Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  Sidabras acknowledged the message with a nod, while Gimbutas, seemingly taken aback, first cleared his throat and only then started to nod his head fervently.

  “Very well, Mr Vileisis, we have confidence in you,” the Burgomaster said finally, attempting to disguise under the veil of his dignified tone his satisfaction that Vileisis had accepted personal responsibility.

  Gerhardt von Ott gave the Burgomaster an unfavourable glance before bending over his papers. Not because he was particularly diligent but because he was trying to stifle giggles.

  “Let’s go over the other matters now,” continued the Burgomaster. “Tonight the city is hosting a banquet in the Town Hall in honour of our guests. I hope I don’t need to remind you that I would like erm... to have all the Councillors in attendance. I hope it is clear.”

  “But I...” Sidabras spoke quietly.

  “No buts, Mr Legate,” Burgomaster cut him off sharply. This was exactly what his wife used to tell him every time he started trying to find excuses to shun one of those tea parties. “No buts,” he repeated, knitting his eyebrows. “The Summit is about to commence. Ministers and ambassadors have already arrived, and the Council of Vilnius must fulfil its duty.”

  “And I thought my duty was to safeguard the city,” muttered the Legate, but his voice was so quiet that no one heard him, except for his neighbour, Alchemist Jonas Basanavicius.

  “The banquet starts at 9:00 sharp. A significant number of our guests are already here, in Vilnius. What is the state of the sky?” Venslauskis-Venskus turned to look at Direction Councillor Scherbakov.

  “Busy,” shrugged Scherbakov, a short and stocky Russian, who had spent the better part of his life in dirigibles, beginning his service as a Mechanic’s assistant and ending up as a Captain. Only recently had he swapped the airship deck for the chair of a city Councillor. “The Navigators are burning the candle at both ends, but the congestion problem remains unsolved. Viscigavas has no capacity for landing and dispatching such a vast number of airships. Here,” the Councillor took a sheet of paper out of his pocket. “I have received a report on The Aurora and The Celsius – a supplementary passenger dirigible from Warsaw – which barely avoided a collision due to their poor understanding of the Navigators’ commands. We were fortunate to prevent disaster from happening this time but I dread to think what will happen when we see The Parsifal approaching over the horizon.”

  The members of the Council went quiet. The Parsifal was the flying fortress of the German Kaiser. Today Vilnius was the destination of its maiden flight. The message of the Germans was crystal clear: they were showing off their power and esprit de corps. And that was the reason why Prussian Minister of War Karl von Einem – one of the hawks of the German Empire – was to represent the Kaiser at the Summit today.

  “As we have no clue how to moor The Parsifal, the Germans having not given us any hints, we decided to clear the entire Vilnius air space, ensuring that an hour before and an hour after The Parsifal’s arrival no other airships are travelling under the Vilnius sky. As soon as it releases its passengers, it will take off again, otherwise work at the airship port would inevitably come to a standstill,” Scherbakov explained. “Baron Rothschild has kindly agreed to arrive slightly earlier. But then again, the French threw a huge tantrum about their Foreign Minister being made to dance to the tune of the Germans. You must have seen the French letter of protest, Burgomaster?”

  Venslauskis-Venskus stared at the table. He resembled a hungry dog who had bitten off a piece of bone too large for him, and was now struggling to swallow it.

  “Leave Monsieur Delcassé to me,” Gerhardt von Ott swiftly took control of the conversation. “I hope we can still smooth over this diplomatic misunderstanding. No-one wants The Parsifal to get into trouble. We should be happy that the Russians and the Turks decided to make use of over-land transport, rather than flying.”

  “Yes,” glancing at his papers, agreed Scherbakov. “The private train of Izzet Pasha el-’abed, Secretary to the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, is expected to pull into the station in an hour and a half, while a special armoured train from St Petersburg, carrying Russian Foreign Minister Vladimir Nikolayevich Lamsdorf, should arrive in three hours.”

  “Pasha is arriving by train because one of the things he will want to discuss with Baron Rothschild is the Hejaz Railway,” Money Councillor Gerhardt von Ott pointed out. “Fiodor Matveyevich,” he said, addressing Scherbakov. “Baron Rothschild has expressed his desire to see you at the meeting. He thinks it’s a good idea to have a reliable person nearby, in case he needs some advice.” Scherbakov was so pleased with the last remark, that his face turned red, while the Rothschilds’ envoy continued with his confident address. “Now about Minister Lamsdorf ... his interests are erm... erm ...” von Ott carefully searched for the right word, “ ...somewhat peculiar. And...”

  “Sodomite!” Knight of the Cathedral Prelate Masalskis suddenly roared. “A sodomite, that’s what he is!” the words stormed out of his mouth, his eyes glinting. “He is an abscess to all people of faith! You think we never lay hands on St Petersburg newspapers? He is referred to as “madam” in the Tsar’s Palace and causes everyone to roll on the floor laughing when he attends the balls with a man-lover by his side. They are sending this sodomite here, and we are supposed to greet him and bow to him? Every single church in Vilnius shall hold prayer meetings for those possessed by Devil, and receive this one with holy water and rosaries.”

  The Burgomaster closed his eyes. The Summit was to be the jewel in the crown of his career, but now it seemed that everything was rapidly going downhill.

  With the meeting over and each Councillor going back to his work, Petras Vileisis caught up with Sidabras, who was walking alongside University Rector Gimbutas along the corridor.

  “We can deal with the protesters on our own,” he told Sidabras. “But tomorrow we could also use some help from your Legionnaires.”

  Sidabras nodded in acknowledgment. Of course, he didn’t have enough men, but with such a serious problem as strikes looming over the city, Steam City could not be left to its own devices.

  Vileisis turned over to look at the Rector.

  “I would also like a favour from you, venerable Master. Could you send me a few hardworking literature students, who wouldn’t mind working through the night?”

  Gimbutas raised his eyebrows.

  “I will,” he said with a note of surprise in his voice. “Plenty of Dominium students are like that.” Following a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Before they get too drunk. I will send someone for a chat with you at the Guild. But why do you need them?” he wondered.

  “Read it and put it in the hands of every child, a Samogitian and a Prussian Lithuanian,” Vileisis quoted Mazvydas[33], with a smile and a wink.

  “I shall see you at the banquet,” he said, before scurrying away along the corridor.

  Chapter XXVII

  Vilnius, Afternoon

  25 04 1905

  With the Summit sweeping across free Vilnius, Zverynas, as usual, responded to the overwhelming furore and madness in its own peculiar way. From the break of day people started gathering on Zverynas Bridge, from where some of them meandered along St George’s Avenue, aiming for the Exhibition Dome in Lukiskes Square; others tried to board a trolley for Viscigavas; while yet others chose a nice stroll along the Neris in the direction of Green Bridge. However, the majority of Zverynas residents decided to remain true to the traditions of their area by staying at home.

  Happy to see the first signs of a beautiful day, some people were filling their picnic baskets with snacks and setting off for the river. Their plan was to lie down on the grass of their ‘home’ bank. Zverynas had no desire to intrude on the Summit. And neither did it feel like welcoming the Summit on its bank. And that was exactly the reason why two tents with a rope extended between them sprang up on Zverynas Bridge before noon. Whenever traders, fire-eaters, magicians or proclaimers of God’s word would come too
close to those tents, they were politely turned back on their heel by volunteers with green ribbons. Had it been on a different occasion, the initiative would have been perhaps frowned upon by Vilnius Legionnaires, but on this day the news about the Zverynas barricades cheered Lt. Vagneris up no end – at least one area would keep itself out of mischief.

  Walking briskly across the bridge, Doctor of Alchemy Jonas Basanavicius quietly smiled to himself at the sight of the barricade. He carried a compact briefcase and, seemingly in high spirits, greeted people he met with an energetic gesture of his head. With Basanavicius approaching the volunteers, they doffed their hats and greeted the man.

  “Getting ready to ward off an assault, are we?” the Alchemist chuckled, bending over to walk under the rope.

  “Yes we are, Mr Councillor,” faltered one of the volunteer guards, a grey-haired elder. Especially for the occasion he had pulled out his old uniform jacket dating back to the times of the Tsar’s conscript army. After all these years in an attic chest, it was still in decent shape. “There are all sorts hanging about the place now. It wouldn’t take them a minute to clean you out of all you’ve got, if you are not careful enough.”

  “I wish you every success in your service,” said Basanavicius, hiding a smile in his bushy beard. Swinging the briefcase in his hand, he turned into the main gravel street of Zverynas.

  He ducked under the lush branches of trees, which seemed to have a desire to embrace every passer-by before releasing them for good, and left the street before turning up outside a very familiar yard, overgrown with wild rose bushes. Through the wooden gate he glimpsed a patch of well-tended lawn. In an armchair by its edge sat the host of the house, poring over a book.

  There was a tiny handle next to the gate and Basanavicius turned it a few times. This brought to life a petite metal man above, who raised his arm with a screech before starting to bang a tiny hammer against a miniature bronze gong. The powerful sound this miniscule gong made resounded over the entire Zverynas area.

  It caused the man to get up from the chair and put his book aside. Another second, and Jonas Basanavicius was clasping Nikodemas Tvardauskis’ hand in a long handshake.

  “I prefer you coming by Dragon Fly,” mumbled Tvardauskis, going back for his book, before leading the guest inside the house. “You make less noise then.”

  “The problem could be easily solved by you fine-tuning your little locksmith,” Basanavicius chortled. “Besides, I couldn’t fly today. Had I told them about my intent to get Dragon Fly airborne, they would have all swooned. So I left it in Steam City – I’ve asked the engineers to tweak it up a bit. By the way, have you heard about the Germans’ prank?”

  “How could I not,” Tvardauskis replied. “People speak of nothing else in this area. Just think of it – a flying fortress. You didn’t have to resort to ammonia to bring the Burgomaster back to his senses, did you?”

  “Nearly, nearly,” mumbled Basanavicius, putting his hat on a hook in the hallway. “And not just him alone. The French and the Russians are screaming in demented voices, even though they haven’t had as much as a peek at The Parsifal yet. No one could have dreamed of such a start to the Summit.”

  “Yes you are right, nightmares are in abundance these days,” Tvardauskis muttered thoughtfully, leading the way down into the laboratory.

  At the door the bloodshot eyes penetrated both men with their stare. The scientist’s fingers deftly pushed a few buttons, causing the eyes to close and the door to open.

  Inside the laboratory, Tvardauskis pushed the papers off the desk with the back of his arm, making space for Basanavicius’ briefcase. There was a click of the locks and the daylight revealed some glittering glass (daylight was indeed streaming onto the scientist’s desk). It was a tiny bottle of dark matt glass with a stopper, held in place by metal grips. A small syringe was placed on the desk beside the bottle, its needle enclosed within an oval glass hood.

  “I am still in two minds about whether it is a good idea,” said Basanavicius. “The truth serum is an exceptionally dangerous substance,” he muttered.

  Tvardauskis shook the bottle in his hand and raised it to his eyes, as if trying to see the colour of its contents through the dark glass.

  “Mind you, the times we live in are also dangerous,” he noted dryly before putting the bottle in a pocket of his long robe. “If O’Braitis is indeed who I think he is, he must be neutralised as quickly as possible. Or at least observed closely. I am dead certain that the new Master of Prague Vitamancers has come up with something more elaborate than pulling a sack over Mila’s head and pushing her in a carriage. But before we do anything, we must convince ourselves that our suspicions are well founded.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” reassured Basanavicius. “An hour after taking just five drops with his drink, the person will start feeling unwell, and the resilience of his body will diminish. What you need to do then is look for a secluded spot where you could inject him with the truth serum. The man will doze off, but you can question him without holding back – you will hear the whole truth. But fifteen minutes is all that you will have. When the man wakes up, he won’t remember anything. He will feel as if he has fallen into a light sleep. Most importantly, don’t overdose with the drops because...” Basanavicius paused. “... the side effects... I mean, they may be permanent.”

  “And what are they?” asked Tvardauskis.

  “They vary,” the alchemist shrugged. “Someone may start seeing pink elephants, others may spend the whole day in the company of a chamber pot. This is the main reason why the Alliance keeps their invention under wraps. Of course, it is nothing like the American Dr House’s Scopolamine anymore, and we have indeed achieved great progress, but the preparation is still far from perfect. Very few people will be eventually allowed to use it anyway. My silvery head will unavoidably suffer if someone at the University Dominium finds out I have ‘borrowed’ the preparation without the Rector’s permission.”

  “But you do realise, we must be absolutely certain,” Tvardauskis looked his friend in the eye.

  The Alchemist cleared his throat and nodded.

  Tvardauskis’ foster daughter Mila was at home throughout. At the first sound of the gate gong she rushed to the window and was relieved to see Basanavicius, rather than the guests she had been waiting for (because they would have been arriving terribly early). Forgetting both her uncles instantly, she went back to the vanity table. It was just her luck that her normally tidy locks had today decided to turn into the Gorgon Medusa’s snakes, and yet another curl slipped out of the hair pin, draping itself over her eyes. Several hair pins stuck in her teeth, Mila mumbled something rather unsuitable for a high-society lady.

  She was adamant not to admit to herself that she was sweating so hard for the guests who were about to arrive. “It’s nothing special – just two British officers coming round,” she explained to the curious housekeeper Morta. But she did get up earlier than usual and spent a long time painstakingly choosing her clothes before finally deciding on a light sky blue silk décolletédress with a full skirt. Happy with the dress, which suitably revealed her slender neck, she was now fighting with her hair.

  “The Lithuanian youth, who strangely enough doesn’t speak the language, is rather cute,”– Mila thought. “And I think, uncles Nikodemas and Jonas have really taken a shine to him.” But the thing that she really could not get out of her head were Charles Finley’s dark eyes. She felt attracted to them like magnet to metal. The girl remembered the fellow’s strong hands, holding her tightly when she was a moment away from plunging overboard The Icarus. The memory of his perfume made butterflies go wild in her stomach.

  A silver pin finally secured the lock where it belonged. Mila made faces in the mirror, finishing her session by sticking her tongue out at herself. She then turned to the box containing her three best friends. After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled out Pierrot.

  “No one told me this trip was about a marriage proposal,” Edwar
d O’Braitis said mockingly, inspecting Charles Finley who was sitting next to him in the carriage.

  Carefully wrapped in white see-through paper there was a large bouquet of white roses and a dainty wooden box with a bottle of cognac, lying on the seat opposite. A porter at The Bristol was happy to undertake the urgent task of providing Finley with a bottle.

  “What?” the Englishman appeared confused.

  “There is this custom in Lithuania. A man, going to ask for a girl’s hand in marriage, also takes one of his friends along for courage,” O’Braitis explained brightly.

  Being called a friend, Finley’s face was lit by a contented smile. The men, who not so long ago would have found the idea of sitting at one table impossible, following a few days in Farnborough Military Base, an air journey and a fight with The Broom, were now calling each other friends. Following his miraculous transformation, Finley, formerly the arrogant aristocrat and villain of the Sandhurst Royal Military Academy, was now a real partner, always ready to lend his hand in trouble and daring enough to take a huge leap into the dark in order to save a girl. O’Braitis was still at his wit’s end trying to understand where Finley had found the courage for such madness. He tried asking a few careful questions but Charles was very elusive on the subject, so Edward, worried that he might appear jealous of the hero’s glory, decided not to press him too much. In Vilnius, Finley continued to act strangely. Last night he had disappeared, coming back at the break of dawn. And yet again, he had chosen not to answer the question about his night-time expedition. O’Braitis thought to himself that the fellow must be taking advantage of his last free days prior to the commencement of the Summit, which had been allocated to the adjutants by Captain Mabrey. They all were to report to The Star of St George by tomorrow morning.