Skorik silently nodded to the old man, who then swiftly placed a small key on the counter. Vanechka grabbed the key and proceeded to the stack of boxes. Behind the boxes there was a door, and behind the door, a staircase. Vanechka took the stairs to the first floor.
Ahead of him opened up a long hallway lined with doors on both sides. It was dark, the only light coming through a small window at the end, but Vanechka did not hesitate in selecting the door he needed. He unlocked it and found himself in a windowless room infused with a smell of mould. Numerous large and small chests occupied the shelf space. They were used by Enzelman’s clients for stowing away their treasures, which, as a rule, had been acquired illegally. The shopkeeper had three virtues: he accepted other people’s property for safe keeping, did not ask any questions and knew how to grease the palms of minor law enforcers. Besides, smugglers were of no interest to the Vilnius Legion, which was responsible for safety in the city.
Among the countless crates that were being sheltered here, a few belonged to Vanechka Skorik. The rest of Vanechka’s fortune was tucked away in similar little shops around the city, as Skorik believed that it is not wise to keep all your eggs in one basket – you will sooner break them than make yourself an omelette.
Vanechka took a small chest off the shelf, removed several keys from his pocket and quickly found the right one. He unlocked and opened the chest, took out some papers and faded photographs that had been pinned together, put them aside, then finally pulled out a stack of chervontsy[9] (roubles were still in circulation in Vilnius). He licked his fingers, and started counting them in profound concentration: ten, twenty, fifty... Having counted one hundred red banknotes – three years’ wages for a 4th category metalworker – he pushed the money inside a fabric pouch, which he slipped under the front of his jacket. He concealed the remaining banknotes under the documents in the chest.
A few minutes later Vanechka came down the stairs, stepped back into the shop and tossed the key on the counter. Old Enzelman was sitting there as before, only now he was blissfully puffing on his cigarette, grey stinking smoke coming from his mouth. Skorik glared at the old man and, without a word, left through the door.
Once outside, Vanechka straightened up his battered jacket, which had been tailored out of fabric greatly resembling a grey mouse, and marched back in the direction of Green Bridge as if nothing had happened. His business in Snipiskes was over, and the next thing on his agenda was an expedition to an even uglier area.
Vanechka was in no hurry. Having bought a hot sausage-meat bun for three copecks and a glass of sour kvass[10] for two more outside St Raphael’s Church, he stepped on to Green Bridge. With his arms propped on the railings, he ate his snack and watched some children and a few adults splash in the waters of the Neris, which was unusually warm for the end of April. A fair amount of intriguing substances would flow down from the pipes of Steam City into the Neris but Vilnius residents bathed in it with no reservations because of the mechanical net which had been installed next to Green Bridge by the University Dominium Alchemists and which had rid the Neris of all the undesirable gifts from Steam City.
It grew dark slowly. The lights were lit in Navigators’ Tower on the Hill of Gediminas. With the help of multicoloured light signals the Airship Navigation Control Centre was guiding a clumsy cargo dirigible towards Viscigavas airship port. The dirigible cast its heavy shadow over the city, but not many residents bothered to raise their heads – after several decades, the citizens had become used to machines that had once appeared to be the work of magic.
Vanechka swallowed the last mouthful, wiped his greasy hands on his jacket and set off for the city centre. The annoying steam coach drivers did not bustle him – a worker would never spend his money on such luxury.
Gas lamps were lit along Vilnius Street. The shape of their blue flames looked like a robust fellow gulping down a pint of Szopen beer. There was a time when these lamps – the invention of Vilnius Alchemists – had attracted crowds of curious citizens, and taxes on the beer they drank were handsomely reflected in the city’s budget – but that was a long time ago and no one but travellers admired the lovely flames now. Vanechka trotted along Vilnius Street without looking around. Crossing St George’s Avenue, he swore under his breath after barely escaping being run over by a unicycle, which had appeared out of nowhere.
Close to the Grand Theatre, which was currently hosting Bauman’s touring horse circus, Skorik came to a junction. Preobrazhenskaya Street on the left would have taken him to Palace Square, but Vanechka turned right into Pohulianka.
It was jolly in Pohulianka – the orchestra was playing outside the popular Harmonija restaurant and waiters were rushing about madly to serve the outdoor tables occupied by great numbers of hungry and thirsty guests. The weather was good and all the inns in Pohulianka were buzzing, including the pitifull Lower Inn, which served watery beer and food not worth more than a pittance – a popular subject of Vilnius residents’ jokes. A mix of languages could be heard around the tables: Lithuanian, Polish, Russian, German and even English, but Lithuanian was still the predominant one. It was the main language of Vilnius by order of the Alliance, the execution of which was heartily supervised by Rector of the University Dominium Gimbutas. Former Vilnius Governor General Muravyov must have been turning in his grave.
The bun had made Vanechka full so he did not stop at any of the inns and soon reached the very outskirts of Vilnius.
Two men in blue Vilnius Legion uniforms were standing bored by the White Pillars of Pohulianka. The Legate of the city had stated more than once: we are only responsible for safety in Vilnius, and Vilnius ends with the White Pillars of Pohulianka.
And beyond... beyond began the Troubles.
According to the Legate, the Troubles were not part of Vilnius, so the two Legionnaires were there only to warn those approaching they were about to cross into the most perilous area of the city (stretching just outside Vilnius, to be more precise). However, the locals did not need any explanations of what the Troubles were, and the guards were simply loitering about, waiting for the end of their shift.
Once you passed the Pillars, the scenery changed completely. The beginning of the Troubles was marked by the unpaved Wet Square, where large deep puddles festered all year round. Five streets, like sharp beams, dissected the Troubles right to the centre. A few taverns clung to the edge of the Square. There one could have a quick bite or a couple of 50g priest’s shots [11] for courage. Also, Wet Square was renowned for its broceurs, who were always ready to serve you. The broceurs’ services were handy for someone looking for the nearest gambling house or those who desired to use a joy house but were afraid to catch syphilis, as they could suggest a more reputable place. Finally, if one wanted to let his hair down and overindulge in the Troubles, but was afraid to lose both his hair and his wallet, for a certain amount of money, a select few Herculean broceurs would look after him all night, and at the break of dawn, carry him to the White Pillars and make certain a steam carriage safely carried his numb body home.
Not so long ago, several business-minded broceurs had established a company called “Broceurs Street Trolley” and had started taking visitors around the most remarkable places in the Troubles in an open steam carriage. However, Vilnius Council had soon put an end to this enterprise due to four cases of robbery of the passengers occuring in the first two weeks alone. Rumours abounded that the carriage owners themselves had something to do with the robberies. Broceurs were the city’s headache. The Council had spent long hours racking their brains about how to make them acquire certificates of trustworthiness and pay taxes, but had eventually given up on the idea. So the city’s population grew rapidly and the broceurs’small businesses flourished.
Vanechka entered the Troubles with a thousand roubles in the pocket of his jacket, but he had no intention of using the services of the broceurs, as even the shrewdest know-it-all in the Troubles would never think of robbing such a tramp.
Skorik crept i
nto Gluttons’ Passage. There were numerous counters squashed one against the other. All day long their owners sizzled, boiled, sauteed and marinaded things and in shrill voices sang the praises of their concoctions. To strangers, broceurs could point out (for a fee, of course) a roast that had been made with real mutton, and the ones that had been made with rats caught that same morning by the nimble boys of the Troubles. However, one little rule of thumb was never to be forgotten – no one should ever have too much faith in broceurs’ advice.
There was one good thing about Gluttons’ Passage. The custom of pouring the contents of a chamber pot out of the window and down on someone’s head, following a cry of “Hey, stinkpot!”, which was strictly adhered to in the Troubles, was not practised here. On the other hand, pickpockets were especially fond of this little street, and Vanechka Skorik warily pressed his hand against his heart, where his money nestled under his jacket.
The real Troubles began beyond Gluttons’ Passage – dozens of intricately intertwined little streets, at times intersecting, at other times ending abruptly in strange courtyards or at a dead end. Vanechka was not an expert on the labyrinths of the Troubles but he had rather thoroughly investigated the meeting place. So without any hesitation he turned left, swiftly gave way to two boozed-up river transport workers, and glanced over at a respectable man who was being accompanied by a broceur into a non-alchemic opium house. The man had the top button of his shirt undone, which allowed Vanechka to see his gold chain. He bet that by the next morning the chain would have found its way into the broceur’s hands; or into the hands of somebody else who appreciated such things. Finally Skorik realised that he was standing under a sign depicting a scraggly haired owl gulping down a pint of beer.
The usual company was overindulging at the inn.
“So I am telling her: where do you keep your brain, bint?” said Itska Lupet – a habitual visitor to Iron Owl and owner of several joy houses – in a big voice, enjoying the attention that he was getting. “Why do you have to recruit whores right by the well, opposite the gendarmerie station? Isn’t there another place where the hens congregate?”
The shriek of his audience was so loud that it made the beer glasses ring. Itska revealed his rotten teeth and kept on talking.
“Then, of course, this sad commissioner Smutkevicius appeares out of nowhere, and I can see that he is about to grab my Malka. He says: Mrs Knopp, you are being arrested for the attempted illegal recruitment of girls. Maybe it’s not such a bad idea for the scatterbrain Malka to spend a few days in the cell, I am thinking to myself. Maybe she would come out a bit smarter?” Itska leaned back against the chair, took a sip of beer and opened up his arms. “But you know me, you know what a softie I am. And it’s my own floozy that needs saving after all. So I take out a knife, approach him from behind and say: You nit-picker, why are you bothering the ladies, are you tired of living?”
“And what does he say?” several voices asked in unison.
“What could he say...” Lupetas shrugged his shoulders and grinned widely. “What could a pitiful nit-picker say to a real man? He mumbled something and let my Malka go. I felt that I should demand an apology to the lady but I was running late. And now all of you are invited to try my new beauties out. Visitors of the Owl will get a discount – any girl could be yours for only half a rouble.”
The drinking buddies banged their pints on the table in support, while Itska was quietly happy that none of them had been by the well at that hour and had no way of knowing why he suddenly felt short of time. The thing was that at the sight of a Vilnius Legionnaire, he and his Malka had swung round and ran for their lives through the gardens and the courtyards. Because no one messes with the Legionnaires.
Without any warning the door of the inn was flung open and an unfamiliar man stepped inside. Lupet pierced him with his eyes and bared his teeth, adopting the appearance of a small-toothed rat. Strangers were not really welcome at Iron Owl.
The man paused and glanced around as if looking for something. One of his hands was stuffed in a pocket, the other dangled by his side. Itska eyed the stranger – starting at his worn thin jacket and down to the cheap boots, and then slid off his chair.
“Hey uncle, miserable dreg of the earth, are you lost?” he sang out in a thin voice as he approached Vanechka Skorik – for that is who the stranger was. “It’s a reputable inn and ditch-diggers are not welcome here, isn’t that right, fellows?”
The fellows bellowed in unison, “Yeah, yeah!”. Inspired by their support, Itska stepped towards Vanechka and struck him in the chest with his palms, pushing him away. But an inexplicable grip of steel on his elbow made him just stop just short of squealing with pain. Before Itska could even swear, Skorik bent down and whispered something in his ear. Dealing with scum like this was something that he was very good at.
Suddenly Lupet’s face changed; his bravado quickly dissipated and he fearfully stared at his squeezed elbow. Everyone in the inn sat dumbstruck.
Vanechka bent down again and whispered into Lupet’s ear.
“And one more thing... Unless you want them to find out how cowardly you are and how disgracefully you took to your heels running away from the Legionnaires, you will now laugh, pat me on the shoulder, call me your friend and ask me to treat you to a pint.” He then released his grip.
Itska obeyed in a blink of an eye. Subconsciously rubbing his elbow, he gave a coarse laugh, put his arm around Skorik’s shoulders and cried out.
“Hey, my friend! I didn’t recognise you at first. I wonder how this could happen... But it’s a sign of good luck. Buy me a beer, would you?”
Skorik turned his head to the inn keeper and stuck two of his fingers up, then both he and Lupet settled at one of the side tables. The other guests shrugged their shoulders and went back to their business. A few minutes later, the inn keeper brought two pints of beer and a bowl of salty pretzels which he placed in front of Vanechka. Itska wasn’t sure what to do next, so he first squinted at the beer and then at Skorik. The latter drew nearer.
“Now finish off your beer in two gulps and get out of my sight,” he hissed over to Itska. “If I see you loitering at the Owl or in the vicinity tonight, I will kill you,” he said in a tone that gave no doubt as to the sincerity of the warning.
Two types of people visited the Troubles – the pushers and the pushovers. Vanechka Skorik belonged to the first group, while Lupet belonged to the second. Therefore, he briskly emptied his glass, as if it contained plain water, and obediently scurried out of the inn.
Vanechka instantaneously expunged the poor man his head and, lost in thought, took a sip of his beer and bit on a pretzel. He felt homesick again. When would he be able to go back to his hometown of Moscow and become his real self again?
In reality, Vanechka Skorik was nothing at all like a miserable metalworker. He was a spy named Ivan Skorokhodov, an officer of the Tsar’s Army and an operative with Department Three – Intelligence Gathering, sent to Vilnius three months ago.
To be honest, he was not too excited about his spying mission, but army officers are not supposed to challenge the orders of their superiors. Skorokhodov spoke passable Polish and had been to Vilnius before. On this occasion, he had arrived in the guise of a deserter from the Tsar’s Army (of which there were many), and would introduce himself as an amateur metalworker, Vanechka Skorik.
They had promised that this would be his last posting. Having served the interests of the Tsar and the country with his whole heart and his soul, an officer became entitled to a well-deserved retirement and could spend the rest of his life doing whatever took his fancy. He could listen to a nightingale sing or linger under the birch trees in Zamoskvorechye, watching their branches swaying in the wind.
Normally, intelligence officers were recalled only after accomplishing something important – the kind of thing that usually resulted in them being withdrawn from a foreign land somewhat hastily. But if an operative was just killing time in their posting with no obvious resu
lts, they could be left to rot for years.
So Vilnius was a place where Skorokhodov was trying to catch his luck by searching for something exceptionally compelling, and he was working up a sweat. Some of his contacts he had inherited from his predecessor (who had already been recalled), others he had recruited himself. He was smart enough not to get in the Legionnaires’ way – although it must be said that once, even though very unwillingly, he had been unable to avoid getting his hands dirty.
An anarchist who had been hoping to find refuge in the Alliance, but who had also been increasingly getting on the nerves of Department Three, was now crayfish food in Pavilniai Pond.
However, he had recently run into some good fortune. Having dug up some information about one couple’s sinful affair, Ivan now had both lovebirds on a short leash, threatening to make their relationship public. Generally speaking, free Vilnius was a tolerant city, but not when it came to Sodomites. So quite recently, one of them – maybe it was the “husband” or maybe it was the “wife” (even just thinking about this aspect of the case made Ivan spit with disgust) – told Ivan that he could obtain copies of some highly classified drawings. In return they were asking for some money and to be left alone. This made Ivan very happy – he saw Lady Luck flying into his arms. And Department Three had become very curious about drawings from the city of Mechanics and Alchemists.
Ivan Skorokhodov couldn’t wait to go home and sensed that his goal was within his grasp.
Now he was waiting anxiously and wondering: Will he come? Will he have the drawings?
Everyone but the innkeeper had already forgotten about him at The Owl. Ivan got his beer and pretzels, walked to the furthest end of the room and sat down at a table. Two blackened wooden columns, decorated with carvings, not only concealed him from unwelcome curiosity, but also served as a shield from flying glasses and wild guests.
Hour of the Wolf Page 3
