“The recipe has not changed.”
“Life is what keeps changing.”
“True.” Tvardauskis stirred his tea, waiting for the girl to say something else.
Mila collected her thoughts and decided to deal with the problem directly.
“Uncle, you told me to come back to Vilnius and I have. But I hope this is the last time. I don’t wish to live like this any longer. I am neither safe if I require twenty-four hour protection, nor a badger constantly in hiding in its burrow. I...”
“Mila,” Nikodemas made an attempt to interrupt but the agitated girl kept on talking.
“I want to live like a normal person,” she said. “Even understanding that I am not normal at all, and a travesty of nature…” The girl’s eyes filled with tears. Sensing her lady’s distraught mood, Columbina also began to sniff. “But I can’t anymore. Why can’t we go to, let’s say, Australia, settle down there and see what happens.”
“Darling, darling...” The bewildered Tvardauskis tried to stop the waterfall of words with his outstretched hand. He was not an expert in soothing young girls.
“All is good, we don’t need any Australias. You will stay in Vilnius. And that is all. There will be no more running away. This is your home. And remember – you are normal. And you should live any way you choose. You can study at the Dominium, you can find yourself a flat, or you can find a job, if you like, and you can look for friends. Vilnius is our city and here you will be safe.” Nikodemas Tvardauskis’ heart nearly bled from all the lies coming out of his mouth for the benefit of his beloved foster daughter, but he had no choice.
“Just don’t forget, Mila. You are normal,” he repeated in a convincing voice.
“But what will happen if... well if...” the girl hesitated.
“We will look for the bridge when we get to the river,” Nikodemas said gently.
“You know, I have some friends already.” Mila smiled, wiping away the tears and cheering Columbina up. “Charles and Edward. Remember, uncle, tomorrow we are having them for dinner.”
“How could I forget, my dear,” replied Tvardauskis. “Your friends are my friends,” he added with a slight sneer which, or at least so it seemed, went unnoticed by Mila.
She sprang out of her chair and lifted Columbina up in her arms. All the sadness was gone from her face.
“We shall be going then, uncle,” she said. “I want to check if Vilnius has changed at all, and show Columbina its most beautiful places.”
Having kissed Nikodemas on his clean-shaven cheek, Mila, the doll in her hand, scurried out of the laboratory. The sound of her steps soon faded away, the door slamming shut. Tvardauskis still sat there for some time thinking something through, then finished his tea in one gulp and refilled the teapot with water. He then stood up and one by one removed three books from the shelf.
The shelf creaked and turned sideways on skilfully installed hinges. Another smaller room appeared like a dark hole behind it. As soon as Nikodemas set foot in the secret space, he turned the shelf back, closing it. When his extended arm touched the lamp, the room was lit by a flickering smoke-grey light. This space also contained an array of books – some of them bore signs of having been leafed through recently, others were covered with a thick layer of dust. Someone walking in off the street would have probably found the book titles unfamiliar, but certainly not the University Dominium librarian, who would have been no doubt taken aback. These were old and heavy books. Bad books. Prohibited books.
Alongside a number of publications, some table space was occupied by another Babbage machine, only much smaller than the one in the laboratory. Punched cards were strewn around, while two thick wires connected the machine to an odd-looking piece of equipment – two upside-down laboratory flasks in the strong grip of copper claws.
This was an Elektrolab.
While one of Tvardauskis’ hands gave a light push to the lever inside one of the flasks, the other switched the light off. The room went dark again, but not for long. Concentrated promethelium – mesmerising greenish-grey strands of smoke – wriggled and glowed inside the flasks. The scientist turned a handle beside the flasks, opening them to release the green smoke into thin tubes directed at one of the walls in the room. The wall began to glow with a green light. Tvardauskis selected several punched cards and inserted them into the Babbage machine, which stood on the table also facing the wall. A moment later he was looking at map of Vilnius with Antokolis, the Blots and Mirth City. Some awkward flickering was emitted in the Troubles, neatly flowing over into New World. While Steam City and Snipiskes were enveloped in the imaginary fog, the winding Neris was touched with a mercury-like glitter.
After a few moments’ hesitation Nikodemas finally decided to open the drawer and take out a tiny bottle containing a few drops of blood. The memory of sneaking up to the sleeping Mila at night with a thin needle in his hand made him shudder with disgust at himself. But the message from Wilhelm Klokmacher – a descendant of the famous Klokmacher watchmakers – who had secretly and expensively produced the electrical lab for Tvardauskis in Berlin, was crystal clear: mechanical bugs are only capable of detecting the area, or a block, if you are very lucky. But if it is precision that you want, you will need blood. Not much, a few drops will be sufficient.
Nikodemas put the flasks in the upright position, pulled out the copper-bound stoppers, and began to drip the blood in, drop by drop. The greyish green smoke became cloudy and began to hiss. The scientist swiftly placed the stoppers back in the Elektrolab and returned the flasks to their upside down position. The smoke raced into the tubes like a hound that had broken free of its chain, and a second later was already drifting over the map on the wall. Quivering with anticipation, Tvardauskis closely analysed the outline of the city. He noticed a little red dot, slowly moving along Zverynas Street in the direction of St George’s Avenue. Clearly pleased with the result, the scientist swapped the punched cards for empty ones, enabling the Babbage machine to make a record of Mila’s journey – the places she went and the times. The task completed, he left the secret room, his mind preoccupied with the bleak question of whether the end always justifies the means.
Chapter XIX
Vilnius, before midday
24 04 1905
People were flooding Vilnius like a stream floods the fields in spring. All tickets for trains and dirigibles had sold out weeks ago, and those who had waited too long could now only hope for the few that had been returned after the air pirate attack on The Icarus, the story of which by now was on everyone’s lips. The City Council was harassed with other cities’ requests for additional flights, but Direction Councillor Fiodor Scherbakov vehemently opposed this. He was worried about possible traffic congestion in the skies of Vilnius due to the increased number of large cargo dirigibles and private airships of individual guests. Besides, some crown prince shattering to pieces over the church spires due to a silly mistake was the last thing that the Guild of Navigators needed.
However, with one matter fully under control, another wriggled free. The Russians, who had been shaking their iron-clad fist at the residents of the lands around Vilnius and beyond its walls that were occupied by the Russian Empire, suddenly decided to stop shaking it, and had called off their armoured train patrol. Sprawled on the rooves of railway cars, the Tsar’s soldiers lazily shelled sunflower seeds, dropping the husks down on the joyful crowds descending on the free city of Vilnius.
The highways of Trakai and Vilkmerge were dotted with the dark silhouettes of pedestrians and their carriages, at times interspersed with one or two figures of brusque unicyclists. Some of them hoped to turn the Summit into the ball of their life, others wanted to make a year’s living, while still others felt obliged to leap at this golden opportunity and search for happiness in this city of the Alliance. Assisted by the constantly whining constables, Vilnius Security Services were working themselves ragged. The Legionnaires on duty at the checkpoints that had been set up along the border of the Alliance
hardly had any time to catch their breath, although they knew very well that the worst was still to come.
After passing through the Legionnaires’ checks, visitors would come face-to-face with stalls lining both sides of the highway. Their owners screamed, trying to entice potential clients with drinks or comestibles, or the chance to buy some knick-knack. This season’s most popular merchandise was a mechanical box with a figure of St Christopher under a glass dome. When the box was shaken, the saint began to move his metal legs up and down, before carrying the baby across the Neris River. The hubbub on the highway could not be complete without the Troubles broceurs, who had reported here at the double and were now shouting at the top of their voices, advancing their escort and guiding services. The owners of hotels and other joint lodgings also sent their callers here. Those who were replete with money found their offers attractive and travelled to their fancy hotels, while people of limited financial means wandered over to the Blots, New World or Paplauja, hoping to get if not a reasonably priced furnished room, then at least a simple bed. The clamour on the streets was so loud that it dulled people’s hearing. The smart traders did not waste any time and were soon selling earplugs by the name of The Peace of Vilnius.
Legate Antanas Sidabras was standing by the first checkpoint on Vilkmerge Highway observing the stream of people and munching on a still-warm vanilla bagel, bought from a street vendor. His right-hand man – First Lieutenant Michal Vielholskiy, a Pole of imposing stature and few words from Lublin – kept his hawk-like gaze fixed on the Legionnaires at work and did not interfere with Sidabras’ thinking.
And Sidabras had a lot to think about. The threads of this odd case fluttered like the finest cobwebs, at times glittering in the sunshine, at times disappearing from view. The first thing the Legate had done that morning was visit Vanechka Skorik’s room in Rabbit Hole and talk to the keeper of the joint lodgings, who was referred to by everyone as ‘old hag Zofia’. It all came to nothing. Zofia did not give a hoot about her tenants’ lives, and in fact she wasn’t even sure what Vanechka’s profession was – possibly a carpenter, or maybe a welder. She did not seem too saddened by the news of her tenant’s death. Aimlessly pottering around the room, she wondered aloud about getting some extra beds and accommodating four or five new arrivals in Vanechka’s old room – God rest his soul – during the Summit.
An inspection of the room bore no fruit: a change of clothes, a bowl filled with water, shaving accoutrements, food leftovers. It was obvious that Skorik only used this place for sleeping and eating. It was a dead end. But the gift from Motiejus Kairys in the shape of the drawings was very interesting. Having pondered over them for the better part of the night and realised that he understood nothing, the Legate finally gave in. At the break of dawn he asked a duty officer to put him through to Councillor of Steam and Head of the Guild of Mechanics Petras Vileisis. The drawings intrigued the Councillor to such an extent that he was about to travel to Sluskai Palace on foot, but then accepted Sidabras’ offer to meet in Steam City. The Legate had in mind to kill two birds with one stone, as he also wished to be briefed on the situation in the industrial heart of Vilnius, having previously heard from Vileisis about unrest among its working class.
Skorik’s case hung like an albatross around the Legate’s neck and devoured his time. Even though his principal duty was ensuring security in the city, even more so at the time of the Summit, his sixth sense was telling him that this investigation was no less significant. And possibly even more important.
Sidabras swallowed the last bite, wiped the crumbs off his hands, and turned to face Lieutenant Michal Vielholskiy.
“We will have a busy few days, my friend,” he said.
Michal nodded in agreement to his commander.
“You will be responsible for security in the city today,” the Legate added. “Get the constables and convene the night guards, but make sure that each platoon has at least one of our men,” he ordered. “If we allow the Tsar’s imbeciles to act on their own, disturbances will be inevitable. Try to disperse your people around different areas and post a considerable number of our men to the White Pillars of Pohulianka. Plenty of boneheads will be making their way into the Troubles tonight, and beyond a shadow of a doubt some blood will be spilt. I will be making my way to Steam City. All the news I get, I will send over to Sluskai.”
“Yes, Legate.”
Suddenly Sidabras remembered something else.
“And another thing... if you hear anything new about fatty Felix, let me know immediately. It could be of paramount importance.”
The men exchanged nods and parted company. Sidabras hurried over to the steam patrol carriage, which had been waiting for him already, while Vielholskiy headed for the command post. Engrossed in their thoughts, the men failed to notice they were being carefully observed by an attractive young lady in an inconspicuous grey suit – a short jacket and a long straight skirt – and tall black lace-up boots. As soon as the men had departed in opposite directions, Emilia turned on her heel and continued on her way.
Once Verkiai and its checkpoint, as well as the swarming flocks of traders, had been left behind, the Great Vilkmerge Highway dashed right into the middle of the nearest Vilnius suburb. Just outside of Snipiskes it forked. While the right fork curved alongside Snipiskes, ending at the iron Green Bridge, the left one was not only lengthier but also more engaging, with all the roadhouses and inn yards ready for their customers, travelling by in pursuit of work, or rolling along on carriages loaded with heavy goods. Behind their backs, occupying an area of several versts, stood bleak warehouse buildings. Some carriages would sneak in between the warehouses, others would turn left and continue onto Viscigavas airship port, with its red signalling balloons swaying in the air and visible from miles away. Viscigavas was famous for its elevated monorail – an astonishing invention by the Alliance Mechanics. The trains blustered back and forth high above people’s heads, trails of white steam clumps hanging behind them, scaring the horses and causing observers seeing them for the first time to gawk in amazement. Steam City – the city’s steel heart – was the final destination of the single track trains as well as of Vilkmerge Highway.
Inside the perimeter of Steam City, Vilkmerge Highway became broader and bound by ranks of surly steam-spewing factories. Once in their trap, the Highway was robbed of its name and was now called First Street, with Second Street and Third Street slouching against its side, Fourth Street slicing it perpendicularly, and sharply branching off Fifth Street, which was eternally shrouded in a veil of steam clouds. This basic layout with simple street names proved to be very suitable for the residents of Steam City, locked in their infinitely repeating routine. Despite the fact that Steam City had no inhabitants of its own, it still teemed with life to the fullest degree twenty-four hours a day – the Seventh Street gas plants fed fuel to cast iron and steel foundries and – always under enhanced supervision – to the promethelium factory. Their serpent-like pipes twined and curled above the streets. With the first light of day Fourth and Sixth Streets became draped in the stench of processed leathers coming from Rivkind’s, Surovichius’ and Menke’s factories. The reek sprawled as far as Eighth Street, where they mingled with the aromas from Edelshtein’s tobacco factory. Slightly further still, there opened up a square, which was used to unload the monorail trains carrying cargo from Viscigavas airship port. The horizon behind the square was accentuated by the booming chimneys of Steam City’s heavy industries. This area was home to the workshop of Petras Vileisis – producing steam turbines and experimental mechanical elements – Zimmerman’s cast iron foundry and a branch of the German industrial giant Allgemeine Elektrisitaets which, following some challenging negotiations, had sprung up here and was constructing dynamos. Smaller out-of-the-way corners were occupied by less imposing producers, also sucking gas from the same pipeline – Pap’s envelope factory, Brother Rakovickis’ factory of mechanical scales and cigarette-tube filling machines, Zavadskis’ printing house, Livs
chits’ cork factory, and other smaller shops.
Steam City was neighbours with the Foreign Quarter, with its recently opened Lloyds bureau, and the heavily-guarded ateliers of gun and pistol makers and armouries.
Lighter clouds of steam hanging in the air by the river signalled the route to the Great Baths, where Steam City labourers who had been released from work washed the soot and stench off their bodies, also rewarding themselves with a pint of beer or two.
There were two places that newcomers in pursuit of work always visited first – the Official Steam City Labour Exchange, open seven days a week, and the other, unofficial one by the river, which offered dirtier jobs and an opportunity to evade paying tax by roguish employers who preferred to remunerate their workforce in a covert way. Steam City was a crazy and complex creature – with its pipelines like arteries delivering lifeblood, an occasional invention dazzling everyone with its firework-like brightness, but also saturated with a low greed for money, human hope and the omnipresent smell of sweat, steel and oils. All this chaos existed according to its own rhythm and its own rules and was orchestrated by the Guild of Mechanics – Steam City’s heart – from its headquarters in a tower with a green patina on its roof and a gigantic clock that could be seen from miles away. The leaders of University Dominium had wished for the Guild of Mechanics to become Steam City’s Alpha and Omega – the first and foremost position in the people’s flight to excellence, and they had done just that.
Now Steam City was also the final destination of Legate Antanas Sidabras’ journey.
When he reached the main Steam City square, which spread out below the Tower of the Guild of Mechanics, the clock was chiming midday. Due to Sidabras’ reluctance to be noticed by any curious eyes, he ordered the lance-corporal in charge of the carriage to stop a small distance short of the tower.
“It will take me about an hour to get things sorted in the Guild,” he said stepping outside. “Meanwhile you go to the baths, have a wash and a pint of beer, and try to listen to what people have to say. I am afraid our uniforms will be the last thing to facilitate the gathering of more information.”
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