Baselard, the Leader of the Insurgents

The room was dark, the dim light of a candle carried by one of the men barely illuminating his face. He moved carefully but slowly, and his shadow danced strangely on the walls, as if reflecting some fickle, mystical movement. There was a tension in his face, despite the calmness in his voice. He stopped at the window, his movements fluid, but his eyes were wary of his surroundings, as if expecting something.

"Were we being followed?" he asked in an old voice full of anxiety. "Did someone bring a tail with them?"

"Everything is fine," his companion, whose voice was younger, answered confidently. "There was no one. Everything is fine."

At the same moment, there was a clear click, and the table lamp instantly lit up, illuminating the dark space. The light was soft, but bright enough to illuminate the bed on which Mark Tempe was lying. He was in the same snow-white suit, but now he looked almost helpless: there was a compress on his head, and his pince-nez lay neatly on the nightstand nearby. It seemed that he was in oblivion, but from a sharp click that pierced the silence, he instantly woke up.

His eyes widened and he jumped out of bed, gasping for air as if he couldn't figure out where he was. His heart was pounding and his brain was refusing to work, as if his consciousness hadn't caught up with his body yet. It took him a moment to realize what was happening, but he quickly looked around, as if trying to make sense of it.

The room was quiet, but something about the silence made him nervous. He closed his eyes against the glare of the lamp and noticed two men standing in the corner. One of them, an old man with a lined face and dull eyes, quickly approached him. His hands shook nervously as he began to speak, words falling like rain.

"I'll explain everything, don't worry," the old man's voice trembled, and every word seemed to be trying to calm the panic, but only increased it. "It's not what you think, I… we… will tell you everything, just… just calm down."

Mark, still struggling to come to his senses, reached for the nightstand, unable to concentrate on anything but one thought: he needed to find his pince-nez. His hand nervously felt the surface of the nightstand, and as if specially left for his convenience, the pince-nez was right under his fingers. He carefully put it on, and the world became a little clearer again. The lenses restored his ability to see clearly, and he took a deep breath to calm himself.

Mark got out of bed, feeling his legs buckle slightly, and looked around, peering into the dim room until his gaze fell on the old man standing opposite him, with a gray moustache and a tense expression on his face. The old man looked at him with an appraising glance, as if trying to figure out what state his interlocutor was in. His eyes sparkled, and his voice, when he spoke, was even, but full of some kind of wariness.

"Suppose you managed to get the train out of the station," he said, as if that question were the key to everything that was happening. "What would you do then?"

Mark froze in place. The question, spoken so calmly, struck him like a blow. He felt everything inside his head freeze. At first, he couldn't figure out what he was supposed to say. His breathing became rapid, and the mind he had been trying to return to for so long could not cope with the question.

The old man continued to stand in front of Mark, his hands folded behind his back and looking at him intently.

"What next?" he repeated, as if he was trying to get Mark to admit not just an answer, but an honest confession of what he really wanted to achieve with his risky move. "Hijacking a train is half the battle. But what then?"

Mark forced out a breath, feeling his pride crumble beneath the question. He stared at the old man, trying to find some hint of sympathy in those piercing eyes, but instead found only cold analysis.

"What's your name?" Mark finally asked, his voice shaking but trying to maintain at least the appearance of control.

The old man raised a gray eyebrow, as if surprised that Mark had asked him this question. But after a short pause he answered:

"Baselard."

Mark blinked, clearly confused.

"Baselard?" he asked, vaguely recognizing the word. "But that's the name of a dagger... Why do they call you that?"

He couldn't help but smile slightly, nervously, adding:

"Besides, it suits you...," he said almost ingratiatingly. "Your eyes... they're so... piercing. As if they were piercing," with each word Mark's smile became more and more pitiful.

The old man narrowed his eyes for a moment, as if deciding how to react to the joke. Then the corners of his lips twitched slightly in a semblance of a smile.

"A party nickname," he finally deigned to explain. "You understand, it's better not to know the full names of the insurgents. It will be safer that none of our ill-wishers try to use this information against us."

He took a step closer, as if looking at Mark from a new angle.

"And I think you should change your name too," he remarked with a slight mockery. "Only, looking at you, I don't know... should I call you "Merchant" or maybe "Tradesman"? You look too, huh, lordly, not according to our standards."

Mark couldn't help but chuckle, though the joke left a slight feeling of awkwardness. He had been standing with his arms crossed over his chest the entire time, but soon moved them to rub his temples, as if trying to shake off a headache.

"So you think I'm... a state criminal?" he asked, his voice laced with bitter humor, as if he were hoping to extract at least a hint of relief from this absurd conversation.

The old man instantly became serious. His piercing gaze became even harder, and his smile disappeared.

"Well, certainly not an angel," he answered dryly.

The phrase struck Mark like a piercing blow. An image of Harey, his wife, whom he had always considered an angel - bright, inspiring, unearthly, instantly appeared before his mind's eye. He tensed, trying to suppress his emotions, but still said in a firm voice: