The plan was insane. The alternative was unthinkable. Sineus moved toward the rusted fire escape, the metal groaning under his weight. Below, the alley was a black slash between two hulking tenements. He did not look back at the rooftop. The false victory there had burned away, leaving only the cold calculus of the countdown. Disarm the bomb. That was the mission now.
Anja dropped the last three meters, landing in a crouch with the practiced silence of a cat. She was already scanning the mouth of the alley, her hand resting on the heavy pistol at her hip. Sineus landed beside her, his boots splashing in a puddle of oily water. The air was thick, tasting of wet soot and the faint, metallic tang of ozone from the reality wave. The low hum of the overloading Heart of the Artisan was a constant pressure against his skull.
They moved out of the alley, hugging the shadows of the buildings. The streets were empty. Not the quiet of a sleeping city, but the tense, waiting silence of a hunting ground. Every darkened window was a potential sniper’s nest. Every doorway was an ambush point. The goal was the power station, two kilometers to the north. A straight line on a map. An impossible journey on the ground.
— The canals first, — Sineus said, his voice low. — It’s the most direct route.
Anja nodded, her face grim. They cut through a maze of narrow service lanes, the brickwork close and damp. The hum of the power station grew stronger here, a physical vibration that traveled through the cobblestones and up into his bones. He could feel the faint, sick ticking in his mind, the sound of reality fraying at the edges. The Ticker’s Rattle was no longer a whisper. It was the district’s pulse.
They reached the embankment of the Griboyedov Canal. And stopped.
The fog had thinned. The water was a sheet of black glass, and on it sat the gunboats. Three of them. They were not patrolling. They were anchored in a perfect line, their dark, angular hulls forming a solid wall of steel. Their powerful searchlights swept the water in overlapping, disciplined arcs, leaving no patch of darkness untouched. The low, predatory thrum of their engines was a constant, deep growl that promised violence. The blockade was absolute. One hundred percent effective.
— No way through, — Anja stated the obvious. Her hand tightened on her pistol. — They aren’t hunting. They’re caging.
Sineus looked at the impassable line of ships. The memory of their escape, of slipping through the spectral wake of a sunken canal, felt like a lifetime ago. That path was a trick of history. This blockade was a brutal fact of the present. Another door slammed shut.
— The railway, — he said. They turned back from the water, melting into the labyrinth of the Palimpsest.
The elevated railway track was a black skeleton against the bruised purple of the night sky. It ran north, a straight line of iron and timber that cut directly toward the power station. It was their last clear path. They moved along a service road that ran beneath the tracks, the steel girders dripping rust-colored water onto the street below.
They were two hundred meters from the nearest access ladder when the world flashed white.
A deafening boom echoed from up the line, a hard, percussive crack that was felt more than heard. Sineus saw a shower of orange sparks blossom in the darkness, followed by the high, tortured screech of tearing metal. A massive section of the railway, a full fifty meters of track and trestle, twisted and fell. It crashed into the street a kilometer ahead of them with a ground-shaking impact that sent tremors through the pavement.
Where the track had been, there was now only empty sky. The cage was being built around them, piece by piece. The district’s isolation was no longer a tactic. It was a physical state.
Anja swore, a single, sharp word. — They blew the tracks.
They were cut off. Water and rail, the two arteries leading north, were severed. They were rats in a trap, and the walls were closing in.
They found cover in the hollowed-out shell of a burned textile factory. The air smelled of ash and damp charcoal. Through a gaping hole in the wall, they could see the streets. And the streets were no longer empty.
— We need a way out, — Sineus said. It was not a plan. It was a prayer to a god he did not believe in.
— I have contacts, — Anja said, her voice tight with a confidence that sounded forced. — Smugglers. People who know the old ways. Tunnels the rats use. Give me a minute.
She pulled a small device from her pouch. It was a compact cylinder of brass and Bakelite, with a series of small keys and a single, amber-lensed diode. A coded signaling device, a product of the Syndicate’s workshops. She tapped out a rapid, complex sequence of clicks. The amber light pulsed once. Then went dark.
She waited. The only sounds were the distant hum of the Heart and the drip of water from the factory’s ruined ceiling. Nothing.
She tried again, her fingers moving faster, more forcefully. The sequence was different this time. A higher priority code. The light pulsed. She held her breath.
The device remained silent. The amber eye stayed dark. Her support network, the web of debts and favors that had been her shield and sword in this district, was gone. The Black Sea Combine had cut its losses. They were on their own. Support level: zero.
— Anything? — Sineus asked, though he already knew the answer.
Anja stared at the dead device in her hand, her knuckles white. For a moment, he saw not a hardened smuggler, but a woman who had just found herself utterly alone. The mask of cynicism cracked, revealing a flash of raw, desperate fury. Then it was gone, replaced by a familiar, cold pragmatism.
— They cut me loose, — she said, her voice flat. She shoved the useless device back into her pouch. The gesture was final. A door closing. — We’re on our own.
The Ticker’s Rattle in his head seemed to mock her, a dry, clicking laugh. His own fault. He had refused Orlov’s deal. He had made them enemies of the Chancellery. The Syndicates were businessmen. They would not back a losing horse against the state. The price of his integrity was her safety net.
A shout echoed from the street outside. It was not the disciplined bark of a soldier. It was the raw, zealous cry of a true believer.
Sineus moved to the hole in the wall, peering through the jagged opening. The streets were filling up. Patrols of men and women, their faces smudged with soot, their eyes burning with righteous fire. They carried a mix of old rifles, heavy pistols, and crude, sharpened tools. And on every one of them, a strip of red fabric. A scarf, an armband, a rag tied to a gun barrel. The Unremembered.
They were not just patrolling. They were hunting. They moved in chaotic, unpredictable packs, their numbers swelling as they dragged people from their homes. A man accused of hoarding food was beaten in the middle of the street. A woman who looked too well-dressed had her coat torn from her back. They were a mob, and their enemy was anyone who was not them.
The hostile patrols had not just increased. They had consumed the district. The streets were no longer a path. They were the obstacle.
— We can’t stay here, — Anja whispered, her voice tight.
— We can’t move, — Sineus countered. Every alley was a potential trap. Every street was a killing ground. They were caught between the disciplined cage of the Ordo Umbrarum and the chaotic fury of the revolutionaries.
They were trapped. Every path was gone. Every door was locked.
