Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  “You Lithuanians are peculiar people, and so are your customs,” Finley mumbled absent-mindedly, but with the mention of the girl a bright spark was lit in the dark depths of his eyes.

  All of last night had been spent wandering around the Blots, searching for a reliable alchemic opium house, as the London Fetches and Prague Vitamancers had been expecting an opium-mirror message about his safe arrival. The easiest thing to do would have been to knock on the local Vitamancers’ door and ask them for a live transmission, but the explicit message from the Grand Master of Prague Vitamancers had told him to keep the Vilnius Vitamancer Lodge at arm’s length. He understood that this operation was to be kept hidden from the locals.

  So far everything had been going according to plan and even better than Finley could have expected. The dimwit sitting by his side was serving as a brilliant cover, and the show of “saving” the girl from the hands of the pirates had been a great success. He found the memory of the dull sound of his shoe kicking robber Rickus overboard especially pleasant. In the eye of his mind he saw the unfortunate creature smash against the ground, instantly turning into a mush of blood and bones.

  Suddenly Finley’s face became distorted. He must have let go of himself in savouring the blood-curdling sight and allowing the sensations to take over him, as the Fetch concealed under the mask of Finley’s face eagerly decided to get out: his skin tensed up painfully; his gums became very sore as they prepared for extra teeth to come through. Finley pulled himself together and took a few deep breaths, his outstretched hand opening the little window to let in some fresh air.

  The clamour of the city directed his thoughts elsewhere, Finley’s eyes came to rest on the flowers and cognac. The next stage of the game was about to commence.

  The carriage rolled up to Zverynas Bridge and stopped at the rope barrier. One glimpse at the shiny uniforms of the British officers through the open window was enough for the volunteer to straighten up his back in an awkward salute, before rushing to untie the rope at breakneck speed. The carriage passengers exchanged glances and shrugged, not really understanding what was going on.

  Shortly after the carriage reached its destination. The driver was rewarded with a handsome tip and instructed to be back in a few hours.

  The visitors were met by the host Nikodemas Tvardauskis, who visually appraised the gift in the wooden box, then ushered them inside. At that very moment Mila fluttered down the stairs in her dazzling sky blue silk dress. Her looks stunned them into silence but when they finally recovered, the girl was showered with compliments from both men. Mila greeted the men with her hand extended to be kissed, and while the officers’ lips were paying their respects, Mila flirtatiously smelled the roses, her face lit by a lovely smile.

  Tvardauskis gesticulated towards his friend standing in the doorway – Councillor of Vilnius and Alchemist Jonas Basanavicius – thus introducing him to the officers, who clicked their heels together in reply to his greeting. Finley swiftly ducked his head, trying to conceal red sparks in the depth of his dark eyes. Fetches and Alchemists still had some unsettled scores dating back a long time.

  The official ceremony over, Mila scurried off to search for a suitable vase, while Tvardauskis invited everyone to his study for a glass of cognac, the suggestion pleasing the men a great deal.

  With his guests curiously nosing around the room, the walls of which were lined with shelves of impressive proportions and filled with books, an array of old-fashioned and modern equipment, boxes and statues, Tvardauskis, his back to the guests, was pouring out cognac. The drink in one of the glasses was improved by exactly five drops from the little bottle of the mysterious liquid, which had materialised from his pocket. He then made sure that the glass found its way into the hands of adjutant O’Braitis, and started counting the time.

  “What a wonderful item,” Finley complimented a large hourglass in a green patina stand.

  “A present from the Cairo Museum,” Tvardauskis explained and turned the hourglass over.

  The grains of sand flowed down slowly.

  Mila joined the group a few minutes later, bringing Pierrot with her. As was always the case, the toy had been instructed to behave like a little automaton – walk and waggle, and try to wipe away the tears drawn on his cheeks with his hands. However, as soon as he set his foot in the office, Pierrot forgot all about the instructions that had been ever given to him, and just stared at Finley, his body convulsing and screeching. With everyone’s astounded eyes fixed on the toy, he circled around the room waving his hands in the air, appearing completely out of control. His eyelids moved rapidly up and down and his mouth wheezed, as if on the brink of releasing a stream of words.

  “What is this?” asked O’Braitis, unable to conceal his disbelief.

  Mila understood that a stream of words was becoming a real threat even though the toy had been warned not to open his mouth in front of strangers. So she grabbed the rocking and swaying Pierrot in her hands and ran to her room, mumbling something about detached springs under her breath. She put the automaton on the shelf, pressing her hand against his chest. Pierrot calmed, his head drooping down.

  “What were you thinking? What was that? Did you decide to allow yourself to demonstrate your jealousy in front of other people’s eyes?” Mila snapped, then turned on her heels and marched out of the room, slamming the door with a loud bang. The toy’s tricks were not something she could be bothered with at the moment.

  Morta, cooking quite a feast in the kitchen, looked around her quarters, and gave an approving nod before ringing the bell. As this bell was connected by tiny wires to its copper cousin in Tvardauskis’ office, the cousin immediately rang back.

  “Dinner is ready, please follow me.” Tvardauskis waved to his guests, taking the hourglass with him.

  Tvardauskis and Mila were absolutely fed up with the housekeeper’s complaints about the blooming Summit clearing all the markets and making them look like a poor man’s larder. With no proper meat or vegetables available she had no idea what to treat their highly esteemed guests to. Tvardauskis claimed full confidence in his housekeeper’s skills, and he was right. The sitting room table was now displaying a rather impressive spread of foods: ear and tongue savoury roll, chicken stuffed with nuts, gefilte fish, herring and mushrooms, cep and crayfish tail salad, cucumbers and marinated cornichons and apples. For the main course, which was still waiting its turn, the guests were in for hot bacon steaks with potatoes and carrots, served with chanterelle sauce. It was obvious that in the markets of Vilnius, Morta was a valued and desirable buyer.

  To make the guests feel more comfortable, English was the language at the table, but it did not slow the conversation, as Tvardauskis, Basanavicius and Mila all spoke the language fluently. The officers relayed the story of the assault on The Icarus and shared the details of the rescue operation, making everyone wonder at the unexpected and inexplicable impertinence of the air pirates. Basanavicius wanted to hear about the studies at Sandhurst Academy and final examinations, and about The Star and The British Air Force in general. Edward O’Braitis’ answers were not only cheerful but also eager. Although Finley would also occasionally contribute to his replies, glancing at Mila absent-mindedly picking at her food was something that he found much more interesting. At times she would look up, and her cheeks would become tinged with a red hue if her eyes locked with Charles’, but she held his gaze and was in no rush to look down. It was like Charles and Mila were playing a game of stares, which they both enjoyed. Tvardauskis also noticed the duel of the youngsters’ eyes, but tried to concentrate on Edward O’Braitis’ answers instead. He was hoping to catch the end of the thread of doubts or lies, but the supposed agent of the Vitamancer Lodge had done his homework well.

  The sand grains in the hourglass seeped unremittingly through. The conversation turned to the Summit and the flying German fortress, The Parsifal. The young guests shrugged, unable to understand why the Germans had decided to demonstrate their new weapon, but they admi
tted they wanted to go and have a look at the giant suspended in the air. Mila, of course, expressed her wish to go with them.

  “Afterwards, I will show you the Old Town and we can stop by some inn ,” she declared full of confidence, as if she wasn’t a long-lost daughter who had finally come back to her native city, but some old weathered broceur. “The streets are swarming with people, it will be fun. Uncle, you don’t mind, do you?” she addressed Tvardauskis.

  Tvardauskis did not mind indeed, and even went as far as to recommend an inn in Mirth City that was especially favoured by foreigners living and working in free Vilnius. Both youths assured Mila’s guardians that they would take good care of the girl and return her no later than midnight. They also had to report to their posts early in the morning. Tvardauskis smiled and kept nodding, his eyes intermittently checking the hourglass.

  With the last grain at the bottom, Tvardauskis stole a glance at Basanavicius. The alchemist replied with a barely perceptible nod. Tvardauskis rang a bell and Morta, who had stormed in a moment later, started to clear the table. After Mila had excused herself to change for the evening outing, Basanavicius took Finley to Tvardauskis’ office for a cup of coffee and a chat about the latest news from London.

  Tvardauskis remained in the sitting room alone with O’Braitis. The host watched the guest closely as he poured tea. He did not have to wait long. O’Braitis’ upper lip soon became covered with tiny drops of sweat, the man gasped for air, then undid his top button, sticking his two fingers inside the collar.

  “Are you all right, Edward?” the scientist asked with a concerned face.

  “Yes, thank you. I am only feeling short of breath, it’s stuffy in here,” O’Braitis replied. He was sweating more and more.

  “Why don’t we go outside?” suggested Tvardauskis. “We have a really nice gazebo in the garden.” O’Braitis got up to his feet but then suddenly swayed. He leaned against the wall to steady himself.

  “What is it now?” the youth mumbled, his eyes blinking fast.

  “It’s all right, you will soon feel better,” Tvardauskis reassured him, before taking a firm grip of O’Braitis’ elbow and leading him outside.

  Over the soft grass they walked to the back of the garden where there was a neat pond and a wooden gazebo, overgrown with thick ivy. Tvardauskis was very fond of this summer house. He would sit on the soft fabric-covered bench, his legs stretched out, and listen to the birds’ songs or become lost in thought searching for the solution to the most pertinent of problems.

  This time his problem came walking with him. It came with shivers and gasps for air, as if infected with yellow fever.

  The scientist made the guest sit on the bench, with his back leaning comfortably against the gazebo wall.

  “I do apologize,” he muttered before bending over the youth and gently lifting each of his eyelids with his two fingers.

  O’Braitis’ pupils were greatly dilated, covering his irises almost entirely. According to Basanavicius, this was the sign that the serum was doing its work.

  The lad did not mind being checked, and closed his eyes whenever Tvardauskis stepped back.

  From inside his pocket the scientist pulled out a syringe, removed the glass cover and made the injection to the youth’s shoulder. After an initial flinch, the adjutant stopped shivering, his breathing steadied and the head drooped over his chest, as if in deep sleep.

  “Edward, I have a few questions for you,” Tvardauskis said quietly. “I would be grateful if you could tell me the truth.”

  Talking to a sleeping person made the scientist feel uneasy. Besides, he did not know if he would be getting any answers. But, as he saw a moment later, he had no reason to worry.

  “Yes,” the youth replied in a muffled voice, which seemed to be coming from somewhere down below.

  “Fine,” Tvardauskis glanced at the wind-up pocket watch he had taken with him for this particular purpose. (“No longer than fifteen minutes,” Basanavicius had warned him.) “Fine,” he repeated, baffled by himself for not feeling any sympathy towards the boy. “Your name is Edward O’Braitis, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you Lithuanian?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are serving in the Royal Air Force of the British Army?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you familiar with the Vitamancers?”

  “No.”

  “Are you here on a special task?”

  “No.”

  “Are you here only as an Air Force officer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you heard about Mila before?”

  “No.”

  “Has anyone told you to follow Mila?”

  “No.”

  Tvardauskis went quiet and scratched his neck.

  It appeared that this young man had nothing to do with Mila’s persecutors. The scientist felt an immediate pang of remorse. He bent over, took the youth’s hands in his, and gave them a hard rub.

  O’Braitis stirred and took a deep breath.

  Tvardauskis looked down at his watch. The man was due to wake up in three minutes.

  The scientist jumped up and hurried to the house. When he came back with a tray containing a tea pot and two cups, he found O’Braitis awake and rubbing his eyes.

  “I am sorry,” he sounded guilty. “I feel strange.”

  Tvardauskis placed the tray on the table.

  “Here we go, some wonderfully cool jasmine tea for you,” he said in an artificial light-hearted tone. “Have a sip, you will immediately feel as if freshly woken from a deep sleep.”

  O’Braitis smiled, reaching out for a cup of tea.

  “Here you are!” Mila said as she came round the corner. Charles Finley, like a loyal guard, was walking beside her, having finally escaped Jonas Basanavicius’ tight grip. “Edward, let’s hurry. We don’t want to miss The Parsifal.”

  “I... I...” O’Braitis began to stammer but Tvardauskis stopped him by patting him on the shoulder.

  “You should go, it’s all right.” He laughed. His laugh did sound quite unnatural but neither Mila nor Finley seemed to take any notice of it.

  At that moment a carriage sounded its horn on the street.

  Her arms looped through both men’s elbows, Mila, loquacious and happy as a lark, led them outside the gate. O’Braitis was back to his usual self and feeling rather sprightly again; however, his gait remained unsteady, as if he had been startled from his sleep.

  For a little while Nikodemas Tvardauskis walked behind them, then raised his hand, about to say something, but Mila was faster.

  “Midnight, uncle, midnight and not a minute later.”

  With a slam of the door, the carriage spat out a cloud of white steam, then screeched, before rolling in the direction of Zverynas Bridge.

  For a while Tvardauskis stared at the grass pensively. He then sank the fingers of both hands into the thick of his hair, tugging them so hard that several grey strands remained in his fingers.

  “So?” Basanavicius’ voice reached him.

  Tvardauskis came back to himself, raised his head and looked at his friend.

  “It is one of the two: either you still need to work more on your truth serum, or this fellow really has nothing to do with the Vitamancers,” he said, sounding disappointed. “In which case we have no other choice but to keep glancing behind our shoulder, expecting some rather unpleasant surprises,” His head went up and down. “So it appears that the new Master of Prague Vitamancers is smarter than I thought.”

  The men exchanged meaningful glances. Had one of them looked back at the house, they would have noticed Pierrot, his face stuck to the glass, eyes fixed on the receding at speed carriage. The faces of automatons are not known for reflecting their feelings, but if anyone had taken a closer look at Pierrot, they could have sworn that his face was distorted with horror.

  Chapter XXVIII

  Vilnius, Late afternoon

  24 04 1905

  In the afternoon
the skies of Vilnius became draped in pink mist. With London’s The Orion – the carrier of the Head of the Alliance Baron Rothschild and the British and Japanese delegations –on the ground, the Navigators could finally allow themselves to breathe with relief.

  Before departing for The Bristol in the company of the British and local officers, who had arrived to greet him, Foreign Minister of the British Empire Henry Petty-Fitzmaurice had proudly bestowed his full attention on The Star of St George. The Japanese had chosen The Sokolovskyi for their stay, while Baron Rothschild had decided to go for the Hotel Europa in the vicinity of the Town Hall. With everyone having deserted the Vilnius sky, the Navigators’ Tower and Viscigavas airship port fell silent as a grave in anticipation of The Parsifal.

  The rumour that The Parsifal was approaching spread around town quicker than a bolt of lightning. A light rain did nothing to scare the residents away. Crowds of people were eagerly awaiting the first sight of the airship, every so often searching the sky with their eyes; some mingling in the streets, others walking around the Exhibition Pavilion in Lukiskes Square or jostling about in the queues for snacks.

  The hill near Viscigavas airship port that was especially conducive to dirigible watching was teeming with spectators like an anthill, with no room to swing a cat, while the Legionnaires who had been prudently sent here by Vagneris were capably saving gawkers from being trampled or pushed into the roadside ditch.

  The signaller on duty by the wireless in the Navigators’ Tower rushed out of his office to deliver the latest message to his shift manager, Navigator Anatolij Kmit. Kmit, one of the most senior Vilnius Navigators, quickly scanned the piece of paper.

  “Attention everyone,” he commanded. “We have received the coordinates of The Parsifal. It is coming into our field of view in five minutes.” As it always, Kmit managed to remain calm, only the merest of a hint of a tremble in his voice betraying his inner tension.

  The signaller immediately transmitted the news to Viscigavas and then put his thumb up, signalling that his transmission had been acknowledged. The shift manager bent over the large adjustable binoculars, peeking out through a gap in the tower.