by Chris Paton
“Yes, Moscow made a deal with the German Confederation – mines for technology. We intend to win the fight for Central Asia, you know.”
“You have been very determined.”
“As have you – especially you, Nightjar.”
“Truly, it was my job.”
“And yet you gave it up to go where? England?”
“Yes,” Hari said and spared a quick glance at Jamie. “To find and protect the Englishman's sister.”
“And did you?”
“Not very well. Which is why...”
“You must get to Arkhangelsk. I see.” Bryullov leaned forwards and tapped Hari on the arm. “Your friend grows restless,” he said and pointed at Najma as she snatched the Jezail from Jamie's hand and reloaded it.
What a curious situation to be in, Hari mused. Truly, I am presented with a dilemma. I wish to see this man pay for his crimes, and yet I am tired of death. I don't know what to do. A breath of wind in the trees rustled the branches and brushed Hari's thoughts from his head. He studied the Russian, nodding appreciatively at his practical style of dress and taste in quality clothing. He was also a similar size to Jamie, Hari realised and stood up.
“Take off your trousers and tunic,” he said and rested his hand on the pommel of his kukri.
“What?”
“You can keep your underclothes, but my friend needs your shirt and trousers.”
“I don't see why...”
“Nor do you have to,” Hari said and drew the kukri an inch out of its scabbard. “Strip, if you please.”
Bryullov shook his head and stood up to unbutton his tunic. He dropped it at Hari's feet, removed his boots and tugged off his trousers. He added them to the pile.
“Keep your boots. I don't intend to walk,” said Hari and scooped the tunic and trousers off the ground and stuffed them into his satchel. He waved Najma and Jamie over and waited for them to come closer before speaking. “I have made up my mind,” he said and turned to Najma. “Do you wish to take this man all the way back to Afghanistan, to avenge your brother's death?”
“That's a long way, Hari,” said Jamie.
“Yes,” said Najma as she fingered the trigger of the Jezail. She met Hari's look with eyes that blazed with determination.
“Good,” he said. “Then you shall have the horse. The people in Sast will help you. And others will too if you pay them.” Hari reached into his satchel and removed a small leather bag of sovereigns. “You can halve them and they will still be of more than enough value.” He gave the bag to Najma.
“Thank you, Nightjar.”
“Good plan, Hari Singh,” said Bryullov and clapped. “Now all I have to do is...” Bryullov's words caught in his throat as Najma used the butt of the Jezail and whacked him on the forehead. The Russian dropped to his knees. Najma took a length of cord from her pocket and bound his hands. She smiled up at Hari.
“I think I have changed my mind, Hari,” said Jamie.
“It is still a long way, British.”
“Yes, but for him, not her,” he said and dipped his head towards Najma. When he looked up, Najma had already started for the horse and was going through the equipment on the Cossack saddle as Bryullov groaned from where he kneeled in the dirt.
“My British friend,” said Hari. “Can you fly again, all the way to Arkhangelsk?”
“Yes,” Jamie said and smoothed his hand on his belly. “But I will need to eat as soon as we get there, or you can forget about me doing anything else.”
“I will find food for you, British. And I have clothes in my bag,” Hari said and patted his satchel.
“Good, I don't want to see Luise like this.”
“No. That would not be a good idea.”
Bryullov groaned again as Najma dragged him to his feet. She couched the horse and dragged the Russian over its back behind the saddle. Najma made the horse stand, and, with a spare rein from the saddle bags, she looped the leather reins beneath the horse's belly and tied Bryullov's hands to his feet.
“A very long journey,” Hari said to Jamie as they watched.
Najma stopped by Bryullov's head and bent down as he whispered in her ear. She nodded once and stood up.
“He says to tell Kapitan Skuratov that he was acting on orders. That Arkhangelsk is just the first city the Germans have been offered. So long as the Germans supply them with technology to defeat the British, the Russian Empire will turn a blind eye to three, maybe four more cities. All of them in the north,” Najma said and shrugged. “That is what he says.”
“Very well,” said Hari and stepped forward to embrace Najma. “Farewell, and give my best wishes and condolences to your father,” he said and stepped back to make namaste.
“I will.”
“If I had clothes, Najma,” Jamie said and bowed his head.
“Take care of yourself, Jamie Hanover,” Najma said and urged the horse into a slow walk with a click of her tongue. She looked at Jamie as she walked past, turning her neck to watch him until she was walking backwards alongside the horse's head. Hari and Jamie waved and Najma waved once before turning and leading the horse down the road.
“It will take a long time for her to get home. What are the odds, Hari, that Bryullov is still alive at the end of the journey?”
“Najma will see him all the way home to her father. Truly, that is what I believe,” Hari said and watched as Najma disappeared into the forest. “And now, British. Are you ready?”
Jamie answered by gripping Hari around the waist as his legs twisted into smoke and his upper body swelled. Hari felt the tightening of Jamie's muscles as he turned djinn, the young man's sunburned flesh turning a deep blue with a touch of orange in the fingertips. So long as he keeps that in control, Hari thought as he watched Jamie's hands flicker between shades of blue and fiery orange, then we should be all right. Jamie, now djinn, lurched from the ground and into the air, streaking along the treetops to Arkhangelsk. Hari closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. We are almost there, Luise, he thought. We are coming.
Chapter 25
The Gates of Arkhangelsk
Arkhangelsk Oblast
July, 1851
As diversions go, Stepan thought as he clambered over the wall surrounding the city, a frontal assault on the gate by a platoon of angry Cossacks, wasn't the worst. And it has got us this far. Stepan dropped to his knees and rested the butt of the musket on the ground. It was not a sniper's rifle of choice, but it would suffice on the streets if they got into trouble. The trouble, however, is more likely in our own company, Stepan thought as he watched the Cook get caught up on his bandoliers for the second time since they had climbed down the wall and into the city. Lena rolled her eyes and moved to cover the street in the opposite direction to Stepan, the two flintlock pistols she favoured were in her hands, primed with the hammers cocked. The Cook twisted on the wall to unhook the leather strap and grumbled down the last few feet until he stood, sweating and red-faced in front of Stepan.
“Bloody wall,” he said. “Will there be more of them?”
“Maybe,” said Stepan. “Now shut up, and get out of sight. We're a long way from the shipyard.”
“Feeling a tad touchy, Kapitan? Must be good to be home though,” the Cook said and tightened the bandoliers across his chest. At a hiss from Lena he ducked out of sight as a patrol of four men and two emissaries marched down the street from the east. The Cook's hands twitched over his knives, but Stepan shook his head.
“Wait,” he mouthed.
“Why?” the Cook mouthed back and grinned.
Stepan was beginning to understand Ivan's reluctance in having this man anywhere near a secret mission inside the city. He wondered how long it would be before the mission was no longer a secret, and, judging by the Cook's mental state of mind, he didn't imagine it would be long. The patrol passed by their hiding place and Stepan collared Lena as soon as they were out of sight.
“I'll lead the way. Your job is to keep him quiet.”
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“Methinks the Kapitan doesn't like me,” said the Cook. “Now that shouldn't stop us being friends, eh?”
Stepan turned to say something but stopped when Lena placed herself between the two men.
“He is here for one purpose only, Kapitan. Trust me, da?”
Stepan gripped the musket and nodded. “Yes. I trust you.”
“Oh, goodie, we shall be friends,” said the Cook and he danced a short jig, spiralling out into the street. Stepan glared at Lena and then pushed past the Cook, growling at him as their shoulders bumped.
“It's this way.”
They passed two more patrols on the way to the shipyard, and each time Stepan said a little prayer that the Cook would behave himself. The Cook, for his part, danced a short jig with the safe passing of each patrol. He played on Lena's sense of fun and Stepan's lack of the same.
“Don't you find it terribly exciting, Kapitan?” the Cook said as he sidled up to where Stepan surveyed the next street, the one before the shipyard. Stepan could see the cranes on the docks and, with their goal in sight, he felt closer than ever to finding Nikolas.
“No, I don't,” he said and nodded at the Cook to move back as another patrol turned the corner of the street. Stepan stared at the two emissaries pulling a cart behind them. The cart held a battered emissary that looked to have run out of fuel. But it was the small group of soldiers guarding a small, thin boy, that walked behind the cart that made Stepan step out of cover and into the street.
“Kapitan,” Lena hissed. She pushed past the Cook, grabbed Stepan by the belt and dragged him into the shadow of the wall.
“It's Nikolas,” Stepan said and struggled forwards.
“Cook,” said Lena. “Help me.”
“Shall I sit on him?”
“Da.”
Stepan grunted as the Cook tackled him, pressing his body to the ground and the air out of his lungs. Lena watched as the soldiers pushed Nikolas behind the cart and down the street. She waited until they were gone before kicking the Cook's backside for him to crawl off the Kapitan.
“Such fun,” said the Cook and slid off Stepan and onto his bottom.
Stepan rounded on Lena only to stop when she pressed a finger to his lips and mouthed the words, “Trust me.” Stepan nodded and backed down.
“He looked thin,” he said as he sat on a piece of rubble.
“But well,” said Lena. “And alive.”
“Yes,” Stepan said and took a breath. “The mission first.”
“We can't free the city if we don't control the water.”
“Then,” said the Cook, “to the shipyards we go.”
Stepan brushed the dust from his uniform and stepped into the street. The shipyards, he knew, would be heavily guarded. There was no way of knowing if the Germans had discovered the hidden submarine pens beneath the shipyard, and there was only one way of finding out. Stepan led the Cook to the wall of the building opposite the shipyard entrance and signalled for Lean to follow at a distance.
“Two guards,” Stepan whispered into the Cook's ear as the man pressed himself against the wall next to Stepan. At last, he is playing his part.
“Two,” the Cook said and drew two thin knives from his bandolier.
“And.” Stepan placed a hand on the Cook's shoulder. “Another one on a break, there, behind the wall.”
“Three.”
“Four,” said Lena as she crept along the wall. “In the window on the first floor. He is sitting on the window ledge.”
“Can you get him?” Stepan said.
The Cook straightened his shoulders and gave Stepan a serious look. “I can, and I will,” he said and took a step forwards. “Of course,” the Cook said and nodded at Stepan's musket. “If I don’t, it will be up to you.” He winked and turned his back, moving along the wall in a manner Stepan would never have believed possible.
“I hope you are right about him, Lena.”
“Just wait.”
Stepan could see two blades dangling from the fingers of the Cook's right hand. His left was raised and a single, heavier blade, whistled through the air as he threw it straight and high towards the guard in the window. Lena grasped Stepan's arm and squeezed as the knife struck the German in the chest. The man slumped out of the window and began to fall.
The Cook moved faster than Stepan thought possible, throwing the second knife with his right hand and the third with his left. Both knives hit their targets before the German from the window landed on the ground with a wet thump and the clatter of metal as his musket rattled away from his body.
“That's it then,” Stepan said and shouldered his musket as the German taking a break sprinted around the corner.
“Wait,” said Lena and tugged on Stepan's arm as the Cook drew two small knives and threw them with a moment's pause, one after the other into the German soldier. The first struck him in the thigh, and, as he doubled over in pain, the second buried itself in his throat. The Cook continued to run forwards, catching the German in his arms before he fell to the ground. The Cook was dancing a new jig by the time Stepan and Lena jogged over to him.
“I owe you an apology,” Stepan said as he held out his hand.
“Oh, Kapitan, don't make threats you can't follow through,” the Cook said. He waited for a moment and then gripped Stepan's hand and kissed it. Lena giggled as Stepan reeled backwards.
“Time to go, Kapitan,” she said and pointed at the door.
“There will be more guards inside,” Stepan said as he watched the Cook collect and clean his knives. “I think you should go first.”
“Me? Oh, Kapitan,” said the Cook. “Such an honour.”
Without another word, the Cook moved quickly to the main door of the shipyard and cracked it open an inch to look inside. Stepan covered him with the musket while Lena watched their backs.
“Clear,” said the Cook as he slipped inside the door. Stepan followed, his eyes adjusting to the gloom as he entered the building. A murmur from the loading bays either side of the building forced the Cook into cover and Stepan followed him into the shadows behind a steam crane. Lena closed the door behind her and hid behind a stack of crates opposite the crane. From his position, Stepan could see the large well in which the ships were laid and the cranes lining the well on either side. Below that, he hoped to find the hidden entrance to the submarine pens, locked and forgotten. He whispered to the Cook to follow and signalled for Lena to do the same. They ran the short distance to the well and slipped over the side, one after the other. Lena spun slow circles with her pistols pointed upwards as Stepan put down his musket and sweated to turn the handle of the round iron door covering a thick rusted pipe like a shield.
“Let me help you,” the Cook said and took hold of the handle. Together they rocked the handle a quarter of an inch before it squealed open another inch and then two more. The wheel began to spin but the squeal of rusted metal in an otherwise empty area of the shipyard attracted the attention of two guards. Lena shot them both, the boom of her pistols crashing around the ship well and ricocheting between the round steam cranes.
“Sorry,” she said and crouched. She tucked one pistol under her arm as she reloaded the other. Stepan picked up his musket and covered her as the Cook spun the wheel, unlocking the entrance to the submarine pens.
“It is open,” the Cook said as Stepan pushed him down with one hand and fired his musket at a soldier with the other. The German dropped to the ground and crawled into cover.
“Kapitan,” Lena shouted and threw a pistol at Stepan. He caught it and slung the musket over his shoulder. Lena primed her second pistol and duck-walked over to the door.
“Get inside,” Stepan said and fired the pistol at the soldier as the man took aim from his position behind the crane. Stepan swore as the bullet thwacked into the crane's metal plates. Lena's was the better shot, hitting the man in the forehead as he rose to his knees to aim.
The shipyard erupted in a volley of musket fire and gunpowder clouds as more
soldiers and two emissaries moved to flank Stepan and his team on both sides.
“Inside, now,” he shouted and grabbed Lena by the bandolier. Stepan shoved her inside the round door and reached for the Cook, ducking at another volley of musket fire.
“No, Kapitan,” the Cook said and lifted a bloody palm from his stomach. “You go. I will play my part,” he said and drew one of the large Saami knives from his belt.
“You're a good man,” Stepan said and clapped the Cook on the shoulder.
“Well, we can't all be perfect,” the Cook said and laughed. “Now go, before I get all teary-eyed and emotional.”
Stepan nodded once and ducked inside the door as the third volley of lead bullets slammed into their position. He heard the Cook cry out in pain as he slammed the door closed and turned the handled into the locked position.
“The Cook?” said Lena as she unbuckled her bandoliers and passed them to Stepan.
“He didn't make it,” he said and wrapped the leather straps around the metal handle and tied it to a metal bar welded to the side of the door. “I am sorry, but we have to go,” Stepan said and flinched as the fourth volley found its mark and peppered the door with lead shot.
“Down?” said Lena and waved the barrel of her pistol into the darkness before them.
“Yes. This is a pipe. It leads to a grille door, after which is another door and then the pens themselves.”
“So we are nearly there?”
“Yes. We just have to get past the grille, and it gets lighter from that point.”
“Good,” Lena said and stumbled forwards into the dark. She smoothed her left hand along the wall of the pipe and aimed her pistol ahead of her with her right. Stepan followed a few paces behind her, memory-stepping over obstacles that tripped Lena.
“Feel with your feet,” he said. “It will get easier in a moment.”
“That depends,” said a voice, “on your definition of easy.”
Stepan placed his hand on Lena's shoulder and squeezed for her to stop. He crawled past her and took the pistol from her hand. He gave her his empty pistol and Lena began to reload as Stepan moved forwards.