The Time Master

by Dmitry Bilik

  Phew. One problem less now.

  I went out into the street and tried to figure out how I’d get to Gorokhovets. I still had around $30 left in my pocket, and I’d need to use $9 of that for the glass repair. According to my phone, an Uber to Gorokhovets would cost $22. Then I’d have some expenses once I got there.

  I needed to find a way to cash some dust. Through Litius? That wasn’t an option. He didn’t seem to frequent the community. There was also Traug, but he didn’t have a cell phone — it was like he was still living in the Stone Age.

  Who else was there? Jan? Of course! I had his number and he seemed like a decent guy. I didn’t think he’d rip me off, especially because we were like brothers in misfortune. He was an inadequate human and I was an inadequate Korl.

  As soon as I pulled out my phone, it started to ring. Bones. Huh. That was interesting.

  “Hello?” my voice promptly transformed from lively to weak.

  “Hello, Sergei,” I heard Bones’ voice. “Am I calling you at a bad time?”

  “No, except that I just got back from the hospital. They did some tests.”

  Your Lying skill has increased to level 3.

  “Hm... well, I’ll come right to the point. We’ve filled out your employment record and issued payment. As soon as you have some time, you can stop by. Or I’ll swing by your place if you can’t come.”

  “No, no, don’t be silly,” I said, probably too hastily. “I’ll take a taxi and drop by.”

  “Great. See you soon.”

  I put the phone back in my pocket. Well, I guess the money issue had just resolved itself. My backpay wouldn’t make me rich, but for today’s operation that should be enough with some to spare.

  That meant I needed to go to work now. But I had to pop back home first.

  Judging by the source of all the racket, the drunken symposium of our house’s intellectual elite had moved over to the neighboring courtyard. I ran into my house, calling a taxi on the way. I put some money on the bedside table and instructed Bumpkin about the upcoming visit.

  “So who’s coming?” he asked, visibly nervous.

  “Just some people, to replace the glass. Here’s the receipt and here’s some money. Just transform into me and supervise their work.”

  “Oh no, no, no. Not good. It’s a bad sign for strangers to see a house goblin.”

  “They won’t see you, will they? They’ll see me. It’s no good you argue.”

  My phone dinged, letting me know that the taxi was already waiting for me. Well, that was quick. Also, the driver was a real nice guy.

  We drove through the city in silence. No gut-wrenching Russian rap on the radio blaring about wrongly accused convicts whose weeping mothers were waiting for them at home. The driver didn’t chatter about how customers were idiots, the operator was a jerk, and anyway this was only a temporary job. The cab didn’t even stink of some sickly-sweet deodorizer that cabbies usually hang over the dashboard.

  I had no problem talking him into taking me all the way to Gorokhovets. Talk about good luck. I’d chanced upon a perfect cabbie.

  It took us ten minutes to reach what was now my former job. After another fifteen minutes of pretense, my employment book and $215 were already sitting in my pocket. Bones then caught me by the bookkeeper’s and tried to slip me the money he and the loaders had collected. I almost had to fight him off. It’s one thing to lie, but quite another to profit from someone’s best intentions.

  When I got back in the car, I was crimson, my cheeks burning. I didn’t begin to calm down until we were nearly outside the city. I took out my phone and looked up the Gorokhovets City Hall website. I clicked on the person I was looking for and started reading about him. He was the chairman of the city’s Assembly of Deputies and a member of the ruling party — in fact, his whole appearance made it clear that he’d been around the political block a few times. Perfect for what I had in mind.

  The highway was almost empty. We got there in an hour and a half, and I even squeezed in a little nap. Finally, the driver pulled up in front of the building where I had to do my errand. I paid him, reluctant to dismiss him. I’d still need to drive around the city and then get home somehow. But a paranoid person inside me was whispering that I shouldn’t be using the same car.

  I climbed out. The old Renault revved up, tearing out of this godforsaken hole. Have a nice trip, man.

  I turned to the white two-story building that must have been erected a good couple of centuries ago. The sign on it read,

  Bureau of Vital Statistics and Archives Department of Gorokhovets District

  I took a breath and started for the entrance. Let the day’s main event begin.

  Chapter 13

  SAY WHAT YOU like, but the apple never falls far from the tree. Problem families haven’t given us a lot of Nobel laureates. Of course, there are rare exceptions which only prove the actual rule. People are strongly affected by their environment. I remember a lady friend of mine who once got a job working with an all-male group and just a month later she was cursing like a trooper, she knew the Champions League schedule by heart, and she genuinely didn’t understand where the second sock of the pair kept going.

  And when people get jobs in government agencies, they change in surprising ways. All the humane and genuine parts seem to be washed out of them, replaced with statutes and bureaucracy. Comprehensible words like “you should” are transformed into “the filer of the application must as soon as possible...” Meanwhile, their eyes take on the steely, cold gleam of a confident predator.

  This was precisely the specimen I faced when I went up to the counter. Or rather, she desperately wanted to appear like that. She was very young, probably no older than 25; a bit chubby, with cute pink cheeks, trying very hard to emulate her older colleagues’ professionally resentful glares.

  I shot back a look of disparaging calm. “Good day,” I said confidently, looking her straight in the eye.

  “Hello.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Svetlana.”

  “So, Svetlana, you should have received a call about me.”

  “I didn’t get any call. Who are you?”

  “I’m Sergei. But that’s not important. What’s important is who sent me. I’m from Colonel...” I paused and added in a quiet voice as though I were sharing a secret, “Nozdrev. Have you heard of him?”

  Svetlana nodded. Most likely, she really had heard of him. This was a small town. Colonel Nozdrev had been at the helm for decades. In the early 1990s, he’d managed to jump on the bandwagon just in time, quitting the Communist party and joining the current ruling one. And despite his advanced age, he clearly had no plans to call it a day.

  “The elections are coming up,” I continued in the same hushed, confidential tone, “and we’ve started to hold some PR events. You know what I mean?”

  An affirmative nod. I looked around. We seemed to be alone.

  I must have looked and sounded too suggestive for comfort, but that was only an advantage for me. “I’m in charge of one of those events. We want to feature a struggling family with a recently deceased breadwinner. We’ll film the Colonel arriving, chatting with them, and helping them out. To make it clear that he cares about his constituents.”

  The girl was listening to me so attentively she didn’t even blink.

  “So we need a list of people who died in the last month. We’ll look at the list and choose a suitable candidate.”

  “I can’t do that,” the girl said, shaking her head.

  “Svetlana,” I heaved a deep sigh. “We can do it all officially. The result will be the same. It’s just that neither I nor the Colonel need that. Perish the thought that anyone gets wind of it. And this way,” a few well-worn bills materialized in my hands, “everyone will be in the black.”

  I laid the money on the table in front of her.

  Your Lying skill has increased to level 4.

  The startled girl looked at the money. No, she hadn’t b
een working here long; she wasn’t yet corrupted by bribery.

  “It’s a win-win situation.” I continued. “The Colonel remembers a good turn and knows how to be grateful.”

  Your Persuasion skill has increased to level 2.

  A tiny hand shot up onto the table, fell on the bills and quickly slid back. Svetlana looked around nervously, fixed her hair, and nodded.

  “Wait a moment, please.”

  I expected her to hand over some battered manila files or ancient archival books. But my outdated ideas of the way they did things in the provinces couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Svetlana stared at her computer for a while, then printed a sheet of paper containing ten names with the date of death and registered address of each of them.

  She crossed out a few of them. “Here, these are from the last month,” she said, handing me the list. “The ones that are crossed out were old people who lived alone. They’re not what you’re looking for. All the other ones have families.”

  “Thanks, Svetlana, you’re a peach. I hope I’ll see you again soon.”

  Of course, that last statement was a big fat lie, so clumsy it didn’t even add to my Lying skill. I wasn’t likely to run into this girl anywhere anymore.

  I hurried outside and opened the paper. I’d also lied when I said I wanted names of people who’d died in the last month; I was only interested in going back a week. The mission had been issued only recently, so that meant the head of the household couldn’t have died that long ago.

  And in fact, one of the crossed-out names turned out to be the one I needed: Olga Nikiforov, year of birth 1938, year of death...

  I skimmed down to her address and punched it into Google Maps. It turned out to be close enough to walk to, especially because the weather was good. Well, a small snowfall seemed to be in the air, but to me that was like a pleasant warm drizzle.

  Gorokhovets was impossibly small and charming. It was cozy and old, just like a holiday postcard. Awash in monuments, it had long become a historical monument itself. All the cars, lampposts and electric cables looked so out of place there.

  I was so enchanted by this provincial town with its onion-domed churches, fancy baroque mansions and slightly ramshackle 19th-century houses that I nearly missed the street I was looking for and had to turn back.

  Things were already simpler here. The street was lined with tired broken-back log cottages that had once been well built. The paint on their shutters was peeling, the carved ornaments on their roofs cracked and withered. The barking of guard dogs broke the oppressive silence. Good dogs: they sensed the presence of a stranger.

  I went up to Mrs. Nikiforov’s house and stopped. It was just as Bumpkin had described it: a big house and a courtyard with outbuildings. There were no lights on. Svetlana had been right: the old lady must have had no apparent heirs. Still, I soon made out a chain of tiny barefoot footprints in the fresh snow, leading to a nearby shed.

  I didn’t bother with the gate: I had no idea how to open the wretched thing, anyway. I just leaped over it and immediately ducked down for fear of the neighbors spotting me.

  I ran over to the house, stood up straight and pulled out my little mirror to check the footprints. Just what I thought: they appeared to belong to a cat. Clutching my knife, I slowly walked toward the shed. There was no lock, just a rusty iron hook on a loop. I took it off, activated Light, and barged in.

  It was dreadful. It looked like a wild animal had been confined here. The walls were covered in deep scratches and streaks of blood as though someone had been dragged inside by force. The few garden tools kept in the shed were strewn all over the place, a bench lining one of the walls was completely smashed. Hadn’t the mission said something about a mass slaughter of animals? Evidently, everything must have happened here.

  I looked around closely. A tiny old man the size of a small dog cowered in a dark corner. He was scruffy and disheveled, with red eyes and long fingers. He was wiggling back and forth, mumbling something under his breath.

  As I approached, I managed to make out the words.

  “One-Eye, how can I live without you? One-Eye, my dear friend... One-Eye... oh, One-Eye...”

  “Hello there.”

  The old man raised his head, gazed at me expressionlessly, then emitted a heart-wrenching scream that made the birds perched outside shoot up into the sky.

  “One-Eye! One-Eye!”

  “What are you shouting for? Really. Stop now!”

  “One-Eye... he abandoned me,” the creature started muttering again, dropping his head. “He ran away. No house goblin, no barn hand. One-Eye, oh, One-Eye!”

  A notification flickered in front of my eyes, updating the mission. Not this again!

  The Mad Barnyard Keeper mission has been updated.

  Dispose of the barn hand as soon as possible. In case of delay, the amount of the reward will decrease by 5 grams per hour.

  Explanations have been added.

  I opened the explanations.

  There are two ways of getting rid of the barn hand. Either find him a new home or kill him.

  Oh, great. Thanks a bunch for the tip. Find him a new home? Was that a joke or something? I definitely wasn’t taking this psycho back home; one lucky house goblin was well enough for me.

  I reached for my knife. If I remembered rightly, Bumpkin was one hell of a fighter. He didn’t remember his attacking me, of course, because I’d managed to rewind time just at the last moment. Now let’s see if a goblin helper is anything like his bosses.

  I pulled out my knife, readying it. The creature was oblivious, mumbling something about One-Eye and his treacherous betrayal.

  In one swift swing, I buried the knife in his hunched back.

  Blood gushed everywhere.

  Mission accomplished.

  You’ve killed an intelligent being that was neutral to you

  -50 karma points. Current level: -80. You gravitate to the Dark Side.

  You’ve gained the ability: Obedience

  You’ve gained the spell: Summoning of a Sheep Dog.

  Not bad.

  All would have been fine and dandy, except the creature’s head dropped back. Our eyes met.

  His dying gaze was filled with pain.

  Shit. Shit, shit!

  [ ∞ ]

  I managed to deflect the blow at the last moment. Then I sheathed the knife and walked out of the shed. I was dying for a smoke or even better, a drink.

  All right, but where was I supposed to find him a home now? I desperately needed Bumpkin’s advice. That meant going home and then coming all the way back here. That would be at least four hours of travel, which meant 20 grams of dust: an inexcusable luxury.

  Having said that...

  I took out my phone and scrolled down to Mark, the glass fitters’ foreman. I couldn’t imagine what he’d think about me. But then, what did I care? I didn’t even know the guy.

  The phone was ringing, great.

  “Hello? Are you glazing the window at Demidov’s place right now?”

  I could sense confusion on the other end. He was obviously looking for the receipt.

  “Yes, I’m at Demidov’s. We’re about ready to leave.”

  “This is a matter of life and death. Please put him on the phone.”

  “What do I do?” I could hear Bumpkin’s annoyed voice. “Talk to who? Where?”

  “Bumpkin! Hi.”

  “Yes. I mean, hello.”

  “Just listen and don’t say anything. Well, listen first and then you can talk. We need to decide what to do about this barn hand. His mistress has died, just like you said. And it looks like the house goblin has bailed, too. What should I do?”

  I couldn’t imagine what the glaziers were thinking about me — or rather, the house goblin — if they were listening to the conversation. He gave me complete instructions. He told me to get some milk and find a big country house with a well-groomed homestead, then added a few tips on how to strike up a conversation with the owners a
nd their house goblin.

  Yeah right. Provided they didn’t have me committed.

  A couple of minutes later, I finally hung up. I went back to the road, climbed back over the gate and looked around. There were no well-appointed houses around here; they all listed to one side and had clearly seen better days. Only the one I’d just been to didn’t look so bad — apparently, thanks to the care of their rogue house goblin.