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.

Chapter 2

In Which I'm Recognized Twice, but Both Times Nothing Terrible Happens

I got up before old Jean. I removed the chair from the door. There was no need for him to know about my fears. Then I stood by the window.

The rain had ended, the Sister had finished crying over human sins. The sun was shining, dew was sparkling on the grass. But the flowers on the beds had drooped, as if accepting that fall was coming into its own, and their time was over.

Flowers didn't live long.

I went to the kitchen, lit the stove, and filled the kettle with clean water from a small barrel. While it was boiling, I went outside, found the outhouse, then washed my face with water that was cloudy from the rain. I stood barefoot on the cold grass and stared up at the sky.

Sister, give me a hint!

Enlighten this fool!

Maybe I really ought to go somewhere to the edge of the world. Nico had suggested the same, and there was no villainous man who was more cunning than him; and the old baron, who had plenty of experience… All of them were smart, I alone was looking for adventure.

What was strange, I was finding it!

The most important thing in life was life itself. Any sin could be prayed away, any problem could be fixed. As long as one was alive, there would always be room for joy, hope, and love.

The dead had already lost. Even if they were holy paladins.

"Nice weather."

I turned and saw the baron/doctor standing in the door wrapped in a robe.

"It is," I admitted. "Although it's beginning to smell of fall."

"It's about time."

"It is."

The old man sighed, "Let's go, you can grab a bite before the road. You've got a long way to go, don't you?"

"If I only knew how long…" I entered the house.

We wordlessly finished off the remains of yesterday's chicken, some cheese, and had some coffee.

"Do you have money, sailor?" the baron asked.

"I do."

"A weapon, in case you need to protect yourself?"

"I'll find one."

He nodded, then grabbed a wicker basket from a shelf, "I'm going to step out, get some fresh eggs…"

I came out with him. After a moment's hesitation, I proffered my hand, and we shook.

"Why are you doing this, old man?"

"Doing what? I don't understand."

"Yes, you do…"

The former doctor of the House sighed, "Sailor, I've lived my life, examined the highborn in such places where an aristocrat was no different from a peasant. I've served faithfully. As a reward, I was given a stupid title, a small allowance, and a command to live away from cities. To keep my mouth shut. It's fine, I'm alive, which is enough. But now I can do what I want without checking with anyone first. There are few I can remember kindly… but Prince Marcus is a nice boy. I don't want anything bad to happen to him… Good luck, Marcel the Sailor."

"You can stop with that, Jean the Doctor…"

"All right. Good luck, Ilmar the Thief. If the nickname Slick truly suits you, then you'll get out of trouble yourself and not bring problems to others."

"How did you recognize me, old man?"

"You just have to have eyes, Ilmar… You know what I've spent twenty years doing at the House? Improved ladies' faces. Removed scars from bretteurs [Footnote 1]. I could fix someone's face, so that their own mother wouldn't recognize them. Maybe some people look at a portrait and see everything separately: lips, eyes, nose, cheekbones. But not me… I need to see the real human face, to remove everything extra, to understand what to fix and where. So don't worry. I doubt anyone else will recognize you by your portraits in the papers."

"Old man, maybe it really was a sign from on high. Me wandering in here, you not shooting me, giving me advice…"

"It's not a sign. Now, if Prince Marcus happened to have wandered to my place, if it was him I'd given advice to, then that would be a miracle. This was just an accident."

"Good luck, Baron."

"Safe travels."

I nodded to the old man and began walking towards the road.

Maybe a sign. Maybe just an accident.

All life consisted of accidents like that.

From the road, I looked back again. The old man was hobbling to the house from the chicken coop, carefully holding the basket in front of him. I waved to him, but it didn't seem like he was looking in my direction anymore.

I walked on foot for two hours. The road had loosened a little, but it was still easier to walk than in the heat. And I spent all this time cursing myself without stop.

I was going to do nonsense. First of all, looking for Marcus in Miraculus was a stupid and useless task. Second, there was still no point in it, no guarantee that I would be pardoned if I dragged the boy to the House… Third, it was still a vile thing to do.

No. I wasn't going to do what old Jean had suggested.

Maybe I really would hide in foreign lands. In the Russian Khanate, for example. It wasn't just Muslims living there, they also had temples of the Sister and Church of the Redeemer. Maybe I would quietly live in Moscow or Kyiv, or maybe even in Kazan itself. Now was a peaceful time, I'd get used to it. I'd even find something to do. They said that there were great numbers of ancient pagan temples and abandoned cities in Russian lands. The East was closer too, so I'd find where to apply myself.

Gradually, the idea was growing more and more attractive. The meeting with the former doctor seemed to have sobered me up, chased away all the illusions. I could live in Russia or China for a while. A year, five, ten. It was fine. Maybe then I could come back, the hubbub would die out, Prince Mark would be history… either executed or locked away in a dungeon forever.

It was settled. I'd rest up in Lyon for a day, then get to Paris, even though it was right under the House's nose. Still, I had to try and open up my stash, take what I'd hidden away for a rainy day. Then through Prague and Warsaw I'd get to Kyiv.

I'd use a fake name, grease the palms of greedy officials; they were corrupt everywhere, it was like a factory brand. They'd give me a residence permit.

I felt stronger from this decision. I calmed down, and now the sun had finally warmed me up. Even when a passing stagecoach stopped and the coachman gave me a friendly wave, inviting me to sit on his box, I accepted it as a given.

I liked these signs from on high!

"Going far, sailor?" the coachman asked. An elderly man, thoughtful, his uniform wasn't new but of good quality. A woman's scarf and two girlish ribbons were tied to the curlicues over the coachman's seat. Amulets given by his loved ones. It was obvious that a man like that wasn't an airhead; he knew and loved his work, but home was also a sacred and important place for him.

"To Lyon, pops. To my family."

"On leave?"

"Yeah."

A sullen jaundiced face peered out from inside the stagecoach. The man asked in broken Gaulish, "Why are we standing, driver?"

The coachman swung his whip, and the horses dashed forward, not waiting for the crack, as if somehow managing to look back through the blinders. The passenger hurried back inside.

"My brother used to be a sailor," the coachman said. "Sailed on a State corvette, served for twenty years. Now he's…"

The coachman didn't finish the story about his brother. It seemed his service on a corvette was the most notable episode of his biography.

"Why on foot?" he asked suddenly. "Didn't they give you travel papers?"

"They did, pops," I sighed. "But I… got a little carried away on the shore."

"Lost them?"

"Sold them," I said gloomily. "To some guy for peanuts. So now I'm either walking or traveling with kind people…"

"Not good," the coachman sighed. "The House granted you a free trip, and you gave it away to a conman."

I remembered my free trip aboard the prison ship and lowered my head ruefully.

"Don't worry, it's a youthful thing. Just don't talk about it. I don't care, but someone else might tell the Guard on you…"

Felling around behind him, the coachman took out a flask.

"Have some of this."

The wine was sour, but I nodded gratefully. I handed the flask to the coachman.

"Maybe just a sip," he sighed. He took a swig, then put the flask back. "You look a little tired. Slept in the woods?"

"Yeah."

"That's what I thought. It's the middle of nowhere here, just a crazy baron living by the roadside… But not crazy enough to let someone spend the night."

"A baron?" I asked in amazement. "Really? He pointed a slug-thrower at me, so I left."

"He's completely lost it… Yeah, he's a real baron. Not hereditary, though, been granted the title for some accomplishments. Has a title but no lands. Old already. Every time I pass by, I keep expecting to see ashes in place of the house: either he burns it down himself, or some bad people will get him…

I nodded. Sooner or later, something like that was bound to happen.

"If you're tired, climb up to the roof," the coachman suggested. "I can see that you're not in the mood to talk. All the passengers are important, no one is riding third class."

"Thanks," I said. I hadn't slept under a bush, of course, but it seemed the tension was still too great to get enough sleep.

I climbed a small ladder from the box to the stagecoach's roof. The hatch was closed. I first lay on a narrow wooden bench, then realized I wouldn't be able to stay there and instead sat on the floor. I wasn't a proud man. I could ride in a bishop's carriage, in third class, or walk on my own two feet…

I looked up and froze.

The sky was swaying above me, clear and transparent, with that cold fall blue that lasted only a short while, and even then it wasn't always possible to see it. Sad, departing purity that lived at the threshold of warmth and cold. The most beautiful things in the world were more fragile than glass and more fleeting than a snowflake on one's hand. That was how the sparks of a dying campfire, to which you didn't want to add firewood, flared. It was how the first spring rain fell, how a rainbow appeared over the ground, how a withered leaf broke off, how lightning cut through the sky. If one wanted, it was possible to find this beauty everywhere, every hour, every minute. Only then one might become a poet.

I wasn't much of a poet…

And yet few would believe that Ilmar the Slick, who'd crawled through every barrier and the darkness filled with ghosts into the depths of an Egyptian pyramid, passing stones falling from the ceiling, false passages, bottomless pits opening underfoot, ended up leaving the pharaoh's tomb emptyhanded. Not taking anything from the stone chamber because, in the blinding light that had illuminated the crypt filled with gold, copper, and gems for the first time in millennia, he'd seen that very same dying beauty that must never be touched.

Maybe that was why I'd been bypassed by the ancient curse that killed other pyramid robbers with unknown Egyptian consumption.

Yes, I saw such beauty rarely, which meant that I was not a poet.

But if I did see it, then I would stop. The baron/doctor had spoken of a sign… I still shuddered when thinking about almost getting a load of buckshot to the face. To me, a sign like that isn't in a misfiring slug-thrower, not in a sudden realization; after all, it could also come from God's dark side, the hellish icy deserts. To me, a sign like that would be fleeting beauty, whichever way it presented: the glint of a diamond in the light of a secret lantern, blood-red berries on a snow-covered bush, a person's word or gesture. Or like now, in the transparent sky that seemed to be reaching out to God, with occasional feathers of clouds, and the white bird of a glider crawling over us…

"Hey, sailor, look up!" the coachman shouted. "Look, there's a flyer over us!"

I grimaced, his voice was breaking roughly through the charm, as it was a rusty saw cutting firewood from the altar of an abandoned temple…

"I see it…"

The glider suddenly jerked and accelerated. A smoky trail followed it.

"Redeemer protect…" the driver said fearfully, cracking the whip mercilessly and adding a curse word. "Hey, sailor, is it on fire or something?"

Had I really been that high up, in that clear distance, even if squirming in fear but still floating between the ground and the sky? Why had the fear prevented me from looking around and seeing the world moving around me?

"No, not on fire, the flyer turned on the booster… in a hurry, or looking for an updraft… Keep quiet, okay?"

The coachman fell silent. Not offended, more out of respect. He'd clearly decided that the sailor wasn't that simple if he knew his gliders.

"Far up in the sky…" I whispered.

That was my sign. Now to understand what it meant…

The farewell beauty of the fall sky was gone. What returned were the shaking, the hoofbeat, and the cold wind carrying the glider away. I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

That was why I'd never be a poet because I thought of beauty one moment and of my mortal body and all its needs the next.

When the stagecoach rolled along Lyon pavement, the shaking became unbearable. I came out of my sleep but continued lying there, reflecting gloomily on my own stupid nature. I had to run! So why did I keep coming up with excuses?

The stagecoach rolled under a giant visor of glass and wood; the horse station here was new, enormous, instilling respect in the travelers with just its appearance. I immediately recalled that there was a pub nearby that served excellent fried sausages with light pale ale. It seemed the entire breakfast had settled down in my stomach over the trip.

"Come out, ladies and gentlemen," the kind coachman was saying below. "How was the ride? I apologize for the shaking, the road here is utterly broken, it's an outrage…"

"It's fine," one of the passengers replied. "Don't worry about it."

There was the pleasant jingle of coins, as the coachman was getting his tips.

"Thank you, I will be happy to drive you again…" His tone indicated the tips were good.

"Redeemer forbid," the passenger replied gloomily. "Luco!"

The voice sounded familiar. I grimaced, trying to remember it.

"Here, Captain."

This voice was also familiar. The guy who'd looked out the window when I was getting on…

"You said you know a good hotel. I'm in no condition to think until I've taken a bath."

"Of course."

"Excellent… Pues, hasta la vista, guapa!" [Footnote 2] the first man said in Iberian but with a strong Germanic accent, clearly addressing a female traveling companion. Then he spoke to the other man, "Let's go. I can't wait…"

The voices were moving away, as the passengers were walking. Now some other people were coming out; they'd clearly been riding in second class, although it barely mattered on a road without any steep climbs that required someone to get out and push. I rose and looked over the low side of the roof. Some merchants with briefcases, two young officials that had immediately stuck cigars in their mouths, a lady dressed in luxurious and tasteless clothing with a pretty young companion… But where were those two who'd come out first in accordance with the privilege afforded by first class and had given good tips despite their dislike of the road?

There they were, walking towards the station building. No wonder the ever-present paupers were trying to get out of their way. Both were wearing Guard uniforms. Luco, the one who'd looked out the window, was unfamiliar to me. But next to him was Officer Arnold, whom I'd run into at the David and Goliath restaurant. His forehead was covered by a white bandage. He'd gotten lucky, the bullet only grazed him.

My palms were sweaty. I crouched like a misbehaving child, lowered my head, and watched the guards out of the corner of my eye.

So I was riding right above them? While shouting loudly? Who was I supposed to thank for my salvation: God, Arnold's deep sleep, or the stagecoach's squeaky wheels?

"Hey, sailor, time to get up!" the coachman called good-naturedly. I leapt to my feet and immediately jumped down the roof to the side opposite from the guards. I hurt my feet a little but didn't even feel any pain.

"Nice jump!" the coachman praised. He stood there, habitually wiping the sweat off the horses, while glancing at me in approval. "Would you like some beer, sailor? Just wait half an hour…"

"Thank you, friend, I can't. I'm in a hurry. I want to see my loved ones, my sister Jeanette, my brother Paul…"

I was speaking nonsense, my countenance expressing my desire to rush to see my nonexistent relatives, but I wasn't coming out from behind the carriage's protective cover.

"All right then, go…" the coachman replied with some confusion. "Take care…"

Nodding, I hurriedly walked, mixing in with the people who were on their way to their stagecoaches. A bell rung on the station's wall, and a herald shouted hoarsely, "Midday to Paris, first- and second-class seats available, midday to Paris, stand sixteen…"

Only after getting lost in the stream of people in a hurry to their long journeys, I risked looking back. Arnold was smoking a cigar while attentively listening to Luco. Somehow I knew that they were talking about me, a sailor who'd boarded the stagecoach on the way. I decided not to wait for the outcome, whether the officer was going to wave it off or decide to ask the coachman about his traveling companion. Diving into the building, I quickly went to the other side and came out to a small square. The desire to get as far away from the Guard officer who knew my face as possible was incredibly sharp.

A few minutes later, I was already sitting in an open coach, while a coachman, happy to have an easygoing passenger, was taking me to the Hospitality of the Sister inn, a modest establishment, despite the grand name, but very familiar and very cozy. I'd been there last four years ago, hadn't talked to anyone in particular, and wasn't afraid of being recognized. The tension was gradually leaving me; after all, Lyon was a large city, and there were few chances that I was going to run into Arnold.

And yet the inexorability with which fate had brought us together the second time was beginning to scare me.

Times haven't been kind to Hospitality of the Sister of late. The three-story building looked sagging and worn. Maybe because it hadn't been renovated in a long time, or maybe because of the tall buildings that had sprung up around it. There were buildings with five stories, seven, and one brick monstrosity turned out to be twelve stories tall.

Based on the large windows, it was either a very luxurious dwelling or the office of a successful company, while the white puffs of steam coming out from the roof suggested the presence of elevators. Then I saw the sign "Hannibal Hotel" over the glass entrance to the skyscraper and understood everything. Of course, any inn standing next to such a luxurious establishment was doomed. All the rich guests would prefer to stay at Hannibal, while the trash would be here.

Like me…

But the remains of the former coziness were still present inside the inn. The rugs on the floor were old but clean, the flowers in the vases were slightly withered but alive. Servant boys were standing ramrod-straight by the stairs, two guards had a confident air about them, a new writing instrument was standing in front of the receptionist, while the old abacus had given way to a small calculating machine made of bronze and wood. Although only half of the bright carbide lamps were lit, but that just added to the coziness.

I felt a little better. I really hadn't wanted to end up in a flophouse with dumb peasants and minor shopkeepers who'd come to Lyon to buy and sell.

I paid for a fairly decent room, which even had a toilet and a bathtub. I could've splurged for an even more luxurious one, but a sailor on shore leave, even if he did serve on a praetorian ship of the line, wasn't supposed to show off too much. A servant boy, clearly disappointed by the lack of luggage, led me to my room on the second floor. I meticulously examined the toilet, which was clean, the bathtub, the hot water was lazily flowing out of the copper faucet, and sat on the bed, which didn't squeak. It would do. The boy was gloomily waiting by the door and was rewarded by a small coin. I musingly held another one in my fingers while asking him about nearby drinking establishments and shops. After the honest answer that eating and drinking was better outside the inn, and that the best girls had gone to work at Hannibal Hotel, the boy received the second coin.

Shutting the door and without even removing my shoes, I lay down on the bed and began thinking. Did it make sense to linger in the city? If I'd decided to run… But even the best stagecoach would take two days to get to Paris, and I was tired from the road. It would be best to get some decent sleep, have a meal, and get a mug or two of beer at night…

I didn't have the strength to resist the temptation. I got undressed, filled the tub with hot water, climbed into it, and relaxed. The Guard officer Arnold was leaving my thoughts farther and farther. Although it was funny to think that he was also probably lying in hot water, maybe still clutching the cigar in his mouth, staring gloomily at the ceiling and wondering whether the unexpected traveling companion had been Ilmar…

It was fine. People like him could immediately feel something wrong but couldn't believe it. His conscientiousness was hampering him, just like a bloodhound with too sensitive a nose was bothered by too many old scents. One thing did surprise me. Why had he come to Lyon? Did it have anything to do with me? If it did, then what had led him to my trail? Why had he come to the Gaulish lands instead of going north?

Many questions, no answers. As usual…

Half an hour later, I climbed out of the cooled water, dried myself with an old but clean towel, and got dressed. I glanced out the window at the Hannibal Hotel tower. The funny thing was that me being a thief wouldn't have stopped me from staying there. But Mark, a bastard of the highest sort, had rejected all the pleasures of life.

How many times had I told myself to avoid politics? But who could tell where trouble lay?

I locked the room; the lock was so ridiculous that even a rookie wouldn't have been hampered by it, but I didn't have anything in there anyway. I came out and walked down the street towards the nearest store that sold ready-made clothing.

Naturally, I wouldn't be caught dead wearing cheap manufactory-made clothes under normal circumstances. It was utter madness to think up standard-sized clothing that wasn't tailored! As if people were the same! But it wouldn't do to be picky at the moment; I could feel that the sailor's outfit had served its purpose. Lyon was a big city, and there was always a chance of running into actual sailors. What would I do then? Feed them third-hand stories?

I didn't even glance at suits. Getting a suit that hadn't been tailored was a mockery. I had to dig through clothes meant for students, clerks, and various bohemian riffraff. One of the salesgirls was bustling near me, providing advice and talking nonsense like the claim that clothes made in manufactories was hardier and more attractive than ordinary ones. I bore it all, then finally accepted the offered garments and went into a fitting room. I cast off the sailor's rags, put on pants made of steel-dyed thick canvas, a red-and-black plaid shirt, and a rough-knit gray sweater, which was probably deliberately shapeless to fit any figure. With a heavy heart, I turned to a small muddy mirror.

Hmm.

Strangely enough, I looked pretty decent. Not a student, of course. And not a clerk, my face was too hard. But I could easily pass for an artist or a musician…

I chewed my lips, smoothed out my cheeks, and ruffled my hair a little. I'd need some accessories. The stolen cloak wouldn't do at all. I had to get a bright or even a leather jacket. Some stupid beret or a Russian murmolka with a tassel for the head. A bright scarf. But the shoes were still decent.

Diving out of the fitting room, I caught the salesgirl's surprised and approving look. I picked out a gray beret and a checkered scarf and took another look in the mirror. The salesgirl wordlessly dragged me to a large mirror placed next to a bright lamp.

Excellent.

First of all, it made me look younger. I just had to shave, as the beard was far too small and looked unkempt. Second, it wasn't my look at all. Maybe even the old physiognomist Baron Jean wouldn't be able to recognize me in this.

"It suits you," the girl said.

I gave her a curious look. The girl smiled.

"Maybe," I admitted. "What establishment can I spend an evening in without scaring anyone with manufactured clothing?"

"Indian Trail, for one."

I seemed to recall the servant boy mentioning the place…

"Indian cuisine is nice," I said.

"Have you been to India?"

"No," I admitted. "But I did try their food."

"Except it's not that kind of Indian food," the girl giggled. "Even their chef is a real red-skinned woman. She's from India, but not the one you're thinking of. The West Indies."

"I'll stop by," I agreed. "What about…"

"Actually, I was planning on going there tonight too."

It was a promising beginning. We exchanged understanding smiles, I paid without haggling, and left the store. The clothes really were cheap, and the accumulated irritation was beginning to melt.

Progress couldn't be stopped. One had to learn to use its fruit.

After taking a walk, I found a shop mainly filled with young people. They were selling all manner of nonsense: colored printed posters with faces of some popular individuals, cheap guitars and lutes, thin chains made of poor iron, and various pleasures of the wealthy youth. And yet I found the last two strokes to complete my portrait here: a leather jacket that fastened diagonally with ten ivory buttons and a brass pin that said, "I'm the slippery type."

Crap like that was usually worn by students and all manner of poor artists that painted portraits on the street.

Chucking to myself, I attached the pin right to the jacket. Yes, I was a slippery one. But who was going to think that Ilmar would walk around with his own nickname on his chest?

But still, who was I: an artist or a poet? After a moment's hesitation, I decided to become a sculptor. It was harder to test my skills, while an artist could be handed paper and a stylus at any moment. I didn't believe my ability to write poetry at all.

After getting rid of the sailor's clothing and the cloak in the simplest and most natural manner—by tossing all of it to a group of beggars hanging out next to a cheap tavern—I kept on walking. An energetic division of clothes was taking place behind me. Soon the entire masquerade of sailor Marcel would be split up among the five paupers, turning into dirty, filthy rags after a few nights on the streets. No traces.

My mood was markedly improving. At some random café, I grabbed a bite of fried veal with beer. The beer turned out to be nice, not like in Amsterdam, where I might as well drink water from their Amstel. Somewhere in the distance, on a temple, the clock struck three. I suppressed an involuntary desire to follow the sound; with my sins, it would be best to pray to the Sister without any intermediaries. But I needed to find something to do until evening. It was stupid walking around randomly in the cold and even more ridiculous to sit at the inn, while getting drunk was especially so, considering the promising evening.

Then the solution appeared on its own. I came out to the Lyon theater, where a performance was just starting. There were plenty of people, suggesting that the troupe really was good. It was Molière's Tartuffe, a pretty funny play with the appropriate skill of the actors.

I entered.

The theater turned out to be nice; it seemed that the arts in Lyon, just like across the entire Gaulish Province, were patroned by the authorities and the wealthy elite. And the troupe played well, even though there wasn't a single famous name among the actors. The actor playing Orgon was distracting the audience with his voice and gestures so well that it really did seem as if he knew the Word on which the box with Argas's documents was hidden. And the scene in the second act where the vile Tartuffe convinced Orgon to give him the Word and to transfer the box to it was acted out masterfully. I recalled the brief dialog of the late Brother Ruud and the bishop, "We can learn the Word's interval and movement phase." Naturally, I'd known even before that that the Word wasn't just spoken. But it was here, watching the movements of the actors, that I truly understood what it meant. In order to open a passage to the Cold, to hide something there or retrieve it, one had to produce several gestures and sounds, putting it all together… into a beautiful, smooth, resounding gesture that opened the path into nothingness.

I thought that the great comedian really had known the Word. No wonder he'd written the role of Orgon for himself… I pictured what the comedy could've been like when Molière himself had acted in it. He'd probably tried to pass it off as a sleight of hand, the way the current actor was trying to pass his skill as a prestidigitator as a genuine Word.

Incredible. People watched the performance, laughed at Tartuffe's clumsy attempts at learning the Word, and had no idea that the truth was hidden under the mask of ridicule.

Was it actually possible to learn the Word by watching Molière himself?

Then I was distracted by Orgon's monologue, which was done with a great passion.

"It was a matter of conscience, you see,
So I consulted Tartuffe in secrecy,
And his arguments came to persuade me
That he should keep the Word for security…"

The audience was listening raptly. No one here possessed the Word, of course. But people always had hope! And each of them was probably thinking the same thing, If I learn the Word, then I'll never give to anyone: not my wife, not my son, not my best friend…

As expected, the performance ended happily. The Guard arrived with a personal decree from the Possessor, Tartuffe was sent to the mines, and Orgon was pardoned for all his transgressions before the House.

While the audience was leaving, the lead actor had come down from the stage and was showing to allcomers how he pulled a foldable cardboard box from out of his sleeve. A sensible precaution, in case there was some murdering idiot who wished to torture him for the Word…

I came out of the theater deep in thought, trying to remember how Mark had reached into the Cold. Would I be able to recall something?

No. I'd had other things on my mind at the time. The old baron was right; I'd treated Mark as a small walking storehouse, while he'd seen me as an instructor for fleeing a labor camp. And Nico was right too; I never thought about the future. I lived in the moment, solved problems as they came up. It was easier, of course.

But maybe it was time to look ahead. What was I going to achieve by hiding in foreign lands? Sooner or later, the State was once again going to fight the Khanate: over lands where the mines weren't yet depleted, over control of the colonies, or just over world domination. Then what awaited me, a foreigner? Russian mines in impassable snows? The executioner's axe or a cheap garotte?

And what awaited me if I did manage to capture Mark? The extremely unlikely mercy of the Possessor? Or a labor camp again? Or, out of respect for the fresh title, would they throw me in a dungeon like the Man in the Bronze Mask or drown me in a casket of Malvasia?

That was the problem.

Either safety for the next few years or forever. And there was no point deceiving myself. That was my entire choice; was I ready to bet everything on a single strong card or would I try to play small?

How about it, Ilmar the Slick?

What were you going to decide?

As soon as I understood everything, I felt easier. I was making that choice all the time. My entire life, from the day I'd run away from home instead of becoming a butcher's apprentice. I could've been a respected man by now, with my own shop, chopped pig and cow carcasses, had a large chunk of meat in soup every evening, an obedient wife and a crowd of kids, always greeting the quarter guard with a handshake… So what had frightened me away from such a life?

I didn't know. But if there were unopened cards lying in front of me, I had to pick them up.

I walked to the hotel. Indian Trail had to be somewhere near here…

When sun began to set, I was already sitting in the Genuine West-Indian Bar Indian Trail. On the outside, it looked like an ordinary building: two stories with a modest sign on the lively Rhône embankment. But inside it really was stylish. The walls were made of logs, with arrows and stone tomahawks sticking in them here and there. The girls and boys serving the food all looked tanned and half-naked, in suede clothes and trinkets, and the occasionally visible female chef really was red-skinned. I doubted that she actually cooked anything here, probably just added flavor to the establishment, but she was interesting to look at. The music was barbaric, nothing but drums and tambourines, but it was amusing to see people dance to it.

Too bad there wasn't much to drink. The whiskey was rough and vile, the brandy didn't compare to the worst Gaulish cognac, the beer was worse than in Amsterdam, and there was no wine at all. Did those poor souls in the Colonies drink nothing else?

The genuine West Indian food also left a lot to be desired. The pancakes with maple syrup were far too fluffy and sickly sweet, the ground meat wrapped in a flatbread and covered in thick and also somewhat sweet tomato sauce had an awful taste. I took a single look at pemmican, tortilla, and hominy corn porridge with pepper before turning away. The rest were poorly-cooked, as if deliberately ruined dishes of the State cuisine: Germanic, Caledonian, Iberian… They did insist that I try the apple pie, but I no longer had any faith in overseas culinary arts.

What had the patrons liked about it? There were surprisingly many people. Primary youngsters and idiots like me, except they were the real bohemia, not a fake like me. This place was probably just in style. Lately, it was popular to talk about the West Indian colonies, of unexplored lands that had a lot of iron and copper. "Sacramento is a rich land, plenty of iron for everyone…" Of course, it was primarily the poor who went there, while the young people like these mostly pretended. They gulped down the awful swill, shouted some maddening songs, and danced on tables… I was drinking the tasteless beer in sorrow and wondered if the shopgirl had tricked me. Maybe I ought to pick up some other girl.

It looked like there were many working girls here, as well as girls who simply wanted to have fun. I could claim to need a model for a new sculpture…

Someone sat down on the next chair. I turned my head and hurried to smile. She'd come after all.

"Hey…"

Outside the store, the girl was holding herself with more confidence. She also wasn't wearing manufactured clothing.

I snapped my fingers, summoning my waitress, and asked, "What are you drinking? Although, to my mind, all these beverages are awful. They don't serve anything normal. How about we go somewhere else?"

I was prepared to engage in some revelry.

The girl giggled.

"I don't know. It's cheap here, and I know the people… And we don't even know one another! My name is Sara."

She moved fast!

"And I'm…" I began, hurriedly trying to come up with a name to go with my new image. But I didn't get to think of anything. A small firm hand lowered itself onto my shoulder.

"Honey, I just can't leave you alone, you immediately start meeting people…"

I lifted my eyes.

Helen the Night Witch was standing behind me. A small, graceful purse was on her shoulder, and a modest gold chain was glinting on her neck. She flyer was wearing a dress rather than a uniform, which, I had to admit, suited her just fine. Even the fact that her left arm was wrapped in a cast up to the elbow looked more like an oddity than a handicap.

The poor shopgirl flared and got up.

"Did you already pay, honey?" Helen asked. Sara's face went red. She glared at Helen, and I wouldn't have been surprised if the flyer's dress were to burst into flames. Then she switched her gaze at me. I had no idea how I'd managed to avoid falling off the chair. She jerked her shoulders in contempt and went to the center of the room, where guys and girls were dancing discordantly.

Helen calmly took her place.

"Why did you do that?" I asked stupidly. "It's not her fault. And she's not a whore…"

"What? All I did was ask if you've paid the waiter. I don't think there's anything for us to do here… Ilmar."

I licked my suddenly dry lips. Helen was looking at me with a slight smile.

"What do you want?" I asked. "Keep in mind, I'm armed. If you make noise…"

"You'll kill me?" The flyer leaned forward and peered into my face. "Hmm. Yeah, you will… So angry. Don't worry. Everything's fine. If I wanted to grab you, I'd have stepped outside and called the Guard."

"You flew into Lyon earlier today," I said. "Right? Turned on a booster about thirty kilometers from the city."

"Right…" Helen was at a loss for a moment.

"I saw your glider. From the road below."

We were silent for a few seconds. A waiter approached and gave me a confused look. Helen threw a curious glance at the young man, her gaze pausing on his beaded loincloth. The guy suddenly flushed, for a moment looking like a real West Indian. The flyer's gaze had at least as much stopping power as the offended Sara's.

"The bill," she commanded, either satisfied with her examination or, just the opposite, unsatisfied. "We're leaving."

"Are you sure?" I asked gloomily.

"Of course. Are you really going to drink this piss and eat raw dough with ground meat? The bill, guy!"

The authoritativeness of a true aristocrat appeared in her voice, the guy shuddered. He was finally done in by Helen's next comment, "And you, Count, could've found a better place for entertainment."

"I like it here!" I barked just to be a contrarian and not because my culinary tastes had changed.

"I'll show you a nicer place."

I didn't have the strength to continue arguing. Helen really could call the guards. I paid wordlessly, and we left Indian Trail, followed by the hostile gaze of the waiter, who was already whispering with his buddies, and Sara's eyes, full of hatred.

I had no personal life whatsoever.

A servant handed Helen her cloak; it was rich, fur-trimmed, far too warm for this weather, but it seemed that flyers liked warm clothes. I put on my jacket; Helen snorted but said nothing.

Several carriages were standing on the road, with their coachmen livening upon seeing us. Helen silently dragged me to the closest one and tossed, "To Old Cellar," to the coachman.

The driver cracked his whip, and we rolled away from the place of entertainment for the Lyon youth.

"By the way, is the bed wide where you're staying?" Helen asked. "I'm not taking you to my hotel, sorry. It's better this way."

The evening was getting better and better.

"A little too narrow for two people to sleep."

"What about not sleeping?"

"Then it'll do."

Helen put her arms around me and leaned her head on my shoulder. To anyone else, we looked like a nice couple that had gone through a brief falling out and was now on the sweet path to reconciliation.

"What do you need from me, flyer?" I asked painfully, realizing that my body was grateful for her behavior.

"Much, Ilmar. But you need at least as much from me. Both of us are neck-deep in shit, thief. And we'll be getting out of it together.

Footnote

1) A bretteur is a professional duelist.

2) "Well, goodbye, beautiful!" in Spanish.