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It's just a coincidence Artemy finds the record among the pile of his father's papers: sheets of detailed sketches of human anatomy, loose notes of the herbarium father's been working on for almost twenty years. Artemy doesn't want to delve into his work, not now; for a moment he even considered just throwing it all away, but his practical nature dismissed this idea as overdramatic and stupid. Better just move it all in the attic, let it wait, let it cool down. For now, father's papers reek of death.
The whole house reeks of death.
He doesn't even want it, not really; he wouldn't give it back to Kains, of course, but he'd be perfectly content to just let it stay empty, the warm nest for spiders and rats. As far as Artemy is concerned, the basement in the Factory is enough; he could stay there until the winter cold would chase him out. He could - but the kids could not. Should not.
Sticky and Murky deserve a home. Yet for now, it's inhospitable. Tainted. Dangerous.
This is not a place for the living.
(He spent half a day furiously scraping the dark stain on the floor in the father's bedroom until the wood was shiny and bright again and his knuckles started bleeding in turn. It wasn't enough.)
It's not about the fact that someone died in this house: where else should people be dying? But here a friend killed a friend, his father's Line, the Line of menkhu, has been tangled and torn. There's a fracture in the world where he once was, and now even Ersher is awake again, his footsteps echoing on the corridors and stairs, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
(Artemy remembers how strange it was to realize that he's older now than his older brother.)
The house is, in layman's terms, haunted.
(He suggested that idea to Dankovsky, who just hissed at him for using an outdated vocabulary. "Next time you'll be talking about melancholy and the excess of black bile.")
The house should be cleansed, Artemy knows. The dead need blood, just like the living.
He should sate them - cut open an odongh, because they are always the ones to bear the weight of guilt and pain and carry it back to the Earth; he should paint his own face with his blood, draw the sigils on every door and window, plant his heart in the ground of the cellar so that it may bloom into slender stalks of white whip, bitter and poisonous. He should split and share father's belongings so that all traces of Suok's grip will be brushed off by many hands of the Khatanghe.
But he doesn't want to do that. The old ways are not the only ways, and his father's deeds claimed enough lives already. No more.
Yet he's not sure where the new way should lead, and he doesn't want to ask his dreams for guidance. So he turns towards his dear ones, his tagloor.
Lara was the first to arrive, wearing loose trousers and heavy boots, thick worker gloves on her hands. She recruited Sticky to be her aide and now they are both downstairs, sweeping up the floors and cleaning windows, putting fresh flowers in every vase they find. Lara doesn't understand the blood, but she does understand mourning.
Grief was the second one to come and the first one to leave; he rummaged through the ransacked pantry for a while, then ventured back into the Town. "I'll find you supplies for the winter," he declared. "These little buggers will never be hungry again." Grief doesn't understand mourning, but he does understand hunger.
Outside the window, Artemy hears Stakh repairing the old swing at the front yard; "This thing was an accident waiting to happen even in our times," he exclaimed. "And since there'll be kids in this house again…" Not the most pressing of matters, but Artemy feels grateful that Rubin decided to show up at all. Stakh understands everything, that's why he won't come in. Not yet.
Still, Artemy feels better knowing that his friends are touching his father's possessions, cleaning and rearranging them how they see fit. Their presence brings change. Change brings life.
Daniil was lured in with the prospect of sorting out father's work. He arrived last and is working in silence ever since, his hands delicate and precise despite the leather gloves. His company brings Artemy peace. Daniil probably has no idea about hunger, and it's unclear whether he understands mourning or blood, but he does know death.
It's just a coincidence that among the pile of papers Daniil put aside for later inspection Artemy finds a stiff cardboard sheath, plain and unmarked. There's a disc inside, thin and black, shiny like a beetle. A gramophone record.
It doesn't look like that record of a Steppe song he found in father's room on his first visit, more than two weeks ago. That melody was distorted, the words muffled and unclear; the song lasted for a short while before the gramophone jarred and fell silent as if choked by the polluted air.
(It was younger Vlad's doing, that record, Artemy knows. He was the only one who could get the idea to "preserve" the music; idiot! The Steppe song isn't meant to be heard, only sung, the very act of joining your voice with the others more important than the melody or the words; if you don't know that, then you are not Khatangher and the song isn't for you. But ultimately, Olgimsky wanted what his family always wants: that one specific thing he deems valuable, without any of the strange, messy people attached. A product.
There is something perverse, Artemy thinks, in taking the sounds away from the throats that made them and replacing the flesh with the machine; a dead song. He's sure that Fellow Traveller would offer quite a price for that disc. Shame he's not around anymore.)
This record looks old; must have been brought here from far away. Perhaps even a part of mom's collection. The gramophone belonged to her too.
"Look!" He gestures with the disc to get Daniil's attention. "I remember my father listening to these after dinner sometimes. I think he liked your music more than…" The word "ours" doesn't slip through his throat. Who are "we" anyway? "We had more of these, back in the day."
Daniil puts aside the book he's been studying, comes closer.
"Interesting." He tilts his head. "I shall keep my eyes open."
"I'm not sure many more survived. We used them as throwing discs, you know."
Daniil scowls. "Once again I am amazed by the sheer scale of barbarity I find in here." Quickly he fishes the disc out of Artemy's grasp, presses it to his chest in a way that strikes Artemy as protective.
He raises his brows. "They used to fly really far," he explains. He wants to add that it was Grief's idea, really, but it would be a lie.
Daniil inspects the disc more carefully than Artemy has ever seen him inspecting a patient. In all fairness, he thinks, the flesh is easier to fix than broken shellac. Still, there's no label, no note.
"What kind of a person keeps their records unmarked? Was your father a fan of surprises?" Daniil shakes his head. "Better tell me, has the gramophone been spared at least?"
"It should be working." Artemy nods. "It worked the last time I was here. That is…" he crosses his arm on his chest, "before you threw me out of my own home, remember?"
If Daniil feels even a bit awkward, he doesn't show it. "I was carrying out my duty. Nothing personal."
"Come on, it was a little personal. Just a pinch of spite."
"Nonsense." He pouts, which only proves Artemy that he's right.
He shakes his head and follows Daniil to the device.
The crank protests a bit but then moves surprisingly smoothly. Daniil lays the disc in place, gently nudges the tonearm. Wound up, the disc starts to spin.
For a moment the gramophone just murmurs quietly and Artemy thinks it's broken after all, or perhaps the record is damaged. Then -
There's a screech, a high-pitched moan so loud he winces, jumps back to the device to stop it - Lara will kill me, the fleeting thought - but Daniil stops him with a gesture and a raised brow.
"Wait."
Indeed, the ungodly noise passes, responded by a similar, more complex one - it's a violin, Artemy notices at last, though probably out of tune. The wail repeats, twists, builds up - and blooms into a melody, quick, swirling. Unfamiliar.
"I know it." Daniil's fingers trace the rhythm, his eyes half-lidded. "Yes. Camille Saint-Saëns." He pulls a pen out of the pocket of his vest, opens it with his teeth, his left hand still dances in the air. "Opus… 40." He writes down on the paper sheath. "Danse macabre. Looks like old Burakh did at least something right."
Artemy peeks over his shoulder. Unsurprisingly, Dankovsky's penmanship is worthy of a true doctor.
"Thanks for the heads-up, erdem." He squints. "I'll just have to remember what's written here."
"Hush. Finally, some good fucking music."
It is quite good, Artemy has to admit - there's something joyous in it, sparkling, mischievous energy that seems to almost pulling him closer, to... The disc spins and spins, unravelling the melody, the voices of the instruments from far away and long ago. The specks of dust swirl in the air.
And as it's often with Daniil, Artemy doesn't notice the danger until it's too late - until Dankovsky bows slightly and with a painfully elegant gesture reaches out his hand.
"Will you dance with me, Artemy Isidorovich?"
Artemy blinks. He glances around as if there could be someone nearby more suitable for this offer, but no one will save him this time.
"I… don't know this dance. Any of your dances, really."
"I happen to have some skill. I will lead you." Daniil cocks his head. "Don't be afraid, I won't bite."
A challenge then. Tiimeel daa. Nobody will ever say that Artemy backed down from the challenge (even if fighting odonghe seems more manageable right now).
"What if I prefer to be bitten?" He grins, accepting the hand. It looks strange, his bear paw held gracefully like this.
Daniil's lips curl in a smirk. It looks handsome on him. "Then you just need to close the door."
They are supposed to stand really close, Artemy realizes. This is strange but nice; Daniil smells like warm skin and old paper, and the scent tickles pleasantly at his throat. His right hand rests on Daniil's shoulder, Daniil's left one touches Artemy’s waist. This also feels nice. If Daniil feels self-conscious about their height difference, he doesn't show it.
The music wraps itself around them.
"The basic steps look like this." It seems easy enough. "But don't think too much about them. Don't look at your feet, just… let me lead you."
There's a moment of uncertainty, about his steps, his clumsy moves, then the music sinks its hook under Artemy's skin and he lets his mind wander; Daniil steers him gently as they spin around and around. He feels almost weightless.
He feels alive.
The word throws Artemy off rhythm and he stumbles and stops in place and, in that moment, their frame breaks down into a mess of tangled limbs and Artemy pulls Daniil closer to keep his balance. Just to keep his balance. Covering his mistake has nothing to do with it.
"Sorry," he laughs into Daniil's hair. Both Daniil's hands wrap around Artemy's back and he laughs too, his face buried in Artemy's sweater. It's the first time he actually, truly laughs, Artemy realizes. A pleasant sound.
"You did well," Daniil murmurs into the wool.
"You think so?"
"Mhm. Just don't overthink it." Daniil looks up to meet his gaze, the smirk again on his lips. "The fault is mine, for choosing such a fast tempo. It's your first time, I should be gentler with you."
"Oh, you…"
He lifts Daniil up; the man gasps, surprised, shock and indignation flaring in his eyes, so Artemy spins him around until Daniil's angry huff erupts into laughter and his arms wrap around Artemy's neck.
They land on the couch, among the groan of the old springs and the cloud of dust. Daniil squirms a little to find a comfortable position, which Artemy uses to sneak his hand around Daniil's waist. It feels good. With a soft sigh, Danko settles beside him.
A part of Artemy is… disappointed that the dance stopped. Strange and unexpected as it was, it felt… pleasant, the way their bodies moved together.
Artemy decides that he doesn't mind being led from time to time.
Daniil is swaying gently at his side.
"That dry, clanking sound?" Daniil nods at the gramophone, his fingers dance in the air, accentuating the rhythm. "Xylophone. The name is from Greek, of course, xylon phōnē... I guess they had to invent more respectable term; it's a folk music instrument, you see, popular mainly in Germany and Poland, though its common name escapes me at the moment. Saint-Saëns was the first composer to use it with the orchestra, exactly for Danse macabre you're hearing now. It's mean to emulate the sound of rattling bones. It was quite a shock for the polite society, as you can imagine."
And just like that, Artemy understands more. It's… good to imagine the people who made this music long ago, the sounds preserved in the layers of shellac. Not only a melody but hopes and ideas of people long gone, bold, scandalous ideas, the matter that others deemed unworthy. Now, he understands better. There's a connection.
And he sees through it all.
"Are you wooing me with musical trivia, Bachelor Dankovsky?"
Daniil shifts a bit. "Is it working?"
Artemy chuckles. "Surprisingly, yes."
"Good." Daniil narrows his eyes like a content cat. "I'd hate to think you are with me only because of my good looks."
"It's also your voice."
Daniil's voice is… soothing, though he doubts that it's the word Daniil would use to describe himself. There is something magnetic in the way he speaks, calmly and quietly, as if half to himself, as if it's not him who should strive for attention, but the world should just stop and listen… and it does. And sometimes, when he speaks about the matters he's passionate about, his eyes light up, his restless hands dance in the air and Artemy can understand why people are following him - his people in Thanatica who believe that together they can understand death.
He's happy that Daniil wants to share his passions with him.
And perhaps his thoughts reached Daniil somehow, just like little Capella's thoughts sometimes touch his own - because when Danko speaks again, death is on his tongue.
"Danse macabre…" he sighs, "the universality of death. No matter who you are, a knight or a peasant, a bishop or a king - sooner or later, everyone is called to join the great spectacle. And they dance and dance… It was meant to be grotesque, they say, to remind everyone of the futility of this mortal world, for what could anything of this matter when in every one of us there's death already, that creature of rattling bones, waiting for its moment…" His voice lowers to a murmur. The music swirls around them. "But I'm beginning to think differently. Listen." He glances at Artemy. "Your people claim you are the one who listens. What do you hear?"
Artemy closes his eyes. He can't read this foreign music as well as Daniil can, but still - he tries to feel it, to imagine the scene: the night, the graveyard, countless skeletons swirling among the graves, bones rattling, bared teeth grinning in the moonlight. Is it the music that compels them to move, or are they tapping to the rhythm? There's a triumph in it, feverish, frantic energy: with their hands joined, with their back arched they circle around and around, faster and faster, they dance, dance, dance…
"They are enjoying it."
Artemy opens his eyes just in time to see the smile on Daniil's lips.
"Exactly. In every corner of the Earth, in every nation and tribe, there's music and there's dance. Just think about it: not even death can take away the thing that makes us human."
Are they the ones who dance with Death? Or is it simply dragged along? His head spins.
"This house could use more music."
Daniil finds Artemy's hand with his own.
"I have a decent collection back home. We can grab it, and a few other things, when we'll be there."
"Is this… still possible?" Artemy bits his lips. "Is it safe? I've been worried, after all that happened… you mentioned…"
"Artemy Isidorovich." Daniil raises his hand as if silencing a student. "Tyoma. Frankly, I'm a little offended by your lack of faith. I promised you flowers and a proper coffee. If you think that the Powers That Be will be able to stop me from taking you out for a date, then you don't know me at all."
Artemy chuckles.
"I can't wait. Let's just hope we won't have to burn half of the city to cover our tracks or something. But I can help you with transporting your things and…" he pauses for a moment, but he knows that there won't be a better chance to say it, so he takes a deep breath and "...And you know, you can stay in here, if you want. There's a lot of space and… and the gramophone." He laughs under his breath. "With your music, the house won't be dead anymore."
Daniil squeezes his hand.
"That's not unreasonable. I may do that."
The melody slowly unwinds and calms down, then ends with a sharp, playful note, as if saying that whatever stopped the mischief of the dead, it's only temporary. Artemy hopes they are having a good time, wherever they are.
Behind the open doors, with her arms outstretched and her eyes closed, little Murky dances to the ghost of the music.