Heart of Steam & Rust (Empires of Steam and Rust) Page 5

  Save perhaps for Pyotr—and even that was based on a lie.

  After cleaning herself, she stood and turned on every light in the room.

  She stared at her reflection—her doppelganger image—in the mirror.

  Was there a scar?

  Of course there would be, should be. She’d been shot. Even on her world—her technologically superior world—you didn’t escape being shot scar free.

  Peering at her chest as hard as she could, she managed to see it: a pale “C” shape from sternum to below her left breast—just as Pyotr’s fingers had described it.

  How had she not noticed it before?

  Why was she having trouble seeing it even now?

  Tracing with her fingers, she felt the line of the dead scar tissue, the tingle of sensation that changed from one side of the raised flesh to the other.

  Yet, looking, even now, it seemed no more than a scratch.

  Why?

  Why was she not seeing clearly?

  Was she projecting the self-image from her previous body onto this new, foreign one?

  Why couldn’t she see the scar from her death clearly?

  What was wrong with her mind?

  SEVEN

  They arrived in Vilnius late the next morning, landing on the airship pad atop the local government building under tight security. Lina had radioed ahead, and the Vilnian officials did what they could to conceal the true nature of the flight.

  Accordingly, the local Section officials—headed by a rotund, bushy-bearded man named Petrenko—put on a charade that five people were actually leaving Vilnius aboard the Suvalov 2. When the ship touched down, that group, actually low-ranking Section staff, made a great show of boarding the zeppelin, while Lina and Pyotr sneaked off the ship disguised as airmen, and their luggage debarked amid crates of caviar.

  As the Suvalov lifted off again with its fake cargo and passengers, Lina and Pyotr exited the government building in the guise of a newly married couple. This deception was easy for Pyotr; he remained sky high over his previous night’s liaison with Lina. He babbled endlessly at her, just like a true newlywed.

  Lina smiled and made polite small talk with him, but inwardly she roiled. Sleeping with Pyotr had seemed the right thing to do at the time, and it had certainly strengthened her hold over him without resorting to psychic means.

  Yet, the closer he got, the more he knew, and the more tenuous her cover became, the more chance that he might find out she was an imposter. But could he even understand that she was an imposter? Certainly, he had made love to the body of the woman he loved, just not her mind.

  Lina did not know, could not know, whether her counterpart would ever have consummated this relationship. She knew so little about the other Lina, really—only that she was both respected and feared, that she had enough knowledge of the black arts to make a name for herself, and that she had been killed while rooting out traitors. That plus the fact that many lusted after her—and Pyotr actually seemed to love her. But all that was little to go on.

  And even less help in catching a traitor and assassin.

  Every problem facing her flashed through Lina’s mind as she and Pyotr took a cab to a false destination, walked through several buildings, hailed yet another cab, and then repeated the process once more before arriving at their final objective: the Hotel Karnsburg.

  The Karnsburg was a slightly seedy establishment located near the western loop of the Neris River. The four-story building peered out over the decaying neighborhood leading down to the riverside—the neighborhood, in fact, where Lina had been killed.

  Wounded, she reminded herself, always wounded when talking to Pyotr.

  Her counterpart had not been staying in the area at the time, merely passing through, but Lina had bleached her hair to blonde before she and Pyotr began their charade, to help avoid being recognized by old enemies—especially whoever had killed her.

  Would that person still be lurking in this area? It certainly seemed possible, given the roughshod nature of this section of the city. The real question, or one of them anyway, was whether the traitor had actually done the killing, or whether he or she had hired a riverside thug to do the actual deed.

  Something in the back of Lina’s mind tingled at the notion.

  Pyotr had to argue with the hotelier, a balding Prussian sympathizer, to obtain the room they wanted: one with a view of the tavern where Lina had, presumably, been shot. Her body had not been discovered at the bar, of course, but rather a few blocks away, in a riverfront alley. How her duplicate had managed to drag herself that far with such a terrible wound in her chest, no one could be certain.

  Lina’s right hand subconsciously strayed to hover over the nearly invisible scar on her chest. Clearly, supernaturally gifted or not, her counterpart possessed the iron will of the Ivanovas.

  The argument between Pyotr and the proprietor continued.

  A psychic nudge from Lina set the hotelier right.

  “Why didn’t you say you were newlyweds?” he asked, beaming. “Of course you can have a room overlooking the river. I’m only sorry we don’t have our best room available.”

  Pyotr looked puzzled a moment—he’d mentioned the newlyweds cover story at the start of the argument—then he shrugged and took the room key.

  They went upstairs to the third floor, a bellboy hauling their baggage and the hotelier following behind toting a bottle of champagne that he’d discovered somewhere.

  The boy set down the luggage when they reached their room—a small suite, actually, with bedroom, parlor, and bathroom—and they tipped him generously but not conspicuously. The hotelier, still beaming, presented them with the champagne, “To celebrate your first night together.” He winked at Pyotr.

  Pyotr took the wine, still puzzled at the man’s sudden change of heart, but thanked the hotelier and sent him on his way. Once the door had closed, the lieutenant said to Lina, “If he knew who you were, he’d have given us this room a lot faster.”

  “If he knew who I was, soon this whole slum would know.”

  The room was well appointed, with contemporary couch and table in the anteroom and a four-poster bed with clean sheets in the bedroom. The bathroom was just large enough for a tub, a sink, and a commode. The whole proved just a bit smaller than their cabins had been aboard the Suvalov, which made it a very suitable size for a honeymooning working-class couple.

  “Shall we open the champagne?” Pyotr offered.

  “Keep it on ice,” she replied. “We should use the daylight to scout the neighborhood, discover the layout of the place. The people we want to interrogate won’t be out now, but we may discover something useful for later.”

  “We can pretend we’re shopping,” Pyotr suggested.

  “As if this dismal place could have anything worth buying.”

  Nevertheless, they wiled the afternoon away shopping—mostly window shopping. Lina nearly enjoyed it, despite herself. She still hadn’t gotten over her shock from the night before, though: the invisible scar on her chest … and what other problems it might portend. She wished she had someone to talk to about it, but even back home, she’d never had a surfeit of confidants. Here, she had none.

  Pyotr soldiered on, oblivious, pretending to show his wife all the sights in the ratty local shops, while at the same time scouting the neighborhood. Lina played along, making cooing noises and enthusiastic outbursts appropriate for a newlywed, all the while cataloging possible places for ambushes … or hidden assignations, perhaps?

  What exactly had her counterpart been doing before she was killed?

  Had she actually been in the tavern—the Black Dog—when she was shot, or had she left there to meet someone, perhaps an informant, perhaps the actual traitor?

  The people of the neighborhood appeared to be stolid, working-class folk, with a predominant mix of fishermen and other dock workers. The streets’ ramshackle shops catered to the locals’ modest tastes, offering little that would have appealed to Lina, were she not
disguised as a lower-class newlywed. Yet, she and Pyotr stopped at nearly every establishment, pausing and pretending to look while scrutinizing the people and locations. They also lingered a long time while settled on a bench on one of the less dilapidated piers, gazing romantically at the river—or each other.

  At least, that’s what they appeared to be doing. In actuality, they were taking careful mental notes of each passerby. The mental notes Lina took were more literal than Pyotr’s.

  The minds of the people that she focused on were mostly open books, concerned with mundane things: whether the landlord would raise the rent; how a wife would afford shoe repairs for her children; what tomorrow’s weather would bring; where a man’s next meal would come from.

  Lina read other, lower thoughts, too—of black-market deals and possible robberies, of drug cravings and sex transactions. A few of the latter fantasies focused on Lina, but Pyotr’s muscular arm draped protectively on her shoulder discouraged any actual contact from those appraising Lina with lustful eyes.

  Pyotr kept his thoughts businesslike nearly all the time, though Lina caught an occasional glimpse of a memory from last night, or a hope that tonight might contain a similar encounter.

  Lina hadn’t decided on that yet. She was not, in fact, convinced that the previous night had not been a tactical error. Had she let him come too close?

  She hoped she wouldn’t have to modify his memory, as her counterpart seemed to have done to Captain Andreyev. But if that’s what it took to accomplish her ends….

  Through the whole boring reconnaissance, Pyotr actually enjoyed himself—which annoyed Lina more than slightly. Obviously he couldn’t see the turmoil in her mind; to him, the day combined spycraft, which he loved, and being close to Lina, which he also loved. By early evening, though, he seemed to sense that something was eating at her.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked quietly as they walked back to their hotel.

  “No,” she lied, trying to tamp down the vague unease that had been growing in her all afternoon. “I just wish this afternoon walk had yielded some tangible results.”

  “You said yourself that it was merely a scouting expedition.” He sighed, jumping to the wrong conclusion. “I know it must be hard for you not to be able to use your … usual methods to hunt up the traitor and his accomplices. Perhaps we should have waited, given you time to replenish your lost equipment in Moscow.” Something flitted through his mind—a brief idea—but he dismissed it before she could figure out exactly what it was. Something to do with her magic…

  She furrowed her brow and concentrated, but the idea had fled, and she didn’t want to try and dig deeper—especially not in public. So she merely said, “No. It would take too much time. Some of what I need is not easily replaced, and the traitor’s trail has already grown too cold.” And of course, obtaining replicas of her doppelganger’s magical paraphernalia would actually do her no good at all. Again, she longed for her home, her network connections, her old way of life.

  But would this crime really have been easier to solve on her world?

  “Let’s go to our room and freshen up,” Pyotr suggested. Thoughts of romance flashed briefly through his mind, but he tamped them down. “Then we can get some dinner and visit some of the taverns.”

  “Including the Black Dog.”

  A disquieting vision of Lina dead—a combination of who she was then and her current blonde disguise—flashed through Pyotr’s brain. He was worried about her, determined to do whatever he needed to keep her safe, but he only said, “Of course.”

  EIGHT

  They checked their room for signs of intruders with the efficiency of longtime spies, but found no indication that anyone had entered since they’d left earlier in the afternoon. That made them both feel better; their mission did not seem to have been discovered yet, which should make tonight’s investigations easier.

  Lina decided that she wanted to take a bath, to wash off some of the local grime and relax before they went to dinner.

  Pyotr offered—helpfully and with only a slight sexual afterthought—to scrub her back, but she declined, preferring to be truly alone and have time to collect her thoughts.

  Once the bathroom door was closed, she examined her body again. The blonde-dyed hair made her look even more like her original self, which was slightly disconcerting, especially since the “collars and cuffs” of her hair no longer matched.

  She’d read mixed feelings about her disguise in Pyotr. Had they been lovers longer, the change might have thrilled him, adding some spice to their familiarity. Their “relationship” was so young, though, that the blond hair twisted his emotions, making him feel as though he was lusting after a completely different woman—that he was betraying his Lina. Which, of course, he was, though not in the way he thought, since the mind in this body was not actually the woman he loved.

  Lina pushed aside the twinge of guilt that gave her.

  He could have his Lina—perhaps—once Lina Alexeyevna Ivanova returned home.

  She gazed at her breast, and, again, could only vaguely see the scar from her fatal wound. It was like looking at a faint star in the night sky, one that you could only see out of the corner of her eye. Why did it seem obvious to Pyotr but not to her? Why?

  Telling herself she would not solve this mystery by staring at her own breasts, she slipped into the tub, immersing all but her face. The last time she’d done this bobbed to the surface of her memory, but no explosion shattered her enjoyment of the bath this time.

  She let the warmth of the water caress her skin, felt the sensation seep into every fiber of her being, focused on it and quieted the unruly thoughts in her mind.

  Focus would allow her to solve this problem. Focus would allow her to find the assassin. Focus would allow her to find her way home.

  Home … It had only been a few days, but already her former world, her former life, seemed almost dreamlike.

  A knock on the door.

  “Lina … Are you alright?”

  She heard the concern in his voice, felt the emotion even through the closed bathroom door. She sat up in the tub.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  Relief and happiness from the other side of the door.

  How long had she lain submerged in the tub? “What time is it?”

  “Nearly seven.”

  The better part of an hour.

  “We should get some dinner.”

  “I’ll be right out.”

  “Would you like me to towel you off?” A thrill of memory and anticipation. He was really such a sweet man—especially for a spy.

  Lina laughed, unused to such feelings. “There’ll be time enough for that later.” In fact, she found herself looking forward to it.

  Another happy thrill from beyond the door.

  She got out of the tub, wrapped herself in a towel, and opened the door a crack. “Hand me my green dress, would you?”

  He nodded and grinned, trying to catch a glimpse of her skin before he went to fetch the outfit.

  She closed the door and toweled herself dry.

  Pyotr knocked perfunctorily and opened the door a crack without waiting for a reply. He stuck his arm in, holding the dress. “Is this the one?”

  He knew it was; her wardrobe had been destroyed along with her apartment; she had only one green dress in her luggage. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “I’ve something else for you as well,” he said. “I think you’ll be pleased.”

  His penis, she guessed. Men!

  But that’s not what he was thinking. In fact, he seemed to be trying very hard not to think of something. That worried her.

  She peered at the door, trying to bore through it with her gaze, trying to delve into his thoughts—but he’d gone already, moved to the other side of the room, at the very edge of her read-through-the-door range, and she got nothing more than vague excitement.

  Frustrated, she dressed quickly, not even bothering to fix her hair.

  “What is it?”
she asked, bursting into the parlor, trying to seem enthusiastic, rather than anxious.

  Smiling, he held out a plain brown box, the size of a hatbox, to her.

  A totally irrational part of her mind screamed “Bomb!” But no. Surely she would have sensed something if Pyotr were about to kill them both, and all she read was pride and love.

  How could he love her so much?

  “What is it?” she asked, still hiding her nervousness.

  “Open it,” he suggested, handing it to her.

  Warily, she undid the string holding the box closed. She listened intently, but heard nothing. The package did smell rather odd, though, almost like … spices. She lifted the lid.

  Inside lay a strange collection of knickknacks: colorful stones, cut crystals, candles, incense and burners, a bit of modeling clay, feathers, chalk, pins, and other things she did not immediately recognize. She felt … puzzled.

  “I know it’s probably not exactly what you need,” he said with puppy-dog enthusiasm, “but hopefully it will be enough for you to work with.”

  “I …” she began, unsure what to say.

  “I asked Major General Bepov to have some of the other Section operatives pull together a replacement kit for you after we left. Of course, none of the rest have your level of expertise, but they did the best they could and sent the package by special courier almost immediately after we left Moscow. I arranged a dead drop with Petrenko earlier, and picked it up while you were in the tub.”

  He had left the hotel while she’d been bathing? She cursed herself for being so wrapped up in her own problems that she hadn’t even sensed it. If she had missed that, what else might she have missed?

  “So,” he asked, “what do you think?”

  “I … Thank you, Pyotr. I can see you went to a lot of trouble.”