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.

Note: Footnotes can be found at the end of the chapter.

Part III

Gaul

Chapter 1

In Which I Tell About Seas and Oceans, and I'm Given Good Advice

It was mercilessly hot the entire day. I'd already stripped down to my waist and tied the cravat around my head to protect it from the sun. Still, after walking for thirty or so kilometers since dawn, I felt myself completely squeezed out. I definitely wouldn't make it to the city, which meant I'd have to spend the night in a field again.

Three days had passed since the deaths of Ruud and the other holy brothers. I hadn't been wearing a clergyman's clothing for a while, instead I was sporting the sailor's parade uniform I'd purchased for a sizable sum. But the Guard didn't pay me much attention, and the people threw me kind looks. Everyone respected the State's sailors. I'd let the horse go near the first town as promised and was now traveling light across the Gallic lands, only occasionally, when offered, getting rides on carts and stagecoaches going the same way.

It was hot. It had been hot the entire day, as if the summer was staging a return. And now storm clouds were moving in from the west, and it seemed it was about to rain. I didn't want to stay out under the open sky.

I'd passed the last settlement two hours ago, and return would be stupid. But up a head, a little away from the road, on the bank of a small river, surrounded by unmowed meadows, stood a neat house. It was a strange house, didn't look like it belonged to a farmer, but didn't really seem to be a country villa either. As if someone had come, bought the land around here, and just settled down without doing anything like raising cattle or setting up a vineyard.

Strange but interesting.

I turned off the road and walked to the house. The trail was barely noticeable, it was unlikely it was being used even once a week. And yet the dwelling didn't look abandoned. Curtains on the windows, flowers, and a garden bed in front of the house. The small white structure next to it, probably a chicken coop, was freshly painted. And yet there was no fence at all. Was the Guard here really so fearsome that the people weren't afraid of thieves or robbers? Unlikely. I hadn't encountered such hospitable homes before…

"Get out!"

The door squeaked as it opened slightly, and the long barrel of a slug-thrower came out through the opening. The slug-thrower looked as ancient as the cracked voice and was just as benevolent.

"Good day!" I said, stopping. "Why are you aiming a weapon at an honest man, a servant of the House?"

"Who knows if you're really honest?" came a grumbling reply from behind the door. I relaxed. If he was talking, then he wasn't going to shoot. "Maybe you're a murderer, killed a sailor, took his clothes, and are now planning on taking everything an old man has left."

An old man then. It was hard to tell by the voice along how old he was.

But he had sharp eyes, having managed to make out my naval pants; after all, I'd tied the shirt into a rope and tossed it over my shoulder…

"I'm no murderer. And I didn't take the uniform off anyone! And I have no intention of harming you!"

"You all say that," the distrustful owner replied with the voice of someone who'd been killed five times over the past week. "What did you sail on?"

"The Son of Thunder," I lied without thinking. "Leading seaman, Marcel is my name."

"What are you doing here?"

"On my way home to Lyon. Wanted to ask to stay the night…"

"That's what I thought," the old man answered gloomily.

I was standing by the door, wondering whether I ought to go far away from the old senile man with a slug-thrower.

"Is the rain going to be a strong one?"

"It is," I confirmed.

"Then go to the chicken coop. Pick out the fattest chicken, strangle it, and bring it here."

The slug-thrower's barrel swayed and disappeared. The owner still wasn't showing his face.

"Which chicken?" I asked in confusion.

"The fattest one!" the old man barked with unexpected strength.

Well-well. Shrugging, I went to the coop that was only locked with a latch and really did find two dozen chickens inside. Kicking away the nimblest ones from the door, I grabbed the first one and snapped its neck.

Did the old man really not care whether to throw a good laying hen or an old bird into soup?

"Did you get one?" the old man inquired from the other side of the door.

"Yeah…"

"Then come in."

The door opened, and I finally saw the owner. He really did look about eighty, but at the same time appeared to be strong enough to take down a chicken on his own. The old man was still holding the slug-thrower—not much younger than him, flintlock, with a long barrel—at the ready.

"You're lucky," he said oddly. "Give me the chicken."

I handed him the poor bird in complete confidence that was about to be told to get out, with the order possibly accompanied by some lead.

The old man glanced at the chicken and shook his head, "You're not just used to snapping chicken necks, kid. Aren't you?"

What had he seen in that chicken?

"Yeah," I admitted. "I'm a military man, after all."

The house was clean and neat inside as well. It was unlikely that the old man was keeping it in order himself. A large room, with two others doors leading inside, a table, large, for more than one person, and a bright kerosene lamp on it. The fireplace was burning, with two chairs standing in front of it. There was a cabinet, with the shelves covered by glass containing, besides dishes and various trinkets, three dozen books. Whoa!

"I know military men like that," the old man said gloomily. "Can you pluck it?"

"Not a problem."

"Let's go."

One of the doors led into a kitchen. I looked around, a lit stove, water boiling in an iron—iron!—pot, plenty of foodstuffs on the shelves. Utensils were wooden, but there was an iron knife, plus two copper pots and a cast iron skillet… The old man was rich! Why would he live out here in the middle of nowhere? And why would he let a stranger in?

"You're not a murderer yourself, as you, old man?" I inquired.

The old man giggled. Dry, wiry, even now, while slouching, he was taller than me. He wasn't that strong, of course, but in general all this looked like some scary children's story. Kids got lost in a forest, came to a house, and met an old ogre…

"Of course. You saw, the kind of murderer who's afraid to stick his nose outside," he answered eagerly.

"All right, old man, I'm going to go…" I said.

"Hold on…" He set his rifle down in a corner. "I'm no murderer, don't worry. You boil the chicken, and I'll peel the potatoes. Hungry?"

"Always," I answered, giving him room at the table.

Together, we cooked dinner in half an hour. While the chicken was boiling, the old man wordlessly took out a bottle of wine, poured it into crystal goblets, and took the first drink.

"To your health, old man," I said, drinking.

"Jean. My name is Jean."

All right.

"What's your name?"

"I told you, Marcel."

"I must've misheard, forgive the old man."

Yeah, right.

"You aren't afraid of letting random people into your home?" I asked. "You live richly."

"But you're an honest man!" the old man feigned shock.

"Jean, I'm no fool. Your behavior is strange. We're about twenty kilometers from the city, right? The land around here is yours…"

"I'm a peaceful villager…"

"You're no villager," I grinned. "You're not sowing, not plowing, not growing grapes, the only livestock you have are chickens…"

"I don't live off the land. Just on it."

"Whatever you say," I shrugged. "I'll just be grateful for letting me stay the night."

"You can stay, it'll give me someone to talk to. Get some cheese from the cupboard and slice it up…"

"Who are you, Jean?" I asked quietly. "If you're a simple man, then how are you living here all alone, not afraid of anyone? If you're a saint, then you aren't living a very saintly life. If you're an angel of the Lord, then it's not right for you to hide and lie."

"I've met saints in my life," the old man sighed. "But never ran into an angel… I'm just a hermit."

I'd met hermits before. But they didn't look like that.

"Old man, I'm a direct military man."

The old man grinned. What was going on? No one had doubted my masquerade in three days, but this one seemed to be playing some kind of game with me!

"Fine. I'm a simple doctor. Well, used to be. And now I'm living out the rest of my life…"

"And how is that protecting you from murderers?"

"Think about it, Marcel," the old man chuckled. "Think."

"You're treating evil men? That's not good!"

"Treating is always good. I'm not breaking any laws. If I treat a murderer, then I'll let the Guard know. After that, it's their business… let them look for him."

"I've met doctors like that. But the Hippocratic Oath won't save you from the Guard…"

"Maybe not. But the title does."

I looked at the old man dumbfoundedly.

"I'm a baron."

"And I'm a count."

The first raindrops began hitting the window. The old man frowned in annoyance, "I'm not lying, young man."

"Let's say that I'm not either," I bit back angrily.

The old man giggled.

"Fine… you don't have to believe me. Watch the stove!"

I poured the soup into bowls, and we ate in silence. Was the old man really telling the truth? Maybe that he was a doctor. But a baron… in the middle of nowhere… alone… in a small house…

"And where are Your Lordship's possessions?"

"In Baghdad. I'm Baron Jean of Baghdad."

"Persia hasn't been under the House's control in four decades…"

"Yes," the baron/doctor agreed, eating the soup. "But has the House ever recognized that?"

"True. What did you do to get such a high title?"

"I've faithfully served the House for fifty years. I've treated illnesses, broken bones, delivered babies, cured migraines and other nonsense."

I set my spoon aside.

"Your Lordship, you're telling the truth."

"Of course."

"So you've seen the Possessor himself?"

The old man snorted.

"And treated him?"

"Now that I've never done," the old man admitted. "The ones who are admitted to the Possessor are better masters than me. But," he spread his hands, "they won't be allowed to retire on their own terms either. If you've dug around in the Possessor's butt, then you're privy to great State secrets."

"Am I allowed to sit in your presence?" I asked, trying to cut through the tension.

"You're a count, so you are…" the old man giggled. "Your title is higher."

Jokester.

"Is it really just your title and skill that keep you safe?"

"Not only," the old man replied without explaining.

"Well." I did my best to show my utter bewilderment before such a great man. "Forgive this rude sailor…"

"It's all right, don't worry. You're an angry but not a cruel man. I like that more than the other way around… the way it was in the House."

He rose and waved his hand, "Leave the dishes, a maid will come by to clean tomorrow… Let's go."

In the living room, the old man sat in one of the chairs and pulled out two cigars from a box on the small table.

"You want a smoke, sailor?"

Ilmar the Slick wasn't a big fan of the trendy tobacco. But sailor Marcel probably had to appreciate it.

"Thank you, Baron…"

"It's nothing, Count…"

I was confused! The old man was clearly having fun at my expense. Was he senile? No, it didn't look that way. Fine, he'd let me in, fed me, conversed with me. But if he did that with everyone he met, he wouldn't be enjoying his country life for long.

Then again, he didn't have long left anyway.

We lit up our cigars, the old baron wryly looked at my struggle with cheap breakable matches.

"Where have you been lately, Marcel?"

"Oh…" I took a drag and barely kept myself from coughing. The cigar was strong. "Sailed to the West Indies. Well, that was last year… It was still calm there."

"They say they're going to export ore from there," the old man wondered.

"No, not ore. It's unprofitable. But the mines there are rich. By order of the House, they're going to start producing goods right there and bring them here. Knives, swords, plows, nails… anything one could possibly want."

The old man nodded, "Sensible, but foolish."

"Excuse me?"

"If you develop industry in the colony, it might decide to split off. Leave old Europe behind and start building its own empire. Nothing new there… we've lost many lands that way…"

"Perhaps. But the House knows best. Doesn't it?"

"Sure, sure…" Jean puffed out a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. "Where else have you been?"

"They were going to send us to Australia," I said. "But then London rebelled… so we spent two weeks sailing along the coast, scaring the people."

"Served on the Son of Thunder, eh?.. So how was it in London, did you get to shoot at someone?"

How was I supposed to know? The rumors said yes, but official edicts claimed no…

"Some. Just… calming them down."

"And then what?"

The old man was hungry for news…

"Then they sent us to the Isles of Sorrow. That… runaway Prince Marcus showed up there. The Grey Vests were supposed to take him, except the prince ran off before that."

"Clever boy, Mark…" the old man nodded.

"Excuse me?"

"Clever boy, I said." The baron gave me a wry look. "What, smells too much like treason? I'm glad that Mark left."

"Then you knew him?" I guessed.

"That's one way to put it… I brought him into this world. The little brat was coming out feet first. I thought that either he was done for or both he and the mother…"

I was so nervous I couldn't say anything. That was something: to walk along a road and then suddenly ask to stay the night at the home of a half-mad old man, who was also the House doctor who'd assisted in Mark's birth!

"Interesting, right?" the old man asked.

I nodded. Jean wasn't surprised at a simple sailor expressing such an interest in his words.

"The boy was very sickly," the baron noted.

What? Were we even talking about the same Marcus?

"Bad heredity," the doctor went on.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you understand the title of a junior prince means?"

"Junior in the sense of his age, and prince—"

"Eh, there's no discipline in the navy anymore. When I was young, after graduating Sorbonne, I served on the Son of Thunder…" he threw a quick glance in my direction, "no, don't worry, not on the current one, the old one… well, every week we'd list the entire House by name in the common prayer. From the Possessor to the junior prince… along with the entire genealogy. We also had to know what each title meant, how to greet them, in case they decided to pay a visit to the ship… That's something you remember. Well then, Marcel, a junior prince can be the oldest of the Possessor's children. The thing is… for anyone else, a child born out of wedlock is a bastard. But the Possessor's blood is sacred. The Possessor doesn't produce bastards. Just junior princes."

"Oh…" I whispered, finally seeing clearly. So that was why Mark had twitched when I called him a bastard! He was one! Just a highborn one.

"The title seems to be respectful," the old man continued. "And even the oldest families have no qualms about having a junior prince in their ranks. Marcus is the son of the Possessor and Princess Elizabeth from the Warsaw branch of the House. The Possessor once honored the borderlands with a visit. The princess was still very young, having just celebrated her seventeenth birthday. But, to be honest, Marcus's birth is entirely her doing. She spent three days twirling her tail in front of the Possessor and got what she wanted. After the boy's birth, she moved to Versailles. If she'd been stronger… she could have become his lawful wife. That was what everything was coming to. Her beauty was… angelic, out of this world. She was glowing, thin, translucent, still looked like a girl after giving birth… She withered away from tuberculosis in two weeks."

"How can that be, doctor? Even an ordinary person can treat consumption these days."

"The foolish girl was hiding it!" the old man barked. His personal ambitions had clearly been affected, or maybe he was remembering the problems that followed Princess Elizabeth's death. "The fool wanted to marry the Possessor! And get treatment only afterwards! But the tuberculosis bacilli had other plans! When I examined her for the first time, only rags were left of her lungs, and the disease was already in her bones!"

He swayed his cigar, dropping the heavy gray ashes, and grimaced.

"So the plans of the beautiful, clever, cunning girl didn't pan out. They took her back to Warsaw for burial. The Possessor decided to keep the prince close by. In memory… he really had cared about the princess. But then, of course, the boy became the last thing on his mind. There are two dozen like him running around the Louvre… junior princes on state support. No estates, no money, no power. They can either live with their families or spend the rest of their lives at the palaces, from birth to old age. It's not like they can inherit the throne anyway…"

"I see," I said. "So that's why he ran away, right? No one wants him in Warsaw or by the House, he wanted to go on an adventure and left, bringing shame to the House, so they went after him…"

The old man smiled.

"Eh, what's your name… Marcel… Maybe an airheaded merchant's son or a burgher bastard, sent to work in the kitchen out of pity, might want some adventure and go on a journey. Ut a junior prince, especially a boy, has no need of that. Adventure… all he'd have to do was go to the Possessor and ask, and he'd readily and lovingly give him an adventure. He'd make the snot-nosed kid an officer and sent him to the West Indies to fight the natives. Or as a captain on some small ship. Or an ambassador to some country… why are you smiling? I've seen praetorians salute a commander held by his wet nurse! I remember the Possessor appointing a junior princess, a nine-year-old girl, as ambassador to Meroë just for a laugh!"

"Why a laugh?" I asked in confusion.

"Well, when they refused to receive her in the appropriate manner, that's when there was a laugh, plus a workout for the praetorians! Savages refused to respect the House — that's a casus belli right there! So… no, Marcus didn't run away just because. And no one would've made waves and set such a reward for capture. They'd have quietly informed the Guard that a junior prince of the House is traveling incognito. After all, even a crazy kid calling himself a prince can't be flogged right away and first has to be politely sent to be identified."

"Then why did he run away?"

"I don't know, sailor, I don't know. I thought I understood Marcus well, having spent ten years watching his health. Everyone was afraid that he'd picked up illnesses from his mother, but the Sister kept him safe… He hardened himself using Myriarch Suvorov's methods, became strong… Just a boy. Not a fool, on the smarter side. He loved digging through libraries more than train with weapons. Maybe that was why the Possessor has cooled to him, the kid wasn't normal like his father, just a young bookworm…"

"Ready to give his soul for books," I agreed, remembering Marcus refusing my suggestion to turn a book into a torch.

"Yeah. Teachers liked him. Probably no one else. I personally would've rather treated a dozen idiots with broken limbs and stab wounds than look after him alone. He somehow managed to catch childhood illnesses twice. Weak nerves, like an old man's."

The old man placed the cigar to smolder in a massive stone ashtray and said thoughtfully, "But I'm lying. I miss him. There wasn't a mean bone in the boy's body. On the contrary, an acute desire for justice. One day he's studying Engels's teachings, the next he's learning Russian to allow him to read Noyan [Footnote 1] Kropotkin's essays in their original form. Not bad for a kid, right? He argued with the priests in the temple of the Sister, he asked such questions in the Church of the Redeemer that it took them days to find answers. To be honest, I'd assumed that Junior Prince Marcus was going to take the spiritual path. That would've been the best outcome, the Possessor would've supported it, and maybe in twenty years or so, the Possessor's illegitimate son would've become God's adopted son…" He rubbed his cheek. "I wonder what that would've made the Possessor to God."

I chuckled.

"Good or bad, but it could've happened." The old man grew serious. "But not anymore. Marcus has done something…"

"What?"

"I don't know, sailor. I don't know. Maybe his friend, that convict Ilmar, might know."

A chill ran down my spine from the doctor's gaze.

"They'll probably catch him any day now!" I said passionately. "Where's a thief going to hide from the entire Guard? And with the reward… his friends will give him up…"

"Who knows, sailor, who knows? The convict ran away from the Isles. Crossed the entire country to Amsterdam, I'm sure you've heard. When they surrounded the whole city, he managed to slip away! What is that?"

"The Sister protects," I answered gloomily.

"The Sister protects everyone, but few know how to take advantage of that. When a man doesn't have a head on his shoulders, then even God won't be able to attach a new one. No, sailor, that Ilmar isn't the simple sort, not at all. No wonder Marcus chose him as his escape partner…"

"What?" I exclaimed in indignation. "I was… I've heard officers say that it was the convict who grabbed the kid with him!"

"Nonsense," the old man stated firmly. "I think this is how it happened… Marcus figure out which of the convicts would be useful to him, then set himself up, as if by accident, like maybe showing that he had a lockpick on his Word. Then the convict was dragging him along like a walking storehouse. And when they reached the mainland, Marcus left Ilmar. Didn't kill him, of course, he's kind. Just ran off."

"You say as if he's some secret agent, not a little boy…"

"Think about where that boy grew up, the sort of intrigues he'd seen. He knows how to manipulate people. A simple thief isn't even close to being on his level."

I was silent. I'd been crushed and spat on. The old man was speaking with such conviction that it was hard to doubt him.

"So Prince Marcus is smarted than the entire Guard? If he wants to, he'll get away from everyone?"

"No, sailor. Of course not. Alone against everybody, it's the end regardless. One false step, like being mistaken about someone or getting caught in a minor theft, he's got to eat, after all… They'll take the boy and bring him to the House. I'd like to listen in on what the Possessor is going to talk to him about, what he's going to demand. Something shady is happening here, Marcel."

"We'll never know," I said. "The only good thing about it is, as soon as they catch the boy, the panic will be over. Maybe they'll even stop chasing the convict."

"That's unlikely. They're after the convict because they're afraid the boy told him something he shouldn't have. The best thing for the House in this case is to put Ilmar into a grave. Maybe they will stop hunting him, but the reward will stay. Sooner or later… his friends will give him up."

They would. I knew that too. Even Nico, with his love of gambles, had reported me to the Guard. All the others would betray me in a heartbeat.

"So what should he do then?"

"Who?"

"The convict Ilmar," I said, looking into the old baron's eyes.

"That depends on him. He could go to foreign lands, of course. There's always a chance to hide out at the edge of the world. If he loves his homeland too much, then he can put an end to his old life, go to a small town, open a shop."

"I don't think Ilmar is that sort of man."

"Well, if what they say about him is true… He could do something else…"

"Well?"

"Find Marcus himself and hand him over to the House. Maybe the Possessor will pardon him for such a service."

"You seem to care about the kid," I said thoughtfully. "And yet you're giving such advice. Why would you do that?"

"It means I see a reason for it. Besides, I'm not giving this advice to Ilmar, am I?" the old man chuckled.

"That's true," I agreed. "But how can one man find what the entire country is searching?"

"Well, he could use his head, for example. It doesn't make sense for Mark to travel the world. He already tried it and ended up in a labor camp for a minor theft. And now when the Guard has been informed, he'll be send to the House, not to the Isles of Sorrow."

"Aha…"

"This means the boy is going to try to hide. Where?"

"In Warsaw. With his relatives."

"Those aren't the kind of relatives to hide him… He has no business in foreign lands, they're also curious about Prince Marcus and why he's being hunted. The boy has no estates, castles, or anything else of the sort."

"Then there's nothing to grab on to."

"Exactly. You have to know him well to pick up the trail."

"Like you know Marcus, for example…"

"What do I know? Small things. I remember the boy coming back from a pleasure trip to Miraculus…"

"Is that on Capri?"

"Yes. They'd just opened Wonderland. The Possessor wouldn't grace it with his presence, but some of the junior princes did go… Marcus spent two weeks on the island. Never seen the boy so happy."

"What's good there? Some entertainment…"

"Well, not only… besides, keep in mind the age difference. Marcus was ten back then. After his return, the boy was glowing as if the Possessor had just recognized him as a rightful heir."

"Stupid…" I said. "It's still stupid. Miraculus is a special place, under the direct authority of the House, the Guard there is particularly vigilant…"

"That's true. Except there is no place in Europe but Wonderland that Marcus knows like the back of his hand."

I was silent, staring at the fire. I didn't particularly like the idea of looking for Marcus in order to hand him over to the Guard instead of hiding myself. Maybe they really would lift all accusations from me after that and even confirm the title…

"Why am I talking about convicts and renegade princes?!" the old man exclaimed in indignation suddenly. "I'm sitting next to such an interesting man here and not listening to him. Tell me, which interesting things have you seen in the West Indies?"

I should've told him we'd sailed to Asian lands. I actually knew about them firsthand. But there was nothing to be done now…

"The West Indies is a vast land, entirely populated by savages, except for our and Russian settlements," I said gloomily. "Most of those savages worship false gods, know no civilization, don't understand the value of iron, and are incapable of working it. Glass is useful for trading with them…"

"What marvels do they have?"

For some reason, I didn't want to repeat the tales I'd told in taverns earlier. The doctor was a wise man, and the books on his shelves weren't just for show. Maybe he'd heard plenty about the West Indies and was now testing me.

"How much can a simple sailor see?" I sighed. "We went on shore leave in Boston, and the city is almost European. Saw some redskins, but they look a lot more like us than blacks and Asians."

"True, true…" the old man sighed. "All right, Marcel the Sailor, I'm not going to question you. You're a simple man, so you can sleep here by the fireplace. I'll leave you a blanket and a pillow. Get some rest. I'm going to my bedroom, lock my door, just in case, and go to bed too…"

"I'm not going to hurt you, Jean the Doctor…"

"I know. I've learned to figure people out over the years. But I'll still close the door. You're not going to leave with my things at night, are you?"

"No, I sweat by the Sister."

"I believe you. Don't leave without things either, you'll just get wet."

The old man rose and went to the door that led to a room I hadn't been in.

"Tell me, Baron, why did you send me to the chicken coop?" I asked after him. "It wasn't because you didn't have the strength to leave the house."

"No, it wasn't," the old man growled. "I was deciding what to do with you. Let you in, send you away, or give you a taste of some buckshot."

"And how did I please you? Was the chicken I chose really that good?"

The old man stood at the door for a few moments before answering, "No… Marcel. That's not the reason. It was something like a sign… Forget it. Go to sleep."

He slammed the door with unexpected strength and immediately slid the bolt. He was still being cautious, which meant that he wasn't entirely out of his mind, only about halfway.

I circled the room, looked out the window. It was pitch black, rain was pouring, occasionally thunder rumbled in the distance. Sign… What sign?

My gaze fell upon the slug-thrower. The old man had left it in the room… whoa. I walked up to the weapon and picked it up.

A familiar item, many officers had these when I'd been in the army. They even taught soldiers how to use them in case the shooter was killed in battle. The slug-thrower was old but reliable, hit far and precisely. Although it did misfire a lot.

Like this one, for example. The hammer had struck, but the spark didn't light the powder.

I was probably a lucky man. The buckshot would've taken my head clean off at two meters.

"Bastard…" I whispered. "Some doctor you are… old snake…"

My hands shook. A sign from above then? No, not a sign, the flint had worn off, the gunpowder had become damp, that was all there was to it.

My first thought was to grab the bastard's most valuable items and disappear into the night. Or maybe even set fire to the house from the inside.

Then I came to my senses.

No, the old doctor didn't deserve to die. In his place, I would've probably pulled the trigger twice and definitely not let some stranger into my home.

I carefully propped up the bedroom door with a chair to make sure that it couldn't be opened without noise and a delay, put out the lamp, removed my shoes, lay down by the fireplace, and wrapped myself in the blanket. I felt awful. The old man was right about one thing, though: there would never be salvation for the convict Ilmar the Slick. Not as long as House was looking for Junior Prince Marcus.

This meant that my path lay to isle of Capri, to Miraculus, Wonderland, built by supreme command of the House to amuse adults and children, a place of entertainment and fun. I had no idea how a boy being hunted by the entire nation could possibly be hiding on a small island full of people. But I was going to have to check. There was no other choice. I didn't want to run away to foreign lands, I wouldn't be able to live as a burgher, I didn't have the sort of holy faith the late paladin Ruud had. That left one path: find Mark and hand him over to the House personally. The Possessor was harsh but fair, no one would argue that point. What did he care for a flea like me? If he pardoned me, it would only earn him more love from the people. I didn't know any secrets anyway, they could put me under hypnosis or stretch me on a rack, I had nothing to say, nothing at all…

I fell asleep to the whispering of the rain, to the crackling of the coals in the fireplace, in warmth and comfort. But I saw cold and snow in my dreams, a vast icy desert, through which I was walking in the darkness. I was walking for a long time, not feeling my legs, mindlessly, but knowing that I had to keep going. Then a woman with a bright face stepped out from the darkness, pushing it away from her. I dropped to my knees, not daring to look up. Most importantly, I knew that it was a dream and that such dreams were always sent from on high.

But the Sister said nothing. And when I reached out and touched her, I felt only cold. Icy, deathly cold…

What was the point of such dreams?

Even if that had been a sign, it wasn't meant for my meager brains.

I lay there in the darkness, staring at the last sparks of flame in the fireplace, then fell asleep once more. Maybe I'd see something nice.

But I saw no more dreams that night.

Footnotes

1) "Noyan" was a Central Asian title of authority.