"You never even liked Vorchev," he continued, turning his attention back to Dorokhov. "You considered him, and here I quote, 'a stodgy, myopic bureaucrat who wouldn't know inspiration from a boot up his rear end.'"
"That doesn't mean I wished him dead!" Dorokhov replied as Gregorovich snapped another flame into life. "Well, all right, sometimes I wished him dead, but only in a metaphorical sense! I wanted his career in shambles, a flaming ruin upon which nothing of beauty would ever grow or bloom again, but it was only because of my love for the art, Leonid! The art! And to be honest, I think I had finally gotten through to him on 'Man on Stallion at Sunrise.' Now there's no telling how long it will be before they appoint a new director who can give me approval for the exhibit."
"Aha! And here we reach the truth of the matter," Gregorovich extinguished the flame with another snap of his fingers. "Yes, horrible inconvenience that. And undoubtedly 'Man on Stallion at Sunrise' is one of your better works. Vorchev would have been foolish indeed not to at least consider putting that on display. Still, your...shall we say, fiery antagonism with our esteemed Executive Creative Director was perhaps even more widely renowned than your artwork."
"I hope that is a joke, Leonid," Dorokhov replied, turning a deep shade of puce. "He was a difficult man to work with and a poor employer, but my feelings toward him in this regard were entirely professional."
"Do calm down, Antoine," Gregorovich replied, snapping another flame into existence. "I meant nothing by the comment, other than that you should be prepared. There's little to suggest that Vorchev's death was anything but natural, but his station requires an inquiry from the Commissary."
"I have nothing to fear from the Commissary, Leonid. Vorchev's death was an unfortunate accident. If they wish to speak to me of our professional relationship, I will be honest in my testimony."
"As you say," Gregorovich nodded, then extinguished the flame with a final clench of his fist. "Come, enough of this heavy talk. We were to be having an enjoyable brunch."
Later, after they had parted ways and Gregorovich had returned to his home and sanctum, he considered what the two of them had discussed. More importantly, he considered what he had recorded with his Listening Flame. It was an obscure magick, its origins dating back to the early 11th century, but he'd managed to piece it together with hints from various esoteric paintings they had hanging in storage. People thought the flickering blue fire was a habit, a twitch like bouncing one's feet, and Gregorovich was happy to let them keep thinking that.
Walking over to a basin filled with clean, distilled water, Gregorovich threw a small pinch of sparkling blue powder into the mix. Moments later, the image of an imposing man with colorless eyes and a bristling brown mop of a mustache appeared in the water. He gazed critically at Gregorovich, giving the appearance of an aggravated walrus.
"You're late," he said.
"My apologies, Commissar Yezhov," Gregorovich nodded his head respectfully. "I was having brunch with Dorokhov."
"Indeed? Report."
"Dorokhov clearly believes himself innocent, and while I don't believe he was intentionally involved in Vorchev's demise, something is amiss. There are traces of thaumaturgy lingering in his personal aura, which may be indicative of dominion magic. I also read hints of...something else. Too little residue for me to say for certain, but perhaps some form of entropy or chaos ritual." Gregorovich mused for a moment. "I think Dorokhov may have been manipulated into killing Vorchev, and chaos magic was the tool."
"You think someone else wanted Vorchev dead? For what reason?"
"I cannot say. They have gone to great lengths to conceal what they have done. Chaos magic is squirrely in the best of circumstances. Attempting it through a dominated patsy borders on insanity. Clearly it was important for Vorchev to be removed, but equally important that it be done quietly, with no possibility for the act to be traced back to its true originator. I would be surprised if anyone could definitively implicate Dorokhov himself, to be honest."
"I see." Yezhov was silent as he considered this, then said, "We will, of course, be officially investigating the matter. Assist the detectives, but do not appear overly involved. You must remain under cover, but your new assignment, Operative Gregorovich, is to determine the true hand behind this heinous crime. The Commissary will be sending another Operative to assist you."
"Very good, Commissar Yezhov. I shall prepare a dossier and debrief him when he arrives. How shall I recognize him? What shall his cover role be?"
"I do not think you will have any trouble recognizing her, Operative Gregorovich," Yezhov's voice took on an amused tone. "And as for her cover role, well...it is natural, is it not, that a mother should wish to visit her son from time to time?"
Gregorovich froze at this.
"I trust you will work excellently together," Yezhov shot him a rare smile, then cut the channel.
Gregorovich stared at the empty pan for a moment, seized by a most irrational urge to hurl it through the nearest window. Never let it be said that the Ministry didn't have a sense of humor, though it perhaps best resembled the humor of devils before they pushed their unfortunate charges back into the flame. He had moved to Svetlanagrad partially for its rich art history, partially for the opportunities that its endless political intrigues offered a young Ministry Operative, but mostly he had moved across the Federation to escape the shadow of his mother. No other operative had been as richly decorated in her time; it was all the more impressive considering her identity as an Operative remained a Vault secret, known only to select other Operatives and the ranking members of the Commissary. Gregorovich suspected that had it not been for their relationship, the knowledge would have been kept hidden even from him. Certainly his mother had never even hinted at it - a matter that he understood, though it still pricked at him with bitterness.
Wandering to a nearby cabinet, Gregorovich poured himself a vodka, neat, before taking a seat into a padded recliner and downing the whole drink in one shot.
Mother.
He sighed, then stood up and went back to the cabinet for the whole bottle.
***************************
Whoops! Wrote yesterday, but neglected to publish it. Super back-dating this!
"I have nothing to fear from the Commissary, Leonid. Vorchev's death was an unfortunate accident. If they wish to speak to me of our professional relationship, I will be honest in my testimony."
"As you say," Gregorovich nodded, then extinguished the flame with a final clench of his fist. "Come, enough of this heavy talk. We were to be having an enjoyable brunch."
Later, after they had parted ways and Gregorovich had returned to his home and sanctum, he considered what the two of them had discussed. More importantly, he considered what he had recorded with his Listening Flame. It was an obscure magick, its origins dating back to the early 11th century, but he'd managed to piece it together with hints from various esoteric paintings they had hanging in storage. People thought the flickering blue fire was a habit, a twitch like bouncing one's feet, and Gregorovich was happy to let them keep thinking that.
Walking over to a basin filled with clean, distilled water, Gregorovich threw a small pinch of sparkling blue powder into the mix. Moments later, the image of an imposing man with colorless eyes and a bristling brown mop of a mustache appeared in the water. He gazed critically at Gregorovich, giving the appearance of an aggravated walrus.
"You're late," he said.
"My apologies, Commissar Yezhov," Gregorovich nodded his head respectfully. "I was having brunch with Dorokhov."
"Indeed? Report."
"Dorokhov clearly believes himself innocent, and while I don't believe he was intentionally involved in Vorchev's demise, something is amiss. There are traces of thaumaturgy lingering in his personal aura, which may be indicative of dominion magic. I also read hints of...something else. Too little residue for me to say for certain, but perhaps some form of entropy or chaos ritual." Gregorovich mused for a moment. "I think Dorokhov may have been manipulated into killing Vorchev, and chaos magic was the tool."
"You think someone else wanted Vorchev dead? For what reason?"
"I cannot say. They have gone to great lengths to conceal what they have done. Chaos magic is squirrely in the best of circumstances. Attempting it through a dominated patsy borders on insanity. Clearly it was important for Vorchev to be removed, but equally important that it be done quietly, with no possibility for the act to be traced back to its true originator. I would be surprised if anyone could definitively implicate Dorokhov himself, to be honest."
"I see." Yezhov was silent as he considered this, then said, "We will, of course, be officially investigating the matter. Assist the detectives, but do not appear overly involved. You must remain under cover, but your new assignment, Operative Gregorovich, is to determine the true hand behind this heinous crime. The Commissary will be sending another Operative to assist you."
"Very good, Commissar Yezhov. I shall prepare a dossier and debrief him when he arrives. How shall I recognize him? What shall his cover role be?"
"I do not think you will have any trouble recognizing her, Operative Gregorovich," Yezhov's voice took on an amused tone. "And as for her cover role, well...it is natural, is it not, that a mother should wish to visit her son from time to time?"
Gregorovich froze at this.
"I trust you will work excellently together," Yezhov shot him a rare smile, then cut the channel.
Gregorovich stared at the empty pan for a moment, seized by a most irrational urge to hurl it through the nearest window. Never let it be said that the Ministry didn't have a sense of humor, though it perhaps best resembled the humor of devils before they pushed their unfortunate charges back into the flame. He had moved to Svetlanagrad partially for its rich art history, partially for the opportunities that its endless political intrigues offered a young Ministry Operative, but mostly he had moved across the Federation to escape the shadow of his mother. No other operative had been as richly decorated in her time; it was all the more impressive considering her identity as an Operative remained a Vault secret, known only to select other Operatives and the ranking members of the Commissary. Gregorovich suspected that had it not been for their relationship, the knowledge would have been kept hidden even from him. Certainly his mother had never even hinted at it - a matter that he understood, though it still pricked at him with bitterness.
Wandering to a nearby cabinet, Gregorovich poured himself a vodka, neat, before taking a seat into a padded recliner and downing the whole drink in one shot.
Mother.
He sighed, then stood up and went back to the cabinet for the whole bottle.
***************************
Whoops! Wrote yesterday, but neglected to publish it. Super back-dating this!
No comments:
Post a Comment