As soon as news of the pirates’ assault on The Icarus reached Vilnius, it spread like wildfire. Despite the pouring rain, people ran out into the streets and threw back their heads to watch the convoy of aircraft, which was now poised in the air above Green Bridge, awaiting directions from Navigators’ Tower. The moment it responded with a bouquet of multi-coloured rays, the three dirigibles moved in the direction of Viscigavas Airship Port.
It had become a tradition for passengers of The Icarus to gather on the sun deck for the landing. This time was no different. The crowd was brightened by the red uniforms of the British, several of Captain Mabrey’s men having gained his permission to stay on The Icarus. Charles Finley was here, as was Edward O’Braitis, who had been introduced to Mila by his fellow officer. She was now flanked by both men, as if they were ceremonial guards.
Mila regarded the city below pensively. She was torn between a desire to call it home and a feeling that she was a stranger here. She had a clear recollection of her uncle Nikodemas Tvardauskis’ home, the laboratory in his cellar and the scent of wild roses drifting over the garden, but the rest of Vilnius, with its streets and courtyards, was no more than a pale shadow in her head.
Edward O’Braitis had only been to Vilnius once. Still a small child, he had been taken by his grandparents for a walk around the great Fair of St Casimier. His retained few memories; a sweet sugar-coated pretzel and people stepping on his feet was about all that he remembered.
Charles Finley gazed down, but the cautious glances he kept stealing at Mila made it clear that he was preoccupied with something other than the panorama of the city. Every time their eyes met, the girl would please Charles with her lovely smile, despite her air of being lost in thought.
Vilnius Viscigavas Airship Port was not as impressive as its Kraków cousin. It was an old re-organised hippodrome, with dirigibles landing on its main field. The surrounding seating area had been removed and replaced with customs and passport control, as well as a spacious waiting area with a cafe. A cargo monorail connected the port with Snipiskes and Steam City. Huge airship hangars were situated at the back of the site.
This port accepted regular passenger dirigibles from Kraków, Prague, Reval, and less frequent ones from Kaunas, Königsberg, Berlin and St Petersburg. Just outside the airship port gate, the city welcomed travellers with a gigantic iron sculpture of a wolf gazing into the sky – a gift from the Guild of Mechanics. The wolf was also a clock, opening its muzzle to release an unholy howl at the start of every hour, which had scared the locals stiff and eventually made them write a letter to Spiritual Councillor Prelate Masalskis, asking him to force the evil Mechanics to silence the wolf.
Once upon a time one of the most popular pastimes of Vilnius residents was watching dirigibles take off and land. Families with picnic baskets would travel here on a steam trolley. They disembarked at the penultimate stop and laid their picnic blankets on the grassy hill with a clear view of Viscigavas Airship Port. But eventually people’s fascination with the novelty had died out, and only one or two curious types would still come to admire the whales of the sky here.
Today, however, the hill attracted a large crowd. Hundreds of people jostled through the congregation, filling all the spaces around the port, dying to see the pirate airship and the British military corvette that had captured it. In the waiting area and outside public order was maintained by a platoon of Legionnaires. They formed two corridors. One of them would lead the pirates to Sluskai prison, which eagerly awaited its new residents, while the other would welcome The Icarus passengers and the crew of The Star. They were greeted by almost all of Vilnius Councillors, led by Burgomaster Venslauskis-Venskus. Front-row places in this flock were taken up by photographers, holding enormous flashes above their heads, and other journalists, then relatives and friends of the passengers.
Nikodemas Tvardauskis lingered at the thin end of the crowd, squinting at The Icarus and waiting for it to touch the ground. Legate of Vilnius Antanas Sidabras had picked a spot between the two corridors. He stood giving orders to two sergeants, casting an occasional disapproving glance at the flashing cameras of the photographers.
“The prisoners should be put onto carts and sent to Sluskai with no delay,” he instructed. “Do not let any of the hacks near them, not to mention the rats from The Truth. They can chat to the heroes in red jackets if they like.” And then he spat on the ground, demonstrating his distaste for the British military.
The Icarus touched the ground first. The dirigible was suspended between two enormously thick poles. The port workers standing on the platform caught the ropes that were flung to them, and as deftly as jugglers secured them to the bulky hooks. The Icarus passengers demonstrated their appreciation of these actions by loud applause. A wide platform was moved right next to the passenger gondola. When the gate in the side of the gondola opened, the anxious passengers threw themselves onto the platform, causing it to slip down the pole, screeching from the added weight.
By the time the new arrivals were queuing at passport control and customs, The Star of St George and The Broom had landed on the edge of the port site.
On the Legate’s instructions, the Legionnaires closed in on the pirates as soon as they had disembarked from The Broom, and swiftly shoved them in to barred carts, before sending them away to Sluskai Palace.
With the first sighting of The Star’s captain Milton Mabrey and his officers, Vilnius Burgomaster Venslauskis-Venskus thrust out his chest.
“Welcome to Vilnius, highly-respected officers!” he greeted the British in English. He had been raring to deliver his whole speech in English but was fortunately convinced otherwise by the shrewd Councillors, who suspected his knowledge of the English language was rather limited. Therefore, Venslauskis-Venskus continued in Lithuanian, while Money Councillor Gerhardt von Ott stood next to him and interpreted. “We are very grateful to you for being in the right place at the right time. Please allow us to extend our gratitude by presenting you with a symbolic gift – the key to the city.”
This was another thing that Councillors had tried to persuade Burgomaster to forgo, but Venslauskis-Venskus had proved to be as stubborn as a mule and refused to listen. He knew that the key was his only chance of finding his way on to the front pages of the paper. So now the Burgomaster extended the giant key to Mabrey and turned back to face the photographers
“We are truly honoured, Mr Burgomaster.” This British officer had been seen many things in his time, and managed to conceal his surprise well. “The Star of St George is here to protect your beautiful city and I can assure you that no pirates will dare to approach Alliance dirigibles knowing that we are in the sky.”
When Gerhardt von Ott’s translation of Mabrey’s words reached the crowd, the air exploded with applause.
Although Sidabras did take part in the ceremony, he restricted himself to a brief shake of Captain Mabrey’s hand, then made his excuses and hurried over to the carriages packed with robbers and their guards.
Mila, Charles Finley and Edward O’Braitis were among the first to go through passport control – the well-mannered passengers did not mind letting the British officers and the girl go ahead of them. Outside the waiting area she scanned the expectant and curious crowd, searching for any familiar face. As soon as she laid eyes on Tvardauskis, waiting for her away from the main crowd, she ran to him.
“Uncle Nikodemas!” she cried, putting her arms around his neck.
“Calm down, calm down, lady. I am no longer thirty, and you are not six,” Nikodemas laughed. “Go easy or you may break my old bones.”
Mila kissed Nikodemas on both cheeks.
“Stop it, uncle, you haven’t changed one bit.”
“But you have,” replied Tvardauskis brightly. “And I see you have company.”
The girl turned back to Charles Finley and Edward O’Braitis, who had followed her over.
“Uncle, this is Charles,” she said. “He saved me from the pirates! And this is Edward. He is a
Lithuanian from Kaunas. They both are adjutants to the captain of The Star.”
Both men nodded politely.
“To be honest with you, I am in a bit of difficulty,” O’Braitis spoke in English. “I can’t speak Lithuanian.”
“But I soon will. I can already say gud dey,” he was interrupted by Charles with a wide grin on his face.
Tvardauskis released Mila and walked over to the men.
“Mila’s friends are my friends,” he stated in English, giving both youths a long handshake. With the parting of hands a mysterious smile broke out across his lips.
“It’s time for us to go,” O’Braitis made a move. “Officers are not supposed to leave their captain for long – besides, your security services might have a few questions for us.”
“And not just them – the journalists too,” Charles interjected again and laughed. “Edward, you shouldn’t forget that Captain Mabrey tends to avoid the press like the plague. Being Lithuanian, you will be the one to do the tongue wagging.”
“Will I see you again?” – the possibility suddenly dawned on Mila. She looked at Tvardauskis. “Uncle Nikodemas...”
Tvardauskis immediately realised what the girl was hinting at. “Please come to dinner. Would the day after tomorrow be convenient?”
The men were delighted to accept the invitation. Once Tvardauskis had given them the address, they both said their goodbyes and hurried to where the cameras flashed and excited voices babbled.
Nikodemas, his arm around Mila’s shoulders, led her to the carriage, where Jonas Basanavicius, having performed his Councillor’s duty by greeting the British captain, was already waiting for them. He was now watching the porters stack the girl’s cases on the roof.
“Mila, you light up my day,” he spoke to her affectionately, embracing her.
“And your beard, Uncle Jonas, has grown even longer. Are there no more barbers in Vilnius?” she started laughing.
Basanavicius helped Mila clamber into the carriage and then looked over at Tvardauskis.
“So?” he asked quietly. “Do we have him?”
“Of course,” the smile was wiped off Tvardauskis’ lips in an instant. “We do. And can you imagine? He is Lithuanian and stuck to her like glue.”
“Have you told Mila?” Basanavicius asked.
“No. Not just yet. Not until I am absolutely certain that he is a Vitamancer agent.”
Basanavicius nodded in approval, giving his friend’s elbow a slight squeeze.
After the robbers had been delivered to Sluskai for their lengthy and not particularly pleasant holiday, and after the British crew had arrived at the Bristol and the crowd dispersed, the Legate of Vilnius headed for his own carriage, parked beside a small hill away from the Airship Port and manned by a bored sergeant. The Legate was a moment away from clambering inside when he was dazzled by a magnesium flash.
“Journalist Petras Korsunas from The Truth of Vilnius, Legate,” a young man with black tousled hair and an abnormally large Adam’s apple rattled out quick as a flash. “How are you getting on with the investigation of the gruesome murder?”
“We are conducting the investigation,” Sidabras conveyed dryly. “I have nothing to add.”
As the journalist barely came up to the Legate’s chest, he pulled himself up by standing on tiptoe and talked fast to him.
“According to information available to The Truth, the investigation has reached a dead end. You have no suspects, you don’t know who the victim is. And you’re not doing anything about it.”
“I have done everything,” said Sidabras through clenched teeth.
“So does it mean that at the time when the city is being ravaged by a maniac murderer, the Legionnaires have resigned themselves to feeling helpless?” Korsunas fired words and spit out of his mouth. “What? You have nothing to say?”
“Not to your newspaper, I don’t,” retorted Legate.
“Does it mean that you are scared of The Truth’s free speech?”
Sidabras’ face darkened. Suddenly he could contain himself no longer.
He roared “I am not scared of the truth. But I use your Truth to wipe my arse,” and was instantly dazzled by the magnesium flash once again.
“Why are you so angry, Legate?” Korsunas grinned from ear to ear, winking to the photographer – a thin and tall man with a face as pale as snow.
“Do you need help?” the sergeant walked over to Sidabras and both men exchanged meaningful glances.
For over a minute the Legate of Vilnius stared intently at The Truth of Vilnius journalist. Korsunas started feeling apprehensive, while the photographer was suddenly seized by a bad feeling and began to back off quietly, his flash extended in front of him.
All of a sudden Sidabras leaped at the photographer and knocked the apparatus out of his hands, and it was swiftly caught by the sergeant. The Legate then grabbed and lifted the journalist by his collar like a kitten, and in three long hops reached the top of steep slope, at the bottom of which lurked a shallow pond overgrown with thick algae. A second later Korsunas was suspended in the air, his legs dangling above the thick blanket of nettles and thistles covering the hill.
“Help! They are trying to kill free speech! Let me go!” the terrified reporter squealed.
“As you wish...” murmured Sidabras, releasing his grip.
The herald of The Truth somersaulted down the slope and plopped into green water with a big splash. The picture box followed him down the slope and into the pond.
Sidabras turned halfway back to look at the sergeant, who was grinning gleefully.
“The seeker of the truth got wet,” he said. “Next time he should bother someone at a different address.”
“This is the only way to explain things to this pack of dogs,” muttered Sidabras – then suddenly knitted his brow. An idea had jumped into his mind: “At a different address? But of course! The address made them go to the dead-end road”.
“What is the matter, Legate?” The Legate’s changed face caused the sergeant to worry.
“Wrong address,” muttered Sidabras to himself. “No one but a big fool would give his real address to broceurs or a night coachman. Fatty Felix was not going home, and that is why our people could not find him,” he said under his breath, gazing at the sergeant. “Now listen... tell our officers to go to Steam City and visit all the old ladies sitting at their windows. Also question all the tenants about whether or not they had seen anyone looking like our fat shorty Felix. I bet he had a girl there, and he went hiding in her place.”
“Yes Legate,” the sergeant said crisply, indicating he understood clearly.
It seemed that the day had never broken, and while everyone was waiting, it had moved straight into the evening. Vilnius residents scurrying home shook their wet umbrellas before boarding street trolleys. Gas lamps were lit along the streets, and were soon shrouded in transparent veils of rain.
Legate Sidabras was in his office reading the initial interview records. It seemed that it had just now dawned on Stepas Rickus’ accomplices what the consequences of the assault on the Alliance dirigible could mean for them, as they promptly transformed themselves into wind-up canaries, filling the Sluskai cells with their sweet tweeting. Of course, their leader Rickus, who had been kicked out of The Broom by the British officer Charles Finley, was to blame for everything. The robbers claimed that because Rickus had fallen out with a wind-catcher on his back, he could easily have opened it and landed safely. Or – which was a more credible storyline – been crushed like a bug on the ground. But the truth was never to be found as The Icarus had been attacked near Trakai, in the territory of the Russian Empire, where the forces of the Alliance were not welcome.
The Legate’s attention was drawn to one interesting detail, underlined in red by a diligent investigator: the prisoners claimed that the assault on The Icarus was not Rickus’ own idea, but had been commissioned by some client of his. A few men alleged to have seen the man leaving the inn together with Rickus
, and described him as a tall bald man in a black suit.
The investigator wrote, “A quivering criminal, who had introduced himself as medic Zaremba, asked for a dose of opium, then fervently disclosed the whole truth. According to him, the bald man gave instructions to assault The Icarus in a particular spot near Trakai, and kidnap one particular person.” Robber Zaremba confessed not to know who Rickus was supposed to kidnap (the investigator was inclined to believe him).
Sidabras got up, rubbed his aching head and poured some amber honey vodka into a tall glass – his usual remedy for such ailments. He then wandered over to the window and looked out at Neris, shrouded in dusk.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” called out the Legate, his back still turned to the door.
“Legate, you have a lady guest,” the duty officer reported from the doorway.
Sidabras turned round, clearly taken by surprise. Sluskai Palace was a place where people were brought by force or came in response to an order, but they almost never came here of their own free will and without being asked to do so.
“Shall I bring her in?” the duty officer asked.
“No, I will go down to the reception hall.” Finishing his drink in one gulp, the Legate left the office.
The hall was busy with people. The usual types of pugilistic ruffians with their noses squashed and clothes torn to shreds were being brought in through the door by the Legionnaires. It took some time for Sidabras to make out the guest.
All of a sudden a white parasol flittered before his eyes.
“Good evening, righteous soldier”, screeched a familiar voice and the parasol went down. “I hope you remain healthy and happy.”
The Rose of the Troubles entered Sluskai dressed for a ball: she wore a long black sequined skirt, a light-coloured flowery jacket that shined through the dark, and her head was adorned with a black wide-brimmed hat with a veil that concealed her face. “You look exquisite, Rose” the Legate complimented her. “Do you have a rendezvous?”
Hour of the Wolf Page 17