***I***

With initial two or three gulps the need for some zacen was made evident by the burning in his throat. A jar of pickles was brought on and even a smoked herring wrapped in parchment found itself on the table. Indrik always had something to snack with liquor. It was as important as the drink itself.

However, unlike the researcher's previous binges, he didn't drink alone this time. The wench was here, and she was one hell of a noisy drinker. It's been a long time since Indrik had company while practicing his "hobby". She reminded him of Hartmann, but, instead of embellishing her esoteric knowledge, the baltic woman blabbered about her own mundanity.

She talked about her colleagues at the washhouse; about the freshed gossip from the Centralmarket; about how she disdained her job and her current living arrangements; a snip bit about her time at her birthplace- Punsk, and her yearnings for some excitement in her life.

Otiliya's drunk ramblings bore Indrik to death, but Punsk peaked his interest. He had never been to the Baltic Confederacy, for it was not as sophisticated a country as the United Reich or Hanza Union, yet interesting nonetheless. Especially the location of her home: the Sudovia province, where in its dark pinewoods still roam packs of dire wolves and the home land of the lupine demihumans.

Unfortunately, the laundress refused to elaborate on the matter. Upon the question she seemed to sober up and her features bore a dour expression. Indrik didn't need the wolfborn's ears flattening to discern that she had no fondness for her homeland.

He had heard from a traveler that Yatvigian people, including the Sudovians, had a marshal society akin to that of ancient Sparta, so it would not have surprised him that the treatment of women was similar. Using a typical social maneuver, he diverted the conversation to recollection of today's shared events.

"Eh?! Those muilyas were the cossacks? They could barely keep up with a slowpoke like ya," she bursted into a fight of laughter. "I knew it! I knew me brolis was lying about how hard he fought in Crimea. Black Cossacks my arse!"

Crimea? Definitely, the Crimean War then. It has been two and a half years since Indrik heard anything of that conflict. The Confederacy's propaganda claimed victory, but was it truly? The researcher seized the opportunity to pry some more: "Your brother fought in the Crimean War?"

"Aye, with the 7th Sudovian Dragoons," she spat on the floor. "The whole village came to greet that piece of shite like he was some hero. As if it wasn't enough for him to be the father's favourite... Devil takes!" Then she downed a shot and poured another one.

As his gaze lingered at the woman before him, Indrik felt captivated by her mere presence. She was loud, she was infuriating, she was obnoxious... The researcher had seen many of that stock, but... She seemed different somehow. A bothersome incident that didn't fade away no matter what, dragging out onward more than it should have.

The shootout and chase with the russisch butchers? That would scare any petty debt collector, yet she soldiered on after him despite the mortal dangers. The paranormal insanity of Solomon's speech and second coming of his homunculus? She seemed only mildly upset and even stepped in to save his life. She did not run away, like others would...

And even now this wench... Otiliya, would not leave yet even after getting what she hunted Indrik through the streets of Kleist. Sure, she said that alcohol is prohibited at her lodging, but has that ever stopped anyone? There was always a way or place to drink. The laundress might be staying simply because she is tired or what she witnessed at an artificer's workshop needed a good numbing...

Yes, that must be it. Why else would she be still here? Because of Indrik? The forming of the idea was so imbecilic that it was insulting. Why would anyone?

Involuntarily he focused on demihuman woman again. The way her ears twitched in her long dark-grey locks that like a thick coal-smoke parted to present a face that... Indrik had never thought of woman like this before. To him they were just women, but this one seemed-... Beautiful.

The way the electric lights reflected in those ember orbs that silently spoke of past hardships. The researcher saw a part of himself in them.

Then those eyes fixed on Indrik. She must have remembered something funny or was just really drunk, for the woman's lips curved into a smile. An expression of happiness he used rarely or not at all. A gesture he has seen daily, yet almost never directed at him. For some unbeknownst reason, this simple action felt... Special.

It could not have been meant for him. It could only be a social instinct. Nothing more. The imaginings that Indrik's mind conjured made a pit form in his stomach. Even if he indulged in these false dreams... Why would the laundress ever stay? What could Indrik possibly offer to her? He ran the question deeper than simple material wealth, yet there was still nothing of value on the table.

Jesus Christ! Focus on what truly matters, dammit! The wench will leave anyway, but the homunculus, once perfected, will accept him no matter what.

With great effort, Indrik tore away his gaze from Otiliya and focused his full attention to the rucksack that hung on his back, forgotten in the day's excitement. One by one he pulled out the brass document tubes, stacking them neatly.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. All of them were present, each containing either his observations, automaton schematics or formulas for the power words. The researcher would have to make a full look-over and stash them in a secure location, but that's for later. His research was safe with him here. That was all that mattered.

Indrik was about to put aside the rucksack, but something was off. It was emptied, yet it still had a noticeable heft to it. His hand returned from the depths with a metal sphere. Iron, perhaps. Its surface was etched with all too familiar runes whose crevices glowed softly with otherworldly yellow. It was the size of a golf ball.

The researcher had no memory of this alchemical device. It was not his work. He did not recognize this formula in which power words were arranged. A talentless wretch like Makaravich could not have created it either, but then whose is it? And what does it do? It still seemed active.

The solution was all too simple for the latter question. All Indrik had to do was simply ask the artifact. In the speech of Solomon he imposed his inquiry upon the orb: [What is thy purpose?]

Then his mind became hazy and with a violent pull his gaze was solely drawn to the device like by a powerful magnet. Using all of his will power, the researcher managed to pull away— dazed, but with a sense of clarity. The sphere was a beacon.

Is this how Black Cossacks were sure that Makaravich would appear at the tunnels? Is this how the ambusher at the exit knew Indrik was there without ever revealing himself? Is this how the other three butchers found him at the courtyard so soon after his skillful escape?

These questions made Indrik's head spin. They know... They know where he is. They knew all this time.

As if hearing his internal revelation, bangging started at the former orphanage's front doors. Soon the bangging turned into the sound of wood creaking and splintering. The Black Cossacks were at his doorstep, breaking in!

Indrik quickly began to stuff the document tubes into the rucksack, securing it tightly over his back. Then frantically he began to rummage through a rubbish pile near the cold box. It had to be here.

Otiliya still oblivious to their predicament and raised an eyebrow: "What's gotten into ya, fritz? And what is all that clamor outside? Are those moneymongers out there?"

As the wooden doors began to groan under relentless assault, the researcher quickened his search for a weapon. "Worse! Ze cossacks are here!"

That sobered her up: "The russisch dogs? Can't ya use yar witchcraft, or one of yar machines?" The laundress drew Indrik's former wrench, but then looked at it, thought about something and discarded it.

"I..." Indrik had never considered even the possibility of using the speech of Solomon as a weapon, only as means of creation. "The words of power don't work like zat! And I did have a security system, but my mongrel hireling fucked it all up!" The vulgar profanity slipped unconsciously because of the stress. The artificer should have never set his defences in a single circuit, but it had saved him so much in funds.

The lupine woman had reached one of his tool racks and held something in both hands: "What's this? Some sort of special malet?"

What she held in her hands was a slaughter hammer that Indrik had stolen from a slaughterhouse. At first glance it may look like a regular sledgehammer, but then one would notice a trigger at its lower shaft, an exit hole at the hammerhead's face and loading latch at the back. When the head has struck the beast's skull, the wielder triggers the inner mechanism, igniting a blackpowder charge which will drive forward a spike, thus fully killing the creature.

The researcher planned to enhance it for use against his creations. The strike to the head cannot kill an automaton, but could disable its sensory faculties, allowing it to sedate it without the need of removing the artifact. Unfortunately, that never came to fruition thanks to today's events. "Zat's a cattle killer. It drives a spike into ze skull."

Otiliya grinned, revealing her sharp canines, while tapping the hammer in her hand a few times. "Ohoho, now this is a weapon."

Not too soon after Indrik managed to finally get his hands on weapons of his own. From the junk pile he pulled out a wooden box. Opening it revealed two worn Voigtlander Model Z.08 single-shot coil-blasters. He checked for any powered cells and found six that were fully charged. He had twenty-four shots.

Before he could even form the idea of passing one of them to the wolfborn, a loud crash echoed through the room and silence stilled the air. Otiliya was nowhere to be seen.

From his makeshift cover of barrel and some crates, Indirk waited in anticipation. Last time he avoided these silent deaths thanks to wolf wenches beastial senses. Now it seemed there wouldn't be such luxury; she had vanished. Predictable, but understandable. Indrik won't risk his life for a stranger either. However, he felt a minuscule amount of disappointment at that. Then a metallic clank alerted him to the approaching doom. One of the sneaking black figures caught a poorly placed tool off the edge of a workbench.

The researcher, fueled by fighting spirits of the bottle, wasted no time and howled like a banshee, opening fire from his cover with a blaster in each hand. "Hei, Moscovite dogs! Want my research?! Come and get it from my cold dead hands!"

This caught the cossacks off guard and one of them got downed. Killed or wounded Indrik knew not, but the ambush caused the rest to scatter for shelter, returning fire soon after and keeping him pinned.