by Ash, Sarah
“What is it?” The voice from inside sounded tetchy and tired. The door opened a crack and an elderly woman peered out at him. For a moment his heart skipped a beat, wondering—and then as her eyes narrowed in suspicion, he told himself that what he had hoped for could not be so.
“I’m looking for a family called Linnaius,” he said.
“No one of that name here.” She was just about to shut the door in his face when he put out one hand to stop her.
“Tivadar, then. Fru Tivadar.” He used his wife’s maiden name. “Or Vernier. Fru Vernier.”
The woman shook her head emphatically.
“May I ask how long you’ve been living here?”
She shot him a mistrustful glance but said, “Forty-three years come this summer, if you must know.”
Linnaius nodded, mutely accepting the information. As he turned to go, she called out, “Who was she, this Fru Tivadar?”
“My wife,” he said, though more to himself than to her.
“Seems like you left it a bit late to come back for her.” He could hear the undisguised disapproval in her voice. “Try the churchyard, old man.”
Where did you go after I disappeared, Ilona? Each step dragged as he found himself instinctively walking toward the little parish church that stood beyond the square. Did you try to track me down? Even if you had confronted me, bound by Anagini’s spell, I would have been unable to recognize you and denied all knowledge of you.
***
“Here are the parish records you requested.” The pastor of Saint Klara’s Kyrka pulled down a weighty leather-bound volume and tottered across to place it on the table in the little vestry. Linnaius watched, keeping his face devoid of expression, while within, a storm of conflicting emotions raged.
“Births, Marriages, Deaths and Burials. This volume dates back to the early years of this century; if the members of your family you’re trying to trace lived in this parish, you should find them here.”
The yellowing vellum pages were filled with column upon column of names and dates. Linnaius adjusted his spectacles and forced himself to peer at the spidery writing of past church clerks. He had no wish to face the inevitable but he owed it to his abandoned child and her descendants to do so. It was so long ago. Why should Ilona return to haunt me now?
And yet he saw his index finger tremble as he raised it to trace down the long lines of names. Page after page of the ordinary people of Tielborg: cobblers, seamstresses, apothecaries, bookbinders, pastry cooks, each life reduced to a brief entry in the register. And I’ve outlived them all. It was an achievement that brought him no joy.
Linnaius read on until his sight began to blur from weariness and his back ached from bending close to decipher the fading ink. It was always a possibility that Eliane had not borne any children of her own and his bloodline had been extinguished.
Then why did I feel that distant presence so strongly? Izkael felt it too.
The heavy mechanism of the church clock whirred in the tower overhead, then struck six. Linnaius sat back, knuckling his aching eyes. In spite of the long hours of daylight, he was finding it hard to focus on the hand-scribed entries.
If only I could devise a little glamor to search the text for me . . . but the presence of Saint Klara is too strong and my sight is failing..
Reluctantly, he closed the heavy volume and left the vestry.
“You’re always so generous to the church, Maistre Bernay.” The pastor was speaking to one of his congregation, a tall, gray-haired man plainly but neatly dressed: a doctor or a lawyer, Linnaius guessed.
“I’m merely carrying out my wife’s wishes; she had a great affection for the church and the parish.”
“She was such an gifted singer; we still miss her at services. I can’t believe it’s five years since she passed away.”
“I miss Ilona every day, Pastor. But who am I to argue with God’s will?”
Linnaius stopped abruptly, wondering if he had misheard. Ilona was not a common name in Tielen.
“And your son? Have you had any news?”
Maistre Bernay let out a curt sigh. “I believe he’s in Azhkendir. He deigned to write several months ago, but he’s a poor correspondent so I’ve heard nothing since.”
The pastor caught sight of Linnaius, asking, “Have you been successful in your researches, Maistre Vernier?” Linnaius had thought it prudent to use his original name to convince the pastor of the validity of his search.
“Alas, no.” Linnaius approached and saw Maistre Bernay look at him with suspicion. “But I couldn’t help but overhear you mention the name Ilona, Maistre Bernay.” He heard a slight tremor in his voice and made an effort to control it. “Your wife’s family name—before she married—wouldn’t have happened to be Vernier too?”
“No,” Bernay said curtly. “That was her mother’s maiden name. May I ask why it’s of interest to you?”
It was only to be expected that Maistre Bernay would treat him with distrust. Linnaius cleared his throat and said, “Eliane Vernier was my daughter. I’ve been searching for her and her family for . . . a long time.”
Maistre Bernay’s stern expression did not alter. “You expect me to believe that? If you’re after money, sir . . .”
Linnaius stiffened, offended in spite of himself. “I’ve been travelling overseas on the Emperor’s business for many years. I was hoping that I might be able to re-establish contact with my daughter’s family. We,” and he hesitated, not knowing what words would convince the stony-faced Bernay, “had a falling-out.”
“That must have been some falling-out. My wife’s mother told us you were dead. She never even referred to you by name.”
This was proving more dispiriting than Linnaius could have imagined. Even if this abrupt stranger was the man who had married his grand-daughter and sired his great-grandchildren, there was no way he could prove that they were related.
“I can understand your reluctance to accept my story,” he said. “I merely wished to meet my great-grandchildren so I could make some provision for their futures,” he added slyly.
“Then you’ll have to travel far, Sieur Vernier. My son Gerard is in Azhkendir and my daughter Clémence has married a Francian.”
“Azhkendir?” Linnaius repeated. That wild, turbulent country ruled over by Gavril Nagarian . . . If I leave now I might be able to trace this Gerard Bernay by tomorrow. He hesitated, torn between a desire to lay flowers at Eliane’s and her daughter’s graves and a nagging instinct that the sooner he found young Bernay, the greater his chance of protecting him. He realized that Maistre Bernay was still looking at him with suspicion and dug deep in his pocket, retrieving a handful of precious stones he had collected on his travels and which he often used for currency. He held them out, the crimson facets glinting dully in the shady interior of the church. “Perhaps you would give these to your daughter as a belated wedding gift from her great-grandfather. And please make a donation to the church on my behalf,” he said nodding briefly to the pastor as he turned on his heel and strode toward the door.
“Wait! Wait a moment!”
Linnaius carried on walking, not once looking behind him, his footsteps echoing to the rafters of the whitewashed interior. The faint shades of the dead pursued him, whispering reproachfully, but he opened the heavy wooden door and went out into the daylight.
Forget dead Eliane and her daughter Ilona. Focus on tracing young Gerard. If only I can find him before Ardarel hunts him down.
Chapter 40
The sky above Swanholm Palace was overcast and there was a hint of drizzle on the breeze. The cadets from Tourmalise followed Colonel Lindgren down a wide white gravel carriageway that led past the neat parterres still bright with striped tulips. Toran noticed that the fresh morning air was smirched by a smell that was oddly familiar: it reminded him of the fumes and smoke that belched from the great chimney at Cardin’s Iron Works in Paladur —yet the Emperor’s palace gardens seemed an unlikely place to encounter such an industri
al odor .
On the limpid waters of the Grand Canal he spotted two little pleasure boats, carved and painted to look like black-feathered swans. But as the cadets drew nearer, they heard a mechanical chugging and puffs of steam could be seen issuing from slender chimneys protruding from the decks.
“Do you hear that?” Toran said to Branville, unable to contain his excitement. “Those boats have been fitted with engines .”
Branville scowled and shaded his eyes with one hand to get a better look.
“Professor Kazimir!” called Colonel Lindgren.
A slender, fair-haired man was talking with a couple of students at the water’s edge. He glanced round nervously as the colonel approached them and the two exchanged a few words.
“So that’s the famous Imperial Artificier they told us about?” Branville said in unimpressed tones. “He looks more like my father’s tailor than a alchymical genius.”
“Line up along the canal bank,” Major Bauldry ordered the cadets. “We’re here to observe. Don’t get in the way.”
Lorris exchanged a world-weary look with Toran. “As if we would...” But Toran’s attention was focused on the nearest of the two boats as he took in all the details from the little paddle wheels to the slender metal chimney.
“Things to come,” he said under his breath. He had a feeling that they were witnessing a trial that could change travel between continents forever. Already, in his imagination, he stood on the prow of a great iron-clad ship as it cleaved the ocean waves, its engines thundering below decks , powered by steam...
Colonel Lindgren returned. “Bear with us a little longer, Major,” he said with a smile.
“What’s this all about?” Bauldry demanded.
“Doctor Maulevrier’s students have been busy installing engines into these little boats. The Emperor is keen to demonstrate that aethyrite — our new alchymical fuel — is safe and efficient.”
“ Aethyrite ?” Toran echoed, eager to learn more.
“The fuel that you’ll be using to power your flying machines.”
“What the deuce?” Branville muttered but was quelled by a withering look from Major Bauldry.
“The students will take part in a little demonstration of what aethryite can do: a boat race along the canal.”
Professor Kazimir started up the steep bank, slipping in his haste; the colonel grabbed him by the arm just as he slid back down the muddy grass, steadying him.
“Would you be so good as to tell the Tourmaline cadets about aethyrite , Professor?” Lindgren said patiently.
“Um — yes.” Kazimir cleared his throat, visibly flustered. “I’ve been working to refine this fuel for some time, using the notes left to me by my predecessor, Kaspar Linnaius.”
“Can you reassure us that it’s safe for my cadets to use?” Major Bauldry said. “It’s not so long ago, I recall, that there was a disastrous explosion at the Munitions Factory in Tielborg; the news reached us even in Tourmalise.”
Toran saw a muscle in Kazimir’s cheek twitch at the mention of the explosion.
“Can you tell us more about the fuel, Professor?” he asked, suddenly uneasy. “What are its components? How can you be sure it will work with our engines?”
Another twitch. “We are using two different strengths of the same fuel: both liquid, one not unlike oil in their consistency.” He turned to gesture to the two boats. “The Prinsessa Karila on the left is using the more concentrated distillation and the Prinsessa Margret on the right, the diluted version.”
“And the source?”
Kazimir cast a pleading glance at Lindgren. “I am not at liberty to divulge the source.”
“And yet you’re asking us to use this ‘ aethyrite ’ to power our Aiglon ?” Branville’s dark brows drew together in a forbidding frown. His intimidating manner could be useful at times.
“Not without trialling it first. You’ve brought your prototype with you, as requested, I trust?” Colonel Lindgren turned to address Toran.
“We have,” Toran said, wondering how the delicate mechanism he had fashioned so carefully with Gerard Bernay’s help would perform. The two teams had each been given an empty stable block in which to assemble their craft, watched over by the imperial guard to ensure no contestant spied on the rivals’ entry.
“Although it’s one things to propel a pleasure boat along a canal and quite another to lift a sky-craft into the air,” said Branville darkly.
“We’ll give you and Doctor Maulevrier’s team time to run the necessary tests —”
But at that moment a blast of steam erupted from the slender funnel of the Prinsessa Karila and the paddle wheels began to turn, churning the limpid canal waters. An answering blast came from the Prinsessa Margret as the students on board raised a cheer.
“I think they’re ready to begin,” said the colonel. He nodded to an adjutant on the bank who raised the blue-and-white Tielen flag he was carrying and then brought it down with a flourish to indicate the start of the race.
The Prinsessa Karila instantly took off, skimming down the limpid canal waters, leaving her rival black swan craft chugging stolidly but slowly onward toward the finish line. Another group of students were timing the competing vessels, consulting stopwatches, running alongside on the bank.
“As predicted,” muttered Branville. “But can they control the speed?”
At that moment, the Prinsessa Karila veered wildly toward the bank, hit the side and capsized, spilling its crew into the canal, its paddles continuing to turn. As their peers hurried to the rescue, amid the splashing and shouting, the Prinsessa Margret calmly steamed past and reached the finishing line.
Toran leaned so far forward, straining to see, that he almost tumbled in. Branville grabbed him, hauling him back up. “Are you trying to drown yourself, idiot?”
Toran blinked, feeling the strength of Branville’s grip burning through the rough cloth of his uniform jacket. Not so long ago he would have jerked his arm away, glaring in resentment at Branville. But now he leaned against him, regaining his balance, reassured by Branville’s strength — and even grinned up at him. “Thanks.” To his amusement, he saw Branville flush dark red as he hastily let go.
As Professor Kazimir rushed off to help rescue the floundering students from the canal, Colonel Lindgren turned to Major Bauldry. “Well, that decides the matter. Rest assured, Major, that we will not be using the concentrated distillation in the contest. I’ll ensure that a small phial of the dilute aethryite is delivered today so that your cadets can test it with their machinery.”
***
“Sorry I couldn’t make the boat race this morning.”
Kazimir glanced up from his work as Guy Maulevrier came into the laboratory, resenting the intrusion; he had been measuring out phials of the dilute aethyrite and Guy’s unannounced arrival made his hands shake.
“I hear my boys took quite a dunking in the canal.”
Kazimir winced. It was unfortunate that Maulevrier’s students had ended up piloting the Prinsessa Karila — but the boats had been fairly allocated by ballot and no one could have guessed the outcome in advance.
“Just as well you conducted these trials in advance.” Guy sat on a stool opposite him, grinning. “After all, we wouldn’t want there to be any mistakes. There are men’s lives at stake here.”
Guy’s observation was casually tossed aside, but Kazimir bridled, offended that Guy should even dare to imply that he would treat the contestants in such an irresponsible way.
“Now look here, Guy, I don’t know why you think I might be so careless as to mix up the two fuels and risk killing the contestants,” he said, “but I really must object — ”
“My dear fellow, no offence intended, I assure you.” Guy, laughing, raised both hands, palms outward as if to fend off Kazimir’s response.
“All well, gentlemen?”
Kazimir started, hearing Colonel Lindgren’s voice. Had the colonel overheard their exchange? Flustered, he began to protest as Li
ndgren came in that he would never make so basic an error as to mislabel the two strengths of fuel, especially after the morning’s dramatic demonstration of the potency of the concentrate.
“It’s true that we could have a problem on our hands, were the two strengths to be accidentally mixed up,” the colonel said. “But it’s a small problem that careful labelling will prevent. I know I can rely on you, Professor, to lock the concentrate safely away until the contest has taken place. Is all ready?” And he held out his hands expectantly. Kazimir, hands still shaking, handed over two slender stoppered phials.
“Excellent,” Lindgren nodded his approval. “Will you accompany me, Doctor Maulevrier? I’m sure you and your team are eager to start testing the aethyrite in the mechanism that powers your flying craft. And then I’ll make my report to his imperial majesty.”
Chapter 41
“Two of our men attacked?” Lord Ranulph stared at Gerard, his amiable smile of welcome erased. “Murdered?”
Gerard gave a brusque nod. He was still shaken by what he had seen. “We’ve had no option but to halt all operations until we’ve reassessed the situation.”
“Do you have any idea who attacked them? Where were they?”
“At Morozhka’s Round. The miners got very drunk, no thanks to Kartavoi, and defaced the standing stones.” Gerard could hardly keep the anger from his voice, agitatedly turning the brim of his hat round and round as he spoke. “I made them clean up, but the damage was done. And then I found Ruzhko and his apprentice—just a boy—”
“Any witnesses?”
“Before he died, the lad said just one word. ‘Druzhina’.”
“Druzhina.” Lord Ranulph took a swig from his hip flask; as he put it back in his pocket, Gerard saw that his hand was shaking. “I hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” he said distantly.
A buzz of voices had begun outside and was growing steadily louder.
