by Chris Paton
“There are only a few people who know about this place,” he said and stopped. “I wonder which one you are?”
“You have to ask, Kapitan?” said the voice as a man stumbled forwards, bent double inside the pipe, his massive frame filled the space between them.
“Poruchik Pavlutskiy,” Stepan said. He stuffed the pistol inside his belt and gripped the hand of the man in front of him.
“Kapitan Skuratov. It has been a while.”
“You're hurt?” Stepan pulled back his hand, recognising the thick wet substance for what it was. “And bleeding?”
“I am.”
“Vlad?” cried Lena as she shouldered Stepan to one side and barrelled into the man. “Vladimir,” she said and gripped the man's head between her hands. Lena kissed him on the mouth until Vladimir coughed and she released him.
“I am sorry, Lena. It is good to see you. But this poor Russian is not strong enough for a fire-red Cossack just now.”
“What happened?” Stepan said as Lena held Vladimir's hand.
“A knife wound that just won't heal.”
“We'll see what we can do about that. But first,” Stepan said as another round of bullets whacked into the door. “We have to get out of this pipe.”
Chapter 26
The Tanfana
Imperial Russia
July, 1851
Luise woke with a start, gasping for breath as thick smoke filled her quarters. She reeled from the door as flames licked at the wood. Her ears rang with the drum of missiles striking the side of the passenger car and shattering the windows. Luise rolled onto the floor in search of air as the smoke thickened and she struggled to see her hands in front of her face. She tried to call out but choked on the words and gasped at the pain in her side as it flared with each movement she made. The floor was warm beneath her palms as Luise crawled to the window only to pull back as another round of missiles struck the side of her cabin. One of the missiles shattered the window and crashed, spent of energy, onto the floor. It rolled against Luise's leg and she picked it up, recognising the warm lead shot as she turned it within her fingers.
I have to get out.
Luise forced herself onto her knees, coughing as she crawled to the window. The door hissed as the flames worked their way up the wood panels, stripping the varnish into blisters. With a grunt of pain, she pressed her palms on the floor and pushed herself onto her feet only to fall down as the side of the cabin was ripped away with a screech of metal. A faint green glow shone through the smoke like a searchlight probing the inside of the cabin. As the fresh air from outside The Tanfana cleared the smoke, Luise saw a huge metal hand reach in and stretch its fingers. She took hold and let the emissary pull her gently to her feet, lift her out of the cabin and place her on the ground, shielding her with its back as another burst of lead shot hailed towards them.
“Kettlepot,” said Luise as she filled her lungs with fresh air. “Where is Emilia?”
The emissary turned its head and dipped it up and down in the direction of a group of emissaries crouched in a defensive ring, muskets bristling between their shoulders as Wallendorf's soldiers returned fire against their attackers.
“But where are we? And who is attacking?” Luise turned to look around Kettlepot's globus tank and saw a posse of six riders, dust billowing from beneath the horses hooves as they turned towards the soldiers and let loose another volley of lead.
“Are they from Arkhangelsk?” Luise said as she stood. Kettlepot stretched and followed her, shielding her from a potential attack. She stumbled along the tracks in the direction of the steam engine, turning her head as the emissary tapped her on the shoulder with a large brass finger. It pointed towards the soldiers. “No,” she said. “I need to see who we are fighting. And why.”
Kettlepot moved its shoulders in a gesture that Luise took to be a shrug. It seemed that Emilia had given the emissary strict instructions and it followed her as she walked.
Luise waved her hand through a cloud of smoke and stared at the gates of the city in front of her. That must be Arkhangelsk, she thought as she stumbled forwards. Kettlepot increased the length of its stride and lifted Luise into its arms.
“What?” she said and then relaxed as the emissary cupped its hand and bent its arm. Luise leaned her back against Kettlepot's arm and pointed in the direction she wanted to go. “There,” she said and nodded at what looked like a command tent, four hundred yards in front of the gates to Arkhangelsk. “Take me over there.”
Luise felt the thunder of hooves rippling up the emissary's armour. She twisted in her seat and glimpsed the approach of four horsemen as they yelled and drew their short cavalry swords. Kettlepot placed Luise on the ground and dipped its head towards the only available cover – a wounded horse lying on its belly. Luise crawled over to the horse and ducked beneath its saddle as the first of the horsemen wheeled in from the right to attack. Kettlepot ducked and toppled the horse with one arm. The rider's sword bounced off the emissary's head as he flew over the head of his mount and landed close to where Luise hid. She crawled out from cover to remove the man's sword from where it wobbled in his grasp. The man panted on the ground, winded but otherwise unhurt. His comrades checked their horses advance and sheathed their swords in favour of their short-barreled muskets.
“You might want to reconsider this,” Luise said to the man as she crawled backwards and into cover. “It's just a suggestion,” she said as he looked at her. The crack of three muskets, one after the other, split the air above them, punctuated by the dull ring of three lead balls as they flattened against Kettlepot's armour. The man looked again at Luise and she shrugged. “Do you see what I mean?”
The sudden command to stop, bellowed from the command tent made Luise lift her head over the saddle. She recognised the language as a Russian dialect, and began to imagine that she might be surrounded by Cossacks, given the horses and their mix of wool, leather and fur clothing. Luise stood up and smiled as Kettlepot clanked the short distance towards her. The winded Cossack pushed himself to his feet and joined his comrades as a large man strode from the tent followed by a woman. Luise stared and then realised that Hannah had had the same idea as her – that they were fighting the wrong battle. She watched as Hannah quickened her pace and walked side by side with the man until they stopped within a few feet of Luise and her emissary bodyguard.
“This is Ivan Timofeyevich,” said Hannah. “The leader of the Cossacks ringing the city.” Luise turned to Ivan and nodded in greeting. “My Russian isn't very good,” Hannah continued, “but I think I have convinced him we are not the same Germans as those inside the city. Although, I must admit, it is an easy mistake to make – they are our emissaries after all.”
Ivan stared at Kettlepot and made a point of looking at Luise, drawing the shape of a box in the air with his hands.
“No,” said Luise with a slight shake of her head. “No box.”
Ivan raised his eyebrows and then said something in Russian before taking his pipe from his pocket and lighting it.
“I think,” Hannah said, “he is impressed.” She turned to ask Ivan a question but he was already moving back towards the tent, followed by a small cloud of sweet smoke. He stopped by the horsemen who had attacked Luise and ordered one of the men to sound the end of battle on the bugle he wore around his neck. On the last of three short blasts, Luise turned to see the Cossacks on the battlefield rein in their horses and trot back towards the tents and entrenchments in front of the city, shrugging the battle from their shoulders, chatting, smoking and joking as they rode. The Wallendorf defensive ring of emissaries dispersed, and Luise watch as Emilia led a startled emissary out from behind the soldiers and in her direction.
“That's the new emissary?” Luise said and suppressed a smile.
“Ja,” said Hannah. “Apparently not all Şteamƙin are cut out to be warriors. I was going to have it scrapped but Fräulein Ardelean would not hear of it.” Hannah studied Luise before asking, “Are you fe
eling better? The doctor was concerned you were bleeding again.”
“And I think I did, for a short while at least. He must have given me a sedative. When I woke up, the cabin was burning.”
“Yes, Ivan's men scored a lucky hit with some explosives. The doctor, I am afraid, did not make it.”
“What?” Luise felt the colour and warmth flush from her cheeks. She wrapped her arms across her chest and shivered. “He is dead.”
“Ja,” Hannah said. “I am sorry.”
Luise wondered how many people were going to die before this mission was over, before Khronos was stopped, and the different pieces of the puzzle were finally put into place, resolved, or eradicated. Thoughts of Khronos made her turn back to Hannah.
“You are wondering about Khronos, ja? There has been no sign of him. But, I admit, once we were engaged by the Cossacks, we did not pay attention to anything else. If he is inside the city, he got there without our knowledge.”
“What else have we missed, I wonder?”
“The Cossacks have a small team inside the city. They are trying to stop Venzke...”
“Who?”
“The man Herr Bremen put in charge of the Arkhangelsk operation. He is being resupplied from the sea, although Schleiermacher should put a stop to that soon.”
“But until then?”
“The Cossacks plan to sink a ship and block the channel.” Hannah shrugged as Luise raised her eyebrows. “I have no idea how.”
“But, if the Cossacks can get inside the city, then perhaps we can too?”
“To find your contact?”
“Abraxas, yes.” Luise glanced at Kettlepot as she considered getting into the city. The emissary turned its head and took a step past her to greet Emilia as she arrived with a distressed emissary in tow.
“Kettlepot rescued you then, Miss?” said Emilia.
“Yes,” said Luise. “He saved me on several occasions. And I have you to thank for that, don't I?”
“Maybe,” Emilia said as her cheeks blossomed with a healthy glow.
“And what about him?” Luise pointed at the emissary hovering behind Emilia.
“I think he might be a her, but she is not going to be the fighting type. I think she had best stick to dancing.” The colour in Emilia's cheeks burned even stronger as she cast a nervous glance at Hannah.
“Just keep it away from the others, if you must keep it,” Hannah said. “I will return to Ivan and the Cossacks. Now that we have stopped fighting one another, we should begin planning how to help one another.” Hannah looked at Emilia and shook her head before turning and walking towards Ivan's command tent.
Kettlepot leaped in front of Luise and pulled Emilia behind his tank as shouts from the Cossack camp and the sporadic fire of muskets crackled through the air. Wallendorf's soldiers arranged themselves in a defensive square and the controllers marched their battle-ready emissaries into a shield wall in front of the men. Luise stared in the direction the men were pointing their rifles and caught her breath at the sight of a large blue figure hurtling through the air towards the camp. A smaller figure in familiar maroon robes and a white turban was clutched to the other's side.
“It can't be,” Luise said as a huge smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“It can't be what?” said Emilia as the figure landed with a thump in the middle of the Cossack camp. With a wave of one blue hand the figure swirled a fierce wind around itself and the man it carried, deflecting the lead bullets from the Cossack muskets and forcing the men and women into cover. As the Cossacks covered their faces from the dust stinging their eyes and peppering their cheeks with grit, the wind lessened and the mystic in the maroon robes stepped forwards.
“My name,” he said in a loud voice, “is Hari Singh. And this is Lieutenant...”
“Jamie Hanover,” whispered Luise as she pressed her hands to her face. She held them there as the djinni shrank to his naked human form and staggered upon his feet. Hari gripped Jamie around the shoulders and pulled what looked like clothes from the satchel he wore around his chest.
“We are here to help,” Hari said and held up his hands as the Cossacks returned from cover, muskets raised and hands upon the hilts of the swords sheathed at their belts.
“Who are they, Miss?” said Emilia.
The look in Emilia's eyes reminded Luise of when she had first seen a demon. “Hari is a very dear friend of mine,” she said, pressing her hand to feel the quick beat of her heart as she said it.
“And the other one. The demon?”
“The demon,” said Luise, “is my brother.”
Chapter 27
The Administrator’s Building
Arkhangelsk
July, 1851
“Lock him up in the cellar,” Venzke said to the Oberleutnant as he bent down and pressed his face close to Nikolas'. “I don't have time to deal with you. But once my emissaries have dealt with the horse thieves and murderers camped outside the gate, then I will be back, and we can have a little chat – amusing for me, and most unpleasant for you.”
“What about his emissary?” the Oberleutnant said with a nod towards the cart where Molotok lay, its furnace cold and wet.
“Leave it here where the boy can see it.” Venzke cuffed Nikolas on the head and sent the boy's cap spinning onto the floor. “It will only make his captivity more poignant – seeing his saviour and knowing he has been let down.” Venzke paused and then added, “Of course, you should be used to that by now, Nikolas Skuratov. Your father was the first to fail you, and now your machine too. Life must be one long disappointment. Get used to it.”
At the Oberleutnant’s orders the guards cut Nikolas' satchel from his body and threw him inside an empty wine cellar. They locked the iron grille door with a heavy key that the shorter guard stuffed into his pocket. With a quick rattle of the door and a kick to the lower hinges, the guard sneered at Nikolas and followed his comrade and the Oberleutnant out of the room. Venzke, Nikolas realised, had already left, but his words still stung when he thought about them.
There was a low bench leaning against the far wall of the stone cellar and Nikolas dragged it past the empty wine rack all the way to the door, curling the edge of the reindeer skin covering the stone floor. That is what I will sleep on, Nikolas supposed as he flattened the edge with his toes and returned to the bench. He sat there and stared at Molotok, his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. He thought about the adventures they had shared since Nikolas found the emissary abandoned in the rubble. He thought too about how the most feared of all the emissaries had become the people's greatest symbol of hope.
“And now even that is gone,” Nikolas said and started at the hollow echo of his words as they trembled around the cellar. He followed them with his eyes, noting the horizontal slits in the stonework – for ventilation, and the lack of windows. The only way into the cellar that Nikolas could see was the double blackwood doors, beneath which the guard's shadows flickered as they moved back and forth.
Nikolas turned his attention to Molotok, wiping away silent tears as he saw the wet charcoal that spilled from the emissary's boiler onto the bed of the cart, and the lifeless position of Molotok's arms and legs, even his head was rolled back skywards with not even a glimmer of light from the lodestone behind the grille faceplate. The irony, Nikolas realised, was that he had plenty of fuel for Molotok. The wine rack was made of seasoned pinewood. It was dry and hinged with small lengths of dowel. Nikolas stood up and walked over to the rack. He gripped two pieces in his hands and twisted them until they snapped and came free in his hands. The snap echoed like a muffled musket shot and Nikolas froze, expecting the guards to come in at any moment. But nothing happened. He broke another length of wood from the rack, and then a fourth, until, with nothing better to do, Nikolas reduced the wine rack to a pile of kindling. Just enough, he thought, to get Molotok moving, if only I could get to him. Nikolas sat down on the bench and rested his hands on the iron bars. He sighed and looked around the
cellar for inspiration.
While the doors were unyielding, other objects scattered about the stone shelves and on the floor of the cellar proved useful. Infuriatingly so, as they were all beyond Nikolas' reach. The lamp oil and flints would be perfect to light the kindling from the wine rack. The stack of books could be burned to give Molotok a little more range. They might even be able to run as far as the cathedral, Nikolas realised, if only he could get out of his cell.
“And how do I do that?” he said and turned away from Molotok to study the wine cellar more closely.
Beyond the wine rack, now better described as firewood, Nikolas saw nothing of interest other than the reindeer skin. The corner he had lifted when dragging the bench was still creased and Nikolas walked over to inspect it. He pulled away the skin and revealed a small trapdoor that, he reckoned, he could just about squeeze through. A pang of guilt flooded through his body as Nikolas looked over his shoulder at Molotok lifeless on the cart.
“I can't get to you from here,” Nikolas said. “But, maybe I can find a way to get you from outside, if I go through the trapdoor.” He bent down and lifted the trapdoor to reveal a short drop down to a stone ledge that ran alongside a channel of water. Nikolas wrinkled his nose and considered closing the trapdoor. “No,” he said. “I have to get out.”
The trapdoor stayed upright if he leaned it over, and Nikolas left it in that position while he pushed and carried the stumps of the wine rack to the grille so that they could be reached from the outside. He glanced again at Molotok and then returned to the trapdoor and swung his legs over the side.
“I will come back for you, Molotok,” Nikolas said and slipped through the trapdoor to land on the ledge. He grabbed at a railing bolted into the smooth wall as he stumbled on landing. The railing held and Nikolas pulled himself to the side. He looked up and realised the trapdoor was clearly visible, but it was too high for him to reach, and the wall revealed no means of climbing up. Nikolas was committed, he realised, and all that remained was to decide in which direction to go.
