Bloodforged (30 page)

‘The Vial of Fieromonte?’ Stefan asked. ‘I don’t know it.’

‘The
viol
, I think,’ said Ulrika. ‘As in violin.’

Stefan raised an eyebrow. ‘Their success relies upon a fiddle? Did he say where it was?’

‘No,’ said Ulrika. ‘Only that it was in a hiding place.’

‘That is little enough to go on,’ said Stefan. ‘It might be anywhere. It might not even be in the city.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Ulrika, glum, then looked up, brightening. ‘Ah, I know! The goat and the wolf.’

‘Who?’ asked Stefan.

‘The cultists who Raiza and I followed to the sacrifice,’ said Ulrika. ‘They may know where it is.’

‘Ah,’ said Stefan. ‘What strange names they have.’

Ulrika laughed and turned towards the street. ‘Not as strange as their habits. Come, I’ll take you to their house.’

But when Ulrika and Stefan reached the Yeshenko mansion it was surrounded by the city watch, and priests of Ursun and Dazh circled the grounds, chanting invocations and prayers. Other men, dressed in dark civilian clothes, went in and out of the house carrying out books and papers and trunks – the Ice Queen’s chekist agents, no doubt, Ulrika thought.

‘This does not bode well,’ said Stefan.

‘No,’ agreed Ulrika, looking around at the rest of the street.

Yeshenko’s wealthy neighbours peered from behind the curtains of their mansions, but their servants were less circumspect. They huddled in little groups outside several houses, watching the proceedings and whispering amongst themselves.

Ulrika stepped away from Stefan and sidled up to a trio of scullery maids who were standing outside the gate of the house opposite.

‘What’s all the fuss, devotchkas?’ she asked. ‘What happened to the Yeshenkos?’

‘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.’