17th September
The last sailors from the Kaiserstern set out this morning. The case could be considered closed. Nathan, of course, did not like this result, but he could not do anything about it. Almost the entire department was still raking in the aftermath of the city revolt, which aroused nostalgia for revolutionary times and the bullet-in-place decree for criminal offenses. Besides, even if Brennan wasn't busy from morning to night, he still couldn't figure out what to do with Roismann. He has not yet seen, not only a way to bring this asshole to court, but even a way to take him to this very court.
"Sir, Mrs. Sheridan is here," the attendant reported, and Brannon nodded fatefully. She'll get to him anyway. She certainly has something to say, although the Commissar would prefer that she read out her opinion somewhere else.
"Good afternoon, Martha," he began with some wariness. "How's Peggy? Sorry I didn't come..."
"She's gone again," Martha said quietly. Nathan lowered the papers, which covered himself like a shield, got up and sat his sister on a chair. She squeezed Brennon's hand tightly.
"Why?" Mrs. Sheridan whispered. "What pulls her after him? Why, after all that had happened to her, did she go to him again?"
Nathan was silent. He didn't even try to pretend to be surprised - because he knew that Peggy would still stay with Redfern. The Commissar had not doubted this since he saw them on the ship.
"I've never even seen him," Martha finally looked into his eyes. "Tell me why she left us again? Do we really love her less than this... this her..."
"That's not the point," Brennon replied as gently as possible. "Not that she does not love you or thinks that you do not love her. It's just that she... she... Martha, you did the same when you met Joseph."
"Oh my God," the sister muttered, "why do they always do what we're trying to protect them from?"
Brannon hugged her carefully.
"I tried so hard," Martha said stifled, "I did everything so that no one would remember that her mother was from the village, so that she would be like a lady! So that what happened to us would never happen to her! Why, why doesn't she need all this?"
"She needs it," the commissar consoled her awkwardly. - She just, well ... probably heredity ...
"Joseph married me, but this one? He would never marry her! What will she do when she gets pregnant? Where can she go if..." Martha gasped convulsively. "What if! He will play enough and throw her out like a cat, and we don't even know where to look for her!"
"She will find us herself. Peggy can stand up for herself."
He taught her, Nathan thought: he was no longer sure that the pyromaniac would kick Peg out, even if he knocked her up. The look, full of agonizing anguish, with which Angel followed her when she left with her family, firmly engraved in the Commissar's memory. And the way he looked at her after he tore the Dorgern sailor to pieces...
"How is Joseph?" Brannon asked. Martha wiped her eyes with a glove.
"Good. Better than I feared. She said she would visit us, and Joe seemed resigned. He seemed to know that she would leave."
What an unexpected magnanimity on the part of the pyromaniac. Before that, this guy allowed two letters a month - one to her uncle, one to her mother, and he obviously read them.
"Maybe it's for the best," Martha said suddenly, sniffled and reached into her reticule for a handkerchief. Brannon handed her his. "Jesus, Nathan, she warmed up a cup of tea with a touch of her finger! She didn't even think about what she was doing, she just did it and that's it! She lit the fireplace just like that, with her hand! Nathan," the sister grabbed his elbow, "is she all right? This man, he didn't do anything to her? He didn't turn her into something… inhuman?"
"No," the commissar reassured her, although he felt cold inside. Such a thought had never occurred to him, but yet the pyromaniac is quite capable of it! After all, how could a stupid girl learn magic and spells just like that?
"How would you know? You'd think you'd know about it. Better ask a professional. Mister Longsdale, he knows about this, doesn't he?"
"Yes. I will ask, definitely."
There was another knock on the door, and the officer on duty coughed and announced that the Commissar was waiting in the interrogation room in the Hudson case. Martha got up, straightened her hat and returned the handkerchief to Nathan. Brannon decided to escort her to the porch and grabbed the file with the case of a family of robbers passing on the family business by inheritance.
When the Commissar and his sister went out onto the porch, Valentina, who was receiving boxes of tea from the vendors, waved her hand to Nathan and affably nodded to Mrs. Sheridan. Martha bowed slightly in response, looked thoughtfully from the widow to the commissar and said:
"Well, I'm clear about you. But what does she see in you?"
"Ghhhh..." Brannon backed away to the saving door. His sister glared at him like an eagle and asked dryly:
"I hope you've finally taken at least some steps?"
"Um... well... Missis van Allen started talking about it..."
"Missis van Allen!" Martha snorted. "Are you a man or a louse? The beautiful woman can't wait for you to finally drag her to church, and you? You don't even need to make children - there are already five ready-made!"
Brennon felt himself blushing like a brick during the firing, fumbled for the doorknob and hastily ducked under the department's saving canopy.
***
"I finally got the letter." Longsdale handed Brennon a rather plump envelope. "I was answered by one of my Dorgern colleagues, to whom I had written from Breswain. He was helping the consultant whom we now know was captured by Roismann. Then this disappearance was a mystery, and even for the victim herself. Roismann managed to completely hide both his face and the place of imprisonment from the caught consultant."
"Come on, come on!" the commissar perked up, put a cup of tea on the table by the fireplace and pulled out a letter from the envelope. The sheets of paper were filled with two different handwritings. - Here, as I understand it, is the report of the injured consultant attached?
"Yes. Read on."
"In Dorgernian?"
"Oh yeah, I'm sorry." Longsdale held his hand over the stack of sheets of paper and muttered an incantation. Incomprehensible words were transformed into Riadian, and Nathan eagerly plunged into reading. In the letter, Gerhard Bergmann told how one day his colleague appeared on the threshold of his house, who, as he believed, had left the country, since he had not heard anything about her for a long time.
"Regina Oettinger?! Who is it?!"
"The consultant who fell victim to Roismann."
"But she's a woman!"
Longsdale frowned, puzzled.
"Yes, and what?"
"But she's a consultant!" the commissar didn't calm down. "How can a woman be a consultant?!"
"At the same time," Longsdale said calmly. "There are thirty-eight women among my colleagues. Why does this make you so nervous?"
"Oh my God," Nathan muttered. It never occurred to him... He hardly concentrated on the letter, and then he like was hit by a magical current: what if the pyromaniac is making a future consultant out of Peggy?!
"Redfern! Lord, suddenly Roismann was not mistaken, but simply confused the person?!" Suddenly the pyromaniac changes Pegg to..."
"Miss Sheridan hasn't changed a bit. She is the same human she was."
"Why are you so sure?"
"I will always distinguish a normal person from someone who has undergone magical influence. So is Raiden."
"But she conjures..."
"This can be learned. Like playing the violin. It is difficult and not given to everyone, but it is possible. Will you read?"
The hound gave Brannon a mocking glare and spread blissfully across the carpet like a red puddle. The commissar again tried to delve into the neat lines. Where are all these timid, meek women who are afraid to stick their noses out of the house without a husband?
Miss Oettinger did not know the face of her captor, nor the place where he was holding her, but she tried to remember all the details of her imprisonment. Most of them gave Brennon a chill on his skin - you can't do such things with a woman, even if she is a consultant! You can't do this with anyone...
"Roismann tried to reconstruct the process based on its outcome, that is, the available consultant," Longsdale explained. "By that time, he had probably already tracked down Mr. Redfern, and when he had no success with Fraulen Oettinger, he decided to catch someone who knew the process itself."
It looks like Roismann loosened his guard for joy, and Miss Oettinger managed to escape. She got out of his laboratories along the bed of an underground river, which supplied Roismann with water.
"What is spectrum of distortion?" Brennon asked, reading to Miss Oettinger's conclusions, which he barely understood about a quarter. "What do you mean, "a wide spectrum of distortion includes a space of at least one square mile"?"
Longsdale thought for a long time, obviously choosing the simplest words to explain, and finally said:
"Roismann disguises his habitat. The spectrum of distortion is how much and in what aspects the masking enchantment affects reality in order to hide the object. In the center of this square is Roismann's laboratory. But no one will see it until they cross the border of distortion."
"But what prevented Miss Oettinger from looking back and remembering where she was?"
"You did not understand. This enchantments distorts visible reality so much that you don't even know where to look for this border. They form a "blind spot" - when you reach the border, you will involuntarily turn aside and do not even realize that you have turned. You will wander near the border for years and never cross it, because you will always turn off. As soon as Fraulen Oettinger crossed the border from the inside, she immediately ceased to understand where this border was. Do you understand a little?" Longsdale asked almost desperately.
"Yeah," the commissar said with detachment. This thing the grandmothers in the village called "wandering" - but who knew that it really existed?!
"As a matter of fact," Jen's voice sounded harshly over Brennon's shoulder, "even the consultants cannot overcome this obstacle, otherwise they would have disassembled his nest the stone by stone long ago. But I'm not a consultant. And not a human at all. You can't fool me with such a trick."
Brannon turned to her. The girl stood in front of him, her arms crossed over her chest, her chin lifted up proudly and she almost pleadingly looked the Commissar in the eyes. No matter what witch she was and no matter what she said, she perfectly understood what the death of sixty-two people meant. She desperately wanted to be useful - but she surely understood that nothing could be done about what she had done.
"So you can see this border?"
"Yes."
"Good," Brannon said, and the witch perked up happily. "The only problem is that it takes a long time to scour the whole of Dorgern. You need to know at least roughly in what area to look for."
"The Kaiserstern sailors mentioned that Roismann was sailing his ship to Dessenberg. This is the southeast of Dorgern, in the neighboring province, white talcum is mined, which Roismann used. With the help of the scales of the sea serpent, I managed to more or less trace its path. Here," Longsdale put the map on the table. He circled with a red pencil the area of the coast south of Dessenberg. "Approximate drop off site."
It will be good to get the pyromaniac to work! Brannon thought suddenly, and was immediately ashamed. He left Redfern in such a disassembled state that it would be simply inhumane to demand any help from him. Although Roismann squeezed Angel's painful places hard enough to inflame him with a thirst for revenge.
"Not bad," the commissar said in thought. The hound put its muzzle on his knee and stared heartfelt into his eyes. "I am sure that Roismann will try to dock so as to be as close to his home as possible."
"Not a fact," the consultant shook his head. "Don't forget about teleportation."
"If he is capable of it after the turbulence on the waves riding on a snake," Jen objected. "Although the lousy bastard could hide a couple of amulets, which he used, barely crawled out onto land."
"But then we can track their use. Even if Roismann has erased his tracks, I will be able to find them."
"We can't have to count on official support," Brannon said. "Tell me, can you involve at least one more consultant in the case?"
"And then there will be six of us!" Jen exclaimed in mocking enthusiasm. "Counting the animals."
Longsdale nodded, "I'll get in touch with the Dorgern consultants. Roismann is a serious danger, and I am sure that they will not refuse to help us."
"We will need ammunition, weapons and a map of the area, transport to the place and back. Stock of medicines for urgent care."
"Will you take him alive?" The witch interrupted the Commissar unexpectedly. He pressed his lips together, paused, and finally said through set teeth:
"No."
***
Broyd took an exasperated drag on his cigar, fumigated Nathan with the fragrant smoke, and asked:
"Why are you so sure that Roismann did not drown on the way home?"
"Because shit doesn't sink," the commissar muttered. "Even if he died by the grace of God, his lair must be cleaned, otherwise you never know what undead sticks out there, gnawing through the bars on the cages out of boredom."
"Four of you," the chief of police said menacingly.
"Maybe there will be more of us."
"Will you take Miss Sheridan to increase your combat capability?"
"No, but Longsdale will arrange for the help of Dorgern's consultants."
"In the form of another gentleman with a hound?"
Brannon was troubled by a vague thought of Miss Ettinger, but dismissed her as clearly stupid.
"I can't talk you out of it, can I?" Broyd said.
"Roismann will not stop there and wants to take revenge. And he is a stubborn, persistent guy, with a lot of opportunities to shit."
"Great argument," the chief muttered. "Well, go... but the vacation is at your expense!"
"Of course, sir," the Commissar answered meekly, and deducted from future expenses this month a new kitchen door. When he went down to his floor, on the way to his office, he was vigilantly intercepted by the attendant.
"Sir, you have a visitor there."
"Did you let a visitor into my office? What the heck?!"
"He himself! I... I didn't even have time to move! And he won't let me in! I have tried! The door won't open!"
"What does he look like?" The Commissar said through set teeth, already guessing who honored him with a visit.
"Tall, thin," the attendant swallowed. "Such with eyes..."
Brennon silently walked to the door, banged his fist into it, and it opened smoothly. Redfern shook his leg boredly as he sat in the Commissar's chair and leafed through the autopsy report of Mrs. Austin, the victim of arsenic poisoning.
"Free," Nathan muttered and slammed the door. Outside were heard the departing steps of the attendant, quickly turning into a run.
"Back on your feet, I see," Brannon inquired grimly. The pyromaniac was still thinner than usual, but he looked quite cheerful. He tossed the folder onto the table and snorted.
"You do this nonsense here from morning till night? Are you getting paid that much for it?"
This is the joy of recognition, the commissar thought sourly. Now the pyromaniac was behaving completely as usual.
"Where is Peggy?"
"At home, safe. At my place," Redfern repeated with pressure, got up and put a rather large suitcase on the table. "Everything we need is here."
"We?"
"Me, you, Longsdale with his hound and witch. You do not intend to forgive Roismann with truly Christian meekness?"
"And you, then, want to help us catch the asshole."
"No," Redfern said through set teeth, "I want to skin him alive, but I need assistants."
Brannon chuckled. Apparently, a personal meeting with Roismann somewhat diminished the pyromaniac's confidence in his abilities.
"We are already dealing with this issue."
"As successful as in the case of Arandhati?" Redfern raised an eyebrow, snapped the locks on the suitcase, opened it and turned it to the Commissar. Nathan gazed silently at the contents for a while, and then cautiously asked:
"What the hell is this?"
"Some of the equipment that I designed for humans. It is designed to protect and increase the combat capability of the average human. Take, for example, a means of communication." Redfern fished a sinuous object out of his suitcase. "Put it on, fasten it around the ear and mouth..."
"Right on the head, or what?" Nathan asked warily. He still wore the amulet. But not on the head!
"It won't prevent you from thinking," the pyromaniac assured him sarcastically. "It is absolutely harmless," Angel threw his hat on the arm of the chair, put on a silvery gyrus and poked it with his finger: "Here you have to talk, from here - listen."
Nathan studied two bumps closely, a red one for talking, a green one for listening.
"How does it work?"
The pyromaniac gazed at the commissar with big eyes, like a cat at a mouse, paused and answered almost meekly:
"It takes a long time to explain."
"Try like for the dumb and shorter."
"I can't explain in short everything about the development of science and magic over the past one hundred and fifty years. Do you know what radio waves are and how magical currents affect them?"
"Well, it won't fry the brains when it blows?"
"It won't explode!" Redfern was indignant. "Excellent, repeatedly tested thing!"
"Uh-huh, I hope at least the last tester survived? And what's that?"
The pyromaniac snatched a more familiar object from under the Commissar's nose - wide handcuffs on a short chain. Dark blue signs flickered from beneath the varnish covering the metal.
"This is for Roismann. An analogue of the handcuffs in which he held us."
Brannon perked up. He liked the handcuffs - they were fastened with an outlandish lock, which almost completely merged with the surface. Redfern added reluctantly:
"Although I don't know how effective they will be against Roismann, who is covered in bloody mehndi like moldy cheese. Margaret and I have rummaged through quite a few books about Mazandran magic, but it's too complicated and, um... unfamiliar. Quite different principles."
"What exactly?"
"Everything."
Brannon scraped the sideburns and rolled his trial balloon.
"It's better not to do this here. I propose to meet at Longsdale's tomorrow and discuss everything. Do you understand that he will bring Dorgern consultants to the case, and they will see you if you go with us?"
"Yes," Redfern said through clenched teeth and put everything back into the suitcase. "Miss Sheridan gave me some arguments for... for some change in my relationship with them. In the end, if I knew right away that one of the consultants had been kidnapped, it remains to be seen how our first meeting would have ended for Roismann."
"Why don't you love them so much? You have one matter in common, you are engaged in the production of a damn heap of their amulets, weapons and other toys, so what's the reason?"
Redfern clicked the locks on the suitcase and placed it under Brennon's desk.
"This is for you. Consider it a gift for saving my skin. When will we meet?"
"Tomorrow at nine in the morning."
Redfern took up his hat and cane. The cane, Brennon noticed, was the same one the pyromaniac had worn before. A thin, barely visible ring on the finger - too. How did he get them from the sunken Arandhati?
"How are you?" The Commissar asked. "How does Peggy feel?"
"Not bad," Angel replied with the same restraint. "She's still tired and doesn't sleep very well, but she's much better."
"And you?"
"Why are you asking?" Redfern inquired suspiciously. "Do you think I'm going to faint from exhaustion?"
"Because people do that. Because I don't want you to waste all my efforts to get you out of the ass. This is called taking care."
"But..."
"You also practice that with Margaret. Is not it?"
Angel did not answer, turned away and left without saying goodbye.