Once, so to speak, Ignat Silaev—a dismissed titular adviser—was just living his life, not worrying about anything. They kicked him out of service—well, let them, money is money, and chickens and pigeons don’t peck it all away. Besides, life in provincial Topinsk was anything but dull: you had to catch a warg wolf alive; killers sent by an aggrieved empress might drop by; and sometimes even a friend-astrologer would drag you into the swamps to clash to the death with a whole pack of mermaids. But no! Some blasted fate pulled him back to service again. They lured him with the rank of collegiate assessor, protection from the machinations of the emperor’s spouse, and even with a personal airship. He agreed.
He blundered into chilly Yakutsk with its spirits and shamans. Now he must sort out the bitter brew, seasoned with blood, horror, and such ancient, black malice that not every brother inquisitor can handle without getting gray hair.