Sineus moved through the back alleys of Istanbul. The goal was simple. Find a way out. The city was a cage, and the bars were closing. Every shadow seemed to hold a Directorate hunter. Every corner promised an ambush. The memory of the cistern, of the screaming psychic noise, was a constant pressure behind his eyes. He kept his mind anchored to the cold weight of the Tokarev pistol in his coat pocket. It was a simple, brutal memory. It was all he had.
He found the address. A spice merchant’s shop, the air thick with the smells of cumin and dried chilies. A boy with old eyes led him up a narrow flight of stairs to a small, private room. The air here smelled of dust and old paper. Adem Kurtoglu, the memory broker who had arranged the transmission of the Sokolov Cipher, sat behind a large wooden desk cluttered with maps and ledgers. He did not stand. He gestured to the single chair opposite him.
Sineus did not take the chair. He stood before the desk, a soldier reporting.
— I need a way out, — Sineus said. There was no point in pleasantries. — East. Overland.
Kurtoglu steepled his thin, ink-stained fingers. His dark eyes were ancient, holding the weight of a thousand secrets he had bought and sold.
— All official routes are sealed, Commander. The ports, the rail lines. Your General Volkov has been most thorough. He has friends here. He has made it known that you are a priority. A state traitor.
The broker unrolled a large map of the Caucasus region. It was covered in fine, spidery lines of black ink.
— There is one path. Not a route. A thread. Through the mountains. It is dangerous. It is not on any official survey. It will take you toward Kavkaz-4.
Sineus looked at the map. It was a path into the heart of the enemy’s territory. It was a path toward the Oscillator. It was the only path that mattered.
— What is the price?
Kurtoglu smiled, a dry rustle of paper.
— Gold is a loud currency, Commander. It remembers only greed. I deal in something more stable. Something with a story.
The old man’s gaze fell to Sineus’s left hand. To the heavy signet ring of blackened steel and obsidian. It was the last physical piece of his family. The last link to his father.
— That, — Kurtoglu said, his voice a soft murmur. — That has a story. A long one. A house. A name. A fall. That is the price.
Sineus felt his hand grow cold. The ring was more than metal. It was the memory of his father placing it on his finger. It was the weight of a lineage that stretched back for centuries. A past he had tried to bury under a Red Army uniform. He looked at the polished black stone. For a moment, he saw his own reflection, a face fractured and split between the man he was and the ghost of the nobleman he was born to be.
He hesitated. The choice was absolute. The past, or the future. His father’s memory, or the chance to stop Volkov. To honor a dead man’s legacy, or to save the living from a world of erased tomorrows. He looked from the ring on his finger to the map on the desk. The map was a promise of action. The ring was a promise of history.
The hard right. Kulagin’s voice, rough and certain. It was always harder for a reason.
Sineus slowly pulled the ring from his finger. The metal was warm from his skin. It left a pale, naked band of flesh. A feeling of lightness that was like a fresh wound. He placed the ring on the desk. The sound was a small, dull click. Final. The price was named. The price was paid.
Kurtoglu picked up the ring. He did not use his brass eyepiece. He simply held it, closing his eyes for a moment as if tasting a fine wine. He felt the weight of its memory. The pride. The honor. The fall.
— A fine story, — the broker whispered. — A worthy price.
The deal was done. Kurtoglu pushed the map across the desk. He pointed to a small village in the foothills.
— You will find a man named Yusuf here. He is a guide. Tell him you are paying a debt for the old man of the bazaar. He will understand. He will take you through the passes.
Sineus took the map. He folded it carefully and placed it in his inner pocket. He did not look at the ring again. It was no longer his. He had traded it for a chance. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving the smell of dust and memory behind him.
He stepped out into the rain-slicked alley. The cold air was a clean shock against his face. He looked at his reflection in a dark puddle on the cobblestones. The image was still fractured, broken by the ripples of the rain. But the pieces were sharp now, the lines defined. He owned this brokenness. It was his.
