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Meanwhile, the girl in the picture, with her face covered by a veil attached to a wide, faded hat, was making her way through the dense crowd of drunken patrons of the "Thirteenth Moon" tavern on the Heart's Square. She wrinkled her nose and tugged at the edges of her dress, caught in the clutches of unwashed loaders, machinists, and constructions, who did not change their clothes day or night. In the dim light of the gas lamps, heart dust, soot, and sweat lingered in her eyes, and her chest could not breathe freely because of the stuffiness.
A fat guard with plump lips and a flushed face grabbed the girl's arm, but immediately got hit in the eye with a heavy bag and fell into the crowd, which sagged under him like a trampoline and pushed him back. He flew past the girl and fell on a table between two completely oblivious Salt Lake miners.
"Affhole!" the girl shouted at the impudent man as she walked away.
Her dirty look ensured that she would continue to make her way among the customers, and she found herself near the rough wooden door behind the bar. The bartender, a big bald man in a frock-coat, looked at her menacingly, but she shot back a glance, from which he hurried back to his glasses and the nearest customer. The girl ducked through the door and stepped into the saving darkness. The stench of the place barely penetrated here. She fumbled for the heart-dust lamp on the wall, lit it by pulling on a metal cord, and in the scarlet glow of the heart particles, she began to descend the steps down into the cellar.
In the cellar, filled with barrels of some particularly vile, pungent-smelling hooch, the light of another heart lamp was already on, and in its reddish glow, another girl was sleeping at the old wooden table, with her hands folded in front of her and her head down on them.
"Pff-ff-fft. Hey!" whistled the visitor, hanging the lamp on a cast-iron hook driven into a stone column.
"Pff-ff-fft, Milo," the girl came up and patted the sleeping one on the shoulder. "If'f me, Fara.
"Oh, Za-ara, is that you," the girl woke up, wiping her eyes. "I'm sorry, I fell asleep while I was waiting for you. Are you alright?"
"Pff. No, I'm nof," Zara said angrily, taking a seat across from Milo. "Fhey manafed to gef a picfure of me."
"Wha-a-at?" Milo yawned, surprised.
"Pic-fu-re," Zara spelled sadly. "On fhe camera. Fnap. Bang! And ffraiff to fhe newfpaper."
"Wait, wait," the awakened girl held her hands up, "Let me get this straight. You mean someone took your picture?"
"Yef," Zara nodded.
"And? It's all over the papers already?" Milo covered her mouth with her hand in horror.
"Yef, no, nof all ofer fhem," Zara nodded, and then shook her head, "Buf fhey all wrofe fhaf I, you know, I'm fhe Ufurper'f miffreff. No, of courfe I don'f mind if. I'm flaffered fhaf I'm..."
"Wait, calm down," the other stopped her, "I can't understand you anymore."
Zara exhaled and, regaining her breath, continued:
"Whaf fo underffand. Fhey wrofe fhaf I waf hif miffreff."
"Where did they write that? In the 'Herald'?" Milo asked worriedly.
"No," the visiting girl said, "In fhe 'Efening Wind'."
"Well, that's not so bad, then," exhaled Milo. "What's in the 'Herald'?"
"Fhe 'Herald' wrofe fhaf fhe Ufurper now eaff breakfaff on fhe fecond fier. And fhaf fif if now fhe new frend," Zara quoted remarkably by heart.
"Then why are you scaring me," Milo said angrily, "Let that scandal rag write whatever they want. Anyway, it's only read on the upper levels, and I'm not going back to work, and neither should you."
"Today fhif one, fomorrow anofher," Zara raised her eyebrows and took off her hat, placing it on the polished table. "Whaf are you going fo do?"
"I don't know," Milo yawned. "The road home is closed – two beggars have been watching me since this morning, and it's not safe to stay here, either."
Both girls looked at each other. They even looked alike in some ways. They were both cute, young, slender, with thin, soft features and tufts of hair gathered at the top of their heads. Except that Zara's lips were a little more puffy from her constant whistling, and her gaze as heavy as pounded weights. Both wore simple green dresses, apparently made by the same dressmaker, only Zara was wearing a raincoat. She took it off and laid it on the bench, and turned her tired face toward Milo.
"Unless..." said Milo thoughtfully.
"Whaf?" Zara squinted her eyes.
"Well, that's unlikely. Remember, when Dad was dying, he called me in and asked the others to come out," Milo said slowly.
"Yef. I remember," Zara nodded.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but he gave me the address and told me to learn it by heart. Corner of the Salt Canal and the Alley of the Blind, red door. He said, if I had nowhere else to go, I should go there."
"Hmm... Myfferiouf. Dangerouf. Buf if'f probably worfh af leaff finding ouf whaf'f ouf fhere. And one more fhing... How will he find you?" Zara raised her eyebrows questioningly.
"He will," Milo lowered her head on her arm.
"Fhen whaf are we waifing for? Lef'f go!" Zara's eyes lit up, and as she stood up she threw her cape back over her shoulders, which appeared to have a hood, and she handed her hat with a veil to Milo who was looking at her in surprise."
"Now? But it's probably... What time is it? And that must be dangerous!" Milo was taken aback.
"Now," Zara nodded uncompromisingly and slipped her hat over her sister's head.
As the girls passed the Colosseum, huddling at the edge of the street, a fine rain drizzled down, nailing the naughty heart dust to the ground, staining the streams of water red, as if it were blood flowing through the veins of the sewers. The tables were cleared, and even the trash was gone from under their feet. Zara stared intensely into the darkness, sensing its unkind intentions, but the darkness was full for the week ahead and only had enough power to frighten the occasional stranger with its emptiness. The girls reached the Alley of the Blind quietly, only to be startled by the frozen figure of the black metal knight as they turned the corner. But after a closer look, they realized that it was on a charge. And, after bypassing the cloud of black smoke streaming around the sucking screeching sound made by the pipe bolted to the knight's chest, they made their way to the canal.
In the light of the dim glare that had somehow miraculously descended to the water, the girls were not immediately able to distinguish the red door, which had lost its brightness. When Zara took a step to knock, Milo put her hand on the girl's shoulder and pointed to the lock lying on the steps. Zara looked at her sister and frowned. Milo shrugged, sighed, put her hand on the doorknob, and pulled it toward her. The subtle creak was so evocative that both girls instinctively squirmed. The door opened, though, and nothing happened. Immediately, as if on cue, they disappeared into the doorway.
It was dark inside. Milo pulled off her hat and hung it on the hook where someone else's cloak was already hanging. Zara closed the door, creaking again (quieter this time), and they both took slow steps, trying to keep their toes up, and moved into the hallway. The room was completely empty, as if no one had ever lived there. There were not even any lights. Zara approached her sister and looked her in the eye with surprise. Milo shrugged again and pointed to a small staircase that went up to the second floor. Zara nodded, took a step toward her, and then froze. Milo heard the indistinct sound, too, and froze beside her. The sound was immediately repeated. There was someone crying upstairs. Zara turned around and looked at her sister with completely rounded eyes. But Milo just nodded toward the stairs, and they both hurried up.
There, in the middle of the small room, was an old man lying on the floor, and he paid no attention to them. Milo crouched down beside him:
"Dear sir, what is the matter with you? How can I help you?"
But the old man only clutched his head tighter and burst into uncontrollable tears.
"Sir. Oh, moons! Zara, what should we do?" said the girl excitedly.
Zara sat down next to them and shook her head:
"We fhould lef him cry hif fill," she whistled and looked around.
The room was also completely empty.
"A beggar maybe?" the girl suggested.
"Maybe something happened to him?" Milo said.
"Alcofolic, fhough fhere is no fmell of oblifion-wafer... ffrange," Zara muttered thoughtfully, stood up and went to the wall with empty hooks.
Milo turned her face toward the old man, sighed, and took her chance:
"I was asked to tell you that I am Alfred's daughter."
Zara looked at her with surprise, and the old man, who had just sobbed inconsolably, fell silent. In the quietness that ensued, only Zara's heel creaked on the plank as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other in strained anticipation. Then a shaky voice rumbled from the old man's lips:
"Come again?"
Milo looked at Zara, seeking her support. But the latter stood puzzled and stared at her sister with raised eyebrows.
"It's a very long story," Milo began, "I grew up in foster care, that's my foster sister Zara. And my father, well, my foster father, before he died, told me that I could come here when I needed help," Milo babbled. "And say... say that I was Alfred's daughter. That's all I know (she sighed heavily). But I see that it's not me who needs help now, it's you. Tell me what happened, how can we help?"
The old man raised himself on an elbow and looked at Milo with surprised, weeping eyes. Turning his head, he saw Zara. He could not understand how he knew her face, moreover, both girls seemed extremely familiar to him.
"All right, all right," he grabbed his head, lifting himself up. "Let's start with the beginning. I'm sorry, I've had such a day. I'm not thinking clearly. You?" he pointed to Milo.
"I'm Milo Samora, and this is my sister Zara Samora," Milo said, turning her head toward Zara. "But we're not related. Rather, we are very distant relatives, as our, I mean her, I mean my foster father used to say," the girl got confused.
"Samora, Samora, I don't quite remember," the old man said with a grunt as he sat down on the floor and looked at Zara. "But why, why do I remember your face so clearly, like I saw it today?"
"Fhe newfpaper," Zara sniggered back.
"Excuse me?" the old man said.
"You must have seen her picture in the newspaper," Milo clarified.
"That's right!" the old man exclaimed, clapping his palm on his head. The Evening... what do you call it... Wind. That Asstolok, the senior technician, kept thrusting it under my nose.
"Yes, that's why we came to you," Milo was surprised.
Everyone was silent for a while.
"Now, wait a minute. You said you were Alfred's daughter. Did I hear you right? Alfred who?" the old man stared at her, wiping away the tears.
"I... I don't know. I only know the name. I don't have any childhood memories of him," Milo's eyes glittered.
"Wait, you look," the old man rubbed his eyes, "About twenty years old."
"Twenty-one," the girl said, wiping a tear from her cheek with her sleeve.
"Twenty-one," the old man repeated glumly, and thought for a while.
Then he sighed heavily, scratched the dark edge of the floorboard with his finger, and began to speak:
"You see, the thing is... My brother Alfred Wolfie died thirty years ago. He had a brilliant mind. The best in his, ahem, in our generation. He did a lot of things, his brains... oh... He was preparing a discovery, it was going to turn our lives upside down, the New Renaissance. But that night... He was just unlucky. When the conspirators were executed. You know..."
The old man fell silent, stroked the scratched surface of the board with the pad of his finger, sighed, and continued:
"My brother, he... held one of the chairs of the University. The Grand Master of the House Amun and he... They were friends. His Grace's entire inner circle was destroyed with them that night."
The old man cried again.
"And me, who am I... I'd rather be executed than him."
Milo sat with her hands over her eyes, sobbing softly, too. Then she moved toward the old man and embraced him. He pulled away at first, but then fell into her arms. The night breeze blew in through the open window and shook the hair on the Magister's head and the collar on Milo's dress. Zara was standing over them, shifting from one foot to another, staring thoughtfully out the window into the darkness of the canal.
When the first sun rose, and its playful brush painted the room on the second floor of the Magistrate's dormitory in the junior technician's house, the girls had already gone to the market and were preparing breakfast on a small oil burner in the former kitchen room. Wolfie and Zara were dragging mattresses up to the second floor, and Milo seemed to be kicking the remains of dust out of the Magister's dwelling for good.
"Excuse me for asking," Galahad said to Zara as they sat down on the mattresses to catch their breath. "Since you were a child? Why didn't you cure it?"
"Whaf? Pff-ff?" she whistled back. "Yef, fince childhood. Cure. Whaf are you falking abouf? We could barely make endf meef. Dad worked hard enoufh for four. Fhat'f why he died. My mofher died efen before fhaf. Fhere waf no one fo fake care of uf."
"Ff-ff-ff," Wolfie mocked. "Speak slower."
Zara frowned and swiped her thumb abruptly at her throat, then brought her palm down to knee level.
"Oh, she died when you were little," Galahad slapped himself on the knee. "You could have just said so. You know, you're hard to understand."
"If'f okay, I'm ufed fo if," Zara smiled crookedly.
"It's hard for a father to raise two girls, yes," the old man said sadly.
"If'f all righf, if made me ffrong," Zara showed the muscles in her arms and laughed childishly.
Wolfie smiled sadly, but quickly shook off the hint of sorrow and continued:
"You know, when I was at the Magistrate Training Center, I lived in a dorm with a doctor. He had a small practice, fixing people's speech. Both children and adults," the Magister turned his head and folded his arms on the chest. "Well, as often happens before exams, any information is remembered better than what you need to learn. Anyway, I remember how he did it. It's not proper for such a beautiful girl to... Ahem. Well. I could work with you."
He was silent, and watched from the corner of his eye as surprised Zara looked down at him.
"I don't promise it will be quick. With adults, it is very difficult. Reflexes are already developed. But I honestly can't bear listening to this," Wolfie pursed his lips. "And I'm not used to being indebted to anyone."
"Don'f worry abouf if. You're helping uf, foo. Milo will be fafe here."
"Oh, by the way, I never asked what had happened to her," Wolfie turned to the girl.
"Um..." Zara hesitated in response, "You'd beffer afk her yourfelf. I can pff-ff-ff whiffle many fhingf fo you," she laughed. "Af for your propofal. I agree. Alfhough I have long been accuffomed fo my whiffling, buf why nof."
"You get my house in order, and I'll shelter your foster-sister and cure you of your pff-ff-ff. Do we have a deal?" the Magister held out his hand to Zara. She laughed again and gave him a firm handshake.
When they came downstairs, Milo was already pouring the broth into the deep tin plates Zara had brought from the tavern.
"It's a good thing we had time to go before the festivities started. The whole market is going to be shut down today."
"Festivities?" Wolfie asked again, tucking in his soup.
"It seems to be properly called 'Defender of the Heart Day.' But we just call it the Heart's Day, '...when we must remember our purpose in this world...'" Milo quoted the Last Poet's words in the voice of the cultist from their little church.
"Ah, this stupid parade," said the Magister, swallowing the rest of his food.
"Don't hurry, take your time," Milo smiled.
But Wolfie had already finished his food and put his plate next to the pot:
"Can I have some more?"
"Of course," laughed the girl. "You're so cute!"
"You're a pretty good cook, but I'm terrible. I haven't eaten anything but my own cooking in years," the old man said, pouring himself a second portion, but then he froze, "The parade. Oh, moons!"
The plate fell out of his hand, splashing the liquid all over the boardwalk. The old, delaminated wood immediately became stained with a dark, greasy spot.
"We must hurry."
The old man sprang to his feet and rushed to the second floor, then turned and jumped into his old boots in the hallway.
"Where are you going? What's happening?" Milo exclaimed in surprise.
Wolfie had already put on his cloak.
"I'll explain on the way, but we have to get to the other side of the market before the parade starts, to the auction. We must hurry!"
The girls looked at each other unhappily, but got up from the floor.
Zara was the last one to come out, took the lock out of her cape and closed the door.
"Hurry, hurry, we must get there before the troops come," the Magister yelled, pulling Milo after him. They raced down the Alley of the Blind with the same vigor with which the Magister had crossed it the night before in the opposite direction. The old man didn't explain anything to them, just shouted warnings, keeping ahead:
"Sack!... Pit!... Puddle!"
The girls ran with their gowns raised and looked at each other only once in bewilderment.
Crowds were already gathering in the marketplace around the Colosseum, and the police were setting up fences. The residents of the lower tier flocked to the only spot in their part of the City where the sun was still shining, in anticipation of the grand spectacle. Wolfie grabbed Milo's hand and pulled her through the crowd, deliberately shoving and stepping on people's feet so that they would part in front of the sisters. Milo held Zara's hand, and while the former smiled and apologized sweetly, the latter simply stared at the angry onlookers with her penetrating gaze, which made them lose their sense of indignation.
The Magister made his way to the fence and squeezed under it, taking the girls with him. A policeman standing at a distance immediately waved his hand and shook his head angrily. But Wolfie ignored him and helped Milo and Zara through the low barrier. The policeman got mad and moved in their direction. Galahad grabbed the girls by the hands and ran to the other side of the square. The policeman blew his whistle and rushed after them, but immediately stumbled and fell into the scarlet dust that rose again in the warm sunlight. People laughed. While the man got up and shook himself, Wolfie and his companions were already on the other side of the square. The policeman gave up and walked back to the fence.
All sweaty and dirty from the heart dust that had settled on him, Wolfie reached the podium near the big fountain when the auction was already in full swing. The girls rushed to the water to wash up in the sparkling spray, and the Magister ran around the podium, trying to get a good look at the dolls on display. "Too late, too late!" the voices in the Magister's head shouted. There was a mass of people. The gawkers, attracted by the festivities, weren't thinking of buying anything, but they were laughing and pointing their fingers at the poor animated things, and it was hard for the Magister to see what was going on through the heads of the townsfolk. He tried to squeeze between the forest of people's legs, but he was pushed out with some pretty nice kicks. Zara, wet with water, came up behind the Magister and crouched down, pointing to her shoulders. The Magister jerked his head irritably, but then jumped on the girl's shoulders, and she lifted him up like a child.
"I see you didn't lie, you have strength indeed," Wolfie grinned as he looked at the podium.
Zara said nothing and only squared her shoulders.
On the podium, where people were being tortured as late as yesterday, there were dolls of all sizes and shapes: a wooden painted bird on wheels with shifty eyes; a pink idol with cloth ears to its knees; a pair of stone golems; a tall swing decorated as a giant mouth; a black knight without legs; a pile of ruined "messengers" for parts; and an endless number of anthropomorphic "people" made of wood and metal. In some of them, the buyers inserted vessels with rounds of heart fragments and scratched a list of commands on the arms or head right there, after which the doll would rise from the pile of debris and walk in line with the others. At this podium, the bargaining went for a flying kite with six arms – it hovered above the vendor and looked around the crowd in bewilderment.
"Wrong," Wolfie said frustratedly and looked around.
"Turn over there," the Magister pointed to the right, to another podium where they were selling parts for factory dolls.
Zara turned, and Galahad had to shield his eyes with his hand from the blinding light of the zenith suns, reflected in the visors and shells of the spider-workers and the glittering riveted trucks with huge metal arms, of interest only to the Magistrate's workers and mechanics. The crowd was smaller there, so Wolfie jumped off Zara's shoulders and hurried to the podium himself.
He ran up exactly as a sweaty, lean herald in a hood that covered his eyes came to the edge of the wooden dais and announced:
"Lot thirty-three. A doll with a shell. Parts. The owner..." the man looked into the crowd, "Is a respected member of the guard."
Dumbfounded, Wolfie looked back to where the herald's head was pointing. There stood Blop, with a bruise under his right eye, smiling nervously.
"The opening price," continued the man on the podium, "Is three hundred coins."
With these words, another man in a long cloak brought to the podium the doll that had belonged to the Magister the day before, and showed it to the audience.
"Three hundred coins?" a shout arose from the crowd. "Who would set such a price?"
"Not me," replied the herald unemotionally.
The eyes turned again to the stupidly smiling Blop. The same voice continued to reprimand the guard:
"What's three hundred coins for? For a shell? It doesn't even seem to be working."
Blop glanced angrily in the direction of the voice, but the crowd did not give the man away. Wolfie shifted his gaze from his doll to Blop and back again. "Attack!" one voice suggested. "Grab and run!" recommended another. "No, no, no, no," the third kept saying. "It's no use," cried the twenty-fifth.
"Hey," a woman's voice came from behind Wolfie's back. "You're the one who groped me yesterday!"
It took Wolfie a while to realize that it was Zara who was speaking, as she was making her way through the crowd to the guard. And Blop did not immediately realize that it was he who was being spoken to, and he turned his head only when Zara was near his face.
"Want some more busting up?" she shouted, then swung her arm and slapped Blop so hard that his whole face vibrated.
He sat down on the ground in surprise, and the people around him burst out laughing. The man in the cloak holding the doll doubled over with laughter, and it fell out of his hands, flipping over and landing right in front of Magister Wolfie.
Galahad was taken aback and did not quite know what to do. The first to come to his senses was the man on the podium, who shouted at him:
"Hey, old chap. Give me that doll, will you," he said, wiping the tears from his face.
Wolfie looked at the man's unshaven face, then at the doll, squatted down, and slipped his hands under it, which immediately became covered in a fine reddish dust. A drop fell on his shoulder. "Tear," the voice said. The Magister jumped up and ran as fast as he could between laughing people, past the fountain, into the crowd that had gathered outside the Colosseum. He sprang into the square just in front of the tank column, pulled by golems almost as big as the tanks themselves, and dashed after the marching band. His legs burned, and his heart seemed to beat out its last rousing rhythm. Knocking the musicians off, he got out of the orchestra and ran up the pedestal of a moving cardboard statue of the Usurper Sammarius, dragged by several smaller dolls. The people didn't pay much attention to him, because at the same moment an airship flew over the procession, pulling balloons with moons painted on them.
The police rushed to the Magister from all sides, signaling to one another how to surround the distraught old man. Wolfie made a deceptive maneuver and darted back along the pedestal, but then darted forward again and leaped into the open space, where he finally guessed to turn into the instinctively dispersed crowd and dashed into the nearest alley. Without slowing his pace, he flew toward the canal. There, in the native darkness of the alleys, he was sure he could evade pursuit.
He was deafened by the roar of the jet engine, which struck his ears. Wolfie stumbled and fell into a puddle, hitting his whole body in pain. When he opened his eyes, a blue-colored octopus was yanking the doll from his hands, much like the one the Magister had seen on the statue in front of the clock tower of the Castle Amun. Wolfie was extremely surprised, but only squeezed the doll harder. The octopus frowned at the Magister, while its tentacles, finger after finger, released the old man's weakening grip.
Galahad's gaze fell on the huge man at the wheel of the aircycle, who pressed the pedal, and the machine began to lift into the air. Wolfie almost hung on, holding on to the doll, when the octopus unhooked his last finger with its slippery limbs, and the craft spun upward, disappearing between the buildings. Wolfie fell on the paving stones and passed out to the whistling, shouting, and stomping of approaching police boots.
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