Rasputin's Bastards

THE LITTLE HERO

Pok-pok-pok.

It sounded, Stephen thought, very different from the outside than the inside. Echoing through the cold, still waters outside the submarine, it sounded like a deep, rich drum. It reverberated through the sea with a tribal intensity.

Stephen took control of the cadence — tapping along the outside of the submarine, and then stretching great tentacles as far as he could reach — tasting the strange flavours of the ocean. Soon, he felt confident enough to launch himself through the dark waters, climb from the shelf. He spared a glance back at a black sprawling thing, an artefact hammered into the shelf itself, on thick concrete and steel columns; a structure made of spheres and cylinders and boxes, illuminated here and there by flickering lights like Christmas strings; exuding strange limbs like tentacles that moved arthritically around their ancient, rusting joints; occasionally, farting a bit of air skyward in a string of silver that glowed brighter, and grew finer, the higher it climbed. Latching to this assembly was a long squid-shape of a kind that was becoming altogether too common in the deep complacency of the shelf.

But it wasn’t enough to worry a mind. Quick enough, it was away — in a great jet of seawater, away to the surface.

The surface, and dinner…

Whoa.

Stephen shook his head and propped himself up on his elbow.

“You see, Stephen,” said a Romanian, sitting over him, “why we like it down here so much?”

They were in a stateroom in the upper levels of Petroska Station — just one deck below what the Mystics called their Aerie. The walls were a light cream colour. Light came from soft semi opaque globes that hung from a high ceiling.

The air seemed cleaner here. The Romanian lurched, and said in a slightly different voice:

“So there. Now you are a big psychic. Feel better?”

The second voice, Stephen could tell, belonged to the mystic called Yorgi. The first one was Dmitri. There were maybe five other distinct voices that inhabited the Romanians at different times. Those voices had not introduced themselves, but Stephen could tell the difference. The trick was in not paying attention to which mouth was speaking. The Mystics tended to jump from one mouth to another — often while in mid-sentence. Sometimes, there would be overlap, and all the voices in the room would utter the same word at the same time, in a terrible kind of harmony.

It was an order of magnitude more difficult than talking with Zhanna, who could be one voice across many mouths if she chose. This was a crowd of Zhanna’s, leaping between a crowd of mouths.

“He’s speechless,” said the Romanian.

And then, in a woman’s voice: “It reminds me of Kiev, you know.”

“Reminds you of starvation and cannibalism?”

“No no. You remind me of that, Yorgi. Every chance you get. No. I’m talking about the awakening. The first taste of Discourse.”

“Oh yes. It’s quite a time for everyone. Exhilarating.”

“It can also be pretty frightening, if you are not prepared.”

“Yes. But our young Stephen here is well enough prepared.”

Stephen sat up and looked at the Romanian. It was as though he were looking at five different faces at once — none of them, the narrow-chinned bald man to whom the face properly belonged.

“Why,” he asked, “am I awakening now?”

“Oh. He can talk now.”

“The magic of the moment has worn off.”

“So sad.”

“Why now?” Stephen repeated.

“Simple.”

“You are far enough away from Kolyokov’s influence. So the lock’s off.”

Stephen thought about that. “Are you saying,” he said, “that Kolyokov had locked up my natural dream-walking talent?”

It was something — to see one poor man laugh for five. The Romanian jerked and spasmed and gasped until the Mystics were finished.

“Sorry, Stephen. It’s not as though you’re a great big talent to begin with. That thing we showed you with the squid? Wouldn’t have even gotten you an interview at City 512.”

“If they did interviews.”

“Notice how we're using the flesh here to talk to you.”

“That’s right. You’re not quite up to Discourse.”

“But yes. Fyodor Kolyokov did his very best to hide your limited talent from you.”

“It’s not all bad, though.”

“Yes. It prevented anyone else from dream-walking you.”

“Kept secrets safe.”

“You were your own man. Look at it that way.”

“Don’t be too angry about it.”

“He’s angry. Look.”

“Oh come on, Stephen. It’s not like you were the only one.”

“There was that kid — that Kilodovich.”

“Oh yes. That was a good thing. No one would have argued there.”

“Would have gotten us all shot if they’d found out about that boy.”

Stephen cleared his throat. They all focused the Romanian’s eyes on them.

“If I’m not talented,” he said, “why did you want to see me?”

“We need you.” The Romanian spoke weirdly — his throat stretching and echoing, to accommodate more than one voice. He coughed, and someone held up his hand to wait.

“Swallowed the wrong way,” said someone.

“Why?” asked Stephen.

The Romanian leaned close to him. “We need you,” he whispered. “There’s trouble brewing. We can smell it.”

“You’ve got the children,” said Stephen. “Mrs. Kontos-Wu. The others.”

“They are here. It’s not the same thing as having them.”

“You see, Stephen, it’s become obvious to us that someone else already has a foothold in their minds. Even in the most powerful ones.”

“Really. Who would that be? Babushka?”

The Romanian nodded.

“Lena.”

“Always was an evil little bitch.”

“Don’t use that word.”

“Evil?”

“You know what word.”

“Yes. Sorry. The point is — it’s a problem.”

“A big problem.”

“It appears as though she is everywhere.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“THE CISTERN OF BLOOD”

Two hateful fez-sporting villains emerged from around the corner. One of them carried a torch, the pitch at its tip wrapped in an orange tongue of flame. Another carried an immense curved axe. Mrs. Kontos-Wu held her breath — even though she knew that would make no difference as to how well she was hidden, she was sure it was something Becky would do. Becky would also wonder about whether the axe was the same one that the Scarlet Arrow had used to sever the hand that he’d sent to Becky in the post. And she would wonder how it was that the Scarlet Arrow villains could get away with carrying a flaming torch in a sewer without igniting the gasses there and blowing the foundations out from under Istanbul.

That alone might well have been clue enough to allow Becky to credibly rescue her maimed chum Jim from hordes of fanatical be-fezzed Turks and their evil leader.

But Becky was dead. And Mrs. Kontos-Wu frankly didn’t care whether Jim lived or died. She had other things to wonder about.

For instance: just exactly who was the persona behind this Lois character — her old school friend who had steered her so murderously wrong back in New York? It could still be Zhanna — she was unwilling to completely rule that out. She supposed it could also be some remnant of Fyodor Kolyokov. He had left a hidden message in her, after he’d apparently vanquished Lois in the metaphor of the Bishop’s Hall library.

Where, Mrs. Kontos-Wu reminded herself, she’d been reading this very book.

“Come on,” whispered Lois after the two men had passed them. “We must follow them to the Cistern.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu shrugged. “Whatever,” she said.

“Shh!”

The men turned down another corridor off the main sewer. The girls followed as close as they dared. The tunnel became narrower, its ancient brickwork less coated with slime. The rats were replaced by immense spiders and centipedes and other horrid things that Mrs. Kontos-Wu made a point of not squealing at.

Finally, the light of the villains’ torch was joined by a brighter light, as the tunnel opened up onto a much larger space.

“Now here,” said Lois, “is where we find out what’s happened to Jim. I do hope he’s come to no harm.”

“His fucking hand’s been cut off,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu. “I think Jim’s come to harm.”

Lois gave her a stern look. “Language,” she warned.

Slowly, the two girls crept up to the light. Lois gasped. In spite of herself, Mrs. Kontos-Wu looked upon the sight before her with interest approaching awe. It could only have been one thing:

The fabled Cistern of Blood…

The tunnel opened out onto a stone ledge exactly halfway up the wall of a great, circular room. Its ceiling was a dome — painted with unrecognizable signs and odd geometries. The centre of the dome was a long tube open to the sky. Water dribbled down lit by the noon-hour sun, and in the distance, Mrs. Kontos-Wu could make out the hubbub of lunchtime traffic in downtown Istanbul.

Halfway round the room, the ledge became stairs that climbed down the other half of the wall, to thing that gave the Cistern its name. The pool was also circular — maybe fifty feet in diameter. It was filled with a thick red liquid that looked like nothing so much as blood.

“The blood of the twentieth century,” said Lois. “Of two world wars — hundreds of civil wars. Blood spilled by the Nazis and their genocidal Holocaust of the Jews, and the gypsies, and the homosexuals, and the mentally challenged… the half-breed “mongrels”… and the sixteen million corpses; our own Josef Stalin, and his twenty million victims. The Balkans. Vietnam.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu sniffed. “It’s probably just mineral deposits,” she said. She couldn’t be sure about that — it might well have been an actual cistern of blood — but she wasn’t about to let Lois use this stupid image to make her point.

Lois shrugged and pointed. “Look — down there. I think we have found our little friend Jim.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu squinted.

Sure enough, where the stairs entered the water someone had constructed a broad wooden platform. It was tied to the side of the cistern with chains that certainly didn’t look as old as the lumber.

And sitting in the middle of it, tied with mere ropes to a metal chair, was a small, trembling figure with a bag over his head. If Becky had been here, she would have gasped in recognition.

It was Jim!

A tall, blond man that Mrs. Kontos-Wu thought she recognized, stood there with a sickle-shaped knife held at poor Jim’s throat.

“That,” said Lois, “in case you didn’t recognize him from Chapter Two, is kindly Monsieur DuBois.”

“Antoine’s papa?” Mrs. Kontos-Wu admitted she hadn’t seen that coming.

“It’s true,” said Lois. “Turns out that the Famille DuBois have been members of the Society of the Scarlet Arrow since the Crusade against the Cathars. It’s all tied up with the Holy Grail and the Templars and the highest levels of the Vatican, but don’t ask me how. The important thing is, Monsieur DuBois is going to slash Jim’s throat and drain his blood into a ceremonial chalice unless you do something immediately. Ordinarily, this would be where Becky would step in but—”

“—you killed her.” Mrs. Kontos-Wu took a step back into the corridor.

“That’s right,” said Lois. “Now follow the plot.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu pressed herself against the stone. She was inclined now to creep down the stairs — snap the neck of the villain carrying the axe and behead the villain with the torch — make her way onto the platform, cutting her way through the five others who stood between Monsieur DuBois and her — then finally deliver the coup de grâce to the mild-mannered Parisian civil servant that had, in Chapter Two, met Becky, Bunny and Jim at the Aéroport Paris-Charles de Gaulle and shown them the Tour Eiffel on their way back to the townhouse.

But if Mrs. Kontos-Wu had learned anything, it was that following her inclinations in these kinds of places wasn’t what was best.

So instead, Mrs. Kontos-Wu spun around, and took hold of Lois by the hair.

Her former best friend shrieked in spite of herself.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu yanked on Lois’ hair and pulled her face around to meet her eye.

“Not finishing the book,” she said, and — as the army of fez-sporting cultists looked up — Mrs. Kontos-Wu spun around and flung Lois off the precipice, and into the Cistern of Blood.

Lois looked up at her — with tears of horror and rage in her eyes — and a moment before the impact of death came upon her —

She vanished.

“Manka. Vasilissa. Baba Yaga.”

And just like that — under nobody’s direction but her own — Jean Kontos-Wu closed the book.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu blinked. She was standing in another large room — not as tall as the Cistern of Blood, with no afternoon light coming down from the ceiling. There was a pool — this one like a swimming pool, a sad old movie star’s swimming pool, filled with water green with algae. The light came from long banks of fluorescents, hanging from a ceiling that was barely twelve feet from the surface of the water.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu looked down at her hands. She was carrying an axe. She lifted it, and examined the blade. Good. No blood. Wherever she was now, with any luck she’d managed to get there without fulfilling Lois’ instructions — of destroying Petroska Station, and killing the children.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu lowered herself to her haunches, and held the axe close to her chest. She would have to be very careful. As irritating as they had been, Ilyich and Konstantine and Tanya had obviously been on to something. She was addicted to this thing, this metaphor. That was fine as long as Kolyokov was around to mind her. But now that he was gone? The addiction left her open — open to suggestion. And that made her a danger to everyone around her.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu sat like that, stewing, until a sense at the back of her head tightened, a drawn thread.

There had been a noise. A wet slosh; a slap; a bleating sound, like a goat.

Echoing across the chamber. She squinted toward its source — and saw a lone figure, horribly pale, with long hair and rags for clothing, standing on the far side of the pool — shuffling tentatively, grasping its hands and tugging at stray locks of hair like a nervous child.

“Help,” it croaked.

“Why should I?” demanded Mrs. Kontos-Wu.

“We are being invaded,” it said.