later, of what he did to Druganin that day. Justice was his job, vengeance both his duty and his pride. But the revenge he enacted upon Denis Druganin was a particularly terrible one. He shuddered, later, to remember with what delight he had inflicted pain upon the shrinking murderer; with what unholy joy he had listened to the man’s screams.
He tried not to think of it very often.
He could not feel, though, that the punishment had been unwarranted. Nor could Nanda, for in her deathly white face he had read a deep-seated approval for what he had done. Tasha had been furious at being left out, once she had heard of the full extent of Druganin’s depravity. She had not yet forgiven Konrad for leaving her on Boredom Duty, as she put it, when she might have joined with him in punishing Druganin. As they made their slow, shiversome way back to Ekamet through the drifts of snow, their carriage’s wheels groaning in protest, Tasha spent the entire journey staring out of the window, her face turned away from Konrad.
Nuritov... was a different matter altogether. The inspector was quiet on the journey home, deeply subdued. But then, so were they all. Even Konrad himself had rarely encountered so deeply unpleasant a case as that of the house at Divoro; poor Alexander had probably never experienced its like. Nanda regretted having forcibly dragged him along, but Konrad knew that the fault was his own. Had he never befriended Nuritov, the inspector would now be comfortably ensconced in his office in Ekamet, intent upon some important but less horrific case.
He must be deeply regretting the day he ever became acquainted with the Malykant.
Eino and Mrs. Holt, and Lilli and Marko, had been escorted to the village prior to their departure, and put into a passing stage-coach. Nanda would not even think of leaving until they were made safe, and tired though he was, Konrad would not argue. Eino dismissed all the servants, too, and the house was empty and silent when Konrad, Nanda and Nuritov finally took their leave.
But there had been the problem of the nameless child. She could not be abandoned, for all that they had been too late to help her. That fact alone tormented Konrad almost more than he could bear, for it could have turned out differently. Couldn’t it? If he had realised Druganin’s involvement sooner, kept a watch on him, set one of the serpents to tail him... the man would never have been able to slip away from them, to disappear so completely into the snow that there was no following him.
The child, whoever she was, might not have died.
The very least that they could do was ensure that she was returned home — if they could. Konrad flatly refused to make any attempt at reviving her departed spirit, not even for long enough to draw from her an idea of where her home lay. If he succeeded then she would, for a few moments, live again. She would remember Druganin, and everything he had done... no. Konrad could not, would not, risk that.
It fell to Nuritov’s well-honed detective’s instincts to come up with an alternative plan. ‘There cannot be too many possibilities,’ he observed. ‘She must have come from somewhere nearby, for Druganin must have walked there on foot, and in deep snow. There is, I suspect, only the village of Divoro within that range, but I will enquire of Eino.’
Which he did, and soon confirmed his theory. After that, it did not take them so very long to discover which house the child had come from, for her absence had been noted in the village, and a search sent out for her.
Nuritov took it upon himself to manage the difficult task of returning the tiny, inert form to her parents.
‘I do not think it wise,’ Nanda had said, laying a hand upon his arm. Konrad agreed, for though the inspector had adopted a credible facade, it was clear that his true emotional state was still disordered.
‘It is my duty,’ he had said. ‘I am the police.’
He had suffered Nan to go with him, in the end, but had rejected everybody else. Especially Konrad. When the two of them returned, they were both silent, pale and weary, and Konrad knew not what to say.
Druganin’s corpse they left where it fell, alone in the room he had made into a place of nightmares. Konrad would leave word with Diana, and his body would be suitably disposed of. He would receive no burial. The bodies of murderers were typically burned by the Order, their ashes scattered upon a designated site sacred to The Malykt. It was no honour; rather, it was part of their torment. The Malykt ensured that the fate of their physical remains was as much a torment to their spirit as the rest of the... consequences... that He enacted upon them.
Konrad felt that even this would not be enough for Druganin.
The journey home passed in almost unbroken silence, their minds too busy and their spirits too low for conversation. Upon their eventual arrival in Ekamet, very late at night, Nuritov and Tasha were set down directly outside the inspector’s house. Nuritov departed the coach with a polite nod of his head to both Konrad and Nanda, and a few murmured words of farewell; Tasha merely gave an ironic salute.
Then they were gone. Konrad closed up the door and signalled to the coachman, suffering a mixed array of feelings. Alexander was just tired, most likely, and emotionally wearied by everything that had passed. He would be all right.
Wouldn’t he?
‘A night’s rest or two will set him to rights,’ said Nanda, as sensitive to his thoughts as ever. Sometimes, she did not need to touch a person to understand their feelings with startling accuracy.
‘I am sure you’re right,’ Konrad replied, with an attempt at a smile. He hesitated before adding: ‘And... and you? Will a night’s rest set you to rights?’
Nanda looked away. They had not discussed the details of what she had seen in Druganin’s mind, and Konrad did not wish to. But if it were to trouble Nanda, he knew he must do what he could for her. And he would, gladly, even if it meant sharing in that terrible vision with which she had burdened herself.
‘I will be all right,’ she said, after a longer silence than Konrad was comfortable with.
‘Nan... if you need me—’
‘I will be all right,’ she repeated, more firmly, and Konrad subsided into silence.
‘But,’ she said sometime later. ‘Thank you.’
Konrad nodded.
‘I am here if you need me, too.’
He managed a smile. It was a poor one, but it was enough, for Nanda smiled back. But the smile quickly faded. ‘I have been thinking,’ she said.
‘That is sometimes unwise.’
She acknowledged this point with a slight inclination of her head, but continued: ‘About Eino, and his terrible fear. Do you think... do you think that a person’s organs retain any trace of their personality? Their spirit?’
Konrad blinked, confused by the apparent randomness of the question. ‘I do not know. I have never had cause to give the matter any thought. Why do you ask?’
She took a deep breath, her mouth set in a grim line. ‘The Eino I used to know was never so helplessly fearful as we found him. If the heart he received was torn from a living body, if it was taken in a moment of terrible agony and fear... would Eino feel some echo of that? Is that why he was so prone to fits of terror?’
This was a disturbing thought, and one which Konrad did not wish to dwell upon too long. ‘Perhaps,’ he allowed. ‘But. His fears manifested the most around the subject of ghosts, did they not? And then we discovered the ghost of Jakub Vasilescu, a malevolent figure if ever there was one. His mother must have known all about him. She was probably terrified of that particular ghost herself, and may have imparted some of that to her son — knowingly, or otherwise.’
‘Perhaps that’s it,’ said Nanda, sounding relieved. But she frowned, and he saw in her face that she was troubled still. ‘I had better keep an eye on him,’ she decided. ‘He and Alina. They live within reach of my mother’s house, I understand. It will not be too difficult to visit, from time to time.’
Konrad smiled, touched by her endless capacity to care. ‘I am sure they will both appreciate that.’
Nanda nodded, and managed another smile in return. This one held, just about, and he decided to capitalise upon it if he could. ‘How about a midnight banquet?’ he ventured. He was unwilling to leave Nanda at her own house alone, and equally unwilling — though he would never acknowledge as much — to be left at his house alone.
‘I do not think I could eat,’ said Nanda.
‘A small one? Light on the viands, heavy on the tea?’
Nanda thought that over, and rewarded him at last with another smile — a real one, this time. ‘That would be delightful.’
‘Then, madam, my kitchen and dining room are at your disposal.’
Her smile turned into an echo of her usual, impish grin as she said: ‘Your poor cook will positively detest us.’
‘Undying hatred,’ Konrad agreed.