“The Troubles?” asked Vagneris. He, like all other Lieutenants of the Legion, was a man of few words.
Sidabras cast another glance over the gondola edge, his eyes searching for the mishmash of brownish red roofs. Suddenly the words of Motiejus Kairys came back to him, “You think all I care about is money? Oh how wrong you are. I also care about this city, which would have no chance of survival without the likes of you, and without the likes of me.”
“Let’s leave the Troubles alone. Deploy three patrolling officers and a steam carriage next to the Pillars. Ask a few broceurs to keep you informed of any developments in the Troubles. Regarding the Troubles and things happening there, our men will be responsible only for saving the most eminent heads, if they ever need saving, that is.” Sidabras looked towards Steam City, with its usual greyish smog lingering above the factories. “And another thing. If we were inclined to believe The Truth’s hacks, the city may be hit by strikes. In fact, they have possibly started already. With strikes comes unrest. Although the head of the Guild of Mechanics has reassured me that they will deal with the protests themselves, get your men ready in case there is a need to quell the riots. What I want to say is, have a reserve ready for that.” Sidabras fell silent for a while, then took a deep breath. “But that’s not all. I am now leaving for the Council meeting, where I will address the Burgomaster, asking for his permission to storm our friends’ den – the Markuciai Manor. They have been outshining us quite a lot lately. It’s about time we had a chat with the Vitamancer brothers.”
Vielholskiy and Vagneris exchanged glances. They were both thinking the same thing.
“Legate,” Vielholskiy spoke hesitantly. “Even with all the reserve policemen, all the firemen and all the mercenaries from other cities, we wouldn’t have enough people to cope with it all. We are not...”
“You will cope with whatever you have,” Sidabras cut him short. “You will have to. Just think about it! Vilnius is now swarming with all sorts of people – from Russians, Germans, Jews, and Turks to anarchists, revolutionaries, pirates and rioters – not to speak about our own criminals. One little spark will be enough to ignite this city and turn it into a Midsummer bonfire. And if it burns down, we will end up looking after tuaregs in Sokoto Caliphate. We are the guards of the city and our duty is to appear beside anyone who decides to start a fire and trample the spark before it turns to flame.”
Both Lieutenants nodded in silence.
The pilot changed course, making his small surveillance dirigible move in the direction of the Old Town.
All of a sudden the Navigators’ Tower came alive, flashing multi-coloured signals of light, ready to welcome a dark spot which had just appeared over the Southern horizon.
“The Prague flight,” The Vaiselga pilot explained.
Sidabras racked his brain, trying to remember if any of the VIP guests were on this flight. He thought that one of its passengers might be Count László Szögyény-Marich, Ambassador of the Austro-Hungarian Empire to the Alliance.
He should not generate too much fuss, Sidabras thought to himself. But the gigantic dirigible from London, which was due to touch ground before noon, would be an entirely different kettle of fish. And how could it not, if it carried such passengers as Henry Petty-Fitzmaurice, Foreign Minister of the British Empire; Hayashi Tadasu, Japanese Ambassador to the British Empire; as well as the highly honoured quest Baron Nathan von Rothschild, unofficial Governor of all the free cities of the Alliance. But still the greatest mayhem of all was to befall on Vilnius in the late afternoon, when the crowds would gather for a glimpse of the Kaiser’s flying fortress. “Damn Prussians with their metal box”, the mercenary swore in his head, before his thoughts were taken over by a completely different subject.
The murder in Cholera Cemetery and the drawings were still a major headache for him. He was trying to figure out how the drawings had found way into the hands of poor metalworker Vanechka Skorik, aka Ivan Skorokhodov – the Cholera Cemetery murder victim. Now Sidabras knew that this man was nothing like a common labourer, as he had pretended, but a Tsar’s officer. By force of habit Sidabras began to piece the puzzle together in his head. Number one, Skorik learns about the highly classified Vitamancer drawings from Porcijanka. The Russians show interest, Porcijanka’s companion copies the drawings before passing them over to Skorik.
Number two, the Vitamancers are not aware of the theft of the drawings, but as soon as Sidabras pays a visit to their Manor, they begin to investigate the matter, dashing over to Steam City and Novovileysk. Sidabras has no idea how they found out about Ujeiskiy’s treachery, but he felt that he had also played a part in it by going there.
“War is war,” he muttered to himself, feeling no remorse regarding the sad fate of the halfwit drawing thief. He had been experienced much more disturbing things in the past. Then...
Number three, Pranciskus Baltrus supplies the Vitamancers with various drawings. Sidabras’ gut feeling told him that these secret drawings could have been the reason why the scientist ended up in Novovileysk Psychiatric Hospital. And Vileisis had already told him – it is impossible to build the bionic man depicted in the drawings.
Number four...
There is still no Number four. Who pulls Pranciskus out of Novovileysk? Neither the Russians, nor the Vitamancer Lodge – it is obvious. Could it be that this complex game had yet another player who had not revealed himself yet? Maybe he was the one who commissioned the murder of the Russian spy Skorokhodov? But why doesn’t the murderer pick up the drawings then? Why does he leave them on the scene for the Orderly to find later?
And would it be meaningful to pursue this other version – which was looking more and more unlikely though – that the murder of Skorik-Skorokhodov is only an unfortunate accident? Hardly. But why then... why were the drawings left on the corpse? Weren’t they the target? And yet another thing: where had the unfortunate Pranciskus Baltrus gone?
The tightening grip of a headache made the Legate furrow his eyebrows. His initial reaction was to have a drink from the hotjug, but then he pulled his old soldier’s flask from his inside pocket instead and took a good swig of a different type of drink. Although the pungent liquid burned his throat, the claws that had been gripping his head just a moment ago released their grip. Sidabras bent his head towards one shoulder and then the other, listening for the cracking sound in his neck, before approaching the airship pilot.
“Let us out at the third post and go up again,” he ordered. “Any problems should be immediately reported on the wireless. Make sure you watch out for the large dirigibles and navigators. They are foaming at the mouth as it is.”
The Vaiselga gracefully suspended itself over the third surveillance post in Mirth City and dropped a rope ladder overboard. After climbing a few steps down the rungs, the three mercenaries seemingly effortlessly jumped down on to the roof of the building.
“You go back to your posts, while I am heading to the Town Hall,” Sidabras instructed his Lieutenants Vielholskiy and Vagneris. “Wait for news from me. I will come back to you as soon as I get permission to storm the manor of our friends in Markuciai.”
Chapter XXVI
Vilnius, Before noon
25 04 1905
Antanas Sidabras was used to people giving way to him on the streets, but today was different. Visitors to Vilnius had no idea what an awe-inspiring figure this man was to the locals, and Sidabras had to make his own way by pushing and elbowing through the crowd. A memory of the wall daubers flashed through his mind, but despite looking around intensely, he did not notice a single defaced wall. It seemed that the arrest of those kids beside the Town Hall had made the daubers lose their steam.
A few minutes later Sidabras walked into the Town Hall. Instantly, things turned from bad to worse.
The idea of an assault on the Vitamancer den sent Burgomaster Vytautas Venslauskis-Venskus’ head shaking so badly that his double chin began to wobble.
“You are totally mad, Sidabras!” h
e squealed. “With the Summit guests’ airships touching down, with the Exhibition welcoming its visitors, with people looking forward to the celebration, and, mind you, all this happening in front of the very eyes of Europe,” here the Burgomaster raised his finger as if pointing at Europe’s all-seeing eye. “...you are planning an assault on some manors? And it’s quite some manors you have chosen! The Manor of the Vitamancer Lodge! Can you at least imagine the scandal that would ensue? What would Baron Rothschild say if he found out about a feud sweeping over the cities of the Alliance?”
The agitated Burgomaster leaped out of his chair and made an attempt to tie a cravat around his neck. With his hands shaking like crazy, he only succeeded at the third attempt. He then flung himself towards the door and disappeared beyond it. Sidabras was left with no choice but to follow him.
“The Vitamancers are suspected of murder, assault and attempted kidnapping,” he thrust the words at Venslauskis-Venskus’ back, not holding out too much hope that they would have an effect.
“As far as I am concerned they might be suspected of the rape of Krivis Krivaitis,[32] “blurted out the head of the city. “Not now! It will have to wait, it will all have to wait until the end of the Summit, and then you can do as you please. You can stand on your heads, if you like.”
Sidabras noticed Money Councillor Gerhardt von Ott turning out of the side corridor. This petite man was dressed up for a ball, holding to all the tendencies of the latest fashion: he wore a brand new black dinner jacket that fit like a glove, with a dazzling white bow tie at his neck, and carried a black bowler hat in one of his hands and a pile of papers in the other. There was a newspaper shoved under his arm. Sidabras knew that Money Councillor von Ott had the power to influence almost all of the Burgomaster’s decisions and was about to open his mouth, but then remembered that Ott had come to Vilnius from Prague – the cradle of the Vitamancers – and quickly changed his mind.
The Rothschild envoy acknowledged Sidabras with a nod, before walking up close to Venslauskis-Venskus.
“Have you read today’s papers, Burgomaster?” he asked in a high, almost woman-like voice, before taking The Truth of Vilnius from under his arm and offering it to Venslauskis-Venskus.
Sidabras did not need to strain his neck. He was well aware of what its front page scribbles were about. But the Burgomaster had not seen it before.
One glimpse at it made him gasp and turn his head to Sidabras.
“Here, feast your eyes!” he waved The Truth of Vilnius like a flag. “Strikes in Vilnius! Strikes at the time of the Summit! Order, Mr Legate. Strict order. That is what the Legion of Vilnius should concern themselves with, and that is what we are paying them for. But no – you wish to storm manors!”
Gerhardt von Ott now also turned to face the Legate. He looked Sidabras over with interest, but refrained from saying anything. Quite possibly he simply hadn’t enough time, as the three men had already reached the Town Hall Meeting Room, the newspaper waving Venslauskis-Venskus marching ahead of the group. Current as well as imminent events were on the agenda of the Council members who were gathering in the room.
The first humble one-storey steam bath was built by the old Samuel Fin in Piromontas a few decades ago. In those days the authorities had no issue with the dirty waste water being released into the Neris. If Fin were still alive, he would be stunned to see what his small business had turned into. The gigantic complex of Steam City’s baths spanned three buildings, while its waste water travelled to the Neris in thick pipes and was then released to flow as far as the Alchemists’ nets, which brought its journey to an end by trapping it. Just like the spacious inns with their cheap beer, the public baths had become an inseparable part of Steam City workers’ lives. At the end of their working day men would take their place in a long queue and patiently wait for a free locker to cram their rags into, looking forward to washing off the soot and oils that had permeated their skin in the course of the day. Bath cabins and changing rooms were simple but tidy. In no way did they resemble the old baths of Tsarist Vilnius with their filthy floors, cobwebbed windows and jugs brim-full with dirty water.
Private bathing rooms were set up in a separate building for those with higher wages or working in supervisory positions. Drinks and hors d’oeuvres were on offer here, as well as the opportunity to have a private conversation with no one snooping around.
– Aahh! – noisily exhaled the old bath attendant, his birch branches competently smacking the four naked men stretched out on long benches.
The rods splashed hot water drops all around them, and the whole room smelled of mint and thyme. The attendant was indeed working up a sweat.
Professional provocateur Misha Suslov blissfully closed his eyes. “Isn’t it great when work goes alongside pleasure,” he thought to himself.
He had good reason to rejoice, as everything was going more smoothly than he could have expected. Just like Emilia had promised, Suslov’s people – all experienced rioters like Suslov himself – had not encountered any problems from either the Tsar’s border guards or the Intelligence services of the Alliance on their way to Vilnius.
These people wasted no time and set to work from the crack of dawn, running around preaching to people in Steam City’s factories, Snipiskes residential homes and markets as well as New World common houses. They explained, moralised, threatened and persuaded. And they paid, and paid and paid, banknotes falling into outstretched open palms like leaves in the autumn. Then incitements to give up work and stay at home followed. To join them. To say “no” to the rich masters. To stop bending their backs. To make the damn machines stop, because they will take away their work. In return for half a rouble, or sometimes even three.
But these were only the small fry. What they needed to do was gain the support of the workers’ association leaders in as short a time as possible. It was not easy but the ground had already been broken. The Truth of Vilnius was going all out to menace people with the spectres of new machines and increased unemployment, and the top positions being filled with reliable workers. Their envelopes of money were, of course, considerably thicker.
Suslov turned his head from side to side and squinted at his three accomplices, who were resting most blithely: Head of the Carpenters Association Anton Kolv and association activist from the soap factory Jonas Krazas lay spread out to the left, while the accountant from the same factory, Eustachijus Pugis, panted heavily to the right. Their birch-branch treatment and washing over, and a set of clean clothes on their backs, each man was to discover a very bulky envelope in the pocket of their jacket. And when tomorrow all the industry of the much-praised Steam City came to a halt, the most eminent of men – the guests of the Summit – would witness the streets being flooded by a mass of disgruntled workers. Thousands of angry faces. But that was not all. Suslov had another significant meeting in the evening, where roubles would prove to be too weak a currency, and would give way to chervonetses instead. The man, no doubt, was a true believer in the power of the red banknotes. The day when Vilnius and all its guests would finally understand the meaning of the word riot was drawing very close. Suslov closed his eyes. Everything was working out beautifully, as if proving the point that now, as in the past, everyone has their price. And who needs incorruptible people anyway. He thrust an extra three roubles into the bath attendant’s hands. Just in case.
The old bath attendant drew back from the benches and placed the birch branches in buckets of warm soapy water. He opened a tiny window in the wall, and wiped the steam off the Brownie camera lens.
“What to do? Strikes at the time of the Summit! It’s a tragedy,” Venslauskis-Venskus could not let it go. “Petras, say something, do something.”
The councillors’ eyes turned to the man in a bronze jacket, with a top hat of the same colour stuck on his head.
Looking rather pensive, head of the Guild of Mechanics Petras Vileisis kept opening and closing the fingers of his metal hand for a while.
“Someone is bendi
ng over backwards to set the city ablaze, to arouse the workers’ fury and halt the Steam City machines,” he spoke. “And they are doing it now, at the Summit. It’s not the first time we’ve been threatened with strikes, but I have not heard of massive ones such as The Truth is writing about. Where does that rag get all this information from?” the fingers of Vileisis’ good hand tapped the table. “I have been thinking for a while that a newspaper of our own would be a rather good idea.”
“Something like The Truth? A mudslinging publication?” Wanderers’ Councillor Faina Fryzel asked sourly. “Or maybe something nice and fair, discussing new flower beds in the parks? We had one of those before – some of us may still remember – it proved to be very unpopular among readers.”
“I don’t know yet,” Vileisis replied thoughtfully, “But you never learn if you don’t try.”
“How about we discuss the newspaper issue some other time?” howled the Burgomaster, using a silk handkerchief to wipe droplets of sweat off his upper lip. Even on a warm day like this, the logs were still burning in the grand fireplace. “Maybe we should discuss how to avoid strikes? Or maybe we should just give them all a raise?”
“That is not a solution,” Vileisis shook his head. “Decent workers do not go on strike, they may complain but then they go back to work, because they know that the better they work, the more they will be paid. The workers are being incited by boorish thugs from the outside, who are ready to play their part for a bottle of vodka. But when these troublemakers work, their work needs to be redone by others. The protests, no doubt, will hit if we don’t find ways to appease the decent locals. But please don’t despair, Burgomaster, we shall come up with something. The Summit will see smoke coming out of Steam City’s chimneys in its usual full pomp. I declare myself personally responsible for that. All I will need is some help from the highly esteemed Councillors,” his speech coming to an end, Vileisis turned to Sidabras, and then to University Rector Gimbutas.
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