Serpents and Stairways

Chapter II - Part 2

By the time Georg had finished retelling the events of the day, his friend was in a booming reverberating fit of laughter, luxuriously lying back on a bench that was way too narrow for his stature. They were sitting by the stained-glass and her (surely it was hers) cup, with a rusty streak of blood on the rim, where lipstick prints sometimes stay, was still on the desk.

"A curious bunch. You find yourself in the middle of such stories often, don't you?" The master smiled, revealing flawlessly white teeth under the greying beard. Georg had already heard something similar today.

"From time to time. At least the emotions are not as intense as they get occasionally. Once in Saint-Konstantinburg, a half-sane widow grabbed me by the arm, hanging on to it with all her weight," the young man rubbed the bridge of his nose, "saying that if I didn't play roulette with some old pawn-broker lady, her children would starve to death and she would jump into the waters of Neva."

"So, did you?"

"That's not how it works."

He closed his eyes.

People saw in a Chevalier of Fate the solution to all their problems, no matter what they were: a game of roulette, a film's premiere, an illegal land ownership deal, a horse racing bet, or an entrance exam—again and again the desperate imagined that his mere presence would somehow force the Fate to smile upon them. As if! Alas, explaining that—was a thankless endeavour.

"Well, now is not a time for sitting," Arman turned to look at the automaton, which his thirteen-year-old daughter, Tamara, was in the process of disassembling, taking off the layers of reinforced porcelain adorned with cyan designs as if she was peeling an onion.

"There's work to do, and I have plans for the evening. No-no, you sit down, and you must at least stay for the night?"

"I wish I could—but what if someone yearning for my company shows up?"

"I think you've done your quota. An unusual guest, by the way."

Georg shrugged. He knew full-well that the owner paled in comparison to her automaton's brilliant radiance in Arman's eyes.

"That thing must cost a fortune,"

The master rolled up his sleeves, his laughter once again made the room resonate.

"Don't call him 'that thing', my ignorant friend! He hears you!"

"Does he?" The young man looked in surprise at the vivisected mechanical body.

"As long as their hearts are intact, these guys remain in full consciousness. And besides, automatons like him are not even bought or sold—he's priceless! Even the daddy of your new acquaintance couldn't have afforded it, as master Wolkov hadn't worked on commissions in decades. Dinah said she got it from a friend of family, an engagement gift."

Georg knew nothing of master Wolkov, but whistled, feigning being impressed. Arman understood it some other way.

"You didn't know? Is that disappointment that I hear?"

"Perhaps we don't discuss such matters in front of Tamara?"

The dark-eyed girl, wearing a boy's suit and heavy traditional earrings, didn't react. Georg had last seen her a couple of years ago and imagined that she would change a lot—he'd heard that children her age grew like skyscrapers of Manhattan. But no. She remained tiny, especially compared to her thunderous, enormous, rapturous father.

"I'll go grab the cathode relay." She said, implying that if they wished to discuss frivolities, she's giving them about three minutes, and left.

Somewhere on the street, a car honked. Georg glanced outside through the segmented window: a couple of lads were walking by, pointing into the newspaper. The claws of celebration didn't reach this far.