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 5

In Which We Get a Salute from a Liner and Reply in Kind

One could get used to anything.

Even to flying like a bird… no, even faster than higher than any bird. I was still covered in sweat, there was a lump in my throat, but the panicked stupor seemed to have given way to some kind of reckless talkativeness.

"Hey, Night Witch! You got anything to eat in here?"

For a moment, Helen turned her head, threw a hateful but surprised glare at me, then went back to looking at her instruments.

Mark shifted and shouted, "Jettison the booster!"

"Are you going to teach me how to give birth too?" the flyer replied scornfully. I thought that she probably hadn't had to give birth yet, given her firm abdomen, and backed up the boy, "Do as you're told!"

This time she answered, "If you were alone, I'd crash us into the water. But I will make sure the kid makes it… I'll try… you should keep quiet, murderer."

"I'm an honest thief," I said with an offended look.

"Jettison the booster!" Mark said again. He was scared. "Or the tail will catch fire!"

Helen hesitated for a moment. Then she pulled one of the levers. The glider jerked, the roar was gone, and I saw the smoking cylinder tumble down through the window. The huge long tube first turned into a pencil, then into a dot rushing towards the waves, throwing off sparks and leaving a smoky trail in its path.

I was getting frightened again and could feel how high up we were.

"Just don't panic!" Mark was speaking too loudly, having not yet adjusted to the silence. Helen threw me a contemptuous glance, which helped. If the boy wasn't scared, and the woman wasn't scared, was I going to be the only one shaking here?

No way.

My resolve lasted for about a minute, during which I was examining the brightening sky, the orange strip of the dawn, and was convincing myself that the glider was reliable. Then I felt it start to dip its nose like a boat on a big wave. Ahead of us, Helen was moving the levers, and we kept alternating between banking on a wing and dropping into a bottomless pit. The sea and the sky were flickering in the windows, as if deciding to trade places as a joke. I'd have vomited already, if my stomach wasn't so hopelessly empty. I gripped the back of the front seat, and the thin wood creaked.

"Calm him down!" Helen bit off. "Now!"

"Get down, witch!" I shrieked. "La… land… I… I'll kill… you!"

Mark grabbed me and tried to press me against my seat. Yeah, right… I shoved him so hard the boy pressed against the canvas top with his back. The fabric, shaking in the wind, made a crunching noise as it tore. Mark screamed wildly.

This sobered me up. The fear wasn't gone completely, but I forgot about it for a moment. Mark's eyes grew wide in terror, his fingers seemed to have petrified on my shoulders. I jerked him down and embraced him. The cold wind was bursting into the cockpit and slashing my face.

"I'm turning back to the island," Helen said. "We're landing now."

Mark said nothing, as the brief moment when his back was sticking out of the glider had killed his bravery. So I pulled the knife from the belt and touched it against the flyer's neck.

"We're going to the mainland. You hear me?"

The glider was still jerking from side to side. Helen was silent.

"And quit trying to frighten me," I added. "Yes, I'm scared! But get it through your pretty head: I'm not going back to the island. If you turn back, I'll kill you. Got it?"

Now the glider was flying evenly. Helen's nimble hands were guiding it to its proper path. We also stopped losing altitude, beginning to climb up once more, in complete silence, and that was both scary and beautiful. Only the wind kept slashing us through the torn covering.

"Hide the dagger," I told Mark. He took the knife and put it into the Cold, without a word, as if in a dream, still in shock. I was fearing a weapon in my hands, especially in such an unreliable thing as the glider. My eyes were tearing up from the wind, while Helen kept glancing back at the tear with a worried expression.

"Do you have a needle and thread?" I asked her.

"Under the seat," the flyer replied quietly. "Sew carefully."

I patted Mark's cheek, he smiled weakly, recovering, and muttered, "Thanks."

"For what, dummy? I'm the one who nearly pushed you out…"

"For coming to your senses."

Feeling under the seat, I did indeed find—with the unlucky finger I'd cut a day ago—a bent sail needle with a string already fed through it stuck into the seat cover. Just in time, as the fabric was slowly spreading under the push of the wind. Mark took the needle from me and began to pull the tear together ineptly. The fabric above the cockpit wasn't waxed, but it was still difficult to stick the needle through it.

"Secure the edges," I suggested. "First the edges, then we'll sew the rest."

The sky was brightening. We were flying towards the sunrise, the glider was no longer shaking, seemingly sliding along invisible waves. I glanced left, right, then up. The sky was perfectly ordinary, as if we weren't flying at all, it hadn't grown any closer.

I seemed to have gotten completely back to my senses. The fear was still somewhere in my chest, hiding, pressing against my heart, but not turning into panic just yet. Mark was working patiently, and the tear was now almost fully closed.

"Your machine's rotten, flyer," I said. "Couldn't they have made it a little stronger? Cover it in wood…"

"Why don't we build gliders out of iron while we're at it?" Helen snorted without turning. I realized I'd said something dumb and closed my mouth to keep some semblance of dignity. She was right, of course: a glider couldn't lift a lot of weight…

"Ilmar…" Mark exhaled suddenly. "Look to the left…"

I did and shuddered. A ship of the line was crawling across the lead-colored waves, cutting the water with its sharp bow. Even from this far up it looked enormous… were those dots on the deck really people?

"The Son of Thunder," Mark said. There was something strange in his voice, pride mixed with sadness.

The ship's sails were down, which meant that it was moving under machine power. Black and brown smoke was coming out of its three tall pipes, so the liner was moving at full steam. It was only from the sky it seemed that it was slow and clumsy, but in fact the ram was cutting through the waves, water was roiling aft of it, and the ship would cross the distance between the mainland and the Isles in two or three days, especially if there was a favorable wind. The ship's deck was wooden, scraped white, while the sides were sheathed in gold down to the waterline. The House would've probably shelled out iron for the State's best ship, but such a vessel would have rusted.

"What's the greeting sign?" Mark asked suddenly. Helen remained silent. "Dip the wings! Quickly!"

She turned her head and gave Mark a malicious smile.

"You're a smart one, too bad you're a fool too. I'll dip them, don't worry. The ship has to signal first."

A puff of smoke rose over the side when a cannon fired. There didn't seem to be a shot in it.

The glider dipped as Helen answered to the greeting. There was something titanic, divine in it, above the petty human affairs. The giant ship steaming across the ocean, mighty and majestic, and the glider soaring over it, fragile, casting aside brute force in favor of speed and lightness.

In moments like this, even a thief like me felt pride for the House, the State, and human ingenuity.

And at the same time it was ridiculous. I, a night thief, had stolen a glider, and a praetorian liner was saluting me…

"How long is the flight?" Mark asked Helen.

"If we get lucky, about five hours."

"And if we don't?"

"Then it takes a minute to fall here."

Making myself as comfortable as this cramp space allowed, I asked again, "Helen, so do you have any food or not?"

"Do you really have an appetite right now?" she bit off.

"I haven't eaten in a day, my sweet."

"You'd choke on me," the flyer snorted. After a beat, she said reluctantly, "Behind your seat… there's a pocket."

Mark and I bumped hands while trying to pull a tightly wrapped package out of the pocket.

"Don't shake the glider, you gluttons!" the flyer shouted. Uh-huh. We didn't care, we had food. There wasn't much in the package: a pair of dry cheese sandwiches, an apple, an orange, half of a fried chicken, and a glass flask. We gobbled everything up in a moment, and I caught myself thinking that I didn't really want to share with Mark equally… after all, he was just a boy, didn't need as much…

Damn it, why was human nature so petty? When escaping from a labor camp, I'd risked my life for the boy! When finding an iron treasure or a chicken leg, I was gripped by greed!

"Here." I gave Mark the orange I'd already bitten into right through the rind. As if punishing myself.

The boy didn't argue, hungrily eating the fruit. Meanwhile, I opened the flask and took a whiff…

Oh Gaul, the generous land! It was one of the best cognacs in the world, even an aristocrat wouldn't mind drinking it! Didn't smell like vodka, didn't burn the tongue, and the stomach felt as if someone had started a campfire there, warm and gentle.

I started getting tipsy by the third swig, grimaced, and put the flask back. Then I admitted guiltily, "I like wine more. Do you want some, flyer?"

Just then I loved the entire world.

"Are you suicidal?" Helen bit off.

If she didn't want any, that was fine. Maybe she was right, and a drunk person shouldn't control complex machinery.

A minute later, I felt myself nodding off. Mark too. We fussed about for a short while, trying to make ourselves more comfortable on the tiny seat. The boy might have been thin, he wasn't small enough to keep him on my lap. The glider was a little too small… would there ever be a time when gliders the size of a liner flew across the ocean? I'd fly on one. It wasn't so bad when there was a skilled flyer: just sit there, hold on tight, and listen to the wind flutter the canvas wings…

I ended up waking up twice, for a moment, when the glider began to circle in search of a tailwind, Once I noticed the sun shining at our backs and grabbed Helen's shoulder, "Where are you flying, witch!"

She jerked, "I'm looking for a stream! Calm down, thief, we can't get back to the Isles anymore, the wind's all wrong!"

Mark opened his eyes, reached out a hand, and grabbed the charts. He spent a minute studying them, then returned them to Helen.

"She's right, Ilmar…"

Then he went back to sleep.

Well, if she was, then she was. I fell asleep. In my dream, we were once again taking off from the island, the rocket booster was roaring, except it wasn't scary anymore; on the contrary, I was the one sitting in the front seat, pulling on the levers, and the cloth bird was obediently flapping its enormous wings…

"Marcus! Ilmar! Marcus!"

We woke up at the same time. My knees were numb, I couldn't unbend them… that was unfortunate, as if Mark had gotten twice as heavy after falling asleep.

"Can you swim?" Helen asked tersely.

Cliffs could be seen up ahead. The shore! Patron Sister, it really was the shore! And not some island, it was Europe, the State…

Except the sea was below us. Very close. It seemed as if the foamy spray from the crests of the waves were about to roll over the glider and pull it down to the bottom.

"Engage the booster!" Mark screamed. "Helen, the booster!"

"I burned it out an hour ago," the flyer replied gloomily. "You're a heavy sleeper, boy…"

So the roar of a rocket hadn't been just a dream…

"Can you swim to the shore?" Helen asked.

"No," I answered. "My legs are numb."

"I'm not talking to you, idiot," the girl replied. "Marcus, can you make it?"

It was still about a mile to the shore, and I shook my head. No one could make it from here, the water was cold, and the sea was roiling.

"No, Helen," Mark said calmly. "I can't make it. Keep pulling up… Night Witch. This is your time to shine… you know what I'm worth."

She burned him with an infuriated glare before gripping her levers again. The glider kept jerking, the nose kept dipping, dropping lower and lower.

When we were lifting off from the island, I'd been afraid of the sea being too far away. Now it was just the opposite. The fall probably wouldn't kill us. But below us were breakers and rocks, and ahead was a cliff and waves that slammed against it. The glider would be crushed, and we wouldn't make it out of the cockpit. And even if we did, we wouldn't be able to swim to shore. And even if we did, the tide wouldn't let us live.

"Keep pulling up, Helen!" Mark shouted. "The way you did in Dalmatia when they lit you on fire! Keep pulling up, Night Witch! I beg you!"

The girl was silent, being fully occupied with the machinery, as if she was now a part of the glider. Even though I was scared myself, I couldn't fail to be in awe of her.

Was she really one of those flyers who had fought in the mountains, dropping bombs on Hajduks' heads? She probably had an Iron Eagle with a Wreath of Courage, maybe even granted a special audience with the Possessor… Pull, Helen, pull up your machine! I was never going to kick your stomach again! Just make it to shore! Sister, Patron Sister, take a look at me, I'm dying here! Redeemer, give me the time to repent, there's much evil on me, I won't be able to remember it all while I'm drowning!

The glider was almost touching the water now, and Helen uttered a word not even every man would be willing to repeat. As if expecting it, the glider suddenly pulled up, with a lot of difficulty, but still up! It seemed that the Russians were right about curse words scaring away trouble!

"Keep going!" Mark exclaimed.

The cliffs were getting closer, and we were flying at their level. The shore was high, very high. Were we going to hit the rocks?

But it seemed that Helen's fame wasn't for naught.

Right in front of the cliff, when it seemed that I could already make out the leaves on the bushes and the crazed seagulls fluttering over their nests, she jerked the machine up, as if it were a horse with a temper in front of a barrier. The glider didn't fail us, hopped over the cliff, struck the ground with its belly, the wood crunched, the wheels crackled on knolls. We were still moving fast, but now on the ground, and the glider was falling apart on the way, protecting us, the glass in windows was breaking and showering us with pieces — I pressed Mark against me, protecting his face from the shards, and closed my own eyes. Ahead of us, Helen was swearing profusely and sobbing with every cracking sound — all that was happening in those brief moments we were slowing down.

These tears were the only ones I would never reproach her of. Flyers weren't highly honored by the House for nothing, as I'd realized. Flying a glider required a lot more skill and bravery than facing rapid-fire slug-throwers on a battlefield…

The sky was so far away…

I lay there, covered in a mix of wood splinters and glass shards, with a torn rag on half of my face. I could only look up with one eye. I was too scared to move. I couldn't feel my legs. Had I broken my spine and would spend the rest of my life as a cripple? What use was a legless thief? Only to an executioner…

It seemed that people weren't meant to fly in the sky.

"Ilmar!"

Mark pulled the rag from my face; I was even able to make out the seam on it and grinned at the fact that the hurried sewing job had outlived the glider. The boy didn't seem to be harmed in any way, standing straight, only limping on one leg a little, but that was nothing, it was from the Isles…

"Are you okay?"

"Can't feel my legs," I complained. "I'm done for, kid. That's how it is… to fly…"

Mark looked at me thoughtfully, then informed me, "You don't look like you've crapped yourself…"

"Are you crazy?!" I felt enraged. "What are you talking about?!"

"The bowels are voided with the spine is broken," Mark told me. "Move your leg."

I tried but didn't feel anything.

"The leg is moving," Mark said.

Lifting up on my elbows, I looked at my leg and tensed.

He was right, they moved.

"But how can this be when they're numb?.." I whispered.

The boy burst out laughing, "Ilmar… I spent four hours sitting on your lap… that's how you got numb. It'll pass!"

"Damn it…"

Though I couldn't get up, I managed to sit. I did indeed start to feel prickling in my legs.

"You've got a huge butt," I swore at the boy completely unjustly. "Where's the flyer?"

"There…"

Helen was sitting a little to the side. Her left arm was wrapped in a self-made splint, she was just then tightening the last knot with her teeth.

"A small fracture," Mark explained. "But we're alive, that's what's important."

"Easy for you to say, you're perfectly fine…"

I looked around and saw pieces of the glider scattered for a hundred meters in several directions. Here, up above, the shore was fairly even, completely bare. Hillocks, sand, an occasional sickly shrub. I could barely make out the sounds of the sea coming from under the cliff behind me.

"Helen!" I shouted. The flyer turned. "Thanks!"

She stared at me uncomprehendingly.

"Helen, you're braver than any man!" I said. "And more skilled. Thanks for saving our lives and for not giving in to panic. I might be a despicable thief, but I'm still going to pray to the Sister and the Redeemer for you!"

The girl shrugged. Her blue uniform was torn everywhere, her blouse had been largely turned into the splint… but she still liked hearing the words.

"I'm a poor flyer, Ilmar the Thief. I've crashed the glider. Do you know how much one costs?"

How could I? Probably a lot. Most likely, I'd never be able to that much in my life…

"You're a good flyer, Helen. Thanks."

"You were trying to make it to Vigo, weren't you, Night Witch?" Mark said suddenly. "To the glider garrison. That's why we nearly died!"

"You're too clever for your own good, Marcus," Helen replied.

The boy chuckled. He was way too calm, and even his muddy face, dirty clothes, and torn pants couldn't hide his confidence.

"We've crashed somewhere near Baiona," Mark said. "You know the place?"

"We'll be fine," I calmed him down. "We'll get to the city, eat our fill… they cook a mean ham, and get new clothes. Don't worry, I won't leave you."

Something was bothering me. Everything was going all wrong. Not at all how I'd thought it would.

"And the money? Are you going to steal?"

I hesitated, then reached into a pocket and pulled out a heavy iron ingot.

"Son of a bitch!" Helen screamed. "You were carrying extra weight!"

I didn't reply to those words. The weight wasn't that great. But we'd have enough money to make it home.

Mark smiled looking at the iron. Obviously he hadn't noticed me pocketing it at the merchant's hiding spot.

"Can you stand, Ilmar?"

I tried.

"Not yet. Don't just stand there, kid, help me rub the legs…"

"It's good that you can't," Mark said suddenly.

There was guilt in his eyes, but not too much.

"You can rub your own legs. Okay? I have to go, Ilmar the Thief. Thanks for everything, but now it's time for us to part ways."

My jaw dropped.

Helen burst out laughing with her head tilted back. Cheerfully and genuinely.

"And you too, Night Witch," Mark told her. "You really are the best of the best."

"You won't get anywhere, Marcus." She stopped laughing. "They'll catch you anyway. You know that."

"I do," he agreed.

"Repent, boy. Repent and give up. The House will forgive—"

"Now this is none of your business," Mark cut her off. "You should worry about yourself."

"So you're leaving, you little jerk?" I was finally able to speak. "I freed you from the mine, and you're abandoning me? I'm going to smother you, pup!"

The boy waved his hand. His lips moved.

For the first time, I could see someone reach into the Cold in the light of day, and so close.

There was a glint on the tip of a blade that was sliding out of thin air.

A gust of wind. Cold wind.

Mark was standing with the dagger in his hand and staring at me.

"A worthy act for a boy of your blood," the Night Witch said suddenly. Mark didn't seem to have heard her. He handed me the knife, holding it properly by the blade.

"For my rescue, Ilmar the Thief, I grant you a blade of the House and the title of the Count…" he hesitated, "the Count of the Isles of Sorrow."

Helen fell to the ground with laughter, struck her broken arm, groaned, but didn't stop laughing.

"Own it by right, use it with honor."

I took the dagger automatically. Looked at the patterned handle, at the etched blade.

It was indeed the House's coat-of-arms. Aquila, a soaring eagle with a sword in its talons.

Was Mark really so well-born that he could grant titles at such a young age?

"Farewell, Ilmar the Thief."

Mark turned and started waking. His back was tense, as if he was afraid I was going to throw the dagger. But he kept on walking evenly and unhurriedly. On the sand, across the shrubs, farther and farther away.

"Count Ilmar, may this poor flyer sit in your presence?"

Helen was standing over me, slightly bent in a mocking bow.

"Master of the Isles of Sorrow, why did you abandon your lands so quickly?"

She couldn't help herself and burst out laughing again, like a foolish little girl. She sat down next to him and said in an almost gentle voice, "Count… Count Thief."

"Don't laugh, flyer," I said. "Everyone's a thief. Even counts. You shouldn't laugh at a sick man either. You broke your arm, the kid's head got knocked around…"

Helen shook her head, "You're wrong, Count Ilmar. He does have the right to grant a noble title. At least he used to. Just don't celebrate too much, they'll take your title away quickly…"

"Titles don't get removed," I bit back, as if taking the words about the nobility seriously.

"Sure they do. Along with heads. Let me rub your legs."

I lowered my pants without a word, and Helen began to massage my shins with her intact hand. Without any disgust, not even turning her nose at the mud and the sweat.

She'd probably seen a lot worse mud.

"Is he that highborn?" I asked.

"You don't even know who your friend is, do you?" Helen giggled. "Oh, counts are so uneducated these days… He's highborn, don't you doubt that. Are the legs prickling?"

"They are."

"Good. We're going to follow the boy."

"Why?"

Helen sighed, "If we take him alive, you'll survive too. And not just survive but live with the title. I'll even tell them that you've been helping me from the start. I give you my word of honor!"

It didn't sound like she was joking. Then again, the highborn never joked when it came to honor.

"No. Let him go. He and I escaped together, he took a death for me. I'm not going to catch him, Night Witch."

"I didn't really expect you to," Helen answered simply.

"Run after him yourself… if you want to."

"I can't. My legs are hurt too, Ilmar. Right now, I'm as good a catcher… as you're a count."

"Let me rub them for you, flyer…"

I reached for her, but then came to my senses and froze. We stared at one another.

"This is from the fear," Helen said. "It's always like that. You want to… be happy you're alive."

I stroked her smooth white skin and asked, "So then, flyer, are we happy to be alive?"

She hesitated for a second. Then her pupils dilated and her lips moved, "We are… Count."

I'd been with black women, I'd been with Chinese women. I'd never been with highborn women. My birth didn't allow for that. All of my friends who'd always talked about their countess lovers were dirty liars, that was for certain.

Too bad it wasn't me she wanted, just to feel alive.

And it wasn't Ilmar the Thief she was giving herself to, it was Ilmar the Count. Even if I was a count only for an hour.

But in general… it was like with a black woman. Unusual at first, but then you realized that women were all the same.

She turned out to be passionate, as if she'd been kept in solitary confinement for a year with her hands bound. But I was also as rough as a rapist from everything I'd lived through, from the feeling of freedom, from the abstinence of prison.

It seemed she liked that most of all.

Then I lay next to her, placed my hand on Helen's firm abdomen, and glanced at her sideways. Was she pleased? She was.

But I wasn't feeling true satisfaction. Just… relief and sweet tiredness.

As if none of it had been real, just a dream.

"How are the legs?" Helen asked. "Mine feel better. Even the arm doesn't hurt as much."

She was smiling, but I felt disgusted. Was I nothing but medicine to her? I rose—my legs were indeed obeying me—and began to get dressed.

"Don't be upset, Ilmar," the flyer said. "I'm just angry right now. Lost Marcus, crashed the glider. I'll have to face the House for this…"

"Come with me," I said. "Two people can get away easier."

Helen licked her lips.

"You go, Ilmar the Thief. Go quickly. There's a post here, a tower nearby."

"What tower?"

"Our tower, a flyer tower. To study the weather, the winds. They make up charts to allow us to fly over the coast. They would've seen the glider and will be sending a mounted patrol. Go north to Vigo. I won't tell them where you went."

So that was how it was.

A thief's fate was simple. Grab and run. Don't think about friends, choose girls for an hour.

"Thanks for this, Helen."

I hid the dagger under the belt. Maybe I was a count now, but I still didn't know the Word.

"Good luck, thief Ilmar."

"What luck, Night Witch?"

"For you, surviving is all the luck you're going to get. Hide in some hole and live quietly. You should toss the dagger into the sea, it's way too noticeable."

"Thief Ilmar will think about it," I said.

Helen smiled at me from the ground. She continued to lay there naked, without a hint of embarrassment… then again, what would be the point of being embarrassed now? Beautiful, smart, and, as always, not mine.

I turned away and began to hobble north, towards Baiona, towards Vigo. My legs weren't obeying me well.

But Helen had been right, blood was now pumping through my veins.

It seemed that it was a tried and true method.