Bloodforged (21 page)

‘Oh, we shouldn’t say,’ said a round dark-haired maid. ‘’T’ain’t nice to gossip.’

‘Were they arrested then?’ Ulrika asked.

‘Oh no!’ said a thin blonde girl. ‘Murdered! And in the Novygrad of all places!’

‘The Novygrad?’ said Ulrika, feigning shock, though in truth it was shocking enough. She hadn’t heard or seen any signs of trouble at the temple of Salyak when she and Raiza had left it to follow the crooked man. Had there been some fight after they left? ‘What were they doing there?’

The three maids looked at each other, fearful.

‘Wicked things,’ said the third, finally. She was another brunette, but square and sturdy. ‘That’s what Yuri the groom says. The watch found ’em dead in a coach near some place where they was makin’ black magic.’

‘Filthy daemon-worshippers,’ hissed the round girl.

Ulrika frowned. ‘Dead in a coach,’ she murmured, then louder. ‘But why did anyone think they were connected to the black magic?’

‘They was wearing weird robes and masks,’ said the skinny blonde. ‘Leastwise the husband was, and the wife had strange marks on her body, under her clothes.’

‘Always thought she was a witch,’ said the squarish girl peevishly. ‘The way she steered him around. Like she had him by the wedding tackle.’

Ulrika edged away again as the girls began to tear into Madam Yeshenko’s character, or lack thereof, and returned to Stefan.

‘Dead,’ she said. ‘And discovered as cultists.’

‘How did it happen?’ asked Stefan.

‘They were found murdered in a coach. Romo was wearing his cult cloak and mask but… Dolshiniva was not.’

‘You think that significant?’ he asked.

‘It makes me wonder where Konstantin Kiraly got his disguise,’ she said.

Stefan nodded. ‘That would explain it.’ He sighed and looked back at the Yeshenko mansion. ‘It seems we will learn nothing of the violin here, then,’ he said.

Ulrika sighed. ‘Aye, and they could already be stealing it. I’m afraid we’ve lost our chance.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Stefan. His brow furrowed in thought. ‘But I will not give up yet. Surely someone in this musical city must know of the thing.’

Ulrika smiled. ‘You’re right.’ She turned towards the east and the Academy District. ‘And I know just where to start asking. Follow me.’

It wasn’t until they had passed the Sorcerers’ Spire and were halfway across the Karlsbridge that Ulrika realised she was growing hungry again.

Ulrika and Stefan visited five instrument shops before they found anyone who had heard of the Viol of Fieromonte. The fifth was the workshop of one Yarok Gurina, a white-haired maker of violins, cellos, balalaikas and mandolins. He was a big barrel of a man, who looked like he should be shoeing horses rather than making delicate instruments, and Ulrika had to keep herself from licking her lips at the smell of his strong, vigorous blood. She would have to feed soon, but not yet. They had to find the violin first.

‘Aye, lady,’ Yarok rasped, looking up from pressing a piece of thin veneer to a violin-shaped frame as his stoop-shouldered young apprentice tightened a clamp to hold it in place. ‘Sure I’ve heard of it. The daemon’s box, they used to call it. An ill thing to speak of, for them of a superstitious nature.’

Ulrika exchanged a quick glance with Stefan, who remained in the shadows, looking at the beautiful instruments mounted on the walls of the shop, then turned back to Yarok.

‘Do you know where it is?’ she asked.

Yarok cackled. ‘It’s nowhere! It never was,’ he said. ‘A fairy tale, a legend, a – Seva, you cloth-headed dolt!’ he cried suddenly, and swatted his apprentice on the ear. ‘You’ve split the veneer with your tightening! Do you know how much that wood costs?’ He shoved the boy away, and pointed him towards the back. ‘Go cut another piece, and mind it has no knots or scars.’

The boy scurried off, dodging more blows, pausing only to blink, slack-mouthed, at Ulrika before vanishing in the back.

Yarok sighed and threw the broken strip of wood aside. ‘Sorry, m’lady,’ he said. ‘The boy’s moon-eyed for beauty. Happens every time a lovely girl comes in the shop.’

‘I’m flattered,’ said Ulrika, trying to mimic the sultry Lahmian tone Countess Gabriella murmured so easily. ‘But you said the Fieromonte never existed?’

‘Well now,’ said Yarok, leaning back on his bench, and fishing a pipe from his belt pouch. ‘I’ve read it did, and I’ve read it didn’t. But even if it did, no one’s seen or heard it for ages.’

‘Tell me of it,’ said Ulrika, trying not to sound too eager. ‘Where did you read this?’

Yarok filled the pipe, and then lit it from a brand he took from a little stove at his elbow. He puffed it to life, then blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘It was when I was a student at the Music Academy, forty years ago,’ he said. ‘I found mention of it in an old book in the library there. Said the viol was made by a mad Tilean named Fieromonte sometime before the Great War against Chaos. Supposedly he wanted to make the most beautiful, sweetest-sounding violin in the world, and sold his soul to a daemon to do it.’ He laughed. ‘According to the book, it worked. People would break down in tears to hear it play. It’s said a woman killed herself when it was played at her husband’s funeral, and there’s another tale of an entire company of winged lancers dancing themselves to death at a ball.’ He waved his pipe dismissively. ‘All rubbish. There were more books that said it was just a story. A myth of music-makers.’

‘What was supposed to have happened to it?’ Ulrika asked.

‘Lost in the war, mayhap?’ said Yarok, shrugging. ‘I can’t exactly recall, but whatever it was, it was a tall tale like all the rest.’

‘No doubt,’ said Ulrika. ‘Still, it’s an interesting story. Do you recall the name of the book you read of it in?’

Yarok frowned and sipped at his pipe, then blew out more smoke. ‘What was the name? It was one of my favourites then. Full of wild stories and strange pictures. Read it when I should have been studying more reliable histories. Ah!
The
Memoirs of Kappelmeister Barshai
. He was court composer to Tzar Alexis. Mad as a hare, old Barshai, and you should have heard some of the things the old Tzar got up to before the war. We all think of him as the great hero, but he was quite the lad. Once–’

Ulrika cut him off with a bow. ‘Thank you very much for your time, Master Yarok,’ she said, ‘but I’m afraid I must go. You have been a great help.’

Yarok looked displeased to be cut off just as he was getting started, but he raised his pipe politely to her nonetheless. ‘A pleasure, lady,’ he said. ‘Any time.’

Ulrika turned and strode out the door with Stefan as Yarok’s voice followed them down the street. ‘Seva, you clot! Where’s that veneer? Name of the Bear, where’s that cack-handed idiot got to?’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

MUSIC OF THE NIGHT

‘I shall have to feed soon,’ said Ulrika, chewing her lip as she and Stefan hurried towards the Music Academy.

‘So, feed,’ said Stefan. He swept a hand around at the few students who threaded through the streets. ‘We may need our strength later.’

Ulrika hesitated, embarrassed. ‘I… I am a bit choosy,’ she said. ‘It may take some time to find someone suitable.’

Stefan raised an eyebrow. ‘What, do you require the blood of virgins, or royalty? You drank readily enough in the midst of the fire.’

‘I prefer villains,’ said Ulrika. ‘I do not like those who prey on the innocent, and I do not wish to be one myself.’

‘Ah,’ said Stefan. ‘The babe’s disease. Many vampires in their first year suffer from it. It will pass.’

‘I don’t see how time will change my ideals,’ said Ulrika, stiff.

‘It is inevitable,’ said Stefan. ‘You still feel connection to your human past. Your friends still live. The events of your life still affect the present. But in twenty years, or thirty, when those you know are all dead, and when all that happened before your rebirth has passed into history, you will see your attachment to humanity is an illusion. We share their form and language, but we are a species apart.’

‘I acknowledge that,’ said Ulrika. ‘But that doesn’t give us the right to prey indiscriminately upon them. It is only a minor inconvenience to avoid the innocent.’

‘Their innocence is another illusion,’ said Stefan. ‘Do you think even the kindest, most open-minded of them would lift a finger to defend you if they learned your true nature?’ He laughed darkly. ‘They would take up torch and rowan stake like all the rest, and would not spare the time to question you as to the moral superiority of your feeding habits.’

‘What they would or wouldn’t do doesn’t matter,’ said Ulrika obstinately. ‘My sense of honour is born within myself, not in what others do or think. I refuse to act like a monster because they think me one.’

Stefan smiled indulgently. ‘Very high-minded of you,’ he said. ‘I applaud you for your adherence to your principles. I only hope you don’t expect me to follow you on this narrow path.’

Ulrika frowned. The question hadn’t occurred to her before. If she refused to allow the opinions of others to influence what she thought was right and wrong, but then expected others to change
their
ways to match
her
morals, that would make her a hypocrite. And yet she had vowed to prey on the predators of humanity. If Stefan was one such, did that mean she must prey on him? Must she stop him from killing innocents? Must she somehow convince him of the rightness of her way of thinking? Or should she make an exception for him because they fought on the same side against the cultists? ‘You must of course follow your own path,’ she said slowly. ‘I can only hope you see some wisdom in mine.’

‘Wisdom? No,’ said Stefan. ‘Idealism, disgust with your own kind, denial of your nature – those I see. But I see no great wisdom in it.’

‘Is there not wisdom in protecting the society from which you feed?’ asked Ulrika. ‘You protect Praag now so you can have your vengeance on Kiraly. Is that not the whole of your life in miniature? Do you not need the human world to be stable so that you may pursue your goals, whatever they are? You must keep the peasants of your castle safe and productive so that they continue to pay you rent and allow you to live in the manner to which you are accustomed. You need the Empire to remain strong to keep the northern hordes from overrunning your lands. Would you rather be fighting for your existence at all times?’

‘There is indeed wisdom in that,’ said Stefan. ‘But I fail to see how taking the blood of an occasional milkmaid here, or an honest burgher there, threatens the stability of this human bulwark.’

‘I… well,’ Ulrika stuttered. ‘Bandits and murderers and cultists threaten the fabric of society, yes? So, removing them strengthens it, and… and…’

‘Rationalisations,’ said Stefan. ‘I think your true reason is that the thought of harming the poor helpless little things repulses you, and so you look for reasonable-sounding arguments to bolster your sentimentality.’

Ulrika pursed her lips, struggling for a counter-argument. Was Stefan right? Was she only acting like a little farm girl who didn’t want to see her favourite calf killed because it was so soft and sweet? She wanted to believe there was more to her conviction than that, but she was finding it hard to articulate it.

‘Here we are,’ said Stefan.

Ulrika looked up. The gates of the Music Academy were before them – two ornate stone columns topped with gargoyles playing flutes and trumpets, rising among the trees of the wooded northern fringes of the Magnus Gardens. She looked on them with a touch of relief. Their debate would have to be postponed, and she could use the time to find a better answer to Stefan’s question.

If only she wasn’t so hungry.

They stepped through the gates and into a strange, glittering world. It seemed as if the madness that had twisted Praag had struck most forcefully here, but also whimsically. The buildings of the Academy were weird, oddly angled edifices, spired and turreted and banded with glittering tiles of blue and red and orange. Minarets sprouted from their roofs like jewelled mushrooms, and statue-bedecked fountains dotted the grounds, all portraying various mythical heroes, each contorted and straining, their hands clawing the air and their faces grimacing as if caught in the throes of some terrible passion.

But as bright as the buildings were on the outside, they were dark on the inside, and the college seemed nearly as deserted as the streets that surrounded it. Only a few students shuffled across the quadrangles, and for an academy of music, it was eerily silent.

Ulrika wondered where they had all gone, but a moment later, a statue told her the answer. It stood outside the concert hall, a winged woman with a sword in her hand, and its limbs were so covered in black ribbons it appeared furred like a bear. Ulrika stretched out one of the ribbons as she passed it. There was writing on it in white ink,
Andre Verbitsky – Clarinet – Slain at the battle of Zvenlev, may Father Ursun receive him.

They were all like that – cellists, flautists, harpsichordists, timpanists, who had set down their instruments and taken up their swords and spears, only to die in their hundreds defending the city and the country they loved. It hurt Ulrika to look at them all. These were not the men one thought of as going to war for Kislev. These were not the hard-bitten Ungol riders, or the proud Gospodar lancers. These were merely the boys who filled the regiments, who marched behind the heroes, who died before their talents could be discovered. These were the boys who were missing from the quadrangles.

‘That is the library there, I think,’ said Stefan, pointing to the right.

Ulrika stroked the ribbons with a soft hand before following him. This was the fate of all Praag if the cult triumphed. Every statue in the city would be clad in black. She would not allow it. Not while she lived.

The library was a gilded toad of a building, fat, squat and crusted with an over-abundance of lapis and gold cupolas that glittered like jewelled warts, but as dark within as all the rest, which suited Ulrika and Stefan’s purposes perfectly.

They strolled around the back of it as if merely admiring its corpulence, then looked around to see that they weren’t observed, and clambered up its baroque ornamentation to a little balcony. Through the diamond-paned glass of the doors they could see a circular, high-ceilinged central room, with three floors of galleries ringing above a central atrium – and each floor dense with heavy-laden bookshelves.

‘We may be here a while,’ said Stefan, staring at them all.

‘They must have a catalogue of some kind,’ said Ulrika with more confidence than she felt.

After another wary look around, she grabbed the door handle and pulled. Two sharp jerks and the bolt tore from the lock with a splintering of wood. They slipped in and hurried down to the ground floor.

In the centre of the atrium, surrounded by low tables that crouched at its feet like worshippers, was a high desk, almost like a priest’s lectern, with the words ‘Librarian Presertim’ carved into the front of it in the Kislevarin alphabet, and behind it a low wall of shelves, groaning under the weight of nearly a hundred massive tomes.

‘The catalogue?’ asked Ulrika, pointing.

‘Let us see,’ said Stefan.

They stepped to it and both pulled out tomes at random. Ulrika flipped hers open to the middle. The pages were heavy vellum, and originally hand-written in neat old script in several hands – titles on the left, notations on the right. The difficulty was that those original columns had been written over, crossed out, corrected and appended so often the pages were almost unreadable. Words were scribbled on top of words, new entries were crammed between old ones, arrows pointed to things that had been lined through, and notations had been changed six or seven times over, each time with smaller numbers and letters as the later editors tried to fit the new marks into smaller and smaller areas of open space on the page.

Ulrika closed the book with a groan and looked at the spine. ‘Ca to Ce’ it read. The one beside it on the shelf read, ‘Ci to Co’. Each letter of the alphabet had more than one book.

‘Is
The Memoirs of Kappelmeister Barshai
filed under “Memoirs”?’ she asked, putting the tome back on the shelf. ‘Under “The”? Under “Barshai”? Is Barshai his first or last name?’

Stefan shook his head and snapped his book shut. ‘We’d better try them all. You start with Barshai. I will look for Memoirs.’

Ulrika nodded and ran her finger along the row of fat books until she found ‘Ba to Bi’, then pulled it out and carried it to a desk. Stefan joined her and they began flipping though them. Ulrika shook her head as she stared at the nearly obscured columns that filled the pages. They had been in alphabetical order once, but newer entries were sometimes just scribbled in the margins, or written on opposite pages. It was enough to make her head spin, and her growing hunger was only making it worse.

She found a page where most of the original entries began with ‘Bar’ but written over them were others that started with ‘Bam’, ‘Bas’, ‘Bal’ and even ‘Bon’. She slowly ran her fingers down the original columns, trying to read what was written through the clutter of obscuring scribbles.

‘
Bar Chord Variations in Roppsmenn Zither Playing
,
Bare Before the Gods – the Dances of Darkest Ind
, Bartolf, Gustalf –
Minuets and Reels
.’ Ulrika growled. ‘Madness. Sometimes the books are listed by subject. Sometimes by author’s name.’

‘
Mnemonics for Imperial Scales
,’ murmured Stefan. ‘
Memories of Estalia
,
The Merman’s Daughter – an Opera in Seven Acts
.’

A thud from the entrance hall brought their heads up. It was followed by the faint jingle of keys, and the squeak of a lock.

As one, Ulrika and Stefan closed their tomes quietly, then returned them to their shelves and crouched down behind the librarian’s podium.

More thumps and rustlings reached them from the hall, followed by stifled female giggles and an exaggerated ‘Shhhhh!’ Yellow light threw swooping shadows on the wall as unsteady footsteps clumped closer. Ulrika could smell blood in the vein, and wine on the breath.

‘Not many people know it, my shweet,’ slurred a drunken male voice. ‘But th’ bed in whish the great Ossilian Astanilovich composed all his concertos is on dishplay in th’ second-floor gallery here. Would you like to shee it?’

Ulrika ducked lower as a laughing couple staggered through the door, groping each other as much as walking. The shorter was a round, red-cheeked young lady, whose generous bosom was falling out of her low-cut dress. The taller was a thin young man with a mop of sandy hair and a candle held askew in one hand – and a face Ulrika was surprised to recognise. It was Valtarin, the violin prodigy who she had seen perform at the party. She blinked at the coincidence.

‘Le’me give you th’ grand tour,’ said Valtarin, starting into the atrium and throwing out a flailing arm to indicate the whole of the library. ‘Thish holy ground is where I shtudied the worksh of the masters, and learned th’ shecret notes and chords that break hearts and shpread legs.’

Stefan leaned close to Ulrika as Valtarin and the girl lurched closer. ‘We’ve no time to wait for these fools to leave,’ he whispered. ‘We must kill them and continue searching. Here’s your chance to feed.’

‘I…’ said Ulrika. ‘No. I know him. I have a better plan. He may be of use.’

Stefan raised an eyebrow. ‘If he is not, he will die.’

Ulrika nodded.

‘That,’ said Valtarin, pointing to the podium where they hid, ‘ish where old Gorbenko sat, like a god of judgement, doling out information only to th’ worthy. What a buffoon! What a backwards thinking–’

He cut off with a gasp as Ulrika and Stefan rose from behind the desk. The girl shrieked and collapsed beside him in a froth of petticoats.

‘Who-who-who are you?’ stuttered Valtarin. ‘What are you doing here?’