by Pavel Kornev
"No," the senior inspector shook his head, "I just happened to find out about the suit you filed. And you know, Viscount? I do not believe in coincidences either. One day, your uncle's estate gets burgled, and the next there appears a check for a very large sum."
"The check was presented for payment long before this regrettable incident."
"And yet, Viscount, where did you get it?"
I took a deep breath and thought about whether or not to just tell the bothersome policeman to get lost. I decided it wasn't time yet, and shrugged my shoulders:
"The Count wrote me that check at our last meeting."
Bastian Moran gave a pointed chuckle and encouraged me:
"Continue."
"We made a deal: my uncle writes the check, and I don't bother him with lawsuits on my inheritance for the rest of this year and all of next year."
"The Count got thirty thousand francs out of that," replied the senior inspector, demonstrating a deep knowledge of my financial affairs, "what did you get?"
"Fast money."
"And that was all? You got just a fourth of the eventual total. That doesn’t look very smart to my mind. Was there something else?"
I replied:
"There was. I was planning to use this money to buy out my debts. My uncle was going to declare me an impostor, then Isaac Levinson would offer the creditors ten cents to the franc for them..."
"And the money would stay in the family?" Bastian Moran smiled. "Everyone walks away happy?"
"Not very ethical, but not strictly illegal, either."
"What went wrong, then?"
"Aaron Malk was supposed to cash the check. He was Levinson's assistant. But first, the bank was robbed, then Procrustes killed Levinson, and Malk disappeared with my money!"
"So, that's why you were looking for him!" the senior inspector figured, now fully convinced that my story added up.
"And you already know the rest," I said, turning away to conceal an inappropriate smile. "We found Malk dead. Before arriving at the police, I searched his body and discovered the check with a 'rejected' stamp on it."
"And so, you went to hash it out with your uncle?" Bastian Moran suddenly shuddered.
"Balderdash!" I laughed carelessly. "I decided to take the legal route and now, I've got my uncle right where I want him! The law is on my side!"
"And that is surprising," he said, thinking it over. "Why did your uncle do something so poorly thought out?"
"If you find him, ask," I shrugged my shoulders. "I'm intent on getting what I'm legally entitled to. That will be enough for me."
Bastian Moran nodded and clarified:
"Viscount, I suppose that Ramon Miro will corroborate your story, then?"
And I carelessly shrugged my shoulders again:
"Ask him."
"Without fail," the senior inspector promised, giving me a salute goodbye before he walked down the embankment. Soon, a closed carriage came out of the square with no distinguishing features. Bastian Moran flung open the door, climbed swiftly inside and rolled off into the night.
I'm sure that, if my answers hadn't been to his liking, I'd be rolling off in that carriage with him. But this time I wriggled out of it, tricking fate yet again.
I took a few deep breaths, calming my frenzied breathing. I took a drink from a water fountain and leaned my elbows on the embankment wall.
As surprising as it seemed, I wasn't at all worried when talking with the senior inspector. Not one bit. The whole time, I had the image of Elizabeth-Maria von Nalz before my eyes. I heard her voice, and smelled the subtle aroma of her perfume. It hadn't gone anywhere and now, in the most natural way, it was driving me insane. I wanted to howl at the moon and tear out my own heart in anguish.
Naturally, I didn't do anything of the sort. Instead, I stood and looked at the river.
Just stood and looked.
The clouds stretched out over the sky, obscuring the scattered stars and rising moon; the dark now enshrouding the city was broken up only by street lights and the gleam coming from shop windows on the opposite bank of the river. In the distance, I saw signal-tower lights way up high.
At night, you cannot see the grime. At night, you cannot see the gilding. Night makes equals of us all.
It looks down from on high, not distinguishing rich from poor. Love is not so forgiving of human flaws.
As before, the lights of the carriages were crawling over the bridge. Like the other circus patrons, I didn't want to walk around the city at night, either. I was also very afraid of ending up in an electric chair again, so I was careful in my selection of a cab, hiring only the third or fourth one that met my eye. And then, I only got inside after I had taken the safety guard off my Cerberus and stashed it in my pocket.
"Balsamo Square," I commanded.
We negotiated for a short while, then the driver gave the reins a flick and the horses brought the carriage down the night-time streets of New Babylon. I closed my eyes and remembered Elizabeth-Maria. The scent of her perfume, the softness of her hands, her voice and surprising, delightful eyes.
And she remembered the gangly Viscount. She remembered me!
She even realized that I had been the one to stop the legendary Procrustes. The thought even made me feel guilty for a moment. Only for a moment, though. Because no matter what, I didn't have a single chance. I was not a good match for her.
Not a good match, that was it.
5
BALSAMO SQUARE was surfaced with ideally even black stone, baked into place. At one point, a prison had towered here with powerful bulwarks and damp dungeons that plunged into the earth for many dozens of meters; and so it was until the mystic and adventurer Giuseppe Balsamo was transferred here from the Lion's Castle. He called himself the Count Cagliostro.
It is still truly unknown, whether Balsamo had magical abilities from the beginning or if he turned in despair to the rulers of the underworld once out of confinement, but the fact remains that the Count was the first to challenge the fallen and bear the force of their rage. He didn’t last long, but bear it he did.
The rebellion lasted for two days. In the end, the authorities of New Babylon destroyed the prison down to its foundation and filled the basements with molten stone. Along the way, a few neighboring blocks went below the earth, but the main consequence of that incident was not at all the destruction; many historians are proponents of the theory that Cagliostro's example was the inspiration for the Rie brothers' rebellion a half century later.
There was anecdotal confirmation of that fact as well: Emperor Clement had personally attached the name Balsamo to the barren patch where the prison had once stood, even though the Count was not a scientists or philosopher, the professions typically honored in the Empire as the main engines of progress.
I didn't particularly like this area. It was too unquiet and eclectic, even for New Babylon. The ancient buildings leaned up against one another. The new constructions rose up intently with uneven gaps separating them. Everywhere around, there were iron grates underfoot, but they were not storm drains. There was another street below. Down there, you could see the windows of the floors left below ground. Through the grate, you could see people walking between bright streetlights and hear music playing.
The nearest way down was a little stairwell with collapsed stone steps. I went down it, my hand in my pocket squeezing my wallet. Once below, I walked down the underground street confidently and with determination.
During the day, light reached this level through the grates. Now, I could see shop windows and occasional gas lamps. There were plenty of people down here; the majority of them were unprincipled thieves and naive dreamers. Miracle elixirs from unknown masters and outright rapscallions could not be distinguished by taste or color; palm readers easily found scientific bases for their work in the writings of ancient scholars and the geniuses of the Renaissance era, while horoscopes were composed in accordance with the most recent astronomical discoveries. It wasn't a good ide
a to yawn here. Otherwise, you could be drawn into some unpleasant business before you even blinked. You'd find yourself buying a blood-purifying magnetic bracelet or an amulet to protect you from the evil eye made of meteoric iron.
"Sublime Electricity!" whooped out a plump character in a white robe not far away. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. "A scientific method of exorcising demons and removing curses with electric current! Just five francs! Don't pass this by! Unique technology!"
His lathered assistant was zealously pedaling a generator, and the wires of the ominous looking armchair sparked with electric discharge from time to time.
I quickened my pace. I hadn't the slightest desire to sit in an electric chair by choice. It would have been doubly strange to pay for it.
A bit later, the din of the crowd was left behind. I turned down an imperceptible passage and descended a narrow stairway to the level below. Light didn't reach here at all. And even my good illustrious vision wasn't enough to be able to see sufficiently; in fact, the glow of my eyes now only inhibited me.
I flicked the wheel of my lighter, but the uneven flame immediately went out, and the sparks dissipated into nothingness; I was out of kerosene. I cursed and walked on, looking for the door I wanted almost totally blind.
I found it, knocked and, not long after, the door flew open hospitably.
"Leo, what a surprise," Charles Malacarre said with a shake of his head, letting me inside. "I didn't hear a thing from you for five years, and now you're a frequent visitor all of a sudden!"
It was pitch dark in the blind illustrator's residence and, after stepping over the threshold, I asked immediately:
"Do you have lighter kerosene?"
"Is that the only reason you've come?"
"What do you think, Charles?"
The artist laughed hoarsely:
"You need someone's portrait so urgently that it couldn't wait for tomorrow?"
The sound of a match being struck rang out, then the little fire was lit and a candle gave off its warm glow.
"You don’t have t..." I tried stopping the blind illustrator, but he wouldn't listen, and took a seat at the table, sharpening pencils.
"Is it such an urgent matter?" he repeated his indirect question.
"I simply didn't want to sit where anyone could see," I answered, looking around the artist's shoe-box of a room.
A fireplace, canvases, cups containing countless pencils on the shelves, an easel, a few chests, a table, a bed. Nothing else. Just a pitcher of water next to the bed and a few chipped glass mugs.
"So, it's personal?" Charles snorted, and said: "The kerosene is on the shelf by the fireplace."
I started filling the lighter, and he thoughtfully muttered:
"I don't know if I'll manage..."
"Why not?"
"Your talent is shining so bright that it hurts my eyes," the illustrator answered, and I took his words at face value.
"What if I try to calm down?"
"I don't think that'll be of much use, Leo. It's about a girl, isn't it? You're young, your blood is hot."
"Come off it, Charles!" I laughed uncontrollably. "I'm cold blooded as an adder!"
The artist sighed loudly, then asked:
"Think of something distant. I'll take what I need."
So, I laid down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. There were uneven patches of light flickering on it from the candle. It turned out to be quite the task to not think about Elizabeth-Maria.
The girl occupied all my thoughts. All of me.
The slate of his pencil scraped against the paper and, without waiting for Charles' bark, I started guessing where my uncle might be hiding, and whether the strangler would find him. My thoughts gradually started revolving around the lightning-rune box, then I remembered the undying werewolf. But in the end, no matter how I tried, I just couldn’t shake the image of Elizabeth-Maria.
"Leo!" Charles Malacarre moaned out, setting his pencil aside. "It's simply impossible to work with you! You might as well be pouring molten gold into my head!" he shouted, standing from the easel and grabbing for the pitcher as he said: "Alright, take a look..."
I grabbed the candle, walked up to the portrait and froze, stunned in place.
Elizabeth-Maria von Nalz looked alive. Although the drawing was fully black and white, the orange specks in her illustrious eyes were shimmering, and it seemed that she was now smiling and would soon begin talking to me. The sensation was so real I got spooked...
"Leo!" Charles shouted, giving me a jerk. "Control your talent. Get it together!"
"I'm ok," I whispered, wiping my sweaty face with a kerchief. "Charles, this is simply amazing!"
"Love, love," he said, just shaking his head.
I took the sheet from the easel and rolled it into a tube. I felt more at ease on a deep level. I don't know if it was a peculiarity of Charles' talent, or a quirk of the human psyche, but every time the illustrator put my fantasies to paper, they dimmed in my mind, no longer able to tear my psyche to shreds.
The thoughts of Elizabeth-Maria stopped tormenting me. My mental clarity returned, and left me with the obsessive desire to see her again no matter the cost. Only then did I understand how close I was to trying to lie my way into the reception at Baron Dürer's tomorrow. It was putting me positively beside myself...
"Leo!" the artist called out to me, sharpening the day's dulled pencils. "There's something else..."
"Oh yeah?"
"Something else in your head..."
"What's in my head?" I frowned, because no one likes when other people dig around in your memories. And although Charles perceived only the brightest images, it made me feel beside myself for a moment.
The artist had a perfect understanding that the whole delicacy of the situation and continued without his previous certainty.
"I saw something," he sighed. "Something I've seen before. With my own eyes. I haven't always been a blind mole, you know. One upon a time, I was young and sighted. Back then, the dames even called me handsome!"
"Alright then, what did you see?"
"A shade," the illustrator answered simply. "A person whose face I couldn't make out, neither then, nor now. His image only flickered in your mind, but it sticks in the memory..."
I involuntarily nodded. The strangler's image had also been cut deep into my memory.
"Charles, who is it?"
"I do not know," the blind artist answered simply. "In the time of the fallen, they were thought to have been servants of someone from the inner circle of the brilliant Rafael."
"They?" I asked in confusion.
"They," Charles confirmed. "Leo! The faceless shades served one of the most powerful fallen. The return of these abominations cannot be leading to anything good."
"I've only seen one."
"Where there's one, there are others!" the old man cut me off, his face gaunt and pale. "No one has seen them since the insurrection. No one, ever. There must be something serious afoot, if they've slunk out of hiding."
I tried to hide the nervousness that was now captivating me and reassured the illustrator:
"I hope that no one sees them again, then."
"Keep your distance from these creatures," Charles advised me. "Better to tell the authorities. This is no mere trifle."
"Alright," I said, not wanting to argue. "I'll think it over."
"Be careful," the old man begged me, shivering as he wrapped himself in a plaid. This greeting from his past had clearly knocked him off track.
"Without fail," I promised as I took out my wallet.
"I have no need for money!" the artist declared when he heard the bank notes rustling.
"Everyone needs money," I objected, setting fifty francs on the table and walking back to the door. "Take care of yourself, Charles."
"Leo!" the illustrator laughed. "You stole my phrase!"
"I know," I chuckled and walked out the door.
To the uneven flame of my lighter, I went up to the u
nderground street one level above. There, I hurried to the nearest stairway. I did not want to stay underground any longer than I had to, and it had nothing to do with my difficult relationship with basements. I simply had to catch my breath and think over what I'd heard.
And though I tried not to show it, Charles's words had seriously upset me. If you believed the history textbooks, the brilliant Rafael was a towering figure even by the standards of the fallen. The assault of his suburban manor took several days, later becoming one of the most popular themes for battle paintings of the era.
It wasn't possible that one of that fallen one's posse had escaped that and was now coming back more than fifty years later, right? Then again, why not? And how was Emilee Rie's aluminum box connected with that?
The unanswerable questions made my head hurt. Sharp bursts of wind were throwing a light drizzle into my face; I wanted to get home as fast as possible, lock the gates and lie in bed. Just forget all my troubles and problems, at least for one night. Sleep it off, and think over the situation with a clear head. Every day, it was feeling more and more unpleasant.
Servants of a fallen one! Just think!
But right after I got home, I wasn't able to go straight to bed; as had become tradition, I had to accompany Elizabeth-Maria for dinner. Thankfully, she was unusually taciturn and Theodor also brought the dishes from the kitchen like a quiet, speechless shadow.
Over the last few days, the butler had grown seriously depressed.
After finishing my dinner in grave-like silence, I got up from the table and only then did Elizabeth-Maria inquire:
"What are your plans for tomorrow, dear?"
"What's that?" I perked up my ears.
"I'm bored!" said the girl, stretching out her words. "Bored, Leo! Do you understand? I am not accustomed to being cooped up inside all the time!"
"There's nothing I can do."
"Perhaps we can go somewhere?" Elizabeth-Maria suggested. "You need to unwind!"
"Not an option," I shook my head. "Tomorrow, I'll be spending all day out of town."
"All day?"
"That's right."
"And what am I supposed to do with myself?"
