by Chris Paton
Nikolas risked a peek at the scouts and laughed, only to leap back as they unslung their rifles and began loading them.
“Time to go,” said Nikolas. He coughed once and bent low as he ran across the roof, spilling loose tiles onto the courtyard below. The scouts kicked a hole in the portcullis and crashed into the courtyard, their rifles aimed upwards as they gritted their teeth and chased Nikolas.
“Molotok,” Nikolas yelled as he leaped from the roof onto a high wall that ran the length of the courtyard and led him back in the direction of the emissary and the unconscious Germans at its feet. “I need help.”
Molotok swivelled upon its creaky joints and pounded the cobbles into the street as it raced in the direction of Nikolas' voice. It didn't stop at the wall to the courtyard, choosing instead to raise its fists and lock its arms straight ahead and smash straight through the wall and into the path of the scouts.
The men slid to a halt, raised their muskets and fired at Molotok. Nikolas choked on the bitter cloud of gunpowder as it drifted along the wall. The bullets thumped into the emissary's brass plates, leaving two small dents among many before trilling down the emissary's armour and landing, spent, on the ground at its feet. The scouts turned and ran for the entrance as Nikolas climbed down from the wall.
“That,” he said, “was closer than usual.”
Molotok moved its head up and down in a rusty nod.
“And you need some grease,” Nikolas said and pressed his hands to his ribs to catch his breath. “Let's go down to the docks and find some.”
“I know where you can find something to grease those joints,” said a tired voice from a window looking down on the courtyard. Nikolas flicked his head towards the window.
“I didn't see you,” he said.
“I did not want to be seen,” said the man as he stepped into view. “Perhaps,” he said, “if you have finished your business in the garden, you would care to come inside and out of sight?”
“Yes,” said Nikolas as a flush of guilt reddened his face. “Sorry about the mess.”
“No you are not,” said the man. “But it is all right. It is not my garden. Come through the portcullis and I will open the door. It's all right,” he added. “Your friends have already gone.”
Nikolas led Molotok through the broken portcullis and along the street to where a thin man, bent with untold years, waited by a tall door that opened into a small warehouse.
“This is the tradesman's entrance,” he said as he followed Nikolas and Molotok inside.
“Are you a lord then?” said Nikolas.
“Not a lord, not really. But I used to have some authority in another place, in another time.”
“I am Nikolas, and this is Molotok,” Nikolas said and smiled as Molotok creaked into a short bow.
“Oh, I know who you are, Nikolas Skuratov. And I know all about your emissary friend. Quite extraordinary,” the man said as Molotok lifted his head and stood up straight.
“But what is your name?”
“My name? Ah, yes.” The man shuffled forwards and held out his hand. “My name is Abraxas.”
Chapter 19
The Tanfana
Imperial Russia
July, 1851
The dawn broke to a chorus of hammer and tongs as the Wallendorf engineers fired and wrought replacement parts for The Tanfana, while the emissaries were repaired in the engineering car and by the side of the tracks. Luise followed the doctor as he picked his way through the bodies from The Flying Scotsman and directed burial duties in a clearing in the woods a little to the east of the tracks. He bent down by the side of a small child and examined the bruises on her body while gently pulling the doll from her hands. He turned the doll in the light before laying it on her chest and crossing the girl's arms over it.
“My daughter has one just like it,” he said as Luise kneeled to stroke the girl's hair. “In Frankfurt, where I live, there is a dollmaker's that makes dolls for the royal families of Europe. Only the finest dolls are accepted, and there is a secret trade in seconds – the dolls that do not make the grade. The owners turn a blind eye so long as their mark is removed from the doll, usually with sandpaper. Like this,” he said and turned the doll over to reveal a square patch of rough porcelain beneath the doll's hair on the back of its neck. “The girl must have clutched the doll very tightly indeed for it to survive the impact of the crash.”
“Yes,” said Luise as she let her hand fall to her side.
“Why did he not turn any of the passengers into demons? That surprises me, I must say.”
“People are not turned into demons. Demons that escape from the Passage of Time occupy the first healthy people they come into contact with, rather like vessels. But Khronos is not interested in more demons escaping from the Passage. It is quite the opposite. He is tracking down the ones that have escaped and he would never allow more to get out.” Luise gestured at the bodies being removed from the debris by Wallendorf's men. “These people are the innocent victims, and I...” she said and stammered. “I am responsible.”
“Hardly, Miss Hanover. No,” said the doctor. “I do not agree.”
“That is very kind of you. But, all the same, it was I that built the impediment machine, the device that opened the Passage of Time and allowed the demons to escape. I just never imagined it would come to this, and that is why,” she said and straightened her skirt as she stood, “I will put an end to this and see Khronos returned to the Passage and seal it forever.”
“But if you are right, that is what he wants too. I admit to being a touch confused.”
“Yes, he does want that, but this girl, her family, and these people, they deserve justice, and I intend to make sure that Khronos pays for what he has done.”
“That will not be easy,” the doctor said and turned to look at the activity around the steam engine. “He has proved a most dangerous adversary.”
“And yet, there are ways of defeating him. Look there, for example.” Luise pointed to a spot beside the tracks where Emilia rolled up her shirtsleeves and brushed the char of battle from Kettlepot's armour, singing as she worked.
“She is an industrious young lady,” said the doctor.
“Yes, and I can see Fräulein von Ense is on her way over to speak with her. I had better get over there.” Luise paused to stroke the dead girl's hair one last time. “Please see that she has a proper burial, doctor. All of them if time allows.”
“I will do that, and you must promise me to rest and to visit me for more hypnosis once we are underway.”
“I will. Thank you, doctor,” Luise said and made her way across the field towards Emilia and her emissary. She slowed as Hannah approached and talked to the girl. The German woman's manner suggested it was a positive discussion and Luise decided to wait and hear about it from Emilia. And I can use the time for study, she thought and pulled a small notebook from the deep pocket of her skirt. Luise sat down on what looked like a bench from the airship and opened the book.
Luise had to think when she had last received an image or sequence of khronoglyphs in her mind from the slow demon in Arkhangelsk. It was aboard The Flying Scotsman, she realised as she smoothed her hand upon the oak surface of the bench. She flicked through the pages of the notebook looking for the khronoglyphs she knew were important in opening the Passage of Time, cross-checking the notes she had printed beside them as she read. The combination is key, she mused and flicked back and forth between the pages, looking for the symbols that were common in each of the critical glyphs, and how they might be redrawn to effect a different action.
“It's no good,” she said and closed the notebook and let if fall into her lap. “I need help.”
“With what, Miss?” said Emilia. She smiled as Luise started. “Sorry. I can be quite quiet when I want to be. It used to drive my mother mad.”
“I can imagine,” said Luise and patted the bench for Emilia to sit beside her. “Your mother, was she English?”
“No.”
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“Your father then? He was, wasn't he?”
“Yep,” Emilia said and gave Luise a curious look. “How did you know?”
“While I haven't met many Romanians,” she said, “I don't imagine there are many who know The Grand Old Duke of York.”
“My father used to sing it to me at bedtime,” Emilia said and smiled. “He was from a small village in Cheshire. But he never went to York. He just liked the song.”
“How did he come to be in Romania?”
“He was a miner and there are a lot of mines in Transylvania. He dug for iron and that is where he met my mother – at a mining camp. She was the daughter of the innkeeper, my grandfather, and his was the most popular inn in all of Transylvania.” Emilia sighed and leaned back on the bench. “The inn was destroyed when a flash flood in the mountains washed it away and flooded the mine. I lost everyone that day. My whole family. If I hadn't been at the market with my mother's friend...”
“I am so sorry,” Luise said as she wrapped her arm around Emilia and pulled her close. “It must be hard.”
“Maybe, I don't know. I was younger then.”
“But how did you get here? To Germany, I mean.”
“I was taken with the other orphans from the mine and sent to a factory in Germany. They needed small children to crawl into tiny spaces and fix the machines. I was one of them, until I grew bigger, which was quite quickly compared to the others.”
“And what happened then?”
“I was told to leave. They gave me a little bit of money and suggested I find Herr Wallendorf. Which is exactly what I did.”
“And you worked for him?”
“Yep.”
“On the emissaries?”
“Not at first. They were a secret project. It's only when they started to get infected with Şteamƙin that I worked on them. Herr Wallendorf was so upset, you see, that his boys, as he called them, had to be thrown away, he wanted someone to at least try to fix them. So I cleaned the pipes, inside and out, took them apart and put them back together – with a little bit of help. But when the emissaries still didn't do as they were told...”
“They blamed you.”
“Yep,” said Emilia. She wriggled out from under Luise's arm and slid off the bench. “But,” she said with a shrug. “I found my best friend down among Wallendorf's scrap parts.”
“Kettlepot.”
“Exactly.” Emilia beamed. “And now even Fräulein von Ense likes him. She said so, just a moment ago.”
“I saw her,” Luise said. She tucked the notebook into her pocket and stood up. “Come and introduce me to Kettlepot. Properly, I mean.”
“All right.”
The dawn stretched beyond the trees and leaped across the sky, banishing the gloom of lingering night. The Tanfana shone as the sun lit the newly-fashioned sides and a fresh cloud of smoke pillowed out of the smokestack. Emilia took Luise's hand and led her towards the steam train to where Kettlepot was being examined by a small team of engineers under Hannah's watchful eye. The men poked long glass pipettes into the emissary's pipes, squeezing the rubber bulb and drawing, they hoped, a colony of Şteamƙin into the glass tube for transplantation to another emissary. Emilia shook her head as she approached and walked up to the head engineer.
“It doesn't work like that,” she said. “The Şteamƙin have to want to move into a machine, any machine, but it has to be attractive. You have to make it an attractive place for them to live.”
“Hmm,” he said and raised an eyebrow. “Let us do our work, Fräulein Ardelean.”
“No, Franz,” said Hannah. She walked up to where the engineer stood poised to place the pipette into a metal tube for safe-keeping. “Listen to the girl. It was her emissary that made the difference last night. Not yours. I think me can agree that she has something to contribute, ja?”
Luise tapped Emilia on the shoulder and smiled. Emilia grinned back, crossed her arms across her chest and turned to face the engineer.
“Very well, Fräulein von Ense. But perhaps the young girl,” he paused to draw out the word girl, “could tell us how to make the other emissaries more attractive?”
“That's easy enough,” said Emilia. “Fuel them up and have them get as hot as possible – dancing works.”
“You want to have our controllers lead the emissaries in a waltz? Hah,” the engineer choked as he laughed. His team laughed with him, stopping only when Hannah stepped forward and quietly removed the pipette from the engineer's hand and gripped the lapel of his jacket.
“You will have all the available emissaries ready to dance thirty minutes from now. The style of dance I leave to you. But let us be clear, Franz,” she said and tightened her grip. “If I don't see the emissaries dance in the next half hour, I will be looking for a new head of engineering and you will be hobbling back home to Germany. Furthermore, I will make it known to Herr Schleiermacher, and Direktor Wallendorf that you obstructed the mission and jeopardised its success. Do I make myself clear?”
“Ja, Fräulein. Like crystal.”
“Good,” said Hannah. She let go of the engineer and handed him the pipette. “One more thing,” she said with a twitch of a smile on her lips. “There is a gramophone in the passenger car. It might help you get in the mood.”
Franz nodded and ordered his men to pack their gear and make their way to the engineering car. Hannah watched them leave and then walked over to join Luise and Emilia.
“Dancing,” she said, “might just be the thing to lift all our spirits,” she nodded at the men returning from burial duty. “And, if it gives us an army of emissaries that can think for themselves and act like yours did last night, Emilia, well,” Hannah said and laughed. “We can at least have one last waltz before battle.”
Chapter 20
The Russian Border
Imperial Russia
July, 1851
The mountains shrank into the pine forests of northern Russia and Hari Singh retched the last remaining contents of his stomach onto the treetops below. He clung to the djinni's arm as the landscape beneath blurred into an endless cushion of green pins and needles. Najma, Hari noticed, was sleeping again, curled within the djinni's oversized palm, conjured for the purpose. Hari closed his eyes and let the wind cool his brow as the waves of nausea receded. He knew they would return. But, for the moment at least, the furious peaks of air sickness were calmed.
“Not far now, little man,” said the djinni. It had taken Hari some time to adjust to Jamie's alter ego. The two were inextricably combined, and yet their differing traits allowed for some distinction. The djinni was far more impulsive than Jamie, lacking the Englishman's restraint. Jamie, on the other hand, dwelled far too much on matters beyond his control, whereas the djinni was not restricted by such thoughts and could act faster and with greater effect. Hari had need of both and he hoped he could control the one while he appealed to the other. He would find out soon enough.
“Tell me, djinni,” he said, “what part of you hails from the other dimension, and can you sense it or connect with it?”
“You want to know?” the djinni said, the deep resonant boom of its voice contained a hint of surprise.
“Truly, I do.”
“You bear the anti-djinn mark. Were you not schooled in djinn lore?”
“Not nearly enough. That is why I ask.”
The djinni grew quiet, thinking. As the landscape whistled beneath them, Hari felt a tapping upon his mind, as if the djinni was knocking on the door and asking to be allowed in.
“What do you want, djinni?”
“I want to show you that dimension – my world. It is far too difficult to explain. Will you allow it?”
“What will happen to me if I do?”
“Nothing,” the djinni said.
A wave of gratitude seemed to flow over and through Hari, as if the djinni was surprised to be asked to reveal its origins. The emotion left Hari with the feeling that the djinni was more interested in answering Hari's question than
penetrating his mind with a horse like the one used in Troy. Hari answered the knock and opened his mind to the djinni.
All traces of motion sickness were expelled from Hari's body as the djinni entered his mind in a pall of thin smoke, spinning with tiny lights and flashes of memory. Hari reached out with his mind and cupped the flash closest to him and was transported into a cave of water, the walls swirling into a form that could be pressed and touched but not penetrated. The walls curved as Hari walked on the sheet of water rippling between them, altering direction as he changed his course as the memory flash in his hand blistered with an impulse of tiny pricks against the palm of his left or right hand leading Hari deeper inside the water cave.
Hari entered a room with a vessel upon a pillar of ice, the water at its base frosted with frazil ice, splintering its way across the floor. The memory flash tickled Hari's palms until he opened his fingers and it flew to the ice pillar where it twirled in a circle around the top. Hari stepped forwards and leaned over the top of the pillar, flat and reflective, it mirrored what he knew of himself, flashing images of his own life before him, before it rippled with unfamiliar faces that Hari realised were not from his past, but Jamie's. The origin of djinn, he remembered, must begin with the vessel, and for the vessel to become djinn, there must be pain. Hari watched as the pain of Jamie's life was revealed. He watched as Jamie stole the locket from his mother, sold it for booze and then fought to get it back again. It was the same locket Jamie had given Hari to give to Luise – to win her trust. Other images, some more challenging to watch than others, rippled across the surface of the pillar until they were gone and Hari felt his stomach lurch as the floor and walls of the cave disappeared in an explosive mist, and he was surrounded once more by impulses of energy and flashes of memory.
