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

Chapter 2

In Which I Start to Panic, And There Turns out to Be a Good Reason for It

Keizersgracht was a quiet and peaceful place. This was where wealthy burghers lived, only occasionally one could see small hotels among all the merchant shops. I went along the waterfront, looking back at the restaurant building until it disappeared from sight.

It seemed I shouldn't have been concerned.

I crossed the canal on a bridge, which was graceful and cobbled with white stone. I stood there for a few moments, trying to decide whether I should head for the stagecoach station or allow myself to enjoy a nice dinner. I hadn't gotten to eat at the Deer Antler, but I could try other places. Ones where no would be expecting to see an escaped convict, like Copper Spire or David and Goliath. The free city had many pleasant establishments.

There weren't a lot of people around. Had the nasty weather sent everyone running home. A father and his adolescent son were standing on the waterfront, both flushed, heavyset, wearing thick jackets and Zealand rain caps. They were feeding the ducks floating in the canal, tossing pieces of white bread with concentrated, serious expressions. The ducks were lazily eating the bread, as even their voracity had a limit. This was a well-fed, complacent city. Even the beggars didn't look emaciated here. While in that same Lusitania the climate seemed to be pleasant and the land was more generous, but everywhere I could see nothing but abject poverty.

Why were things so strange? In lands where people ought to live easily and comfortably, they instead suffered from hunger and poverty? But here they were prosperous, praising the House all day. And this wasn't just in the State. For example, in the African countries that were supposed to be paradise on earth, where everything blossomed and bore fruit throughout the year, there was still savagery and lack of civilization.

Perhaps man wasn't supposed to have an easy life. When he got used to every palm tree having fruit and the ability to sleep under the open sky, then he lost his will. Instead of working hard, like the Redeemer commanded, they got used to relying on chance.

And yet I still didn't get it… Just look at China, their people were extremely hardworking and smart, having invented so many things that the State still didn't have, and yet half of their country was still poor…

The burghers finished feeding the birds, shook off their hands, and started walking along the canal. The father pulled out a pipe, the son fussed around with matches and brought him a lit one. Such a serene life… was I envious of it?

Probably not. I'd have died of boredom.

Walking on the edge was better than feeding ducks with bread because I was bored.

With that thought, I started walking, without a specific goal in mind, not particularly hiding or hurrying. I took Wolvenstraat and came out to another canal, the Herengracht, where the houses were even taller, different with golden spires. The proud merchants would've probably spared no expense on iron ones to sate their pride, but there was no way to keep an iron spire safe… There were more people outside here. I saw a rich Russian man with two thin unattractive wives and a thug for a bodyguard, with a pickpocket sneaking up on them — that I was able to see with my experienced gaze. I doubted he'd be able to steal anything, as the Russian looked to be one of their aristocrats, which meant that he kept everything valuable on the Word, plus the Tatar bodyguard may look short and dense, but his movements were smooth, his eyes were tenacious, and he'd quickly be able to cut off someone else's hand with his curved saber…

Whatever, it was their game, I didn't care…

Then a flock of girls came walking towards me, not commoners and not working girls, they were young burgher daughters. Probably coming back from a girls' school. There were two guards walking behind them with stern faces and short clubs covered in pigskin, which were useful in a street fight. Their faces were lean, while their eyes kept glancing at the girls, at their tight butts, their strong calves in warm stockings. These guards needed another one to keep an eye on them.

No. I was getting way too relaxed. As if I was trying to shake away everything Nico had told me, to convince myself that nothing frightening was happening. I had to get a bite to eat and then be on my way.

I walked through the narrow streets, crossed another canal, maybe the Singel, and headed for Dam Square, to the David and Goliath restaurant, a famous and popular place in Amsterdam. True, there were always plenty of army and Guard officers there, as well as sea captains and aristocrats, but it was exactly the kind of place no one would think to suspect one of the patrons of being a convict.

What was it that highborn kid said? A fox hiding from a dog in its own kennel? That was what I was planning on doing…

The prices here were higher than at the Deer Antler. The building itself looked nicer, chandeliers were hanging on chains inside, surprisingly they were iron, well forged, with kerosene lamps.

The name itself, David and Goliath, came about because of the statutes that were standing inside.

I gave my cloak to a servant, remembering belatedly that I'd put my slug-thrower into a pocket. Fine, the servant wouldn't risk going through someone's pockets in a place like this. I went into the dining hall, a servant girl with a pretty face ran up and led me to an empty table. Right between the sculptures.

A very nice spot. Either it had just freed up, or my appearance was very noble. I sat, half-heartedly listening to the girl twittering about how good their salmon was today, as well as the rest of the fish, although the quail wasn't as good, but if the sir wished it…

The sculptures were made of marble. The old wooden ones had burned down during a fire, so the current owner's grandfather had commissioned the new ones from the great Thorvaldsen. The sculptor hadn't been famous yet but was already talented.

David was standing with his sling lowered and the corners of his mouth upturned. The sculptor had managed to show everything: the youth of the beardless face, the casual dexterity of the nude body, and the predatory squint of the eyes. David was angry and handsome, like in the legends.

Meanwhile, Goliath had already dropped to one knee. A mighty man in armor, who had come to fight an honorable battle and was brought down by a dirty blow to the temple. Pain and surprise were frozen on the simple ingenuous face, he was still trying to stand, but his legs refused to support him. But Goliath continued trying, his stone muscles were bulging like thick ropes, and the life that had never been in a stone burned anyone who glanced at the defeated warrior. It seemed he was going to get up, walk up to David, who would petrify once again out of fright, and slam his heavy fist on that curly-haired head…

Great sculptures. Great sculptor. I knew that the restaurant owner had been offered large sums for this pair. He'd be able to open two more restaurants… but he wasn't a fool to cut down the branch he was sitting on. The restaurant's entire popularity was supported by these sculptures, by the mighty warrior, dying but still reaching out to fight, and the mocking youth gazing maliciously at his own handiwork. Sure, the food was good too, but there were plenty of other good restaurants…

Had the restaurant owner been a commoner, sooner or later the sculptures would've been taken away. But he was an aristocrat himself, just a lowly baron, but he knew the Word and a member of the House. As for why he owned a restaurant, well, such had been his fortune, and it wasn't that shameful…

"Yes, sir?" the girl repeated patiently. I realized I'd been staring at the sculptures for about three minutes already without placing an order. I smiled guiltily, "I enjoy this view every time."

The girl nodded, stealing a glance at the sculptures. She liked them too. I wondered who she liked more: the brave and manly Goliath or the handsome but effeminate David.

"Bring me the Finnish holiday snack," I began. "Then salmon in red wine — specifically in red, your chef knows that recipe. Strong coffee. Right now bring me young white wine, the best from the southern provinces, and fine cognac with the coffee."

The girl nodded, then gave me a genuine pleased smile. It was a nice, expensive order, which meant that she was going to get a decent tip.

I was left alone with Goliath and his killer.

Oh how I understood him! He didn't expect any trouble from that snot-nosed David! Just like I hadn't expected anything of the sort from that boy Mark. Except it was much worse for me, since I'd considered him a friend. Was planning on making him an apprentice to merchants… such a fool…

The dining hall was slowly filling up. People were arriving: men in suits from fine tailors, women in jewelry. An aging but still beautiful lady accompanied by a young gigolo was showing off an iron chain as thick as my pinky. The chain was covered by noble rust and then lacquered on top.

Either it really was ancient or had been wounded by water deliberately. I didn't like that, it wouldn't do for iron to die on a woman's neck.

My order finally arrived…

The Finnish snack was an expensive dish, but it was worth it. Tender herring chopped into pieces, onion, rye bread, potatoes boiled with skin on, a small shot glass, or stack, as Russians called it, filled with vodka.

All this was served on a whole sheet of fresh newspaper. That was already half the price. You were supposed to eat with your hands, which was why they also brought two bowls of water for washing hands before and after.

I was enjoying my food unhurriedly, then downed the shot. It wasn't cognac, of course, but still drinkable. More and more patrons were arriving, until they stopped letting people in. I'd come just in time. Just sit there in warmth, surrounded by art, eat expensive dishes while glancing at the newspaper. What did I care for the State, for the angry guards?

Several aristocrats showed up. There was room for them, of course. The owner himself appeared, not behaving obsequiously—they were equals, after all—but he still came out, greeted them, shook their hands, kissed the ladies' shoulders in the Italian fashion.

I just kept reading the paper. They already brought out my salmon, made the proper way — not many places knew how to stew salmon in red wine. But I was too involved in the read. Newspapers had once been very expensive, only affordable to aristocrats, commoners would have to be satisfied with heralds and minstrels. Now everything was more advanced, with printing presses in every big city, carrier pigeons spread the news, and now new lines of telegraph towers were being stretched across the entire State. The newsie profession was now respected, even younger children of aristocrats chose to become reporters… Damn those younger sons and junior princes!

The paper talked of different things. Of theater premieres, of the use of steam machinery at the capital city's Opéra Garnier, which rotated the stage along with the actors, produced steam, and made sounds. An article described the construction of a new liner that was going to be the fastest and most armored ship in the world. A few things about the hot lines, where the savages were rioting, of the West Indies, of Dalmatia and Illyria, of London militants. There was much about the Russian Khanate, where Tatar pogroms were beginning, while Khan Mikhail had made a speech, appealing to unity and kindness. The most interesting article had been written by Gerard the Lightbringer, a bishop of the Parisian cathedral of the Patron Sister, who was famed for his many healings and miracles. Gerard had never shied away from secular life, was a repentant sinner himself, and after a mystical revelation turned onto the righteous path. Even now he was reflecting on the roots of good and evil in the human soul and was talking about such things that, had he not been a high-ranking clergyman, he would've been accused of heresy. Just the phrase about the Hidden Word being given by the Redeemer to tempt and edify mankind rather than help them would've been enough!

"We're told that the Word has been commanded, given to our highborn guardians to protect and multiply, to bring man's glory to the heavens to the Redeemer's joy. But look up at those heavens. Is there man's glory up there? Or is it nothing but vanity and pride?

"A lord who rides through his lands, tormenting his horse with steel spurs, as if copper ones were unworthy to adorn his feet, is proud of the mighty Word, his great wealth, his noble birth. Meanwhile, around him is naught by poverty, hunger, and desolation. A single iron knife in a whole large village, and even this one has been ground down almost to the handle. A seamstress might sew the lord a tapestry of unrivaled beauty, with the face of the Sister filled with tears…"

I seemed to me that the daring bishop was writing about something that had really happened rather than a hypothetical story. As if he was rebuking someone behind their back…

"The lord might toss the seamstress a rusty mark, free her from taxes for a year, and she is satisfied with that. The lord might then speak the Word, not hiding his eyes from the sky, hide the Sister's face in the Cold, and ride to his luxurious castle. The horse might carry his rider, throw him off, and the lord might die the same way as a commoner. Only the Word will die with him. The face of the Sister of unrivaled beauty, created for all people, will disappear forever. Old books with ancient wisdom in them will die, hereditary blades will die, engraved armor, monogrammed shields, iron and silver ingots. The lord's oldest son will then get on his horse and begin to ride across his lands, taking away what little the people have, restoring the family's glory and not ashamed of the Redeemer. Is that why we were given the Word? We are all carried by a restive horse, who throws us off onto a malicious rock. What does a stone care for bloodlines and man's hubris?

"Are our hearts made of the same stone that has no consciousness, only stubborn hardness?

"After all, the Sister told the Redeemer when she visited him in prison, 'I won't be offended if you reject me, but take the knife'… To which the Redeemer replied, 'I will not raise steel on men who not know what they do, I will not spill blood, for all in the world are guilty, and all in the world are innocent.' The Sister then asked, 'Are murderers who are without faith innocent?' The Redeemer told her, 'Verily, whosoever puts down a dozen is still clean in mine eyes, if he repents sincerely. Repentance is holiness, kindness is salvation.' The Roman guards then entered the prison, a dozen without one, and their commander said, 'We know that you were brought a knife to kill us and flee judgment. Both of you shall now be stoned: you and your sworn sister.' And the Sister pleaded with the Redeemer, 'Kill them, for you will be clean regardless, but you will save me!' The Redeemer replied, 'Kindness is salvation, Sister, how many times do I have to repeat that, foolish woman?! Is a simple word not enough?' Then he raised the hand with the gifted knife, and…"

With that the newspaper page ended.

Of course I knew how it all ended with the Sister and the Redeemer. Who didn't know that? Still, it was really nice the way Gerard had been telling it. And there was no way to guess which moral he would extract from the well-known fable.

Should I ask for more Finnish herring? Or maybe a whole newspaper in addition to Ottoman coffee? That aristocrat over there was sipping on the precious beverage and flipping through a newspaper, and it wasn't even one of the smart ones, like the Courant—Nieves van der Veek or the Macht und Welt, but Men's Games, which for the most part consisted of inappropriate pictures and savory stories…

Two men approached my table. I raised my gaze and shuddered. Guard officers. One of them was huge, with a square jawline, while the other was small, thin, in horn-rimmed glasses, a man like that ought to sit in a bookshop, not walk around with a sword and a slug-thrower on his belt.

"Sir, would you mind?" the girl fluttered out from behind the guards and smiled, "The entire hall is full, may these brave guards join you?"

"It would be my pleasure," I said. I was still wound up, so not a muscle shook on my face.

The officers thanked me, sat on the other side of the table, the girl began to describe the day's specials, in particular recommending the grouse in ginger dough. I lowered my eyes to the newspaper.

It would be fine. Who would recognize me as the convict Ilmar?

I was picking at my salmon, washing it down with the young wine the girl was remembering to refill in my glass, except I couldn't stomach the food anymore. Not even a bit.

The officers placed their order and began to speak softly with one another. It seemed like they cared at all about me… the big one only glanced at me once… and a chill ran down my spine.

It was not a nice look. Way too indifferent.

Sister, protect this fool so he can repent!

The restaurant owner appeared again, walked up to the table, threw me a fleeting smile—I meant nothing to him—and shook the officers' hands.

"Hungry, Mr. Arnold?" he asked the bigger one.

"Yes, like a dog…" the officer grunted in broken Roman.

"I heard there was a manhunt in the city."

"Yes."

He wasn't very talkative… and that chill on my back turned into a full-blown blizzard.

Arnold? Guard officer? With a Germanic accent?

"Did you catch the murderers?" the owner continued to inquire. It seemed that they were equal in title. And as similar as a spear and a toothpick, with the owner all pampered and slender like David, and Arnold looking as if he had been the model for Goliath, it was funny to watch them next to the sculptures. And yet they were of equal title, no comparison to me…

"We weren't catching a murderer," the bespectacled one said in a slightly dismissive tone, so he was probably of even higher birth. "Ilmar the Convict is in town. The entire coast is covered in posts, and that scoundrel has managed to get to us…"

"The one who kidnapped the prince?" the owner exclaimed.

So that was how they'd turned that around!

I realized I was chewing on a piece of salmon for two minutes already, so I swallowed it hurriedly and poured myself some more wine. I threw a questioning glance at the guards and smiled obsequiously. They hadn't yet been brought wine, so the bespectacled one accepted without false pride. He poured some for himself and Arnold then downed his in one go. The owner began to look around indignantly, searching for the serving staff. Two girls were already bringing the wine and the snacks… they were clearly more expedient with aristocrats…

Arnold wasn't drinking. He was playing with the glass in his hands and was throwing such disapproving glances at the bespectacled one that only an idiot could've missed them.

The bespectacled one didn't.

"That's the one," he confirmed. "He visited some old friends. They both reported it and allowed him to leave. It's fine, the friends are being questioned, the city's surrounded by a triple circle, the soldiers are at arms. He's not going anywhere."

Patron Sister…

"Marquis, you shouldn't say that," Arnold said. Then he added in Germanic, "May I suggest that you get a new glass and try some Tokaji rosé?.."

I turned lazily to the busy girls, "Coffee. And an Ottoman honey cigar."

They exchanged confused glances. The owner came to their aid, "Unfortunately, sir, we cannot offer you any honey cigars today. We do have cigars from the West Indies, Ottoman cigars with cannabis…"

Of course they couldn't offer me honey cigars. They didn't exist.

I put on an indignant air and said, "In my cloak, inner pocket… No, bring me the cloak, I'll get it myself."

A single glance from the owner, and a girl rushed to the entrance.

Arnold was still playing with his glass, and the carved crystal looked like it was about to crack. Just like me, he probably didn't believe in coincidences. That was why he couldn't bring himself to question me in a restaurant, in front of aristocrats. He was probably one of those young upstarts and knew how the nobility would be pleased at his mistake.

I waited, looking at the newspaper but not really reading.

The tension between us finally touched both the dumb bespectacled one and the hospitable owner. Except they hadn't yet realized what was going on.

The girl came back, carrying my cloak on an iron tray. It was funny. A damp cloak, soaked in its own juices.

"Honey cigars should be served at any respectable establishment!" I said in a scandalous voice, reaching for the cloak. Arnold's gaze slid along the gray fabric. It seemed that it was the last stroke that completed my portrait, which he'd been lacking to be completely certain.

"Don't move, Ilmar the Thief!" he barked in his heavy accent.

Too late.

With a kick, I flipped the table onto the guards, mere moments before Arnold could do the same. I pulled out the repeating slug-thrower from the cloak pocket; oh Nico, you were too clever by half, had underestimated the Guard, so now you were going to suffer under the executioner's whip at your old age…

"Everyone on the floor!" I shouted, cocking the hammer with one hand the way I'd seen aristocrats do it. It worked, the piece of iron clicked, pulled back, and Arnold froze, staring at the barrel. "Everyone on the floor! I'm a murderer, I don't keep count!"

The patrons at the tables immediately pressed their faces to the floor, including aristocrats, burghers, and even guards, of which there were almost a dozen in the hall. It seemed that all of them understood what a repeating slug-thrower could do in malicious hands.

And if the bespectacled guard hadn't thought himself to be a hero, I would've just walked out of the restaurant backwards, after scaring a hundred people at once.

"Ilmar!" the table-crushed bespectacled man screeched. He was already imagining an audience at the House, awards, glory, and a new title.

He had a simpler slug-thrower than mine, it was double-barreled rather than repeating. But he was more skilled in using it. As soon as I saw the barrel, I pulled the trigger. I'd had an occasion to shoot a flintlock army rifle when I was young, but that was completely different. It fired with a delay, had a different kick, and pulling on the trigger was easier.

There was a deafening bang and a cloud of foul black smoke, but the bullet hit the floor between Arnold and the bespectacled guard.

Arnold immediately slid to the side, but the bespectacled one wasn't scared. He had courage, it was foolish but strong. I was already running, jumping between the statues. A bullet flew past me, striking the poor Goliath, right into his mighty manhood, which was shattered into white sand. From the noise and the dust blowing in the face I jerked awkwardly, fell, and once again found myself face to face with the guards. The slug-thrower seemed to be stuck to my hand, but I forgot what to do with it.

"Grab the thief!" the bespectacled guard yelled excitedly.

Meanwhile, the restaurant owner unexpectedly decided to play hero. Except he wasn't planning on catching me, understanding the odds of that quite well, his goal was to save the poor sculptures. He ran to Davis, grabbed it, his face portrayed decisiveness mixed with concentration, making him look like the stone youth for a moment. Was it possible the statue had been carved from one of his ancestors? There was a blast of cold air… whoa, he'd just taken that huge thing onto the Word!

"Don't shoot! Stop, thief!" Arnold was shouting, while getting up and taking out his own slug-thrower. The table flew away from him as if it was made of paper.

The bespectacled guard fired again. The restaurant owner was just then grabbing the damaged Goliath, one of his hands touching the ruined part in horror—it was funny and shameful, like in the obscene renditions of comedians about the preferences of perverts—while his other hand was drawing a strange symbol in the air.

Another cold blast, this time a very powerful one, since the marble Goliath weighed about four hundred kilograms. The statue vanished, and the aristocrat, who'd just taken it on his Word to save it from destruction, spread his lips in a happy smile, Even the hole between his eyes from the stray bullet didn't keep the smile away. That was how he dropped, with his arms spread, having protected his treasure from ruin forever.

"Scheisse!" Arnold barked, turned, and kicked his bespectacled colleague in the jaw. No one was looking at the fight anymore, no one had heard the sickening crunch of the vertebrae, everyone was drilling holes in the floor with their noses and praying to the Redeemer, only I realized that one guard had just killed another: for foolishness, for a bad shot, for removing David and Goliath from the free city of Amsterdam forever…

Arnold and I exchanged glances, and I knew it was over.

He only had one option now: to kill me.

The bespectacled man clearly had an older and more powerful family, who wouldn't forgive Arnold for his thoughtless blow.

The guard would find me anywhere, as his life was now in my hands.

As if out of fear, my hands began to act on their own, pulling the trigger, cocking the hammer, the hammer turned, putting another round in the chamber, the hammer clicked, and there was a loud bang.

The bullet slid along Arnold's face, leaving a bloody line on his temple. It didn't penetrate the skull, so the guard merely fell, immediately moving, getting up, and wiping blood off his face.

But I didn't wait for him to get up.

I was running across the hall, leaping over the sensible patrons and crushing the fingers of the others. Two shots rang out behind me. Both bullets missed but were very close. It seemed that Arnold was a good shot, but anyone would find it difficult to shoot at a running man with his eyes covered in blood.

I leapt through the door, knocked down the restaurant's security guard, who hadn't yet figured out what was going on, with a single blow, grabbed someone's expensive cloak from a hanger—after all, mine was still on the restaurant floor—and ran out into the night. A crowd had already gathered in front of the restaurant, peering hungrily through the windows. I ran out into the circle of light from a lantern and wailed in a terrified voice, "Murderers! Save yourselves!"

Crowds made people dumb.

All of them ran away from the restaurant as if someone was stabbing them in the back.

And I was running with them.

I'd eaten well, even running wasn't easy.

I was safe for an hour or two. Amsterdam wasn't a small town on the Isles of Sorrow, where everyone was ready to catch fugitives. I could lay low. But for how long? If there was the sort of manhunt that the entire city was surrounded by soldiers, if the ports were closed, how long would I be able to hide? Anyone would give me up and would be right to do so. Their conscience would be clear, they'd be in favor with the House, they'd have a big reward. True, the Sister had said, "Give not the runaway to his master, for one day you may run yourself!" But who was going to remember that when faced with such a huge pile of money?

I wouldn't.

I'd just go later, pray away the sin, and feel better.

If I hadn't been afraid in the moments after my escape due to my excitement, now the fear was rolling over me like a wave. There was nowhere to go! I'd made a mistake to trust the distance and to go to Nico.

Where had my mind gone? Had I lost it in the crash, or had everything disappeared from the elation? As if I'd taken a breath of freedom before going to the rack. Although they wouldn't put me on a rack, I was a count, after all. Silk rope or a steel axe, or maybe even an honorable cup. All very proper. But first they'd grill me… guards knew how to loosen tongues in their basements even without a rack. They'd torture me for a long time before they finally believed me about not knowing anything about that damned Marcus…

The rain grew stronger, which was bad. Soon everyone was going to run home, which meant that it would be easier for the guards to catch me. There were no saving ruins here, Amsterdam was a living city, and any place in it was expensive.

I was walking along Damrak, a wide and busy street, but even it was growing empty before my eyes. Far too quickly, and I was confused until I came out to a herald. A young man was standing at an intersection, wrapped into a soaked resin raincoat and shouting, not caring about his vocal cords, "People and guests of the free city! The Guard requests that you go to your homes for your peace and safety! The escaped convict Ilmar has been spotted in Amsterdam, and soldiers will be sent in any minute now! Go home, good people!"

The herald glanced at me quickly and, not suspecting anything, added from himself, "The murderer's description is terrible, anyone can look like him. They're going to kill first and ask question later!"

The people were treating his words seriously. Some were turning, others were picking up the pace. No one wanted to get stabbed with a sword by mistake.

I also began to walk faster, as befitted an honest burgher. Except where was my home? Sure, there was a place I could call that, but it was far away… Where would I go?

I paused at a window display of a pastry shop, filled with wax sweets, under a bright advertisement: colorful glass letters and pretzels, illuminated by a carbide lantern from inside. I had a dumb thought to come inside, hide somewhere, and wait out the night… But the salesman and his two tough-looking apprentices were already closing up, and there were clubs hanging off their belts. I seemed the people were scared. I would be better for me to keep walking before they took a closer look at me.

Sister, help me…

I lifted my gaze to the sky from the wet cobblestone street and froze. A temple dome was towering up ahead, on a square. Raadhu, the Patron Sister's cathedral in Amsterdam. The dome, covered in thin gold and circled by lanterns, was lit up in the night. The doors to the temple were still open, although a herald was standing in them, also shouting something about the convict Ilmar and the army, but I didn't see any guards. Had the Sister sent me an insight? No, I wasn't worthy of help like that for her to pull away from celestial affairs. But really… the temple was large, they only lit the main chandeliers on holidays, so I could hide in the gloom. And it wouldn't even be a sin, since where else would one hide if not in a temple of the Sister, who did not deprive fugitives of her grace…

I walked across the square. Occasional carriages rode past, most of them closed due to bad weather, the people were leaving the temple after the evening mass, while I was going straight there, trying to take firm steps. I wasn't a thief, not a fugitive, just an ordinary citizen who was in a hurry to confess his adultery before lying down with his wife… But the square was unfortunately brightly lit, both from the temple's lanterns and from the open windows, since Amsterdam customs frowned upon curtains. After all, an honest man had nothing to hide from his neighbors. On the contrary, let everyone see how nice and clean the honest man's home was.

The only good thing was that there were no guards around.

The temple was getting closer, its stone walls seemed to be growing taller, I could already make out the details on the narrow stained-glass windows that described the scenes from the Sister's life without any embellishment. It would be nice to walk around the building, glance at every window, then take a look from the inside, as the stained glass was cleverly made, from the outside it portrayed how it had looked to everyone, while inside it was different, showing how the Sister herself had pictured her actions… but I didn't have time for that. Too bad, just the scene with the ferryman alone had many copies broken, as multiple people thought it to be offensive to the Sister. From the outside it really did look lewd, but inside the Patron was bestowing a holy blessing on the poor boatman, and everything improper disappeared from the soul…

The temple was beautiful and famous across the State, but I had other things on my mind at the moment. I went past the tired herald and stepped under the vaulted stone ceiling. There were still people in the temple, so I had to wait a little. Some were lighting candles, others were praying at the holy pole in the middle of the temple. A young acolyte ran past, telling everyone, "The Guard is asking everyone to go home…"

"What do you care about the Guard?!" one of the people bit back. Good, priests had no business bowing to worldly affairs, their business had to do with celestial, distant matters.

I bought some candles from an old acolyte; I'd wanted two, but the coins ended up buying me three. I walked up to the image of the Sister, who was guiding a repentant murderer to do good deeds—the best icon for me —and placed the candles. One for myself, Ilmar the Thief, to keep myself free and avoid dying in shame. One for the clever Niko, who was too clever by half, so that the old man managed to get out and died of old age. Ant the third candle, which I hadn't even needed, I placed for Junior Prince Marcus. It wasn't as if he'd wanted anything bad to happen to me…

I was gripped by a splendor: shame, disgrace, and repentance. When facing an image of the Sister, you felt like confessing all your sins. But why did it all go away afterwards?

Were they really going to catch me? But then I wasn't going to let them take me alive, so did that mean I was going to die in sin? Maybe that was why the Sister had brought me to her temple, so that I had time to confess. Before I knew what I was doing, my legs were taking to the confessionals. And most of them were empty. Was I right?

On the last spark, I entered a confessional, pulled the curtain closed, and knocked on the window. I froze, staring at the lamp burning by the icon. Maybe there was no priest nearby.

The window slid open a little, and an unseen priest said quietly, "I am listening, my brother. In the name of the Redeemer and the Sister, take the sin off your soul…"

"I have more than one sin, brother," I whispered. "I'm full of sins."

"It's all the same to the Sister: one sin or a life full of it," the priest calmed me wearily. "Speak, brother…"

"I'm guilty for taking a man's life," I said. "And it has already happened seven times."

The priest was silent for a moment, then asked, "Out of anger or greed?"

"In combat, my brother. Except he was a guard, and I… I was a convict."

"Your sin is a grave one. But the Sister said, 'Anyone can spill blood defending his life, and only the Redeemer can know whose life is more important'… It is forgiven, brother."

I didn't mention the second guard killed on the Isles. After all, Mark had taken that guilt upon himself, just like the Redeemer took the guilt of his acolytes, so there was no need to waste the Sister's time.

"I'm guilty for escaping a labor camp," I went on. "I was sent there for committing crimes."

"Your sins are forgiven, my brother. It's not chains that bind, it's the Redeemer's will. If you've managed to leave, then you have no guilt before Him."

That was good. I felt a load lift from my soul, thought for a second, and added, remembering the restaurant, "I'm guilty, even though I wasn't the one to do it, but a man died because of me, there was a commotion—"

"Only confess your own misdeeds," the priest corrected me. "That is not a sin, so there is nothing for me to ask the Sister for."

"I'm guilty for stealing another man's cloak an hour ago… a need forced me to."

"There is no sin before the Redeemer or the Sister for those who steal food or clothes. Fear the wrath of man."

This God's servant was probably tired forgiving people's sins by nightfall. Others were probably cleaner than mine. I thought about what else I needed to confess, "I'm guilty for the House is angry at me. Its anger serves no purpose, but no one knows that."

The priest was silent. Strange. They usually forgave the wrath of worldly authorities immediately, especially if it really was unrighteous… It wasn't even a sin…

"What is your name, brother?" the priest asked. I shuddered. They weren't supposed to ask that!

"What is your name, my brother in Sister?"

"Ilmar," I whispered. "Ilmar the Thief."

"The same Ilmar who ran away from a labor camp on the Isles of Sorrow along with a junior prince of the House named Marcus? On a glider piloted by the flyer Helen?"

This sounded more like a Guard interrogation, not a confession…

"Yes…"

The priest didn't answer right away, "There is no sin in that, but… For redemption, say 'Glory to the Sister!' seven times, don't do it too slow, but without rushing."

He broke off for a moment. I already knew which way the wind was blowing but waited obediently.

"And don't leave the confessional. Wait, my brother, I'll be back."

"Why?" I whispered. But the window had already slid closed.

What was I going to do? I couldn't contradict a priest or fail to do the penance. What to do?

"Glory to the Sister, the joy of our joy, the quenching of our sorrow, the punishment for our misdeeds…" I started and broke off. Everything inside me screamed for me to run. All of my thief's habits came live and were rebelling against the waiting. But how could I leave now?

"Glory to the Sister," I started again, forcing myself not to rush with difficulty. Maybe I'd be able to finish the prayer and leave… But apparently the priest had known exactly how long it took to get from his booth to mine, and as soon as I finished whispering "and we will rejoice" for the seventh time, the curtain on the confessional was pulled aside.

No guards, either city or temple. That was something, at least.

Just the confessor, in a white cloak with its hood folded, about my age, although a little weaker in body, but there was genuine faith in his eyes, I couldn't compare. He was staring at me with disgust—nothing to be done about that—doubt, and involuntary curiosity.

"Ilmar the Thief?" the priest asked again.

"Yes, my brother…"

"Put this on."

He tossed a tight bundle on the floor in front of me. And then, himself ashamed of the disdainful gesture, picked it up, unfolded it, and handed it to me.

It turned out to be a cassock, identical to the one he was wearing.

"Wear this, brother, put on the hood, and follow me."

"What about the sins?.." I asked, just in case. He hadn't yet said the traditional phrase!

"In the name of the Redeemer, the Sister, and the Holy Word, I forgive you all our sins, my rother. Go in peace."

The priest thought for a moment, and then added something that wasn't traditional, "Follow me…"