it and waved his arms as the man stumbled onto the street.
“Stop,” he said and the emissary had stopped. Nikolas held up his hand and splayed his fingers. The emissary did the same. When Nikolas made a fist, the emissary made a bigger one. “Molotok,” Nikolas said as he reached up to place his palm on the emissary's fist. “Hammer,” he said.
Molotok had hammered a lot more since that day in the warehouse. So much so, he and Nikolas moved through the city only at night to escape the patrols searching for them during the day. But the night, Nikolas smiled as he looked up at the sky, is for hunting.
The late light of summer had seen a doubling of the German patrols. The leader of the German Confederation force occupying Arkhangelsk, Rutger Venzke, had posted a reward for the capture of Nikolas and Molotok, posters of which now decorated the walls of children inspired by Nikolas and his emissary. Nikolas hoped his father would be proud of him as he stalked the German patrols and ambushed them on cramped city streets. From the skinny and sickly youth he was before the occupation, Nikolas had grown into a hardened resistance fighter, surviving on stale bread and hard fighting. Of course, even he would admit that it was Molotok that did the fighting. But, Nikolas mused, I am the one that tells him who to fight.
“Well, Molotok. Seeing as you are up and about, we may as well get started.” Nikolas reached into his hiding space and pulled a satchel out from beneath a slab. He slung it over his shoulder and took a cap from his pocket which he pulled snugly onto his head. Molotok watched him. “I'm ready. What about you?”
The emissary lifted its foot above an angular chunk of masonry and stamped on it, crushing the stone into a fine dust beneath its cloven foot.
“Looks like we're both ready,” Nikolas said with a nod He pulled the collar of his jacket up and around his neck and began picking his way around the rubble in the cathedral grounds and into the cobbled street.
“We have to be careful tonight, Molotok,” he said as he walked. The emissary clanked alongside the boy, its shadow engulfing him. “The word on the street is that Venzke has doubled the reward for our capture. They want me alive,” he said and scowled. “But they want you in pieces. I guess we'll just have to disappoint them, eh?”
Molotok flexed the thick brass fingers of its left hand which Nikolas recognised as the emissary's standard response at the beginning of their nightly patrols.
“I'll play the rabbit again. It seems to work every time. But this time...” Nikolas stopped at the sound of several emissaries clanking around the corner of the street. He ducked into the shadows of a side street and pressed his back against the wall as Molotok clanked past him. The patrol came closer and Nikolas held up three fingers.
“One,” he said and folded his index finger onto his thumb. Molotok's neck whined as the emissary dipped its head to look at Nikolas and then lifted it again to scan the street. “Two,” Nikolas whispered and closed his middle finger.
The patrol paused at the top of the street. Nikolas watched as they sent a scout into the grounds of the cathedral. They knew we would be there, he thought as he held up his third finger. Molotok shifted the balance of weight on its knees and Nikolas remembered another thing he needed to get hold of – more grease. He held his breath as the creak of rusty joints echoed within the narrow passage of the side street.
Nikolas heard the scout return and give a quick report in German that the grounds were empty, as far as he could see. Nikolas waved his hand in front of Molotok's faceplate and folded the third finger. “Three,” he mouthed and ran into the street.
“There,” the officer shouted as Nikolas raced past the patrol and alongside the cathedral. The scouts, two young soldiers, chased after him. Nikolas risked a quick look over his shoulder as the German controllers commanded their emissaries into a clumsy charge, following the scouts in pursuit of Nikolas.
“They never learn,” Nikolas wheezed as he pulled his satchel tight against his body, his lungs were already burning. The officer, he saw, was alone with the two emissary controllers. Easy pickings for Molotok. Nikolas heard the rusty whine of Molotok's knees as
the emissary lurched out of the side street and surprised the Germans with several jabs of its brass knuckles.
Nikolas tugged a pair of thick leather gloves from his pockets and skidded to a halt by the side of a thin wooden portcullis that used to boast the city's most fragrant roses, but now only thorns. He took a moment to calm his ragged breathing and then scrambled up the thorny ladder and onto a low roof from where he could see Molotok. The scouts leaped onto the portcullis only to curse and jump down onto the street to pick thorns out of their bloody hands. The emissaries, following the last commands they were given before Molotok attacked their controllers, clanked down the street and out of sight.
Nikolas risked a peek at the scouts and laughed, only to leap back as they unslung their rifles and began loading them.
“Time to go,” said Nikolas. He coughed once and bent low as he ran across the roof, spilling loose tiles onto the courtyard below. The scouts kicked a hole in the portcullis and crashed into the courtyard, their rifles aimed upwards as they gritted their teeth and chased Nikolas.
“Molotok,” Nikolas yelled as he leaped from the roof onto a high wall that ran the length of the courtyard and led him back in the direction of the emissary and the unconscious Germans at its feet. “I need help.”
Molotok swivelled upon its creaky joints and pounded the cobbles into the street as it raced in the direction of Nikolas' voice. It didn't stop at the wall to the courtyard, choosing instead to raise its fists and lock its arms straight ahead and smash straight through the wall and into the path of the scouts.
The men slid to a halt, raised their muskets and fired at Molotok. Nikolas choked on the bitter cloud of gunpowder as it drifted along the wall. The bullets thumped into the emissary's brass plates, leaving two small dents among many before trilling down the emissary's armour and landing, spent, on the ground at its feet. The scouts turned and ran for the entrance as Nikolas climbed down from the wall.
“That,” he said, “was closer than usual.”
Molotok moved its head up and down in a rusty nod.
“And you need some grease,” Nikolas said and pressed his hands to his ribs to catch his breath. “Let's go down to the docks and find some.”
“I know where you can find something to grease those joints,” said a tired voice from a window looking down on the courtyard. Nikolas flicked his head towards the window.
“I didn't see you,” he said.
“I did not want to be seen,” said the man as he stepped into view. “Perhaps,” he said, “if you have finished your business in the garden, you would care to come inside and out of sight?”
“Yes,” said Nikolas as a flush of guilt reddened his face. “Sorry about the mess.”
“No you are not,” said the man. “But it is all right. It is not my garden. Come through the portcullis and I will open the door. It's all right,” he added. “Your friends have already gone.”
Nikolas led Molotok through the broken portcullis and along the street to where a thin man, bent with untold years, waited by a tall door that opened into a small warehouse.
“This is the tradesman's entrance,” he said as he followed Nikolas and Molotok inside.
“Are you a lord then?” said Nikolas.
“Not a lord, not really. But I used to have some authority in another place, in another time.”
“I am Nikolas, and this is Molotok,” Nikolas said and smiled as Molotok creaked into a short bow.
“Oh, I know who you are, Nikolas Skuratov. And I know all about your emissary friend. Quite extraordinary,” the man said as Molotok lifted his head and stood up straight.
“But what is your name?”
“My name? Ah, yes.” The man shuffled forwards and held out his hand. “My name is Abraxas.”
Chapter 19
The Tanfana
Imperial Russia
July, 1851
The dawn broke to a chorus of hammer and tongs as the Wallendorf engineers fired and wrought replacement parts for The Tanfana, while the emissaries were repaired in the engineering car and by the side of the tracks. Luise followed the doctor as he picked his way through the bodies from The Flying Scotsman and directed burial duties in a clearing in the woods a little to the east of the tracks. He bent down by the side of a small child and examined the bruises on her body while gently pulling the doll from her hands. He turned the doll in the light before laying it on her chest and crossing the girl's arms over it.
“My daughter has one just like it,” he said as Luise kneeled to stroke the girl's hair. “In Frankfurt, where I live, there is a dollmaker's that makes dolls for the royal families of Europe. Only the finest dolls are accepted, and there is a secret trade in seconds – the dolls that do not make the grade. The owners turn a blind eye so long as their mark is removed from the doll, usually with sandpaper. Like this,” he said and turned the doll over to reveal a square patch of rough porcelain beneath the doll's hair on the back of its neck. “The girl must have clutched the doll very tightly indeed for it to survive the impact of the crash.”
“Yes,” said Luise as she let her hand fall to her side.
“Why did he not turn any of the passengers into demons? That surprises me, I must say.”
“People are not turned into demons. Demons that escape from the Passage of Time occupy the first healthy people they come into contact with, rather like vessels. But Khronos is not interested in more demons escaping from the Passage. It is quite the opposite. He is tracking down the ones that have escaped and he would never allow more to get out.” Luise gestured at the bodies being removed from the debris by Wallendorf's men. “These people are the innocent victims, and I...” she said and stammered. “I am responsible.”
“Hardly, Miss Hanover. No,” said the doctor. “I do not agree.”
“That is very kind of you. But, all the same, it was I that built the impediment machine, the device that opened the Passage of Time and allowed the demons to escape. I just never imagined it would come to this, and that is why,” she said and straightened her skirt as she stood, “I will put an end to this and see Khronos returned to the Passage and seal it forever.”
“But if you are right, that is what he wants too. I admit to being a touch confused.”
“Yes, he does want that, but this girl, her family, and these people, they deserve justice, and I intend to make sure that Khronos pays for what he has done.”
“That will not be easy,” the doctor said and turned to look at the activity around the steam engine. “He has proved a most dangerous adversary.”
“And yet, there are ways of defeating him. Look there, for example.” Luise pointed to a spot beside the tracks where Emilia rolled up her shirtsleeves and brushed the char of battle from Kettlepot's armour, singing as she worked.
“She is an industrious young lady,” said the doctor.
“Yes, and I can see Fräulein von Ense is on her way over to speak with her. I had better get over there.” Luise paused to stroke the dead girl's hair one last time. “Please see that she has a proper burial, doctor. All of them if time allows.”
“I will do that, and you must promise me to rest and to visit me for more hypnosis once we are underway.”
“I will. Thank you, doctor,” Luise said and made her way across the field towards Emilia and her emissary. She slowed as Hannah approached and talked to the girl. The German woman's manner suggested it was a positive discussion and Luise decided to wait and hear about it from Emilia. And I can use the time for study, she thought and pulled a small notebook from the deep pocket of her skirt. Luise sat down on what looked like a bench from the airship and opened the book.
Luise had to think when she had last received an image or sequence of khronoglyphs in her mind from the slow demon in Arkhangelsk. It was aboard The Flying Scotsman, she realised as she smoothed her hand upon the oak surface of the bench. She flicked through the pages of the notebook looking for the khronoglyphs she knew were important in opening the Passage of Time, cross
-checking the notes she had printed beside them as she read. The combination is key, she mused and flicked back and forth between the pages, looking for the symbols that were common in each of the critical glyphs, and how they might be redrawn to effect a different action.
“It's no good,” she said and closed the notebook and let if fall into her lap. “I need help.”
“With what, Miss?” said Emilia. She smiled as Luise started. “Sorry. I can be quite quiet when I want to be. It used to drive my mother mad.”
“I can imagine,” said Luise and patted the bench for Emilia to sit beside her. “Your mother, was she English?”
“No.”
“Your father then? He was, wasn't he?”
“Yep,” Emilia said and gave Luise a curious look. “How did you know?”
“While I haven't met many Romanians,” she said, “I don't imagine there are many who know The Grand Old Duke of York.”
“My father used to sing it to me at bedtime,” Emilia said and smiled. “He was from a small village in Cheshire. But he never went to York. He just liked the song.”
“How did he come to be in Romania?”
“He was a miner and there are a lot of mines in Transylvania. He dug for iron and that is where he met my mother – at a mining camp. She was the daughter of the innkeeper, my grandfather, and his was the most popular inn in all of Transylvania.” Emilia sighed and leaned back on the bench. “The inn was destroyed when a flash flood in the mountains washed it away and flooded the mine. I lost everyone that day. My whole family. If I hadn't been at the market with my mother's friend...”
“I am so sorry,” Luise said as she wrapped her arm around Emilia and pulled her close. “It must be hard.”
“Maybe, I don't know. I was younger then.”
“But how did you get here? To Germany, I mean.”