Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  “Thank you,” said Mila. She then apologised and closed the door, before packing her little toys in a large bag.

  Columbina and Pierrot slipped into the bag without much fuss, but Scaramuccia decided to be difficult.

  “I will walk by myself,” he declared waving his sword, his eyelids still half closed.

  Mila sighed but did not start arguing with him.

  With the handbag in one hand and Scaramuccia in the other, the girl got out of the carriage and put the toy on the ground. The morning sun had just cleared the rocks, and Mila, shielding her eyes from its bright glare, scanned the surrounding area. The port was still half-empty, as large cargo airships arrived in the afternoon and departed in the evening. At this time of day, only two lonely giants were docked in the air. One of them was being unloaded and looked a hive of activity. Slightly lower, four smaller dirigibles were docked with strong ropes. One of them, The Julien, was about to take off, and port crew were slowly unwinding the ropes that had secured the airship in its mooring position from the large pulley blocks. The other two dirigibles were patrol airships and were used for area inspection flights by the Alliance’s security services. The fourth one had a long queue waiting at its side.

  This was The Icarus passenger airship.

  “The blue corridor,” the Legionnaire reminded Mila, who seemed to be lost in her thoughts.

  The girl smiled apologetically, then bent down to turn a little key sticking out of Scaramuccia’ back. The toy became alive and began to spin in all directions. The Legionnaire smiled and walked off, leading the file. He was soon followed by Mila, and finally by Scaramuccia, whose comical gait raised a few eyebrows among the passengers scurrying to their flight.

  “An automaton?” gasped a lady walking by with her husband. “What a charmer. Katazhyna would love one of these toys.”

  Scaramuccia was on the brink of turning back to snap at the lady but Mila gave him a warning look, reinforced by a finger over her mouth, which silenced the toy soldier but did not stop him from waving his sword angrily.

  They soon entered a spacious hall with several partitions. At each of them stood a controller and a military air safety officer, watching the travellers. When the queue stretching across the entire room finally reached the partitions, it divided into several smaller ones. Without a moment’s hesitation, Mila’s chaperone walked over to the last booth, where there was no queue.

  “Special class,” he stated.

  An elderly moustachioed controller inspected the girl closely.

  “Can I see your documents, Miss?”

  Mila rummaged through her bag until tiny porcelain fingers put a small lady’s handbag in her hand. The girl’s heart filled with joy again, and with a smile on her face she extended a passport of the free Cities of the Alliance to the controller. The cover was embellished with the Rothschilds’ red coat of arms, surrounded by the coats of arms of Reval, Vilnius, Kraków, Prague and Constantinople. Together with the passport, Mila gave him a folded permit to travel and a ticket for The Icarus.

  After the controller had quickly scanned the papers, he took another glance at Mila and waved for her to go through.

  At that moment the girl was approached by another Legionnaire – also tall, heavy set, and with cropped hair, but the uniform he wore was blue and the badge on his chest depicted silver wings against a red background.

  “Miss, I am putting you in the hands of The Icarus Security Service,” said the Legionnaire from Kraków. “They will do their best to ensure that your journey to Vilnius is safe and pleasant.” The man gave a barely noticeable nod, turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

  The new chaperone was as reserved as his predecessor. He directed Mila with his hand and walked a short distance behind her, checking around them all the time.

  After going through, the people merged back into a single queue – they were lining up by the two brand new electric Otis lifts, which ran up to the metal passenger embarkation platform, secured to the massive mast at a height of 30 metres.

  “In groups of four, ladies and gentlemen, the lift can only take you in groups of four!” yelled a sweating lift supervisor, waving his arms vigorously.

  When Mila’s turn came, she took Scaramuccia in her hands and stepped into the cabin. The silent chaperone moved in after her. The girl greeted two other passengers with a polite nod, and they nodded back. The elderly man removed his hat and made a low bow to her, almost stumbling over the fleshy matron who had sadly not been subjected to his exuberant attention. The last to squeeze inside the cabin was the supervisor, who slammed the iron-barred door and span a large handle round a few times, before pushing it down. The lift squeaked and moved up, swaying from side to side.

  A few minutes into the journey the lift stopped, the iron-barred door slid to one side, and passengers were invited to step onto the platform, straight into the ministrations of expectant stewards, dressed in yellow and blue uniforms.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to The Icarus,” one of them welcomed the passengers in Lithuanian.

  “Let us go, Miss Mila, I will show you your cabin. It will be quicker this way,” the accompanying Legionnaire spoke at last, stepping into the dirigible before her. He also spoke Lithuanian.

  Travelling by passenger dirigible was still a luxury that only a few could afford, and for that reason the carrier companies went out of their way to leave a lasting impression on their passengers. The Icarus had two decks: an open sundeck with its own separate pressurised smoking cabin – a rare perk even when it came to dirigibles – and a covered lower deck. The latter was used as a lounge, where passengers could gaze out through one of the many portholes while sitting in comfortable armchairs around redwood tables, enjoying hors d’oeuvres and non-alcoholic drinks. During evening and night flights, a pianist played the mechanically operated piano, and people got a chance to dance under the strict supervision of the stewards, who were worried that the passengers might lose their heads due to too much fun and frolics. On either side of the corridor, starting at the other end of the lounge, there were cabins where holders of more expensive tickets could store their luggage, take a rest or snatch a few hours of sleep at night.

  A fleeting glance into the cabin where her belongings had been stored was enough for Mila. She scooped up her three sweethearts and strode back to the lounge, taking a cosy position by a porthole. Her little toys were placed in such a way that they could watch The Icarus cast off its moorings and take off.

  Before long the airship gently soared above the rocks and, having hung in one spot to get adjusted to the upper level winds for a while, turned to the North West and headed for Vilnius.

  Down below, at the foot of the rocks and by the road, stood a bald man with a hat in his hand, wearing an understated but clearly expensive dark suit. With his head thrown back, he watched The Icarus take off. Having satisfied himself that the dirigible had flown off in the usual direction, he pulled an object that resembled a ladies’ powder compact out of his jacket pocket, sprung the lid open and slowly drew his finger across it. The metal-like mirror became dull, before starting to ripple out in concentric circles.

  “Madam has departed,” said the man with his lips pressed against the lid.

  The ripples swallowed the sound, quivered, and no more than a second later the metal surface reflected nothing but the rocks of Rakovice.

  At that same moment Charles Finley, the second adjutant of The Star of St George – the dirigible flying towards Vilnius – flicked the lid of a similar “powder compact” closed, and gave a satisfied smile. He then set to carrying out his duties, but throughout the whole journey did not let the wireless apparatus out of his sight.

  Chapter XII

  Vilnius, morning

  23 04 1905

  Since time immemorial, Sluskai Palace on the left bank of the Neris River had made the locals feel uneasy and even caused chills down the spines of some.

  The fate of this palace, built by Governor of P
olotsk Dominykas Sluska in the 17th century, could not have been more mercurial. To build a palace in this chosen place required the forming of a square by clearing the area and covering it with soil, as well as changing the course of the Neris River by removing the hill that separated the City from Antokolis. The Palace was once surrounded by an attractive park with ponds, and it had the particularly mesmerising feature of a glass ceiling in one of its halls, which also served as the bottom of a huge fish tank. At the time of the Great Northern War, the Palace became a residence to Emperor of Russia Peter I. In the following years it had been handed over to the Clerks Regular of the Pious Schools, and still later became home to a brewery and a sawmill. After the revolt of 1831, the Tsar’s government turned it into the garrison’s fortress, and later still, into a prison, with katorga[21] being the only way out of there. The Alliance of the free cities did not waste time deliberating on how to use the empty building, and it soon became home to the Vilnius Legion.

  The Legion members found the menacing air of Sluskai quite useful. Thieves, murderers, revolutionaries and spies soon became the tenants of the cramped cells, and the most ghastly tales (quite unassumingly spread by Legionnaires themselves) about the interrogation dungeons in Sluskai were passed from one person to another, inducing the most terrible nightmares in those residents of Vilnius who had been treating the law frivolously. The night guards were always busy dealing with freshly delivered guests – directing some of them to the cells, others to interrogation rooms, and yet others to Peter and Paul’s church for a day’s kneeling.

  Although the cells and interrogation rooms were grim, the Palace was not completely deprived of conveniences. Being a hired military force, the Legionnaires felt that these perks were their well-deserved reward for conscientious service. Some parts of Sluskai Palace, which could not be accessed by everyone, had been fitted out luxuriously. The Legion’s men could not only enjoy the babbling fountains, but also ride horses, play rugby in smaller spaces separated from one another by hedges, fish in the ponds, perfect their shooting skills on a range or exercise in the gymnasium. A French cook was brought in to take care of their nutritional needs.

  Now it would be hard to say who out of all the architects of the Alliance was struck with the idea of getting rid of the old guardians of public order and creating the Alliance’s own legion, calling on the mercenaries of the French Legion for that. But this strategy proved to be a smart one. Mercenaries who were racked by malaria, dysentery or hunger upon their return from service in Gabon or Madagascar were desperate to get into the Legion of the Alliance, as if it were their last chance. For mercenaries who had been through hell and high water, service here was like a cosy home barracks posting, while the Alliance got the chance to use the services of the best.

  The private quarters of the Legate of Vilnius were as exquisite as the apartments at Vilnius’ Bristol hotel, but luxury was not one of the things that Antanas Sidabras could get excited about. In the course of his life, this former naval infantryman, who had fought in the Spanish and American wars, had learned to see the bright side of each and every day, even when he had only his trench coat for a pillow and the starry sky over Guantanamo Bay for a blanket. But this was something that Antanas Sidabras preferred not to discuss.

  Now he was gripped by a foul mood. Having paced up and down the room, he looked out of the window. It seemed that the bright and warm feel of yesterday had been smeared over with the wet swipe of a mop. The skies had opened at the break of dawn, and only an occasional individual on his way from the mass at St Peter and Paul’s passed by with an apprehensive glimpse towards the gloomy silhouette of Sluskai Palace.

  One brief look at the front page of The Truth of Vilnius that morning almost made the Legate choke on his tea. The large headline in bold screamed Horrendous murder at Cholera Cemetery! Legate helpless! The corpse and his gruesomely slit throat were described by a journalist called Korsunas in the most graphic of detail. As he had never laid his eyes on the victim, he was stretching the truth considerably. This rather short piece of writing ended with a rhetorical question: Who protects us and how much does it cost?

  Antanas Sidabras felt a sudden urge to hurl his cup against the wall. The bloodsuckers and moronic quill drivers from The Truth of Vilnius were among those who Sidabras detested the most. On the one hand, Dr Radzinskis, who had the corpse in his disposition throughout the night, could be suspected of having leaked the story, but Sidabras thought it highly unlikely that the Doctor would do that – risk falling out with the Legionnaires for a few damned roubles? A more believable storyline involved the police superintendant who had participated in the inspection of the corpse running over to an inn frequented by The Truth of Vilnius scribes and selling his story at a bargain price.

  So the day was off to a bad start, and it wasn’t over yet. When the Hungarian brothers obediently turned up with Limping Jacek, it took a while before the coachman, his fingers frantically crumpling his hat, finally stammered that he had really taken some fat man to the common houses of Steam City. This admission was preceded by vigorous changes in his facial colour – from white to red and then back again – and a considerable amount of stuttering. He could not name the exact house as the passenger had alighted on the street and disappeared into a gateway. Yet he assured the Legate he could show them the gateway.

  Sidabras let out a deep breath. He thanked the broceurs and ordered two junior Legionnaires to accompany the coachman to the gateway and make enquiries locally about the pudgy Felix.

  After the Hungarians and the coachman were gone, a mail dirigible deposited an urgent diplomatic dispatch from the City Council in the Sluskai wind basket. The intimidated Burgomaster was demanding the Legate’s immediate explanation for the article in The Truth. But there was nothing he could explain.

  So the day was off to a bad start.

  Chapter XIII

  Somewhere near Trakai, in the afternoon

  23 04 1905

  A Westerly wind tore in with a burst of rain. The rain lashed ruthlessly at Stepas Rickus’ head but, as both his hands were holding onto a battered wooden railing, he couldn’t even wipe it off his face, and the only thing he could do was lick it off. Rickus inspected the sky apprehensively. Heavy clouds and rain served as excellent cover, but he was not sure if The Broom could withstand a raging storm. Once upon a time this dirigible was an engineering wonder; it was known by the name of No 6 and was used for secret cargo transportation. It was written off at the end of its service life, and later on lost in a game of cards by a quartermaster of the Tsar’s Army responsible for the management of its estate to experienced robber Stepas Rickus. At least that was what Rickus’ accomplices used to say. In Stepas Rickus’ opinion a dirigible, regardless of its age, was a much superior apparatus to a horse: shooting from high above was substantially more agreeable and there was no risk of acquiring saddle-sores on your backside. With the help of some ingenious workmen working according to Rickus’ instructions, the airship was patched up and had rifles installed (a gift from a military warehouse), and it so happened that No 6 was transformed into The Broom – the terror of the Northern Lowlands gentry and passing merchants.

  Rickus proved to be a smart robber – the role of The Broom was to intimidate, while men on horses carried out the robbery part. With a dirigible suspended above their heads and rifles directed right at them, no victim dared to cross swords with the attackers. The unfortunate prey would be so scared by the whole ordeal that they didn’t notice the crumbling state of the airship, with its keel falling apart and secured with pieces of wire, or the severely patched up envelope.

  But today The Broom was to face a real challenge – a confrontation with a new and modern dirigible, even if one slightly less well-armed. Rickus took it as a personal challenge. Every few minutes he cursed his life, complaining that there was always a first time for everything. However, the memory of the money was enough to make him decide there was no choice, so he clutched the railings with even more
determination and continued to cast his troubled gaze at the sky.

  The downpour was to come in very handy for Rickus, who saw surprise as the crucial element of his plan of attack. It had been a while since his last assault on an Alliance passenger dirigible, and the pirates hoped to take the security detail on this one by surprise – they should not be prepared for aggression from the sky. Obviously, if The Broom itself did not fall to pieces prior to that...

  “Second level,” yelled Jokubas, his head sticking out of the wooden cabin above the deck. He was The Broom’s navigator. “Isn’t it time to go up, Steputis? We are almost there.”

  Rickus ignored the Steputis part (it meant ‘little Stepas’). When it came to addressing his superiors with respect, Jokubas was so bull-headed that nothing could change his attitude.

  Rickus turned his head towards the nose of the dirigible and shouted:

  “Chechka, time to ascend, you greasy louse!”

  The bald man at the steering wheel raised his left hand in acknowledgement of the command, while his right hand opened the reservoir valve, causing white clouds of steam speckled with glittering green dots to gush through. Normally The Broom was run on the cheapest available helium, which someone would smuggle from Königsberg, but on this occasion Rickus had decided not to be tight-fisted and had sought assistance from his old chum the quartermaster, who had helped him feed the dirigible with promethelium.

  The Broom shuddered so badly that Rickus barely managed to stay on his feet, but then the airship started to ascend through the lashing rain and gusts of wind right into the very middle of a dark cloud. It had been ages since the dirigible was last subjected to such a trial, so it shuddered and its floorboards screeched with the threat of disintegration. Nevertheless, The Broom inched upwards. When the robbers reached the storm cloud, they became enveloped in darkness, as if it were the middle of the night.