This is a fan translation of Cold Shores (Холодные берега) by the Russian science fiction and fantasy author Sergei Lukyanenko. The novel is the first in the Seekers of the Sky (Искатели неба) duology.

Chapter 2

In Which Everyone Runs, but Few Know Where and Why

Walking while tied to a rope was not an easy task! It was tough, tarred, lying on one's shoulder like a pole, unbending. If one lingered for just a little, picked up one's pace, or, even worse, shifted slightly to the side, the noose would jerk and threaten to tighten around the neck. If someone fell, he could die.

As a clumsy human bunch, we turned across the deck. Mark was the first to step onto the ramp. He was walking almost on tiptoes in order to loosen the tightened noose even a little. Patron Sister, Redeemer, don't let him fall! He would die, and it would be the end of me as well…

It was no accident that they were walking us on a rope! They could have put us into stocks, it would've been a lot more secure, but no! The rope was a reminder about shameful execution. To make us feel humiliated, as if we were ready to hang from a noose. To make us understand that forced labor was no picnic. If memory served, they were going to walk us past the Whip Square, to show us how the stubborn ones were being punished.

I hadn't been to the Isles of Sorrow in a long time, about fifteen years. I'd ended up here a little older than Mark was, at least it was for something minor and for less than a year.

"Move it!" the guard walking next to me kept shouting. He looked kindly, portly, he ought to be patrolling the markets and taxing the merchants. But no, he'd been assigned to watch convicts, so he was puffing up, having felt power. I lowered my head and was walking carefully, staring at the ground. The guard kept glancing at me, then moved farther along the line.

"Why did you get in front?" I whispered to Mark. Without turning around—he had brains enough for that, at least—the boy replied, "I can do it. I'll cut the rope, and we'll escape."

"You can cut your nuts off instead! Have you ever tried to cut through a tarred rope?"

Mark shook his head.

"You can't even cut it with by swinging a sword! The blade will get stuck!"

The boy lost his step. He slid his hand along the thick rope and turned to look at me. There was confusion in his eyes now, so he understood. Then he touched the noose around his neck. It wasn't easy to pull it off, so no one was bothering trying, since it would just end up resulting in it tightening, but cutting it with a knife was easy.

"Don't even think about cutting the collar," I reminded him what I'd explained the night before. "You won't get far alone, we have to free everyone… at once…"

Sure, another person with a very sharp knife and five minutes could have cut through the thick rope. If he had great strength, if the Redeemer smiled upon him, if the guards looked away.

Except none of that ever happened together: a sharp knife, high skill, great strength, and bribed guards.

"I'll open… I'll open the lock…"

Another guard walked past us. He glanced at us suspiciously, but asked in a calm voice, "What's with the talking, you mine aphids?"

"The kid's scared, I'm trying to calm him down," I said.

Compassion appeared in the guard's eyes for a moment. Not towards me, of course, towards the boy.

"Then he shouldn't have broken the law…" he stated, recovering. "Laws are for everyone. Enough talking!"

But he didn't stick around to keep an eye on them, instead moving forward, towards a crowd that had appeared on the street. He waved his crossbow, indicating they should disperse. Naturally, the crowd didn't move an inch. They weren't afraid of him, the guard still had to live here, walk the streets at night. The islanders wouldn't miss a chance to have some fun.

"Murderers!" a girl in the crowd shrieked. I knew such hysterical women with burning eyes, she probably poisoned the fetus in her womb every year, so she was always ready to accuse others. "Killers! Rapists! May your hands and feet fall off! May you…"

This was nothing. The crowd was peaceful. Even the girl would scream and then go about her business, swaying her woven basket. She was probably on the way to the market. Had she been coming from the market, she would have tossed a spoiled tomato or an cracked egg at us…

"You won't open the lock," I said. "Do you hear me, Mark? You need skill."

The boy said nothing. The snot-nosed kid knew he was right.

"Move a little forward," I told him, "so the bar ends up on your shoulders."

"They'll know…"

"Quit dragging your feet!" I yelled out loud. And kicked the boy's butt. Mark jerked, moved along the rope, and pressed against the piece of wood that was holding the rope.

The guards burst out laughing. Clearly, the convicts' nerves were at their limit. It was entertainment.

I moved up to the boy and stared at the lock. Too bad, it was Germanic, those were always tough…

"Go easy!" the returning guard told me. "You'll choke the kid…"

A lockpick would be nice, a thin one, with a double bend, then I'd be able to open it…

We were already getting close to the Whip Square. Now was the time to run. Then we'd be moving across the hills, those were barren and deserted lands, nowhere to hide…

Crap, Germanic work, fine steel, tight spring, a key with three slots…

I'd never be able to open a lock like that with a knife!

As soon as I realized that, I immediately sprang into action. It wouldn't do to succumb to panic.

"Knife!" I hissed at Mark's back.

At least now he didn't object.

He moved his hand, as if reaching somewhere far away… Even I was hit with a cold blast when the dagger glinted in the kid's hand.

It was a good blade.

One could buy a house in the suburbs for a blade like that without bargaining.

I reached across Mark's shoulder, grabbed the knife; the kid's fingers shook, but he allowed me to take it. And even held up the bar without being asked to, raising it so I could work.

At least the guards weren't looking at us now, busy keeping order at the rear of the column. And there was no crowd in front of us. Only a messy little girl was standing on a street corner, sucking on a dirty finger and staring at us. Had she been older, she'd already be screaming. But only her eyes lit up, she looked at the knife, lowered her hands, and forgot to close her mouth…

Keep looking, little one, just please don't scream! The Patron Sister won't let you to give up the fugitives! Don't scream, please, the Sister's going to send you a porcelain doll, a new dress, and a rich husband and a house when you grow up. Just don't scream!

That was how I mentally implored the girl, while I was busy working the lock and even managed to feel something, only the steel was squeaking, and the knife was glinting in the sun, which meant that I had no more than five seconds…

Those behind me had already figured it out. That lump Slavko produced a roar in preparation. Such people always knew how to take advantage of others' skills! The blacksmith grunted, lost his footing, having probably decided to say something, but couldn't get his tongue to move…

"Hey, what are you doing?" one of the guards shouted. He hadn't seen yet, but he sensed something. That's it, Sister, I'm done for, why are you doing this to me?

As soon as I pleaded to the Sister, the damned lock clicked, the shackle opened, flew out of the slits, the wooden bar parted and fell to the ground. Mark tripped, I pushed him—he flew off the rope immediately—and ran after him. The ones behind us were already coming: Slavko, the blacksmith, and everyone else. Some were indeed planning on running, while others were caught up by the current.

That was what I had been counting on.

The convicts scattered all over the street like fishes from a broken stinger. The dumber ones ran forward. Uh-huh, towards the square, right into the waiting hands of the crowd. A fugitive was worth three coins to his captor. And a head, arm, or leg was worth two. The crowd wasn't made up of idiots, and everyone knew how to add. They could also remove. The crowd was a monster, but not a dumb one.

The ones that were angrier and more desperate rushed the guards. The guard with the slug-thrower was knocked down right away. Maybe even the rest would be trampled by the mob. Anything could happen. Maybe they'd even be able to capture a ship in the port.

Only then they'd send a couple of gliders from the garrison, which would burn the ship down, along with the fugitives…

Meanwhile, I was struggling with the kid, like a complete idiot. Mark was trying to get his knife back, having already cut up his hands all over, but he wouldn't let it go.

No, kid, I have no intention of dying with you!

I released the knife—let the kid have his fun, maybe he'd even be able to stab himself—and ran into a narrow alley, pulling off the noose from my neck on the way. The blacksmith and Savko were running next to me; who knew they'd turn out to be the clever ones?

But then the spiteful and dumb Slavko made a mistake. That same girl was in his way, not having run away due to her age.

"Out of the way!" Slavko yelled and threw the girl aside. Why, damn it? He'd ended up wasting more time than if he'd simply run around her!

"Hurting women!" the blacksmith howled. His voice held not only fury but also delight. He finally had his proof that Slavko was scum.

A moment later, the big Russian was already pressing the murderer against the wall of some shop and was pounding his head against the wall while screaming, "Never harm women! It is sin! Never harm women! Apologize to the girl! Never…"

I ran past the yelling Slavko, the angry blacksmith, and the crying girl. She looked fine…

Oh, thank you, Sister! Be merciful to the blacksmith, he was a good man, just an ignorant one. The crowd was about to catch up, guards would come from the port, maybe they wouldn't even kill him. He didn't seem be trying to flee, just standing there and beating a murderer. Maybe he'd survive. The mines needed workers.

Oh, Sister, let me flee…

"Ilmar!"

I looked back without stopping. Wow, Mark had also figured out where to run. And he was running well, having managed to catch up to me. The knife was no longer in his hands, of course, and he'd also managed to get rid of his noose.

"Snot-nosed pup!" I exhaled. "You almost ruined everything…"

"Don't leave me!"

I was about to snap back at him but changed my mind. It wouldn't do to refuse helping others after a merciful gift of the fate. Things could change at any moment.

I just continued to run, hoping that the kid would get left behind. But the boy was clearly not a weakling.

We ran into people twice. The first one, a strong but smart man, decided not to risk trying to stop us, while a strangely warlike old man with a cane I had to reluctantly drop to the street with a single punch.

Don't wish for someone else's blood, gramps. You're too old for that.

"Ilmar…"

I'd chosen the right direction. The houses around me were becoming worse, until I was running along ruins abandoned after some long-ago fire. The road under my feet was no longer paved, just trampled ground, and even grass here and there. Half of the city was abandoned like this. Mines got depleted even on the Isles of Sorrow, so the people were leaving.

When I had already started to believe that we were free, Mark yelped from behind me.

Pausing, I looked back at him. Mark was trying to get up, grapping his left leg. Had he broken it?

There was no one around us, so, cursing my own stupidity, I went back to the boy.

Mark was gulping down air.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yeah…"

The pantleg was covered in blood. Was the bone sticking out? Then he was done for. Then I realized that the boy's hands were all cut up, so he was the one who had gotten it dirty. Rolling up the pantleg, I felt for the bones. They seemed to be intact. He'd probably pulled a muscle.

Then again, did it really matter if it was a broken bone or a pulled muscle if they were being pursued?

"Try to stand."

He did. And even took a step before collapsing again.

We were both silent.

"Such is your fate, Mark," I said. "Do you see?"

He nodded. Tears glinted in his eyes, tears of fear, not of pain.

"Maybe you'll be fine," I consoled him. "There, crawl into the ruins and hide. The leg should be fine by nightfall, then you can decide…"

Mark said nothing.

I spat in annoyance.

"I can't carry you! Think about it! This is how it is… every man for himself, there's only one Redeemer for us all… Don't think badly of me."

The boy started to crawl slowly to the ruins.

"If you can manage it, lie to the guards that I ran that way." I waved towards the sea. "It doesn't matter to you, but it will help me."

"I…" He broke off.

Exactly. What else was there to say? I wouldn't have sent him away, I would've even helped. It was his own fault, though, he ought to have watched his step.

Turning around, I started walking down the street, trying to catch my breath before another run.

"Ilmar!"

I turned around.

Mark waved a hand, and steel glinted in the air. For a moment, I was certain that the knife was flying at my head, and I was about to drop next to the kid.

The knife fell at my feet.

"I… don't need it anymore…"

Mark crawled on all fours to the kicked-in door that was barely hanging from the rotting wooden hinges. Idiot. He was leaving a clear trail, only a blind man could miss it.

I bent down and picked up the dagger.

There was some patterned calligraphy running along the blood-covered bone handle. The blade was also etched with the same pattern, where I could even make out a coat of arms of some kind. It was old, genuine metal, real steel. Most importantly, I hadn't taken it, the boy gave it freely. This meant that the knife would stay with me.

What was it the Sister had told the Redeemer when bringing a dagger to him in prison? "I won't be offended if you reject me, but take the knife…"

"You're a bastard, Mark, a murderer, a killer," I swore helplessly. "Now both of us are going to die!"

That was how it always went when luck went your way. Luck was mocking, fickle bird, no one could hope to hold on to it. I'd learned this long ago, if you got lucky in something, expect trouble next.

By any reasoning, I was supposed to flee the city, either lay low in the mountains or in the coastal cliffs, but not hide in an abandoned building. All it would take was for them to send a single dog after me. Or an observant guard might walk by, and it would also be the end. How long would I be able to fight, even with a gifted dagger? Plus my dozen had been halved for a while… what would I tell the Redeemer after I was done twitching in a noose?

But now wasn't the time to fill my head with worry. I ran through the first hall carrying Mark without stopping, as it was very dirty in it. People had spent nights here, and rats, and stray dogs. And each of them had been eating and shitting.

The second hall turned out to be cleaner. Probably because its ceiling had collapsed long ago, the floor was covered in wooden debris and roof tile shards. Who would want to spend the night under the open sky?

I set Mark down onto a beam that seemed to be sturdier than others, I was about to give him another tongue-lashing… but there was no time. I just waved my hand and ran back.

Before the entrance, I spat in disgust, picked up two handfuls of dry rat droppings, and came outside. I scattered it and ground it with my feet. It would've been better to do it with my hands, as Old Hans had taught me, but I couldn't do it. What could I say? I was a clean freak.

Dogs didn't like rats. They were also a little scared of them, except for those tiny mongrels that were trained to hunt. The caustic odor would cover our smell… again, if Hans were to be believed.

I broke a branch off a withered acacia that was growing by the wall, trying to keep the break hidden. I rubbed the wound on the trunk with mud and began to sweep the tracks.

How long did I have? Would the Sister give me a minute, ten, or half an hour?

I had no idea.

The dust swirled, settling lazily. I ran through the street, taking deliberately heavy steps. Then, a hundred meters away, where a small stream was gurgling alongside the road, I stopped and backtracked along my own footsteps.

Let them decide that I'd gone along the water. Let them believe it and search. With luck, the stream would reach the hills, and then maybe empty out into some river and then into the sea.

Running back, I leapt into the open door. Closing it, I cleaned up in the hall a little. Well, more like restoring it to its previous condition. I didn't see any of our tracks. It seemed to be done.

I tossed the branch into a far dark corner, where there was a large pile of brushwood; the branch's leaves were dusty now, hard to tell apart from dried ones. Someone had definitely been spending nights here. How had they managed it?

"Mark, are you alive in there?" I asked quietly.

"Yeah." The boy's voice was tense, but more from fear than pain. "And you… you didn't leave?"

As if he'd left me any chance of leaving with his act! That would've been me spitting into the Patron's face!

"I didn't," I said, closing the second door behind me. Mark was cradling his leg, watching me with fear and anxiety in his eyes. "Why don't you help me?"

"Sure… with what?"

"Help me think!" I barked. "What do we do? I covered our tracks, but they're going to look here anyway. The guards won't rest until they catch me."

Mark furrowed his brow, honestly trying to help. No, that noble bastard wouldn't be much of help to me…

"Ilmar… are you a thief?"

Huh. I wasn't the only one thinking bad thoughts about him.

"Yeah."

"Is this house… rich? Was it rich?"

As if he couldn't see it for himself! The halls were huge, double-colored, the walls were still standing, remains of frescoes could be seen on the collapsed ceiling. It had been a nice house, and its owner wasn't a poor man.

"Yes. Must've belonged to a merchant or an officer. Probably a merchant, since an officer would never have abandoned such wealth. The layout is merchant-style too."

"If you were robbing it… where would you be looking for hiding places?"

I was silent for a second. Damn! Maybe I really had lost my mind…

"Wait here," I ordered and ran out of the hall.

Right by the entrance was clearly the trading hall. And this one, with the collapsed ceiling, was the living room. The merchant was probably from the second or even first guild, important, someone who had to throw receptions.

It was almost as if I was seeing this house as it had been before, maybe twenty years ago. Tapestries on the walls, the ceiling covered in murals, and doors with iron locks…

These small rooms were for the servants. Not many, two or three, to work the household, guard… a merchant wouldn't trust others to run his business.

These rooms were a little better, they were for distant relatives, freeloaders. Also workers, but unpaid ones, doing it for food and shelter.

Stairs led up to the second floor. The railing had weakened, falling away here and there, but the steps were still standing. The steps were good, made of oak. I ran upstairs, pulling out the dagger just in case.

The chaos here was even worse. This wasn't the vagabonds or rats, it was the masters' own doing. When they were leaving, they'd ripped off everything valuable from the walls, including carved wood boards and marble bas-reliefs. All the furniture had been taken away, so it was probably well-made. Even the hardwood floors had been stripped clean.

This was actually a good thing, since it meant that vagabonds wouldn't bother coming up here.

No matter how successful the merchant had been, Mark was right about one thing: there had to be hiding places. Big ones. Not everyone paid with gold and iron, after all. Furs, fabrics, spices in bags — none of that would be left at a warehouse. The merchant had to have a reliable hiding place. It would be empty, of course, but I wasn't a thief at the moment, just a fugitive.

And any place where people kept their valuable away from thieves was perfect for a fugitive to hide out in.

But how would I find it?

I even found the master bedroom; they hadn't been able to carry out the enormous bed, so they simply smashed it to pieces. If they couldn't have it, no one would. The bed was huge, so the merchant had probably been somewhere from the east, or maybe from Russia, and had two or three wives, as was customary there.

I also found the office, which was completely empty now. I peered out through the window gap, seeing no one, only the wind disturbing the dust on the street. That was good.

Where had you kept your wealth, foreign guest? Soft furs in piles, stacks of silks and cloth, aromatic pepper and nutmeg…

I shuddered from a crazy hope.

No, it wouldn't work, of course. It had been ten years. Or even twenty.

Or would it?

Closing my eyes, I took a whiff. I smelled dust. Rat shit… maybe from the floor, or maybe from my hands.

And also, just a little, the furious southern sun, spicy herbs, a distant world…

I shook, opened my eyes, and once more swept the entire office with a mad gaze. The pursuit was near, I could sense that, but salvation was also close. The hiding place was here. Here! Rushing around along the walls, sweeping my hands across the smooth boards, I was trying to find a slit.

Nothing. Either everything was so tightly put together or I'd made a mistake and engaged in wishful thinking. No secret doors in walls. After all, there couldn't be a hatch in the floor, on the second story!

And yet I still examined the floor. Tough wide boards. They still didn't creak. Only in one place the floor was slightly uneven…

Dropping to my knees, I wiped and blew away the dust and saw the outlines of a hatch. In the floor. On the second story!

Impossible.

Except right now the impossible was what I needed.

Jamming the dagger between the boards, I pried. The steel bent, threatening to snap. My heart cried out from such treatment of a weapon. But what else was I to do?

The hatch lifted. Once it had tricky latches and was supported by metal hinges. But the iron had rusted, and the latches broke. Gripping the boards with my nails, I lifted the hatch and threw it open. I glanced down, expecting to see the servants' quarters. Maybe the loving master preferred the company of more than just his wives.

There was a small dark room under the office. A wave of thick spicy aroma struck my nose. Bending down, I tried to figure it out.

It made sense now. There was no entrance to this room from the first story. It was lost between the servants' quarters, the corridors, and the rooms. The only way to come in was to climb down from the master's office on a narrow attached ladder. I tested the steps with my foot and found that they held.

A good merchant. Sensible. Except he ought to have used black bronze hinges, since it wouldn't have rusted…

Leaving the hatch open, I ran downstairs to get Mark. We had maybe five minutes at best. Unlike a bad thief, a good one could sense danger coming.

I put the boy on my back, just in case. Then I climbed down and sat him on the floor. It was dry and clean in the hidden room, there weren't even any rats here. Maybe they didn't like the smell of spices.

Climbing up, I carefully shut the hatch. It was pitch black now. Even I couldn't make anything out.

Swaying on the ladder, I thought that now I could run. I'd hidden the boy and paid my debt. But then where would I run now? It was too late. The entire crew had already been captured. They already knew who'd opened the lock. All the guards on the Isles were out for my blood.

"Ilmar…"

"What is it?" I asked in annoyance.

"Are you here?"

"Are you afraid of the dark or something?"

His only reply was silence. I shook my head. Yeah, some companion the Redeemer had sent me. Not only a kid who twisted his ankle out of the blue, but he also whimpered in the dark!

"I'm here," I grunted, climbing down. I patted Mark on the shoulder to calm him and sat next to him. Maybe I was blind in total darkness, but I could still navigate by sound.

"I am afraid," Mark replied belatedly.

"I don't remember you complaining on the ship."

"There were a lot of people there…"

I sighed, "Uh-huh. What's wrong with you, kid? You should only fear darkness when there are people nearby. But if you're alone, then the darkness is neither your friend nor your enemy."

Not exactly the time and the place to explain common truths to him. We ought to be sitting here quietly and waiting for the guards to go upstairs and glance down to the floor.

"It smells of ginger…" Mark said quietly. "Pepper, ginger… nutmeg… Were they storing spices here?"

"Yeah."

"How long are we going to hide here?"

"Already tired?"

Getting up, I walked around the room, feeling the walls. Seven by seven paces. Twice my hand ran into wooden holders that were still griping torches. Resinous tow, as dry as gunpowder, a single spark would be enough…

"A spark would be nice," I said.

"Why?"

"There are torches here."

Mark began to move… and suddenly a felt a chill.

"You little bastard!" I raised my voice in surprise. "Why you—"

"Here."

A warm metal cylinder was placed in my hand. Unwilling to believe my luck, I flipped open the cap and turned the wheel. A yellow tongue of flame appeared, revealing Mark's pale face in the darkness.

"What else do you have on your Word?" I asked.

The boy said nothing. He was only staring at the lighter hungrily. Recovering, I walked up to a torch and lit it. The flame burned immediately. The torch wouldn't last long, but at least it would be bright.

"Are the scratches still bleeding?" The lighter was a little sticky, so I wiped it against my pants.

Mark glanced at his hands, "No… almost gone…"

"That's good. This'll be a lesson for you on gripping the blade…"

Spinning the lighter in my hand, I once again felt a sense of envious admiration. This was fine work! Silver casing, not a single slit, holds the kerosene well, the cogwheel is just begging to be spun, the cap is on a steel spring. The silver was covered in patterned calligraphy… exactly the same as on the blade, by the way.

Either the boy was a better thief than me, or someone loved him a lot.

"Here." I returned the lighter. "What else do you have?"

Mark hesitated.

"I won't take it. I'm not even asking you to show it to me. It would just be best to know what we have in case of difficulties. What else are you hiding?"

"A ring."

"What else?"

"Nothing."

He answered way too quickly. I stuck the torch in its holder, sat in front of Mark, and said in an admonishing tone, "Kid, I'm risking my life for you. I don't want your stash. If we survive, you can give me the knife and we'll be even. But right now every nail, every piece of twine, every coin can help us. Do you understand that there are locks that I can open much faster with a ring than a dagger?"

Mark hook his head.

"I have to know what you're keeping on your Word. If there's a need, I'll ask for it. If not, then I won't even remember."

"I also have a book. That's all."

"Is it thick?"

"Not very."

"It might still come useful. The torches won't last long…"

His eyes opened wide as if in pain. The boy shook his head, pushing away from me, "No…"

"What's wrong?"

"No! I won't give it to you! It's the only one of its kind! It mustn't be burned!"

I seemed I'd touched a nerve.

"Fine," I agreed. "Your business, kid. You don't have to give it to me."

He still wouldn't calm down, "Ilmar, you have to understand! This dagger… another one can be made just like it. Even better. But the book, if it's burned, then that's it! There won't be another one!"

"Calm down," I asked. "You already said you won't give it to me. The matter's closed."

The boy nodded hesitantly.

"We'll be sitting here until nightfall," I said. "Even longer, we'll leave close to morning. The torch is about to burn out, and we won't light up the other one. So go ahead… make yourself comfortable."

I followed my own advice and walked around the room in search of something to use as a pillow: a rough piece of cloth or even a log. Nothing. The merchant had taken everything. No doors in walls either, just a single exit.

What about the floor?

It was a ridiculous thought. And yet I'd seen safes with false bottoms and even hidden rooms within hidden rooms. Lowering the torch, I peered at the floorboards.

No way!

Another hatch.

"Hold the light," I told Mark. He crawled up to me quickly. "Another stash," I explained. "The merchant wasn't a simple one…"

I opened this hatch slowly. I had to stay quiet, just in case the guards were already in the house, plus I wanted to keep the dagger intact. When the hatch started moving up, Mark crawled right under my arm, peering under the floor with simpleminded curiosity.

"Patron Sister…" was all I could say.

The space under the second hatch was a lot smaller. Basically, it was just a large pit. But it wasn't empty. It was filled with bricks that were hairy from red dust.

"Do you understand?" I asked, grabbing Mark's shoulder. "Huh? Kid? Can you smell it?"

True, the smell wasn't as pleasant as from the spices, but it was a lot more exciting.

Bending down, I picked up a brick. Red dust covered my hand. The bastard merchant, the foreign skunk! Fine, he'd been buying up stolen goods, but why leave it to rot?

"Iron!" I said. "Eleven betrayers and a saint… what do you know…"

"Good iron?" Mark inquired.

"No. Tenth fineness, maybe even eighth… but…"

I weighed the brick in my hand.

"Except it's still two or three hundred kilos…"

But modern meager standards, we were looking at a large mine's daily production. If all this iron were to be brought over to the mainland… even if sold through greedy fences…

I imagined a huge stone house in the center of Paris—on the Seine, next to the passenger port—my own stables, a large guard at the entrance… I could even hire Joker just for kicks…

Just like that, to appear in the capital like Count Crist from the book. And to live the high life.

"How much is this worth?" Mark asked. I came to my senses.

"Quite a lot. Actually, no. It's worthless."

"Why?"

"Have you forgotten who we are? We'd be lucky to escape on our own. Even a single ingot is dangerous to carry. If we get caught with it, we'll be skinned alive. They'll hang all the thefts at the mine on us."

I wasn't making fun of or trying to frighten Mark. That was the truth. The discovered treasure was utterly useless to us. Clothes, weapons, a pile of coins — any of that would've been of use. But this is just more disappointment.

"Don't even think about it," I told him sternly.

"I'm not…"

He didn't understand how valuable this treasure was. Good for him. Meanwhile, even if I managed to get away, I would keep seeing a pit filled with iron in my dreams for the rest of my life.

Even if the metal wasn't fine.

Of course, if in a year or two, or maybe five, the mines got totally depleted, the guards would be recalled to the mainland, the people would scatter… I'd be able to hire a ship or, even better, buy a small yacht. To sail here, take the iron, and then I'd have the house in the city, stables, guards, wine from the best cellars, whispers of girls at receptions, "Who is this Ilmar? He got wealthy in such a mysterious way… it's so romantic."

Maybe even Mark would have the same thought in a year or two. Or would stupidly tell a few buddies over a mug of beer, before going to sleep with a knife in his chest. Treasures waited only for one, two was already too many.

Save me from temptation, Sister!

The iron brick was heavy. When I tossed it back into the pit, the metal produced a displeased echo. Mark jerked and looked at me in surprise.

"Keep your head away if you don't want to get hurt!" I hissed.

"Sorry…"

"If it hit you on the temple, you'd be a goner! This isn't a rock, it's iron! Iron!"

"But you saw where you were throwing it," Mark said in confusion. "I was trying to be careful…"

The more I was realizing what I'd tried to do, the more I shook. I began to shake off my hands feverishly. The ship's dirt, the rat droppings, and the blood-red rust seemed to be stuck to my skin. Water would be nice. I'd only had half a mug in the morning. Earlier they used to let convicts wash up after the ship…

"Don't be angry," Mark asked. He moved away a little. There was probably something in my eyes. "Ilmar…"

He was holding the torch back, in his left hand. Fool. A torch was also a weapon. Although it wasn't worth much against a dagger in a skilled hand.

"Sorry, kid," I said. I shut the hatch, grabbed the torch from Mark, and attached it to the wall. I stood there, looking down at him. "I wanted to kill you, see? The temptation was too great… sorry."

For a moment his lips quivered, then pressed together. Mark was silent.

"Fine, let's forget it." I waved my hand. "You helped me, I helped you. We need to run together, not argue."

"You could've killed me over that?" Mark exhaled in confusion. "Over five dozen iron bricks?"

Oh, boy. I could only shake my head while looking at him. It was clear that he'd been eating well and sleeping soundly. He didn't know what need or death was.

People killed over a rusty nail. Over a copper coin. Maybe not me, but how was I better than others?

"I didn't," I said. "Enough. Let's forget it."

"I thought that since you didn't abandon me…" Mark seemed to be thinking out oud. "Then you were prepared to risk your neck for me. But you're prepared to cave someone's head in over money?"

Yeah, it really did sound strange. I was prepared to do the honorable thing and don't abandon a comrade to guards. But then I'd barely managed to keep myself from killing the kid on a pile of rusted iron.

What did that mean?

I could risk my life, as long as everything remained honorable, the way the Redeemer had said and the Sister had commanded. Die yourself, but save your comrade. Easy. But I was prepared to strike a kid in the temple over money that I couldn't even get…"

Strange. Definitely strange. Humans were evil beasts. Evil and foolish.

"That's how it is," I said. "Don't be angry, kid. You'll understand when you grow up. Temptation can really mess with you."

Mark was silent. The torch, which was burning down to the handle, was crackling.

"That's it, enough," I decided. I trampled over the fire. I hoped that the guards didn't smell the smoke… damn, it was something I should've thought of before. Our only hope was that the hatch was tightly closed. The smell of spices had been seeping for years, absorbing into the wood, and now it could be sensed on the other side.

Sitting down onto the cold floor, against a wall, I listened. It was quiet. Maybe there wasn't anyone in the house after all. The only thing left was to wait.

"Tell me, Ilmar, what if Slavko was in your place?"

I grinned. If the murdering fool was still alive, then I wouldn't envy him…

"You'd be lying dead under the floor. Or maybe not. Maybe Slavko would've left you until morning. To have some fun at night, and the meat would be fresher."

I couldn't see a thing. So I probably heard the boy shudder. I'd never thought that a person could shudder so loudly!

"M-meat?"

"Uh-huh. People like him either run without stopping or hide out in a hole for a week. He'd have eaten you."

Where had he come from? Sitting there in the darkness, not moving, only something gurgling in his throat. Had he never heard about murderers escaping from labor camps? They called it "grabbing a calf".

"And if it was Ivan?"

I barely managed to recall that it was the blacksmith's name.

"Then nothing. He's a simple, wild man. He wouldn't have hurt you. But the two of you would never have made it, you need someone who knows what he's doing."

Hidden by the darkness, Mark continued to reflect, "So what do I expect from you, Ilmar?"

"Nothing special now. As long as we don't anger the Redeemer and the Sister remembers us, we'll get away. But if it gets too difficult…" I sighed but still finished honestly, "Then I'll leave you behind. I won't kill you, since you've helped me."

Mark said nothing. It seemed I'd frightened him with my words about "meat".

"I'm a modest man," I said. "I can snack on a rat. I can make a casserole from earthworms. Don't be afraid. I'm not a murderer, just a simple thief. If the Redeemer wills it, we'll get away."

I was lying about the worms. Except Mark needed such a lie right now, one that was disgusting and sobering.

It would also help keep his appetite at bay. I was already remembering the morning slop with longing. I was used to it, but the boy was probably suffering from indigestion…

He shifted in the darkness. Crawled over, pressed against me with his thin back. The kid was pretty good at navigating in the dark!

"How's the leg?" I asked.

"Better," Mark said without much certainty. He was as tense as a convict being whipped. Aboard the ship, the kid seemed to be as if in a drowsy stupor, but now he was fully awake, and had immediately gotten into trouble. It wasn't easy. I could understand that.

"Here," I handed him the knife and the lighter. Mark's hand jerked when touching the metal. "Hide these on the Word. Or we might lose them in the darkness."

There was a gust of cold wind.

"Thanks," Mark said.

This was better. The boy would stop shaking in fear of me killing him: why else would I have given him the blade and the fire? And I would be calmer too… I wouldn't wake up from hands numb from the fear grabbing my throat.