Chapter 8

10th September

A piercing, damp, cold wind blew along the embankment, and Brannon pulled up the collar of his coat. He liked the capital even less than the last time: perhaps because the sky overlaid with dense, dark gray clouds that almost brushed the roof of the lighthouse.

The hound got up on its hind legs and hung over the balustrade. Nathan envied him: in such a fur coat, no wind is terrible. The animal sniffed, snorted and shook its head. Longsdale quietly lowered a long-wire dipstick into the water. Brannon sniffed it too and thought that he would not even advise the consultant to try the water from here.

"Catch with live bait?"

"No," Longsdale replied, keeping an eye on the dipstick. "I'm taking samples. Judging by your description, this is not a matter of simple magic, like the one that your niece is mastering. Here the spells were more powerful. And they always leave a deep mark."

"The master of the vampires summoned sea monsters to drown the ship?" Brennon asked in surprise.

"It is not excluded."

The Commissar swallowed several dozen questions and went down from the embankment to the pier. Even though it was late afternoon, people were scurrying back and forth in crowds, and Nathan was easily lost in the human swarm. With seasoned eye he noticed a couple of people in civilian clothes among the crowd - the holsters were clearly guessed under the frock coats. The two were interrogating the owner of a filthy hangout huddled between two narrow gray buildings. The gray sea was calm today. A ship was heading along the waves to the harbor, seagulls glided in the sky, boats swayed at the pier. Nathan considered, and walked over to the group of boatmen who were chewing pies and smoking nearby.

"Good evening," the Commissar said. A total of seven eyes stared at him, and all as one - with cold ill will.

"Evnng," one of the boatmen replied after a long pause.

"How much is there and back?" Brannon nodded toward the lighthouse.

"Go on foot," the boatman muttered, and the commissar pulled out a banknote in advance from his pocket.

This is how the money goes away, he thought, noting the predatory glances of his interlocutors, turned to the national currency.

"A tourist, or what?" The second boatman asked hoarsely.

"Yeah. Curious."

By the time the boat got out of the harbor, the Commissar came to the conclusion that it hadn't gotten any better in twenty years - the wooden pelvis bobbed on the waves like a shell, and Nathan again felt a deep disgust for sea travel. What only makes people cram into these floating coffins and drag themselves to the devil knows where? But some do it voluntarily! If they would have sat in their Dorgern - may be they would have been alive...

Finally, a gray round lighthouse rose in front of them, although Nathan saw the traces of a collision from afar - the frigate's impact on the walls was so strong that it left a scattering of pockmarks and potholes in the masonry. The Commissar put his hand on the hilt of the akram, but felt nothing. The magical prints were gone.

Or it never happened at all, and the ship sank because they often do that, Brannon thought with annoyance.

"Did you catch a lot of corpses?"

The boatman silently spat overboard and glared at him contemptuously. However, one of the younger rowers crossed himself with crossed fingers and muttered a piece of prayer.

"Come on," the commissar encouraged him, "I saw everything myself, I was here when the pelvis was sunk. Was she floating empty from Dorgern?"

"Not empty," the boatman muttered through clenched teeth. "But, apparently, everyone jumped overboard into the sea."

"Why would?"

"And the hell knows," the boat owner said. "It happens. To drum something into someone's skull - and that was the last that was ever seen."

"The whole crew?" Brennon asked skeptically; however, he fully believed in mass madness in the middle of the sea, in the confined space of a vile trough. He almost hanged himself on the way to Mazandran. But the sailors have to be more resilient?

"Have you heard of the ghost ships? This is it, cross my heart. The crew will go crazy in the sea, throw themselves overboard, and the ship will continue to float on the sea."

"Or evil spirits are driving you crazy," a young rower said; on his neck dangled a cross and some kind of amulet on one string. "That's how it was. No bodies were found."

"Shout your mouth!" The boatman snorted.

"And the wreckage?" Brennon asked. "The wreckage didn't dissolve in the water, did it?"

"The wreckage was taken away. Some non-local nits, they say - show it to the bigwigs from the ministry, although what's there to watch?.."

And that's true, Brannon thought. More often than not, there is no body - no case, but not when the entire crew of the ship disappears at once, with all the passengers.

"Turn," he told the boatman. "The tour is over."

The Commissar met with Longsdale on the embankment: he studied the transparent amulet, which was attached to the dipstick.

"Well?" Nathan got interested. "Whom did you catch?"

"No one yet, but I can catch the trail. Look," the amulet with muddy greenish-gray water was under the Commissar's nose, and he involuntarily jerked his head away. It stank badly. "The water has reacted with the catalyst in the vessel. Some creatures have been here, and it remains only to determine which ones."

"New undead?" Brannon frowned. "Damn it, I thought the culprit would be limited to vampires."

"Why should he limit himself? If he can command not only the undead, but other monsters as well..." the hound snapped his teeth loudly, and Longsdale fell silent, thinking about what was said.

"How does he do it? Can he collect some kind of subordinate amulet?"

"Of course, he can. There are amulets, and special spells, but... but the question is how he managed to paint mehndi on the vampire. Except to put they to sleep, but how? Or does he first cast spells and then paint?"

"I also went on the excursion. In short, the bodies are nowhere to be found. Not a single corpse was found. Either the frigate had already split empty, or all the people were instantly devoured by the undead or sea monsters. The wreckage of the ship was collected and taken away by people from the RSD. I saw here an armed couple in civilian clothes - also from there."

"Interesting," Longsdale muttered. "The first undead arrived at Blackwhit while the frigate was still en route. However, in the memory of the Baobhan Sith I saw the ship and the sea, and she heard the Dorgern language. Hmmm..."

"You mean," Brennon said alarmed, "the master began to turn passengers into these creatures during the trip? But this means that he somehow moved them a huge distance!"

"Teleportation is quite possible," Longsdale shrugged. "We went here along the mirror path."

Brennon swallowed - he was still nauseous at the memory - but didn't give up.

"But if the master is capable of turning the passengers into undead, then why the hell did he let the empty ship make it to Breswain? Wouldn't it be more logical to burn the damn vessel right in the sea?"

The hound made a skeptical humming sound.

"Maybe he was prevented?"

"Who? Seagulls? No, that's not the point. He either for some reason could not destroy the frigate, or, conversely, wanted everyone to see him."

"But why?"

"I don't know yet," Brannon said through set teeth. "But this is such an interesting question that I will certainly find out."

The carriage rolled past, the wheels knocking on the cobblestones, and the hound suddenly jerked as if a shot had been put into it. The beast whined briefly, jumped up and rushed after the carriage.

"Snappish?!"

"Miss Sheridan is there!" Longsdale gasped, suddenly turning pale (even more than usual).

"What?!" Brennon roared and ran after the hound. The hound easily caught up with the carriage and jumped on the door on the run. The horses whinnied in fright and darted to the side; the coachman whipped up both of them. The window on the carriage door opened, a man's hand stuck out of it ("Redfern!" the commissar found out in furious) and slammed the potion flask against the pavement.

"Bandits!" Some woman squealed harshly, trying to hit Brennon with an umbrella. "I'll call the police!"

The carriage vanished into clouds of white smoke. Nathan, taught by bitter experience, stopped, covering his face with the lapel of his coat. The hound swept around in the smoke, gave a short, vicious howl and, drooping, sat down at Brennon's feet.

"To hell with him, Snappish," the commissar muttered dully. "Then we'll track them down and have a heart-to-heart talk. And now there is nothing to attract the attention of the police. We work here unofficially."

Longsdale stopped beside him and asked:

- What is he doing here?

- Good question. Maybe he went out for a walk. Or maybe ...

Brennon recalled the fate of the Hilkarn Strangler. Who knows if Redfern did not have a hand in the fact that the Kaiserstern sank in the port, in front of everyone?

***

Margaret knocked softly and entered, clutching the folder to her chest. Angel sat in front of the fireplace with his head resting on his hand. The girl wanted to put the folder on the table and disappear, but Redfern suddenly said in a muffled voice:

"Sit down."

Margaret sat down on the edge of the chair beside him. They rented an apartment in a hotel, terribly expensive, she thought, but still dank. When the wind from the sea hit the walls and windows, even a lighted fireplace did not help.

I want to go home! She thought with longing, and suddenly realized that her house had split into two - into a villa near Aventine and a castle among a fir forest at the foot of low mountains.

"Who can you not just meet while walking along the embankment," Angel leaned back in his chair, not taking his gaze from the girl from under half-closed eyelids.

"It's not me!" Margaret cried, who had goose bumps marching all over her body in armies. After her antics with the Redfern genealogy, Angel has good reason not to trust her anymore - and what if he drives her away?..

"When I allowed you to write to your relatives from time to time, I set only one condition..."

"I didn't write anything to my uncle about it!" The girl exclaimed: her indignation finally burst out. How much can you oppress her?! "You know it! You give them my letters, and the last one was three weeks ago! I could not write about this and would not!"

"So this is an amazing coincidence," the mentor stared at the flames dancing in the fireplace. "However, I know that you are resourceful enough to find another way to contact him."

Everything in Margaret's soul boiled with such injustice, but the girl was silent, biting her lip. Damn folder with copies from the Papal Library! Why do she always have to spoil everything like that!

"And also," Redfern continued softly, "I know very well when you're lying. But, however, just in case, I took the amulet," he opened his palm with a smile: a gold chain with a whitish opal medallion was twisted around his fingers.

"Angel!" Miss Sheridan exclaimed resentfully, barely catching her breath with relief.

"The mirror of truth, the invention of the Mazandran brahmanas. Take it, play it." Angel tossed the locket to her. Margaret caught it and immediately felt a pleasant cool tingling sensation - and Angel had been hiding it in his palm all this time.

"Chilly!"

"It turns red and hot with the lie," Redfern said good-naturedly. Margaret swallowed - he was ready to burn his hands and himself, and her, if caught her in a lie - and immediately confessed repentantly that he had a serious reason for this.

"However, I still don't believe in such coincidences. What brought your uncle to Breswain at the same time as us?"

"Kaiserstern," Margaret suggested, hurrying to divert the conversation to another topic. "Surely there is an investigation into how and why it sank, and for several years the uncle's department was recognized as one of the best in the Riada. He boasted it."

"Do you think he was summoned to help as an outstanding specialist?"

"Why not? If it seemed to my uncle that some evil spirits were involved, he brought mister Longsdale."

"I don't want to disappoint you," Angel chuckled, "but while I consider your uncle to be an outstanding professional, I'm not sure if the RSD has the same opinion. For them, he is an ordinary provincial commissar."

Margaret thought a little more.

"It was written in the papers that the Kaiser had sent several Dorgern policemen here to exchange experiences. Maybe my uncle was summoned to the capital along with other police officers? Did they want to organize a police congress?"

"Makes sense," Angel nodded. "However, this brings us back to another pressing issue. All the wreckage of the ship is stored in the building of the Home Office, most likely in the Republican Security Department. Do you know what this is?"

"No."

"A special department responsible for political security inside the country is actually internal intelligence. They are engaged in everything that looks like a sabotage of enemy spies, a political conspiracy or an evil intent against the state. We need to get into their storage and examine the remains of the ship," Angel said prosily. Margaret exhaled softly. Not that she would mind...

"And if we are caught there?"

"We haven't been caught yet," Redfern replied with a grin. "However, you cannot go."

"I will go!" the girl ardently objected. "You cannot be left unattended!"

"Margaret, I am an adult, responsible for my actions man..."

"Who climbed into the Pope's personal chapel back in July and stole an enchanted vessel from there to brew an experimental potion in it," Miss Sheridan said dryly. "Have you matured in the past three months?"

"Don't impertinent to me, girl," Angel answered sternly. "In the end, I was not caught, and the experiment was a success. What are you unhappy with? Life is already boring enough to give up small joys."

"A little joy is a cake for tea, and breaking a papal chapel is a big nuisance on your head."

"The vicar of Saint Peter was hardly impoverished by the loss of one chalice."

"But why did you want to steal it personally?"

"Oh, well..." Angel drawled dreamily and languidly stared into the fire. "You cannot understand..."

Margaret snorted, shifted awkwardly in her chair - and her folder with a rustle fell at Angel's feet. The girl jerked all over and rushed to lift.

"What is it?" the mentor dropped, looking down at her.

"This is what I copied at the Pontifical Library about your family. I didn't read anymore!" She added hastily, instantly cringing at how heavy his gaze had grown.

"Did you bring this to me for us to read together?"

"No, I just... just brought it," Margaret whispered miserably and put the folder on his lap. Why does she always spoil everything!

Angel took the folder and threw it into the fireplace. Margaret froze, expecting to be kicked out - to think again about her behavior, but the mentor took her hand and said softly:

"Come here."

Margaret's heart skipped a beat. She settled on the armrest, but Angel pulled her into his lap. Miss Sheridan blushed. She doubted it could be done so easily, as if she were still a child... but that means she was forgiven! Yes? Margaret leaned uncertainly against his shoulder and Angel hugged her tightly. The girl sighed inaudibly and pressed closer.

"I don't want you to touch such dirt," Redfern said. "My family, Margaret, unlike yours, is not one of those about whom it is pleasant to chat in the evening by the fireplace."

The girl was quiet, expecting to continue, but he said nothing more. He just frowned, looking into the fire, and after a long silence he muttered:

"I had to find and burn all these damn books!"

"Then why didn't you change your last name?" Margaret asked quietly. "You are called Signor Morante in Ilara..."

Angel let out a short laugh and brushed his lips against the top of her head.

"Child! I can hardly forget my kinship, since I probably became who I am because I am Redfern."

"What?" Margaret lost oneself in a digression.

"You remember what happened to Pauline Defoe because of the radiation. She could not even speak because of the damage to the larynx, and I escaped with two scars and kept more or less sane."

"Maybe you're in luck."

"Maybe," he agreed grimly. "But maybe it's because I'm Redfern."

"Oh, why?" Margaret pulled back to look into his face. "You told me that because you were dying, the radiation affected you that way."

"This is a theory that I have nothing to prove."

"Then what does the Redfern blood have to do with it?"

"I'll tell you someday," Angel said quietly. "Not now, then... someday..."

The girl rested her head on his shoulder again. Angel smelled faintly and pleasantly - not chemistry, but ordinary soap and cologne, and his own barely perceptible scent. The mentor was cleanliness like a cat, but Margaret liked the smell and liked that she could distinguish it. She buried her nose in his neck and muttered:

"What are we going to do now?"

"You'll go to bed now. Because we have a visit to this Republican Security Department of yours for the night."