Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  Tvardauskis’ surname was on everyone’s lips from Constantinople to Reval, and the Alliance was counting the millions that had been reaped from sales of the Professor’s patented mechanical inventions. The singing automaton with a modifiable song list alone was worth a fortune. The Krakow factories that produced the automatons did not have enough time to catch their breath, while the owners of inns and beer houses were at their wits’ end waiting for the much-desired machines on long waiting lists.

  Tvardauskis was a good-looking man – tall, with greying temples and fashionable clothes. Women liked him, he was a desired guest in Vilnius’ elite salons, and tales of his travels and adventures were passed from one person to another. Many people thought that if only it was something that Tvardauskis himself wished for, before long the city could see him as its own Burgomaster. But events were destined to take a different course. By his own will Nikodemas Pranas Tvardauskis had settled down in Zverynas and started making toy soldiers. The academic community was flabbergasted.

  “He is run down, exhausted,” whispered somebody. “It has something to do with being unhappy in love, or maybe a deception,” angry tongues kept on wagging. Gutter press newspaper The Truth of Vilnius, which had dedicated its entire front page to the professor’s persona, called Tvardauskis’ resignation The Riddle of Nikodemas, but still couldn’t work out why the distinguished man had forgone his brilliant career. The riddle remained unsolved.

  But Nikodemas Pranas Tvardauskis did not stay in the minds of Vilnius residents for too long, as they were much too preoccupied with other events that followed after the end of his life in the public eye: the party season began, the Krupp AG Company dirigible arrived, Count Drevinski’s wife found him sharing a bed with another woman, St Petersburg gave the Alliance another ultimatum, following the Legionnaires’ attempts to introduce a curfew in Mirth City students went on a riot and the British Empire pledged military support to the cities of the Alliance. Only University big wigs and some old friends would occasionally remember the eminent man. The latter had believed they knew Nikodemas quite well; however, a strange flickering in the Professor’s eyes would cause anxiety to many of them.

  So the scientist had found a place for himself in Zverynas and was now pottering around a table, laid on the outside terrace, struggling to keep the sugar dish away from some curious ants. Zverynas residents soon realised that Tvardauskis was a recluse and accepted him as one of their own. The scientist would politely decline all invitations to a pint of beer, and never asked anyone over to his place. But the locals would not be too surprised to see his outdoor table laid for two, because they had seen the guest who would on occasion descend into Nikodemas’ garden straight from the sky.

  Following its cheerful wallow in the dust, the dog Mitekas was now comfortably sprawled out in the middle of the road. Hearing a buzzing sound, he opened one eye and was about to bark, but only gave a wide yawn before going back to his dog’s dreams – he was well acquainted with the source of this particular noise.

  As Dragon Fly’s fuel vessels were already empty, experienced pilot Jonas Basanavicius gracefully landed the glider in the usual spot – a tiny clearing which was separated from Nikodemas Pranas Tvardauskis’ house by flourishing shrubs of blooming wild roses – with a swift wrangling of the ropes alone. With a gentle thud against the soft ground, Dragon Fly slid forward and was about to do a somersault, but the pilot jumped out of it like a flash, bore down on the tail of the apparatus with his whole weight, and calmed the machine. He pushed his goggles onto his forehead and started opening the vent valves in order to let the leftover steam out. Steam batteries for the journey back were prudently kept at Tvardauskis’.

  “You are late,” Basanavicius heard a voice behind his back.

  “You are not a bank, Nikodemas, to make me arrive exactly on the minute,” the alchemist replied without bothering to turn around. “I was held up at the Department. The Vice-Rector is demanding more detailed reports. And before I forget,” he added, while trying to unhook his helmet strap. “He wishes to know if you are not yet bored of this tiresome game, as well as your little toy construction job?”

  The alchemist finally freed himself from his leather helmet, turned round and extended both hands to greet his old friend.

  “And what did you tell him?” grinned Nikodemas, shaking his confidant’s hands.

  “I said that as soon as the doctors announce that the battle against your brain fever and aberration has been won, you would arrive back under the University flags to sing Vivat Academia.”

  “I don’t like you when you are so serious,” chuckled Tvardauskis.

  “I neither have my portrait on a banknote , nor do I aspire to be liked by everyone,” snapped Basanavicius. Then he smiled and stroked his bushy beard. “You know, the University really cares about you, they miss you,” he added sincerely.

  “It’s not me that they miss, they miss the foolish fame,” retorted Nikodemas. “And maybe they are just being polite, like someone who has finally ousted a nagging elder from their village, and is now enquiring about the date of his homecoming. Tell them not to bother. I have said my farewell to the Dominium for good and I am delighted with my wind-up soldiers.”

  “Which ones?” Basanavicius asked in a hushed voice.

  The companions gave each other a meaningful glance. Nikodemas laughed.

  “Let’s not fuss about such petty things,” he said. “And even more so, with empty stomachs and dry throats. Let’s go. Morta has done a great job in the kitchen today, I think you might be surprised. And you will have a chance to acquaint me with all the city gossip. It’s like living in a foreign country here. Just...” Nikodemas paused... “make sure you watch under your feet,” he warned.

  Basanavicius raised his eyebrows in surprise but followed his friend without a word.

  All of a sudden a small man emerged from the bushes and dashed in between the alchemist’s legs – he was no more than 10 inches tall and lifted his legs in a peculiar way as he ran.

  “What in God’s name! What was that?” yelled Jonas Basanavicius.

  Nikodemas looked over his shoulder and chortled.

  “It’s Sauvaldas.”

  “Sauvaldas?” repeated Basanavicius when the little dwarf had vanished in the wild rose bush again.

  “I have installed a solar battery on his shoulders and on account of that he can now run around all day long,” explained Nikodemas. “Compared to the power of the sun, everything else is a joke, including all the wrenches, clockwork, springs and even your steam. Sauvaldas is a child of the sun, do you understand?”

  “You have indeed gone mad,” muttered Basanavicius, but his steps became more cautious and his eyes became riveted to the ground.

  The two friends stepped onto the outside terrace and made themselves comfortable at the table that had been laid earlier. A minute later, Nikodemas’ housekeeper Morta, a rounded middle-aged lady, carried in a few covered plates. A delicious smell wafted across immediately. Both men picked up their silverware and tucked into roast chicken with chanterelle sauce, carrots, broccoli and fried potatoes. Basanavicius had a feeling that Tvardauskis was about to tell him something important, but he didn’t want to rush his friend.

  It started getting dark. Long shadows draped themselves over Tvardauskis’ garden. The headlights of a scheduled dirigible, travelling from Krakow and moving along the south-western corridor, gleamed in the sky, and a ray sent from the navigation pole shot ahead to the Navigators’ Tower. The flying apparatus puttered away across the Neris River, in the direction of Viscigavas airship port. Then everything became still again.

  When the men were fully sated, the housekeeper cleared the table and brought in two old-fashioned gas lamps, which immediately became a magnet for night bugs. The woman fetched a teapot, a carafe with krupnikas[16] and one shot glass for Nikodemas. She knew that to offer a stronger drink to the host’s friend would be futile, as he would decline it anyway.

  Nikodemas sat i
n silence for a while, contemplating the darkening sky. Basanavicius slowly stirred his tea with a teaspoon and waited.

  Finally, the recluse scientist drew the shot of krupnikas towards him, took a sip of his drink and looked at his guest.

  “Mila is coming back to Vilnius,” he murmured under his breath.

  The alchemist raised his head in surprise, stirred his tea for another minute, and raised the cup to his lips.

  “Do you think that is wise, Nikodemas?”

  Tvardauskis shrugged his shoulders.

  “Of course not. But it is the fairest option.”

  “Why?” queried Basanavicius. “They promised that in Kraków she would be guarded from the Prague Vitamancers by the best of people and...”

  “They did guard her, but not enough,” Tvardauskis interrupted. “There was an accident, Jonas. One day the nuns travelled to the Church of St. Agnieszka in Miechów. It’s about thirty versts away from Kraków. When they had gone into the church, a fire started. The door got stuck and five nuns burned alive, and although they managed to save the rest of them, the condition of several nuns remains serious.”

  “What about Mila?”

  “Mila...” Tvardauskis gave a sad chuckle. “Mila was her usual self. She wasn’t in that church. She tricked the senior nuns and the guards, at the last minute sent another nun to cover for her and secretly took to the air and to Kraków looking for adventures. No one even noticed that she was gone. Mila is safe now under the protection of the Legionnaires. But it can’t go on like this anymore.”

  Basanavicius stared into the dark. In his mind’s eye he saw loops of fire, scurrying nuns and the door being battered by rescuers. Then an old painful memory flooded in – Tvardauskis, Mila and he escaping to Constantinople and later to Varna, which then seemed to be such a safe haven, after killers acting on the orders of the Prague Vitamancers had carried out a night-time assault on them, causing a tragic fire. Those flames had robbed him of Gabriele Eleonora, and opened a wound in his heart that would never heal.

  “You said the church door got stuck? I assume it wasn’t an accident?” he asked.

  Tvardauskis nodded his head.

  “I see. We have kept her in hiding for a long time. But it seems that we are now dealing with a traitor who has been enticed by the promise of money, and possibly threatened.” He waved his hand with an air of defeat. “There’s nothing that we can do. While we try to get to the truth, the Vitamancers will come up with new ways to get Mila and find out her secret.”

  “Does that mean that we will hide her in Vilnius?”

  Nikodemas Pranas Tvardauskis shook his head and gave a half smile.

  “No. Enough hiding. Besides, you can’t conceal her in Vilnius. The Vitamancers understand that the two of us are here and they might assume that Mila is with us. Let them think that. I will make the girl free. The Vilnius Vitamancers are weak, they are not even close to the Prague lodge with its new Master. Furthermore, we are not block-heads. This is our castle and the Vitamancers will have to work their fingers to the bone to get close to her.”

  “When is Mila arriving?”

  “On the next dirigible from Kraków. Tomorrow or the day after. The Legate of Vilnius Sidabras assured me that on the way to the airship port, Mila will be watched by Kraków Legionnaires, and on the dirigible, by one of our own. Sidabras will appoint the most trustworthy escort. Besides, what could happen in the air?”

  Both men fell silent and sat for a long time, absorbed in their thoughts.

  All of a sudden a jarring noise startled them and made them jump in their seats.

  From the rose bush emerged Sauvaldas, who made a few clanking steps forward, then fell down onto his side with a dignified expression on his face.

  Chapter IV

  Prague, five days earlier

  16 04 1905

  All of Prague was drowning. The rain torrented down on the city relentlessly, turning gravel into mud, dislodging cobblestones that counted hundreds of years behind them, and cascading down the streets in rapid streams. The city’s sewer system had seen better times, so there were puddles everywhere. City residents circumvented them, too cautious to walk through – they were afraid to get water in their galoshes, or even worse, to plunge in up to their waist. The elders of Prague watched the uniquely high waters of the Vltava with their eyes on stalks, and the city heads were engrossed in worried discussions on what should be saved first if the flood became as severe as the one that devastated Prague fifteen years ago. Only the golems guarding the city gate did not mind the rain at all. The giants held their impassive eyes to the horizon, and only when retiring from their post were they subjected to the hardship of pulling their feet out of the gooey mass of dirt.

  A black steam carriage with no signs of identification and tightly shut curtains barrelled through the cobble-stoned streets of Prague, splashing water everywhere and forcing the rare pedestrians to press themselves against the walls of buildings. An occasional bystander would throw an angry word after the carriage, but the driver, his head concealed beneath a leather helmet, was oblivious to anything but his task. Deep in concentration, he constantly adjusted the pressure in the steam boiler and watched the road ahead through goggles that covered the better half of his face; he steered mindfully, trying to avoid deep potholes, and would occasionally sound his horn at a silly dog or a pedestrian who had decided to cross the road at the wrong time.

  The passenger in the carriage was a youngish, lean and tall man with a sharp nose resembling a stork’s beak. He was half-lying on his seat, with his unusually long legs stretched out to make himself as comfortable as possible. It was Count Konrad von Wittgenstein, the Grand Master of the Prague Vitamancer Lodge and the master of the golems. He was also, according to vindictive, albeit cautious, wagging tongues, somewhat of a necromancer. He kept his eyes closed as he listened to the drumming of raindrops against the carriage roof and thought hard about whether he was doing the right thing.

  A long time ago, Vitamancers’ lodges were part of Alchemists’ guilds. The legendary XVI century magician Faustus, the prophet of the Middle Ages Nostradamus and even the Rabbi of Prague Loew ben Bezalel were creators of homunculi – miniature fully-formed humans, and believed that Alchemy had the power to breathe life into them. In the eyes of their contemporaries these men were freaks, who lived alone, balancing on the brink of madness. Golems were also viewed with disapproval once.

  Those times were long gone, but the Vitamancers had not shut away in the dark corner of a cupboard the memories of their experience. After their separation from the Alchemists, and with a generous boost from the Rothschilds’ funds following the creation of the Alliance, the new Vitamancers became an immensely powerful organisation. They had lodges in all the free cities of the Alliance, as well as all major European cities, but their greatest influence and authority was felt in Prague – the cradle of their existence. Here the Vitamancer Lodge was the de facto ruler of the city.

  Since the Middle Ages, the Vitamancers had not only been wracking their brains about how to breathe life into their creations, but also how to instil in them the ability to think and make independent decisions. Following the creation of the Alliance with its free cities, Vitamancers all at once became extremely important. With the magic gas promethelium in its disposition, the Alliance was doing everything possible to make the Mechanics’ creations the automatons (the same artificial mechanisms that had been once created by God of metalwork Hephaestus) ‘alive’, bionic, sentient – with even more extraordinary, purely breathtaking abilities. They could become soldiers swaying the outcome of the battle, workers inciting another industrial revolution, explorers not frightened of cold, darkness or hunger. Hence, the Vitamancers rolled up their sleeves and approached their pursuits with renewed vigour – creating and experimenting, at times breaching the law, at times distancing themselves from their human nature, but always firmly believing that it would put the world at their feet.

  However, for reasons th
ey could not comprehend, they never came close to the discoveries they craved, and failed experiments and monsters howling in savage voices were locked deep in the Prague Vitamancers’ cellars. The Grand Master of the Lodge found it hard to admit that the Vitamancers had arrived at a dead-end.

  Count Konrad von Wittgenstein gave out a wary laugh. Who could have thought that a sally would occur right in front of all of their noses, in the very heart of the Lodge? Here, in Prague.

  Five years ago, at a festive ball to mark the beginning of a New Year and a new century, he, then just an ordinary member of the Prague Vitamancer Lodge, by chance came across a young girl by the name of Mila, accompanied by several little toys – automatons. They could think! They could behave any way they liked! It was so incredible that it knocked the Count off his feet. When he had finally come back to his senses, he relayed it all to the Grand Master, who began to act with no delay. Luring the girl into a trap with the help of some ridiculous promises seemed a simple task. But it later transpired that the girl was far from being a mooncalf. The Vitamancers were thrown off balance and in their confused state started making mistakes. The Count furrowed his eyebrows – these were some unpleasant memories. The mistakes were grave and not to be forgiven. Firstly, the Vitamancers pursuing the girl had tried to kidnap her in Prague, but the girl managed to escape together with her two guardians who, as they found out later, were two of the Alliance’s leading scientists. A year later they found her in Constantinople and tried to snatch her from the carnival in the Sultan’s Palace, but yet again their efforts proved futile. Another year later she was spotted in Varna but the Vitamancers’ actions bore no fruit there either. The Vitamancers’ agents started a fire which had no purpose whatsoever, but took the life of the Alchemist Basanavicius’ wife, causing the Lodge to acquire a deadly enemy. And now again – another pointless fire in the church near Kraków.