‘What happens now?’ whispered Steiner after the Spriggani woman had disappeared.
‘Now we wait,’ replied Marek, peeling off his wet cloak. ‘And hope he speaks with us.’
‘And what if this friend of yours still works for the Empire?’ said Kristofine with a frown. She shook the rain out of her cloak and her eyes darted around the room.
‘He was never a man that followed orders easily,’ said Marek and crossed to the window where he could watch over the street below. ‘Mistress Kamalov isn’t the first person to turn her back on the Empire. Or even the second,’ he added, as if remembering his own former allegiance. Steiner peeled off his own cloak before settling in to make a fire.
Tikhoveter, when he finally appeared perhaps half an hour later, did not look like the Imperial soldiers they were avoiding, nor did he look like an Envoy. Tikhoveter did not look like anyone the Empire would employ for anything. He was stooped with the passage of years, at least fifty of them if Steiner had to guess. Wild corkscrews of white hair fell about his shoulders and he was wiry-thin. His beard was trimmed but in all other aspects Tikhoveter was a shambles. His britches were patched and stained, his shirt and jacket no different, and the smell of drink was overpowering. Tikhoveter belched loudly, leaned wearily against the door frame, belched again and blinked a few times.
‘Hoy there,’ said Marek. ‘Did we wake you?’
‘On a day like this there’s little to do except nap and read old books.’ Steiner struggled to place the accent. The wiry man drifted past them and presented his backside to the fireplace. He smiled a moment and whispered, ‘There is nothing more wonderful in all of creation than having a warm arse in damp weather.’
‘Are you Tikhoveter?’ asked Steiner. Marek made a growling sound and Steiner fell silent.
‘No Tikhoveter here,’ said the man. ‘He died about ten years ago.’ His words sloshed against each other, and there was a tipsy sing-song quality to the way he spoke. ‘We still get Imperial sorts wandering in here from time to time. Looking for shelter mostly, or somewhere to hide for a night or two.’
‘That’s a real shame,’ said Marek. He remained at the side of the room watching the street outside through the window. ‘But we’re not Imperial sorts. At least these two aren’t.’ He nodded to Kristofine and Steiner, then returned his gaze to the street outside. ‘And I haven’t been for over twenty years.’
Their host turned his back on Marek and held out his hands to warm them. ‘Is that so?’
Steiner frowned, confused at the two men who seemed to be speaking yet ignoring each other.
‘I met Tikhoveter once,’ said Marek, not breaking his vigil at the window. ‘He was a sickly little runt with a hacking cough. The Empire had posted him to Arkiv Island. They had him working in the library but the dust was no good for his lungs.’
The man by the fireplace stiffened and turned his head just a fraction to glance over his shoulder. ‘Never met him.’ Steiner noted the drunken pretence slipping away.
‘And the strange thing about him,’ continued Marek, as if he hadn’t heard the man, ‘was that he had long hair that fell all about him like corkscrews. Never touched a drop of booze on account of his health, but always had an eye for women. Especially Spriggani women.’
The rain continued to drift down in the street and Steiner couldn’t help but smirk. Tikhoveter gave a long sigh and his shoulders slumped forward. He was very quiet for a moment.
‘Fuck my boots,’ he mumbled in defeat. ‘So who the Hel are you then?’
‘I’m the soldier who had you reassigned from Arkiv Island,’ replied Marek with a slow smile. Tikhoveter stood up straighter and frowned a moment.
‘Marek Vartiainen?’
Marek turned to the man at last and nodded once.
‘Have you come to kill me?’ asked Tikhoveter, a wary expression crossing his face like a dark cloud.
‘Do you think we’d just calmly knock on the door if the Emperor wanted you dead?’ said Marek.
‘I’m not so charming as to warrant a social call after all these years,’ said Tikhoveter. ‘What do you want?’
‘Are you still playing both sides?’ asked Marek.
‘Not so much these days. I get word to a few old friends who prefer to avoid the Holy Synod. The Empire leaves me alone by and large.’
‘Something big happened at Vladibogdan recently,’ said Marek. ‘We need to learn just how much the Empire knows.’
‘Information doesn’t come cheap,’ said Tikhoveter, running a hand across his beard. ‘And information about the Empire is more expensive still.’
Steiner reached into his pocket and fished out a guilder. ‘What do you know about Matriarch-Commissar Felgenhauer?’
‘Hel’s teeth, Steiner,’ muttered Marek.
Tikhoveter eyed the guilder and pursed his lips. ‘So the boy has money?’
‘He’s no mere boy,’ said Marek, anger flashing in his eyes as the fire roared in the hearth. ‘And he’s done more to fight the Empire in a few months than you or I have in two decades.’
Tikhoveter held up his hands. ‘I meant no offence.’
‘Yes you did,’ replied Steiner, hefting his sledgehammer. ‘But I’m more interested in Felgenhauer than trading slights.’
‘Last I heard,’ Tikhoveter cleared his throat, ‘is that she was summoned to the Emperor himself by an Envoy. They almost made it back to the Imperial Court at Khlystburg when she went renegade.’
‘Renegade?’ Steiner stood open-mouthed for a second. ‘And then what?’ Tikhoveter shrugged and looked away. Steiner tossed him the guilder and the wiry old man snatched it from the air.
‘Just rumours,’ said Tikhoveter. ‘Some are saying she’s started a mercenary company operating around Slavon Province. That’s all I know about her.’
Marek held up another two guilders. ‘We need to know what the Empire is talking about, and we need to know it quickly.’
‘Come back tomorrow,’ said the old spy. ‘This kind of work can’t be rushed. I’ll reach out to a few contacts and see what I can discover.’
‘Can we stay here?’ asked Kristofine. Tikhoveter started laughing, a cruel sort of sound that gave way to a painful cough.
‘You don’t have to be so rude,’ she replied.
‘Safer for everyone is we stay at a tavern,’ said Marek. Steiner led them down the stairs.
‘I’ll have word by tomorrow,’ said Tikhoveter from the top of the staircase. He did not see them out. The rain had slackened during their brief stay at Tikhoveter’s house but the temperature was dipping.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Kristofine. ‘It takes weeks for a man on horseback to carry messages from one town to another. How does he expect to have answers for us by tomorrow?’
‘It’s what makes the Vigilants of Vozdukha so necessary,’ said Marek. ‘They can set whispers on the wind and send them over hundreds of miles, faster than any man on horseback could ever dream of riding.’
‘Like Mistress Kamalov?’ asked Kristofine.
Marek nodded. ‘It’s why a Troika of Vigilants usually has one graduate from the Vozdukha Academy in its ranks.’
‘So they can stay in touch with