by David Bishop
"We're making our final approach to the Imperial Palace, ma'am. You asked to be kept informed."
"Very good. Take us in."
"Yes, ma'am." The pilot pressed his controls forward and the flyer surged towards the floating edifice in the sky.
The Imperial Palace was a remarkable melding of technology and aesthetics. Taking its inspiration from the legendary designs of Carl Fabergè, the palace was shaped like a huge white egg. A hundred metres in height, its exterior was divided into a multiplicity of segments. Each was studded with windows, tiny squares set into the vast circumference of the palace. A large circular portal was visible on one side of the structure, open to allow authorised flyers access. Raven Corps troops mounted on flying mechanical steeds encircled the palace, keeping watch for potential attacks. Once the sun was above the horizon, the palace would cast an imposing shadow across the city, just as the Tsar's will could turn day into night for anyone unfortunate enough to invoke his wrath.
"Imperial Palace to approaching flyer, transmit entry codes."
Jena lent forward and thrust a studded ring on her right hand into a cavity on the flyer's control panel.
"Entry codes accepted. Welcome back, Lady Jena."
The flyer swept through the circular portal and found a docking berth inside. Jena was already disembarking by the time a captain of the Raven Corps ran into view. "Lady Jena! Your father wishes to see you. He's in the Chamber of Judgement. If you'll follow me-"
Jena brushed past the captain, not bothering to acknowledge his salute. "I know the way, thank you very much. Tell my father I'm going to shower and change first. I want to rid myself of Fabergè's taint before I do anything else."
"Er, yes... ma'am," the captain replied fearfully.
Thirty minutes later Jena strode into the Chamber of Judgement, an intimidating and cavernous space near the top of the palace. Ranks of seating were built into the walls, enabling invited guests to witness the Tsar passing sentence on those that had displeased him or broken one of the Empire's many draconian laws. The prisoners' walkway extended out over a sheer drop, while the officers of the court usually loomed overhead on hovering pedestals. For now the chamber was empty, bar the brooding figure sat on a floating throne.
The Tsar glared down at Jena, his arms folded across his chest. Barrel-chested and powerful of build, Vladimir Makarov was a fearsome figure in magisterial robes of silver. Greying hair swept imperiously back from his stern, remorseless features, while a black and grey flecked beard curled outwards from his chin. His face was a permanent snarl, black eyes burning with suppressed rage. "What took you so long?" he demanded. "You were told to come and see me immediately and on your return, yes?"
"I washed and changed first. I wanted to cleanse myself of what I have witnessed," Jena replied. She did a little twirl so her father could see the entire crushed crimson velvet trouser suit she was now wearing. "Perhaps you don't like the outfit? I thought you had no problems with the colour of blood, father."
"Jena, my love," the Tsar growled, "do not try my patience. You flouted my order deliberately! And you know how I dislike being disobeyed." He gestured at the remains of the captain sent to fetch Jena. The body had been flayed alive and now lay in a pool of blood and skin flaps.
"I think the entire Empire knows how you dislike disobedience."
"Then you would do well not to provoke me, child. Now - report!"
Jena outlined all she had seen and heard on Fabergè Island, excluding only her encounter with Di Grizov. That was of little consequence in her opinion and merely mentioning the name Nikolai Dante was likely to send the Tsar into a murderous rage. Instead she offered detailed descriptions of the experiments already completed and the extrapolated outcome of the doctor's ongoing project. Her father listened carefully, nodding as she made mention of the next stage in Fabergè's researches. Only after Jena had finished did the Tsar make any comment.
"Good. You have told me all I wanted to know. But I sense you have more you wish to say about the good doctor and his work, yes?"
Jena nodded, choosing her next words carefully, mindful of the bloody corpse not far from her feet. "I have significant doubts about the sanity of Doctor Fabergè. He is both deranged and potentially dangerous. Certainly he is bloated with his own self-importance, but that in itself is not a crime. However he appears to be developing unhealthy delusions of grandeur. Fabergè thinks that by playing God he can become like a god himself. I doubt he can be trusted in the medium to long term."
The Tsar nodded at this assessment. "Agreed. That was why I elevated the House of Fabergè to the status of the noble dynasty not long after the war. The doctor has a rampaging ego to rival even my own, but he will remain loyal to me long enough for my uses. After that he shall be expendable. If he dared challenge my rule, Fabergè would soon discover just how expendable he is."
"But what about his next experiment?" Jena asked. "Even you cannot condone such barbarity, an atrocity of that nature - can you?"
"Condone it? It was my idea," the Tsar replied, amusement evident in his deep, booming voice. "If Fabergè can deliver upon his promises, I shall have at my disposal a new weapon that strengthens my grip upon the Empire for decades, even generations to come. Since you are my sole surviving heir, I would have thought the Fabergè experiments were in your best interests too!"
"I could never be a party to such-"
"No one is asking you to be!" the Tsar thundered, his mood suddenly darkening. "For more than a decade the Romanovs held me at bay with their precious Weapons Crest technology. Now they have been swept aside, the survivors no more than a rabble hiding themselves in the corners of the Empire! The Crests they were once so proud of will be the playthings of a child next to the weapon Fabergè is developing. I will become all-powerful! None shall dare oppose me again!"
"None dare oppose you now, father!" Jena shouted back. "You won the war, you crushed all opposition. Why do you need this new weapon? What good can it possibly do?"
The Tsar shook his head sadly. "Weapons are never used to do good, my daughter. Weapons are about getting and retaining power - nothing more, nothing less. If you have not grasped that by now, you never will!"
"But you must see-"
"Enough!" The Tsar piloted his hovering throne down so he could step off it and onto the platform beside Jena. "I have tolerated your insolence and your pious attitude enough for today. You are dismissed!"
"But-"
The Tsar pulled back his left hand, ready to strike Jena across the face, but she did not flinch nor cower. After a moment he lowered his hand again, regarding his daughter thoughtfully. "I am Tsar of all the Russians, my child, and I will do as I see fit. Fabergè's experiments shall continue and by Easter Sunday I shall have my new weapon. Be thankful your involvement with its development ends here." He strode away, leaving Jena alone in the Chamber of Judgement.
She watched him depart, hatred etched on her features. "We'll see about that," Jena whispered under her breath.
At midday Jena was back at her bedchamber inside the Imperial Palace, when one of her ladies-in-waiting knocked on the door. Anastasia was twenty-one, a meek and plain-faced woman who had proven herself completely loyal to the Tsarina. "Lady Jena, I have a report marked for your eyes only."
"Leave it on the bed, I'll read it later."
"Very good, ma'am."
Jena waited until she was alone before hurrying to the bed and tearing open the envelope. She hated herself for the eagerness with which her eyes sped across the words, absorbing the latest information about a man she hated and loved in equal measure. As Tsarina she was allowed a personal staff of ladies-in-waiting, couturiers and maids to attend to her whims and pleasures. The Tsar's daughter was expected to have the finest gowns, always keeping one step ahead of other nobility.
Since the war Jena had been redirecting a fraction of the funding for her private staff to chart the movements of Dante. It was a compulsion, like an itch she couldn't help scratching
, but she had to know where he was - even if she didn't allow others to say his name in her presence. Apparently he was back in St Petersburg, the careless fool. He had been spotted near the black market at Tsyganov, involved in a heated transaction with a noted counterfeiter. A considerable sum of roubles had changed hands. Knowing Dante, he was now probably drinking himself into a stupor somewhere.
Nothing surprising there, except for the fool's willingness to put himself in harm's way. Devil may care or too stupid to know better? It was hard to tell with Nikolai. Despite herself, Jena wished she could see him again. The thought of being with him brought a flush to her face and quickened her breath. She shook her head at such folly. Now who was the fool - Dante or the woman who couldn't forget him?
Jena tossed the report to one side. There were more pressing problems than one rascal, no matter how much he invaded her thoughts and feelings. The parting threat from her father had been all too apparent. I'm his only heir, she thought, and that's the only reason I'm still alive today. No one else could challenge him the way I have and expect to survive. But if Fabergè succeeds in what he has planned, if his next experiment should deliver the weapon my father wants...
"He must be stopped," Jena muttered to herself. "But how?" She dared not intervene directly; such an act would sign her death warrant. To achieve her aim, she must move in such a way that Fabergè's failure could never be traced back to her. But the question still remained, how? I need a weapon of my own, a tool - someone I can send to do my dirty work, someone foolish enough to take on such a dangerous mission and yet brave enough to venture in where others would not dare.
"Where am I going to find such a person?" she wondered out loud. Another knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. "Yes?"
Anastasia re-entered, curtsying apologetically. "Sorry, Lady Jena, but you gave me a standing order that I destroy all reports about the whereabouts of you-know-who once you've had a chance to read them. If you have finished with the latest bulletin, I could-"
"Of course!" Jena could not help smiling, the irony of her solution too delicious not to be savoured. She picked up the report and handed it over. "Make sure you destroy all trace of it."
"Yes, ma'am." Anastasia curtsied again before turning to leave.
"Wait, there's something else," Jena added.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"I need you to deliver a message."
Famous Flora's Massage Parlour was among the Empire's most beloved houses of ill repute. While it lacked the House of Sin's legendary status or the breadth of perversity on offer at World of Leather, Famous Flora's was still a five star brothel with something to tickle the fancy of any client. Dante stood outside the parlour's entrance, gazing in disbelief at the doorway surrounded by a neon replica of female genitalia.
"Are you sure this is where you want to spend your cut from the heist?"
"Loathe as I am to admit this, it's been quite some time since I've been able to indulge myself with a lady," Flintlock replied. "Alas, too long spent in the company of Spatch here has rather blunted my appeal with the fairer sex. The finest of colognes can only mask so much."
"Yeah," Spatchcock said, grinning broadly. "They certainly don't cover the stench of dung when you're talking!"
"I resent that remark, and its implications!" Flintlock snapped.
"Resent all you want, I couldn't give a sh-"
"That's enough," Dante interjected. "You two starting a fight outside a cat-house will only attract unwanted attention. Let's get inside."
The trio entered the building, its doors closing with a wet slurp behind them. Ahead a steep staircase led up to the reception area where a bored woman sat watching a soap opera on the ImperialNet. "Six hundred roubles," she announced, not bothering to look at the new arrivals. "Each."
"Six hundred? That's outrageous," Flintlock spluttered. "I'll have you know I'm a personal friend of Flora herself. Ask her to come out here and I'm sure-"
"Six hundred. Each," the receptionist repeated. One of her nostrils twitched as the first waft of Spatchcock's unique personal odour began to insinuate itself into her senses. Dante recognised the signs and quickly handed over two thousand roubles.
"Keep the change," he offered, pushing the still protesting Flintlock onwards. Spatchcock followed happily behind, pausing to leer at the receptionist's cleavage. Dante grabbed the grubby little poisoner and dragged him towards the brothel's inner sanctum. The threesome pushed through a set of double doors and beheld the waiting room.
A vast cathedral devoted to fornication spread itself before them, lushly furnished in gold and crimson. Around the walls hung erotic masterpieces, both painted and photographed, depicting a myriad of human bodies cavorting in daring and unlikely positions. Tall, phallic cabinets of glass held displays of sexual aids and appendages, some of such a size they made the eyes water involuntarily. Dotted around the chamber were dozens of seats occupied by the parlour's customers. Most were men but a few women also waited for the next parade.
"I've heard about this place but I've never been inside it," Spatchcock admitted. "Is it true what they say about the girls here?"
"Yes," Dante admitted, "and the men too - they will do anything you desire, as long as no one dies or is permanently injured."
"Nice," Spatchcock grinned, rubbing his hands together gleefully.
"You should count yourself lucky you even got in here," Flintlock said pompously. "One more whiff of you and I believe that receptionist would have had the lot of us thrown out on our ears."
"Unlikely," Dante commented. "You may have been bluffing about being a personal friend of Flora, but I do know her. I doubt she would have let me be ejected without getting her hands on the contents of my pants first."
"Only if your pants contain an unfeasibly large sum of money," a husky voice replied from behind the trio. The three men turned to find a triple-breasted woman clad in black lingerie regarding them. She was tall, tanned and utterly bald but for a thick black beard.
"Flora!" Dante gasped in surprise. "Since when did you become one of the Devil's Martyrs?" All disciples of that religion were required to sport beards as a sign of devotion, even the women. The Devil's Martyrs were renowned for their wild sexual excesses.
The brothel owner stroked her beard. "Of course, you haven't seen me since before the war. I joined the House of Rasputin once I saw which way the fighting was going. Pledging allegiance to an official Imperial cult gave me protection from the Tsar's pogroms."
"And the extra breast?" Flintlock asked, getting an elbow in the ribs from Dante for his impertinence.
"That's why she's famous," Spatchcock hissed under his breath. "Famous Flora, the only human with three natural breasts!"
Dante smoothed down the bristles of his own goatee. "Hmm, I think the beard suits you. There's not many women that can carry it off, but on you-"
"Enough flattery," Flora said. "Why are you here? I don't know if you should even be allowed in the building."
"My friends would like to partake of your establishment's services."
"I hope your friends have deep pockets. We have a very rich client base and prices to match these days."
Dante smiled. "I'm sure they can meet any tariffs you care to charge."
"Very well," Flora agreed. "The parade is about to begin. You'd better take your seats."
Spatchcock watched the owner depart, licking his lips lasciviously. "Oh, three for the price of two - that's what I call value for money! But I'm not so sure about the beard. Never had it away with a woman whose got a better growth than me, not sure I'd like that."
"You should try it," Dante suggested. "The stubble rash can be a bit painful but there's nothing quite like the feeling of a beard brushing against the insides of your thighs, take my word for it."
"You mean... you and her?"
"No, Flora didn't have the beard when I knew her best. But I did once spend a night with Lady Eudoxia Looshin."
"And?" Flintlock asked excitedly. "Was she a
s good as her reputation?"
"Let's just say that's one night I won't forget in a hurry," Dante replied. "Now, be quiet, both of you - the parade is starting." The trio found an unoccupied chaise lounge and perched on its plush upholstery. The lights in the room began to dim, half a dozen crystal chandeliers rising into the vaulted ceiling. A catwalk slowly descended, nearly thirty men and women in various costumes and states of undress posing along it. Once the catwalk was locked into position at head height, a set of stairs swung down to the floor, allowing the sex workers to descend.
Flora herself reappeared above the scene, gracefully swinging on a trapeze while picked out by a follow spot. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to my parlour of delights, where you can have whatever you desire - for the right price. Here you will find beauties and beasts, male and female, submissive and dominant, butch and bitch alike. Here you will be teased and taunted, tempted and punished, given pain and pleasure - all in whatever measures you wish. We make no judgements, keep no records and tell no lies at Famous Flora's. We merely wish to fulfil you, in every way possible. Let the fun commence!"
The first person on offer began descending from the catwalk. "We begin today's selection of delights with Hattie," Flora announced, "a former customer from Britannia who so enjoyed her time inside this establishment she decided to remain here permanently." She was a rotund woman in the uniform of a British matron, her mighty bosom hardly held in check by the navy blue latex costume. She strutted among the patrons, one hand smacking against the ample cheeks of her behind. "Hattie loves to punish naughty boys, putting them across her knee and administering six of the best. It's up to you whether you want to receive the spanking with your trousers on or off. Ladies and gentlemen, a big hand for Hattie!"
The customers responded with enthusiastic applause, several already waving large wads of cash in the air, eager to get their hands on her. Flora tutted theatrically from her swinging perch overhead.
"My, my, we do have some eager beavers waiting to be admonished! Don't let your excitement get the better of you, boys, otherwise Hattie will make you clean up the mess personally." That only flushed the faces of those waving their wads further, Flintlock among them.
