Tales from Kalgachia - 8
A little southeast of Schlepogora and perched languidly on one of the area's more gentle hillsides, Karymovka Hall stood like a giant grey wedding cake six floors high and three hundred metres wide. Beneath its spires, roofed in copper sheeting and well weathered to a verdigris glow, the building had done well to survive the anarchic lull between the collapse of Minarboria and the reclamation of the area by Kalgachia. Even its regimented constellations of stained-glass windows had remained mostly in place.
The interior had been less lucky. The House of Yastreb - for whom Karymovka and its surrounding estate had been built - had fled it during Minarboria's dying days and, being mostly undead, had met their end when the ley lines of Benacian lichdom finally sputtered out. Also stricken down was the host of undead cossacks detailed to guard the place, leaving only their living apprentices to take up its custodianship. In this they had specularly failed, their magpie eyes rapidly succumbing to the profusion of gilded wall sconces, priceless tapestries and antiquities which lay around the hall. With the estate's owners expired and the prospect of some other mob of looters coming to wrest Karymovka's booty from under their noses, the local cossacks acted decisively to strip the hall's interior bare and evacuate it under the pretext - later admitted by the participants to be utterly farcical - of transferring it into safe storage. Far from being marshalled to a single location, however, Karymovka's treasures disappeared in all directions in a multitude of wagons and saddle packs, never to be seen again.
In time many of those rogue cossack cadets had returned to Karymovka as non-commissioned officers of the KDF with a brief to bring the area under Kalgachi control, their now-silvering moustaches betraying not so much as a twitch of culpability for the building's gutted state. At any rate, persistent rumours of a surviving Yastreb holding a senior government position appeared not to grant the place any special treatment by the Council of Perfecti, who had decreed that the estate be requisitioned by the Directorate of Health and Public Welfare for conversion into a sanatorium. The great skylighted hallways were duly converted into day rooms for tuberculosis sufferers, the remnants of red velvet wallpaper being stripped and replaced with bright pastel colours and large potted plants where rows of marble busts had once stood. Here too were treated the recovering cretins and typhus cases of Kalgachia's outlying villages, plus the occasional malnourished child from remote areas still untouched by the country's recent agricultural boom. Some wards had been rapidly filled with shuffling geriatrics, others by cases of nervous exhaustion or those who were simply entitled to the spa facilities as part of their employment benefits. Regardless of the visitor, all were attended by omnipresent droves of nurses in white aprons and bonnets whose razor-sharp origami creases became more implausibly complex with rank. With the traumatic shadow of Minarboria's demise falling long over the Kalgachi population, demand for the Karymovka sanatorium's services was high and the waiting list for admission into the place had become steadily longer.
So it was with some satisfaction that a schoolteacher by the name of Ilessa Aerit found herself in possession of a ticket, just when the care of thirty snotty little angels for six hours every weekday was causing her to slowly sink to their level. A rest cure, she hoped, would save her from hating the children outright; if she got to that stage, she well knew, she would never be able to forgive herself.
The ticket had come with a catch, albeit a broadly agreeable one; it was one of a pair of tickets, the other being held by the mysterious gentleman she knew as Efim Togliatti, although by now she was almost certain it was a false name. At any rate, his 'survey' visits to her school had become frequent and he had invited her to call him 'Goldie', as his closer friends and family apparently did. She had assented, in return for Goldie agreeing to meet her in a neutral venue for any more of their discussions, which were becoming less professional and more personal with each visit. The other teachers at Ilessa's school were becoming suspicious, not least the headmaster Mr. Levity who was convinced that Goldie was in fact a deep-cover Prefect who was investigating him. Goldie, for his amiable part, required no convincing and immediately made arrangements for an alternative mode of meeting. Ilessa had expected a local restaurant or some such thing; a spa break for two at Kalgachia's most oversubscribed sanatorium was, in her opinion, almost scandalously forward - but Goldie was pleasant enough company and appeared to have connections in high places to make the arrangement. As Ilessa sat beside him on the long coach journey through the mountains, she wondered what other little gifts he might have in store. She had never asked for a sugar daddy, and for the sake of her own dignity she hoped he would never become one. She convinced herself, not without cause, that Goldie was sufficiently charming in his quiet way that she would happily accept an escalation of the relationship even if it were not bought from her like a common harlot. It was, to her silent shame, some time since she had played this game. It had progressed happily the last time around, to the point of having a child; until that child along with everyone else she loved was torn away by the chaos of Minarboria's collapse. It could not happen again, Goldie had said. He seemed certain of that with an odd intensity, as if he himself had the power to prevent it. Perhaps he did, thought Ilessa. It was patently obvious he was more than a mere Directorate functionary, but he had refused to clarify his occupation as anything other than a 'government job'. She resolved to probe him during the trip, to find out what he was hiding. She knew he was hiding something, at least. A teacher knows these things, she told herself.
For Goldie's part, this visit was about as far as his brethren in Council would allow him to go wandering on the surface. They too had noted his increased tendency to 'take the cold air', and by the wry smiles on his return underground they had correctly guessed there was a woman involved. The Troglodyti, somewhat surprisingly, were unfazed by this development; theirs was the arcane creed which held that nothing was true, and everything was permitted. But the brother representing the Church of Kalgachia was all but ready to spit feathers in rage at his Chairman's wilful breaking of meditative routine. Others had joined him in disdain but the Council overall were divided on the matter, finally allowing their Chairman to continue his excursions on the condition that he restricted his visits to 'wholesome venues'. The Karymovka sanatorium was just such a venue, and would doubtless have undercover Prefects posted there to keep track of their golden-faced head of state and report back to the Council. The long-term implications caused concern in all participants except the blissfully oblivious Ilessa, and the Troglodyti for whom the occasion inspired only a gentle smugness as if they had already perceived the outcome.
"This is Karymovka village," said Goldie as the coach passed rows of well-kept cottages. "It's got a nice little church, see the shiny domes over there? In a minute we'll throw a right turn past the cossack stables, and we'll be at the great hall."
Ilessa smiled, her suspicions confirmed. "You've been here before, then," she said. "I knew it."
"Oh yes, a few times," said Goldie. "I wouldn't take you into Tee-al country unless I knew where I was going."
"Will it be safe?" said Ilessa. "I've had... bad experiences with those creatures."
"We're close enough to Schlepogora town that we're covered by their defences. Look, it says so in the brochure."
The coach lurched to the right, passing a block of stables as Goldie had promised. Amid the scattered tents outside, Laqi cossacks exercised their horses at a steady canter. The coach slowed to a stop at a checkpoint manned by more cossacks, the driver the proferring the usual bulging bag of debased Kalgarrands as a 'protection fee' before he was allowed to proceed to the gates of Karymovka Hall proper. An ascent up the long, tree-lined driveway brought the coach right up to the hall's imposing granite edifice to digorge its passengers. Ilessa gaped up at its spires in awe while Goldie, rather less affected by the building's dark majesty, fetched the luggage for both of them.
"Welcome to Karymovka!" chortled a man in a white tunic, who approached and studied the two visitors with a critical eye. "Unusual to see two of your kind here... the Nezeni aren't known for their ailments!"
"It's a preventative visit," said Goldie, holding out the tickets to be inspected. "We're not indestructible, you know."
"Oh do forgive me, sir," said the jolly official. "I meant no prejudice. You'll be as welcome here as anyone. But I must ask, are you able to carry your own luggage? Only our porters are occupied with..." he jerked his head at the other coach passengers who were hobbling on crutches and settling into wheelchairs, surrounded by a swarm of white-coated helpers.
"We'll be fine," said Goldie.
"Oh very good. Do follow me, I'll show you both to your room."
The singular 'room' caused Ilessa's eyes to flash with momentary alarm, which Goldie noticed.
"You don't mind, do you?" he said.
"What do they call it over in Bergburg..." said Ilessa. "Chutzpah! That's it. You've got chutzpah." She smiled and landed a playful slap across the back of Goldie's head.
Goldie breathed a quiet sigh of relief that the gambit had paid off. "So," he began to change the subject as they were led into the building's palatial interior. "What do you want to do first? It's all there in the brochure. They've got steam baths, horse riding, birch torture, salt dessication, archery, billiards..."
Ilessa squinted at the list. "I want to take the history tour."
"History tour?" Goldie found his stomach suddenly knotted.
"See it there? Right at the bottom." Ilessa's well-shaped fingernail indicated it on the list. "I want to get a feel for the past of this place."
"Well, I don't know if..." Goldie began, but he was interrupted by the jolly visage of their escort as he swung upen the door of their room.
"Here you go sir... ma'am... do enjoy your time with us." He fixed Goldie with a gentle but knowing stare.
"Ah yes," muttered Goldie. He stuffed a few gilded coins into the man's breast pocket and stood aside to let Ilessa enter the suite.
Goldie resisted the urge to elaborate or correct the patter of the tour guide, an elderly lady from the Directorate of Education and Outreach who escorted a dozen visitors around Karymovka Hall's labyrinthine corridors and chambers.
"Now we are entering the northeast quaternary study, known as the Cadavery. In Minarborian times the lady of the house, the lich Viscountess Royana Dolordotch, would perform dissections here for leisure. Lady Dolordotch had been a lichnurse by profession, and retained an interest in necro-anatomy throughout her unlife. She was even rumoured to engage in scandalous liaisons upon the slab with her longtime lover and fellow revenant, colonel Mors Nerrolar..."
Goldie shook his head and rolled his eyes, his tongue restrained by his own teeth.
"On the wall we have a selection of portraits of Karymovka residents and other Minarborian aristocracy. Most were looted after the fall of the Shrubbery but these few we have been able to recover. Unfortunately the brass name plates were torn off for their scrap value so we can only identify the more notable faces... Zemphirius Karymov, Lady Dolordotch, The wayward Albede Yastreb... most of the others are thought to be friends of the family. We can identify some, such as the Saohuang Queen of Tieya, but the names and deeds of the others are lost to history. They survive only as faces on canvas. Moving on now..."
Not a moment too soon, Goldie followed the tour group as it was led out of the room. At the doorway he stopped - Ilessa was not with him. He turned to see her alone, crouched in front of the paintings and staring at the smallest picture of them all.
"Hey," he said as he trotted up to her. "We'd better keep up with-"
The words fell away as his own eyes fell upon the painting; a tiny affair whose canvas was equal to the width of the gilt-leaf frame. It depicted a figure in green sackcloth, one wrist symbolically bound in an iron shackle whose chain was broken. Against the backdrop of a dark, tempestuous sky, a bright yellow face looked at Ilessa from the canvas.
Now, far too late, Goldie remembered sitting for the portrait one stormy afternoon long ago. The face was his.
Ilessa faced him, her jaw hanging open and a tear rolling down her cheek. "Goldie...?" she croaked.
The tour group had long since disappeared. Goldie plucked the portrait from the wall, draped an arm around Ilessa's trembling shoulders and led her away.
