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 3

In Which My Count Goes up to Eight, and Mark Brings It down to Seven

I slept for five or six hours. Being so tired, I couldn't set myself to wake up more precisely. I fell asleep quickly, muttering the silent prayer about fruitless torments the Sister had once put together. This prayer had never failed me since I was little. If I misbehaved in the evening, knew that I'd get either a slap from my mother or the belt from my father, depending on their mood, I'd feel better as soon as I prayed to the Sister. "My will, I did what I wanted, did what I could. If there's trouble, my fear won't chase it away, if there's no trouble, then my fear isn't needed. I don't regret what I've done, only thinking on what I will do."

A simple prayer, it wasn't a request for healing or a repentance for sins, but it always helped.

Mark probably took a while to fall asleep. But he did fall asleep eventually, his head dropping to my stomach. When I shifted, the boy woke up. He shuddered but didn't reveal his awakening with anything else.

Good boy.

No, there was something right about him. People laughed at aristocrats, told jokes about them: "A lord, a merchant, and a thief end up on an uninhabited island…" And yet they still looked at noblemen and envied them. As if all of his highborn ancestors were standing behind him, sticking out their chins proudly, their hands on their swords. You couldn't approach them… even when killing one you wouldn't feel victorious.

I'd once seen an attack by a praetorian maniple. As a young fool, I enlisted in the Basque Legion, which faced Iberians at Barakaldo, demanding the separation of Basconia into its own province. Oh… they brought on the heat. By a stroke of misfortune, I ended up right where the praetorians had been sent. It was pretty obvious that all those Iberian barons and counts were equipped much better than us. Steel armor, swords, crossbows, a third of them even had repeating slug-throwers. But that's not how they beat us, not at all. Our weapons were also fairly decent. At our flanks were two of our lords with rapid-fire slug-throwers… as soon as they started firing, all of us dropped to the ground. I was near when I saw His Grace Lord Hamon speak the Word and produce a slug-thrower from thin air. His personal guard closed in around him, their swords bare, fury in their eyes. Hamon set up the slug-thrower, his squire pour water into the barrel for some reason, and it started. There was thundering, as if all the legion's drummers had gathered and were pounding their drums feverishly.

And yet it didn't work. Lord Hamon cut down seven of them, as well as wounding a countless number. Except the praetorians still reached our position, cut up the guards, and put a spike through the Lord's back while he was busy with the slug-thrower that had gone silent. That was nobility!

But Hamon was no weaker. While dying, blood pouring from his mouth, he said the Word. The rapid-fire slug-thrower disappeared, right from the hands of the victorious Iberians. Forever. It was unlikely that Hamon had revealed his Word to someone when he was alive…

I patted Mark's head, "Get up, kid. Quit pretending."

"I'm not pretending." Mark moved away.

"Get the light," I asked. A moment later the lighter was placed in my hand.

"What time is it?" Mark asked.

"I don't have a watch. Sorry," I hemmed. Then I rose, walked over through the darkness to the wall with the torch. "How about you? Do you have one on the Word?"

Mark sniffed angrily.

"I told you everything I had on the Word. Plus, what would be the point of having a watch in the Cold?"

"Why not?"

"It doesn't run in there. Whatever you place into the Cold, you get it back the same way."

So that was how it was. I'd had no idea. This meant that Lord Hamon's slug-thrower was also there, in the Cold, right now, with steam constantly coming out of the barrel and never ending…

I lit the torch and glanced at Mark who was rubbing his eyes.

"It's evening, kid. Getting dark. We'll wait for another three hours and go. How's the leg?"

He shrugged. Leaving the torch on the wall, I walked up and lifted the boy.

"Lean on the leg. Carefully."

Mark stepped, carefully shifting his weight on the hurt leg.

"Seems fine… ow. Hurts a little."

A bead of sweat came out on his forehead. I guess that was his "a little".

"Sit down," I said in annoyance. "Take off your pants."

While he was obediently untying his shoes and undressing, I took off my jacket and began to tear off the sleeves.

"Here…"

Mark handed me the knife. I still couldn't get used to being around someone who knew the Word.

Two swipes, and I now had a vest instead of a jacket. Too bad, the garment had served me well. I'd had it made at a good tailor shop, so that it looked crappy but was strong and warm.

"What's that for?"

Did he really not understand?

"To tie it around the leg."

"We could've used my shirt…"

I shook my head. Thin batiste wouldn't cut it here.

"This will work better. Now bear with me."

I spent ten minutes massaging his shin. Mark was probably in a lot of pain, but he made no sound. Then I tightly wrapped the boy's leg with the sleeves cut lengthwise. Not too tightly, but enough to support the muscles.

"Thanks," Mark said quietly.

"You can pay me back in the afterlife," I brushed him off. "Do you need me to bind your hands?"

"No… thank you, they're fine…"

I really didn't like being thanked. It was as if I was being tied down with the thanks: it felt nice on the one hand, but on the other I'd have no other choice but to continue helping.

"Will the pants fit?"

His pants were narrow, made from thick indigo sailcloth. Naturally, they wouldn't fit over the bound leg, so I had to cut the pant leg open.

"Now you look like a normal street urchin," I decided after looking at Mark. "You don't look like a highborn child so much anymore."

Mark glanced at me with a scared look.

"Don't be afraid," I said. "I don't really care about your blood."

"Why… why do you think I'm highborn?"

"I can see your family tree on your forehead. Blue blood, familial palace, and everything else…"

He was still scared.

I sighed and explained, "Mark, you seem to be an ordinary kid. Your clothes are nice, but no more than that. Dirty, thin. Except I can see that all that dirt is like someone else's shirt. There's breeding in you. Noble ancestors, a valet, a maid to wash your face in the morning, a guard to walk you to the privy… Am I wrong?"

Mark said nothing.

"Plus the Word… you know. How else would you know it? There's only one answer: someone gave it to you."

"So what?"

"Nothing. What do I care? Whether your name is Mark or Marcus, it's all the same to me. You want me to tell you your life's story? You daddy's a count or a baron. Probably not a House prince, although… But your mom's probably of simpler origins. A bastard can also have a future. If daddy doesn't have an heir, then he gets raised in luxury. Who knows how things will turn out… maybe he'll have to inherit the line."

The boy was silent. He was staring at me with his dark eyes and waiting.

"And then the aristocrat got lucky. His lawful wife gave him a child. And then you… became an inconvenience. They could've killed you. But someone helped, didn't they? I think your daddy turned out to be kind. He hid you away… sent you to the mines. Better than dying. Am I close?"

"No… not quite…"

Mark's eyes glistened. Great. I'd driven the boy to tears.

"Stop it." I sat down next to him and wiped the moisture with the sleeve of his own shirt. "No need for regrets. Life is chaotic, but the Redeemer sees the truth. Some he loves, others he tests. You still have… such a treasure I never dreamed of."

Mark immediately fell silent.

"I'm not going to torture you for the Word… Tell me, what do you feel when you use it?"

"Cold."

"Is that all?"

"That's all. As if I'm reaching out into the darkness but know what I want to find. And I find it. Except it's cold."

"I see. So it's like stealing food from a glacier. Nothing special."

Why were all my thoughts coming down to food? Mark stared at me and said in surprise, "You're laughing. You're laughing!"

"Yeah. So what?"

He smiled uncertainly, "I just didn't think you could, sir. You're always so grim."

"Forget the 'sir', Mark. I'm not a count, and you're not a prince. We're both escaped convicts: one young and one old. Agreed?"

The boy nodded, "Okay. You're right, thief Ilmar."

"You're a clever one, bastard Mark," I returned the compliment. "You might not earn any palaces, but you won't go poor either. What do you know how to do?"

"A few things."

"Like what?"

"Fencing. Shooting."

I didn't immediately understand. Who would give a weapon to a child?

"From a slug-thrower?"

"Yeah."

"They really were grooming you as an heir," I admitted. "Well then, it's a useful skill. I guess you've been taught to fight. Have you already started your dozen?"

The boy pressed his lips together and said reluctantly, "I don't know. Maybe."

"That's bad." I shook my head. "Until you know for sure, assume that you did. How do people keep count of their dozen? If you wound someone and they don't die in a week, then it doesn't count. If you don't kill someone, leaving them to die instead—like if I left you to the guards on the street—that doesn't count either. That's just fate. But if you don't know for sure, then assume that you've killed. It's calmer that way."

"I know."

"Good. Have you been taught dialects? Roman isn't your native language, right?"

Mark said nothing.

"It's not, I can feel it. Don't worry, you speak it well, no one's going to find any flaws. A little scholarly, as if you're showing off, but it happens. You know Russian, I heard you talk to the blacksmith. Do you speak Gaulish?"

"Oui."

"Iberian, Germanic?"

"Si, claro. Ich spreche."

"You probably know others," I suggested. "Eh?"

The boy nodded. Some pride appeared in his eyes.

"That's good," I praised him. "When you grow up, you can work as an interpreter. Good money there, especially if you get hired by an aristocrat…"

And there it was again. This time he did cry. It was silent but real. Right, what had I been trying to make him happy about? Serving some lowly baron, when he'd been dreaming of becoming a count or a duke?"

"Don't cry about the past, think about the future!" I barked, trying to interrupt his tears with my rudeness. "You're not a little child!"

Mark continued to bawl. He wasn't scared of the tone of my voice, which was nice, but how was I supposed to calm him down?"

"You have to think about growing up!" I said sharply. "Then you can catch your fortune, maybe you'll even get lucky and earn a title! Once we get off the Isles," I tried to instill the certainty I wasn't feeling into these words, "how are you going to make a living?"

He shrugged.

"You've got a head on your shoulders," I was reasoning out loud. "Working in a factory with a head like that is to anger the Redeemer. Join the monastery? You're not a cripple to be taken in by monks… and monastic love is an awful thing, since half of them are perverts, may the Redeemer punish them… I'm not even suggesting the temple of the Sister, you understand."

Mark nodded hurriedly. He seemed to be seriously thinking that his future was being decided right now. I myself had gotten too involved in this game. It was strange, Ilmar the Slick, a top-tier thief, was worried about an abandoned bastard.

"I know a couple of merchants. Good, solid ones." I didn't elaborate that their solidity came from fencing stolen goods. "I can talk to them about an apprenticeship for you. Not for good, of course, you can quit when you grow up. And you'll make some money in the meantime. I'm sure you know mathematics. Dialects too. You're a strong kid too. If I ask, they'll treat you well. I can even tell them you're my son." I grinned. "The age difference is pretty tight, but we can make up some lies. You'll have a roof over your head and won't go hungry. Again, you'll be practicing your languages and math, meet interesting people every day, make friends with guards, so you'll be able to practice swordplay with them…"

I was painting such a vivid picture of merchant life that it seemed as if I myself had grown up in a shop and left it by a stroke of misfortune. Mark stopped crying and asked, "So why aren't you, Ilmar, a merchant?"

"I'm a free bird."

Mark chuckled.

"Also a grown man. Understand? Even murderers fear me, I can find shelter anywhere."

"You're a strange one, Ilmar," Mark said in a serious tone. "At first I thought that you were a deft fool. Don't be offended!"

I swallowed the insult, "Why should I? That's what thievery is, boy. Deft, cunning, and foolish. Jump all you want, but it ends only one way: either from consumption in a mine or at the end of a soldier's sword."

Mark nodded.

"That's what I mean. You know dialects as well. And also quite learned. I've seen how you held the knife…"

I shuddered.

"I've fought in a war, boy. Just happened that way."

"Common soldiers aren't issued steel blades," Mark countered calmly. "And that's not what I mean. Bandits do listen to you and guards fear you. Not because of your strength, because of your mind. Have you really not found anything else to do other than steal?"

"There are different kinds of thieves," I replied, trying to stay calm. "Some pick pockets at fairs, others walk the highway with a flail, and yet others rob houses."

"Have you done that?"

"Sometimes," I admitted. "There's a lot you'll do when you're hungry, kid. Except my skills are different."

Mark waited, and I decided to be candid, for some reason, "I steal that which doesn't belong to anyone anymore. Why do you think Ilmar the Slick, who had songs composed about his dexterity and luck, isn't dangling off a noose yet?"

"You paid them off," Mark answered calmly.

"That happened too," I admitted. "Told something to a judge when the scribe went to take a leak. But if there had been a complaint against me from some lord, it wouldn't have helped. But this way no one is hurt."

"You rob graves?"

His head was definitely working.

"Not quite graves, boy. It's a vile thing to disturb the dead. You know how many old cities are scattered all over the world? Empty, abandoned. Cities, temples, mounds, crypts. Everyone forgot about them, no one wants them. Those crypts don't even have the dead, just ashes, so no one gets hurt by my thievery. It's not easy finding such ancient places, even harder to find them untouched, and doing it so that no one else follows you… Do you know how people used to live? Have you ever seen iron doors? Iron doors to a crypt with the dead? I've seen them. I couldn't carry them, otherwise… I wouldn't be sitting here."

"I got lucky that you didn't have the strength," Mark said.

"I guess you did," I agreed. I was very curious whether the boy would ask to be my henchman. I would have in his place. Actually I had.

"Why are you telling me this, Ilmar?"

"This isn't a secret, Mark. I'm not the only one, I may just be a little luckier than others, but that's all. Sure, I know a few useful tings. Like ancient languages."

The boy was silent. He was now sitting with his knees pulled up against his chest and his chin on top of them, seemingly thinking about something. His face looked smart, even under the tear-streaked dirty face. If he asked to be my henchman… I'd take him, most definitely! Clever, not despicable, he even had the Word. Had I known the Word, oh what I would have done then! Would've knocked those iron gates form their hinges, touched them, and sent them into the Cold. And then…

I suddenly had a belated thought.

"Mark, my boy, are you able to put something else into the Cold?"

He looked at me sadly. As if I'd said something incredibly stupid, pulling him away from an important task, "Like an iron brick?"

"For example. Maybe more than one."

"No, Ilmar. Honestly, no, it's not that kind of Word." He smiled, maybe because of my disappointed expression.

"Too heavy?"

"No, of course not. You can put anything on the Word, you won't feel the difference. It depends on the sort of Word."

"I see. Yours is a weak one."

"I'm telling you, it's not about strength. It depends on both the Word and the person. Maybe someone else with the same Word could've taken all these bricks…"

He broke off and cringed under my gaze.

I had to take a few deep breaths, remember what the Sister had commanded, and picture the hell where the Redeemer sent scoundrels.

"Listen, Mark… Let's go. As far from these bricks as possible."

I rose and helped the boy get up. He was stepping more confidently, maybe in fright, but he wasn't grimacing anymore.

"But if they catch us… don't even think about telling the guards about the Word," I advised. "I've once seen a guy who'd been tortured for his Word…"

"Ilmar…"

Grabbing the torch, which was already starting to crackle and smoke, I glanced at Mark. In these moments, the boy seemed to have gotten three years older.

"Thank you, Ilmar. May the Sister reward you. And I'll never forget it. I'll do anything for you, I swear on the Redeemer!"

I decided not to take advantage of his oath and ask for the Word. Instead I patted him on the shoulder and started climbing the ladder. I gripped the knife with my teeth, keeping the tongue as far from the blade as possible. Useful precautions keep trouble away.

If only Mark understood that…

Mark was walking behind me with the torch. He was limping and making some noise but walking fairly quickly. I was sneaking ahead, outside the circle of light. Silently, no one would be able to hear. If there was an ambush in the house, they'd jump on the boy, which was when it would be the dagger's turn to work.

But there was no one in the house. It seemed that my tricks had worked. The rat droppings messed up the dogs' scent, and the branch swept up the tracks. The guards walked down the street, saw the stream, and decided that we had left along the water…

I waited for Mark by the door. Took the torch from him without a word and put it out with my feet. I gripped the boy's hand and walked forward. It was dark, very dark, the moon was hidden behind clouds, so thank the Sister. No guard was a problem for me in darkness. I could just barely make out the outlines of buildings, while to the guards it was pitch black.

"So far so good," I whispered in Mark's ear. "Now we'll go into the mountains. We'll sit out there for a week or two, then go to the port. Sailors won't mind some extra income. We'll pay, and they'll hide us and take us away.

Mark shook his head, "No! We can't go into the mountains!"

"Why not? Are you afraid of me?"

"No… Ilmar, they'll be looking for me!"

"A week, no more. Soldiers have better things to do than climb—"

"Ilmar, please!" He gripped my hand and squeezed so hard his nails dug into my skin. "You're smart! Believe me! I got sent to the labor camp by mistake… as soon as they realize what happened, they'll send people after me! And then they'll comb through the whole island, tear down the mountains, pull the mines inside-out… Trust me, Ilmar!"

I froze from such a torrent. Mark just kept gripping me and whispering without pause, "I know you understand people well. So think about, am I telling you the truth?"

"Do you understand what you're talking about? Why would they be looking for you?"

Mark whimpered and said hopelessly, "Well…"

I covered his mouth with my hand, since his voice was too loud, and asked, "Kid, what do you suppose we should do? Kill all the soldiers and rule over the Isles? Storm a ship and hang a black flag on the mast? Capture a glider at the fortress and fly away like birds?"

"Maybe the glider."

"So we'll just ask the flyer to take us where we want to go?"

"I can fly it. I know how."

"You've lost your mind…" I shook the boy slightly. "It takes seven years to learn to fly a glider, and that's the best of the best! This isn't shooting a slug-thrower, it's a delicate science, and not even everyone in the House knows it!"

"I do!"

"Mark." I tried to put all the sternness I could muster into my voice, and it was pretty easy, to be honest. "I have no time for foolishness and won't stick my neck into a noose. If you don't want to go into the mountains, go wherever you want. The knife… no, I'll keep it. It won't save you but will help me. As for the rest, do whatever you like. Your decision."

He sobbed.

"Speak, Mark!"

"I… I'll go… with you."

"Good. Smart boy. Let's go."

We started walking down the street, and Mark went quiet immediately. He wasn't wasting his strength on tears or noise. I even had a nagging suspicion that all those sobs had been just an attempt to soften me.

No, pal. I'm not an evil man, by the Redeemer. Maybe even a good one. But I have no intention of dying stupidly.

No one was going to get us in the mountains, and we wouldn't die of hunger either, as there were as many rabbits in the hills as there were mosquitoes in a swamp. We didn't have to fear cold either, since the Isles of Sorrow were warm, unlike the mainland. We'd wait it out in the mountains, reach the coast, find a ship with a greedy captain, and get back home. If the boy smartened up, maybe I wouldn't abandon him after all, get him a job with Bald Jacques or Pesach the Jew. It would be fine. If the Sister had pulled us out of the crew, then now…

I'd gotten too relaxed. And sensed an ambush only twenty paces away, even though I should've seen it at fifty. Then again, it was a good ambush — three silhouettes were standing motionless against a wall: two larger and one smaller. Silently, without any chatter or smoking. Either eager recruits or experienced professionals.

I froze and gripped Mark's hand so hard it hurt. The boy understood and froze too.

It was a stroke of misfortune. They didn't seem to have heard us yet, had all of them nodded off? But… all it would take was for the kid to step on a wooden splinter or open his mouth…

Very slowly, I picked up Mark by his knees and lifted him. I didn't trust his footsteps and decided to walk for the both of us.

As long as he stayed silent and held off on asking any questions!

Mark seemed to have gone numb. He even stopped breathing. Good boy. But his understanding and readiness to trust me ended up failing me. Instead of retreating right away, I decided to slip past the patrol. If we made it out of the manhunt ring, it would get easier. In the morning the guards would report that no one had passed by then, which meant they'd start searching the ruins. Meanwhile, we'd be far away!

So I took a step forward. Silently, aided by my boots' expensive foreign rubber soles, and all of my skills came back immediately, and the boy was frozen, gripping me by the neck, cowering, as if trying to lighten the load.

But then the smaller silhouette moved and barked!

Idiot!

I was such an idiot!

Of course, who was going to send three men on a night patrol, when guard regulations required two men and a dog?

"Who's there!?" came from the wall. The voice wasn't sleepy in the least, the strong voice of a smoker. It wasn't a green recruit, that was an experienced guard.

No longer hiding, I set Mark down on the ground, shoved him in the back, and pulled out the dagger.

"Get them, Khan!"

Right, what else would they call a fierce Russian shepherd but Khan?..

The black shadow bolted towards us, and I reached forward, holding the dagger. When there was only five paces between us, the dog leapt, trying to go for the throat the way it had been taught.

Except I had already crouched and raised my hands, catching the unprotected canine belly with the steel tip.

The dog howled when the metal ripped his abdomen open. The leap had a lot of momentum, and I had struck well. And no one would fault the blade's sharpness. I sliced the dog open from its throat to the nether regions, I was showered in blood, as if the skies had opened up. The dog flew over me, knocked Mark down to the ground, and began to shake, but those were its death throes. The boy yelped, but it was due to surprise rather than pain, I could tell pretty easily.

"Sons of bitches, murderers!" the same guard roared. It seemed he realized what had happened to his dog and went into a frenzy. "I'll tear you to pieces!"

It would've been fine, and in the darkness he would have followed his dog pretty quickly, except the second guard wasn't wasting any time.

There was a rustling, and the night gave way to the light from a newfangled carbide lamp, which was brighter than anything even the highborn had.

We turned out to be totally exposed before the guards: me with a dagger, covered in blood, and Mark, crawling away from the convulsing dog.

"Both are here!" the guard with the lantern said. His voice wasn't frightened or sinister, which was very bad. And their lamp turned out to be not with a mirror, which illuminated only one direction, but one that was rounded, so there was no way for us to disappear from the light. The guard placed the lantern on the ground and reached for his belt.

Broadswords glinted. They were good, maybe not steel, maybe not as sharp as my dagger, but they were still four times as long.

Both of them moved in my direction, having realized that Mark wouldn't be an issue. Or maybe there was another reason too… the guard with the lantern reminded his friends, quickly and tersely, "Don't touch the kid, the bounty…"

The world was going crazy. It wasn't me that had the bounty placed on him, Ilmar the Slick, infamous across the entire State, it was that little bastard!

I started backing up, holding the dagger at my shoulder, preparing for a leap. This would hold them off for a moment or two. Without the dagger I was an easy prey, except it wouldn't help whomever stepped forward first.

"Hey you, filth…"

Mark was standing bent over the now quiet dog. His voice was also… proper, that of a true aristocrat, whose path on the street had been accidentally blocked by a foolish guard. The soldiers jerked and turned involuntarily.

The boy's hands were inside the dog's sliced open belly, for some reason. He straightened with his hands cupped, threw them up, like kids playing and splashing in water.

Thick, dark canine blood splashed the guards' faces. If there was one thing they'd never expected, it was to be covered in blood.

"Um…" the guard who'd sent the dog after us said in stupid confusion. The following moment he forgot all about the annoyance, after I leapt forward and managed to reach his carotid artery. He no longer cared about some splashes of canine blood… he was now covered with his own from head to toe.

I didn't manage to strike at the other guard. He stepped back, blocking me with his broadsword skillfully, not wasting time on a fruitless attack. Except now the forces were uneven: one of him and two of us. And he no longer dismissed the boy either, unwilling to turn his back to him. So he just kept backing up, retreating and keeping his gaze locked on the dagger in my hand. Our eyes met, and I saw fear in them. Enough to risk bending down and picking up the broadsword from the dead guard's hands.

"Drop the weapon," I said. "I give you my word as Ilmar that you won't be harmed!"

I really would've spared him. If he dropped the weapon and told us everything he knew: the locations of other posts, how many people were hunting us, what sort of bounty had been placed on Mark's head. I would've just tied him up and left him in the ruins to await his fate.

Except the guard didn't believe me. He kept backup up as much as he could, then he turned around and ran, pulling something out of his pocket on the way. In all the excitement, I thought he had handheld slug-thrower.

I knew how to throw a knife. It was a thief's weapon, after all. I hadn't yet had a chance to get used to this dagger, and I hadn't tried throwing it. But the balance was right, my blood was boiling in the heat of battle, and I decided to go for it.

The dagger entered just below his shoulder blade, and the guard dropped to the ground. He lay there, quivering, but his legs were no longer obeying him.

"Eleven traitors…" I swore. I glanced at Mark, since I needed to take my anger out on someone.

"I told you we shouldn't have gone into the mountains," the boy said quickly. I came to my senses. He was right, I'd chosen this path. Plus during the fight, Mark showed himself to be a real man, not a snot-nosed highborn. To even think of something like that… blinding enemies with blood from a dog's guts.

"Thanks, Mark," I said. "I'm in your debt again."

Mark glanced at the dog and asked, "Give me the broadsword, Ilmar."

I walked up and handed him the weapon. Mark bent down and severed the dog's throat with a single blow.

Good. The dog had still been alive, just frozen from the pain. No need to torture and animal. It wasn't at fault.

Unarmed, I walked up to the guard. He turned over onto his side with a desperate effort, glanced at me, his face twisted in an malicious grin… and he raised a hand with a short tube.

No, it wasn't a slug-thrower. A flare. A self-igniting one. The guard squeezed the tube with a final effort, and a fiery missile soared up into the sky with a wail. I went cold inside, throwing my head back and watching a crimson star blossom over the city. The flare screeched for another five seconds, then it exploded in a beautiful carnival rain.

I bent over the guard, standing on one knee, belatedly realizing that had he waited until I got close, he could've aimed the flare at my got, and that would've been it for me. I'd be Ilmar the Fried instead of Ilmar the Slick.

I seemed he really was a good guard, preferring to send the signal instead of settling scores with his killer.

"You're done, murderer," the guard whispered. "A ship of the line is entering the harbor tomorrow… a highborn assault unit is going to comb the entire island. You're going to drink blood…"

"Don't lie before dying," I said, feeling a chill run down my spine. "No aristocrat is going to lift his butt from a chair for a pair of convicts…"

The guard gave him a creepy deathly grin and closed his eyes.

There's number eight from your dozen, Ilmar. See how sadly the Redeemer is looking at you from the heavens? Soon he's going to sigh and turn away…

"If the Gray Vests get started on the island, not even a mouse hole will remain unsearched," Mark said from behind him.

I turned around, "Don't tell me you believe him. Eagles don't catch flies, and praetorians don't hunt for convicts!"

"What other ship of the line with an assault unit is there?" The boy was unperturbed. "The Silver Pikes are in the Caucasus, helping out the Russian Khan…"

I recalled the dog's leap and shuddered.

"The Golden Horseshoes are in the capital, the Copper Helmets are still in London due to the troubles. That just leaves the Gray Vests."

Mark was discussing the best praetorian units of the House with the sort of nonchalance I could have used to remember old girlfriends while sitting in a tavern with a mug of beer. Galina had moved south, Judy was getting married again, Natalie was sick, only the plump Mary was prepared to comfort Ilmar…

"Aristocrats aren't going to…"

I broke off. Mark was staring me in the eye, guiltily and hopelessly. He understood as well as I that the Gray Vests weren't mere dandies for parades and honor guards like the Golden Horseshoes, they were a true military force of the House, each of them with his own Word and a slug-thrower, each of them having smelled gunpowder, drunken blood, and prepared to leap into fire and water, not for money—what did the highborn care for money?—for glory…

Maybe Mark understood that better than I did.

"What did you do, kid?" I asked.

"I'm a thief, Ilmar the Slick. Just like you. Except the thing that I've stolen is valuable. Very valuable."

This time I believed him. I flipped the body over, pulled out the knife from the guard's back, wiped it of his uniform, and handed it to the boy.

"Here. I'll take the broadsword."

"I shouldn't have gotten involved with you," Mark said suddenly. "You know, Ilmar, we should split up. If the Gray Vests capture me first, they won't bother chasing you. You can wait it out and leave."

I spent a second reflecting on whether there was something to his suggestion. Then I shook my head. Even if the main hunt was after Mark, they wouldn't leave me alone anyway. The guards would go crazy from an event like the landing of highborn praetorians on the island. They'd also have the strength to shake the mountains and sweep the mines.

"We'll leave together," I said. "Search that guard's pockets."

Mark didn't argue. Instead he touched the dead body and said, "I'm taking his death upon me, Redeemer."

I opened my mouth but said nothing. It was too late. Mark had that right, since we'd fought together.

And for me it was easier. Seven wasn't eight. I sensed that I'd have to spill more blood on these damned Isles of Sorrow.