Hand still in his pockets, Lukasz fiddled with the cap of the lighter.
“You want it dead or not?” he cut in. “Just show me where to find it.”
“Well—it’s—” Bieleć struggled. “Well, it’s in the department of Unnatural history. You should be able to find it. The hallways are very clearly labeled, and we’ve even put up a sign—”
For a second time that afternoon, Lukasz felt uneasy. Maybe Franciszek had been right after all, about that whole reading thing.
“I’d rather you showed me,” he interrupted as casually as he could. “Just as far as the department. After that, it’ll find me.”
Bieleć blanched.
“Well . . .” He hesitated. “Very well, I suppose. Could you take this, please?”
Lukasz took the briefcase and the projector and followed Professor Bieleć out of the auditorium. They moved in silence through the uniwersytet’s lobby. It had the kind of richness designed to make a man like Lukasz feel small: an enormous gold globe to his left, a mural of the country’s founding covering the entire wall on his right. Jarek would have loved that mural. A wide pink velvet carpet ran from the auditorium doors to a white stone desk inlaid with gold lettering. Two clerks, one male and one female, each of astounding beauty, sat behind it. And flanking either side of the desk, twin white staircases curled up to a second story, which promised more velvet and gold.
They left the professor’s belongings at the front desk and at the top of the staircase took a sharp left at an expansive stone atrium. They entered a dingy hall, hemmed in by doors on either side.
“My apologies for the lighting,” said Professor Bieleć. “We’ve turned the lamps down. Evacuated the whole wing, you understand. In case the dragon wishes to, erm, explore.”
The walls had auburn wallpaper and the doors were oak, with brass plates inscribed with what Lukasz presumed were numbers and names. The only light was the dim brown glow of gaslights. They took a right and entered another identical hallway.
“You know,” began the professor, “when this—this is, um, handled—if you’re available, I mean—I would love—be honored, really—to interview you and your brother.” The professor seemed to hesitate before asking in a small voice: “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to wait for your brother?”
Lukasz swallowed against the tightness that rose suddenly in his throat. Your brother. How much longer would people describe the Brothers Smokówi in the plural? When would this morning’s events make it into the newspapers?
When would the world realize that they were down to their last Wolf-Lord?
“It’s just,” continued Professor Bieleć, misinterpreting Lukasz’s silence, “I have a special interest in historical peoples.”
“What’s historical about the Wolf-Lords?”
“Well, they’re extinct, of course.”
Bieleć was so short compared to Lukasz that he could see the hair thinning over his flushed scalp.
“There are two of us left,” said Lukasz coldly.
It was a lie. But Bieleć didn’t need to know about Franciszek. Not now.
“Indeed,” agreed the professor, clearly oblivious. “And yet, anthropologically speaking, the Wolf-Lords are an extinct people.”
“Keep it up,” Lukasz returned coolly, “and I’m going to make you an extinct people.”
Bieleć fell silent.
They took another abrupt turn into yet another hallway. For a moment, Lukasz wondered whether, in a different life, he might have ended up in a place like this.
No, he thought. I’d never have come here.
Bieleć’s lecture might have been more drama than actual substance, but the Unnaturalist had been right about one thing: in no other life would he have left Hala Smoków. If it hadn’t been for the Golden Dragon, he’d still be there now, probably choosing a black-haired bride and building a wooden lodge amid the ever-changing hills and howling wolves. Like all of his brothers had done before him, Lukasz hated the Dragon. But secretly, he was glad to have gotten out of the Mountains. Bieleć had gotten it wrong. Lukasz wasn’t a stranger. He didn’t long for blue hills or wolves or the things his other brothers had wanted; he loved this city. He loved this world. When he died, it would be in the shadow of the Miasto Basilica; it would not be under the unforgiving skies of the Moving Mountains.
“It’s around this corner,” murmured Professor Bieleć. “Take care. Frankly, it’s not a very pleasant creature.”
Lukasz laughed. The sound echoed down the corridor, and who knew, maybe the Apofys heard it.
“Not many dragons are.”
He cracked the knuckles on both hands. Even without his gloves, he wasn’t worried. Franciszek would have made him go back and retrieve them. Not anymore, he thought, striding ahead of Bieleć. Never again. His throat constricted a second time. Better not to think like that.
More dim gaslights reflected off the painted walls, the rows of oaken doors. The end of the hall had been boarded off. On the other side, there was the sound of a bird chirping. Lukasz’s hand closed over the sword at his side. The Apofys had eaten four Unnaturalists. There was no way a bird was alive back there.
“It’s the Apofys,” confirmed Professor Bieleć in a shaky voice. “It practices ventriloquism. Voice-throwing. Most unusual. Likely a technique for distracting prey during hunts.” He glanced from the boards to Lukasz, looming above him. “But of course, you knew that?”
“Right,” said Lukasz, drawing his sword.
The blade, dark with dried dragon blood, scraped against the scabbard.
“So you’ve killed one of these?” asked Bieleć hopefully.
It was almost enough to make Lukasz doubt himself. After all, Franciszek was the one with the notebook. Always poring over library books, making notes. Doing the research. But Lukasz knew nothing about this dragon, and he’d done absolutely no preparation. Not to mention the fact that he’d forgotten his gloves . . .
“Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Professor Bieleć. Lukasz had a flash of insight: an Unnaturalist afraid of harming the last of a species. He just wasn’t sure if Bieleć was thinking of him or the dragon.
“I’ve killed dozens of dragons,” said Lukasz. He pointed at the office nearest them. “Do these rooms have adjoining doors?”
Bieleć nodded, swallowing.
Lukasz crossed the threshold. The office held more gas lanterns, these unlit, and several neat stacks of books. He eased open the side door and edged through a second identical office before reentering the hall on the other side of the barricade. This door was slightly ajar, and Lukasz wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but something was rustling out there. Could that be part of the dragon’s ven . . . ventri . . . ?
He couldn’t remember the word.
Whatever. Lukasz thought of the doubt on Bieleć’s face and scowled. Voice-throwing.
He weighed his sword in his left hand; he could fight with both, but he preferred his left. The blade didn’t glitter. It was dull brown down to the hilt, thoroughly coated in dried dragon blood. Even the sight of the poisoned blade was reassuring. He was good at this.
Lukasz eased the door open with the toe of his boot, pressed his back against the frame, and leaned out into the hallway. The barricade on this side was smeared with soot, and a few boards lay, charred and glowing, on the floor. The dragon had been tearing at it.