8. Cain's Mark
I brush ill luck aside,
As I still have to enter the fight
For the castle I am yet to conquer…
(Kanzler Gui – The Castle I Am Yet to Conquer).
He never really liked sea. Why? It was hard to say. Maybe the reason was hiding among childhood memories of stories his mother used to tell him were the reason: some of those were terrifying enough to render him sleepless for several days. For some people seascapes were a source of peace and tranquility, but Just saw nothing but an infinity of cold and sorrow. Doleful cries of seagulls, endless patchwork of grey clouds in the sky, piercing wind…
The magus was resting in an old, shabby armchair. He was bundled up in a warm fur-lined coat to protect himself from the cold, but his pale fingers were still twitching as he reached for a cup of coffee that seemed to be growing cold rapidly. The old vessel that was carrying its passengers to the Sea of Astray was shaking in a somewhat similar way. After a moment of deliberation Just put the cup aside – he didn't want to spill its contents and possibly scald himself. He produced a weighty locket with his family crest which had once belonged to his father from the coat's pocket; its metal was so cold it burnt his fingers a little. It housed two devices: on the one side was his watch that never showed time precisely, on the other, a compass that never pointed to the North, its needle spending pretty much all the time in a state resembling some mad dance – at the moment it was barely moving, though. Satisfied with that sight, the von Weitl heir closed the lid and carefully put the silvery case into his pocket.
Just couldn't help remembering whenever he found himself on this journey. Remembering his mother's scary stories. Remembering the way he pretended to sleep while she pretended that spending her time with him when there were things to be done didn't bother her at all. He used to turn his head towards the window as flakes of snow were falling on the ground around their manor while the servant dolls were sweeping its grounds. And all the while his mother was telling him stories…
Those were tales of the great Magi of yore, from the time called "the Age of Gods" when true miracles could have been attained through use of magic. Of deeds so terrible hearing about them could freeze the audience's blood. Of monsters whose existence one wouldn't want to believe in despite it having been a certainty once. Of the old traditions that were to be observed throughout centuries. Of things that were really important for a magus. Mother tried to teach him everything she herself absorbed like a sponge early in her childhood, all the virtues like limitless ambition, bowing before the strong and never failing to use one's privilege to trample the weak. Her cruel fairytales were an attempt to warn him of dangers he would be confronted with in the world where magi were allowed to hide but not to live in. And yet all she managed was unknowingly riddling his heart with cold, dirty fear he wouldn't overcome for years.
Even now he wasn't sure he got rid of it.
She also told him about the Sea of Astray.
The Sea of Astray was where the true origin of the Association lay. This honorable institution had been forsaken by the traitorous upstarts from London, but it wasn't any worse off for retaining almost no connections to them. It was the only place where magi could work freely without having to steal furtive glances over their shoulders. Clock Tower, this symbol of the modern magus community (after a fashion) was but a den of lazy uninspired louts how have forgotten why the Association came into existence; those insipid philistines were hell-bent on gaining more power, bound by their bureaucracy and hopelessly corrupted by their high standing in the mundane world. The Atlas Academy, on the other hand, was obsessed with maintaining secrecy and their alleged lofty goals, which made t hardly better. The Sea of Astray was the only place where one could actually do things.
At least that was what his mother had told him back then, while being completely upfront about all the taboos broken behind those cold walls of stone and all the horrors that were and forever would be buried there and all the madmen or geniuses for whom the Wandering Tomb was, indeed, a tomb...
The door to his cabin opened, its rusty hinges creaking loudly.
"Master Just, we are close," His faithful doll said. "Should I call you when-"
"No need," The magus slowly stood up. "I think I'll take a walk to the upper deck. I've heard sea breeze is good for health, after all."
The doll waited for Just to get ready and opened the door, letting him outside. He almost slipped and barely managed to keep his balance on the slippery floor when waves rocked the vessel once more.
The young mage heaved a sigh and headed for the ship's prow, letting out murmurs of annoyance.
"With all the money I'm paying they could-" He suddenly froze in his tracks as always happened when he saw the colossal shape appear from the fog.
Some people called Atlas a "repository of crazy". Just von Weitl was willing to bet anything they just haven't seen the Wandering Tomb.
The ridge was hidden by a veil of fog almost at all times, but they were close enough to make it out, its sharp peaks perilously close to piercing the very skies. It was hard not to recognize the Wandering Tomb's magnificence.
And the madness that went along with it.
This chaotic mish-mash of buildings, each and every one of them evoking a different time period or architectural style, didn't seem to have any rhyme or reason to it, and the same held true for the choice of construction material. Edifices covered the giant of stone in very much the same way beehives or mushrooms had the habit of infesting old trees. This ancient asylum, built in the dim and distant times by those whom the march of time rendered enigmas, has been haphazardly reconstructed and modernized, having become a monument to randomness by the end of twentieth century.
It was a place where helicopter pads were placed among the ruins of antique temples, derelict Gothic castles were found side by side with the buildings of High Renaissance, and glum concrete boxes stood under stone arcs, covered with glimmering runes. Or take that bas-relief of Hecate that could put Mount Rushmore to shame: it was surrounded with radar towers which, in turn, rested on top of medieval fortifications with narrow arrow-slits…
The whole thing was also moving. Slowly, sluggishly, often veering off course… and yet it never really stopped. It could even reach land if necessary. Just heard about that one time when a threat of being discovered loomed on the horizon: the Wandering Tomb's leadership went ahead and just made the offending ship run into a huge iceberg. Though rumors suggested this was a minor oversight and "sow panic" somehow turned into "sink the Titanic". Sometimes things like that just happened.
"I didn't think I'd have to return here so soon," Just muttered, raising his collar. "Jutte, I- "
The door to his back opened with a bang.
"They have contacted us," A young man, dressed way more heavily than Just, ran to the mage and gave him an old and flimsy receiver, affixed to a long, twisted piece of wire. "I have relayed them all the codes and introduced you, but now they want to hear from you personally-"
"Repeat, announce your name and the aim of your visit one more time. Repeat, announce-"
"This is the twelfth head of the von Weitl dynasty, Just!" The mage shouted, doing his best to be heard despite the fierce wind. "I have an appointment with the de Lassar house! They should have received my message!"
"It has been accepted and processed." The answer followed. "Your password?"
"Alsatia (1)! I repeat-"
"Copy that," Someone else answered; someone whom Just recognized instantly. "Welcome home."
The de Lassar's dynasty's castle was way past its prime. Situated dangerously close to the edge of the mountain plateau, this misshapen monstrosity was little more than a picturesque ruin, not any less precarious than any of the dinky iron bridges connecting its towers to the nearest stone spire. The castle's borderline cyclopean outlook came to be as a result of a short yet impressively brutal battle with a family whose name Just couldn't quite remember. Of course, it didn't take long for a number of feeble reconstructed attempts to follow, but not much got done: even now, nearly a century later, the family only managed to rebuild a few small outhouses and clear some of the rabble. However, the castle's owners did their best to render the surviving bits as impressive-looking as possible. They even had something to show for it: the Flamboyant window above the front entrance was fully restored and the already thick walls got fortified even further through addition of new materials; all the rib-vaults and lancet arches inside the castle received the same treatment. Hell, even some patches of stained glass were preserved, allowing visitors to learn history of both the Wandering Tomb and the ancient dynasty itself, which could come in handy, considering the de Lassar family wasn't particularly well-known beyond the Sea of Astray. The reason was simple: its scions had to gripe with all the paperwork which came with elevated positions in the Tomb hierarchy they have been enjoying for generations, and so they couldn't afford visiting the continent that often.
This predisposition to staying within the boundaries of the Wandering Tomb which could be traced all the way back to the London's ascension might have been the reason the family still had both a firm grasp of the old tradition and all its knowledge which the wider Magi community would undoubtedly consider both valuable and dangerous. The arts that dynasty was famous for practicing were way riskier and more extravagant than the conventional thaumaturgy and that was the chief reason the de Lassars had quite an intimidating reputation – few would even think of challenging a magus barely anyone even knew how to defend against without some dire necessity pushing them to such a foolhardy decision. That particular sort of infamy has allowed the previous generations to climb ranks without having to deal with that many competitors while a number of projects dedicated to restoring the Tomb's former glory managed to win them the respect of almost everyone who counted. All the latest generations had to do was to hold onto the achievements of their ancestors. Still, sustaining that approach indefinitely has proven itself impossible by the middle of the twentieth century when it became obvious that isolation could only lead to degeneracy and the family (just like many others) had to search for fresh blood…
"When are they going to let us in?" Jutte asked for the third time in the last ten minutes.
The doll (just like her master) was wearing an old grey rain coat; she was holding a heavy black briefcase in each hand. Their weight wasn't the reason of her concern – she could handle much more, after all; she just didn't want the magus to get too wet under the downpour.
"She might as well be living alone," Just sighed. "Getting to the entrance takes a while-"
As if preempting his next words there came a sound of movement from the other side of the massive iron doors, followed by some screeching and rumbling. A small window opened, showing the guests a pale face of a servant doll, somewhat covered by an old and dusty black hat which clearly had provided nourishment for months at several points in its long life. Having given the pair a look-over, the face disappeared, and then the doors started opening, agonizingly slow it may have been.
The spacious hallway the two found themselves in right after traversing the doorstep made for quite an oppressive atmosphere: the floor was cold, greasy and slippery, heaps of dust and piles of rotten planks could be found everywhere, as well as cobwebs and mould. Withered tapestries, rotting paintings and nauseously fetid candles under glass caps also added to the charm.
Of course, the servants who have lost any traces of resemblance to human beings long ago, didn't help either.
These dolls in liveries that looked like they were mended more than a few times haven't seen any maintenance in quite a while, so some didn't have any artificial skin that was supposed to cover their faces, while others couldn't move without making unnatural noises; one doll (the garrison's commander, going by the plaque affixed to its neck) had a huge hole in its shoulder through which one could easily make out some of the mechanical parts. Their weapons didn't look any less antiquated and flimsy: the dolls were wielding old sabres, huge foldable halberds that used to be so popular among the Church knights, awkwardly shaped massive flintlock pistols and unwieldy rifles that wouldn't look out of place on the fields of the World War I.
Jutte had a hard time looking at them. She didn't quite understand which emotion was stronger: it could be either pity or disgust at this junk, abandoned by its makers. She only visited the de Lassar residence twice and usually kept to her room, far from the wretched things. The last time she asked Just about them, his answer aligned perfectly with her own thoughts: he said someone should either help the dolls or end their pointless existence.
The commander shambled towards the magus, stopping at a respectful distance from him and bowing briefly while keeping its sabre from falling on the floor.
"Welcome to the most honorable house de Lassar," The doll rasped. "Our Lady has already ordered to prepare your chamber."
The commander clapped its hands a couple of times and all the other servants started moving. Having noticed Jutte's suspicious look, it pointed at the briefcases.
"May we take care of your luggage?"
"Master Just?" The doll looked questioningly at the magus.
"Go with them and make sure they don't break anything," The magus replied, having taken a short pause to make a decision. "You may get right to sorting our things out right after they are done."
"Of course. Will you be upstairs?"
"Yeah. Sorry, but I should visit Keira on my own. That will probably be for the best."
"Are you sure?" The doll did her best to mask her disappointment. "What if-"
"Please. Her home is the second safest place for us after our Workshop. Well, unless her sister is around."
"Fine," Jutte sulked, giving the briefcases to the castle's servants before addressing them. "If you break something, I'll cut your arms off and sew them onto your backs. And I'll do my best to make even the likes of you feel that."
When the majority of the dolls, including Jutte, was gone, the magus faced the commander.
"Will you show me the way? I'm afraid I have forgotten where everything is," His voice was marked by faint undertones of fatigue.
"Of course. You were expected to be escorted to the study without delays, anyway."
The doll was walking excruciatingly slowly, its barely oiled joints making maddening screeching noises. It was also doing its best (and mostly failing) to play the part of a guide. "Last year we oversaw reconstruction of yet another part of the east wing. Sadly, right now no one is living there. Well, except for the birds."
"What about the vault? Have you unlocked it, at last?" This was the question Just asked every time he happened to visit the old castle.
"No. Some Keys are still missing, so the Lady didn't want to risk needlessly, even though her sister insisted otherwise. And her attempts to get her way have become increasingly persistent in the last few years."
Each and every huge chamber or corridor they traversed was cold, bleak and unnervingly desolate. There were only so many rooms human inhabitants of the fortress lived in; everything else was left by the castle's mistresses to quietly fall apart. Though only one of the pair lacked respect for either the grand yet miserable estate as it was today or opulence and majesty it had once projected to such a degree that such decay of the family's keep didn't particularly bother her.
Having climbed a spiral staircase, the magus and the doll stopped before in front of old oak doors, defensive symbols that have lost any semblance of power long ago scorched into the wood.
"You are awaited. She missed you," The commander had some parting words to say.
Just only nodded and pushed the doors open.
The study of Keira Zepherina de Lassar was pretty much a spitting image of the Wandering Tomb: same lack of rhyme or reason behind the choice of interior features permeating the scene, same sense of chaos, same disorder threatening to overflow…
The windows were covered with dark red heavy drapes and there were antique silk carpets all over which looked expensive enough they could probably bankrupt quite a few collectors, even the richer ones. Candles on the room's walls weren't placed that far from electric lightbulbs under the ceiling. Those didn't look to safe to use, though, seeing how whoever was in charge of the study's electrification hadn't done a good job of it. Only a few thick white cables, going straight to the corners of the room, looked secure enough; bare wires were everywhere, some bound by insulating tape, others left to lie as is, forming weird knots, and others still wound around a small plastic tree which was the only plant in the room Just would dare to touch with his gloves off, distinctly unlike anything that was a part of a veritable small jungle on the windowsills. The room's one true highlight was a long ebony table, covered by mounds and mountains of documentation with smaller clumps and lumps of paper at their base. Sheets of paper which formed that artificial landscape were mostly in a pitiful state: twisted, torn, crammed into envelopes, covered with scribbles in different languages… In the far corner Just could see a large bird cage, covered by dark cloth, rest on the surface of a stool. There was also a laboratory bench near the wall; upon and underneath it stood rows of flask, vials, bottles whose contents, if one were to believe their labels, ranged from human blood to detergents. Traversing the study was no easy task, as cardboard boxes stuffed with everything from pretty similar vials to pieces of artificial limbs were placed all over the floor, massive bookcases, filled with dusty old tomes, not offering enough space to house them. And yet this was a task that ad to be performed by someone, considering the study's (and the entire manor's) owner was currently behind a small table in the room's corner, seated in a big old armchair with a broken backrest. She had a huge lamp, an old typewriter and yet another batch of paperwork in front of her. Having stopped focusing every last bit of her attention on hitting the typewriter's keys, she adjusted her heavy glasses and looked at the guest.
"Just?! You are back!" She exclaimed, genuine joy clear in her voice. "Just!"
"You arrrrre back!" Rang out from the birdcage. "Arrrrre back!"
"Errrm… hi, Keira," The young mage answered, feeling somewhat flustered. "I hope I am not distra-"
The German didn't have an opportunity to finish – the study's owner ran up to him, almost jumping over the boxes that were scattered all over the floor, and locked him in a bear hug, not giving him enough time to react as he always did when presented with somebody unexpectedly attempting to go for a close contact with him – that is, to jump back, rapidly raising his arms in a ridiculous way.
"Keira, stop," Just rasped, having finally broken out of the hug. "No more than three years passed since we've last seen each other!"
And you haven't changed at all, I should say.
Keira Zepherina de Lassar, the current head of the ancient dynasty, was rather tall and imposing but looked rather young – at first glance one would hardly assume that he was any older than, say, twenty seven, even though, as a matter of fact, she was much older than that. Not that Just could figure out exactly how much older she was – her clever use of magic and different beauty products or medication made that borderline impossible. Keira's face was surprisingly kind and calm. She boasted impressively long hair that could reach her lower legs. That could very well be a consequence of her living in the Wandering Tomb where she didn't have to look after her appearance that closely. She was dressed strictly enough to look the part of a somewhat high-ranking official, though: the ensemble was comprised of a black vest and pants, shirt and a wrinkled dark red tie, which, apparently served to restore the serious image, somewhat hurt by a white bedroom gown she was wearing over her garments.
"No more than three years?" Keira sighed sadly. "You have promised to bring those diagrams to me an eternity ago."
"I… have them," Just muttered. "Jutte has them, along with our luggage."
"Still playing with dolls, aren't you?" Not waiting for his answer, she got to pulling the curtains back, evidently hoping to let sunlight into the room. "You haven't changed at all."
"Should I?"
"Well, you still can't stand being around people. Also, you have eyes of a dead fish," Keira chuckled. "I failed pretty badly at educating you."
"That's something you always say," The mage slowly walked over to the large armchair that got all the paperwork removed from its seat and moved in front of the table. "And yet this couldn't be further from the truth. I've already surpassed you in every respect."
"As far as your discipline is concerned? Sure," Keira immediately retorted, falling back onto her "throne". "No room for arguments here: I'm no rival of yours when it comes to doll-making; it didn't take long for me to run out of things to teach you. But as for everything else? You better stop being so cocky; nothing good will come out of it."
"But I-" The mage started, sitting down in his armchair. "Eh, whatever. There's no convincing you."
"And for a damn good reason. Look, I know just how unpopular my methods are and what kind of talk is going on behind my back," Another chuckle followed. "They don't like that I don't try to cram all the nonsense that everyone here thinks is gospel into your already strained brains, and focus on teaching you to live human lives instead."
"Even though we are magi."
"Well, here we go: yet another proof I failed miserably," Keira pointed her finger at the German in a gesture of mock indignation. "I do my best to show how to live in the mundane world while you lot prefer hiding there, just like your ancestors did. I think that's just a pile of rubbish, but who cares about my opinion? The way your family had raised you made all my efforts count for nothing after we parted ways. All for naught."
"You keep talking like that, but you are always here, hiding," Just noted, trying not to sound offensive.
"Hiding!" The thing in the cage squawked accusingly.
"Me? If it were up to me, I'd let all this nonsense burn and run away faster than you can read three lines of a chant! If someone had told me that getting the Crest meant dealing with this much pain in the ass, I would have given it to Shifra without thinking twice!" Keira waved her hand, pointing at an especially intimidating heap of documents. "But nope, it's too late for me now: my sister get the privilege of traveling all over the world while I get to be imprisoned here, feeling like a war is going on with no end in sight, and someone chained me to a machine gun."
"Are things really that bad?" The mage asked quietly.
"Last time I got to leave this bog was two years ago. And it looks like I won't get another chance until the end of days is near. Look at all this and tell me what my job is, will you?"
"Taking care of the administrative duties?"
"Nah. It's wasting paper," Keira took a sheet from the table. "What do we have here? Ah, it's the inquiry number thirty thousand nine hundred ninety seven about "requesting access to the third department of transmogrification…" Who in the world needs the things to be this complicated? Who?!"
"I mean, this situation isn't without its advantages," Just interjected. "For one, your life isn't threatened as long as you stay here."
"It sure is, though. Another few thousand or so requests, queries and reports like this, and I am going to hang myself without even waiting until some other fool gets to read my own request for a vacation. And I haven't even mentioned that I have to deal with a good chunk of our continental agents… and every last one of them is like you."
"What do you mean?"
"You all go 'Oh, this mission is too difficult and that one is too dangerous, and what will I get out of it, and won't someone get me'," Keira rolled her eyes, making the most sarcastic impression she could manage. "When it's time to get paid, everyone and their dog turns into an agent of the Sea. And yet I can't seem to find any of you when there's an actual job that needs doing. It's like fairies make you disappear, or something."
"I just choose my assignments with care, nothing more," The mage retorted. "And anyway, I've always gone through whenever you sent me any requests, haven't I?"
"Yeah, about that… could you remind me who had gone and snatched the jewels of that Welsh dynasty?" The study's owner chuckled. "Sure, we'd give you less than most of the black market buyers, but then we wouldn't have to go through all the trouble of retrieving them. And why did all of that have to happen? Because you hadn't stopped to check the stones, that's why. Otherwise you'd have known one of them had enough juice left in it to destroy a house. And if a certain someone hadn't covered for you when everything was said and done, I wouldn't have bothered to count all the boot prints that would be covering your scrawny ass by now."
"I have apologized for that mess already. Even worked my debt off, too!"
"Of course you would think that. And meanwhile, I had to risk everything. I always try to help you, but Just, you have to understand… you have more ambitions than common sense, more common sense than patience and only a few drops of the latter, to tell the truth," Keira shrugged. "Any last words?"
"You know what I'm going to say," The mage sighed. "You say 'limitless ambitions', I say 'a desire to return my family to its former glory'. Its glory we have been robbed of, along with power and reputation. There is no way you don't understand the stakes, Keira! Our families are very similar, and-"
"Yeah, sure. We even co-star in jokes."
"Excuse me?"
"What are the de Lassars doing at the brink of an abyss? Why, watching the von Weitlls tumble to its bottom!"
"Yeah, that sure is funny," The German grumbled. "Oh well. Listen, I'm here to-"
"Definitely not just to visit your poor old mentor. I have no illusions, rest assured," Keira smiled sadly. "Come on, spill the beans."
"You must have heard of the mess that brought me here. After all, the whole thing started here," The mage leaned in, putting his elbows on the table and locking his fingers together. "I'm here because of Albert Blach and that artifact he stole."
Keira touched his pale forehead with her palm and gave him a quizzical look.
"No sign of fever. Huh. That's weird. Maybe you hit something?"
"What are you-"
"That's my line, Just," Any hint of playfulness disappeared from Keira's voice. "Are you crazy? Do you know how many people he offed during his escape? And how many more died trying to intercept him?"
"Yeah," The mage nodded. "I read the reports."
"Well, why not revisit them? Maybe this time around you will understand that this case should be left to the people who can actually deal with it."
"You think I am not one of them?" The German tensed.
"No offense, but even our best pros couldn't take him down, and they had come out on top after situations I get queasy just thinking about."
"They didn't have all the information. Now we do, and the agents of Church tasked with catching Blach receive it in real time."
"How do you-"
"I met their leader. One father Katt Ascol. Quite a bastard, that one, let me tell you."
"So that's why you are here!" Keira smiled. "Did you get scared!"
"No way!"
"I'm just joking. But anyway, Just, we can't give this case to you."
"And why is that?"
"Because we gain nothing by sending you to die."
"If it is because of… Keira, just knock it off, will you? Stop fretting on my account. That's just absurd! I am capable of completing this mission. Damn, I should be the one to do it !"
"But why? To get in someone's good books? Whose approval could be worth it? I don't want to upset you, but so far this whole thing reeks of a desire to earn fame and someone else's expense. Or maybe even to get that blasted thing for yourself."
"Do I look like I am that stupid?" The magus replied, looking somewhat annoyed. "I will deal with Blach, return his toy to you, and when that happens, I will finally be able to enjoy some peace and quiet. No one will dare to try breaking into our family vault or stealing our knowledge! Few people are foolhardy enough to mess with someone who got rid of the damn Hollow. This job is my chance to earn several years of calm. It is that simple, Keira. I don't want anything else out of it."
"So you want to be left alone? That's something you can achieve without tussling with the Hollow. If someone is targeting you, you can simply stay here until the coast is clear. How's that sound?"
"Thanks for the offer, but that's not an option. I have put my plan into motion already. No I have no other choice but to see it through."
"Do you even understand that you can get yourself killed like that?"
"If I lose, I will be remembered as yet another underachieving lunatic, but if I win, I'll become a hero. This is the way history is written, and you know that just as well as I do. I value your hospitality and everything you've done for me, but I can't go back now. Not anymore. Retrieving the Sphere and neutralizing Albert Blach is the best chance to restore my family to its former glory, and I cannot refuse such an opportunity," The magus, done with his small speech, let himself fall back on the armchair's backrest.
"Well, it looks like there's no convincing you," Keira sighed. "I have no idea why I'm doing this, but, apparently, it's time to stick my neck out for you once again. What do you need?"
"First of all, to talk to whoever is in charge of investigating the sordid affair right now and to search all the places Blach trashed. Have you already cleaned the wreckage?"
"A couple of days ago, so you got here just in time. It's like you have foreseen this.
"You could say this," The mage smiled wryly. "My intuition runs in the family."
"Suuuure, I've heard that much. You know what else I keep hearing? 'If a von Weitl can't pull a fast one on you, it ain't a von Weitl.' What else?"
"I would also like to retrieve the cargo I left here a few years ago. You know the one."
"Are you crazy? How are you going-"
"I'll rent a helicopter," The magus waved it off. "Oh, most importantly… is your sister here?"
The Wandering Tomb's security service was headed by a man called Dominic Arnoani. He was rumoured to have worked for the Clock Tower in his younger years – as one of the most notorious enforcers who took care of the Sealing designations and other dirty work, no less! Few people in such a position managed to make it to old age, but every rule has its exceptions, and this gloomy lanky type who got either bribed by the Sea of Astray or turned willingly after getting fed up with his London bosses was one such exception. He was famous as a master of hypnosis, but, as far as Just was concerned, a single glance at this old Albion mummy in a grey suit and with similarly graying hair was enough to make one run to the world's end. His inquisitive stare, so often signaling of an attempt to uncover sins both real and imagined of whoever he was talking with definitely was enough to awaken a strong desire to sink into the earth; the deeper, the better. Arnoani had a habit of speaking like there was something jammed inside his throat: he had an old wound that hadn't been healed properly to thank for that. In fact, the former enforcer looked like someone has repeatedly tried to torn him apart limb from limb: he had artificial arms and hands with long fingers, covered with tailor-made artificial skin he had to replace every year, three deep scars across his face, a grey plate on his right temple his hair couldn't hide entirely, crushed nose and severely burnt lips. Oh, he also had only one ear left – the left one. The public didn't know how exactly this old wreck was managing to stay alive despite having gone through more than one hellish situation – this was one of the numerous secrets of the Wandering Tomb.
"So, you want to accept this case," Arnoani gurgled, slowly walking; the end of his iron cane was crashing into the cold stone all the time, making deafening noises. "That's quite admirable – my people aren't too keen on going after the bastard."
"I can understand them," The German nodded, trying not to look at his disfigured conversation partner. "And I've heard you have unearthed new information regardless."
"Unearthed… that's the word," Dominic rasped. "In every possible sense, seeing how poorly Blach treated that living block-"
Arnoani suddenly stopped, leaning on a stone protruding out of the wall as he had to weather a coughing fit.
"I'm fine, no need to worry," He waved his hand, straightening himself. "Now, where was I… ah, yes, the Blach. You see, that living block he… khhhhhh… caved… it was special."
"Special?" Just asked him. "What do you mean?"
"You'll see for yourself soon enough," The former enforcer promised, stopping in front of a massive set of iron doors. "Please, follow me, khhhhh-"
The living block that was situated next to the Relic Department, wasn't particularly popular for a number of reasons: for one, it was placed way below other similar blocks and, as a consequence, it was unbearably cold, dirty and dank, lit only by kerosene lamps and candles on the walls. For many years the whole thing has hung on by a thread and a few rotten, mold-covered wooden girders, to say nothing of the constant rumble, permeating the place thanks to the neighbouring boiler room or the fact that the local rat colony had a habit of attacking sleeping magi in their rooms. Of course, there were worse places in the Wandering Tomb, but this decrepit hive of inadequacy had a dubious privilege of being used exclusively as a place workers who had somehow messed up or the poorest students could be exiled to, getting out of these stone bowels quickly becoming their only goal.
Just wasn't really surprised Albert Blach had been given a room here: japes like that had a long history…
Too bad the Hollow really didn't get the joke and his response was immensely cruel.
Following Arnoani's hunched figure, the young magus was thinking taking his loyal doll along might have been a good idea: her company could have made him feel better.
"Before I show this to you, here's a little warning: trying to disclose any information regarding what you are going to see next will have serious consequence. So serious, in fact, even de Lassar wouldn't be able to help you," Arnoani rasped. "Are we clear?"
"Yes, of course," The magus answered, doing his best to inject seriousness into his voice and show he cared a lot about the Tomb's customs. "What am I about to see?"
"There is a reason we've been doing our best to make sure the conditions in this block are the worst for centuries," Dominic opened yet another set of doors. "We have our reasons to make sure as few people as possible hang around here. And you will be the second person in the last two centuries to learn them. Yes, you know what that means: we haven't relayed this information to the Church. And we are not going to. They don't have to know what the whole mess is about."
Behind the doors was a hallway, its end hidden by a pile of rubble and broken girders. To the left there was a completely normal metallic door, the kind that was commonly found in older prisons. To the right, however…
The right wall was "embellished" with a huge hole, its edges partially melted. No amount of looking into the hole revealed anything but a nebula of impenetrable darkness. However, were Just to step a tiny bit closer…
"Don't even think of it," Arnoani stepped forward and raised his hand, barring the passage. "This is not for you."
"What's there?" The German asked, barely managing to refrain from letting out some indignant explanation. "You did say you were going to tell me-"
"That much curiosity could kill much more than a just a cat," Arnoani laughed. "This time around, however, we don't have much in the way of choice, so listen closely."
Having slowly shambled over to the young mage, the former enforcer said, his voice even quieter than usual.
"This room was hidden nine ages ago or thereabouts. And warded off with the most powerful Bounded Fields and defensive magic at the time. Oh, and removed from every map the people in charge could lay their hands onto. All because of the man who used to be the master of this chamber. This workshop."
"Who was it?" The German mouthed.
Arnoani was even closer now, his hunched figure towering over Just. He leaned forward slightly, grabbed the German by his shoulder and whispered two words into his ear, watching a look of astonishment creep across the mage's face with no small amount of satisfaction.
"You must be joking! So, it exists? I thought it was just a legend, but-" The magus was dangerously close to choking on his words. "I thought… no, impossible. So, this was his dwelling?"
"Yes," Dominic answered coldly. "And Blach had an opportunity to play around here."
"Huh?"
"I took a few trustworthy people to inspect the workshop. We had a complete inventory, so we know something had been stolen and we know what exactly is missing. It's his diaries, Herr Weitl. The other half."
"Th—th-the other?" Just was so surprised he started stammering.
"Yes. Regrettably, this wasn't the first such theft. We had thought that getting past the defences of his former workshop was impossible, but the year 1846 proved us wrong. The Hollow managed to bruteforce his way through our wards: his damn Bounded Field reflected the attacks, drained our shields and even made a hole in the wall. But back then, in 1846, the thief had been cunning enough to get there quietly, even if he had to fight his way back. We are talking about one cunning and clever bastard who laid his hands on some of his secrets and lived to make use of them. There is no other person who could have managed to bring the Hollow here and tell him where to strike."
"Who is that person?" Just started getting impatient. "That first thief who told Blach about… that room?"
"The man we can't forget about because he caused a lot of trouble for us and the Association as a whole. The man who had made fools out of us all for centuries," One could hear undertones of anger in Arnoani's voice now. "He died in the seventies but someone took up his mantle, apparently. His name is Ladislaw Sohor. That die-hard Czech bastard is known as the Trio's head."
The room was rather warm: a stove in the corner did its job without fail. Just, seated behind a small wooden table, has been studying an old black and white photograph for a while now. It was a photo of a very tall man who had to bow down slightly so his face would also be in the shot. He was incredibly old – way older than two hundred years at the time this photo was taken – and yet any uninformed observer would not only say he couldn't be any older than 60 years old but also add that he looked remarkably well for his age. His heavy fur coat made the man's stout figure seem even more massive; his weathered face wore an inscrutable expression pointing at either quite a deal of tension or a particularly stern disposition. Neither his harsh and ferocious eyes nor his beaklike nose helped alleviate that impression. That magus, resembling an old but no less vicious kite, captured Justäs attention for a good five minutes which Arnoani spent digging through a thick ledger, choke full of some papers, and muttering something to himself.
"Ladislaw Sohor," Dominic pointed at another photo which boasted a much better quality. "Fras Lutt, his adopted daughter and apprentice. And Shusan Holter, her would-be fiancé."
Two more photos fell on the table: one depicted a tall dark haired woman with eyes ruthless enough to match Sohor himself and a young blonde man of average height, wearing a fancy suit, was looking at Just from the other.
"You must have heard of the infamous Trio, though your knowledge is probably limited to rumors. Still, that's to be expected: we are talking about the biggest coup in all of Association's history, even if they hadn't actually managed to carry it through."
"Indeed," Just sighed. "I might not have much in the way of information but yes, I heard things. Could you tell me-"
"Yes, yes, you definitely need to know now that you are neck deep in this mess," Arnoani's expression grew dark. "This is the same old story, though. Sohor… he was a genius, at least where alchemy was concerned. The man had his idols, including the former owner of the workshop I've just shown you. And he stopped at nothing to get his knowledge. Of course, Sohor's own projects were monstrous enough to warrant constant surveillance but he was good at cleaning up his mess so the Association couldn't catch him red-handed. For a time, anyway. At the start of the eighteenth century he got carried away and became a candidate for a sealing designation but then Ladislaw declared he was leaving for a voluntary exile due to his growing inability to tolerate the Association's policies. He said the whole system had been rotten to the core long before he was born. The old bastard had a point in some respects, let me tell you."
"So where did he go?"
"To his castle in Norway. Spent a few years there and then appeared before us, asking for a refuge and an opportunity to continue his experiments. To tell the truth, he was only barely tolerated thanks to his retinue of guardian golems and dolls. Oh, and a small crowd of homunculi. Still, Sohor managed to dull our vigilance. If only I had held this job back then… maybe none of this would have happened.
"What was his plan?"
"Not a massacre like the one Blach pulled off, of course. Wasn't his style. He had found an old map showing the location of the walled-up workshop. Then he spent a few years finding a way to bypass its defences. From then he just needed time to disable them, so his familiars took a few dozens of bigwigs hostage while he was taking care of that."
"But how-"
"It was a matter of good timing: the higher-ups were having some big dumb feast at the time. Everyone was too shitfaced to even notice something was up. And then it was suddenly too late: his entourage had them all in the crosshairs so we had to try negotiating. Such audacity drove the brass up the wall but there was nothing to be done so we had to let him go. Of course, he was chased all over the North sea but he managed to feed us a body double, that is, a homunculus grown to look precisely like him, so we stopped searching after sending the thing to the ocean floor. Meanwhile, the real Sohor didn't fail to pop up, even if it took him quite a few years to do so. But when he emerged, he was already the head of the godforsaken Trio."
"I heard they were creating an army. Is that true?"
"Yes. Our agents had no shortage of opportunities to explore the ruins of Sohor's castle. Its basements were choke full of Mystic Codes, his labs had housed squadrons' worth of high quality familiars and let's not even mention all the stolen grimoires in the libraries. You see, Sohor thought only a war could help the Association leave its stagnation behind, find new energy and get rid of all the bad blood. An exceptionally cruel total war. His plan was to stand in the shadows, sponsoring all the participants and then to take the victor's side, helping them build a new Association. He hoped that new organization would remember the reason for its existence and turn into a monolith capable of resisting any outside enemies. Surprisingly, he didn't see himself in charge. The old man must have understood his time was running out."
"This was why he found an heiress, right?"
"Yes, and that's where Fras comes into play. We know neither where or how he had found her, nor anything about her lineage. She just sprung out of nowhere and started climbing the career ladder. She wasn't afraid to experiment and some of her more risqué projects attracted London's attention, eventually earning her a Purple rank. Then Sohor found her a fiancé. That Holter was a complete opposite of hers, being a well-groomed young talent from the Tower. If you ask me, he had more Circuits than brains. He was believed to have surpassed all his ancestors where sheer power was concerned but there wasn't much else to work with: he was too kind, too naive and too dense. Fras and Sohor played him like a fiddle. In fact, his connections were the main reason they could prepare their war without fearing retribution from any of us. Well, any of the magi, anyway. The Trio spent years finding the pros they needed: they were hired, abducted or deemed likely to grow into a competition and got disappeared. Many of us had a rough idea but our hands were tied and our lips, sealed. Which is why the Tower decided to risk a gamble: they leaked all the available info to the Church and Rome, in turn, sent their agents to the ever growing operation of Sohor. I think there's no need to explain in great detail just why the Church took an interest: the old and decrepit Association was much more comfortable to have as an enemy than whatever Sohor was going to create. And so they decided to help us in exchange for the much needed data. Of course, we don't know whom they sent but everyone knows how this story ended."
"Trio got obliterated. At least that's the part I know of."
"Indeed," Arnoani nodded. "If the report at our disposal is to be believed, we are looking on quite a massacre. Both sides didn't hold back in the slightest but Sohor didn't have enough trump cards to keep up. He and his apprentice spent a week under siege, behind an impressively strong Bounded Field. Except Shusan got left on the other side."
"He was bait, wasn't he?"
"There's no proof but yes, the gossip had been circulating for a time. The only thing we know for a fact is that the Tower handed out dirt on the Trio with a condition: Shusan Holter was to be returned to his family, alive and unharmed. The damn victim of the circumstances was supposed to go back without a single scratch; London promised hell to anyone who'd disrespect the deal. Of course, the executioners didn't give a rat's ass about all the threats. Rumor is, Shusan had his throat cut right in front of Fras; she saw red and made her teacher temporally deactivate the barrier so she could reduce the murderers to dust. Except she failed miserably."
"And the Church murdered everyone who remained."
"If the rumours are to be believed, Sohor was killed by Fras herself once she lost control. And then she, torn and battered, was thrown out of a window, right onto the cold and hard rocks. And that was it for the Trio. An instructive tale, Herr Weitl, isn't it?"
"It sure is," The young magus sighed, "But wait. If Blach is walking in Trio's footsteps… that must mean some low-ranking member seeked him out. Or-"
"Or the Church didn't managed to execute the Trio completely. This is also a possibility we have to keep in mind. Anyway, you must understand that our opponent isn't the Hollow – it's the one pulling his strings, whoever that might be. All the murders, the stolen Sphere, the European circus… all those are but a massive smokescreen that lets the Blach's puppeteer hide from our view with his diaries. And only God knows just what they are planning to use them for."
"Who do you think is our survivor? Sohor?"
"Sure looks like him. It's his style, used to make his old dream a reality. And that means we are dealing with a crafty and dangerous enemy who managed to trick us more than once Retrieval of the Sphere and stopping the murders before it's too late are our prime objectives for now, yes, but we can't allow the Blach's patron to disappear with those journals. Follow him to the hell and beyond if necessary. They can't be allowed to get away. His legacy must stay untouched. After all, we don't want it to… well, you know what I mean.."
"I sure do, no two ways about it," Just shivered; he didn't knew whether the cold or a sudden pang of fear was the reason. "But what do we do about the Hollow? I mean, I managed to draw some conclusions and-"
"Don't strategize ahead of time. No need to be hasty, Herr Weitl. First, I want you to take a look at something."
"That being?"
"Meet me in the evening. I will be in the interrogation room; that's where we are going to finish this conversation and I shall tell you about the Cain's Mark."
"Just, are you sure-"
"I wouldn't ask of it if I had a choice," The magus sounded pretty exasperated. "But she is the only one who can help me. So please, explain everything to her before she tries to off me, alright?"
"I'll try," Keira's voice didn't inspire confidence. "Let's hope she hates you less after all these years."
"Doubt it," Just stopped in front of a heavy door and pointed at it. "After you."
While Keira's study was beyond messy, her sister's place happened to be a complete opposite. No junk or any accessories: the rather small room was decorated in a very simple and no-nonsense way. A couple of tall old cabinets, a simple bed in the corner, a small wooden table and grey shutters covering the window… all the asceticism made Just wonder just what Keira's sister was doing with her impressive earnings.
"Didn't anyone teach you to knock?" Someone grumbled from the far corner where the bed stood. "Damn it, I came here to rest and you still-"
Then the room's owner noticed Just.
"YOU!"
The magus, having barely followed Keira into the room, instantly sprung back, fighting the temptation to run away and never come back.
"The hell are you doing here?"
"I have some business to discuss," The German threw his hands up with a guilty face. "Can I have five minutes of your time before you throw me out?"
"Three minutes. The clock is ticking," The response was seething with anger.
Shifra Delphina de Lassar and her sister looked as different as their rooms: their considerable height was the only shared trait. The former wore a short haircut as well as a cold and tense expression which (in Just's opinion, anyway) never left her face. Her clearly defined to the point of looking sharp features could remind one of Ice Queen from the pages of some fairytale book and it was pretty much impossible to look at the eye patch covering her right eye without thinking about pirates - except the last person to make that joke had his eye stabbed out with a dip pen; Shifra had done it without changing her expression at all. The look in her remaining eye was cold as ice which, combined with the constant sneer on her thin lips gave an impression that she saw everyone else as piles of trash she should be careful not step on – not that Just would be particularly surprised if it turned out to be true. At the moment she was wearing a plain shirt and a homely pair of pants though Just was accustomed to seeing her in a high collared baggy grey service coat bristling with all sorts of iron clasps and buckles – right now it was hanging at the wall, along with a hat of the same color: it was undistinguishable from a military side cap (lack of any insignia aside).
This fierce lady, who had long ago refused to receive the family Magic Crest so it would have gone to her sister, made quite a name for herself by working for the Sea of Astray security service. And Just knew for a fact that her grim reputation was more than deserved.
"Keira," She spat, barely opening her mouth. "Why is he here again? Why with you?"
"Just is working on the Blach case now," Her sister answered. "And he came to ask for your help-"
"Help, huh? What else does he want? Should I do a funny little dance for you, you damn nerd?"
"Shifra, listen," Just started slowly. "I am aware that we had our differences in the past but-"
"Is that how you call it now?" The elder de Lassar sister hissed angrily. "In the span of the last few years you somehow managed to ruin four jobs of mine. That's four perfectly planned operations, you dimwit! You went so dumb with greed, you sold the Gafaelfaur jewels which I had to search for all over Europe, sending six months of my time down the drain. You managed to mess up that ritual in Vienna, leaving three subordinates of mine paralyzed for a month. You and your dolls-"
"Look, let's not dwell on the past. Besides, I've never failed to promptly apologize."
"You think that's enough?"
"I think everyone deserves a chance," Just spread his hands. "For one, we deserve a chance to get rich and become new stars of the Sea."
"More like a good chance to die in a gutter," Shifra grumbled. "No, to hell with you. For one, I don't work with you anymore. Moreover, I ran out of patience: there's no way I am going to let you keep orbiting my sister. Don't say anything, Keira – this cad only ever brings us trouble and you must know it well enough yourself. So please, tell him to go away before I throw him out."
"May I note?" Just started again. "I am not sure you understand the prospect-"
"Stop. Testing. My. Patience."
The elder de Lassar sister jumped up, threw the old book she was reading on the bed and in an instant walked up to the magus, removing her eye patch."
Just tried jumping to the side but it was the last thing he managed to do before freezing in place. Shifra's right eye – a blindingly white blot with a tiny pupil in its center – was unblinkingly fixed on him.
"What are you doing?" Keira's scream barely reached his ears. "You are going to kill him! Stop!"
"He'll live," Shifra sneered. "Which is a crying shame, as far as I am concerned. Now, listen here, you pretentious, smarmy know-it-all wassock: this is my final warning. Either you get out, or I get really mad. And then I'll make sure you will stop breathing for good. Or just keep you like this for a couple of minutes until your wretched brain shuts down. Or simply stop your heart. Is that clear?"
The black eye patch returned to its normal place while Just regained a degree of control over his numb limbs. Gasping for breath, he fell on the floor, doing his best to tear his collar apart.
"Get out. Right now."
"No," The magus spat, slowly standing up.
"What did you just say to me?"
"I said no. Keira, step outside for a moment."
"But Just-"
"Please," When the magus faced here, Keira couldn't help shrinking away once she saw just how angry his face was. "I'll take care of this myself."
"Yeah, please do wait outside," Shifra nodded. "If he needs a place at the graveyard so badly, I'll send him there right now. You can just go to your room and rest."
As soon as Keira left, slamming the door shut, the German took his locket and opened it, throwing a glance at the watch."
"So… what's your plan?" Shifra looked quite perplexed. "Gonna ring the alarm at me until the sound drives me insane?"
"Nothing so eccentric," Just smirked. "I just need this watch to know how long you and your precious sister have left."
"What?" She tried making a step towards the magus but he threw his hand up in a warning gesture.
"I wouldn't do it if I were you. You see, a few years ago your sister was kind enough to let me keep here a certain valuable cargo. A small shipment of dolls. You know about it, donät you? Or did she keep that from you?"
"You-"
"And every doll hides plenty high-grade explosives. I only need to flip this switch in order to complete the demolition of your castle."
"But you'll croak, too."
"Someone's reaching: the shipment is hidden right under Keira's workshop. By the way, could you remind me exactly where you told her to go to?"
"You wouldn't dare! No way I'll let you out of here alive."
"Wrong again. No self-respecting puppeteer forgets to take a spare body along for the ride. You'll get all the blame for it, too… after all, you must have grown so frustrated that Keira sits on her butt here while you are risking your life on the frontlines."
A tense silence followed, only to be broken by de Lassar in a minute or two.
"You are such a slimebag. A shrewd little slimebag. What do you want?"
"I just need to collect that very shipment I've just mentioned. Collect it and remove the blade hanging over your sister."
"What's the catch?"
"I shall activate the dolls and then I want you to follow them to their destination."
"To the Hollow?"
"To the Hollow. My army needs a commander and you are the right person for the job."
Nobody said a word for a few more minutes.
"Deal. You have a deal. But once I'm back… you'd be wise not to show your face here. For the next five years at the very least. Are we clear?"
"Crystal," The German smirked, throwing a small notebook on the bed. "Here you can find some useful data. Now excuse me, I have matters to attend to tonight. I'll stop by later."
Once the room's door closed behind Just, he had to steady himself against the wall. He felt feverish; cold sweat was pouring down his back. He looked like he was about to faint.
"How did everything go?" Keira asked, walking up to him. "Did she-"
"She agreed."
"Goodness gracious! How did you manage it, Just?"
"My favourite trick," The magus let out a deep sigh. "A big dumb bluff. Some smoke and mirrors as well, of course."
The interrogation room seemed to be a very deliberate choice on Arnoani's part: its durable walls were enough of a defense in their own right and all the protective magic made Just's head hurt like crazy after five minutes of his stay. Five more minutes, and every last Circuit in his body started aching, too. It must have been one of the reasons why the former enforcer did his best offer as concise an explanation as possible, even though he did do his best to avoid omitting anything important.
"We found this in the Hollow's room. Apparently, he was in a hurry the day of the massacre."
Just looked at the book Arnoani showed him and snorted with laughter.
"Is this a joke? Why'd he need a Bible?"
"Oh, there's no need to jump to conclusions," Arnoani opened the worn-out book with great care. "For one, this isn't an ordinary least for those who can read between the lines."
"Could you explain?"
"We don't know who and when brought this book here. We can't find the name of its first owner – the one who took it to the Wandering Tomb, to be precise – in the oldest archives, let alone the original author. This, Herr Weitl, is a set of detailed directions, enabling one to create and activate… well, I don't want to call it a simple barrier or a Bounded Field but let's not go against the existing terminology, alright? Anyway, if one deciphers this book, they could perform a ritual in order to "accept the Mark of Cain". At least that's how the author calls it. Of course, there's always a chance they learned it from someone else… Well, the ritual's origins aren't that important for now. The important part is, we took enough precautions so there was no reason to hide the book really thoroughly. At least that's what we had thought before Blach came along."
"Precautions? What exactly do you mean?"
"First of all, the text is thoroughly encrypted, as you can see. If one doesn't know where to start, they could spend years and years thinking this is just a copy of the Good Book. But if you look at, say, these numbers over here… and there… see how sloppy the handwriting gets? As if the author is doing it deliberately. And here-"
"Any code can be cracked with enough time. What's another reason this rubbish isn't buried somewhere deep?"
"Even the author admitted its inefficiency. The Mark is draining its owners life power. Very quickly, too – back in the 16th century a few experiments with homunculi created specifically for those tests took place. Those had enough raw power to wipe the floor with a Tower enforcer. I should know, I used to be one. And yet, those that accepted the Mark withered and died right in front of the supervisors. None lasted longer than two days. That was the reason we weren't afraid of the Mark – even if someone managed to decipher the code, which would doubtlessly be a herculean labor in its own right, they'd still kick the bucket after completing the ritual."
"Then Blach appeared and showed you there's always a way."
"Sadly, that's an apt summation. The Blach's way? The Sphere, as you probably worked out for yourself. He uses it as an energy source so his already meagre reserves don't suffer. Simplicity is genius."
"That story isn't too complicated indeed but there is still one unanswered question left: what is the Sphere? What does it hide?"
"I'd be glad to answer it but I can't. Our data is far from complete – there are some useful materials but those were pulled from the archives right after this mess happened. Of course, I do know more than you but I am not allowed to disclose everything."
"I expected that much," Just sighed. "But there must be something you can tell me. Something I don't already know, of course."
"The Sphere houses... something. Something capable of restoring and empowering even someone like Blach. Something he let inside himself."
"Are we talking possession?"
"Maybe. Here, take a look at this," Arnoani put a single book page from, sealed inside a small carton, on the table. "This is a so called Pattern. As you can see, the ritual is rather severe – it requires making all those cuts on the caster's body and they should look exactly the way they are portrayed here. There are no second chances – even the smallest mistake is enough to mess up the Pattern and doom the clumsy sod to a death from blood loss. And God forbid you let anything touch the Pattern before it complete – the consequences will be unimaginably dire, if the author is to be believed. And for some reason I absolutely believe them. Can't quite say why, though. Anyway, back to the Hollow: if the thing from the Sphere did actually possess him, this ritual assumes another meaning: the wounds start acting as a passage. Not just for the power he needs to keep the Mark active but for… it."
"Had this happened before? People getting possessed by the Sphere, I mean, or other similar incidents?"
"I am not sure if I should be telling you this but we haven't had successful contacts with that object for several centuries now. Our latest set of data on the Sphere goes back to the last such contact. Sadly, we had to kill the researcher behind it – he went insane after six months of working with the Sphere. And no, I can't let you take a look at the data but I can tell you that the attempt in question was the reason we did our damnedest to bury that crystal ball."
"Well, even that's pretty informative. So, we only need to separate Blach and the Sphere and then wait until the former runs out of energy?"
"In theory? Sure. But we don't know how far the possession has progressed already. If his body is powered by something like the Sphere, we can't judge its capabilities even approximately. But we have to try – it might be our only chance. Do you know how the Mark works?"
"I-"
The door slammed open with a loud noise and Shifra, already dressed in her uniform, stormed into the interrogation room, waving Just's notebook around.
„I am sorry," She faced Dominic. "This is urgent. I need von Weitl's attention for a couple of minutes."
Not even waiting for an answer of any sort, she grabbed the young puppet master by his arm and yanked him towards the exit.
"What are you-" The German tried standing up for himself but he didn't even get enough time to finish the sentence. Once they were outside, the elder de Lassar sister, wearing an even more frustrated expression than usual, shoved Just's notebook into his face.
"The hell is that?"
"This… I-" The magus finally deciphered his less than neat handwriting and took a hold of himself. "This is a description of the Atlas agent I've seen around the executioner."
"I need more details," Shifra sounded deadly serious. "Try to remember."
"Well… he looked like an average Arab. What about it?"
"I need his features. Stop pissing in the wind and start working your memory."
"He was pretty polite, talked a lot, laughed often, always badmouthing his bosses-"
"Was Koss the only name he gave you?"
"Yeah. I remember being pretty surprised. Oh, speaking of surprises: he's an addict! Yeah, you heard me right. Right during a conversation he injected something, didn't even pay attention to anyone else in the room. Also his fingers… a layperson might not notice but his thumb and index finger on the right hand are prosthetic. A quality work, even I needed some time to notice."
Shifra's face assumed an expression Just has never seen her make before – an expression betraying concern and unease.
"F-fuck me," De Lassar gasped. "That's him."
"Who?"
Not dignifying the magus with a response, Shifra grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him into the nterrogation room, following him inside.
"We have a problem," She didn't waste any time in alerting Arnoani. "I have identified the Atlas agent."
"Who might that be?" Dominic raised his eyebrows quizzically.
"The reason this job just became a whole lot harder, that's who," Shifra's frustration was palpable. "They sent the Blind Serpent."
Arnoani cursed, loudly and without any regard for good manners. Shifra close the door and, pacing for a few seconds, she eventually stopped in the room's corner.
"I knew this wouldn't be that easy," Dominic muttered, facing Just. "Why didn't you say anything?!"
"I… I just didn't think this would be so important," The German sounded positively surprised. "It's just a regular alchemist. Okay, maybe he knows a thing or two about fighting but-"
"He is nowhere near ordinary," The elder de Lassar sister hissed. "He is one of the Atlas' finest, God damn him to hell!"
"What do we know about him?"
"Only that everyone heard about him and yet no one has solid data. Everything about him is as fake as it gets."
"Eiwen Nehr, Vicente Tevar, Greggor Drummond, Paul Fecher, Koss… this isn't even a quarter of his pseudonyms," Shifra added. "Rumour is, he has a habit of assuming names of his victims. Those that make him work up a sweat, that is. Quite a specific gesture of respect, right? We also know that he has a workshop in Alexandria. Which one, though? The Alexandria of Egypt or Alexandria, Virginia? Or maybe the one in Romania? Or are we talking about Scotland? Mind you, all of those might be false leads. Just like everything else we know about the creep. Nothing he tells about himself is even remotely close to the truth. Some say he has no fingerprints. Others are sure he can come up with twenty different ways to kill anyone and blame him for all the unsolved murders of those who cross Atlas."
"If we are dealing with him, Atlas must really want Blach," Arnoani mused. "This escalated a bit too quickly."
"He is currently working with the Church," Just reminded the other magi. "So his hands are somewhat tied and it makes for a critical advantage."
"Still, if we run into him, I'll need something more hard-hitting than your dolls. Do you have something thoroughly dangerous?"
"Sure," The magus nodded. "But I want to minimize casualties."
"Having trouble with your conscience?"
"Sort of. Don't like having less potential clients. Can you deal with that… Koss?"
"I always wanted to try. By the way, have you already talked about the damn barrier?"
"We have," Arnoani answered. "I'd like to mention one more thing, though. You see, the text's author warns us of something. If we look past all the flowery language, we are left with a simple truth: this barrier is just as much of a defense mechanism as it is a conceptual curse which doesn't shy away from challenging the fundamental forces. By accepting the Mark one puts themselves in opposition to the world in its entirety, in other words. Sure, any direct threat to their life will have no effect but this doesn't mean their life will be easier. The world itself will do everything in its power to break them, crush them, and reduce them to dust. Every knew Cain is doomed to escape to the Land of Nod of his own. Of course, even that choice only holds a promise of eventual death by some silly accident which punctuates the life of misery. The Sphere and the dangers it hides are the only reasons we can't just relax and wait by the river until Blach's corpse floats by. Still, there's good news, too: the information on the Tower's plans helped us plenty. Well, helped you plenty, given that you are responsible for the operation."
"Is there anything else?" Just asked after a few moments of silence.
"Not really. Just keep in mind that only perfection is acceptable. Between Church, Tower and now Koss... this mess is too big to leave any room for failure."
"I am lucky, in a sense," Shifra muttered. "There is no way the alchemist is taking my name."
"Let's hope the same goes for your life," Arnoani handed the book to the German. "By the way, since we still have some time left… you might want to pore over this text. You might find something I missed."
"Will I have to spend two years translating them, too?" Just chuckled.
"No, we have added a translation. It's on a few separate pages. Treat those with utmost care."
"That I will," The magus carefully took the non-Bible. "That I will."
Keira Zepherina de Lassar woke up at 3 in the morning or thereabouts, having some deafening racket to thank for it. Identifying the source of the noise didn't take her long – it came from the guest room. Apparently, Just somehow managed to knock over the iron coat-hanger – well, not that it stood particularly secure in the first place…
Except it was near the door, which meant the magus needed to leave his allotted room.
A part of her wanted to fall back on the bed and forget everything until morning. But she (as always) didn't want to miss out on something interesting. Besides, since Just had something to do with it…
Keira quietly stood up, put on a dressing gown over her nightshirt and left the bedroom as quietly as possible and hurried to the stairs.
The young magus has already descended to the ground floor by that time – he was dressing himself, cussing quietly and constantly touching his hurt leg.
Going outside? This late?
There was no time to try and figure out what he was thinking – the magus was already slouching towards an exit. Keira cursed her curiosity and the German's restlessness, going downstairs and looking for her black coat – if she ran quickly, she probably wouldn't get that cold.
Still… where the hell was he going?
Just walked for quite a while, far longer than Keira expected. His destination lay somewhere far from the de Lassar castle, at the deeper levels, where the ill-fated relic department was situated. Though that wasn't entirely accurate: the German was interested in the dormitories nearby where the rampage had taken place.
What the-
Before she had the time to finish forming the thought, Just threw her off again by walking past the quarters that no one currently had access to (not that anyone would want to mess with the deadly defence magic put there by the security people). He stopped in front of the sealed doors to the room that had the dubious honor of being Blach's former bedroom. From behind the corner Keira watched the German produce some small object resembling a cigarette and insert it into the keyhole. Once the magus made sure everything was in place, he took a few steps back.
A loud bang came. The door almost flies off its hinges, swinging open with a creak. Keira silently approached the small chamber, paying no mind to how cold the stones under her feet were, and looked into the hole left where the lock used to be.
Just von Weitl, a lit candle in his hand, was frantically searching something: he kicked the furniture, tapped the walls and then, putting the candle on a cabinet, spent about five minutes doing his best to move aside a small wooden table that stood of the corner. He actually managed it, too, even if he was panting with exhaustion by the end. Not that it took long before he got back to poking around in the dark, though this time he had to kneel first.
Keira saw him pry a stone away from the floor and throw it away after fiddling with it for a moment or two. The magus paid no attention to the noise: after all, he was supposed to be the only person in the block, what with the ongoing investigation and barriers all over the place. he got another stone, leaving Keira to wonder just how many of those were loose, Just carefully took something from the cache he apparently discovered.
And then he started laughing hysterically.
"Bless your soul, Albert," The magus wheezed once he couldn't laugh any longer. "Thank you for being such a hopeless moron."
Notes:
1. A historical London area where a Carmelite monastery was founded in 1241. During XV-XVI century it acted as a sanctuary, disregarding decisions of the judicial authorities and offering refuges to all sorts of criminals. In the more modern times the word means a place where the long arm of law can't reach.