Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  As members of the Vitamancer Lodge still hadn’t laid their hands on the girl, their patience started wearing thin. The Grand Master had to “step down” – in fact, he disappeared without a trace and would never be found. When Konrad von Wittgenstein took over his predecessor’s chair, still warm from its last occupant, he felt baffled by his imbecility. And people say that only the most intelligent people can become Vitamancers.

  Coercion spawns coercion, action causes reaction. Count von Wittgenstein was able to read between the lines and had an ability to see through the most subtle of matters, therefore he promptly concluded that the girl must be under protection. Someone had blanketed her in an impassable protective shield which guarded her against any coercion. There is no such thing as chance. The Grand Master had no doubt that professional killers could competently corner the girl in some cul-de-sac, and suddenly lightning would strike, the earth would open its mouth, a dirigible would crash or something else would happen and the girl would be able to flee once again.

  On the other hand, for the first time in many hundreds of years, the Vitamancers had seen the light at the end of the tunnel, and discovered the door that separated them from their dream. So Konrad von Wittgenstein swore to himself that he would find a way to get their hands on the girl. Even if he had to employ methods that other members of the Lodge were not very keen on. Even if he had to call for the assistance of his deadly enemies.

  The carriage stopped. The driver did not rush to open the door, but stayed on the box seat as he had been instructed. The Count smoothed down his plain black gown, the lower part of which was embellished with orange tongues of flame, put on a hood that both concealed his face and protected him from the rain, and got out of the carriage. He couldn’t have wished for better weather – it seemed that the rain had not only washed out the streets but also passers-by and curious faces in the windows. Konrad frowned and pressed his nose with two fingers. The area that he stood in was far from the best in Prague and no one could have possibly dreamt of sewers here – slops, the contents of chamber pots and rain water had all merged into a fast-flowing stream that was pouring down the street. The houses were not numbered but von Wittgenstein had had the address clearly described for him: it was between the butcher’s and a green house with boarded up windows.

  The Master strode across the puddles (his long legs came in very handy here). Next to the arch he noticed a wooden plate bearing an inscription Seamstress services. Sewing, mending, embroidering. He pulled a grim smile and walked through the arch, emerging into a large yard. Here he was met by a gang of famished and dripping cats – there were tabby cats, black cats, piebald cats and even those who had once sported golden locks. The cats meowed in unison, welcoming the stranger. The thought crossed Konrad von Wittgenstein’s mind that the surrounding windows would soon be looming with the faces of snoopers, but the houses that encircled the yard on three sides remained silent. And the cats meowed only once, then all grouped into one pack and followed the intruder with their eyes, as he examined the house facades thoroughly.

  The Count stepped slowly towards one of the doors, or rather a black opening, and found himself in a hallway. The odour here was not much better than out on the street, the rotten stairs squeaked and openings in the walls on the first floor which had once contained windows were bricked up. As he climbed, he had no choice but to grope the walls for support. Anyone coming across this place unawares would have eyed him with disdain – who on earth would come here to have their clothes made or mended or fitted in a place like this? But the Count knew what he was doing.

  As planned, the Grand Master climbed to the second floor, pulled the hood over his eyes, and gave a slight push at one of the doors. It wasn’t locked. As soon as he stepped in, he was overwhelmed by a great urge to leave, as the most disgusting sweet stench inside coiled around his throat like a snake threatening to suffocate him; had he been outside, he could have run away – but here he was trapped. The Count broke out in a sweat.

  Suddenly a light flashed and something moved in the corner.

  The Count’s gaze fixed on a pile of rags.

  “Look who the cat has just dragged in,” a hoarse, senile voice sounded from underneath the rags. “An unexpected guest, I’d say!”

  The Master blinked and his eyes immediately became used to the light coming from a large Crystal ball standing on the ground next to the bed. Yellowish tentacles of smoke laced out from it like tendrils from a stick of incense, and began to advance towards Konrad von Wittgenstein.

  “A Vitamancer?” the voice croaked again. “Say something, Vitamancer. How do you like my barrier, eh?”

  A wrinkled hand slithered from under the rags and landed on top of the ball. It started to shine even brighter, and the smoke began to take on a tangible shape. The Master felt a lump in his throat.

  Well, there was no point in concealing himself any longer. The Count threw back his hood.

  The creature at the end of the room took a deep breath and sat on her bed.

  “Well, well, the Grand Master himself?” she sneered. “I can’t believe my eyes.”

  The Master stared at the scraggy old woman with sunken cheeks and loose grey mousy hair. Her eyes reflected the light of the ball, which made them appear yellow and resemble the eyes of a cat. Several empty square and green absinthe bottles lay next to the bed. The room was half empty. Apart from the bed, there was also a small table, a chair and a sewing machine with rusty scissors placed on top of it. The old hag had never worked as a seamstress. She would have never told crinoline and crêpe de chine apart, and ladies would have been scared stiff just at the thought of this creature touching them for a dress fitting. Despite all of this, all of Prague – from noblewomen and affluent merchants to despicable disgraced drunkards –flocked to the old hag’s place.

  The Black Seamstress was an ingenious fortune teller. And she hated the Vitamancers, who in the Middle Ages had drowned her associates in rivers and burned them on bonfires, called them frauds and lying oracles or, in other words, witches.

  With time, the persecuted oracles had perfected their skills, and it wasn’t only the secrets of fortune telling that they would pass on to other generations: it was also the magical incantations that allowed them to build barriers, protecting them from undesirables. The Vitamancers knew about this, and none of them would have ever dared visit an oracle, and especially not to ask for help. But the Grand Master had been left with no option now.

  “I haven’t done anything wicked, I haven’t broken any rules,” hissed the old lady, ogling the intruder. “Get out of here, Grand Master. And get your whole gang out unless you want to see what my barrier is capable of.”

  Count stretched out his arms.

  “I came alone,” he murmured and a split second later croaked from the touch of invisible hands grasping at his throat.

  “Oh that’s fine then,” the old lady said in a calm voice, and the invisible hands immediately retreated.

  A thought crossed the Master’s mind that the ball was reacting to the old woman’s voice.

  She giggled.

  “You want to hear your fortune?” she asked, then rummaged through her rags and fished out a bottle that was half full. She threw back her head and took a large gulp.

  The Master gritted his teeth but kept quiet, and the ball flashed hesitantly. The old woman gave a loud burp, placed the bottle on the ground and pointed her finger at the visitor.

  “And what am I getting in return? The green sky, a rain of ale? I don’t need anything, thank you very much,” she went quiet. “If you have come alone, Grand Master, alone you should leave,” she added in a voice that had changed completely. It wasn’t hoarse or croaking, but clear and ringing. “I am the last of the oracles and I won’t be easy pickings for you. Leave and do not come back.”

  The glowing of the ball became sharper again, but the Master was not going to give up just like that.

  “Take the gold and tell me the truth” – he pron
ounced the incantation dating back to the beginning of the world. He said it slowly but full of confidence.

  The old woman recoiled as if she had been struck with a whip and reached out for the bottle.

  “You are shrewd, Grand Master,” she said. “You could have threatened me. Or taken me to your dungeons. You could have done many things. But you are shrewd, so you have not.” She tilted her head and the bottle back and the green viscous liquid trickled down her chin. It was a strange kind of absinthe. The old hag thrust her trembling digit at the intruder again. “Fine, Konrad von Wittgenstein, I will take your gold and tell you the truth.”

  Without warning the ball stopped glowing, and the smoke dispersed.

  The Count cautiously inched forward, and took a purse containing money and a photo of a young girl from underneath his gown. He put everything on the little table next to the sewing machine.

  The Black Seamstress crawled languidly out of her bed, walked over to the machine with a bottle in her hand, and a sneer on her face for the visitor, and slumped down in the chair. She paid no heed to the purse.

  The Master backed towards the door.

  “This is a Gritzner from Saxony,” the old woman muttered to herself, stroking the machine. “Their logo is a spider on a web. A good, reliable company.”

  As she talked, she pulled a knife with an intricately carved blade and an incredibly white kerchief from the drawer. She pushed the kerchief under the sewing needle and lifted Mila’s photo to her eyes.

  “Beautiful girl. But she is not for you, Vitamancer,” concluded the Black Seamstress and chuckled at her own joke. She then set about her task.

  At first she guzzled down a swig of her potion, and then swiftly slashed at her raised wrist with the knife. Immediately, thick purple blood oozed out of the gash, large drops staining Mila’s photo, dripping over the edges and onto the white kerchief, soaking it all the way through. Konrad von Wittgenstein could swear he saw green dots sparkling in the blood.

  The seamstress licked the blood off her arm and poured some of the bottled green liquid over the wound; in front of his very eyes, the wound began to close up. She placed the photo on top of the kerchief, touched the balance wheel of the sewing machine with her fingers, closed her eyes – and the machine came alive: the rattling needle jumped up and down crazily, and the white kerchief under it moved in all directions, as if alive.

  When the machine calmed down, the needle froze in one spot. The Black Seamstress still sat there for a while without a stir, then opened her eyes and rose unsteadily to her feet. She stared at the Master for a long time, eventually handing him the kerchief. Nothing much but a ball of perforated paper was left of the picture.

  “Search for the key to her heart, Vitamancer,” said the old woman. “Only with the key will you get the girl.” She clutched the bottle, shuffled towards her bed, then turned to face the Count and added, “I took your gold and told you the truth. So now you go away and never come back.”

  Suddenly the ball was glowing brightly again and the snakes of smoke reached towards the Master. Clutching the kerchief in his hand, he started moving backwards towards the door. With the door open, he looked back at the old hag from the threshold. The protective barrier was now coming to full power, and the Master had to summon his entire reserves of strength, as if to lift a rock three times his weight. The old woman glared at him without blinking her yellow eyes. Konrad felt a tightness developing in his chest, and found himself short of breath. The air in the room was as poisonous as mercury vapour.

  With the help of his remaining powers, the Master pulled a long-barrelled pistol out from under his gown and aimed at the old woman. The snakes of smoke, like predators, coiled around his arm, but the man released a shot a second before he lost hold of the pistol. The old woman fell to her knees, the bottle slid out of her hand and rolled across the floor.

  The spell ended, the glow of the ball died, and the Master was able to take a deep breath. The oracle, gasping for air like a fish out of water, reached out for the bottle and tried to inundate her wound with the green liquid – but a heavy boot kicked it out of her hand. The Master leaned over the old woman, cold-bloodedly fired another shot, then turned on his heel and, leaving the pouch of gold on the table, vanished from the Black Seamstress’ haunt.

  When out in the hallway he heard a strange lament, bursting with heartbreak, anger and rage. Anyone else would have run for their life, as the ghastly song could have torn any heart out, but the Grand Master of the Vitamancer Lodge Konrad von Wittgenstein strode outside calmly. From each and every crevice of the yard he was glared at by a multitude of cats. Their backs were arched, their fur was in disarray, their eyes gleamed with blood-thirsty flames and the odd lament-like caterwauling emanated from their mouths. As soon as the Master reached the yard, the lament turned into furious hissing, but cats did not dare to get closer to the man. It looked like the Master was surrounded by an invisible circle that was impenetrable for these creatures.

  Konrad von Wittgenstein concealed the pistol underneath his robe, pulled the hood over his eyes and, leaving the creatures to mourn their loss, slipped through the arch and into the street, where the carriage awaited him.

  “To the Lodge!” he ordered stepping into the carriage. “Hurry.”

  Immediately the driver increased the engine pressure, which was followed by a shrill hissing sound, and the carriage began to move. The carriage gradually gained speed and began to race through all the puddles, but the driver ignored this – he was diligently carrying out his orders.

  The Master’s eyes darted over the drawn curtains and then stopped on the kerchief. He felt lost – he didn’t know whether to be angry with himself or just laugh. By visiting the Black Seamstress he had not only risked his own life, but also his prestige. And the old hag’s prophecy appeared to be so banal.

  Two simple objects were embroidered on the blood-soaked kerchief – a heart and a key. The key to the heart. “Search for the key to the girl’s heart. Only with the key will you get the girl.” So she meant no coercion, no spells, no killings. Everything is as simple as three hellers[17] – all they need to do is to win Mila’s heart.

  The Master threw the kerchief to the floor with disgust, made himself comfortable in his previous half-prone position and closed his eyes. He wasn’t the type who tormented himself about the past or bemoaned previous mistakes. Whatever has been done cannot be changed, one needs to look ahead to the future. The time for a special web of intrigue had come.

  A short while later the carriage returned to the centre of Prague, drove round St Vitus Cathedral and rolled in through a vigilantly guarded gate set in a thick wall. Plastered in black and white, the walls looked as if they had been made out of tiny pyramids. This was the great Schwarzenberg Palace – the headquarters of the Prague Vitamancers and a menacing place that local residents tried to avoid approaching at any cost. The symbol of the Vitamancers – an orange phoenix with outstretched wings – sat on the giant clock, while gargoyles perched on the surrounding roofs, spitting rain water from their distorted mouths. When Count Konrad got out of the carriage, he already had an idea of what to do.

  “Get the opium-mirror den ready,” he ordered his servants, who had humbly rushed to welcome him. “I will need Vilnius Vitamancer Lodge...” the Grand Master considered this for a moment. “No, let’s leave them in peace. I will need some help from our special friends the Fetches. Take care of the connection with London.”

  The Count walked into the garderobe, removed his wet gown, undressed and wrapped himself in a soft Persian bathrobe. He then moved to the opium-mirror den, took a sip of the steaming hot bergamot tea that had been served for him a moment ago, and made himself comfortable on the soft bed. Thin threads of smoke started floating above his head. The last thought that crossed his mind before he drifted into alchemist opium dreams was, “Love and intrigue. How romantic!”

  Chapter V

  Sandhurst, England, three days previously


  18 04 1905

  Only outside of London was it possible to see signs that spring had finally sprung. The trees on the streets of the capital of the British Empire were always shrouded in the smoke coughed out by the sprawling East End factories, and one could hardly notice the leaf buds that had opened with considerable delay. Besides, living in a permanent rush, Londoners had no time to look at the trees, and they never stopped in Regent’s Park or St James’ Park trying to catch a whiff of hyacinths and anemones. Maybe only in summer, when the great city became exhausted from the heat, would it unbutton its white collars, remove its aprons, wipe away the sweat from foreheads with soot-stained hands, and finally allow itself to have a short break.

  Those who longed for the gifts of nature were carried by chugging trains to Kent, which was also known as the Garden of England; others took pleasure in the fresh sea breeze on the beaches of Brighton, while still others swarmed through the thick woods in the County of Surrey taking to the pleasure of hunting. Carriages travelling to the East (Oxford) and the North (Cambridge) were buzzing with students impatient to see the end of their exams, as well as romantic couples travelling to the Thames for punting. The great English river, still unblemished by the greasy touch of London, gently carried its waters through the picturesque little villages with their several-hundred-year-old pubs, tempting travellers in with the promise of dark ale and the shade of weeping willows. Even the hottest-tempered adventurer couldn’t resist a leisurely stop here for one or two pints in beautiful surroundings.

  The Southeast Train Company service from London Charing Cross to Reading departed the station early in the morning. A group of young partygoers, travelling to their holiday destination, chattered boisterously in one of the carriages. They must have started their celebration as soon as they left London, as now their carousing was in full swing and they were roaring with laughter at jokes that they alone found funny. They were making so much noise that several couples and families with children could stand it no more and moved to a more peaceful carriage. But there was one passenger in the corner of the train who didn’t seem bothered by this racket. He sat slouched in the corner with a black hat over his eyes, either trying to protect them from the morning sun glaring through the dirty window or possibly in an attempt to distance himself from the boisterous crowd.