Heart of Steam & Rust (Empires of Steam and Rust)

by Stephen D. Sullivan

“Will it be enough? Will you be able to use your … powers?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well … Go ahead.” he urged.

  “Not now. I’m hungry. I don’t do my best work when I’m hungry.”

  “We’ll eat, then. You can try after.”

  Her innards tensed. “Yes,” she said. “Later.”

  “Shall we eat at the Black Dog?”

  “Only if we want to be poisoned,” Lina replied.

  Pyotr tensed. “You think the assassin will be there?”

  “No. I think they’re probably barely fit to serve liquor, never mind food. Their cuisine might kill us without even meaning to.”

  He chuckled. “Pick another place, then.”

  “The bistro half a block down smelled tolerable.”

  “The bistro it is.” He extended his arm to her and looked toward the door.

  She smiled at him. “Let me fix my hair first.”

  He helped brush her hair, which made the process take longer than it should have, but she enjoyed it. The unexpected arrival of the box full of magic paraphernalia had renewed the anxiety the bath had soothed away.

  Somewhere on these streets lurked someone who knew about the previous attempt on her life. The actual assassin might even be here, skulking in every shadowy doorway, window, and alley. Once she and Pyotr left the relative safety of their room, she would need to keep all her senses on high alert.

  Pyotr would be watching, too, of course, but he was only human … while she was something more. So why did she feel like something less?

  The hotelier tried to hustle them into his dining room when the pair crossed the lobby. “For your first night!” he said. “It will be special.”

  Both Pyotr and Lina had to insist they had other plans. “Tomorrow,” Lina said, giving him a small psychic push.

  The man immediately fell into line. “Of course,” he said, clicking his heels together and bowing. “Perhaps breakfast, as well?”

  “Sure,” Pyotr agreed, escorting Lina toward the door.

  Heavy clouds clotted the night sky over Vilnius, smothering the riverfront with utter darkness. This section of town boasted no streetlights; its waterfront byways were illuminated only by the light streaming from inside the establishments that catered to nighttime clientele. As Lina and Pyotr exited the hotel, the Black Dog beckoned from across the block; loud music, laughter, and the smells of food and tobacco poured out of its open windows and doorway.

  Lina and Pyotr walked quickly past it on their way to the bistro. Something about the Dog—an aura of menace, perhaps—made Lina’s skin prickle.

  Was it because she had been killed there previously?

  Of course, they didn’t know for sure that’s where she’d been killed; it was merely the last place investigators had been able to prove she’d been. Her body had been found in a nearby dockside alley, which she and Pyotr had walked past during their earlier tour of the neighborhood.

  She’d felt no sense of foreboding in the alley. What was it about the bar, then?

  For the first time, Lina wished that she really did possess her counterpart’s supernatural powers. Perhaps the other Lina would have been able to read the place, find some trace of what had happened. In her Russia, Lina had met a few people skilled in psychometry—she’d even tested one in her lab. That man, Boris Aronin, could sense who had passed through an area for up to a week, and he could provide uncanny details about the owner of any object he touched.

  His gift was not entirely reliable, but Lina would have been given anything to work with him at this moment. If she had a counterpart in this world, could Aronin as well? Perhaps here, he might even have similar supernatural gifts to her doppelganger. Such a man could be useful to her investigations … and the Fifth Section.

  She made a mental note to check into Aronin’s status later, and then chided herself for doing so. Why was she making such plans? She would not be in this world long enough to care. As soon as the assassin was caught, she would focus all her energies on returning home.

  While Lina gathered wool, Pyotr had led them to the bistro and taken a table by the front window. Sadly, the evening was too chilly to eat at the tables outside.

  Again, Lina chided herself. Why was she thinking such an unprofessional thought? They would be able to observe passers-by just as easily from inside—and the inside of the restaurant was much more defensible, should they be discovered or attacked.

  Were the romantic thoughts smoldering beneath Pyotr’s businesslike exterior influencing her thinking?

  Lina rubbed her forehead, trying to regain concentration. What was this world doing to her?

  “Is everything alright?” Pyotr asked.

  “Just a headache.”

  “Would you prefer to skip the wine, then?”

  “And drink what? The local beer? Wine seems less risky—less likely to unfocus our attention.” The rebuke felt like a slap to him, though she hadn’t meant it harshly. “I’m sorry,” she explained, reaching across the table and laying her hand on his. “I didn’t mean to snap. It’s the headache.”

  He nodded, understanding. “You’re right about our attention, though,” he said quietly, as if he were talking to a lover—which, she supposed, he was. “We know there are assassins here somewhere. But where? And why did the Section’s previous investigation not turn them up?”

  “The actual culprit may be gone,” she replied, using the same faux-romantic tones, in case someone might be observing them, “but perhaps by listening, we can discover some information that might lead us to the assassin.”

  She, of course, intended to do more than just listen, but who knew how effective random mind-reading might be? Because they were undercover, they needed to be careful about asking direct questions.

  He looked around, carefully observing the other people in the bistro. “With luck, the locals will have their guard down, now—not like when Section officials were swarming the streets, looking for the person who shot you.”

  “With luck,” she agreed.

  For dinner, they ate lamb-stuffed pelmeni with sour cream. Lina avoided the side dish of potatoes with mushrooms—not wanting her stomach full in case she needed to move quickly later on—but Pyotr wolfed down everything she passed over. His frame and athletic metabolism could easily support such extravagances; she envied him that.

  The food proved saltier than Lina liked, and the wine tasted watery and a bit sour, appropriate, as it was no more than a peasant couple might expect or be able to afford, but not very palatable. The two of them spoke casually to the bistro staff as they ate, probing about local points of interest they might see and—more important to their investigations—about places or people they should steer clear of.

  A local ruffian named Andrei Rostov came up as someone to avoid. “A big bear of a man with a golden front tooth,” their waitress, a plain-looking twenty year old, told them. “He hangs out by the docks, though I seen him at the Black Dog late some nights, too.” Apparently, Rostov had a fondness for robbing tourists. “Nothing he won’t stoop to for some coin,” the girl warned.

  Pyotr recalled Rostov from a previous briefing on the area; apparently the man had a thick finger in many of the local rackets. “Don’t you remember, Lina?”

  She didn’t, of course, though she could see in Pyotr’s mind that she—or rather her twin—had attended that meeting shortly before she’d been killed. “I only remember that briefing vaguely,” she lied. “Many things from my life before the … accident are still a blur.”

  Pyotr took her hand sympathetically, and her guts gave another small, traitorous twist.

  After dinner, they went to the Black Dog for drinks. Pyotr tried the local beer—a dark, heady brew—but Lina stuck to vodka. At least she had some idea what the clear liquid contained, and by being cautious, and letting Pyotr be the boisterous newlywed, she managed to nurse one drink for most of the evening.

  She systematically scanned the minds of those whose attention Pyo
tr attracted. Mostly, her subjects’ thoughts were puerile—focused on food, drink, and sex. Three spent a small amount of time sizing up whether Pyotr and Lina were good candidates for robbery. All three decided Pyotr was probably more than they could handle, but Lina memorized the faces of the would-be bandits and what details she could glean from their minds. The name “Rostov” even flashed through one of their brains, but that man vanished out the door before Lina could follow.

  As the night wore on, frustration built within her. Playing foolish newlyweds was doing them little good. The information they needed was not coming in fast enough. In her world, Lina would have marched into a place like this with her operatives, kicked some ass, asked questions, and read minds—quickly separating fact from fabrication and the guilty from the innocent. She could not do that here, though.

  Or could she…?

  “Darling,” she said, laying her hand on Pyotr’s arm, “it’s getting late.” She smiled at him the way she thought a newlywed might.

  “It is at that,” Pyotr replied gulping down the last of his beer. “Shall we retire, my dear?” Still playing the fool, he said it loud enough to be heard by all those nearby.

  She batted her eyelids coyly.

  He took her arm and led her back across the street to the hotel. Cheers and catcalls of “Give her one for me!” followed them out. Lina gritted her teeth and blocked out the salacious mental images directed her way.

  Pyotr, nearly a head taller than she, gazed down at her affectionately as they walked. But the look— and sentiment—vanished when he noticed the no-nonsense look on her face.

  “We’re not retiring for the night, are we,” he stated.

  “No. I’ve hit on a plan that may gain us more information.”

  “What plan?”

  “I’ll tell you after we reach our room.”

  The hotelier grinned and wished them “The very best of nights!” as they ascended the stair to their chambers. Lina read his mind without even meaning to: He was envious of Pyotr and the honeymoon frolic to come.

  Pyotr’s thoughts, though, remained far from her bridal sweets. As they entered their small suite, worry dominated his brain—worry for the mission, worry for her safety. “What’s the plan?” he asked as he closed the door.

  “I think I might have enough elements to attempt … a spell.”

  “From what I brought you?”

  “Yes.” That pleased him.

  “What kind of spell? The kind you’ve used to root out traitors in the past?” She could see in his mind that he was guessing; the other Lina had never really shared her secrets, but in the time they’d worked together, he had deduced quite a lot. It hardly mattered to Lina whether his deductions were accurate, just that what she said played to those expectations.

  “No,” she replied. “I would need my full equipment for that. This will be something different: a mind-reading spell.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I’ve never attempted it before.” Not via spell, at least. “But I see no other choice. We can’t waste our time trying to befriend these … people. We need the information now.”

  “Do you think that’s wise? It would blow our cover.”

  “The way we’re doing it could take weeks… or longer. I don’t have that time.”

  “You think there will be another attempt on your life?”

  “I’m sure of it. And sooner rather than later. If I can work this, we can call for support from Section headquarters and just march in and start asking questions.”

  “That would be a pleasant change. Why haven’t you tried it previously?”

  “It’s dangerous, and it might not work, but—”

  “But your life is on the line.” He nodded, happy to be taking decisive action. “I understand. How can I help?”

  This is where it got tricky. “You can’t.”

  He took her hand, his warm fingers encircling hers. “I know what you are, Lina—even if you’ve never said it aloud. I am not afraid of … witches—or whatever you prefer to call yourself. Whatever you need, I will do. Whatever I have, it’s yours.”

  “That’s not it,” she explained. “There are elements of my craft that can only be worked when alone. I can’t have you help me. I can’t even have you in the same room.” After all, if he were to observe her faking a magical ritual, he might notice something amiss. He was not stupid, after all, and from his long association with her counterpart, he might know more about magic than she did.

  He nodded, never suspecting her lie. “Very well. Where will you perform your casting?”

  “The parlor. I need sufficient space for the ritual.” She didn’t think the bathroom would be large enough for convincing fakery; later, he needed to see some convincing signs of her “work” to reinforce his belief that she was using supernatural powers, not her own psionic gifts. The parlor would make for a much better display.

  “I’ll wait in the bedroom, then.”

  She shook her head. “It would be better if you waited downstairs, in the hotel lounge.” She didn’t want to chance him peeking in on her—while she did nothing magical—just to satisfy his curiosity. Even a brief glimpse could tip him off and ruin her masquerade. Better he was out of the suite entirely.

  “All right,” he said, then added: “We should wait a respectable time before I go to the lobby.”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “We don’t want them to think that I’m neglecting you on our honeymoon.”

  She chuckled. “Or underperforming, either.”

  “Nor that.”

  “All right. For the sake of your manly pride, we’ll wait. How long?”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her. “I think I know a way to determine the right amount of time.”

  She kissed back. Despite her anxiety, despite her impatience, despite her desire to be rid of this place forever, she wanted this. She knew it would feel oh so good….

  But she backed away, breaking the embrace.

  “No,” she said. “I need to … conserve my energies.” She wanted him, but she didn’t need any distractions potentially foiling the dangerous game she was about to play.

  His disappointment washed over her like a wave.

  “Later, though,” she promised. “After our work is done.”

  That brightened his mood. “After, then. So … What shall we do to pass the time?” He checked his watch. “We could play cards.”

  As if that would be fair! He was so sweet, she couldn’t do that to him. “I need to focus, figure out the proper ritual and sequence. I’m afraid I can only do that on my own. I’m sorry.”

  He sighed. “I’ll take a bath, then.”

  “I’ll set things up in the anteroom,” she said, not trusting herself to even scrub his back.

  NINE

  Three quarters of an hour later, Pyotr entered the anteroom, nude, drying his hair with a towel. “I think that should be enough time to preserve my dignity.”

  Lina sat on the floor, naked, the candles and other items from the “magic kit” arrayed around her in a rough circle. “Good,” she said, standing. “I’m nearly ready to start.”

  He looked her up and down, trying to suppress his lust, though his manly reflexes were harder to hide. “You perform this ritual in the nude?” he asked.

  “And some others as well,” she replied. She leaned up and kissed him briefly on the lips, giving his manhood a playful squeeze. Then she turned away.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help,” he said with a sigh.

  “Later,” she replied, pleased that her state of undress had distracted him; he’d been watching her rather than the set-up of her fake ritual. That would make the deception much easier. “Get dressed.”

  He went into the bedroom and emerged, fully clothed, just a few minutes later. By then, she’d begun to scribe a chalk circle on the floor. She made sure to give him a good view of her backside as she knelt and drew.

  “How long should I wait?” he ask
ed, subconsciously licking his lips.

  “An hour-and-a-half should be plenty of time.” She didn’t want to make it too quick, not knowing how long such a ritual should actually take. Later, if the ruse worked this time, she could shorten the time due to “growing expertise.” Perhaps, eventually, she could abandon the pretense entirely.

  No, she reminded herself. You won’t be here that long. You’re going home.

  She stood, carefully stepping around the chalk marks, and gave him another quick kiss. “Have fun.”

  He looked at her body longingly. “Later,” he said. “For now, maybe I’ll just have a drink.”

  She laughed fondly, pushing him gently toward the door. He gave her one last look before exiting.

  Her gaze followed him out, wishing … No. That was stupid. She needed to concentrate on the task at hand. She locked the door and then lit the candles arrayed around her partially completed chalk circle; she’d need evidence for the ritual, and there was no sense waiting until the last minute.

  As the candles burned, she finished laying out the circle, then a pentagram within it, and then wrote some squiggly arcane-looking “symbols” both outside and inside the perimeter—doing her best to imitate what she’d seen on the rug in the other Lina’s secret room. Once that was done, she smudged the whole thing, smearing out a clear exit from the circle and trying to make the inscriptions look “used.” She put a few crystals and feathers near the mess, to add to the effect.

  They’d have to clean everything up, of course, but later … after she’d completed her hunting for the night. No sense in having the hotelier believing they were practicing black magic.

  She dressed in the least restrictive of her newlywed outfits, one without a billowy skirt or high heels, all the while wishing she’d brought her uniform with her. Of course, that would have blown her cover if their rooms had been searched—not that their cover really mattered now.

  From a secret compartment in her baggage, she removed her weapons. She strapped the knife to her right calf, just above the hemline, and put her Nagant revolver in the pocket of her coat.

  All that remained to do now was contact headquarters for backup, but she couldn’t do that until the “ritual” was complete and Pyotr returned.