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.

Part II

The Merry City

Chapter 1

In Which I Get Called a Fool Three Times and Don't Argue

Fall was fall everywhere. Even on sunny Lusitanian soil. And even more so in the merry free city of Amsterdam.

It was cold these day. There was a nasty drizzle. Two weeks had passed since my escape from the Isles of Sorrow… my fief, as ridiculous as it sounded. Crossing the entire State from south to north in a fortnight was a tiring task. Even if the iron ingot, which I'd turned into money, allowed me to travel with comfort: dressed as a merchant, in fast stagecoaches in second or even first class. And I slept in fine hotels that were popping up along the roads like mushrooms these days instead of under bushes or in criminal dens. I ate well and even put on some weight. Looking in a mirror, I saw the handsome face of a peaceful citizen, not the rough dirty mug of a convict. I even looked a little like a priest. I'd have to remember that.

So why did I feel like a fool?

Even now, when standing in front of the Deer Antler, a hunter restaurant that was known for more than just its cuisine. I stood there and stared at a poster that had turned gray and disheveled from the rains. I kept seeing these posters all the way from Bordeaux and still couldn't just walk past them.

The poster—clearly expensive and made in a good printing shop—was showing two pictures. One portrayed a gloomy thin man with the face of a murderer and a smoothly shaved chin. The portrait was titled "Ilmar the Thief", except no one would ever recognize me in that freak.

It wasn't difficult when you knew the subtleties. How to sit in front of the prison sketch artist, how to lower the corners of your mouth, how to suck in the cheeks, furrow the brow, squint the eyes. Just a little bit of everything, with the end result being a total lack of similarity. True, the sketch artist knew all the same tricks, but he was alone, and there were many convicts, and each of them needed to be sketched in case of escape, and each of them had his own method of tricking the skilled eye. The sketch artist might yell once or twice, and you seemed to obey, and yet the portrait still turned out to be useless.

There I was, standing in front of a poster urging everyone to catch me and promising a thousand steel marks as reward! Well, good people, who would try first?

Everyone just passed by. It said "Ilmar the Thief" in clear Roman. And in front of the poster stood an imposing gentleman in an expensive cloak and soft leather boots — someone who clearly rubbed elbows with the highborn. Maybe in Baiona they'd have grabbed me as soon as they compared the faces. Fortunately, they hadn't had the posters yet, Helen the Night Witch hadn't yet told them who escaped from the labor camp.

But the second drawing was way better. Mark seemed to be almost alive, and this wasn't the hasty work of a tired sketch artist, it had been done by an experienced engraver. The portrait was very recent, this much was obvious. When I'd seen the boy in the crew, he hadn't yet gotten any older. Obviously, the clothes on the portrait were different, even though, despite the printer's skill, the engraving could never do justice to the luxury of the jacket sewn with interspersed gold and steel threads. The glint of precious rings on the thing hand that was gripping a sword hilt could also only be guessed at. As for the gaze—languidly tired and imperious—only the stubbornness had been left on the Isles of Sorrow.

Except it still looked like him. No one would miss the similarity.

This portrait also had a title, "Marcus, junior prince of the House."

There was no such thing as a former aristocrat, so that word wasn't present. But it should've been, since the entire House, from our Possessor Claudius down to the lowest of the barons were ordering everyone to capture Marcus, a thirteen-year-old aristocrat, maybe junior, but still a prince…

The little jerk hadn't even bothered to change his name! Called himself Mark. It was a common enough name, and no one had caught on that it was also the name of a prince. But still, such arrogance!

"Why are they still at large?"

I glanced at the man standing next to me. A fairly well-off burgher. That was why he'd probably talked to me, having decided that we were equals. He had a short beard similar to mine, which I'd grown as part of my disguise, he had a seemingly decent face that was nevertheless flabby, chewed up by life. A gold-plated horseshoe magnet with iron pellets stuck to it was hanging on his chest. It was a popular and showy accessory. Maybe the magnet wasn't actually a magnet, just a piece of ordinary gold, or even copper with pellets glued to it… the pellets were cheap, but such a horseshoe definitely wasn't.

"You're telling me, sir," I agreed. "This is an outrage. 'Guilty of serious crimes against the House and the public peace. Must be brought in alive. Reward: 50,000 steel marks, forgiveness of all past sins, and a noble title from a baron to a count, depending on the catcher's original nobility'."

The man licked his lips and nodded.

"And another thousand for the convict," he said dreamily. "51,000 steel marks in total…"

As if by accident, he touched the horseshoe magnet and began to pick at the pellets, pulling them off, and once more attaching them to the invisible chain. The accessory was real after all. But its owner was nothing but a poser…

"The convict doesn't have to be brought in alive," I picked up. "It's easier."

"That's true, my friend. But where would one even find them now?"

I sighed, "Yes, sir. Do you happen to know if the food at this restaurant is good?"

The burgher shifted his gaze to the sign and nodded, "It is. But if the clinking in your pockets is dull, I would recommend walking past it."

"I think I'll take my chances," I said thoughtfully. "Good luck, sir. If you catch the criminals, call me, I'll help you carry the reward."

The annoyance aimed at myself required at least this kind of outlet. The gentleman smiled and nodded, "I'll be sure to do that. And I ask you for the same."

Pleased at our wit, the worthy citizen of the free city continued on his way. And I decided to enter the Deer Antler after all. Instead of dull-sounding gold, I had ringing steel and silver in my pockets, so the prices wouldn't scare me.

Besides, I wasn't here to eat anyway.

The restaurant had a small dining hall but had office doors leading in all directions. There they could serve not just food but also boys and girls. In that respect, Amsterdam was a very liberal city, even the people of the Russian Khanate came to have some fun here. Three young girls were at the moment dancing in the middle of the hall, on a small round stage. But the visitors weren't reacting to them much, as it was the middle of the day, so everyone who was here, except for me, had come to get lunch. Greedy officials from the nearby port, customs officers, even a highborn officer, straight laced and important-looking, as if he'd swallowed a spear, was sitting to the side. The Deer Antler was a respectable establishment.

Which was why it was so highly valued by thieves.

I came to the bar counter without even removing my cloak, tossed a coin, and indicated a bottle of cognac. The restaurant's wine master, whom I'd remembered here all my life, lifted his gaze and stared at me wide-eyed.

He'd recognized me.

"A full glass of Rémy," I said, taking a stool. "The oldest Rémy you got, full glass… And the rest, as usual."

The wine master grabbed the bottle with one hand, turned it over, generously poured a glass of thirty-year-old cognac as if it was young wine. With his other hand, he pulled on the rope of a bell under the counter. Somewhere there, in the owner's office, there was now a ringing noise.

I was sitting, sipping on cognac, snacking on tiny open-face sandwiches with black caviar and slices of dried horse meat, generously seasoned with pepper in the Russian style. No one was paying any attention to me. Nothing but a rich burgher enjoying himself.

Then the stool next to mine creaked under a weight, and a wrinkled hand lay on the counter, all covered in steel rings. The wine master tensed immediately, becoming fully attentive and willing to serve.

Mr. Nico dressed like a smug fool. It helped when others believed you to be a fool.

"Water," Nico grunted. Then, without any segue, he turned to me, "Fool."

It was as if he'd been reading my mind.

"Why is that?"

"You're a fool for coming here. Have you forgotten how to read? I deliberately hanged the poster by the door… I figured you'd understand."

"Are you really going to sell me out, Nico?"

I looked at the old man. He was in his seventies, heavyset, clumsy, but his brains haven't slowed down even a little.

"A thousand steel, Ilmar."

"Don't say the name," I noted. "What's a grand to you, old man? If the fellas find out you've sold me out, you're going to lose three times that amount in a year."

"Don't you count my money," Nico cut me off. "Fine, I won't sell you out. What about the servants?"

"How many servants here still remember my face?" I asked. "I imagine you've let go anyone who wasn't reliable."

I winked at the wine master. He was definitely reliable. The wine master smiled a little, nodded, and shifted his hunting beret with a colorful feather.

"You seem to know everything and have it all figured out." Nico sighed a little more, took a sip of mineral water from his glass, then rose heavily and said, "When you're done drinking… come up to my office. Should've come yourself, why make this old man run around? The steps aren't a problem for your feet, but mine… oh this old age…"

Nico went back, going up a spiral staircase to the second floor, where there were offices for his most trusted clients and his own lair. I sat at the counter a little, savoring the cognac, then left the wine master another coin and went upstairs.

It was quiet on the second floor. No fake moans, no whistling of leather whips, no nasty chuckles. All the entertainers were resting, preparing for the night.

I lightly knocked on the door, not wanting to get a slug in my gut for entering without knocking. Then I opened it.

It was hot inside, the fireplace had been burned as if it was snow outside. Giant deer antlers were hanging on the wall, having once given the name to the restaurant. Other antlers were hanging in the hall, but these were more beautiful and intricate.

Nico was sitting in a huge soft chair, with only his gray head visible over the desk. He was looking at me thoughtfully, and I somehow knew that Nico really was holding a slug-thrower.

"You're not going to shoot," I said. "True, you're greedy and like to take chances. But…"

"But what?"

"You're also curious, Nico."

The old man was silent for a moment, then he groaned and chuckled, "What else do I have left to do, Ilmar? Eat caviar and drink champagne? I'm sick of it. Invite young girls over? I'm lucky if I can get going once a year. Money… I can't take it with me. Save up for an iron coffin? A wooden one is warmer, you know. The Redeemer didn't even have a coffin and isn't complaining about it."

That was the way he was, Nico, restaurant and thieves' den owner, fence, scoundrel, and blasphemer.

He was scum, but scum dear to me, and he had brains.

Right now, I needed some extra brains.

"Take a look…" Nico said squeamishly, tossing sheets of paper onto the table. I went up, bent down, and looked. The leaflets were small, with the same pictures and text as on the poster. Except these were in color. The colored Mark was almost alive, but I looked even less like myself.

"Did they color them?" I asked curiously.

"No. They say they've made a printing machine that can print in seven inks. Very expensive. Each of these leaflets costs an iron coin."

"So they were hanging these on walls too?"

"Giving them out to respected individuals. Ship captains. Officers, who showed them to their men. And yes, on some walls… in busy places, so no one tore them down. Except they did anyway, so your mug is now hanging in poor people's homes as part of the décor."

I glanced at my colored portrait again. I took both leaflets and put them into my pocket.

"I'll take them as mementos."

"Go ahead. I'm not exactly thrilled to see your mug. Either drawn or the real deal. Why'd you come to Amsterdam?"

"Wanted to go as far as possible. I thought no one was going to look for me at the other end of the State."

Nico laughed unkindly, "And? Are they looking?"

"There seem to be even more posters here," I admitted. "Marcus let me down. Got me involved in his problems."

"Where'd you leave the kid?" Nico asked casually.

I laughed and shook my head.

"So that's what you're after, Nico. Forget it. I have no idea where the boy is. I'd like to know, but I don't."

Stepping to the window, I looked out onto the street. It was typically busy and typically noisy. Stagecoaches and carts were passing by, rich slackers and ordinary loafers were sauntering on the sidewalks. A fishmonger was selling tender lightly salted herring with onions and baked eels in a colorful booth. Another one had a ruddy woman frying sweet oliebollen pastries in boiling oil and pouring hot mulled wine into cups. A bored girl of an obvious profession was sitting under an awning in an open-air eatery on the corner and didn't even seem to be cold or windy in her light dress. The cup of coffee in front of her had gone cold long ago, but she just kept sitting and waiting for her luck to change.

"How is that possible, Ilmar the Thief?" There was disappointment in Nico's voice, as if he were a smart father staring in shock at his dumb son. "You ran away from a labor camp, took the boy with you, stole a glider. And then you just let the prince leave?"

"I got hurt, Nico. Do you have any idea what flying through the sky is like? My legs got hurt, I could barely move. The doctor said that there might be a fracture in my rib."

"Right…" Nico said without much belief. "It happens."

"Don't give me that, old man!" I spun around, shocked at my own fury. "I'm not lying! By the Sister, I'm not lying!"

Chewing on his lip, Nico nodded reluctantly, "Fine, I believe you. You're a god-fearing man. You honor the Patron. I believe you. Why don't you tell me what happened? I've heard a lot of things… they wrote about it in the papers, heralds were talking, and… all the rumors. But your tale will be more interesting."

"Can I get a drink, at least?"

"Sure," Nico agreed. "Get it yourself, over there, in the corner…"

"I know."

"And take off your cloak, don't mess up my chair!"

I took it off and hanged it on the deer antlers.

"Couldn't find a worse place?" Nico grunted.

In a redwood cupboard, under a false door there was another one, made of iron and unlocked. It was hiding the sort of beverages even someone visiting the Deer Antler would rarely order. I pulled out a bottle of cognac that was older than me, two expensive—carved crystal, with gleaming steel rims—glasses, and placed all that on the desk.

"I'm not drinking," Nico refused.

"Just a sip. To our meeting."

It wasn't that I was afraid of being poisoned. But still…

Nico didn't argue. He nodded at a small table in the corner, where napkins were covering plates full of cheese, ham, olives, and some other snacks. He always had everything prepared for an unexpected visit. If the food started to grow dry, it would be immediately taken downstairs, to less refined patrons…

"To your health, Nico…"

"And yours, Ilmar…"

"What did they write in the papers? And which one?"

"The same in all of them. An edict of the House. That a fugitive named Ilmar and a junior prince named Marcus are wanted men. The reward was mentioned. Portraits again… although even I couldn't recognize you by your portrait in the paper."

"Anything besides the edict?"

"Nothing. I guess they told the newsies not to gossip. It's a delicate business… start talking, Ilmar."

I sighed, knowing I'd never get anything out of Nico until his curiosity was satisfied. So I began talking, starting with the day I'd been nabbed in Nice, right next to the church of the Redeemer, on the street, with my hands shamefully pulled behind me and a criminal's cap on my head…

"So that's how you walked to prison?" Nico chuckled. "In a cap of shape, in blocks?"

"Yep."

"What did they charge you with?"

What was the point of hiding it now?

"Little things, Nico. They just needed a reason, and finding one—"

"Specifically!"

"I didn't pay the iron tax. I had a few bars, but I didn't officially declare them… traded them to a certain merchant…"

"Dried Franz?"

I had no idea that Franz had been nicknamed "Dried". But it was apt. He was as thin as a dried fish, with white eyes…

"That's the one. They grabbed him as soon as I left. So he ratted me out."

"They'd been tracking you, Ilmar. And you got caught. Even put a merchant in trouble."

"I'm the one who got trouble," I was getting angry. "He could've at least pretended to know nothing and let me get away!"

"Everyone has their own problems," Nico stated. "Fine, it's all nothing. You'd become too popular. Appearing from out of nowhere, bringing weapons and metal on your back, parading and partying… The House didn't care about your pranks, but you became a thorn in the Guard's side. You should be grateful that they did everything by the book instead of shanking you in a dark alley. You got seven years?"

"Yeah."

"Then you should've just done them, you fool! I saved your money, and everyone else would've waited for you. Seven years isn't the rest of your life. Afterwards, maybe you'd have been smarter and calmer."

"Have you ever been to the mines, Nico?" I asked. "Do you have any idea what a year in a mine is like? In seven years the only thing I'd need money for would be doctors!"

"Fine, quit grumbling. Keep going."

I did. Told him about the prison ship, about me calming down the murderers, about hearing the metal clang at night. Nico was listening, licking his lips, nodding, and occasionally sipping from his glass.

"Do you didn't find out his Word?"

"I had other things to worry about. Do you really think I'd torture a kid?"

"Are you saying you wouldn't?"

"Aboard a ship, in a crowd? You think the guards are idiots? Why would an honest thief be torturing a boy? What would he be looking for?"

"Fine, you know better…"

I told him about the escape. I even recalled how the savage blacksmith had turned the murderer Slavko into mincemeat.

Nico chuckled. He liked stories about honest and naïve idiots.

When I mentioned the hiding place with iron, Nico got interested even more. He didn't show it, though. Just seemingly casually asked a few questions, trying to learn the location, but I evaded them. Nico grunted, reached into his desk, and pulled out a map.

Damn!

The Isles of Sorrow. It was very precise too, I could see every building!

"Where'd you get it?" I asked in amazement, my eyes greedily absorbing "my lands". If only I'd seen this before, escaping would've been so much easier!

"From the Guard… where else?"

I touched the map. It was new. Didn't look like it had been made a while ago. And…

There was a line stretching from the port, drawn in red ink. And an "X" in front of the square, right where the escape began.

"Spill."

"The Guard came to me," Nico said reluctantly. "They were questioning me. About me."

I jerked. That didn't make sense… I hadn't visited the free city often enough for them to look for me here!

"They gave me the map, told me to indicate where you ran."

"How would you know?"

"That's what I told him. But he said to point where I thought you'd run since I know Ilmar…"

"He?"

Nico sighed. But it would've been dumb to keep it a secret, so he answered, "A Guard officer. Don't know his rank, he wasn't wearing a uniform. By his bearing, clearly a highborn. A huge fellow, making you look like a weakling. The accent sounds German, but I couldn't tell you exactly, since we were speaking Roman. Called himself Arnold. It seems that you're his number one priority."

That was unfortunate. Did that mean that the Guard had assigned an officer to catch me in every city? That was bad, very bad.

"Show me where the hiding place is," Nico commanded.

"What else should I show you? Should I dance tarantella for you or lower my pants?"

"What good is that iron to you?" Nico asked in a shrill voice. "Point me to it, and I'll pay you twenty marks!"

I estimated.

"A hundred. A hundred steel ones. There's enough iron there for a thousand, even if you go through the greediest fences!"

"I still have to get to it. Thirty."

"A hundred."

"Fifty, and not a mark more."

After thinking about it, I decided that it was a fair offer. I really did need the money right now, and getting the iron from the Isles was indeed not a simple task.

"Deal."

Bending over the map, I looked for recognizable landmarks.

"There. That big house. It's a little damaged, but the second floor is still partially standing. There's a merchant's office in there, it's empty. A hatch in the floor. It's the first hiding place, it has another hatch…"

"Got it."

Nico didn't make any marks, only glancing at it thoroughly, folded the map, and put it back into the desk. That son of a dog could squeeze profit out of anything.

"Keep going, Ilmar…"

"Money."

With an offended look, Nico reached into his pocket. He pulled new ten-mark coins from a beaded purse and tossed five of them onto the desk.

He was paying me far too easily.

He didn't interrupt me again. Only shaking his head when I was telling him about the fight with the guards, laughing at my description of the struggle with the naked flyer, clicking his tongue sympathetically at my story about the flight.

The only thing I didn't tell him was how the Night Witch and I made love. And not because I didn't want to gossip; after all, why not brag about banging an aristocrat? It just looked so ridiculous. As if it hadn't been me doing her, it was the girl having her way with me.

"And then… the usual. Stole some decent clothes. Made my way to Baiona, sold the iron bar, then rode in comfort."

"Show me the dagger," Nico asked.

I pulled out the gifted weapon. The old man grabbed it, looked it over, almost sniffing it. He swiped it across his nail, poked the corner of his desk mercilessly. Then gave me a questioning look, took out his own knife—definitely well-made—and struck the two blades against one another.

I didn't mind. I'd already done this test myself.

"Good steel," Nico said, examining the notch on his own blade, an excellent dagger of Toledo steel. "No idea whose work this is. Doesn't look old, but the way it cuts… I gave two hundred coins for mine, if you can believe it."

"I can. And if you paid two hundred, then it must cost at least three."

"Four… Everything withers, Ilmar. Everything. Masters used to know how to make good blades… and then forgot it."

"I know. One old sword is worth five new ones. That's how I make a living."

"Then tell me, Ilmar the Thief, why is it like that? Are we getting dumber? Is the ground tired of bearing good iron? Want to sell me the dagger?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Nico. Everyone needs a good knife."

"It's too nice for a thief."

"So what? It's shameful for a knife to lie idle. That's not what it was made for."

Nico returned the dagger reluctantly and asked, "Do you at least want to know the price?"

"No. In case greed gets the better of me."

"Damn… A knife like that for a thief…"

He grinned, "Then again, you're not just a thief now. You're a count too."

"Don't be a wiseass, Nico. I'm not the one who thought of that."

"But you really are a count by State law," Nico informed him thoughtfully. "No one had taken away the prince's title, so he had a full right to grant you one. Which means you're going to get hanged on a silk rope. Or get you're your head chopped off with a steel sword. Or maybe even given poisoned wine… with all the ceremonies, as befits a nobleman."

"Why don't you choke on your own words, Nico?!" I bit off angrily. "That's not why I came here."

"Then why?"

"The money, for one. You have three hundred of my coins."

"Let's say I do."

"And two, I need advice. You've lived a long life, got plenty of experience. What do I do now?"

"Hang yourself."

"I'm not joking, Nico!"

"Neither am I!" Nico barked. "Ilmar, you're a nice guy, I set you apart from all the rest. Except now you're in so much trouble there's just no way out!"

"Come on! I escaped from the Isles, crossed the entire State…"

Nico sighed, "You don't understand anything. Fool."

My patience was at an end, "Nico, you've called me a fool three times already…"

"That was me holding back, thief! Do you know what your main stupidity is?"

"What?"

"You didn't learn anything about the kid! About what he's keeping on his Word!"

I said nothing. So what if he was? A dagger, a ring, a lighter, some book. What of it?

"Get it through your head, Ilmar the Thief, this isn't about you! Would the House really be getting the entire Guard involved? Send a liner with the Gray Vests to the Isles? Turn every thieves' den inside out?"

"Did they really go for everyone?" I asked dumbfounded. Nico opened his mouth but held back on whatever curse he was about to utter.

"Everyone! Even me! They released half of the thieves that know you from jail, promising them amnesty and ordering them to find Ilmar the Thief! You got lucky that you decided to get here in comfort instead of paying a visit to old buddies. They would've sold you out, Ilmar! Easily!"

Nico was on a roll, as if he was trying to convince himself instead of arguing with me.

"Are you really going to sell me out?" I asked.

"I won't," Nico grunted, calming down. "I'll report you, not going to lie. As soon as you leave, I'll get my things and hobble over to the Guard post."

"Trying to scare me, Nico?"

"Warning you."

That was not the conversation I'd been expecting. Not at all.

"How was I supposed the know that Mark was a prince of the House?!" I exclaimed. "Think about it! The announcement came after the prison ship had already left port."

"Maybe you didn't know who he was. But you knew the boy was highborn, right?"

"Right…"

"You knew that he had the Word. That he was hiding something on the Word!"

"He just had a few things—"

"That's what he said! And you, a thief, believed him? Understand, the House would never announce the escape of a prince! It would be shameful. They've got two dozen such princes from all the bloodlines. There are plenty of candidates to inherit the power and receive parades."

"I didn't know he was a prince!"

"You would've had you found out the Word!" Nico barked. "He stole something important, understand? No idea why. Maybe he'd lost his mind, lusted for power, made a deal with enemies. I don't know! But before leaving, the kid put something valuable on the Word. Something the House is ready to turn the entire world inside-out for. The borders are closed, understand? Ships aren't allowed to leave port! The West Indies colonies are complaining, their redskins are rebelling, and the troops sent to put them down have been recalled."

"What could the kid have taken?"

"How should I know? Maybe the entire Versailles basement! All the iron and silver accumulated since the birth of the Redeemer!"

"Nico, he said he can't put a lot of things on the Word."

"And you believed him! Ilmar, what's wrong with you? Believing a highborn at your age! You're not that snot-nosed kid who brought your goods to me the first time around."

"Trust me, Nico, I know people. Both commoners and aristocrats. The boy didn't have any Versailles treasures on his word."

"Let's say that's true. What about the book? What book was he hiding? A children's book with colorful pictures? A Dumas novel about golden horseshoes? Essays of Mirza Tolstoy? What if it's the House's secret books with all sorts of knowledge? Maybe about how to forge blades like this one out of iron! Or the State's military plans, political intrigues, true pedigrees… Understand, thief, it's not what you can hold that's valuable. Knowledge is worth more than anything else!"

Nico fell silent. He down the cognac and didn't even think about grabbing a snack. Just stared at me with his reddened eyes, "That's your problem, Ilmar the Thief. You only had one thought: how to escape. Instead, you needed to think ahead. To grab not just what you needed to get away from the labor camp but also what you might need later."

He was right. About everything. As soon as I knew that a glider had been sent to the Isles for the boy and then a liner with a praetorian assault unit, I should've immediately grabbed him, held the dagger to his throat, and forced him to give up the Word. He would've told me. And would've given me everything he had on his Word. I'd still be in trouble… but at least it wouldn't have been for nothing.

"Maybe you did learn the Word after all. Eh?" Nico leaned forward, and youthful fire once again appeared in his weary eyes for a moment. "Ilmar, my boy, tell me! If you tortured the prince for the Word and then buried the highborn in the sand… Ilmar, you know you won't be able to swallow a bite like that on your own. I can be of use to you. We can decide what to do together… we can grab fortune by the tail…"

"Nico, how do I convince you? I don't know the Word! Am I a murderer to torture a fellow convict? And a boy to boot!"

"A good man is different from a murderer because he doesn't do vile things for no reason," Nico cut me off. "There was definitely a reason. You messed up, Ilmar…"

So he did believe me after all…

"Nico, I came to you for advice, not to get a tongue-lashing. I already know I messed up. Tell me what to do now."

The old man really did begin to think.

"What to do? I'd tell you to hide in the middle of nowhere, but with the hunt that's on… it won't help. On the contrary, you'll stand out in a small town. Leave the State, Ilmar! Go to the Russian Khanate, to China, to the colonies, to the African lands. It's difficult these days, but who knows?"

"And then what? Travel the foreign lands? Among savages who still don't know what iron is? Steal seashells and bone knives?"

"Better than dying. And you won't need to spend the rest of your life away from home, Ilmar. As soon as they catch the prince, no one's going to care about you. Wait a year or two, then come back. Live under a new name."

"Such a simple advice."

"Advice is measured by its usefulness, not its simplicity."

"Will you tell me anything else, Nico?"

The old man looked up at the ceiling, at the luxurious chandelier that I'd never seen lit.

"Be more careful than a fox, Ilmar. Don't trust anyone. Anyone."

I scratched my ear, while looking at Nico. He was being incredibly serious.

"Thanks, old man. I think I've overstayed my welcome. Just pay me, and I'll be on my way."

Nico grunted, "I don't have three hundred marks on me. Stop by tonight—"

"Do you really think I'm a fool, Nico?" I was amazed. "You've already told me you were going to report me, then told me not to trust anyone… Come on, empty out your pockets."

Nico took out his purse, made a point of turning it upside-down over the desk. Five ten-mark coins fell out.

"That's all I got, Ilmar."

"Then let's figure out how you're going to cover the debt."

Nico frowned and said resentfully, "Everyone tries to rob an old man…"

"Nico, you're being honest with me. And I won't forget you either… who knows how things will turn out?"

We stared at one another.

"Take some of my expensive cognac," the old man offered. He really had no money on him, otherwise he would never be willing to give up his treasured supply.

"I'm not going to a party, Nico. You know what… why don't I take your slug-thrower instead?"

"Are you insane, it's worth five hundred!"

"I seriously doubt that… If I live and manage to get away, then I'll pay you back. I pay my debts. And if they take me, then you can say I took the slug-thrower by force, you'll get it back. It's legal, right? You have a license?"

Nico was thinking. It wasn't the first time he was getting into dangerous games in the hope for a big payout. Then the old man pulled his left hand out from under the desk, revealing it to be gripping a slug-thrower. It really was a good one, repeating, I'd never seen one up close before…

"Whoa…"

"You know how to use it?"

I shook my head.

"Cock the hammer… pull the trigger… the cylinder turns by itself, putting a new round into the chamber… There are six of them in the cylinder."

Taking the weapon carefully, I put it into the cloak's inner pocket. I'd figure it out later. I asked, "Where'd you get one? Only aristocrats are allowed repeaters."

"By personal permission of the House," Nico said. "For saving Baroness Greta from an assault."

I vaguely recalled that story. I even suspected that the daring attack of the murderers on the highborn lady had been organized by Nico himself. He'd taken a huge risk: had the thugs survived or managed to kill the Baroness, the restaurant owner would've been sorry. But everything worked out… the two morons had fallen asleep forever with iron in their throats, and the gratitude of the rescued woman was immeasurable. There'd been rumors that Nico was granted a title for his "heroic deed". It seemed that it never happened. But they did allow the old man to get a repeating slug-thrower.

"Thanks, Nico. I'm going to go."

"Hold on." The old man got to his feet. He sighed, looked back, as if estimating the position of the chair behind him. "Hit me on the face. To leave a mark."

"If they catch me," I said, "I'll tell them you fought like a lion."

"If they catch you, just shoot yourself," Nico said gloomily. "Come on, don't keep me wai—"

I struck. To break his lips. Nico went sprawling on the seat.

"How's that?" I asked.

Opening one eye, the old man threw me a glare, spat red saliva, then grated out, "A little too much…"

I suddenly felt ridiculous, and the entire hunt for me described by Nico felt petty and minor. Wouldn't be the first time I evaded the Guard.

Putting on the still wet cloak, I left the office, closed the door, and came downstairs into the hall. The patrons were all different now, and there were fewer of them.

No, I wasn't going to flee the State. I was going to get on a stagecoach and leave the cheerful city of Amsterdam far behind me. I had friends who were more reliable than old Nico. In Paris, Nuremberg, Brussels, Ghent. I'd find where to wait things out while the Guard caught Mark and put an end to the hunt…"

A new wine master was standing behind the hunter. A very young boy, he was handling the bottles diligently but ineptly. It was the middle of the day. Why would they change?..

There was a chill in the pit of my stomach.

Nico wasn't one of those to bet everything on a single card. Maybe he really had decided to help me. Except the old fox was going to win in any case.

I quickly went to the doors that led to the kitchen. I pushed past a waitress; the unfamiliar girl same something after me in a questioning manner, but I ignored her. I burst into a room where five chefs were cooking. It was big, expensive kitchen, with cast iron pots and cauldrons, and steel knives were lying without much oversight…

"Hey, good sir, this is for employee only!" one of the chefs shouted. A security guard appeared from a corner, which made sense, after all, who would leave a place like that without protection? Two of the chefs, twins, were staring at me curiously, while the younger chef changed the grip on the knife he'd just been using the chop vegetables. It was a skilled grip, no wonder the kitchen's wall had a wooden target hanging on it, with its center full of pockmarks…

"I need to get to Keizersgracht!" I answered sharply, trying to use the same manner of speaking Mark had managed so well. Maybe they'd decide he was just a foolish highborn and let him pass…

"Through the hall, sir," the security guard said. He pulled his sword slightly out of its scabbard. The sword was poor, cheap, and the security guard himself had gotten fat on free food, but he wasn't the real danger. If the chefs' knives were to fly across the entire kitchen, I'd be done for.

"Mr. Nico told me to get to the waterfront through the kitchen!" I said indignantly. If I didn't pass for a highborn, then I might do for one of their master's secret visitors. They weren't idiots and had to know their old Nico was involved in all kinds of business.

The servants did indeed hesitate. I passed through the kitchen in silence, broken only by the hissing of the juices dripping on the flames from the roasting ham. The security guard stepped aside reluctantly, letting me pass to the door. It seemed that my knowledge of the building inspired trust in my words.

The chef who'd noticed me first shrugged and slapped a scullion boy. The latter ran to turn the spit.

Phew. I was out. They'd decided not to get involved.

I passed through two rooms, where the chefs changed and stored some utensils. The security guard was following me wordlessly, making sure that I didn't steal anything.

Hey, fella, eagles didn't catch flies…

"Goodbye," I said as I exited the building.

"Goodbye, sir," the security guard replied reluctantly, shutting the door behind me. The deadbolt clanged. I was standing in a narrow dirty alley that came out to the canal. There was no one here, I could smell kitchen scraps in wooden barrels that, apparently, hadn't been taken out yesterday. Not good, the people of the free city of Amsterdam paid close attention to cleanliness.

Maybe I shouldn't have bothered. The wine master could've just stepped out to the bathroom. Except the more cautious I was the healthier I was going to be.