Thirteen Years Later

CHAPTER XIV

TAGANROG WASN’T MUCH TO LOOK AT. NEITHER HAD BEEN many of the other towns Aleksei passed on the way. In total, the journey had taken eight days, part on horseback, part by coach. The final phase had been by horse.

He had never been in this part of the country before. He’d met up with the river Don soon after Tula, and had followed the valley all the way down. It still felt like autumn, but he’d noticed it getting warmer each day. He knew the cold would soon catch up with him again, even so far south. Paris was on about the same latitude as Taganrog, and yet Paris never got nearly so cold in winter. It was a very Russian thing.

His journey down the Don had reminded him of the journey the Oprichniki had taken in the opposite direction in order to ‘save’ Moscow thirteen years before. Was there a link there? Had they put down roots in the region which somehow connected to the experiments Cain was performing? In the various hostelries he had stayed at along the way, he had asked if anyone remembered the autumn of 1812. Stories had reached Moscow of a plague travelling up the Don, which Aleksei had realized to be the echoes of the revolting feeding habits of voordalaki. But as with all such tales, details, even years, became merged. Locals disagreed as to what had happened and when it had happened. More recent outbreaks of pestilence were far more pressing on the memory than what had happened thirteen years before.

And so Aleksei had spent most of his evenings continuing his translation of Cain’s writings. It was still difficult, but at least Valentin had not asked for the dictionary back. Much of what Aleksei uncovered was what he already knew, though with a precise, scientific gloss to it. He worried that his prior knowledge might be biasing his translation, forcing it to tell him what he expected it to tell him. But he had no way of avoiding such prejudice.

Several sections discussed what happened when a vampire was injured. Measurements were made concerning the speed of regrowth and the degree to which an individual could resist that regrowth. A table of figures showed how a well-fed voordalak could regenerate its flesh far more quickly than one which had been starved. Cain also referred to reported evidence of a voordalak who had fended off the regrowth of his missing fingers for four hours in order not to be discovered by humans, and of another who had had an arm hacked off with a sword, and grown it back without the slightest sign of a scar. The first was clearly Kyesha’s story. It seemed that Kyesha had been at one time the subject of Cain’s experiments. Presumably he had escaped, stealing the notebook and taking it with him. But why had he brought it to Aleksei?

Cain also wrote of the methods by which a vampire could die. There was little new. Fire could kill them, freezing cold could not but would paralyse them, as would starvation and suffocation. Cain had conducted his own experiment with fire – his description of the death of the creature was brutally detached – but of the attempted freezing there was no detail. Aleksei wondered if the winters would be cold enough this far south to conduct such an experiment successfully. His own experience of a voordalak being frozen had been much further north.

What seemed to interest Cain most was his investigation of the actual mechanism by which a man could be turned into a vampire. Aleksei was familiar enough with the process, having had it described to him by Iuda back in 1812. Iuda, of course, could not be trusted on any matter, and was not even a vampire, so might not know the truth. However, Cain’s studies concurred. The victim had first to have his blood drunk by the vampire and then, close to the moment of his death, had in turn to drink the vampire’s blood.

Aleksei had shuddered as he finished translating that section. It was exactly what he had witnessed – believed he had witnessed – at the window of the brothel on Degtyarny Lane, except that, in truth, he had seen Iuda lower his lips on to the woman’s neck and pretend to suck the life-giving fluid from her using fangs he did not possess. He had seen the woman lick at the blood that seeped from a self-inflicted wound in Iuda’s breast, but it was not vampire’s blood. And still today, Aleksei did not know whether that woman had been Margarita or Domnikiia.

Again, Cain’s concern was with precise measurement. He was convinced that consumption of the vampire’s blood had to occur within a certain time period leading up to the actual moment of death of the victim, but he had been unable to pin down the duration; in some cases it was hours, in others many weeks. Beyond that, the death of the victim did not have to be caused by the original bite of the vampire and subsequent loss of blood. Any cause of death would be effective, as long as blood had been exchanged both ways. In nature, as Cain had put it, the vampire’s bite was almost always the cause of death as well, but he had demonstrated that it was not uniquely effective. He went on, somewhat unnecessarily, to list mechanisms of death he had found to work: stabbing, shooting, drowning, poisoning.

Aleksei stopped reading at that point. Evidently Cain was not only using voordalaki for his experiments. Humans were involved as well; human, at least, when the experiments began.

That was about as much as Aleksei had discovered by the time he reached Taganrog. There was much he could make neither head nor tail of, and few translations in which he felt entirely confident.

He quickly found a tavern that had rooms available. He had expected the town to be busy, as social climbers hoping to gain favour at court – and social decliners, desperate to hang on to what slight favour they had left – hovered round the tsar like flies. But Aleksandr’s presence had caused remarkably little stir. Aleksei had arrived in time for lunch. The last leg of his journey, from Rostov, had been short – only about seventy versts – and he had set out early. After eating, he wrote letters to Marfa, Dmitry, Domnikiia and Tamara – the last of those he wrote mostly in Russian, with occasional hints in French to help her understand.

Then he set out on a simple quest – an audience with the tsar.

The adopted royal palace was unassuming. It was a low building, with no upper floors. It must have helped in keeping the crowds at bay. Although there was no overt secrecy, few passing the house would have guessed the majesty of the personage dwelling therein. It had a garden and a view of the sea, neither of which Aleksei paid much attention to. There was one piece of comfort he took from seeing the house at last with his own eyes: everything was in order. Whatever Cain was planning against Aleksandr, he had not yet acted.

Aleksei’s credentials got him past the guards at the gate and the household staff, but none felt audacious enough to allow him access to the tsar. Instead he was asked to sit in a small anteroom, overlooking the beach, and wait until he could be dealt with by the tsar’s personal secretary, Prince Volkonsky. He waited for a quarter of an hour before the door opened and three men entered the room.

Volkonsky was easy to recognize. He was the only one of the three in uniform, but beyond that he had the bearing that only a man raised with the title of prince could carry. He was almost fifty now, and his square face had a benevolence to it which belied his history. Aleksei well knew – though it was not the sort of thing that was ever spoken of publicly – that Volkonsky was one of those who had organized the death of Aleksandr’s father, Tsar Pavel I. Just how closely Aleksandr himself had been involved was a matter of wide, if hushed, debate. Few who held him responsible thought less of him for it. The whole empire had benefited. Pavel had been a hopeless monarch. Aleksandr had been a hopeful one, but twenty-four years on, that promise remained to be fulfilled.

‘Colonel Danilov?’ said Volkonsky somewhat haughtily.

‘Yes, Your High Excellency,’ said Aleksei, standing.

‘You have a message for His Majesty?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Aleksei felt no sense of awe in the presence of the prince, but he knew his business would be achieved a lot more simply if he appeared to.

Volkonsky held out his hand. ‘Give it to me, I’ll take it to him.’

‘I don’t have it written down.’

‘Then tell me,’ Volkonsky snapped.

‘I think the tsar would prefer it if I told him personally,’ said Aleksei.

‘He would, would he?’

‘Just tell him my name, Your High Excellency.’

Volkonsky considered for a moment, but he was by no means a stupid man. It was unlikely that Aleksei would be bluffing about the issue, but if he was, it would only be a short delay before he received his retribution.

‘Very well,’ said Volkonsky. ‘But it may be a while. His Majesty has many matters to attend to.’ He strode out through a different door from that by which he had entered, leaving Aleksei alone with the other two men. The shorter of them, a greying man in his fifties or sixties, came over and extended his hand to Aleksei.

‘Colonel Danilov,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’ He spoke in French with an undulating accent which Aleksei first took to be English, but then he became less sure. Aleksei took his hand and shook it. ‘The name’s Wylie,’ said the man. ‘James Wylie.’

‘Dr James Wylie?’ asked Aleksei.

‘Yes,’ said Wylie, with a brief nod.

‘It’s an honour, sir.’ His accent now made sense to Aleksei as Scots, but a Scots that had been smoothed over decades of living in Russia. ‘You were a hero to hundreds at Borodino.’

‘I did what any surgeon would do,’ said Wylie. ‘Are you a veteran yourself?’

‘I fought under General Uvarov.’ It was not a lie, but it did mislead.

‘This is Dr Tarasov,’ said Wylie, introducing the other man.

‘Colonel Danilov,’ said Tarasov. The accent to his French was pure Russian.

‘I understand you’re His Majesty’s personal physician these days,’ said Aleksei, addressing Wylie.

‘We both are,’ said Tarasov.

‘A man as healthy as His Majesty couldn’t be the result of just one pair of medical hands,’ added Wylie.

‘Tell me, Dr Wylie’ – Aleksei instinctively lowered his voice, but not so as to exclude Tarasov – ‘do you know of an Englishman about these parts by the name of Cain? Richard Cain?’

Wylie thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I can’t say that I do.’ He looked at Tarasov, who shrugged. ‘Mind you,’ added Wylie, ‘people come and go here. There are plenty of ships passing.’

At that moment, Volkonsky returned. ‘His Majesty will see you now,’ he said, without any hint of annoyance. Aleksei followed him back out through the door. As he passed the window, he glanced out over the sea, but Dr Wylie had been wrong. The water was not teeming with vessels. All Aleksei could see was the sail of one unremarkable yacht, anchored on the horizon.

He went into the tsar’s rooms.

CHAPTER XV

THAT SAME FACE.

It was thirteen years since Aleksandr had first seen that face – six weeks since he last had. In between he had grown to regard Colonel Danilov with increasing degrees of trust. But in all that time, the matters over which he and Danilov had confided had been – for want of a better word – temporal. It was only now that he had appeared, without summons, in Taganrog that Aleksandr sensed that the nature of his initial, unearthly vision of Danilov’s face would become clear; that the two separate strands of their lives would become entwined into a single cord. Whether that cord would provide mutual strength for them both, or whether one thread would constrict and then strangle the other, he did not know. But if it was the latter, he knew it would be he who tightened his grip first.

‘Sit down, Colonel Danilov,’ he said. ‘You may leave us, Pyotr Mihailovich.’

Volkonsky turned and exited. Aleksandr was confident they would be left in peace. He walked over to the table and poured Aleksei a glass of tea from the silver samovar.

‘Are you acquainted with Prince Volkonsky?’ he asked, handing over the drink.

‘Not until now,’ said Aleksei. ‘But I fought with his brother-in-law, Sergei Grigorovich, at Silistria.’

Aleksandr noticed, and noted, how he rubbed his left hand, which lacked the last two fingers, as he spoke, but he chose not to comment upon it. ‘Under Prince Bagration?’ he asked instead.

Aleksei nodded. ‘I was very pleased to meet Dr Wylie at last,’ he volunteered, shifting deftly to a different hero of Borodino.

‘More so than Prince Volkonsky?’ asked Aleksandr. Aleksei nodded cautiously. Aleksandr was not surprised. ‘Many old soldiers feel the same. But don’t underestimate Pyotr Mihailovich.’

‘I won’t, Your Majesty,’ said Aleksei.

‘And what brings you here?’ asked Aleksandr, having poured his own tea and sat down again. It was best to play the innocent, for now at least. ‘There has been a turn of events concerning our friends in the north, I take it. For good or ill?’

‘It’s not quite as straightforward as that. I’m here because of a quite different threat… possible threat.’

The words chilled Aleksandr, but still he retained his sangfroid. ‘I’m not sure what could be greater than half my army preparing to overthrow me.’

‘I think “half” is an exaggeration, Your Majesty.’ Aleksandr knew very well it was an exaggeration, but even if it had been half a dozen, it still would not lessen the horror of his being turned upon by officers who had sworn allegiance to him – just as their fathers had sworn allegiance to his.

‘Do you know any more of what they want?’

Aleksei appeared surprised at the tsar’s question, as well he might be. However much he might once have concurred with them, Aleksandr would be a fool to concede to any of their demands. It would be too much of a blow to his authority. Indeed, by laying down any policy, the reformers ensured that it was unlikely ever to be enacted, however much the tsar might agree with it.

‘You’ve read the Green Book?’ the colonel asked, although it was a matter they had already discussed.

‘Of course. And you know as well as I it’s not a true declaration of their intentions – just a veneer to make them appear less bloodthirsty. Don’t forget, I’ve read Russkaya Pravda as well, which I think is less intended for public consumption.’

‘The best of them share your understanding of the problems,’ said Aleksei, ‘but not your pessimism as to whether a solution can be found.’

Aleksandr nodded slowly, sadly. Danilov was more fooled than the revolutionaries. Both admired his earlier desire for reform, but it was Danilov who was mistaken to think that his current reticence was born of pragmatism. He had truly changed his mind, and with the best of reasons. ‘Do you know how many of them there are – in total?’

The colonel nodded. ‘I have a list,’ he said.

‘Show it to me,’ said Aleksandr curtly.

‘You’ll honour your promise to me?’ asked Aleksei. ‘That you will not move against them until there is no other way?’

Aleksandr mustered his iciest hauteur. ‘It’s a brave man who asks a promise of the tsar,’ he said. ‘It’s an ill-mannered one who questions whether he will keep it.’ He could have had the list ripped from Danilov’s dead fingers, but he was no fool. Dead fingers would no longer be able to steal what the tsar required.

Aleksei slipped his hand into an inside pocket and pulled out a sheaf of folded papers. He handed them to the tsar. Aleksandr scanned through. Most names he knew – and knew would be on the list – but there were still many that angered him; a few that saddened him. It was one close to the beginning that he commented on first.

‘We were just talking of Sergei Grigorovich,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Aleksei. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘At least Pyotr Mihailovich is not listed.’

‘You thought he would be?’ asked Aleksei.

Aleksandr considered. ‘I would have let them win if he had been,’ he said at length, instantly shocked by his own sentimentality – shocked by the truth of what he said. He looked on through the list. ‘I see your name is here, Colonel Danilov.’

The colonel seemed to pause just momentarily, as if tripping over an unseen paving stone, before replying. ‘I should hope so. I wouldn’t be much use to you if I wasn’t a member.’

‘Even so – not a pleasant list to be named on, should things not go the way you hope.’

‘I’m sure I’ll have you to vouch for me, Your Majesty.’

‘Oh, absolutely,’ said Aleksandr. ‘Absolutely.’

‘Could we discuss my other business?’ asked Aleksei.

Was this the moment? If it was, Aleksandr would be foolish to ignore it. Even so, he felt afraid. He nodded. ‘Go ahead.’

Aleksei paused, considering how to start. ‘Why did you come here, to Taganrog?’

‘Why do you ask?’ replied Aleksandr.

‘Let’s just accept that I did ask.’

It was more the statement of an interrogator to his captive than of a subject to his tsar, though Aleksandr knew he needed a man of such effrontery. But it was still too early to reveal his hand.

‘Many reasons,’ he replied, ‘but chiefly to do with the climate; partly for my own benefit – but mostly for my dear Yelizaveta Alekseevna.’

‘The climate? Doesn’t the sea here freeze over in November?’

‘Later than it does in Petersburg.’

‘Why not Greece or Italy?’

Aleksandr longed to confide in someone, but his anger and pride won through. ‘I am tsar of all the Russias,’ he asserted. ‘I may go where I please. And Russia is the place where I should and do wish to go.’

Aleksei nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. He clearly did not accept the answer, but accepted it was all he was going to get.

‘Is there anything more you need to discuss?’ asked Aleksandr. He avoided making it sound like the plea it was. He knew he had to be open with Danilov, but could conceive of no effective way to breach the barrier between monarch and subject.

‘Not at the moment, Your Majesty.’

‘Then you may go. But don’t go far. I may need you.’

That would be better. It was Danilov who had instigated this meeting – he could not be allowed to come away the beneficiary. Next time, Aleksandr would be in charge. The colonel stood and walked to the door, but before exiting, he turned.

‘Just one last question, Your Majesty.’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you ever hear of a man named Cain – Richard Cain? An Englishman.’

The tsar felt a coldness, as though the blood had suddenly vanished from his body, but he pulled an expression of thoughtful puzzlement before replying. ‘No. No, I can’t say I have. Is it important?’

‘I don’t know.’ With that, Aleksei was gone.

Aleksandr stood and walked over to the window. He gazed out to sea, but still the only thing that broke the shallow curve of the horizon was that one yacht. He heard the door open behind him and feared for a moment that Danilov had returned, but on looking he saw that it was only Volkonsky, who said nothing, waiting first to be spoken to. Aleksandr looked back out across the water.

It was an odd combination of trust and fear that Aleksandr felt for Danilov – and not just Danilov; there were others of his profession who produced the same feeling. The trust was in the absolute sense that such men would neither harm him nor let him be harmed. The fear was in the risk that they would perceive too much; would catch out the tsar in one of his petty misdemeanours. It was the same ambiguity a son might feel towards his father – though not so much in Aleksandr’s case. For him, it was a little more like the way he had felt about his grandmother.

It was a comparison he did not want to take too far; the old empress had always been able to catch Aleksandr out in a lie, and he felt that Colonel Danilov shared exactly the same perceptive skills.

Which was unfortunate, because that afternoon Aleksandr had prevaricated with him once and twice told outright lies.

It was dark by the time Aleksei returned to his lodgings. He had wandered around the town a little, asked a few questions, but there was not much to be discovered. Cain’s book had implied he was not actually resident in Taganrog, but in the ‘peninsula’. That could only mean the Crimea, almost four hundred versts away. As Aleksei walked, he had been considering what the tsar had said to him. Aleksandr was a difficult man to fathom. Aleksei had met him perhaps ten times in his life, the first being in 1814, in Paris. On each occasion, he had deliberately tried to reduce the usual formality of such an encounter, and had achieved it to some extent. But the tsar was used to hiding behind the mask of his office, and ultimately could not be browbeaten into revealing information he didn’t want to. The tsar always knew best.

Moreover, the tsar was used to filtering every statement he uttered, preparing it for the consumption of advisors, ambassadors and the general public. He delivered the truth with exactly the same lack of conviction with which he did a lie. Aleksei was reminded of Iuda, who had found a way to make his every statement equally valueless. Aleksandr had taken a different approach, but had arrived at a similar result.

Even so, Aleksei was pretty certain the tsar had lied about not knowing Cain.

He asked for a meal to be sent up to his rooms, and then ascended the stairs. His door was on the right. He had only put one foot inside the room when he realized there was someone else in there. Initially the knowledge was instinctive, but he knew that instincts were based on senses, and he quickly honed the source of his intuition down to a smell. It was a familiar smell – the closest thing he could describe it as was raw sheep’s kidneys, but even that was a poor comparison. It was a smell he had not noticed the first time he encountered it, or not distinguished, but now, he could associate it with its source.

‘Kyesha?’ he asked.

‘You see almost as well as I do, Aleksei,’ said a voice from the darkness, over towards the bed. Aleksei lit the lamp and saw Kyesha lying there on one side, his chin resting on his fist. Aleksei did not disabuse him of the idea that he had seen him, even if it had been said in jest. He was well aware that the smell was not unique to Kyesha – it was the scent of the voordalak. That the voordalak in question was Kyesha was an obvious guess.

Aleksei sat down on a chair near the door and fixed his eyes warily on Kyesha, saying nothing.

‘You came then,’ said the vampire.

‘You could have offered a more direct invitation.’

‘Would you have responded to that?’

Aleksei considered, then shook his head. He glanced over to the drawer where he had left both the dictionary and Cain’s notebook. Kyesha saw his concern. ‘Don’t worry, it’s still there,’ he said. ‘It makes no sense to me.’

‘So how did you know it would bring me here?’

‘Richard Cain is a talkative man, at times. He’d told me enough of what was in there.’

‘He experimented on you?’ asked Aleksei.

Kyesha sat up and unbuttoned his shirt cuff. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal his forearm. ‘He…’ Kyesha interrupted himself with a smile. ‘But of course, there are no scars.’ He pulled his sleeve back down again. ‘One sometimes forgets.’

‘You’ve not been a voordalak long then?’ said Aleksei.

‘Only a few years before we first met. And the word round these parts is “oopir”.’

It was not a new word to Aleksei. ‘Voordalak, oopir. You all die the same way.’ He regretted his harshness immediately. He was filled with the hateful realization that he’d grown to like Kyesha.

‘Round here, I’m afraid not. Some die, but many live for years in torment, thanks to Cain.’

‘And what have I got to do with it?’

‘You will stop him,’ said Kyesha confidently.

‘Why should I stop a man killing vampires – killing them or torturing them?’

‘You will stop him. It’s in your nature.’

He seemed sure of what Aleksei would do. He’d certainly managed to predict Aleksei’s moves so far – control them even.

‘You knew my nature – just from that one night in Silistria.’

‘That was a fortunate coincidence. You can imagine my surprise when I heard of the three-fingered man.’

‘And you knew it was me?’

‘I didn’t even know your name, at first. Even then I thought I might be wrong.’

‘Wrong?’

‘That you were the man I sought – the man who slew eleven vampires in 1812.’

‘Hence the questions,’ said Aleksei.

‘And the code. Only you would know where we were to meet.’

‘But why pretend to be Maks’ brother?’

‘Maksim Sergeivich was the only name I had, to start with. I went to Saratov, to see his family. That led me to you.’

‘But where did you get that from in the first place? Why did you choose me?’ Aleksei realized his veneer of disdain had dropped – he was fascinated.

‘From Cain. It was Cain who spoke of the three-fingered man.’

‘And how does he know?’

‘I’m not sure, but I know one thing.’

Aleksei sat forward on the edge of his seat, his animosity for Kyesha forgotten, eager to hear more. They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Aleksei raised a finger to his lips to silence Kyesha, hoping the voordalak would not remark how similar the gesture was to that which they had used to betray him in Moscow. He opened the door to a narrow crack and looked out.

‘Your dinner, sir,’ said the boy outside.

‘Thanks.’ Aleksei opened the door wider and took the tray. On it was a jug of wine, and some sort of pie. He slipped the boy a few copecks and went back into his room.

There was no sign of Kyesha. Above the bed, the curtain flapped in the breeze that blew through the open window. Aleksei put down the tray and climbed on to the bed. He peered out of the window. Just below, clinging impossibly to the wall, was Kyesha.

‘What?’ hissed Aleksei. Kyesha looked up at him questioningly. ‘You were going to say something,’ Aleksei persisted.

Kyesha looked below him, judging the distance. Then he turned his face back up to the window.

‘Cain fears you,’ he said.

A moment later he dropped to the ground and scuttled away. Within seconds, he was out of sight.

CHAPTER XVI

ALEKSEI STRUGGLED WITH THE NOTEBOOK THE WHOLE OF THE following day, but he had made about as much progress as he was going to. He needed the assistance of an English speaker – someone he could trust – and there was only one name that came to mind.

Early on Saturday morning, he returned to the tsar and tsaritsa’s humble palace, but asked to see neither of Their Majesties. Dr Wylie greeted him with a smile and a handshake and suggested they walk in the gardens. It was the last place Aleksei wanted to go, considering the nature of the object that he clutched, wrapped in paper, under his arm.

‘I don’t suppose the tsar has mentioned to you why I’m here,’ said Aleksei, once they were away from the house.

‘I hope you’re not too disappointed to learn that he hasn’t mentioned you at all,’ replied the doctor. ‘Volkonsky told me you’re not quite a regular soldier.’

‘Ultimately, my job is to protect the tsar.’

‘As is the duty of every member of His Majesty’s army.’

‘The threat may come from within the army,’ said Aleksei.

Wylie stopped and turned to him. ‘I had heard of the possibility,’ he said. ‘Has the issue become more pressing?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Aleksei. ‘But another matter has arisen; one that I need your help with.’

‘Anything relating to His Majesty’s health is my concern,’ said Wylie. Aleksei smiled to himself. Wylie could never have conceived of just how radically the tsar’s health might be altered.

‘I’m calling on your assistance not as a doctor, but as an Englishman.’ Aleksei instantly regretted what he had said.

Wylie bristled and pulled himself up to his full height, still shorter than Aleksei. ‘Let me assure you, Colonel Danilov, I am no Englishman. I am a Scot.’

‘English speaker, then. I need a book translated.’

‘A book?’

Aleksei held up the parcel.

‘Let me see it,’ said Wylie, reaching out his hands.

Suddenly, Aleksei realized the foolhardiness of what he was attempting. If his own translation was only accurate to a fractional degree, then what Wylie read would seem like the ravings of a madman. Either Aleksei would be seen as a dupe for being taken in by such a document, or worse, be believed to have concocted it himself.

And yet the very title of the book itself suggested to Aleksei a course of action. Nullius in Verba – take nobody’s word for it. Perhaps being out in the garden was a good thing after all.

Aleksei raised his hand to stop Wylie. ‘Watch first,’ he said. He peeled back one flap of the wrapping paper and turned the skin revealed underneath to the sun. As before, it began to blacken and peel, splitting sideways along a line to reveal the cardboard beneath. The same smell assailed Aleksei’s nostrils, and Wylie recoiled in disgust.

‘Some form of sulphur?’ asked Wylie. ‘Or phosphorus?

Aleksei shook his head, though for all he knew, Wylie could have been correct as to the chemistry. He opened up the flap of his coat and hid the book beneath. ‘Look now,’ he said. Although the burning had stopped, the fumes concentrated under his coat, making it odious to breathe. Even so, Wylie peered in. Aleksei was not in a position to see, but the astonished look on the doctor’s face when he raised his head after a few seconds was enough to tell Aleksei that the skin had re-formed in just the way he had witnessed in Moscow.

‘Remarkable,’ said Wylie.

‘It’s nothing compared with what’s inside,’ said Aleksei.

Wylie glanced up from Cain’s notebook and into Aleksei’s eyes. The cover had clearly hooked him. The prospect of seeing its contents reeled him in. ‘We must go inside,’ he said abruptly. His short legs began to move quickly. He was almost halfway across the lawn when Aleksei reached him, having carefully recovered the notebook. ‘Not here, I think,’ said the doctor as they stepped into the tsar’s residence. ‘My own lodgings would be more private.’

They walked through the palace and out the other side. Wylie turned left and Aleksei followed. Within a few minutes they were at a lodging house. Wylie went in and led Aleksei up to his room. He closed the curtains, checking for any cracks, and lit a candle.

‘Will it be safe here?’ he asked.

Aleksei nodded. He laid the book down on the table and removed the paper. Three familiar words stared up at them.

Nullius in Verba

‘Ah!’ said Wylie. ‘Truer words were never spoken.’

‘You’ve seen them before?’

‘Of course. It’s the motto of the Royal Society.’ Aleksei looked blank. ‘In London. It’s a scientific society.’

‘I read it as “Take nobody’s word for it,”’ said Aleksei.

‘That’s about right. It’s from Horace. “Nullius addictus iurare in verba magistri.”’ Aleksei tried to translate, but Wylie already knew the meaning. ‘“I am not bound to believe in the word of any teacher.”’

‘It’s big, is it, this Royal Society?’ asked Aleksei.

Wylie looked at him, unbelieving. ‘It’s the foremost scientific organization in the world.’ The doctor caressed the book’s binding. ‘Do you know what this substance is?’ he asked. ‘Have you thought of its medical applications?’

‘I have an idea – and I don’t think it will heal anybody. But judge for yourself; read the book.’

Wylie opened the cover and his eyes fell upon the author’s name.

Richard L. Cain F.R.S.

‘Aha!’ said Wylie. ‘The gentleman you asked after yesterday, and a fellow, no less.’ Wylie had dropped into English for that one word.

‘“Fellow?”’ asked Aleksei.

Wylie translated the word into French and then Russian. ‘That’s what the “F.R.S.” stands for,’ he explained, ‘Fellow of the Royal Society. That makes it more surprising that I’ve not heard of him.’

‘It may not be true,’ observed Aleksei.

‘Good point. Good point,’ agreed Wylie. ‘Nullius in Verba, eh?’ He turned his attention to the first full page of text and began to read. His face quickly grew grave. He let out a few exclamations, some in Russian, some in English. He turned the page, but rather than reading, looked up at Aleksei. His face was flushed.

‘This is quite extraordinary,’ he said. He sat down and mopped his face with a handkerchief. His eyes glanced around the room, before falling on Aleksei again. ‘Fiction, of course,’ he added. It sounded like a plea.

‘You saw what happened to the cover.’

Wylie looked up at Aleksei, then back to the book, weighing the evidence of his eyes against the prudence of his years.

‘You must let me read this,’ he said. ‘It will take time.’

Aleksei considered. He was loath to let the book out of his sight, and yet there was nothing more he could get from it without Wylie’s help.

‘Very well,’ he said at length.

‘I’ll call on you when I’m done. I presume Volkonsky has your address.’

Aleksei nodded. ‘I’ll see you soon then.’

‘Very,’ replied the doctor, shaking his hand.

Aleksei went back out into the street. As he set off home, he glanced up to the window above. Dr Wylie stood there holding the book out in the sunlight. A wisp of smoke rose from it, and Aleksei was sure he perceived that scent of burning hair, even though he was too far away. Wylie rapidly popped his head back inside, taking the book with him.

Had he suspected some trick from Aleksei? Or had he simply been unable to believe so strange an observation? Either way, he must now be convinced. That was all Aleksei needed him to be.

Aleksei sat in his rooms all day Sunday, even missing church. Dr Wylie did not come.

On Monday morning, Aleksei heard feet on the stairs. He leapt upright, then sat back down, feigning nonchalance. He had little reason to suppose that whoever it was was coming to pay a call on him, and moreover, the footsteps were far too heavy to be those of Dr Wylie.

The knock at his door was firm.

‘Come,’ said Aleksei.

It was Prince Volkonsky.

‘His Majesty wishes to see you,’ he said, without any preamble, ‘at four o’clock this afternoon. Are you available?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Aleksei. ‘I’ll be there.’

Volkonsky left without another word. Aleksei stood at his window and watched the prince stride powerfully down the street. He was a bigger man in many ways than his brother-in-law (and distant cousin) Sergei Grigorovich Volkonsky. How would the one, the tsar’s right-hand man, react to the treachery of the other, he wondered. He hoped there would never be an occasion to find out. It was still his plan that the whole conspiracy should simply drain away, like rainfall on one of those well-engineered Parisian streets. Once he had dealt with this affair, he would return to trying to effect that hope with new vigour.

What though was the reason for the tsar’s summons? He had said he might call on Aleksei, but there had been no indication it would be so soon. Had Wylie spoken to him? It seemed unlikely. To approach an emperor with a story such as that told in Cain’s notebook would take planning and caution. Had Wylie simply denounced Aleksei as a lunatic? It did not seem to be in the Scotsman’s nature.

He looked at his watch. It was only eleven thirty. Time would tell.

Aleksei arrived at the palace promptly, and was quickly escorted by Volkonsky to the tsar’s personal quarters. Aleksandr was alone – there was certainly no sign of Wylie. Even Volkonsky retired after exchanging but a few words.

‘Sit down, Colonel Danilov,’ said Aleksandr.

Aleksei sat. There was no offer of tea today.

‘The last time we spoke,’ continued the tsar, ‘you asked me why I had come to Taganrog. I’m afraid I did not give you a complete answer.’

Aleksei feigned surprise.

‘You’re not in a position to patronize me, Colonel,’ snapped the tsar, but there was a curl to his lip that Aleksei found infectious. The mood lightened. ‘Nor am I in a position to deceive you, it would seem,’ he added.

‘So, why did you come?’

The tsar handed Aleksei a single sheet of paper, folded once in the middle.

‘I don’t know how this was delivered to me,’ he said. ‘I found it on my dresser when I was in Petersburg. Someone must have broken in to deliver it.’

‘When?’ asked Aleksei.

‘July,’ said the tsar. ‘Read it.’

Aleksei read. The text was in French.

My Dear Aleksandr Pavlovich,

How have you been? Myself, I’ve had my ups and downs, but I’ve been patient. You and I are both newcomers to this affair, but I’m sure you know the details of the Romanov Betrayal as well as I do, perhaps better. Betrayal must always be avenged, sooner or later. For you, the day of vengeance is close at hand.

You will be leaving Petersburg soon to winter in a more pleasant climate. Make sure that you do not leave the country. Why not visit the Sea of Azov? My suggestion would be Taganrog, but I will easily find you wherever you choose to stay. Even if you choose not to stay in Russia, I will find you. Or if not I, then the person I represent. I’m sure you understand that it is better to face your fears.

It will take time for you to prepare for your journey, and I imagine that you will want to invent some excuse for your unexpected destination; rather that than have them all hear the truth. I will expect your arrival by the end of September.

Your devoted friend,

Cain

Aleksei read the letter twice, though the second reading was more to allow him to collect his thoughts than to garner any new information. He took only a moment to note that the letter was in the same hand as Cain’s notebook, regardless of the differences between French and English. It was no surprise that there was a connection between Cain and Aleksandr, but it shocked him to discover that His Majesty was already fully aware of it.

The tsar was sitting forward in eager expectation of Aleksei’s opinion, his head almost imperceptibly tilted to the left. Aleksei was well aware of Aleksandr’s deafness but, like everyone else close to His Majesty, he had never made any mention of it.

‘And you obeyed,’ he said, stating the obvious.

The tsar nodded.

‘Why?’

‘He gave me no choice.’

‘I don’t see any overt threats in there,’ said Aleksei. ‘What’s the “Romanov Betrayal”?’

‘A family legend.’

‘Concerning?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘And this “person” he represents?’ asked Aleksei.

‘I can’t say.’

Aleksei paused for a moment, looking for another angle of attack. This whole encounter was an astonishing breakthrough. He didn’t intend to spoil it by pressing in areas that Aleksandr was clearly reluctant to discuss. ‘Why do you give the letter any credence?’ he asked at last.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s so vague. Anyone could have heard of this Romanov Betrayal, or could even have some petty squabble of their own that just happened to bring that phrase to their pen.’

Aleksandr looked pale. ‘No one outside the closest of the family knew. The tsaritsa never even told my father – she didn’t trust him.’

‘The tsaritsa?’ asked Aleksei – he hoped the implication of ‘Which tsaritsa?’ was clear.

‘Yekaterina Alekseevna – my grandmother. She told me someone would come.’

‘And when did he come?’ said Aleksei. ‘The first time?’

It was no great insight. The letter implied that Cain and the tsar were not strangers to each other. ‘Years ago,’ Aleksandr replied.

‘Why did you believe him then?’

‘He knew all about it. Everything the tsaritsa had told me.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Aleksei.

The tsar’s confidence seemed to return a little. He looked Aleksei in the eye. ‘There’s no need for you to know.’

Aleksei felt the urge to shout at the man, to grab him by the shoulders and shake into him some sense of his own vulnerability, but the idea of treating the tsar in such a manner was laughable. Again he changed tack.

‘Why did you not tell me this the other day?’ he asked.

Aleksandr took a deep breath, but then failed to speak.

‘To put it another way,’ Aleksei continued, ‘why have you decided to tell me now? Did Dr Wylie speak to you?’

‘Wylie? No, certainly not.’ The tsar paused again. ‘The reason I called you here was this.’ He reached over to his desk and handed Aleksei another sheet of paper. It was more of a note than a letter. The language was again French; the handwriting the same.

‘I received it today,’ said the tsar.

Aleksandr Pavlovich,

Apologies for my tardiness in contacting you. I was pleased to hear of your prompt arrival in Taganrog, and I thought it only polite to give you a little while to settle down and ensure your wife’s comfort.

It is common knowledge that you intend soon to leave Taganrog. Do not worry; that fits completely with our plans. You will be touring the Crimean Peninsula, as would be expected from a visiting monarch. Have you considered taking in the town of Bakhchisaray? It will be advantageous to us all.

Once there, you will know what to do.

Your devoted friend,

C

‘Did anyone see who delivered it?’ asked Aleksei.

Aleksandr shook his head. ‘It was the same as before.’

‘And were you planning to go to the Crimea?’

‘Of course. Anyone could have known that. Anyone could have guessed.’

‘You don’t think there’s an informant amongst your staff?’ asked Aleksei.

‘There’s no need for one.’ It was an interesting answer, which Maks would have appreciated; not reasoning against the conclusion, but against the thought process which arrived at it.

‘What do you know of Bakhchisaray?’

‘Very little, until today. I’ve not sat idly since I received that letter.’ He reached to his desk for a book, where he had marked a page. He summarized, rather than reading.

‘It’s in the south of the peninsula, between Sevastopol and Simferopol, on the Churuk Su river. It was the capital of the Crimean Khanate, ruled by the Tatars. We took it over in 1783.’

‘Has the Romanov Betrayal got anything to do with the Tatars?’

‘No,’ said the tsar. ‘I can assure you of that much. Do you know of the town?’

‘Pushkin has written a poem about it,’ said Aleksei.

‘Has he? His name did not appear on your little list, I noticed.’ Now that Aleksandr had unburdened himself, his manner was once again sharp and precise.

‘No,’ said Aleksei. If the name had been there, Aleksei would have removed it too. ‘Will you go?’ he asked.

‘I have to.’

‘Because of the Romanov Betrayal?’

Aleksandr nodded.

The two men sat in silence. Aleksei considered what the tsar had told him, and what he hadn’t. There was far more of the latter than the former, but he could think of no avenues of enquiry which the tsar had not already closed off to him. Eventually he realized the question the tsar wanted him to ask.

‘What do you want me to do, Your Majesty?’

‘Come with me,’ said the tsar.

‘To Bakhchisaray?’

‘And beyond.’

Aleksei read the second letter again. It took only moments. ‘He says you’ll know what to do once you’re there. Do you know now?’

Aleksandr shook his head. ‘Perhaps I’ll see something.’

‘Perhaps he’ll intercept you before you even get there.’

The tsar leaned forward with sudden animation. ‘Exactly. I mean… not necessarily that, but that’s the kind of thinking I need. You can think like Cain, outwit him.’ Cain fears you, Kyesha had said. ‘You can protect me.’

There was nothing for Aleksei to consider. ‘When do we depart?’ he asked.

‘Tomorrow,’ replied the tsar.

‘Utterly incredible.’

Wylie was waiting as Aleksei stepped out of the tsar’s study. Aleksei glanced around the anteroom, but saw that they were alone.

‘Incredible?’ Aleksei replied. ‘So you don’t believe it?’

‘I wouldn’t have done – had it not been for what you showed me.’

‘Even so…’

‘Don’t argue against your own case, Colonel Danilov,’ said Wylie. ‘That strange leather was enough to convince you of the book’s veracity.’

Aleksei hesitated. Neither Wylie’s premise nor his conclusion was true. Aleksei knew little of the validity of the notebook’s contents, since he had made so little headway in them. But whatever the book revealed, he had seen far more evidence of the existence of living vampires than a mere trick with a self-repairing bookbinding. He chose to focus on the former point rather than the latter.

‘You forget, Doctor, the reason I gave you the book,’ he said. ‘I cannot read your language.’

Wylie smiled. ‘Then I shall have the pleasure of witnessing your astonishment as I translate it for you.’

‘You’ve read it all?’

‘Not in detail, but the sections I have studied already are quite fascinating.’ Wylie suddenly straightened his posture and spoke more loudly. ‘I trust you will be joining us on our travels to the Crimea, Colonel.’

It was a tone of voice that Aleksei had heard before, on the lips of many an amateur spy. He did not need to look round to know that someone else had entered the room.

‘I certainly shall be,’ he said, his demeanour unchanged. He saw a fleeting look of concern cross Wylie’s face, revealing the suspicion that he had not cottoned on to what was happening, but Aleksei was simply playing the game better. ‘I hope we’ll have time to speak more as we travel.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Wylie.

Aleksei gave him a brief nod of goodbye and turned to leave. ‘Prince Volkonsky,’ he said, as an acknowledgement of the new entrant to the room, whose face he could now see.

‘Danilov,’ came the reply, but beyond that, Volkonsky was too interested in talking to Wylie to say any more.

Aleksei made a quiet exit and headed for his lodgings. It was only a few minutes’ walk through the dark streets of Taganrog, and he scarcely thought about where he was going. He felt a sense of excitement, with which he was familiar, but which he would never have associated with the prospect of learning the contents of a mere book. It was akin to the feeling he got every time he approached Moscow after weeks or months of absence – the anticipation of knowing Domnikiia’s body once again. He would not mention the comparison to her. Anyway, it would be a long time before he saw her again. He would be learning the contents of Cain’s book well before that.

‘What have you discovered, Aleksei Ivanovich?’

Kyesha learned quickly. That evening, he approached Aleksei from downwind. The first Aleksei knew of his presence was a voice, whispering in the darkness just before he arrived at his rooms. He started and then turned. Kyesha’s face was close. Aleksei wondered how he could have missed that unmistakable smell in the past. He had known for some time what his first question to Kyesha would be.

‘What do you know of the Romanov Betrayal?’ he asked.

‘Only a little more than I care.’

‘Don’t piss me around,’ said Aleksei.

‘I’ve heard Cain use the phrase occasionally. I never understood it.’

‘Is Cain his real name?’

In the darkness, Aleksei saw Kyesha shrug in a disturbingly human manner.

‘Is he even English?’

‘He could be. I don’t have an ear for the accent. His French and Russian are both near perfect.’

‘I’ve seen a letter from him,’ said Aleksei. He would make no mention of the letter’s recipient. He doubted if Kyesha would be interested. Aleksei’s concern might be the safety of the tsar, but Kyesha’s only interest was in vengeance against Cain.

‘And?’

‘What do you know about Bakhchisaray?’

‘He mentions it in the letter?’ asked Kyesha.

Aleksei nodded.

‘And you’re going there?’

‘That’s the plan.’

‘From there, he’ll take you to Chufut Kalye,’ said Kyesha.

‘“Take” us?’

‘He’ll find a way.’

‘And what is Chufut Kalye?’

Kyesha said nothing. He was looking over Aleksei’s shoulder. A man was walking past on the other side of the road – a serf by the looks of him. As he turned back, Aleksei felt sure he glimpsed Kyesha licking his lips.

He grabbed Kyesha by the arm. ‘We can’t talk here,’ he said, leading the voordalak down the street. When the serf was out of sight, Aleksei repeated his question. ‘What’s Chufut Kalye?’

‘Did you ever hear of a sect of Jews known as the Karaites?’ Kyesha asked.

Aleksei had heard the name, but little more. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘Some of them claim they’re one of the lost tribes of Israel, others that they’re descended from Khazars, but it’s all really just to shake off the blame for murdering Christ.’

‘I’m not really interested in the theology,’ said Aleksei, though it surprised him that Kyesha should be.

‘Well, they used to be all over the Crimea. There are fewer now. Chufut Kalye was their citadel. It’s an old fortress – partly built, partly burrowed. There’s a handful of them still live there.’

‘How far is it from Bakhchisaray?’

‘A few versts. It’s a bit of a climb.’

‘And what will happen when we get there?’ asked Aleksei.

‘I’m not a fortune teller.’

‘You must have some idea.’

Kyesha stopped walking and turned to Aleksei. ‘Do you really want me to tell you what I think’s going to happen?’

‘Tell me.’

‘It’s very simple,’ Kyesha informed him. ‘You will kill Richard Cain.’

Aleksandr heard the coachman call to his horses, and the carriage began to rattle along the road. He leaned out of the coach window and looked back. Volkonsky stood there, watching his departure. Aleksandr was sorry to leave him behind, but he was concerned for the tsaritsa, and though she had her doctors with her, she needed a man of sterner temperament to make sure she did nothing to risk her health. The tsaritsa herself had not felt well enough to come out and say farewell, but she had watched from a window.

Though he might miss Volkonsky, Aleksandr still had with him sufficient aides. Baron Diebich sat opposite him in his carriage. Somewhere else in the train, a few coaches behind, was Colonel Salomka. And, of course, he had his own doctors with him; Wylie and Tarasov were back there somewhere too.

The excursion was planned to last just seventeen days. The original idea had been for longer, but Yelizaveta had insisted he should not be away for so many weeks. It was certainly important for them to get back to Taganrog before the weather really turned on its path towards winter.

In the end, what did it matter if he planned to be away for seventeen days or seventeen years? On the tenth day they would arrive at Bakhchisaray. He did not know if he would ever leave.

He looked further down the short line of carriages and wagons that accompanied him. Behind them, a few of the party rode on horseback. It was difficult to pick out individual figures, but one was clear.

Aleksandr sat back down inside the carriage. He knew that he must face what was ahead of him, but he also knew that, in Aleksei Ivanovich Danilov, he had an ally.

R zbunarea weighed anchor. Its course was back, west, along the northern coast of the Sea of Azov, but keeping well away from the shore. It was not even certain that there was any need to track Aleksandr Pavlovich; what had to be done might just as well be achieved at a distance. But on the other hand, proximity would lead to flexibility. There was still much that could go wrong, despite the assurances he had been given.

They would sail to Sevastopol, or thereabouts. The royal party was travelling by land, and so their paths would diverge even before R zbunarea left the Sea of Azov. It was a pity that Bakhchisaray wasn’t closer to the coast, but otherwise it was a well-chosen location. The cargo could not, of course, be carried through so populous a city as Sevastopol, but a slight diversion to an appropriate, secluded cove would make it easy to take on board.

There had been rumours – rumours which had crossed Europe, though no human would have noticed – about what else was going on in Bakhchisaray, but they were of little concern to the passenger of R zbunarea. When this was all over, perhaps he would take revenge on behalf of his entire race, but for now he had more pressing needs.

And even before the ship took on its cargo, there was one essential task that its passenger had to perform. It would take concentration and fortitude, and for that he would require rest, even though there were still days to prepare. Rest now would make him ready.

He lay back and listened to the creaking of the ship around him. It was pleasant to be surrounded by wood, but the wooden hull was not so comforting as the tighter wooden walls that now entombed him as he rested. He reached out and pulled the lid over him, sensing it above him, inches from his face. Now all was dark. He slept.

CHAPTER XVII

‘LORD JESUS CHRIST, HAVE MERCY UPON ME, A SINNER.’

Their two voices spoke in unison, but the starets kept his low, allowing the kneeling tsaritsa to dominate as they spoke the Prayer of the Heart.

‘Why have you come here?’ he asked.

The tsaritsa looked up, and the starets could see fear in her eyes.

‘It’s my husband,’ she said.

‘Has he been unfaithful?’

‘No.’ The starets raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes,’ the tsaritsa acknowledged, ‘but not recently, and that’s not what I’m concerned about.’

‘Then what is your concern?’

‘Father,’ she moaned, ‘I’m afraid for his soul!’

‘We should all fear for our souls,’ he said softly, ‘but prayer will be our salvation.’

‘There are some acts that are beyond salvation.’

The starets paused, wondering what the tsaritsa could know of her husband. ‘Acts?’ he asked.

‘Acts which cannot be repented.’

He spoke the word that she seemed afraid to utter. ‘Suicide?’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’ Her response was scarcely voiced, but in the stone-walled cell of the monastery, it filled the air.

‘Why do you think he contemplates that?’ The starets deliberately avoided repetition of the term she had been so keen to leave unuttered.

‘He talks as though he anticipates his own death.’

‘That does not mean death will come by his own hand.’

‘But if not, how can he know?’

‘His anticipation may not be correct.’ He wondered whether such words would be comforting. It was not reason that drove the woman’s grief. But she seemed to understand.

‘He believes it to be. And he accepts it.’

‘We must all accept death eventually,’ said the starets.

‘And embrace it?’

‘Are you sure you’re not seeing things in him that are not really there?’

‘How can I know?’ Her voice was despairing.

‘We must pray for you.’

‘And for him.’

‘For both of you.’ The starets placed his hands on the tsaritsa’s head and muttered a prayer in Old Slavonic that she was unlikely to understand. Then she stood.

‘May I come to you again?’ she asked.

‘Perhaps it is better if I come to you.’

She nodded meekly. ‘When?’

The starets searched for the most reassuring answer. ‘When the Lord’s work needs doing,’ he said. It seemed to satisfy her.

Aleksei had not appreciated how tiresome a royal tour could be. Much of the landscape they passed through had been of enormous beauty, and the towns and cities so different from what anyone from the north of the country was used to, that he would truly have enjoyed the journey if he had been able to travel at his own pace. But the place of a tsar, it seemed, was not with his land but with his people. Everywhere they stopped he would spend time in conversation with local dignitaries or merchants, as if his authority as tsar somehow rested on their approval. Perhaps he was more sympathetic to the democratic ideas of the Northern Society than he claimed. He had certainly held some truck with them in his youth. Aleksei could have wandered off on his own, and was tempted to, secure in the knowledge that there would be no danger until Bakhchisaray. But that was an obvious ploy; an invitation to a location could easily be a trap that would be sprung en route there. Kyesha had thought that the ultimate destination was in fact beyond Bakhchisaray, but there was no benefit to be drawn in relying on that. Aleksei was never close beside the tsar, but was never beyond his summoning.

They had stopped before they had ever really got going at Mariupol, a little way down the coast from Taganrog, and Aleksandr had talked to a group of Mennonites – Germanic, protestant pacifists; hardly representatives of the Russian outlook on life. After that they had visited Berdyansk, and the tsar was once again welcomed by the local populace.

At last they passed along the narrow isthmus at Perekop and entered the Crimean Peninsula itself. From a military perspective, it was a frightening terrain. The isthmus was perhaps only eight versts across at its narrowest, and the land beyond was flat and without cover. It felt like they were riding into a trap. But Aleksei knew the trap would not be sprung here. A narrow strip of land such as Perekop would be ideal to contain an army, but a single man, be he a peasant or a tsar, would need closer attention.

From there they went on to Simferopol, where the first signs of a magnificent landscape began to appear. Many Russians, certainly those from Moscow or Petersburg, could pass their whole life without ever seeing a mountain. To the east, the Urals were too far from civilization to attract much interest. Aleksei had heard that the Caucasus mountains were impressive, but he had never seen them. He was luckier than most of his countrymen to have travelled west on the march towards Paris and to have seen the Alps, though only looking up from their foothills, and before that the Carpathians, when fighting on the Danube. But it had all been many years ago, and Aleksei had become used to the vast, flat steppe of his homeland. Much of the Crimea was the same, but suddenly now the mountains rose out of it, and as the tsar’s party carried on further south, they rose even higher.

As the roads became steeper, Aleksandr chose to travel on horseback rather than by carriage. In view of the terrain, it was a sensible move, but it did nothing to assist his personal safety. And when the tsar travelled by horse, so must the rest of his entourage. Their guides led them through a broad pass in a range of peaks that stretched out unendingly to the east and west, and at last the Black Sea lay before them. Plunging down towards it, the mountains were at their steepest, at some places descending as cliffs directly into the water, at others leaving a narrow strip of level ground between themselves and the waves. At each such point, human habitation was in evidence.

One of these locations was their next stop, Gurzuf, not far from Yalta, where Aleksei suspected from the cleanliness of the town and the self-satisfaction of the local governor, Count Vorontsov, that the latter had recently made a supreme effort to achieve the former, or had instructed others to.

There they also met a man who had at once aroused Aleksei’s suspicion: Count Vorontsov’s personal physician – an Englishman by the name of Robert Lee. It was unfair to suspect every Englishman on the peninsula, but it would be foolish to ignore the link. Dr Lee was first introduced to the tsar by way of the demonstration of a miraculous new cure for swamp fever – which was prevalent in the area – administered to a local tatar chief. The results were effective and almost instantaneous, and Lee was invited to dine with the royal party.

Dr Lee revealed that the principal ingredient of his tonic was a substance he called ‘sulphate of quinine’, which was extracted from a South American tree known as the cinchona. Both Wylie and Tarasov were fascinated to learn more of this; it appeared that their isolation in Russia had prevented them from keeping up to speed with medical progress in the West. Aleksei was also intrigued. ‘Quinine’ had been a term that occurred more than once in Cain’s notes, though through lack of familiarity with the word, he had not been able to translate those sections. He glanced over at Wylie, but the doctor showed no reaction.

The conversation then moved on to the subject of homeopathy – not a word that Aleksei recalled seeing in Cain’s book. Much of the detail was lost on Aleksei, but it appeared that Wylie was a proponent of the concept, while Lee was not. However, it was Count Vorontsov, rather than his physician, who seemed to pursue the issue with the greater passion.

‘Like cures like,’ insisted Wylie. This apparently had been the claim of homeopathy’s inventor, a German called Hahnemann.

‘So if I were to stab you through the heart,’ asked the count, ‘bringing about your death, would a second stab wound restore you to life?’

Before Wylie could respond, Colonel Salomka had interjected. ‘There is a peasant myth in these parts concerning a creature called an oopir.’ He had chortled as he spoke, but Aleksei had instantly paid attention. He glanced again at Wylie, but still saw no response. There was no reason the Scot should be familiar with the local term. ‘As with many of these creatures,’ continued Salomka, ‘the oopir must be killed by stabbing through the heart with a stake of hawthorn. But here’s the thing’ – he sniggered again – ‘you mustn’t stab it a second time, or it will come back to life. Maybe that’s where Herr Hahnemann got his ideas from.’

Most around the table laughed. The tsar did not, perhaps out of respect for the views of Wylie. Nor did Wylie himself. That might have been out of pique at being mocked, but Aleksei noticed that this time it was Wylie’s eyes that were on him, looking for a reaction.

A moment later, Wylie resumed the defence of his pet subject. ‘That’s why Dr Hahnemann promulgates the use of only the most dilute quantities of his medicines,’ he said.

‘So more of a scratch than a stab?’ suggested Salomka.

‘As an analogy, yes,’ said Wylie, choosing simply to ignore the attempts at humour from around the table.

‘But what about the diseases we get around here?’ asked Vorontsov. ‘Inflammation of the brain? Or the bowel? Or fever? Would one thousandth of a grain of that sulphate of quinine Dr Lee showed us working today have done the trick, eh? What do you think, Lee?’

‘In my experience, a large dose will always arrest the fevers almost instantaneously,’ replied the doctor calmly. ‘I have tried with smaller doses, as have others, and the results are ineffectual.’

Aleksei said little. His instinctive view on homeopathy was to note that doctors charged their patients by the hour, but paid for their medicines by the grain. But he was prepared to listen to the two experts. As an individual, he trusted Wylie more, but Lee appeared to be the more rigorous scientist. Again, that had echoes of Cain. Could they be one and the same man?

At one point, Dr Tarasov posed a somewhat less controversial question. ‘Doesn’t the term “homeopathic” originally relate to a form of black magic?’

‘It still does,’ muttered Lee, but before Wylie could rise to his bait, Vorontsov answered the question more fully.

‘It does indeed. Traditionally there are three types of magic: homeopathic, sympathetic and contagious.’ He glanced at the surprised expressions around the table and chose to explain himself. ‘All nonsense, of course, but some of the Tatars still believe it, so it’s worth understanding.’

‘And what’s the distinction?’ asked Tarasov.

‘Homeopathic is imitation. The tribe want to catch a deer, so they put on a sort of play in which they catch a deer – the creature itself is played by one of their own. The next day, if the magic works, life imitates art and all eat heartily. Sympathetic is similar, but the object of the magic is represented by some kind of doll or effigy. You stab the doll, and the person it represents falls ill.’

‘And contagious?’ It was the tsar who asked.

‘Contagious magic is where you take something from the victim’s body – hair or nail clippings often – and through them, the witch can control the person from which they came.’

‘So watch out next time you go to the barber,’ said Lee.

‘Often a severed body-part may be used,’ continued Vorontsov, ‘a finger or a toe.’

Aleksei’s thumb ran over the stumps on his left hand. There had been no magic, but Kyesha had used the remains of his severed fingers to control him, to bring him down here as an agent of revenge. Lost in his own thoughts, he scarcely listened to the rest of the count’s explanation, his ears only pricking when he heard the final word.

‘Or it can be a bodily fluid, such as semen – or, very often, blood.’

After the cigars had been handed out, Aleksei managed to isolate Lee and sound him out.

‘You argue your points well,’ he said as an opener. ‘I can imagine you speaking in front of the Royal Society.’ It was taking a chance to speak so glibly about an organization of which he knew little.

‘Well, thank you, Colonel,’ replied the doctor. ‘Sadly, I have not yet had the honour of speaking there, but when I return to London, I hope to make my mark.’

‘You’ll be acquainted with a compatriot of yours who’s also been working in these parts. A gentleman by the name of Cain – a fellow of the Society, I believe.’

‘Richard Cain is here – in the Crimea?’ exclaimed Lee. Both Dr Wylie and the tsar looked over towards them, presumably not just at the raised voice.

‘So I believe. You know him?’

‘I’ve read his work – a brilliant man. Perhaps a little too enthusiastic as a vivisectionist, but sometimes there are prices that must be paid.’

Count Vorontsov joined them, and the conversation moved on. Aleksei’s best guess was that Lee was what he seemed to be. For a start, he could see no motivation in one man leading a double life as both Cain and Lee. Russia was not short of British émigrés, particularly doctors, as Wylie exemplified. But if Lee was to be trusted, then it meant that Cain was a real person; an Englishman, a scientist and Fellow of the Royal Society. On the other hand, it might just be a case of stolen identity; some imposter writing the name in the notebook and using it to sign the letters in the safe assumption that the real Richard L. Cain was never likely to set foot across the English Channel.

‘An interesting correlation with the notebook, don’t you think, Colonel?’ It was Wylie who spoke to him. Vorontsov and Lee were now talking to Diebich.

‘The quinine you mean?’ asked Aleksei.

‘That too, but I was referring to the story of the oopir.’ Aleksei looked at him quizzically. ‘Utter nonsense that a second stabbing would resurrect it, I’m sure you’ll agree,’ continued Wylie.

‘I would assume so,’ said Aleksei. He could not recall ever having stabbed a voordalak twice, though on one occasion he had attacked with so jagged a piece of wood that it was impossible to say how many times the creature’s heart had been pierced.

‘I know so,’ said Wylie, interrupting his thoughts.

‘How?’ asked Aleksei, making no attempt to disguise his astonishment.

‘It’s in Cain’s book,’ said the doctor grimly. ‘Cain heard that story and decided to investigate it. He repeated the experiment on three separate occasions. Without exception, the creatures remained dead.’

It struck Aleksei for the first time what a profoundly useful thing Cain’s notebook might prove to be. So many times he had relied on folklore, on his grandmother’s dark tales of fabulous beasts, to inform him of how he might deal with these creatures. Cain turned superstition into science, and with it brought certainty. Aleksei realized he had been wooed by Kyesha, who by his very nature must take the side of his kin. But in the ultimate analysis, was Cain doing good or ill? As with all learning, it was not the knowledge itself that could be classified as good or evil, but how it was utilized.

Now was the first real chance that Aleksei had had to discuss the notebook with Wylie. There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask. The one he started with was of a very general nature. ‘You’ve read it all now?’

‘I have,’ replied Wylie. ‘And with every word I have become more and more astounded. If you hadn’t shown me the effect of light on the creature’s skin – I can only assume that is what the binding is made from – I would have taken the whole thing as some perverted joke. The words on the cover are almost a warning – tattooed, I believe, by the way.’

‘Tattooed?’

‘On to the living skin of the vampire before it was flayed.’

Aleksei felt his stomach tighten. ‘My God!’ he muttered.

‘This Richard Cain is a strange man indeed.’

‘I suspected briefly that he and Dr Lee might be one and the same; both English, both scientists.’

‘It’s not that bloody difficult for you people, is it?’ said Wylie, with a mocking snarl.

‘What?’

‘Robert Lee is not English. He’s as Scottish as I am.’

After that the party travelled on to Baidar and then Sevastopol. In Aleksei’s opinion, the tsar overworked himself, visiting fortresses, hospitals and dockyards and even inspecting the Black Sea Fleet. On the other hand, they were closing in on Bakhchisaray – filling his day would make the time go faster, or at least not allow his mind time to dwell on what was to come. Close to Balaklava, he rode out ten versts on horseback to pray at the monastery of Saint George. Aleksei was reminded of the statue back in Petersburg, of Aleksandr’s great-great-grandfather, Pyotr, styled – as Aleksei saw it – after Saint George. Perhaps those associations Aleksei had made with the symbol of the serpent beneath his feet were beginning to come true. The tsar could know nothing of those connections, but somehow he instinctively took comfort from that famous, dragon-slaying saint.

‘And before you even think about it,’ Dr Wylie had said to him after Colonel Salomka had mentioned the monastery to which the tsar was riding, ‘my country’s patron saint is Saint Andrew. Saint George is the saint of the English.’

Aleksei had smiled, but he hadn’t known either country’s saint. Cain was English, and was – in his own, very modern way – fighting the monsters that threatened humanity. Probably a coincidence, but again Aleksei wondered whose side he would take when, and if, he finally met Richard Cain.

The following day, after more exhausting engagements, the tsar decided once again to travel by carriage, where he slept on the final leg of his journey to Bakhchisaray. They arrived late in the afternoon. Even at that hour, Aleksandr continued to do his duty. He visited the ancient palace of the Crimean Khanate, the baths and, finally, the mosque. The mufti led a service of prayers for the tsar’s long life, which Aleksandr himself attended, politically standing behind a screen so that he would not be seen supporting a religion other than that of his nation.

When they left the mosque, darkness was drawing in. Here they were at last in Bakhchisaray, and the time of the voordalak was at hand. Aleksei would have to be wary. Fortunately, the tsar returned directly to his lodgings and went to his room. Wylie reported that His Majesty was feeling a little unwell, but it was only to be expected after the exertions of the past few days.

Aleksei asked one of the locals in the tavern where they were staying about Chufut Kalye. He didn’t say much, but pointed along the road to the east. They were just on the foothills of the mountains that guarded the peninsula’s southern coast, but already the steep limestone cliffs formed a twisting canyon along which it was impossible to see very far, certainly not to the citadel that Kyesha had foretold they would visit.

But the dying rays of the sun did highlight something in the rocks much closer to Bakhchisaray, overlooking the palace itself. It was a natural formation, created by centuries of rain and wind, but Aleksei could not help but see a human face looking over where the tsar slept – a giant skull formed of stone.

Aleksei’s thoughts turned once again to Golgotha.

It was an uncomfortable and unaccustomed sensation. The dark figure, wrapped in an overcoat against the cold wind, stood on the very prow of R zbunarea and, though his eyes were tight shut, stared out across the water and over the land.

Usually, there was some sense of response; just as when an officer commanded a foot soldier, he would hear the occasional ‘Yes, sir!’, so it was normal to sense some response from the mind into which his will was being applied. It was not necessary to feel that response, any more than it was necessary for the officer to hear the soldier – he knew full well, in a disciplined army, that the orders would be obeyed – but even so, it gave comfort.

But with this half-breed there was nothing. Tonight, he was… Beethoven. He smiled at the analogy. What he had to achieve was akin to playing the piano whilst being deaf to the sound produced when his fingers pressed the keys – worse than that, he could not even feel the keys with his fingertips. And yet he knew what to do with his fingers. The movements were practised, repeated a thousand times before. He had no need to feel the keys or hear the resonance of the strings to know that what his will had directed would come to pass. The officer had no need to look through his spyglass and observe the hundreds that lay dead as the consequence of his command.

Confirmation would come, but it would not be immediate. Beethoven could turn and see, if not hear, the applause of the crowd. His own ovation would come in the form of a cart, with a single, oblong packing case as its load, racing down from the mountains and across the steppe to where R zbunarea waited.

He formed his entire will around two simple words:

Chufut Kalye

Aleksandr awoke with a desperate intake of breath. His bed felt steady beneath him. He had been on a boat, but he was on dry land again now. There had been a conversation, but it had been one-sided. Aleksandr had heard the man clearly, but whenever he replied, his words had fallen on deaf ears.

It had been a dream. It had taken Aleksandr a few moments of wakefulness to realize that, but now it was clear. And as that clarity descended, so the details of the dream faded. He had been standing on the deck of a ship – or perhaps not even on it. Beneath his feet he had seen the waves lapping against the hull of the vessel. He had been level with the deck, but floating out above the sea.

He had instantly recognized the tall figure with its full eyebrows and thick moustache, contrasting with a smooth, domed forehead much like Aleksandr’s own. And yet though he knew the man, he could not place him. Perhaps it was a family friend who had visited often in Aleksandr’s childhood, but whom he had not seen for many years.

The man had been telling him to go somewhere. He had spoken it very clearly, but now Aleksandr had forgotten. He remembered repeatedly saying, ‘Yes,’ or ‘I understand,’ or ‘I will,’ but still the demand was repeated. Aleksandr had been willing to go there, eager to go there, but however much he had insisted, he had not been heard. Now he was still eager to make that journey, but he could not recall where.

The dream had ended, as dreams often do – Aleksandr’s dreams, anyway – with him falling. Whatever force of will it was that had suspended him above the waves was suddenly broken, and his stomach had flown upwards as his body descended. He had reached out and grabbed the wooden rail of the boat, clinging on to it for a few vital moments as the sea spray dashed against his feet. The man to whom he had been speaking did not act to save him. His own hand was inches from Aleksandr’s, steadying him against the rocking of the boat, but he did not move a single muscle to aid the tsar.

Then Aleksandr’s fingers had begun to slip and he had fallen backwards, his arms flailing, into the waters beneath him. In his last seconds, he had had the strangest, most incongruous perception. As he had fallen ever downwards towards a watery oblivion he had been pursued; pursued by a dragon – a golden dragon, with eyes of deepest emerald, and a protruding, forked, red tongue that flickered at Aleksandr as the waves consumed him.

Then he had awoken, and the one aspect of the dream he knew with terrible certainty he had to remember eluded him. He stared into the darkness for an unmeasured period of time, and realized that sleep would be his salvation. Sleep would recover the memory and abate the terror.

And so it did, but sleep took many hours to come.

A rush of air awoke Aleksei. He hadn’t intended to sleep, but it was inescapable. Before he could even open his eyes, he was further roused by a shout.

‘Diebich!’

The tsar was in his nightclothes, turning his head around like a strutting cockerel in search of his chief of staff. He seemed not even to notice Aleksei, sprawled uncomfortably in the chair.

‘Diebich!’ he bellowed again.

The baron emerged from his room across the hall. He was pulling on his tunic, but still wearing – and displaying – his longjohns. Evidently, the first call had inspired him to dress before meeting his master, the second had convinced him not to.

‘Diebich, we shall be visiting Chufut Kalye today,’ said Aleksandr.

‘Chufut Kalye, Your Majesty?’

‘Yes. You know where it is.’

‘Certainly,’ said Diebich, becoming more alert.

‘Arrange it then.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ then, ‘Why, Your Majesty?’

‘Why?’ asked Aleksandr, with an indignation which Aleksei perceived as affected, but perhaps Diebich did not. ‘Because I am your tsar.’

Aleksandr turned back to his room and noticed Aleksei for the first time. It was unspoken, but the same question – ‘Why?’ – was on Aleksei’s mind too. Aleksandr must have guessed, for he averted his eyes and hurried on into his room.

They left Bakhchisaray on horseback, under the gaze of the great stone skull. The route was flat for the first few versts as it headed out of town, but then the path began to steepen. The road – if it could be called such – hugged the hillside on its right, with the valley sloping away to the left. Beyond that, on the other side of the valley, another precipice rose, equally unassailable. While the land remained relatively flat, gypsy encampments were scattered, displaying horrendous poverty. Aleksei wondered whether the tsar might stop to learn more about them, but he seemed too intent on his goal even to glance to one side. Most of the remainder of the party were pleased to bypass such squalor and head onward into the narrowing gorge.

Aleksei kept his neck craned upwards, searching the tops of the hills that overshadowed them. Though steep, they were still largely wooded until close to the very top, where they became craggy and vertical. There, little plant life could take root. There were plenty of caves in view, but none seemed inhabited. The soldier in Aleksei felt fearful of the whole terrain. They were trapped on either side, with no open ground behind them for more than a verst and perhaps worse in front. For anyone looking down on them they were easy targets.

Suddenly, Colonel Salomka shouted and pointed over to the left, to the tops of the cliffs on the other side of the valley. There, through the trees, they caught their first glimpse of the citadel. It was still distant, but the straight edges of manmade structures could be seen to merge with nature’s more graceful curves. They continued up the slope and the trees began to thin, affording them ever better views of their objective.

As they came to the head of the valley, the path turned across it, almost doubling back on itself, and they found themselves at the foot of the final slope leading up to Chufut Kalye. The soil was too thin now, it seemed, for trees, and coarse grass covered the ground up to the cliffs, interspersed with a few bushes. Here they were forced to dismount to make the rest of the way on foot. The entrance was a natural gap in the cliff, which had then been reinforced – effectively replacing the cliff – by a stone wall, in which only a small doorway allowed access. As far as Aleksei could see on either side, there was no other breach in the cliffside. If the heavy door was closed, then no creature without wings could reach the plateau beyond.

Through the doorway, a short path took them above the level of the wall and into the city itself. All were surprised by the degree of civilization. The Karaites who lived there were comfortable and well organized – a contrast to the gypsies they had passed below. The people – or at least the men; the women appeared bound to stay indoors – greeted the tsar with curiosity and some affection. Their customs might be strange, but Aleksei could see no immediate threat to Aleksandr. He certainly felt more comfortable than he had in the valley below. The greatest reason for this was that it was the middle of the day. The citadel was the highest point for miles around – nothing cast a shadow on it. And so, whatever it was that might make some move against the tsar, it would be of this world.

The Karaite chief took tea with Aleksandr and then introduced him to his wives and children. The women were all beautiful, but Aleksei was disturbed by how pale they looked – almost bloodless. Was it some Jewish law that kept the women indoors, or was there a greater need to protect them from the sun? A city of human men and vampire wives? It seemed impossible. Aleksei sniffed the air. He noticed nothing of that smell that he had learned to recognize in Kyesha, and which he hoped would be shared by any like him.

The tsar was further impressed by the school which he was shown. He was told that all the children in the city attended. He commented on his wish that every child in Russia could go to school, but Aleksei remembered that the tsar had been making wishes like that ever since he had come to power. Nothing had come of them.

The citadel itself was partly built from stone blocks, but also constructed from existing caves, which had been further carved into shape by the hand of man. There could be little said against them, except perhaps that high on the hilltop and with the windows unglazed, the draughts might be discomforting. The tsar was informed that the earliest occupation, in natural caves with little human modification, dated back over two millennia. Those parts of the city were mostly unoccupied now, but Aleksandr expressed an interest in seeing them, and so some of the party – Aleksei, Wylie, Salomka and a couple of locals to act as guides – accompanied him as he left the populated heart of the city to view its wilder environs.

They soon reached the other side of the plateau, and Aleksei gazed down into a gorge even less hospitable than the one through which they had ascended. Again there was a steep cliff, perhaps three or four times his own height, dropping away beneath his feet before transforming abruptly into a slope of at least forty-five degrees. There were fewer trees than on the other side, and Aleksei could see no pathways. Across the valley, broader than the one they had come through, a similar slope led up to a similar plateau – though Aleksei could see fewer signs of caves. Far to the west he could just make out a collection of houses. He could not quite get his bearings, but it was not Bakhchisaray, or at least not the part they had come from. An outlying farm, perhaps.

The area they had come to was rocky, and the caves represented an earlier stage in the development of their inhabitants. Some still showed the neat edges that indicated human modification, but many appeared entirely as God had created them, with His usual disdain for anything so mundane as a straight line. Though they may not have been built by men, they had certainly been inhabited by them. The party went a little way down into one of them and discovered the walls covered with scratched writing and drawings. The local who went with them said that these went back to the Middle Ages, and Aleksei saw no reason to doubt it. Beyond, the tunnel continued onwards into darkness. No one was tempted to go too far in and so they returned to the surface.

‘We should go soon, Your Majesty,’ said Colonel Salomka.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Aleksandr. ‘Just one last look at the view.’

Aleksei went over to Dr Wylie as the tsar took a few paces towards the steep valley slope. There had been no danger so far – nothing of any note at all – and yet he would be glad when they were back down from this ancient place. Even if they left now, they would not be back in safety for a few more hours, and Aleksei could not help but remember Kyesha’s certainty that it would be here that something happened.

‘A reminder of home,’ said Wylie.

Aleksei looked away from the tsar to see what the doctor was referring to. He had plucked out the dried, dead stem of a thistle that had grown amongst the grasses and shrubs that managed to find sustenance on the rocky terrain.

‘A sorry specimen,’ continued the doctor, ‘but it’s pleasant to see Scotland’s flower thriving so far from home.’

‘This place must be even more impressive in spring,’ commented Aleksei.

‘Indeed,’ replied Wylie, but he evidently had something else on his mind. ‘You know, it occurs to me that we’re making something of an assumption that your man Cain is English. He’s an English speaker, for sure, but he could be Scottish, Irish – even American.’

‘Can’t you tell from the name itself?’

‘Not really, though I’m no expert. Even if we could trace-’

‘Your Majesty!’ The shout came from Colonel Salomka. He repeated it seconds later. ‘Your Majesty!’

Aleksei and Wylie looked around, but there was no sign of the tsar anywhere near where he had been standing moments before. They rushed over to the spot and looked down towards the valley floor, but there was nothing to be seen. It would have been impossible for them to miss him in that vast, smooth expanse if he had fallen, or even if anyone had taken him. And yet there was nowhere else for him to have gone. He could not possibly have walked or been taken back across the hilltop without one of them noticing, unless with the assistance of some magical invisibility. Aleksei doubted it. A more realistic possibility had occurred to him.

He lay flat on his stomach and pulled his body forwards, to lean out over the cliff top as far as he dared. He quickly saw what he was looking for. The smooth, vertical limestone was pockmarked with the mouths of caves – dozens of them along its length. There were three or four that Aleksei could almost reach out and touch.

In a moment he was up on his feet, looking around him. Just to the right of where he stood – of where the tsar had been standing – lay a cleft in the rock just wide enough for him to climb down a little way. It was precarious, but he was soon out on the very face of the cliff. A narrow ridge ran horizontally, allowing access to any one of the nearby cave mouths. The tsar could have been dragged into any one of them.

‘He’s in the caves,’ shouted Aleksei up to the two men on the precipice above him.

‘What?’ asked Salomka.

‘Just get help,’ said Wylie. ‘We need a search party.’

Salomka ran off in the direction of the city.

‘We’ve no time,’ said Aleksei, eyeing the cave entrances and wondering which to choose. Then a thought occurred to him; a ridiculous long-shot, but the only chance they had. ‘Wylie,’ he shouted. ‘Do you have the book with you? Cain’s notebook.’

‘I do indeed; it’s in here,’ replied the doctor, indicating the knapsack he carried over his shoulder.

‘Get it out. Expose it to the light.’

‘What? Why?’ Even as he questioned Aleksei’s instructions, he carried them out, unshouldering the bag and bringing out the book, still wrapped in the paper that bore Aleksei’s initials.

‘Do it,’ said Aleksei. ‘Now.’

The doctor opened up the paper, and Aleksei saw smoke rising from the book. He couldn’t smell the foul odour of decay, but he saw Wylie blench at it.

And there was something else.

As the skin began to blister and burn under the rays of the sun, a distant, tortured scream echoed from one of the cave mouths in the cliffside, just to Aleksei’s right. There was a broken exhaustion to the sound, and yet it was still powerful enough to carry from deep within the caves. Wylie clearly heard it too.

‘Cover it,’ shouted Aleksei.

Wylie did so, and the scream died away almost instantly. They waited a few moments.

‘And again,’ said Aleksei. Wylie revealed the book’s cover to the sun once more, and the howl issued forth from the same cave; louder this time, but even more weary. Wylie quickly drew the paper back over, and Aleksei felt a sense of relief as the sound faded.

‘You know what that means?’ said Aleksei. The doctor didn’t reply, even though he must surely have comprehended. Aleksei spelled it out. ‘It’s in there; the voordalak from which that skin came; still living – still feeling the pain, even though the skin is no longer attached.’ He remembered slamming his fist down on those severed fingers, and knew now that Kyesha must have felt that pain, wherever in the world he might have been.

‘It must be,’ whispered Wylie.

‘And wherever that creature is,’ continued Aleksei, ‘so is Cain. And so’s the tsar. I’m going in there.’

‘You’ll never find them,’ said Wylie. ‘The cave system is immense.’

‘Keep exposing the skin,’ explained Aleksei. ‘Every half-minute, just briefly, then let it regrow. I can follow the sound to its source.’

Wylie looked down at him, horrified, but nodded in agreement. Aleksei gave him a brief wave goodbye and then slipped into the cave entrance. It was just big enough for him to stand upright. He walked a few paces over the rocky floor, and then reached into his own knapsack. Inside, he had a couple of candles. He lit one and held it up, searching for the path ahead.

From somewhere in front of him, that same scream echoed again, amplified by the close stone walls. It died away quickly. Dr Wylie was doing as he had been asked.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE TUNNEL DIVIDED SEVERAL TIMES ALONG THE WAY, BUT AT each junction Aleksei had only to stop and wait for a few moments until, on the hilltop above him, Wylie once again let sunlight fall upon the skin of the creature that lay imprisoned ahead, and the sound of its wailing would guide him along the correct path. As far as he could tell, he was heading a little south of west, back towards the centre of the citadel itself, and would soon be beneath it, but the incline was steep and he knew he had descended deep under the ground.

Before he had gone very far he realized that, though he had a means of finding his way into the labyrinth, there would be no similar siren voice calling him out. Mostly it would be easy – simply by taking the uphill path he would be able to retrace his steps – but at those few junctions where he felt he might be confused, he drew his knife and marked the rock with an indication of the direction he should go. He hoped he would be able to find the marks again, especially if he was leaving in a hurry.

He’d been going for about ten minutes – using the half-minute regularity of the screams as a clock – when he first noticed the smell; the voordalak smell. It wasn’t quite the same as the scent of Kyesha, and far stronger – there were many vampires ahead. He had never noticed when he had first dealt with the Oprichniki, but it must have been there. The smell of death that had permeated Moscow at the time would have done much to disguise it. Soon, he noticed that the caves were becoming lighter – not with sunlight, but from lamps and candles. He blew out his own candle and slipped it back into his bag. Now he had both hands free. In each he carried a sword; one of steel, the other of wood; one for Cain, the other for his victims. He had a pistol too, hidden inside his jacket, but the solid feel of a sword in each hand gave him a far greater sense of protection.

Ahead of him, around a corner, he could see the edge of the bright, glimmering circle that indicated there was a lamp hung from the wall. Another scream came, but it was still too distant to be coming from that next chamber.

Aleksei turned the corner. The tunnel widened; a portion to the side was fenced off with an iron grille. There was a heavy lock on the door. It was like a prison cell. An unnecessary simile – it was a prison cell. Aleksei took a step towards it and looked inside. It was empty. There had been little work done to the natural shape of the cave in order to adapt it to its new purpose. The stone walls were still rough and jagged. At the far end, where the space tapered to nothing, sat a wooden bowl. It held nothing, but its bloodstained sides gave a clue as to its usual contents. He took a step closer to see if there was anything more of note in there, his face almost brushing against the bars. Another scream came from further ahead, as Wylie once again inflicted his necessary torture.

There was a rush of movement from inside the cell. Aleksei did not see where the creature had come from, but its face was instantly close to his and its fangs were bared. A hand reached through the bars and pressed against the back of Aleksei’s skull, dragging him inwards. Aleksei struggled to pull away, and in no time he was free. The creature was weak – starved. It retreated into the cell and crouched in the middle, looking sullen. It was a sad vestige of a human being but still – in the way that every voordalak did – it appeared human. A man who had been starved in the same way would have gone into the same decline. The clothes on the creature’s body were dirty rags. Its limbs were as thin as sticks and its lips and gums had receded, revealing the only physical feature that did distinguish it from a human – its fangs. A healthy voordalak would have been able to hide these behind a charismatic smile and pass itself off amongst mortal men, but this creature had not enough flesh on its lips to bring them together and cover its mouth.

It – Aleksei knew he should think of it as a he, as he would still have considered any other vampire, but the word just did not fit – eyed Aleksei for a few moments and then slunk back towards the cave wall, lying against it with its arms pressed into the crevices. It did not completely vanish, but Aleksei had the benefit of having seen it move there. That must have been how it had hidden when Aleksei first arrived, camouflaged against the stone walls that somehow in the dark matched its sallow complexion. Aleksei had seen that same skill of disguise years before.

He moved on. The tunnel bent round to the right. Again he heard the metronomic scream. The passageway opened out into another small cave. This time there were no bars; the creature was manacled against the wall, suspended by its arms but with its feet also pinioned so it couldn’t kick out. The iron of its shackles was twice as thick as would be used to restrain a man; clearly Cain – like Aleksei – was aware of the voordalak’s superhuman strength. This specimen appeared well fed. It raised its head from where it had lolled against its chest and fixed its eyes on Aleksei. Behind them shone the intelligence that Aleksei knew could reside in any vampire, and also the malevolence. It looked as though it might speak, but said nothing.

On the wall beside the voordalak, at the level of its chest, was a small patch of light, brighter than the candle-lit surroundings. Aleksei traced its source and saw, high on the other side of the cave, a tiny hole through which sunlight was shining. Though they were deep beneath Chufut Kalye, Aleksei realized that he had walked far enough to now be close to the inside of the cliff face itself. Cain would need a source of sunlight to conduct some of the experiments he described, and these caves – situated where they were – would provide the perfect balance of light and darkness. Like a desirable garden, the cliff faced south, and would get the maximum of each day’s sunlight.

He looked back at the chained vampire. On the stone wall a number of lines had been chalked. They started on one side of the naked torso, passed behind it and emerged the other side. At the end of each one there was writing. Aleksei peered closer, careful to keep out of range of any slight movement the voordalak might be able to achieve. It was a list of dates. Each of the chalked lines that crossed the vampire’s body was labelled with one. The dab of sunlight Aleksei had noticed lay exactly on the line with that day’s date – 30 October.

It suddenly became clear to Aleksei what was going on. This was a sundial, one that told the date as well as the time. As autumn progressed into winter, the sun would fall lower and lower on the horizon, and the beam would move up the wall. But within each day, the spot of light would move from west to east, following the chalked line for that day, and cutting across the voordalak’s body. There were no scars, but that did nothing to remit the pain that would have been inflicted as each day the sun took – what? – five hours to cross that part of the sky, slowly burning the vampire’s chest or stomach as it went. It would heal, only for the torture to resume, as sure as day follows night, the following morning.

It reminded Aleksei of a trick he himself had once played to escape a vampire – and a man posing as a vampire. It had involved a beam of light shining through the shuttered window of a house in Moscow, traversing the room as the day progressed and threatening to trap them in a corner. In that instance, they had fled, but for this creature, flight was impossible. Even so, Aleksei shuddered as he perceived how closely his own thinking had run to that of Cain.

He glanced again at the vampire’s face. Still it looked at him but did not speak. Above its head something else had been chalked. Aleksei took a step closer, still wary, but desperate to see what was written. The text was in the Latin alphabet, but the name was the same in almost any language. It was a sick joke:

Prometheus

The saddest thing was that Aleksei understood it: Prometheus the Titan, punished by Zeus by being chained to a rock where every day a vulture would fly down and peck out his liver, only for it to regrow each night, ready for the bird to return and feed the next day. Once again, it appeared that his mind and Cain’s were cut from similar cloth.

Ahead of him the screaming continued. Aleksei wished he could somehow get Wylie to stop, to communicate to him that he no longer needed that siren guidance. But Wylie could not know, and would not risk leaving Aleksei alone in the silent darkness of the caves before he was certain he had found his way through. Aleksei would have dearly loved it if, like Jason, he had Orpheus to drown out the sound with his lyre, or like Odysseus’s crew, he had beeswax to cram in his ears.

The next cave was again divided into cells – two of them this time. In the first a voordalak sat alone. It too wore rags, and appeared emaciated. Only bars, not stone, separated it from the next cell, and so it could communicate with its neighbour, if it so desired. It did not do so. It did not even look up as Aleksei passed. The other cell had two occupants – a male and a female voordalak. Aleksei had never encountered a female vampire before, but had no reason to suppose that such a creature did not exist. These two were completely naked, and huddled together with unexpected affection at the back of the cave. The female’s hair was long and unkempt and covered most of her shame.

Aleksei noticed on the floor of both these cells remnants of fruit and vegetables – a rotten potato here, an olive pit there. It seemed Cain was trying to discover whether vampires could survive on a diet less rich in human blood. A noble goal, but would not the creatures have tried it years ago if it had been possible?

He walked on. The tunnel narrowed and then widened again. He was reminded of the dark passageways between the chapels in Saint Vasiliy’s. Ahead of him he saw an armchair, made of red leather. It seemed quite incongruous. Beside it was a table, and on the table, a book. As Aleksei moved closer he noticed the image of the chair wobble a little, and realized that he was in fact looking at a reflection. The actual chair was still out of his sight, behind a bulge in the rock face. A huge mirror – it must have cost thousands of roubles – was fixed along the far side of the cave. Aleksei could only guess at how it could have been brought down through the tunnels in one piece.

‘Can you see me?’ said a voice.

Aleksei whirled round, feeling that the sound had come from behind him, but there was no one there. He looked in every direction but still there was no one. The source could only be in the section of the cave Aleksei could not see; and yet the mirror revealed all of that to him. His grandmother’s stories immediately came back to him. Of all of them, this was the most absurd; even to a man like Aleksei, who had believed in the solid reality of the voordalak for thirteen years, yet could not conceive how the idea that their image was not reflected in a glass was true.

But as he peered round into the cave, he saw that the chair was not empty. In it sat a woman – a very beautiful woman. Her hair was blonde and she looked like she was in her mid-twenties, though what her real age was Aleksei could not guess. She wore an exquisite gown of velvet and silk, golden, with lace at the neck and cuffs. He eyes were of a scintillating blue, but they betrayed no movement. At first, Aleksei suspected she was blind.

‘Can you see me?’ she said again, not moving her gaze from straight out in front of her.

‘I can’t see you in the mirror, but I can see you in the flesh,’ he told her.

She stood and turned, and as her eyes fell on him Aleksei realized she was not blind, she had simply been too intently focussed on what she saw in the mirror in front of her to look away.

‘What do I look like?’ she asked. Aleksei took a deep breath and was about to describe her when she asked a slightly different question. ‘Am I beautiful?’

‘Yes,’ said Aleksei, without the need to prevaricate.

‘Still?’ she said. Aleksei couldn’t provide an answer. ‘They call me Raisa Styepanovna,’ she said. ‘And you?’

‘Aleksei Ivanovich.’

She walked towards him, holding out her hand. ‘You are a strikingly handsome man, Aleksei Ivanovich,’ she said.

The introduction was so natural that Aleksei almost bent down to kiss her hand before he remembered that she was a vampire. He need not have worried. While she was still two steps away from him her head jerked suddenly backwards and she came to an abrupt halt. Her hands went up to her neck and Aleksei saw for the first time the iron band around it that constrained her. It was narrow and could almost be taken for a choker. It even added to her allure. From it, a heavy metal chain, now taut, stretched out behind her to where it was attached to an iron ring fixed to the cave floor.

Aleksei looked to the mirror again. Still there was no sign of Raisa Styepanovna in its image, nor of her beautiful dress, nor even of the chain stretching out behind her. Aleksei saw his own reflection, and those of the chair, a table and a book, but between them, where this beautiful lady stood, all that could be seen was the bare rock wall behind her. Of all the strange phenomena that surrounded the voordalak, this seemed the one that most needed the intervention of a discerning god, to intercept those rays of light that carried images of the voordalak, her clothes, or anything related to her, but to allow through the more mundane objects that anyone would expect to see.

Another scream came from along the tunnel. Raisa pressed her lips together tightly, and her eye held back a tear. ‘Will it never stop?’ she said. ‘He does it only to torment me.’

‘I’m not sure he can be blamed for his agony,’ said Aleksei.

‘But the man who causes it can.’ Aleksei presumed she was referring to Cain, and chose not to disabuse her. ‘Hasn’t he done enough to me?’

‘Compared to some that I’ve seen,’ said Aleksei, ‘you appear to be living in relative comfort.’

‘Hah!’ she snapped. ‘He told me I would be beautiful for ever – that’s why I allowed myself to succumb to one of these dreadful creatures.’

‘Your beauty has endured.’

‘Yes, but at what cost?’

She stood staring into the mirror, her gaze met only by empty space. ‘How do I know that I am beautiful?’ she asked, her voice on the edge of hysteria.

He left her to her sorrow and carried on down the tunnel. The scream came again, and this time Aleksei knew it was close, just around the next corner. He gripped the handles of his two swords firmly and stepped through the rock archway. Beyond, he found much that he had seen before. Another natural cell, separated from the tunnel by heavy iron bars. The voordalak inside had been given a chair to sit on. This one did not look underfed. It was wearing very little, just torn undergarments, with nothing to cover its top half. And the top half of its body was the strangest thing so far. It was covered in tattoos; some simple lettering, others ornate decorations. Aleksei tried to read some of the text and saw that it was nauseatingly mundane. Along the left side of its belly, parallel with its bottom rib, was a phrase in English simple enough for even Aleksei to understand.

Volume VII

How long would it be before Cain was harvesting that for the covering of his latest book?

The voordalak flung its head back and uttered a terrible howl into the air. Dr Wylie was remaining true to his word. Within seconds, it fell silent again. Its head dropped back down and it didn’t even see that it was no longer alone.

‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Aleksei through the bars.

The vampire looked up. It peered at him as though it saw the shapes that formed his body, but could not associate them with any concept it recognized.

‘Sorry?’ it asked. In appearance, it was in its late twenties; a chubby round face was topped with a blob of dirty, curly blond hair.

‘Your pain. It’s my fault.’

‘It’s his fault,’ spat the voordalak, and flicked his eyes further down the corridor along which Aleksei had been heading.

‘Cain?’ asked Aleksei. The voordalak nodded. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ Aleksei almost laughed as he heard the question on his own lips.

‘Could you give me some water?’ It pointed behind Aleksei. He turned to see a full pail and a ladle.

‘You drink water?’ considered Aleksei; again, it sounded too much like the sort of question Cain might ask. The creature replied, shaking its head.

‘No, but it eases the pain. Here’ – he indicated the left side of his back – ‘this is where the skin came from; one piece, at least.’ Aleksei looked where he was shown, but, as was to be expected, there was no scar.

Aleksei turned to fetch the bucket. Even as he did so, another scream shook the cave. He put both his swords into his right hand and then carried the water over with his left, placing the pail on the ground beside the bars, within easy reach from inside. Then he dipped the ladle in and passed it, handle first, to the voordalak, knowing he should be wary, but allowing his humanity to overcome his caution.

The vampire reached out and then stopped, staring down at the ladle, or something near to it. It briefly glanced into Aleksei’s eyes and then back to what had captured its attention. ‘The three-fingered man,’ it murmured quietly, almost to itself, staring at Aleksei’s left hand.

‘You expected me?’

The voordalak gritted its teeth in agony, but did not scream out loud. It grabbed the ladle and threw the water over its back, breathing heavily. The water did not hiss or evaporate; there was no heat in the creature’s body, only the sensation of it. The true heat was up above them, out in the sun. But the water appeared to alleviate the pain.

‘No one expects you, least of all Cain,’ it said. ‘He pretends you are a myth, but he talks of you.’

‘What does he say?’

‘Enough for us to know,’ said the voordalak.

‘To know what?’

‘That he fears you.’

Aleksandr could not clearly recall the reason he had come here. He had been standing atop the cliffs at Chufut Kalye, gazing down at the valley. He had sensed a presence standing beside him and known it was the figure he had seen in his dream, standing on the prow of the boat, ordering him to come to this place. He had dared not look up into the man’s eyes, but it had been unnecessary. The figure had taken him by the hand and led him forward. He felt the cold metal of the gold dragon ring against the flesh of his fingers, even though he knew it had no more substance than the man himself. It had seemed such a simple idea, to take a step forward, to fall and fall and fall down, tumbling over the rocky ground, his spirit coming to rest long before his lifeless body did the same. But that was not where the figure had led him. Instead, they had climbed down a narrow crevice to a ledge on the cliff below.

There Cain had been waiting, aged since their last encounter, in 1812, but unmistakable. The dark figure with the dragon ring had vanished, along with his influence over the tsar, but now there was a far more concrete reason to follow Cain deep into the caves; he carried a pistol. Eventually they had found themselves here, wherever here might be. Along the route Aleksandr had seen no one. His main concern had been to remember the way out – in the hope he’d get the chance to leave.

It was, to be blunt, a cave – but a well-appointed cave. There was a carpet, chairs, tables and a desk; even a clavichord, sitting in the corner, its lid open. All around were items of scientific equipment – smoked glass and polished brass – whose purpose the tsar could not fathom. Curtains and tapestries hung from the walls around, giving a slightly greater sense of it being a room, but they did not cover all the rocky surfaces and so the reminders of Cain’s troglodyte existence were never far away.

‘You’re wise to have come,’ said Cain, speaking in French. He had already put down his gun. He wafted his hand towards a chair, indicating that Aleksandr should sit. The chair was wooden, with no cushion. Its high back was intricately carved. It looked medieval. The tsar sat down.

Suddenly, the air was pierced by a howling scream, which came from a doorway to Aleksandr’s right. It was not the route they had come by. Cain gave a tight, apologetic smile. He walked over and closed the door, then drew a heavy red-velvet curtain across it. He returned to face the tsar.

‘I don’t think I really had a choice,’ said Aleksandr in response to his earlier comment.

‘The choice was offered, but your great-great-grandfather made the decision for you – for all of his heirs.’

‘I’m not sure a man can be bound by the promises of his ancestors.’

‘You admit Pyotr made a promise then?’

‘I’m told that’s what your master believes.’

Cain flashed Aleksandr the briefest look of anger, which mellowed into a smile. ‘I think the word “employer” more aptly describes our relationship.’

‘Just like an Englishman to go into service,’ said the tsar, in English. He wondered for a moment whether it might be dangerous to taunt Cain, but discovered in himself no sense of fear. Whatever plan Cain was to execute had been set in place over generations – human generations – and was unlikely to be affected by anything Aleksandr might say now.

‘I’d forgotten how excellent your English was,’ said Cain, continuing in the same tongue. He changed the subject. ‘Would you care for a drink?’ He went over to a dresser, atop which were several decanters. It should have been incongruous against the rough stone wall, but somehow the furniture and the decor, after an initial surprise, seemed quite appropriate for their surroundings.

‘No, thank you,’ said the tsar. As he spoke, he thought he heard the scream again, muffled through the heavy oak door – but he might have imagined it.

Cain turned back to him with a look of disappointment. ‘Oh, come now, Aleksandr Pavlovich. Do you think I’m going to poison you? Look!’ He pointed to a cabinet on the other side of the cave. ‘I have swords and guns. If I wanted to harm you, I wouldn’t need to be so subtle as to use poison. Claret?’ Aleksandr remained silent. Cain lifted the top from a decanter and poured two glasses. ‘You see?’ he said, raising one of them to his lips. He took a swig and sucked the wine through his teeth to aerate it. ‘It does me no harm.’ He walked over to the tsar and placed the wine on the broad arm of his chair.

‘Why doesn’t your employer come and see me himself?’ asked Aleksandr.

Cain nodded towards a grandfather clock that stood behind his desk. It was still mid-afternoon. ‘It’s not a good time of day for him. But he has made himself known to you; otherwise, why would you be here?’

Aleksandr thought of the dark figure of his dreams and visions, and again of today, when he had been tempted from the cliff top.

‘That was the same man that Pyotr met?’ Aleksandr asked, though he had no doubt of the truth of it.

‘One hundred and thirteen years ago.’

‘It’s a long time to hold a grudge.’ Aleksandr sipped from his glass without thinking, but realized he had little to fear from it. Cain’s argument made sense. Besides, it was an exceptionally good wine.

‘He has little else to amuse him,’ said Cain, slipping a strand of his blond hair behind his ear. ‘But it’s more than that. If he simply sought revenge then, as you suggest, it would hardly be fair to take it out on Pyotr’s descendants. And he would have had ample opportunity to do so before now.’

‘So what does he want?’

‘He wants what is owed to him. What your great-great-grandfather promised him.’

‘That’s still not my concern,’ said Aleksandr. He took another sip of claret.

‘It is when you have in your possession that which is not rightfully yours. That which was promised to my employer and which you have presumed to inherit.’

‘And what would that be? I’ve inherited a lot of things, from many people.’ Again, Aleksandr heard the muffled scream outside.

‘What Pyotr Alekseevich Romanov promised seemed worth less then than it does now. Yet still he chose the path of betrayal. You must make amends.’

‘Tell me then, what is it he wants?’ Aleksandr drank again. Now the wine had begun to taste sour – metallic. He feared he already knew the nature of the claim against him.

Cain explained in a single word.

‘Russia.’

Aleksei had left the voordalak whose skin had provided the binding for Cain’s notebook and carried on through the tunnels. There were no more cells or chains, though Aleksei knew he had taken but one path out of the many that penetrated the hillside. There could be a dozen others, each with its own set of miserable, filthy victims. Even from the little he had read of Cain’s book, Aleksei understood that the number of experiments being carried out would need more subjects than these few wretches.

Behind him, he no longer heard the sound of screams. With the same regularity, they had been replaced by short, self-controlled gasps, which still conveyed quite persuasively the pain the creature must have been experiencing. The water was evidently bringing some relief – or perhaps the hope Aleksei had seen in its eyes at the arrival of the three-fingered man had made it braver.

The tunnel ended abruptly in a large wooden door. Here, the passageway, though still largely a natural phenomenon, had been dug out so that the door fitted snugly. It would have suited any nobleman’s house in Moscow or Petersburg. On the stone of the cave wall above it, more writing had been chalked. The handwriting was similar to that of the word ‘Prometheus’ earlier. It was most likely Cain’s – any slight differences from the book could be explained by the difficulties of writing on rock.

Again, the alphabet was Latin, not Cyrillic, but the language this time was Italian.

Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’intrate.

It was an archaic form of the language, somewhat different from that spoken today. In fact, Aleksei could date it very specifically, to the first quarter of the fourteenth century, for the same reason that he did not have to struggle with the translation. It was Dante – Inferno; the words written above the gate of Hell.

Abandon every hope, you who enter.

Given the Hell that Aleksei had just walked through, he wondered what greater horrors could possibly lie ahead. He put his ear to the door. He could just hear the sounds of speech, but could discern no distinct words.

He turned the handle and pushed against the door. It moved smoothly and silently – well engineered considering its unconventional housing. Behind it, there was darkness. The voices were clearer now. They were speaking English, but even so Aleksei could recognize one of them as being that of the tsar.

He pushed the door further and realized that the lack of light was down to the curtain that covered the doorway. Looking to its edge, he saw a glimmer of illumination seeping through – artificial, to his best guess, rather than sunlight. He made sure he didn’t push the door so far open as to disturb the cloth, and slipped through the narrow gap, closing it behind him. He listened for a while to their conversation, but only occasional words – names, mostly – made sense to him. ‘Romanov’ was repeated several times, and he heard ‘Paul’, which he knew to be the English equivalent of ‘Pavel’.

There were only two voices to be heard – that of Aleksandr and one other, which Aleksei could only presume belonged to Cain. If those were the only people in the room beyond, then Aleksei felt safe. It would be two against one, and surprise would be on his side. He peeked around the edge of the curtain.

Aleksandr was sitting in a wooden chair with his back to Aleksei. Only the top of his head was visible, slightly tilted as he listened, and his hand, which rested on the arm of the chair and clutched a glass of red wine. Even so, it was unmistakably the tsar. There was no sign of Cain, but Aleksei could still hear his voice. He took a sidestep to get a better view of the room. It looked as though a duke had lost his mansion and been forced to live in a cave. The furnishing was opulent. A chandelier hung from the roof of the cavern, suspended by a long rope. Its owner had made himself comfortable.

Cain stood with his back to the tsar, his hands placed firmly on his desk and his head bent low, hanging from his shoulders. He spoke a few words in English, then raised his head. His blond hair covered his neck, and dangled over the collar of his jacket. He reached forward and picked something up. Aleksei saw it was a knife. Cain spoke again, this time in French.

‘And now, Aleksandr Pavlovich, I think we have waited long enough.’

He began to turn, holding the knife as if preparing to stab, though he still had several paces to cover to reach the tsar. The knife itself was terrifyingly familiar.

Aleksei ran from behind the curtain and shouted, ‘Your Majesty!’ Even as he did so, he recognized a tone in Cain’s voice of which there had been only a suspicion when he had been speaking in English.

Cain turned and caught sight of Aleksei. Despite the look of surprise on his face and the years that had passed, the tall physique, untidy blond hair and distant grey eyes made him unmistakable.

It was a face Aleksei had last seen as he thrust it beneath the icy surface of the river Berezina, the face of a man who should not have survived, who should have died a cold, choking death by Aleksei’s own hand, thirteen years before. It was a man more degenerate and corrupt than any voordalak.

It was Iuda.

CHAPTER XIX

‘LYOSHA!’

His voice was full of warmth and the happiness of reunion as he drooled over each syllable of the name, but Aleksei had seen and noted that brief flicker of surprise in Iuda’s eyes before he had time to regain his composure. The three-fingered man had arrived, and Iuda was afraid.

‘An unexpected pleasure,’ he continued. ‘What am I saying? An unexpected delight.’

‘Even less expected for me, I think,’ said Aleksei.

‘True, true. But don’t blame yourself. I was quite convinced you had me. It was pure luck that I managed to… wriggle free.’ He stroked his head, as if feeling for the gap where those few strands of hair had been ripped out to remain coiled around Aleksei’s fingers. He turned and placed the knife back on the desk. Its parallel double blades had, years before, allowed Iuda to inflict injuries that mimicked the bite of a voordalak, at a time when Iuda had been trying to pass himself off as such a creature. But Aleksei realized it could not be the knife Iuda had been using then – that had vanished for ever beneath the surface of the Berezina, as its owner should have. It would have been easy enough for him to have made another.

‘And how is Mademoiselle Dominique?’ asked Iuda. Aleksei had not thought of Domnikiia by the French version of her name for many years, but it was the only way Iuda had known her. ‘Thrown over for some newer beauty fresh from the cradle, no doubt.’

Aleksei said nothing, but either Iuda knew already, or could read his expression, or his mind.

‘Not yet then,’ said Iuda with a smile. Aleksei tried to keep Tamara from his thoughts, for fear that Iuda could indeed read them, but the beautiful red-headed girl rushed into his consciousness. Iuda made no comment, and Aleksei dismissed his paranoia.

‘Are you all right, Your Majesty?’ he said, turning to the tsar.

Aleksandr stood up. He looked pale and shocked. He nodded thoughtfully to himself. ‘Yes, yes, Colonel. I’m very well.’ He seemed to grow more confident of it as he spoke. ‘You know this man?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Aleksei.

‘Some friends of mine and I helped Aleksei to save your country back in 1812,’ said Iuda airily. ‘Then he turned against us. I was the only survivor.’ His tone didn’t waver.

The tsar looked over at Aleksei, who gave a slight shake of his head. Nothing that Iuda had said was false, but it would take too long to explain what had really happened.

‘I think you should leave, Your Majesty. They’re looking for you. You know the way out?’

The tsar nodded. ‘I think I can remember it,’ he said.

Another scream echoed from the tunnel down which Aleksei had come. Evidently the tattooed voordalak had lost the battle to master its pain.

‘And tell Dr Wylie he can stop now,’ Aleksei added. The tsar looked questioningly. ‘He’ll understand,’ said Aleksei.

Aleksandr walked across the cavern and exited by another doorway. Aleksei was pleased – he did not want the tsar to have to pass by what he had seen. There could be equal horrors down that path too, but if so, Aleksandr would at least already have seen them. It was a risk to let him go unaccompanied, but Aleksei had business to attend to with Iuda alone.

‘So, is Cain your real name?’ he asked, sitting where the tsar had been. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, but still his two swords were ready to strike, and he felt the pistol nestling in his tunic.

‘It’s a name many know me by.’ Iuda leaned back against his desk.

‘In England?’

Iuda nodded. ‘Yes. I am the real Richard Llywelyn Cain, to the extent that such a person exists.’

‘But it’s not the name you were born with – simply one you chose to use when dealing with the Romanovs.’

Iuda looked at Aleksei, seemingly trying to judge how much he knew. In reality, Aleksei had no idea what had been going on between the tsar and his captor, but anything that might make Iuda wary could be helpful.

‘I am known by many names.’ He looked at Aleksei pointedly as he stressed the word ‘many’. ‘But of them all, you know, I think Iuda is my favourite.’ He sighed. ‘Happy memories.’

‘I should have seen the link,’ said Aleksei.

‘Cain and Iuda? An Old Testament murderer and a New Testament traitor? I suppose there’s a connection, but I can’t take all the credit. The name Iuda was chosen for me.’ He looked away, pondering the question.

‘I think I preferred Iuda,’ said Aleksei, ‘the man, not the name. I presume you are still a man?’

‘And not a vampire? As we discussed some years ago, I’m not sure I really see the benefits of such an existence. Though if I did, I would have no qualms about changing my… lifestyle. But I’m scarcely older than you, Lyosha; not yet fifty. One day, perhaps, it will be a better state in which to exist, though I have my doubts. When faced with death, I may see things differently, but I have plenty of time before I need to consider how I’m going to deal with my own mortality.’

‘Prove it.’ Aleksei had long ago learned that Iuda lied with much the same frequency as he spoke. If he were in fact a voordalak, and Aleksei judged him to be human, the consequences might prove fatal.

‘That I’m not a vampire? How?’

Aleksei looked back at Iuda, then held out the two swords in his hands – one wooden, one steel. ‘These should discriminate,’ he said.

Iuda swallowed with mocking exaggeration. ‘I don’t think we need to go that far,’ he said. He turned slightly and picked up the knife with which he had been menacing the tsar. Its two blades were sharp. He held his left hand upright, its palm facing towards Aleksei, and moved the knife towards it. For a moment Aleksei thought he was going to witness a repeat of Kyesha’s demonstration in Saint Vasiliy’s – but in that instance the intent had been to demonstrate that Kyesha was a vampire.

Iuda’s performance was somewhat more restrained; a tiny scratch, just along the outside of his palm. The blood ran down his wrist and disappeared beneath his cuff.

‘“If you prick us, do we not bleed?”’ said Iuda. ‘We certainly don’t heal, as they do.’

Aleksei shook his head. ‘Not good enough, I’m afraid. I know a voordalak can hold off regrowth if need be. I’ve read your book, remember?’

Iuda raised both his eyebrows, then smiled benevolently. Damn it! thought Aleksei. Iuda hadn’t known he had the book.

‘So that’s where it got to,’ said Iuda. ‘But you’re right; it’s a poor proof.’ He put his hand to his lips to clean the blood. It was an ordinary enough action, but it seemed deliberately intended to cast further doubt into Aleksei’s mind. Iuda walked over to a high bookcase he had somehow assembled there, deep underground. A ladder lay against it, allowing access to the upper shelves. Iuda climbed the ladder but ignored the books, instead reaching out for a cord that stretched out up to the cavern’s ceiling. He tugged at it and above the shelves a curtain was pulled back, allowing Aleksei to see the sky.

‘You see,’ said Iuda as he descended, ‘we’re actually very close to the cliff here. As you can imagine, I need light for my experiments.’ He climbed down and walked across the room to where the beam of sunlight that had been let in hit the floor. He stood in its rays and held his arms open, smiling up at the sky as if basking in the sun’s warmth. The patch of light was wide enough that even his outstretched fingertips did not escape it on either side. If Iuda had been a vampire, he could not have stood there for even a fraction of a second and lived.

‘Very well,’ said Aleksei. ‘Now tell me, what is all this – all this experimentation? And what’s it got to do with the tsar?’

‘Nothing at all,’ said Iuda, almost bemused by the suggestion that it should. ‘In my dealings with Aleksandr Pavlovich I am acting merely as an intermediary; as a representative of an old friend. In terms of my discoveries – I have you to thank for that.’

‘Me?’

‘You inspired me.’ He walked out of the sunlight and over to a huge tapestry that covered one of the cavern walls, becoming the foreground to a scene of unicorns and demure maidens. ‘You remember when we met in that house in Moscow, when you pulled down the boards over the window and trapped us in the corner of the room?’

‘I remember,’ said Aleksei. ‘Are you saying that’s what gave you the idea for “Prometheus” back there?’

‘Yes,’ replied Iuda, his enthusiasm breaking into his voice, ‘but more than that. You inspired me to learn. Don’t you remember? You asked so many questions – questions I found myself unable to answer. About how they die – how they breed. I’m not a man who likes to be floored.’

‘And so you decided to find out?’

‘They are wonderful creatures in many ways – dangerous. Can you imagine how powerful that danger would be if it could be directed?’

‘That was Dmitry Fetyukovich’s idea when he first brought you to Russia. It didn’t work.’

‘Really?’ replied Iuda. He seemed more nervous than in the past. Perhaps that was a trick of Aleksei’s memory, though he doubted it. Every detail of Iuda’s persona had stayed with him over the years, engraved on his heart. ‘I would suppose that it didn’t work for Dmitry because I knew better than he how to direct the behaviour of the brutes,’ continued Iuda. ‘But not all vampires are brutes, and so one must learn their subtleties.’

Of course, the anxiety that Aleksei perceived in Iuda might still be an artefact of the passing years, not a result of Aleksei’s fading memory, but of the ageing process in Iuda himself. What had he gone through since they had last met? Aleksei’s instinct was to imagine for him a life of success after perverted success, but the reality could have been very different.

‘Now I know their strengths and weaknesses.’ Iuda was still speaking, but Aleksei was scarcely listening to his words. Even so, he noticed that the tone was becoming more confident. Was he bluffing now, to cover his unease? Or had the bluff been in the earlier mood?

‘The knowledge of their weaknesses protects me from them – makes me almost free to walk amongst them, taking a few sensible precautions. But to know only how they are weak would be of little benefit if I did not also know how they are strong.’

Iuda’s voice began to rise with a controlled anger that Aleksei found chillingly familiar.

‘That knowledge gives me a far greater power,’ he continued. ‘It is an understanding of their strengths that makes them, in my hands, an invincible weapon… a weapon against anyone who would dare to threaten me!’

As he spoke he reached up and grabbed the edge of the tapestry, pulling it aside. It easily came loose from its fixings and fell to the floor. Behind it was revealed another set of cages, with voordalaki within. Aleksei could not see how he operated the mechanism, but in an instant Iuda had unlocked the barred iron gates. There were four of the monsters, and they at first appeared confused, but Iuda shouted directions at them and they turned to face Aleksei. Meanwhile, Iuda crossed to the other side of the room and pulled aside another curtain. Behind that were three more of the creatures, which he released in a similar manner.

‘If only I’d known you were coming, Lyosha,’ said Iuda, ‘I would have had more time. I would have taken such pleasure in chatting with you.’ He looked at Aleksei and to all the world seemed sincere in what he was saying. ‘But the fact that you let Aleksandr Pavlovich go really does cause problems for me, and I don’t have time to deal with you in a more interesting manner. I’m truly sorry.’

Aleksei backed away as the seven voordalaki approached him. Converging from either side, they had already cut him off from both the door he had come in by and that by which the tsar had left. The only possibility of safety lay in the patch of light in which Iuda had stood earlier, and that would only protect him until nightfall. Moreover, it would not protect him from Iuda. He had already noticed the pistols in the cabinet against the wall. Iuda would not even have to come within reach of his sword to get rid of him – or wound him and leave him to his fate.

‘I will give you one small consolation, however,’ continued Iuda. ‘When you were attempting to kill me, there was one question on your mind; a question which I was happy to answer, but over which you found yourself quite unable to trust me.’

Though it was already thumping in fear, Aleksei’s heart beat a little faster still. That mistrust had been deliberately kindled by Iuda himself, so that Aleksei could never believe what he said and hence never know the answer. And yet now, at the moment of Aleksei’s death, perhaps he would tell the truth. What would be the point of lying? Aleksei knew Iuda did not need there to be a point, but still he listened eagerly.

‘You saw me at the window with a woman,’ said Iuda, ‘but you have never been sure who that woman was. At one time you believed it to be Dominique; at another Margarita. You require the truth and now there is no point me keeping it from you. At the moment of your death, you will receive enlightenment. The woman you saw me with was…’ He grinned and scratched his head. ‘Who was it now? Oh yes. It…’

‘Look!’

The shout, in Russian, came from one of the vampires on Aleksei’s left. It pointed out towards him; towards his hand. Aleksei realized in an instant what had caught its attention. He transferred the wooden sword over to his right hand and stood calmly upright, his left palm facing out towards the voordalaki.

‘The three-fingered man,’ murmured one of the creatures.

‘What?’ asked Iuda, almost laughing. Whatever myths about Aleksei had spread amongst the vampires had not been shared with their master. They hesitated, some stepping back – none moving forward. ‘He’s just a man. Devour him!’

‘A three-fingered man,’ said Aleksei. ‘Do you fear Cain?’ he asked, addressing the vampires. None spoke, but it was obvious they didn’t obey him out of love. ‘And whom does he fear?’ Aleksei asked. He again held up his left hand, swinging it from side to side so that all could see his deformity.

The vampire that had first noticed his fingers turned towards Iuda. Iuda took a step back and the creature advanced, along with two of its comrades. Iuda glanced around. It was difficult to see what power it was he had over them, except perhaps the power of his reputation, and his overblown self-confidence. It was the same authority that Louis XVI had held over France – a bubble of credulity on the part of both the oppressor and the oppressed that could for years allow one to hold sway over the other, and yet which could be burst as soon as enough of them, on either side, saw it for what it was. Perhaps it had only been one brief comment that had revealed to Iuda’s captives his fear of Aleksei, even if he had not mentioned him by name. Perhaps the fear itself had not even been real in Iuda – a self-deprecating joke. It did not matter; they believed in that fear, and the presence of the three-fingered man, a myth made real, transformed that belief into certainty.

And once the concept of Iuda’s fear became real for his victims, it became just as real for him. It showed itself in his eyes. He stood his ground for a moment, hoping to reverse a tide that he must have succeeded in turning many times before, but quickly understood that, on this occasion, he would fail. He turned and leapt into the cone of sunlight he had basked in earlier. The vampires approached, surrounding him, but not daring to come into contact with the sun’s rays. They had forgotten Aleksei for the moment. He walked over, closer to Iuda, but staying back from the circle of voordalaki. Iuda crouched, turning from side to side, trying to face an enemy which came from all directions. In his hand he held the knife that was so familiar to Aleksei, with two parallel blades separated by the width of two fingers, razor sharp on the bottom and serrated on the top. It would do him little good against the creatures that now faced him.

‘Clinging on to life for just a little longer?’ said Aleksei. ‘It’ll be dark soon; then what will you do?’

‘Please, Lyosha,’ said Iuda. ‘Call them off.’

Several of the vampires looked towards Aleksei expectantly, as if waiting for him to give them such an order, as if they would obey him if he did. Such was the authority of the three-fingered man. But Aleksei had no plans to give any such command.

‘They’ll turn on you too,’ shouted Iuda to him. ‘You can’t trust them – you know that.’

‘I think I can trust them to deal with you. And by then I’ll be long gone.’

Suddenly, one of the voordalaki screamed. Aleksei smelled the foul, familiar smell of burning vampire flesh. The creature had dared to step up close to Iuda, but as it screamed it fell back. Aleksei looked at Iuda and saw that in his hands he was holding a small looking-glass. He had reflected the sun’s rays on to the face of one vampire, and now he was directing them at another. The beam caught Aleksei’s eyes, but it was triflingly weak – enough, though, for the voordalaki. They began to step back. Wary glances were exchanged between them. One took a step forward, and Iuda flashed the mirror towards it and smoke erupted from its cheek. It screamed and fell away.

‘Back to your cells, now,’ said Iuda. His voice was calm and firm, like a shepherd talking to his dogs. Whatever tortures he had used to train them – and this trick with the mirror could only be a small part of it – had broken their wills sufficiently that some of them now began to obey, returning awkwardly to the cages from which he had released them. Soon it would be just man against man – Iuda and Aleksei. It was a fight Aleksei felt comfortable he could still win, but he would be a fool to yield such an advantage.

‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake!’ he shouted, marching over towards Iuda. He brought the flat of his blade down sharply on Iuda’s hand. The mirror flew to the ground and shattered, its fragments cascading across the stone floor before coming to rest. Iuda snatched back his hand and rubbed it. Aleksei wondered why he had chosen not to use the edge of his sword and sever the man’s hand – it seemed no less brutal than leaving him to be devoured by his former prisoners, as Aleksei assuredly intended to do.

It was a simple enough action to break the mirror, but one that would have been impossible for any of the vampires. The fact that it was done by Aleksei – the three-fingered man – might have added something to their bravura as well. Once more they advanced on their former master.

‘You’re going to have to stick around, I think, Lyosha,’ said Iuda. ‘To keep an eye on things. I can easily control this lot.’

Aleksei noticed the unusual stress in what Iuda had said. ‘This lot?’ he queried.

‘All of them,’ replied Iuda quickly; too quickly. It would make sense that the vampires Iuda left in here – the ones he had felt assured enough of to release and set on to Aleksei – would be the ones he had made most subservient to his will. But they could not all be like that. The more assertive ones – the more dangerous ones – he would keep separately, locked in a separate cell, or manacled to a wall. Aleksei headed for Iuda’s desk and began searching it.

‘What are you doing?’ said Iuda. His fear revealed he had some inkling of what Aleksei had worked out.

‘Looking for your keys,’ said Aleksei.

‘You won’t find anything there.’

But Aleksei already had, in one of the drawers: a bunch of five different-sized keys on a large iron ring. They looked medieval compared with the keys of modern locks, but they evidently did their job. He snatched them up and headed back to the door he had come in by.

‘No, Aleksei!’ shouted Iuda after him, but Aleksei was already gone.

He came first to the tattooed monster with which he had spoken. It was sitting down again, but looked up when it heard Aleksei approach.

‘The pain has stopped,’ it said.

‘Good,’ replied Aleksei, but though the word was intended for the voordalak, the sentiment behind it was relief that the tsar must have spoken to Wylie – and that meant the tsar was safe.

Aleksei tried one of the keys in the lock, but it didn’t work. ‘Do you know which one it is?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said the vampire, shaking its head. Then it leapt to its feet with sudden realization. ‘You’re freeing me?’

‘I’m freeing all of you,’ he said, moving on to the second key. It was bizarre to hear himself saying it. How many voordalaki were there down here? He had seen over a dozen, but there would be more in other caves. Once they had taken their revenge on Iuda – Cain, as they knew him – then they would be free to revert to their normal way of living; living off the blood and flesh of humans. Did he really care? Not enough. They deserved some chance of retribution, but after that they would fend for themselves. If they attacked humans, then humans would destroy them – so it had been through the centuries. Aleksei himself would gladly assist in their extermination, but not today.

The third key did the trick. The door swung open. The vampire stood there, considering its freedom, wary of it and perhaps of Aleksei too.

‘They’ve got Cain cornered in there,’ said Aleksei. ‘But they’re afraid of him.’

‘We were all afraid of him, but not now.’ The creature ran out of its cage. Aleksei instinctively took a step back, but it didn’t seem to notice. ‘We’ll need more help,’ it said.

They carried on down the corridor and soon came to where Aleksei had encountered Raisa Styepanovna. She was sitting in her chair, reading. Aleksei glanced into the mirror again, but saw only the empty cave and its incongruous furnishings. Of the woman whose beauty was so obvious when he looked at her directly, there was nothing. He ran over to her, lifting up her hair to find the fetter around her neck.

‘Sir!’ she exclaimed shrilly. ‘You presume too much.’

Aleksei had already found the small lock. There was only one key in the bunch that could possibly fit it, and she was free in moments. Aleksei rushed on, now with two vampires in tow. He opened the cages of the three voordalaki that had been fed on vegetables, but they seemed even more fearful now that the gates were open than they had been before. Aleksei had no time to convince them of their good fortune.

He could do nothing for ‘Prometheus’. There were no locks on his manacles. They had been forged as single rings of metal. They must have been hammered into shape after his wrists had been slipped inside them.

‘There’s no time,’ said Aleksei.

‘We’ll do what we can later,’ the tattooed vampire told him.

Lastly, they came to the cell of the creature that had attacked him – that had camouflaged itself so effectively against the wall. Aleksei was wary to go near.

The voordalak whose screams had led Aleksei down into this pit in the first place spoke. ‘We’ll deal with it,’ it said. ‘There are many others of us down here. I’ll release them all. Cain will not escape.’

Aleksei looked at the creature. It was absurd to trust a vampire, but if they were not to be trusted then it would be foolhardy to stay. Their hatred of Iuda seemed genuine enough, and that would make their actions over the next few hours pleasingly predictable.

Aleksei nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said, then turned and ran back up the tunnel which he had descended scarcely an hour before.

‘Thank you!’ he heard called from behind him, but he did not stop to look back. He didn’t stop to check the tiny scratch marks he’d left to guide his way out; instinct told him the correct path.

Only when he saw the light of day streaming in through the end of the tunnel and finally made it outside – pressing himself against the cliff face to avoid falling from the narrow ledge – did he stop, and take in huge, grateful lungfuls of the cool, fresh Crimean air.

CHAPTER XX

THE ROYAL PARTY HAD LEFT THE CITADEL BY THE TIME ALEKSEI returned to it. It was the right thing to do – Wylie might have been tempted to stay and wait for Aleksei to emerge from the caves, but his duty was to ensure that the tsar got safely away.

They were almost halfway back to Bakhchisaray when Aleksei caught up with them. They had stopped and dismounted at the Uspensky Monastery, which they had passed by on the way up to Chufut Kalye. The previous day the tsar had attended a Mohammedan ceremony in the khan’s palace. Earlier today he had been taking tea with Jews, and now he was going to visit an Orthodox chapel. It was not a reflection of the make-up of his nation as a whole, but the Crimea had had too many masters over the years to settle upon any one god.

The most remarkable thing Aleksei observed was the dutiful calmness with which Aleksandr was continuing his activities. He asked the usual, polite questions of the priests and the monks, and showed great interest in the architecture. Like so much in the area, the monastery was built into natural caves in the rockface. For a moment, Aleksei feared there might be some subterranean path back to Iuda’s lair, but it was unlikely. They were on the other side of the valley from Chufut Kalye, and any tunnel would have had to go around it, or underneath it. It was at that moment that the tsar first caught sight of Aleksei, across the open courtyard. Only a raised eyebrow indicated he had any recollection of the events they had both witnessed that day.

Wylie caught up with him as they were all treated to an impromptu lecture on the history of the building from one of the older priests.

‘You’re all right then, I see,’ he said.

‘Nothing broken,’ said Aleksei.

‘You can imagine my relief when His Majesty returned.’

‘How is he?’

‘He seems perfectly well; a little distracted perhaps. He won’t tell me anything of what happened.’

‘Did he explain his absence?’ asked Aleksei.

‘He just said he’d gone exploring and complained that Colonel Salomka had panicked.’

‘I suppose he wasn’t down there for very long.’

‘You met Cain?’ asked the doctor.

Aleksei nodded.

‘What happened?’

‘Some of his experiments got a little out of hand.’

‘You mean…?’ gasped Wylie.

The priest had taken them to a long flight of steps that led up to the chapel itself. He had begun to ascend. Aleksandr was just behind him, followed by Tarasov and Salomka. Aleksei and Wylie were next.

‘I don’t think Richard Cain will be making any more presentations to the Royal Society. Even so, I’d very much like for us all to be off these damned mountains before nightfall.’

‘Of course,’ said Wylie. ‘Did His Majesty witness any of this?’

‘No, I sent him away almost…’

In front of them, Tarasov and Salomka suddenly rushed forward. The priest turned back to see what the commotion was. Aleksandr had collapsed. Tarasov loosened his collar and Wylie dashed forward with a bottle of sal volatile, which he waved under the tsar’s nose. Aleksei felt his own approach was a little more practical. From his pocket he fetched a small flask of brandy, from which the tsar took a grateful sip. The whole incident was over in moments, and the tsar was back on his feet before any but those in the closest proximity to him could even notice what had happened.

‘I really must apologize, gentlemen,’ he said, continuing his climb of the stairs, but stopping almost immediately to catch his breath. ‘I have overstretched myself a little.’

Wylie glanced at Aleksei. ‘A delayed shock, you think?’

‘It’s only to be expected.’ Aleksei thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps it will do us a favour – persuade the tsar to return sooner.’

‘Let’s hope,’ said the Scotsman.

But as the others moved on, Aleksei paused for a moment, standing on the steps at the point where Aleksandr had fainted. Just ahead of him, at the top of the stairway, was a small gatehouse, and to the left of the gate he saw what Aleksandr must also have seen. It was a ubiquitous sight in Moscow, but it was not uncommon elsewhere in Russia either. Only recently, Aleksei had been considering its echoes in a statue in Petersburg. But this was the first time he had suspected that the image might mean to Tsar Aleksandr something akin to what it meant to Aleksei himself.

It was an icon; an icon of a saint on horseback driving a spear into the mouth of a monster. An icon of Saint George and the dragon.

After his collapse, the tsar most certainly did appear to take a more cursory interest in the sights before him. After the monastery they directly began their journey back to Bakhchisaray, with only a few farewell waves to the local people hindering them in any way.

Once they were back down in the river valley that would lead them to the town, Aleksei and Wylie rode side by side in discussion. Aleksei briefly described what had happened. He did not mention his previous meeting with Cain, under a different name. Wylie shared Aleksei’s ambivalence as to how the problem had been resolved. In the end he concurred with Aleksei’s decision – or at least said he did. For him, hatred of the voordalak was not as entrenched as it was in Aleksei, but neither had he seen for himself the piteous specimens in those caves. So though he might have weighed the two sides of the argument differently, in the end he came to the same conclusion. What was most important, they both agreed, was that it was Cain who had been the main threat to the tsar and that he was a threat no longer. Aleksei felt more relaxed than he had riding out along the same road that morning.

As might be expected from a man of science, Wylie showed a keen interest in what Iuda had been trying to discover, if not in his methods. When Aleksei mentioned Raisa Styepanovna and her absent reflection, Wylie began to describe one of the experiments from the notebook.

‘As you said,’ he explained to Aleksei, ‘it seems very selective in terms of what can be seen and what cannot. Why can’t you see their clothes, for example? And in the end you’re right, an intelligent selection is being made – the interesting question is, by whom?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, Cain’s thought is – was – that it’s the mind of the viewer that blocks out the image of the vampire. So you do actually see the creature, in terms of the light falling into your eyes, but your brain blots it out. For what reason, he couldn’t tell. The point is, the viewer’s brain isn’t going to be so stupid as to just remove the vampire and leave its clothes standing there empty, or indeed the chain stretching out in the case you described. The brain is trying to protect the viewer in some way, so it presents a coherent picture of the scene – sans vampire.’

‘But how could he test that?’ asked Aleksei.

‘Well, first he thought he’d do it by having people who didn’t know that the creature they were seeing was a vampire look at one in a mirror. If they didn’t know it was a vampire, then why should the brain block it out?’

‘And the result?’

‘Didn’t make any odds. If the viewer was a human or a vampire, informed or uninformed, they still saw nothing.’

‘Concept disproved then,’ said Aleksei.

‘Well, Cain was a bit more meticulous than that. It could be that the information that they’re looking at a vampire is communicated to them by some means other than their prior knowledge.’

‘Smell perhaps?’

‘A possibility, though Cain didn’t get that far. What he did do was sheer, unadulterated genius.’ To Aleksei’s distaste, Wylie didn’t even attempt to hide the admiration in his voice. ‘He got hold of a children’s toy, a diable-en-boîte – a jack-in-the-box we call it in English. You know the sort of thing – you wind it up and then, after a random period of time, a little man pops out and scares the children. The point is though, it’s random. Even if you know it’s going to pop out, you can’t predict when.’

‘I know what you mean,’ confirmed Aleksei.

‘So,’ continued Wylie, ‘he puts the box on a shelf and then lets the viewer – himself in the early experiments, but others later – look at the scene through a mirror. Then the vampire, your lady Raisa Styepanovna, I suppose, walks in and stands in front of the diable-en-boîte. The viewer then describes what they see – of course they don’t see the vampire, they just see the shelf behind with the box on it. Finally Raisa walks away to reveal whether the devil has popped out of the box.’

‘So?’

‘Well, if the viewer had no idea that box was a diable-en-boîte, then universally they never saw it pop open. They looked in the mirror and just saw a box on a shelf. When the vampire walked away, they were surprised when the box suddenly appeared open – most believed it had popped open at that instant. On the other hand, those who did know the box might potentially pop open did sometimes see it do so. But they were wrong just about 50 per cent of the time. Some saw it open when it didn’t, some didn’t when it did. Some got it right. And it doesn’t matter if the viewer is a human or another vampire.’

‘I still don’t see what that proves,’ said Aleksei.

‘It proves Cain’s theory. The viewer couldn’t see the box at all, because the vampire was in the way. So their mind had to re-create the scene behind the vampire from what it remembered before she came in. Thus, if they didn’t know the box could pop open, it just stayed closed the whole time. If they did know, then they subconsciously made a guess as to when it opened, and persuaded themselves that that was what they had seen. And of course, half the time, the guess was wrong.’

Aleksei tried to get his head round the idea. Occasionally he thought he had grasped it, but then it eluded him. ‘I’ll have to think about that a little,’ he confessed. For now, despite that three-word Latin motto, he would take Dr Wylie’s word for it. He had seen Raisa Styepanovna, and her beautiful dress, and the iron ring around her throat and the chain stretching back from it in the mirror, but he had convinced himself he hadn’t.

‘The book!’ he exclaimed, suddenly remembering. Wylie turned and looked at him. ‘When I went back,’ Aleksei continued, ‘when I looked in the mirror, her book was on the table. But when I looked at her, she was reading it.’

‘So your mind,’ explained Wylie, ‘didn’t make the book invisible, or leave it dangling in mid-air, but put it in the sensible place – on the table.’

‘Cain was a very clever man.’ Aleksei had to catch himself – he’d almost said ‘Iuda’.

‘He was about to move on to experiments with silver salts, but then the book ends.’

‘Silver?’

‘Lapis lunaris, that sort of thing,’ said Wylie, as if Aleksei would understand such things beyond recognizing the name. ‘They react to light. I’m not sure what he was planning. The big question in my view is how does the viewer know they’re looking at a vampire even if they haven’t been told? Your idea of smell is an interesting one. And why does it only happen in mirrors? Why aren’t vampires just invisible all the time?’

‘You’re not thinking of picking up where Cain left off, are you?’ asked Aleksei grimly.

‘It might be tempting,’ mused Wylie, ‘but I suspect I might have you to answer to if I did. And I wouldn’t want to end up like him.’ He nodded back the way they had come as he spoke.

Aleksei glanced over his shoulder, and then ahead of them to where the sun, though not yet setting, was low in the west. It would no longer be shining through that hole in the rocks and giving Iuda his cosy shell of protection. And without that protection, there would be nothing to stop the entire horde of voordalaki from having their first decent meal in years. He wished he could have been there to see it.

‘“Princess, I know the fault not thine

That Giray loves thee, oh! then hear

A suppliant wretch, nor spurn her prayer!

Throughout the harem none but thou

Could rival beauties such as mine

Nor make him violate his vow;

Yet, Princess! in thy bosom cold

The heart to mine left thus forlorn,

The love I feel cannot be told,

For passion, Princess, was I born.

Yield me, Giray then; with these tresses

Oft have his wandering fingers played,

My lips still glow with his caresses,

Snatched as he sighed, and swore, and prayed,

Oaths broken now so often plighted!

Hearts mingled once now disunited!”’

Aleksei recognized the words as soon as he heard them. It was Pushkin – The Fountain at Bakhchisaray, published just the previous year. It was apt in more ways than one. The first was the most obvious; that even as he heard the words, Aleksei was sitting in a courtyard, enjoying the fading warmth of the autumn twilight, sipping at a local vodka of which he planned to take home with him at least a bottle and listening to the trickle of the very Fountain of Tears that had inspired Pushkin when he had visited the town.

But more than that, the subject of the poem itself could not help but suggest comparisons to Aleksei’s own life. Zarema, the former favourite of the Khan Giray, had crept into the bedchamber of his new love, the captured Polish princess Maria. Zarema was begging Maria to reject Giray, in the hope that once his love for this new beauty had proved to be a passing fancy, he would return once again to Zarema.

Would Marfa, if she knew, creep into Domnikiia’s room and beg her to abandon Aleksei, in the hope that he would return to her? Was Marfa Zarema, Domnikiia Maria and Aleksei himself Giray? The comparison broke down on many points. Marfa knew nothing of Domnikiia, nor had she lost Aleksei’s love. And where would Marfa’s new love, Vasya, fit into the analogy? But the biggest difference was that, though Maria did not love Giray, Domnikiia did love Aleksei. For her to abandon him would not be some casual act of indifference, but a dagger to her heart.

At least, so Aleksei hoped. Again today Iuda had taunted Aleksei, offering to tell the truth about Domnikiia. Aleksei had been tempted to listen, but would still have believed what he wanted to believe. And now Iuda was dead – truly dead, and more aptly than by having been drowned in a freezing river. He had died at the hands – at the tearing claws and ripping teeth – of creatures that in 1812 he had tried to emulate and in 1825 had tried to subjugate. But now he was no more. The tsar was safe, and Aleksei felt at peace.

But it was not only the words of Pushkin’s poem that Aleksei had recognized. The voice that spoke them, from somewhere out of the shadows to his left, was also unmistakably familiar.

Kyesha stepped into view.

‘You’re alive,’ he said, ‘so I presume Cain is dead.’

‘Maybe not yet,’ said Aleksei. ‘It depends on just how merciful your friends are feeling.’

‘You left him to them?’

Aleksei nodded.

‘Then I doubt they’ll have finished with him just yet – though they will be hungry. He may have inadvertently saved himself a little suffering when he starved us.’

‘Can you tell me the full story now?’ asked Aleksei.

‘I’m not sure that’s wise. Now Cain is dead, surely we are enemies again.’

Aleksei thought about it. His plan in Moscow had been to kill Kyesha, simply for the reason that he was a voordalak. Kyesha had led him to Iuda, but that didn’t change what Kyesha was. But Aleksei was in no mood for killing.

‘Tomorrow, perhaps,’ he said. ‘We can remain allies for today. He was Iuda, when I first knew him.’

‘I didn’t know that. All I learned was from conversations we had, early on.’

‘Early on?’

‘To begin with, he posed as a vampire,’ said Kyesha.

‘He’s done that before.’

‘He recruited many of us quite willingly. We helped him assemble everything that you saw up there in the caves. It was a huge task – but he had money as well as our labour.’

‘And then the experiments started?’

‘At first it was all voluntary. A lot of what he did was pain-free; investigating reflections, sleeping patterns, religious imagery. Then he asked for volunteers for experiments that involved a greater degree of physical intervention. Many agreed; there was no risk of permanent damage and some saw it as a badge of honour to be able to withstand the pain. All of us thought that, ultimately, knowledge of our own nature would make us stronger.

‘But then, imperceptibly, a division began to emerge between us. Cain – Iuda – orchestrated it, though none of us was ever aware explicitly. There were those who carried out the experiments, and those who actually were the experiments. Guards and prisoners, Cain called it, but only much later on. I was lucky – I suppose – to be one of the guards. But when there were only a few of us left, and we began to realize what had happened, he rounded us all up and locked us away too. He has the place rigged with various ways for letting in light.’

‘I saw,’ said Aleksei.

‘Of course, we thought it would have the same effect on him as on us. It was only too late we discovered he was human. By then we couldn’t do anything about it. That was six years ago.’

‘But you escaped.’

‘Earlier this year. He made a mistake. He had me chained up by the wrists, and in a cave where daylight could get in. Each day it would burn me, and each day I’d recover. I don’t know what he learned from it. Much of what he did was just to terrorize – to keep us to heel.’

‘He’s doing much the same thing again now,’ said Aleksei.

‘With one major difference, I suspect. He made the chain too long – gave me that little bit of freedom, and I grabbed at it. One morning, when the sun first crept into the cave, I clenched my fists and thrust them into the light. You saw me cut off my own fingers, but that was nothing. I stood there as my hands dissolved into a stinking mess that seeped on to the floor. Oh, I knew they’d regrow, but I still felt every scintilla of pain that you would if you thrust your hands into a fire and held them there until they shrivelled to nothing.’

Aleksei looked at his own hands as Kyesha spoke. It was a horrible concept.

‘In the end though,’ continued Kyesha, ‘I was free. The manacles just slipped off. I ran and hid somewhere deep in the caves, whimpering in agony. It took two days for my hands to grow back. You’ve seen how quickly it can happen, at least for my fingers, but that was when I was healthy and well fed. When you’re starving, the whole thing slows down – sometimes even stops completely. That’s another thing Cain discovered.’

‘And how did you get hold of Cain’s notebook?’

‘Raisa Styepanovna helped me with that.’

‘I met her,’ said Aleksei.

‘You did? A beautiful woman. It was I who actually turned her into one of us, though it was Cain that persuaded her. Thankfully, when she realized the awfulness of what had been done to her, it was him, not me, that she blamed. We are close, as any vampire is to the one that created it; as any child is to its parent. For instance, I can tell you with absolute certainty that she is still alive.’

‘Really? Where?’

‘That much, I don’t know. Some can develop the bond to a very precise extent, but it takes much practice.’

‘So how did she help you?’ asked Aleksei.

‘She told me where he kept the notebook – just the one he was working on; the others were locked away. Plus some other documents.’

‘What other documents?’

‘How do you think I knew where your meetings were, and the codes for them? But we knew you were the only person who could defeat Cain – at least, that’s what he thought.’

‘But you said you didn’t know my name.’

‘No, but Cain had said a lot about Maksim Sergeivich Lukin, and particularly about his death in Desna. He said you blamed yourself for it.’

‘Yet he still never told you who I was?’

‘You were just the three-fingered man. And the only clue about Maks was that he came from Saratov. So once I was free, I went there. His mother was dead, but I found one of his sisters. She told me about their poor little brother Innokyentii Sergeivich, and when I mentioned a man with three fingers, she told me all about you.’

‘And that’s when you came to Petersburg?’

‘Yes, but from what Cain said, you weren’t likely to treat me any differently from how you had all those other vampires. Hence the somewhat long-winded introduction.’

‘You realize you’ve helped to save the tsar’s life,’ said Aleksei.

‘Do I get a medal?’

‘You get to live.’

‘Perhaps a good point to say goodbye,’ said Kyesha.

‘What will you do now?’

‘Meet up with some of my friends that you’ve freed. I thought I would have heard from them by now.’

Aleksei didn’t ask how Kyesha expected to be contacted by them. ‘Probably having too much fun with Iuda.’

‘Probably.’ He held out his hand but Aleksei did not take it. ‘I will try to make sure our paths never cross again. Really.’

With that, he disappeared into the shadows.

CHAPTER XXI

FROM BAKHCHISARAY THE PARTY HEADED BACK FOR TAGANROG, but with no greater haste than it had travelled out. Aleksei had not had an opportunity to speak to the tsar about what had happened in Chufut Kalye. Wylie had attempted to do so, but Aleksandr had been prepared to tell him nothing.

The day after they left Bakhchisaray they were back at the Perekop isthmus, in the town of Perekop itself. The tsar made a tour of the local hospital, accompanied by both Drs Wylie and Tarasov. After they came back, Wylie spoke to Aleksei with some concern.

‘His Majesty suddenly shows a great interest in malaria,’ he said.

‘Is that unusual?’ asked Aleksei. ‘It’s his duty to take an interest in whatever his subjects are interested in. He was in a hospital and in the south. It’s a common enough disease round here.’

‘Yes, but in these situations, the duty of the tsar is to ask simple questions and nod politely at the answers. Today he’s been suggesting that malaria is a disease of the blood, for Heaven’s sake! The doctors could scarcely contain their laughter. Even you must know it’s borne in the foul air that comes from the swamps round here.’

Like most soldiers – especially those who’d fought south of the Danube – Aleksei was familiar with the disease, and the tricks for avoiding catching it, though it was still a lottery; one in which Aleksei so far had been a winner. However, Aleksandr’s mistake didn’t seem too concerning to him.

‘So, he got it wrong,’ said Aleksei. ‘Probably heard it off some quack and thought he’d show off his knowledge. Maybe Dr Lee said something to him.’

‘Dr Lee is an acknowledged expert on the subject,’ said Wylie, with some indignation.

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t see why it’s such a concern.’

‘Because of the mention of blood. There is a disease – if I may call it that – which we know full well is carried in the blood; one with which the tsar has recently come into close contact.’

‘And from which he is suffering no symptoms. Believe me, I would know.’ Even as he spoke, Aleksei wondered if he was being overconfident.

‘I’m not suggesting he is, but I think he may be concerned that he is. Did you hear any of what he and Cain were discussing?’

‘They were speaking English most of the time. The only thing I heard in French suggested that Cain was about to kill His Majesty. That’s when I intervened.’

‘So before that, Cain could have said something that put this idea into the tsar’s head.’

Aleksei shrugged. ‘Possibly, but I think it will be out of his head again pretty soon. He’s not one to perceive illness where there’s nothing there, is he?’

‘Quite the reverse, I would say,’ replied Wylie. ‘Even so, I shall mention my fears to Tarasov.’

‘Will he believe you?’

‘I won’t convey to him the unusual facts we know unless it is absolutely necessary. But if it does prove necessary, I think I’ll find it just as easy to convince him as you did me; and by the same method.’

Aleksei considered for a moment whether to protest at the cruelty of this approach now that they understood the physical pain that would be caused to the voordalak who had donated his skin in the book’s manufacture, but he realized that that was not the true nature of his objection. What he really didn’t like was the way control of events was suddenly being taken out of his hands. He was the expert on vampires, and if consultation were needed with a second doctor, then he should seek it.

But he knew his place. The man he was talking to was personal physician to the tsar. It was a more influential role than that of some secret policeman, however much he might have assisted His Majesty.

And what did he care? If the tsar believed himself to be a chicken, a chimpanzee or a Chinaman, it would be a problem for Russia, but not one that was Aleksei’s responsibility. If he thought himself to be a voordalak then, again, it was nothing to do with Aleksei. Aleksei’s duty lay in dealing with the monsters of reality, not of the mind. And there his duty had been fulfilled.

Aleksei saw for himself the tsar’s preoccupation a few days later. They had quit the Crimea and were now only a few days from Taganrog. The party had stopped for lunch and all of its more senior members – colonels included – were sitting at the same table. It was Aleksandr himself who raised the issue.

‘You recall that demonstration of the effectiveness of quinine that Dr Lee showed us,’ he said, addressing his words to Wylie.

‘I recall it,’ replied the doctor, though Aleksei suspected a note of caution concerning the subject that the tsar might be turning to.

‘Well, I have heard that one of the limitations of the substance is that it tastes so foul. Patients simply will not drink it.’

‘It’s not exactly foul, Your Majesty, merely bitter. The flavour can be disguised, but even on its own it is not unpalatable.’

‘I find that very hard to believe,’ responded the tsar. ‘Let’s find out. Do you have any?’

Wylie exchanged a glance with Tarasov, and the latter left the table and went out of the room. Aleksei watched him out of the window, going through one of the bags strapped to the back of his carriage. He returned moments later carrying a jar containing a white powder. The tsar opened it up and, having licked his finger, dabbed it in and put a little of the substance on his tongue.

He pulled a grimace, like some child who had encountered a new and harsh flavour – obviously exaggerated – and all round the table laughed. After he had flamboyantly recovered himself, he spoke to Tarasov.

‘You and Wylie certainly don’t go out of your way to spoil patients with pleasant-tasting medicines.’

Again there was laughter at the table and when it subsided the conversation moved on elsewhere, but Aleksei noticed – as he suspected did both Wylie and Tarasov – that the tsar never returned the jar of quinine.

Aleksei had grown a little saddle-sore after two weeks on the road. There was a spare coach, which on the way out had been packed with provisions that had now dwindled to almost nothing, and so he chose to journey on in there for a little while. He had quickly found it to be, if anything, less comfortable than riding on horseback. On these uneven roads, at least a horse had the ability to pick its way between the potholes.

It was early evening before they changed horses. Soon after they had stopped, Aleksei’s slumbers were interrupted as first Wylie and then Tarasov clambered into the carriage.

‘Look at this,’ said Tarasov. He held out what appeared to be the jar of quinine.

‘So His Majesty returned it to you,’ replied Aleksei. ‘Good.’

‘But look how much is missing,’ insisted Tarasov. ‘He’s taken five or six doses.’

‘Is that dangerous?’

‘Probably not,’ said Wylie, still with the same urgency that his colleague had conveyed. ‘If he’s got any sense he’ll have kept them for later use rather than take them all together. The point is his state of mind.’

‘You still think he believes he…’ Aleksei glanced at Tarasov ‘… has malaria?’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Wylie. ‘I’ve explained everything to Dr Tarasov.’

‘Even so,’ persisted Aleksei, ‘it could just be malaria.’

‘It could,’ replied Wylie, ‘except for this.’ He took out the notebook he had been carrying under his arm. He glanced at Tarasov, who pulled down the blinds on his side of the carriage. Aleksei did the same on the other side. It was probably dark enough for the skin not to be damaged, but privacy was also an issue. Wylie unwrapped the paper and flicked through the book, quickly finding the page he wanted. He held it open under Aleksei’s nose.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Look at that.’

Aleksei shrugged, reminding Wylie of his lack of understanding of English.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Wylie. ‘I’ll summarize for you. It’s a section describing how this affliction – vampirism, if you will – may be transmitted from one individual to another. Apparently blood must be exchanged, each consuming the other’s, and then death must follow within a certain time period for the full transformation to take place. Otherwise the effect of the blood expires.’

‘That much I worked out for myself,’ said Aleksei, not mentioning that he also knew it from experience. ‘Cain couldn’t determine what that period was though.’

‘No, but he does say this: “Perhaps unsurprisingly, this period can be substantially shortened if the subject of the potential induction” – that’s the word he uses for it throughout – “if the subject of the potential induction consumes a standard dose of quinine at regular intervals during this period. I would conjecture that the effect works by the same mechanism as does the similar action of quinine on malaria, but I have not yet considered how to verify this.”’

Wylie looked at Aleksei, and the latter could not help but accept that there might be some connection.

‘You haven’t shown His Majesty this, have you?’ he asked.

‘No, but I’m wondering if Cain might not have told him the same information – or if he might have got it from elsewhere. He clearly knows more than he’s saying.’

‘It’s been four days since he was with Cain,’ said Aleksei. ‘You’d think he might have acted sooner.’

‘Perhaps he did,’ said Tarasov. ‘There was another bottle missing from my case. I noticed it a couple of days ago, but I didn’t make the connection until now.’

‘But it’s inconceivable,’ said Wylie, ‘that he would actually imbibe any of the blood of these monstrous creatures.’

‘He drank some wine!’ said Aleksei in an excited whisper. ‘Cain must have given it to him.’

‘You think the blood could have been in that?’

‘It’s possible, but as you say, that’s only half the story. He would have had to have been bitten by a vampire – and Cain was threatening to kill him with a knife. That doesn’t fit with what you’ve got there.’

‘True enough,’ said Wylie. ‘And I’ve read the whole thing cover to cover. There may, of course, be something in earlier volumes. And I’ve given His Majesty a cursory examination since his return; there is no sign of any physical wound.’

‘Anyway,’ added Aleksei, ‘the tsar’s safe now. Cain is dead and no longer a threat. If His Majesty has been taking quinine, all the better. If not, the blood will eventually leave him anyway.’

Wylie was about to reply, but was silenced by the sound of a horse riding past at high speed. The three men glanced at one another in concern. It was Aleksei who looked out to see what was happening.

Aleksandr tried to sleep. He still felt unwell, but he was certain the worst had passed. If it had been Tarasov’s drug or simply time taking its course, he did not know. Soon they would be on the move again, within two days they would be back at Taganrog, and he would be with Yelizaveta Alekseevna once again.

But the danger had not passed for good. Cain had been only a servant, and his master – his employer, as he had taken such pains to put it – could recruit other servants to do his bidding. Time was not on Aleksandr’s side.

There was a knock at his carriage door.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Dispatches, Your Majesty,’ shouted Diebich’s voice.

Aleksandr opened the door and stepped down from the carriage. It was always wise to accept dispatches from the rider in person. The officers who brought them often rode alone over many versts, never to see the face of the dignitary for whom they were carrying such vital documents. For a middle-ranking officer to carry dispatches to the tsar, only in the end to hand them over to one of his aides, did not make a good story to tell his grandchildren. To see His Majesty in person would cheer him no end – and might make him travel a little faster on his next mission.

The fellow was a major. Aleksandr asked his name.

‘Maskov, Your Majesty. They told me at Taganrog that you’d be returning soon, but I thought it best to try to intercept you.’

‘Well done, Major Maskov,’ said Aleksandr, glancing at the various papers. ‘Some of these are most urgent. You’ll be returning with us, I take it?’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ The major shifted his stance uncomfortably. He’d obviously been in the saddle for many hours.

‘Can I offer you a place in one of the carriages? You must be exhausted.’

‘That’s all right, Your Majesty. I wouldn’t want to put anybody out.’

‘He can use mine.’ It was Colonel Danilov who spoke. Aleksandr turned to see that he had emerged from his carriage, along with Wylie and Tarasov. ‘I prefer to ride.’

‘Thank you, Danilov. That’s agreed then,’ said the tsar. He began to climb back into his carriage. Ahead he noticed that the final horse had been harnessed to the carriage at the head of the train. ‘I think we’re about to be off,’ he announced. ‘Maskov, I’ll deliver you my responses to these in the morning.’

‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’

Aleksandr closed the carriage door and sat down. Within seconds he felt the wheels begin to turn. He closed his eyes, but the road beneath was too bumpy. He would have dearly loved the blessing of sleep.

On these roads, a carriage was not much more comfortable than a horse. Major Maskov could well understand Colonel Danilov’s eagerness to give up his seat for a junior officer and in other circumstances would have attempted to resist the offer. But this evening he was tired enough that even if he had been on a horse he might have fallen asleep, and thence fallen down on to the road. Dangerous, possibly, but the potential embarrassment, in front of His Majesty the tsar, was of far greater concern.

Maskov was eager to please the tsar, as would be anyone in his position. It was not just the fact that, if the tsar noticed him, it might bring him favour. A soldier who sought promotion would do better to flatter his immediate superiors than one who stood so far above him in the pecking order that he would not even remember Major Maskov in a couple of days. Far more important was that Maskov loved the tsar. It was a realization he had come to back in 1812, on a parade, the first time he had seen Aleksandr in the flesh. He had heard others speak of their love for their leader, but he had thought they were speaking figuratively, of a love for their country that was embodied in the tsar. But one look at that glorious, golden-haired young man had made him think differently. It was not a sexual love – Maskov’s wife and nine children back in Petersburg testified to that – it was almost akin to the love that a monk or a priest felt for God.

Many officers who had felt like Maskov – perhaps not as strongly – had come back from Paris disillusioned, but Maskov had been wounded at Borodino, and had never been to Paris. Today he still regarded Aleksandr in the same way so many had back in 1812. Now his view was in a declining minority, but he knew that he was right and they were wrong. The words ‘Well done, Major Maskov,’ as they issued from the tsar’s lips, had confirmed that to him. How could one so lofty, who still paid so much courtesy to the humblest of his minions, be anything but a great man? Maskov would follow him to the ends of the earth; he would obey any order the tsar cared to issue; would happily die for him.

Major Maskov began to doze, and visions of a battlefield appeared before his eyes. Aleksandr was seated on a white steed with Maskov, now a field marshal, mounted beside him. The sound of a cannon blast ripped the air and Maskov turned to see a cannonball bouncing across the field towards them. He launched himself from his horse and flew through the air in front of his tsar, catching the blow of the cannonball full in his chest as it splintered his ribcage into a dozen bloody fragments. But as he fell to the floor, life ebbing agonizingly from him, he felt Aleksandr’s strong arms cradling him and heard the cherished words, ‘Thank you, Maskov. You saved me.’

Now he was at a banquet, in a privileged position opposite Aleksandr. The tsar was about to drink, but Maskov knew with inescapable certainty that the goblet was poisoned. He reached out and grabbed it from the tsar’s hand, taking down the tainted wine in a single gulp and seeing white smoky vapour rise from his own lips as it seared his throat and corroded his body from within. Now he lay in his coffin as it was lowered slowly into the earth. He knew that he was dead, but he was happy to be dead as he looked up and saw Aleksandr at the head of the mourners, an expression of benevolent wisdom on his face and a tear in his eye. Shovelfuls of earth cascaded on to him, entombing him for ever, but even in death he smiled, hearing through the dirt and soil the muffled words, ‘Thank you, Maskov. You saved me.’

Major Maskov awoke with a start. He was not alone. He had not noticed the carriage come to a halt at any time, but somehow a passenger had got on board. He was stood on the seat opposite, with his back to Maskov, dragging down a bag from the rack above.

‘What the devil?’ muttered Maskov, still half asleep, his hand reaching for his sword.

The figure turned and jumped down to the floor of the carriage. At that very moment the carriage rocked sideways, its wheel bouncing over a large stone. The intruder landed badly, falling to one side and banging his shoulder against the door. Maskov was now on his feet, his sword drawn and at the man’s throat. He glanced back over to the seat and saw that there were already several bags on it, opened, their contents strewn about.

‘What do you think you’re doing, looking through Colonel Danilov’s things?’

‘What do you think you’re doing, sleeping in Colonel Danilov’s carriage?’

‘I’m the one with the sword,’ explained Maskov, ‘and so I’m the one who gets to ask the questions.’

The intruder looked at him ruefully, and seemed to accept his status. ‘He has something which belongs to me.’

‘I find that very unlikely.’ Maskov knew very little about Colonel Danilov – it had been a presumption that these were his bags – but it did well with this sort of vagabond to give a clear impression of authority. ‘How did you get on board?’

‘When you changed horses. I climbed on the back.’

‘And then planned to do your dirty work and be off while I was still asleep?’

‘No, I intended to kill you. I hope to get round to it.’

Maskov snorted. ‘Fine words. Now tell me, what was it amongst Colonel Danilov’s things that you were so interested in?’

‘It’s in there.’ The man nodded to one of the bags open on the seat. Maskov glanced into it. There was nothing but clothes. He poked around with his left hand, still keeping his sword pointed at his prisoner. At the bottom of the case he found a bottle of vodka. It was full.

‘There’s nothing there,’ he said.

‘May I?’ asked the intruder, making to stand up. Maskov decided to let him. He kept his sword close as the man delved into the case. As he watched, it occurred to him to wonder why, if what he was looking for was in one of the cases he had already searched, the thief had left it there and gone to search in other cases. But it was too late.

The man turned. From somewhere, he had produced a knife. His right forearm knocked Maskov’s sword aside and the knife in his left hand slashed across the major’s chest. But Maskov was no greenhorn. He stepped back just half a pace and the blade sliced through the air, missing his flesh and not even catching his clothes.

At that same moment though, the carriage jolted again, and Maskov’s deft movement became an uncontrolled lurch. His back slammed against the carriage door, which, loosened by the earlier impact, swung open. He braced himself against the doorway and managed to regain his balance, but in doing so, lost the grip on his sword. It fell out of the coach and bounced on its hilt, then its tip and then its hilt again, before finally coming to rest by the roadside.

Maskov’s attacker had closed on him. He slashed out with the knife again, aiming for Maskov’s fingers where they clutched the doorframe. Maskov snatched his arm away briefly and regained his grip only a hand’s width further up. The knife sliced into the wooden frame, scarcely missing his fingers. It was a game they could go on playing time after time; one that Maskov had only to lose once for him to be sent tumbling towards the road that hurtled past below him. But at least his luck might hold until someone saw what was happening.

The game, however, was not to be played like that. The intruder smiled to himself, as if reading Maskov’s thoughts. Then he lifted his hands, gripping the luggage racks on either side of the coach and raising himself into the air.

Two heavy, booted feet slammed into Maskov’s chest. He tried to maintain his grip, but the fingers of his left hand yielded. Without their support, his right hand could do nothing. He erupted from the carriage, turning to his left as he fell, gaining a better view of the road that sped both across his path and towards him. And yet the final thought to occupy his mind before his skull was dashed against the stony ground was not to consider his wife, his children or his prospects in the life eternal, but to worry that when the tsar stepped from his carriage and looked down on his lifeless corpse, Major Maskov would be wearing a muddy uniform.

CHAPTER XXII

MASKOV WAS NOT DEAD. THAT WAS DR TARASOV’S PROnouncement and, standing a little further away, Wylie could only defer to his opinion. The whole train had pulled up quickly when the alarm was raised, and it had only been a short run back to where the body lay.

‘Is there anything you can do?’ asked the tsar.

‘It looks grave,’ said Tarasov. Again, Wylie could only concur. There was blood all over the major’s face, and a concave impression in his skull, just in front of the right temple. But he was breathing, albeit in shallow, desperate gasps.

‘I put him in your care, Doctor,’ said Aleksandr. ‘Do whatever you can.’

‘What happened?’ asked Baron Diebich.

‘I was in the carriage behind him,’ explained the tsar. ‘My coachman and I both saw him fall. We called for them to stop.’

‘We hit a huge hole in the road,’ explained the driver of Maskov’s coach. ‘It must have been full of mud or clay – I didn’t see it. It knocked him clean out of the door.’

‘Unlikely.’ The voice belonged to Colonel Danilov, who had only just arrived at the scene.

‘It looks like it to me,’ said Wylie, but a glance at the colonel reminded him not to take what he said lightly. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing at what Danilov had in his hand.

‘It’s Maskov’s sword,’ he replied. ‘I found it back there; a long way back.’

Wylie instantly grasped the implication. Maskov had had reason to unsheathe his sword, and had lost possession of it some moments before he himself fell from the carriage.

Aleksei, Tarasov, Wylie and Diebich together lifted Maskov and manhandled him back into the coach, laying him on the floor between the two rows of seats. Aleksandr stood back, looking on with a mixture of concern and unease. Soon they had him in the coach, and Tarasov clambered in after.

‘It looks like the impact knocked down all the luggage too,’ he said, looking around at the mess inside. Danilov merely glanced at the chaos into which his own luggage had been hurled. He seemed more concerned with a minute inspection of the carriage’s doorframe.

Then the tsar spoke. ‘Let’s be on our way.’ Then he turned to the driver of Maskov’s coach, ‘And for God’s sake, man, drive more carefully.’ The coachman bowed his head in acknowledgement, happy to accept the unwarranted rebuke rather than face greater punishment.

Wylie made his way back to his own carriage and was about to remount when he felt a hand on his arm. It was Danilov.

‘I’m going back,’ he said.

‘Back?’ asked Wylie.

‘To Chufut Kalye.’

Wylie felt his own cheeks whiten at the implication. ‘But why?’

‘That was no accident.’

‘You can’t be certain.’

‘I saw a man,’ said Danilov sternly. ‘Running from the other side of the carriage. You were all distracted by Maskov.’

‘A bandit,’ asserted Wylie. ‘That’s no reason to go back.’

‘He was searching my bags – searching for the book. Do you still have it?’

Wylie reached into the carriage and picked up the notebook, still wrapped in paper, from where he had left it on the seat. ‘It’s here,’ he said. ‘It’s safe.’

Danilov took it from him, somewhat brusquely, and put it into his knapsack. ‘I’ll be back as quickly as I can,’ he said, and then turned, heading down the road, to where his horse was waiting.

‘It’s a wild goose chase!’ shouted Wylie after him, but he knew in his heart that Colonel Danilov was not a man to pursue shadows. A whip cracked, and he saw that Maskov’s coach was about to start moving. He held his hand out to stop it for a moment and went to the door. Inside, Tarasov was leaning over Maskov’s unconscious body, listening to his shallow breathing. He turned to Wylie and shook his head grimly.

But that was not the information Dr Wylie was here to obtain. Instead, he looked at the frame of the door, at the same spot which Danilov had found so fascinating – fascinating enough to send him all the way back to the citadel of Chufut Kalye.

It wasn’t much, but it was certainly new and clean enough that it could be connected with what had happened to Maskov. The wood had been cut away by a jagged knife. There were two notches, side by side, about the width of two fingers apart. The only thing of note about them was their alignment. They were perfectly parallel.

It would be their last night before getting back to Taganrog. Aleksandr could not tell if he felt better or worse. He had now consumed all the quinine that he had taken from Tarasov. It tasted foul. He had exaggerated it at lunch the other day, but it was still not pleasant. How could he know if his current frailty wasn’t due to the cure itself, rather than to the affliction he hoped it was addressing?

Orekhov was not a large town, but they had all been able to find accommodation. Beds were usually made available for the tsar and the whole of his retinue. If need be, lesser guests would be turfed out, awake or asleep, to make room. They would be happy to make such a sacrifice for their sovereign. And if they weren’t happy – well, then they hardly merited the comfort of a soft bed.

Tonight the man most in need of comfort was Maskov. Seeing him lying there on the muddy road, Aleksandr had felt a deep sympathy for him, of a kind that had not touched his heart for many years. Even so, he was no fool; he could see there was little hope for the major. But Tarasov would do his best, even if his prognosis was rose-tinted.

There was one thing the tsar himself could do for the man – not save his life, but at least give some slight purpose to it. He picked up the wad of dispatches. Regardless of Maskov, they would take Aleksandr’s mind off other matters. He sat down in front of the warming fire, wrapped in a robe. There was nothing of enormous interest in them. Despite what had happened at Chufut Kalye, his concern was the issue of potential revolution. Maskov had brought reports from many of the tsar’s sources in Petersburg, but none of them was as close to events as Colonel Danilov. Rationally, he would feel safer if Danilov were back in the capital, where he could feel at first hand the mood in the barracks. In his heart, it felt comfortable to have the colonel in his presence.

There was a knock at the door. Aleksandr glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece above the fire. It was just after midnight. It could only be bad news. He called out, and Dr Tarasov entered. Aleksandr could see Baron Diebich hovering in the background. He rose to his feet, perhaps faster than he had intended. He felt a moment of dizziness, but asked the question that seemed suddenly more urgent than any.

‘How is Maskov?’

Tarasov hesitated for a moment, but the tsar was not a man who needed to be shielded from bad news. ‘Dead, Your Majesty. His skull was split. I think he was probably dead when we got here.’

‘What a tragedy,’ replied the tsar. ‘I so pity the poor man.’ Aleksandr hoped it did not sound like a platitude. So much that he said was taken to be such, perhaps rightly. Aleksandr turned away from the doctor, afraid to show his face. He heard the door close as Tarasov left.

Aleksandr returned to his chair, dropping the dispatches to the floor beside him. There were so many other things he had wanted to say about Maskov, but none of them would sound sincere. What he really wanted to know was what in Heaven the Lord could have intended for Maskov. Why kill him in such an inconsequential manner? Could he not have died at home, bathed in the love of his family? There was nothing in the dispatches that was worth sacrificing a life to deliver – nor had Maskov died in attempting to deliver them; it had come later. It made God seem cruel, but Aleksandr knew enough to understand that, if he believed that, it was a fault in his own nature, not in the Lord’s. It was a fault that would take time to rectify – time and seclusion.

He felt a sudden pain in his stomach, a burning that spread out to his arms and legs. This was worse than anything he had experienced before, though each time the pattern was the same. Sometimes it began in his stomach, sometimes – he suspected – in his heart. He stood painfully and turned out the lamp on the table.

It was dark now, but he knew the way to the bed. He lay down, and the agony began to recede. His breathing slowed and he felt the sweat on his skin cool. The pain was not gone, but it was tolerable once again. Aleksandr knew it would return. Deep in that cave beneath Chufut Kalye, Cain had told him so.

Aleksandr opened his eyes. His body ached, but he could tell that the shaking he now felt was not caused by the convulsions of his own body, but by the coach itself. They were travelling more slowly now, partly out of consideration for the tsar’s delicate condition, but also with regard to the awful accident that had killed Major Maskov. They had buried him quietly in a cemetery in Orekhov, not very far from where he had fallen. The heavy local clay had been hard for the men to dig through. Aleksandr had begun a letter to his family, but had not been able to finish it before the fever had overcome him.

Aleksandr still felt cold, although he was sweating. They had piled blankets and furs over him, but it did little to help. His greatest fillip was that soon the journey would be over and they would be back in Taganrog, though he would hate for Yelizaveta to see him like this. He forced himself to sit up and look out of the window.

The view outside was very familiar. They were closer to home than he had imagined, though it was easy to lose sense of time as he slipped between consciousness and an unconsciousness that was sometimes sleep and sometimes a thing far deeper and more disturbing. They were already in the outskirts of Taganrog. He recognized some of the buildings, especially the churches. It would be less than a quarter of an hour now before they were home.

The coach turned on to the coastal road that ran along the length of the town, and Aleksandr immediately felt more comfortable. It was not as familiar a place as Petersburg, but it brought to him the same sense of contentment, with few of the pressures. Little had changed. Perhaps, if he thought carefully about it, he could notice that the leaves on the trees, golden when he left, had mostly fallen to the ground. It had been a gradual process, and one he had observed all through his journey. Even that one yacht was still anchored out to sea. He really should send someone over to see if its passengers were people of any note.

The ship had, he observed, moved a little since he had last seen it – of that he was sure, despite the numbness that seemed to grip his memory. It was unlikely there would be need for so small an adjustment to its position. Perhaps it too had made a sojourn that had coincided with the tsar’s own. Where might it have been, he wondered.

It did not matter. The carriage clattered to a halt and the door opened, revealing the kind but concerned face of Prince Volkonsky. Aleksandr forced himself to his feet and stepped down from the carriage, ignoring Volkonsky’s proffered arm for fear of showing weakness. In front and behind, the other carriages were disgorging their occupants, and he could see Wylie, Tarasov, Diebich and others stretching their limbs and appearing happy to be somewhere that was a little more like home. But turning his head anxiously from side to side, he confirmed that the one man he most desperately wanted to speak to was not with them. Colonel Danilov was nowhere to be seen.

CHAPTER XXIII

ALONE AND ON HORSEBACK, IT ONLY TOOK ALEKSEI FIVE DAYS to get back to Chufut Kalye. It was mid-afternoon when he finally made it to the cliff top. He noticed the weather cooling all through his journey back and, although there was still no snow, the place felt wintry. He saw groups of Karaite men talking in the streets, but he didn’t make contact with them. If a host of vampires had suddenly escaped the cave system beneath them, then the neighbours of those men might well have become an immediate source of nourishment. Aleksei didn’t feel inclined to stand there and look into their eyes if that had been the case. He made his way to the rocky hilltop from where he had first entered Iuda’s lair, over a week before. He scrambled down to the cave mouth and peeked inside.

It was not what he had expected – certainly not what he had seen the last time he was here. The tunnel was impassable. The roof had collapsed, and rocks filled the way. He could see a few small gaps, but none that would be enough for him to get through. He could possibly dig his way in, but he had no idea how deep the cave-in went. He traversed the hillside and found two other tunnels, similarly blocked. Others seemed passable, but it was a superficial appearance. One had caved in just a little further into the hillside, whereas two more were undisturbed but led nowhere, terminating naturally without ever connecting to the underground labyrinth Aleksei had explored.

It was all very contrived; only those tunnels which might have led deeper had collapsed – those that had never led anywhere were spared. These were not the results of some random earthquake. The question was, had the vampires, once they had fled their former prison, caused this collapse so as to bury all memory of what they had endured there? Or had the tunnel roofs given way with the voordalaki still inside, and now unable to escape?

Aleksei climbed back up to the rocky plane above. There was one way of finding out, though it was not guaranteed. He sat on a boulder and opened up his knapsack. Inside was the book. Aleksei’s initials were still there on the paper in which Kyesha had wrapped it before giving it to him in Moscow. It seemed like years ago. He folded a corner of the paper to one side, and the skin once again began to smoulder in the sunlight. He listened carefully. The wind was blowing strongly, and it was difficult to differentiate the sound of a scream from its whistling between the rocks.

He went over to the edge of the cliff, just above the tunnel he had gone down on his first visit, and pulled the paper aside again. This time he was sure he heard nothing. He got on to his hands and knees to be closer to the cave mouth, but still there was only silence. He knew, though, that there was more than one tunnel that led down to those cells, and any one of the openings around there could be an entrance.

He walked back towards the middle of the rocky plain. He was surrounded by caves now, the mixture of natural and artificial he had seen here before. He prepared to open up the book again, but he didn’t need to. From somewhere nearby, he heard a muffled cry. He looked around, trying to work out where the sound had come from, and it came again. It sounded almost like words rather than a holler of pain, but if it was, he could not make them out.

He ran in the direction from which he thought he’d heard the sound come. An outcrop of rocks stood up higher than the ground around them, by more than a man’s height. Aleksei skirted round them and saw that they were in fact the housing to the entrance of a large cave, shaped like a gaping mouth. There had been a rockfall here too. Aleksei could only guess that this collapse was as recent as all the others.

Again the shout came.

‘I’m here! I’m in here!’

Now it sounded close. It was definitely ahead of him; somewhere in, or behind, the jumble of boulders that filled the passageway. He scrambled down the short slope and began hefting the stones to one side. Some of the larger ones were immovable, but it did not matter too much; they were wedged at odd angles, leaving sizeable gaps in between. Aleksei tugged away at the rockfall, working opposite the point at which the voice called to him. He now clearly recognized it to be the tattooed voordalak.

It was almost twenty minutes before he caught his first glimpse of the creature, no more than a view of its eyes through a gap between two boulders, but it gave him new vigour. He saw one large stone towards the base of the pile that he thought he would be able to shift, and which, if he did, would free up a number of others. He put his hands around the rock, feeling for any crevice that might give him purchase, and knowing that his left hand would never grip it as strongly as his right. Then he pressed down against the ground with his feet, the muscles of his face and neck straining as he tried to pull the rock away.

At last it came, and as it did, Aleksei fell backwards. He didn’t see, but heard the rumble of collapsing stones as those around the rock he had pulled out cascaded in to take its place. He felt a sharp pain to his ankle and looked up to see it pinned under one large rock and several smaller ones. He sat up and tried to push it away, both with his hands and by moving his trapped leg. It was painful, but he quickly freed himself. He stood up and put weight on the injured ankle. He lifted it from the ground again almost immediately, wincing. He didn’t think it was broken, but it would take a few days before he could walk on it again without pain. He turned back to his work, and let out a gasp.

Aleksei’s efforts had revealed the tattooed skin with which he was familiar, but the figure of the voordalak to which it belonged was hard to discern. It had not occurred to Aleksei that being crushed was not one of the ways in which a vampire could die. Had this creature been human, it would not have survived its ordeal. An enormous weight of rocks had fallen on it – most were still there. Its head was trapped, as was one of its legs; the other was out of Aleksei’s sight, still buried in the mass of rocks behind, and must have been bent back at the most extraordinary angle. Another huge boulder pinned its chest to the ground, and moved up and down only slightly as the creature breathed. But its arms were now freed, and it began to use them to pick away the rocks that covered it. Even in its degenerate state, it was stronger than Aleksei, and cast aside rocks with a single arm that it would have taken a block and tackle for men to move.

‘Thank you,’ it said.

Aleksei hopped back up the slope, a little way away from the cave mouth, ostensibly to find a comfortable place to sit, but also wary now that the voordalak was almost free. It certainly needed no more of his assistance. It had freed its legs, and indeed every part of its body but for the head. It kicked out hard with both feet, sending a ripple through its body like an eel flicking its way through the water. Its body tugged against its head and popped it out of the grip of the rocks. It would have been agony for a human – probably fatal. It may have been agony for the vampire too, but it was expedient and would not kill it.

Now that Aleksei could see the creature’s entire body, he realized what a sorry state it was in. Voordalaki, he knew, healed quickly, and this one had had many days to recover from the initial damage done to it by the rocks pounding into its body. But the healing process had not been free to take its natural course, and had done its best within the strictures the fallen rocks forced upon it. The body had healed in much the same way that a limb set at the wrong angle will heal – rebuilt, but not in the form in which it had been originally created.

The creature’s left hand was relatively normal, but its right was bent back at the wrist, almost to a right angle. When it moved its fingers, the bones within its palm pushed forward and caused the skin to rise and fall in sympathy. One leg was shorter than it should have been, between the knee and the ankle, while the other – the one that had been bent back under the rocks, curved out in a huge bow. It must have been broken in over twenty places. The remarkable outcome was that the creature was able to stand with its feet side by side, but it left a gap so wide a child would have been able to climb through its legs.

Its chest was utterly concave, like a mixing bowl from a kitchen. Bone and flesh had not always re-formed in the correct order, and in places ribs could be seen erupting from the skin then submerging back under inches later. The skin itself was very thin, particularly on the left-hand side, and Aleksei could see the slight motion of a beating heart beneath it. Another huge dent was visible in the side of its head, almost reaching the eye. Aleksei was reminded of Major Maskov’s wound.

‘Aren’t you in pain?’ asked Aleksei.

‘Less than I was a moment ago, but I don’t think it’s going to get any better than this.’

‘Perhaps if… if your bones were broken again, they’d have a chance to heal more freely.’ Aleksei had not really considered the concept, and had spoken in some sense out of politeness, but the voordalak took on his suggestion.

It placed its right hand on a large, flat rock and then raised a smaller stone in the other, smashing it down on its upturned fingers. It made a slight grunt as the stone impacted, but the sound was drowned by a horrible crunching as its finger bones were smashed. It lifted its hand and shook it vigorously, as a man would on trapping his fingers in a door. At first Aleksei could see the crushed bones wobbling loosely, but even as he looked they stiffened and the hand opened like a flower to reveal itself once again in its proper form – or close enough.

The voordalak inspected its new hand, looking first at the back, then the front.

‘Thank you, again,’ it said. ‘Though I’ll leave the rest for later.’ It sat on a rock and looked at Aleksei. It was still just inside the cave. The sun had not yet set, and it would not dare venture further out.

‘What happened?’ asked Aleksei.

‘Cain,’ it replied simply.

‘I thought you had him at your mercy.’

‘That was your mistake – and ours. He had assistance.’

Aleksei was surprised, though he knew he should not have been. Iuda would have been a fool not to have someone watching his back. ‘Where were they hiding?’ he asked.

‘Hiding?’ The creature laughed humourlessly. ‘There was no need to hide. You saw for yourself.’ Aleksei said nothing, nor did he understand. ‘One of our own number – Raisa Styepanovna.’

‘Her? But she hated him as much as the rest of you.’

‘It seems not. Somehow he had persuaded her that he would find a way of letting her see herself in a mirror. Perhaps he can – though God knows what she’ll see. She’d been on his side all along.’

‘What did she do?’

‘Once I’d released everyone, we all converged on the main chamber, where you’d left Cain surrounded. He was trying to talk the creatures in there into going back to their cells. They were weak-willed, and he might have done it, but the rest of us were not so easy to assuage. We stood there watching him, saying nothing, except me. All I did was read out the time from the clock, every five minutes, counting the remainder of his life before the sun set and he lost its protection.

‘None of us noticed that Raisa Styepanovna had made her way over to his desk – and why should we care about it if we had? But suddenly she pulled on some rope or lever, and the whole room was flooded with sunlight – not even flooded, it was cleverer than that. There were wide corridors of light that surrounded pools of shadow. Only a few of us were caught so quickly as to be killed, most recoiled into the shade, just where Cain wanted us. Raisa had opened a whole set of curtains that let in sunlight in the exact pattern required – the point at which she stood remained safely unilluminated. Cain must have planned for the eventuality long before.’

‘It relied on Raisa Styepanovna – he was lucky she was there to save him.’ Even as he spoke, Aleksei realized how Iuda had tricked him into releasing the other prisoners, safe in the knowledge that one of them would be his rescuer.

‘Perhaps,’ said the vampire, ‘but even if she had not been there he would have found a way. It was less than ten paces to his desk. He might have made it and released the mechanism himself before we got to him.’

Another realization hit Aleksei as he listened. This was not the only part Raisa Styepanovna had played in recent events. Kyesha had told him it was she who had revealed the location of Iuda’s notebook, and the other information he had needed to contact Aleksei. Perhaps Kyesha’s entire escape had been contrived, and with only one purpose – to bring Aleksei to Chufut Kalye.

‘What happened then?’ he asked.

‘Cain and Raisa discussed what to do. They were considering whether they would be able to round us all up and put us back in our cells, but they decided it would be impossible. Cain said it was time to move on. He lit a taper and disappeared with it down one of the tunnels. She stayed behind, taunting us, telling us that hers was the last beauty we would ever look upon. Cain soon returned. He picked up his notebooks and some other bits and pieces, and they left together. It was difficult for her to pick her way through, always keeping in the shadows. She caught her hand once and let out a scream as the skin burned, but it was nothing. I’ve had worse from you reading that damned book.’

Aleksei couldn’t help but smile at the creature’s stoicism, but he didn’t interrupt the story.

‘They headed off down the tunnel and we waited. Some were unconcerned, saying it would be dark soon, but others knew Cain better. There was a fear that he somehow had worked out a way of flooding the entire cavern with light, but it seemed unlikely. Even if he had, there were plenty of places we could have sheltered until sunset. But that wasn’t his plan. As soon as I heard the first explosion, I realized what he was up to. I knew there wasn’t much time. I ran for all I was worth in the direction they’d gone, dodging the light as much as I could, but it was impossible to avoid it completely. I felt the burns, but they didn’t slow me – it’s something I’m used to.

‘I was only just out of the main chamber when the roof behind me collapsed. There were several routes out, but some of them were blocked already. Again, he’d had it all planned – gunpowder packed into crevices in the rock, primed to entomb us and let him walk free, should the need arise. I came up this way. I didn’t know what I was going to do. It was still light outside, so it was either be entombed or burned. In the end, the choice was made for me. There was an explosion above my head and down came the roof, and that’s where I’ve been for – however long it is.’

‘Ten days,’ said Aleksei.

‘It seemed longer.’

‘What about Raisa? Wouldn’t she be in the same boat as you – unable to escape into the sunlight?’

‘Who knows? What would Cain care, anyway? If she was lucky there was some bit of cave she could shelter in until dark. If not – you won’t find any remains.’

‘You reckon it’s completely sealed?’

‘If that’s what Cain intended, then he’ll have achieved it. There were only five routes in and out, plus those gaps where the light came in from the cliff. It wouldn’t take much gunpowder. Some of it was shored up anyway. It wasn’t safe at first. We helped him build it!’

‘I know,’ said Aleksei, recalling what Kyesha had told him. ‘So what will happen to the others? Can’t they dig their way out?’

‘If they were going to, they should have done it by now. They’ll grow weaker every day. There’s not much food supply in there.’

‘Not much? What do you mean?’ Aleksei was aware that his mind was working slowly, but even as he realized the only possible implication of what the voordalak had said, it was spelled out for him.

‘We weren’t just vampires in those cells. He had to feed us. I think there were seven humans in all. You saw three of them. Didn’t you know?’

Aleksei jumped to his feet, ignoring the pain in his ankle. His hands covered his face and he felt cold. He’d seen them there, two men and a woman. That was why they’d had vegetables to eat – not as an experiment to see what nourishment a voordalak could survive on, but to provide a food supply for the subjects of Iuda’s other experiments. And the man and the woman had been together. Did Iuda see them as breeding stock – not themselves to feed to those creatures, but to provide future generations that could be? Now, entombed, there would not be food enough for the humans to last more than a few weeks. There would be no prospect of their producing children to follow them in their fate. But those few weeks that drew their lives to a close would be indescribably vile. And Aleksei had seen them – opened their cage with the intent of letting them out, but with the effect of letting their tormentors in.

He turned away and vomited, spasms racking his body as he came to understand what he had done. He had been lulled, by Kyesha’s charm, by his own pity for each voordalak he had seen suffering some monstrous fate, and by Iuda’s guile. He had made the mistake of judging any of them by human standards. Kyesha could smile and smile and be a villain. The imprisoned voordalaki could suffer what they had and still it would not make up for the very first meal they ever took in their altered existence. And Iuda? Iuda had played him for a prostak, just like he always did. Iuda had summoned him down to the Crimea, and Aleksei had trotted there with willing obedience. What Iuda’s ultimate intent might be was as yet unclear, but for the moment it would be enough for him simply to toy with Aleksei.

There was nothing left for Aleksei’s stomach to yield. He turned back to the voordalak that still lurked in the shadows of the cave. The sun had not yet set, but the moon was already visible – almost full – in the east. Aleksei had not killed one of these creatures for many years, but before the night was out, he would. But there was much to be learned before that.

‘And when those seven have given all they can, your kin will starve to death anyway,’ he said. ‘Pointless, don’t you think?’

‘They may starve,’ the voordalak replied, ‘but they won’t die. They will weaken, become unable to move, unable to speak. If they conserve their energy, they may last a little longer. Eventually they’ll become insensible to what’s going on around them, perhaps indistinguishable to you from a rigid corpse. But dead? No. It is not a pleasant fate.’

‘One which you all willingly chose,’ muttered Aleksei.

‘True. And few do not learn to regret it.’

‘Do you regret it?’ asked Aleksei, clambering sideways across the slope before sitting back down. He felt the comforting hardness of his wooden sword, hidden under his greatcoat, as it pressed into his armpit.

‘Half an hour ago, I think I did. Now, I do not.’

The urge to kill rose in Aleksei, and he decided it was time to draw the conversation to a close. He asked the question head on.

‘What did Cain have in store for Tsar Aleksandr?’

‘To make him into one of us.’ It was said with a simple coldness.

‘There was the blood of a vampire in that wine?’

‘That was the rumour, but who other than Cain would know the truth?’

‘And how would it work?’ asked Aleksei. ‘Even if Aleksandr had drunk the wine, he was never bitten by a vampire. Doesn’t that have to happen first?’

The voordalak nodded thoughtfully. ‘I have always believed so,’ he said. ‘But there was one thing that Cain said in explanation of that.’

‘Which was?’

‘“It’s in the blood.”’ The creature shrugged its shoulders as it spoke.

‘“It’s in the blood”?’ Aleksei’s question accurately revealed his lack of understanding.

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Already in the blood?’ asked Aleksei. ‘Is that what he meant?’

‘I can only tell you what he said. You must trust me on that.’ He smiled, much as Aleksei might have sneered, at the idea of trust between them. ‘We’re like Androcles and the lion, you and I,’ he said, as if changing the subject.

‘I take it I’m Androcles,’ replied Aleksei. He doubted he would get more on the matter that interested him.

‘Exactly. And I am the beast towards whom you showed not fear, but mercy. The thorn in my paw was enslavement. You freed me of it. I should show you eternal gratitude.’

Aleksei considered. Theirs was a version of the tale that had never been told. Androcles finally faced the lion at the Roman games. Would it remember the benevolence shown it, and spare the gladiator, or revert to its animal state, and devour him? In no variant of the story had it been Androcles who saw the error of his ways, who realized that a lion cannot change its true nature, and that though it might spare the life of one man to whom it owed a debt, it would still prey on every other creature whose path it crossed and devour them without mercy. Aleksei would be the wise Androcles, who before the cheering crowd plunged his sword between the beast’s shoulderblades, ignoring the look of betrayal in its face and thinking only of the lives it had taken and the lives it would have taken if not stopped.

He reached beneath his coat and felt the handle of the wooden sword. The creature was weak and hungry; now was the time to strike.

‘And I do feel grateful,’ said the voordalak. Aleksei wondered if it had guessed his reasoning and was about to beg for mercy. ‘But I prefer a story from Aesop to that of Androcles.’ It stood and took a few paces towards Aleksei. The sun had now set, and there was no restriction on its movements. ‘You know the one, about the scorpion who begs a ride across a river on a frog’s back. The frog is afraid the scorpion will sting it, but the scorpion explains it would be a fool to do so, because it would drown too. And so they set off across the river, and of course the scorpion stings the frog and the frog begins to sink. And as they both face death the frog gasps, “Why? Why did you sting me when it means your own death?” The scorpion – itself drowning – makes a simple reply. “I’m a scorpion; it’s my nature.”’

‘I know the story,’ replied Aleksei, tensing himself for action.

‘Well,’ said the tattooed voordalak, ‘I am a vampire. And I’m hungry.’ It looked almost sad as it spoke. ‘It’s my nature.’

As the creature spoke, it launched itself at Aleksei. He was ready for it, and yet still he was too slow. He was getting old. He felt its weight push him backwards, and his head banged against the stony ground behind him. His hand was still inside his coat – as though he had become a portrait of Napoleon – grasping the sword but pinned there by his attacker’s weight. He felt the strange shape of the creature’s body pressed against his – the arcing leg, the hollow chest – but none of those deformities served to hinder it. Its teeth had suffered no malformation. Its mouth gaped wide open as its eyes gazed lasciviously at Aleksei’s throat.

Aleksei grunted as the wind was knocked out of him, but the creature chose to hear the sound as a question.

‘You ask why after what I’ve already told you? Well, why not? And there’s one thing you’ve forgotten, three-fingered man; we’re already across the river.’

Its hand descended and pushed Aleksei’s head to one side, stretching his neck in readiness. All Aleksei could see was the monster’s heart pumping faster, its blood blue through a thin membrane of skin which its deformed regrowth had created. He felt its hands squeeze tighter as its fangs descended, and saw the heart beat faster still. Despite everything that whirled through his mind, he tried to concentrate, to ensure that in death his thoughts were only of the things he loved. He saw in front of him a happy scene. He was at its centre. Cradled in his left arm was Tamara, too big to be held like that now, but still happy to be picked up by her father. On his right stood Domnikiia, her hand on his chest and her beaming smile directed towards the child they both loved; had together created.

The image was ripped in two, and Aleksei felt the weight pressing down on him relax. The voordalak had turned its head to see what attacked it, but it was too late. The heart stopped beating and the skin through which it had been visible was ruptured. Aleksei saw the tip of a wooden blade, much like his own, disappear back into the body above him with a slurp that faded in an instant as the creature’s flesh began to desiccate in a way with which Aleksei was entirely familiar and wished he had had the chance to see more often over the past weeks. He closed his eyes and mouth to stop the powdered decay of the vampire’s body from in any way infiltrating his. He listened for the sound of tumbling ashes to cease, but his consciousness was instead assailed by a voice that was inescapably recognizable.

‘That story’s not from Aesop.’

Aleksei opened his eyes. It was Iuda. The wooden stake he had used was cast on the ground beside him. Now he had in one hand his familiar double-bladed knife, and in the other a pistol. The latter was aimed at Aleksei’s head.

‘Why didn’t you let him kill me?’ asked Aleksei.

‘Why should I?’

‘You were happy enough for me to be torn apart by creatures like that last time we met.’

Iuda smiled and glanced away from Aleksei, as if embarrassed. ‘Yes, well, you did rather take me by surprise that time, Lyosha, I have to admit. It was you or me, and I think we can both guess which one I’d choose. In this case, it was you or him. I think the decision is almost as obvious.’

Aleksei was more interested in the idea of Iuda being surprised than in his self-serving attempts at flattery. ‘You made sure Kyesha would have enough to tempt me here… how can you not have been expecting me?’

‘Aleksei Ivanovich, I really don’t know what you are talking about. Now lie down and hold your hands out behind you.’ He waggled the gun in Aleksei’s direction with enough menace to induce his compliance. He placed his booted foot on Aleksei’s back before tucking the pistol under his elbow and bringing from his pocket a length of rope. ‘As far as I knew, you were happily ensconced in Moscow screwing that whore of whom you seem so fond.’ He slipped a loop of the rope over Aleksei’s proffered wrists. ‘Sorry, nanny – must keep with the times.’ He jerked the rope tight.

‘Don’t take me for a fool, Iuda,’ said Aleksei, ignoring the comments about Domnikiia. ‘I know that it was Raisa Styepanovna who told Kyesha where to find your notebook.’ The real relief was that Iuda had made no mention of Tamara.

‘Kyesha?’ asked Iuda, looping another coil of rope around Aleksei’s wrists and tying it tight, before pulling on it to bring him to his feet. ‘Stand up, would you?’

‘The vampire who stole your notebook.’

‘Oh – him! You know, Aleksei, I think you’re about the only person I’ve met in this godforsaken backwater who can manage to live his life passing himself off under just one name.’ He dragged Aleksei along by the rope, forcing him to walk backwards. ‘Did I say Aleksei? I meant Lyosha – though I think I’ve just ruined my own point.’

‘Whatever his name, you know who I mean.’ The rough cord cut into Aleksei’s wrists. He saw little point in resisting Iuda’s movement.

‘I do. I do. But let me assure you, his theft of my notebook was quite a surprise. And you say Raisa Styepanovna helped him? There’s a woman who’s not to be trusted, if ever there was one.’

‘And I’m supposed to believe that?’ The rope was made of long, coarse strands, unlike anything Aleksei was familiar with. He suspected it might be horsehair.

‘No, no. I’d much prefer it if you were to believe I planned the whole thing and lured you here. I’m happy you think I’m up to it. The problem is, it all makes me look quite the fool when you interrupt just at my moment of triumph over Aleksandr Pavlovich. Sit down.’

They had reached the edge of a patch of bushes and a few small trees. Aleksei sat with his back to a tree trunk, as Iuda indicated.

‘And how were you to triumph over His Majesty?’ asked Aleksei.

‘Clever stuff, Lyosha, but let me assure you, on this occasion, you are going to live. Therefore I am not going to reveal my plans to you, safe in the knowledge that you will take them to the grave. Let go of your bag.’

Aleksei’s bag had been tucked under his bound arms as they walked across the hilltop. He still had just enough movement to drop it on to the ground beside him.

‘Why don’t you just kill me?’ he asked.

‘I take it,’ said Iuda, picking up the stray end of the rope and taking it with him around the tree, ‘that that is a question rather than a plea, and so I shall answer it with another. Why should I kill you?’

‘Why else did you go to such effort to tempt me here?’ Aleksei felt the rope tight across his chest as Iuda came out from behind the tree and began another lap.

‘Believe me, Lyosha, none of that was my doing.’ He emerged again and went over to Aleksei’s knapsack. ‘If I had wanted you to get hold of my notebook, why do you think I’ve subsequently been making so much effort to get it back? Why do you think I killed that gentleman who happened to be travelling in your carriage? Why do you think I then followed you back here? Why do you think I’m now doing this?’

He reached into Aleksei’s bag and pulled out the notebook. It looked different somehow.

‘Oh, dear!’ said Iuda, with an air of disappointment. He blew on the cover of the book and a cloud of dust scurried in Aleksei’s direction, only to be quickly dispersed in the air. The fine voordalak-skin binding of the book was no more. All that remained was dull, grey card. Iuda glanced back in the direction of the cave mouth, where he had so recently reduced one of his former prisoners to a similar state of desiccation. ‘I knew there was a reason I’d kept that one alive,’ he said.

He opened up the book and pored over its contents, occasionally nodding as he was reminded of some vital point. It was a full five minutes before he looked back up from it and spoke to Aleksei.

‘Do you believe me now?’ he asked. ‘This evening, I admit, I was expecting you. More than that – I’d followed you. But I have no reason to kill you.’

‘Do you need a reason?’

He smiled, as if caught out for being excessively modest. ‘Perhaps not, but I also have a reason not to.’

‘Which is?’

‘There is something I want you to find out – and I’d hate you to go to your grave without ever discovering it.’

‘So tell me now,’ said Aleksei, unsure why he should be attempting to hasten his own death.

‘I’m afraid you’d never believe me,’ said Iuda, mournfully. ‘That is my curse. But for now, I have the two things I require.’

‘Two things?’ said Aleksei.

‘These notes,’ said Iuda, holding up the battered notebook, ‘and this head start.’

He turned and ran into the darkness. Within moments, he had disappeared from view.

CHAPTER XXIV

MUCH AS HE DESIRED IT, ALEKSANDR KNEW HE COULD NOT shun the responsibilities of his position any longer. Across the room from him sat Volkonsky, and with him, two less familiar faces: Baron Frederiks, the military commander in Taganrog, and Colonel Nikolayev, who was in charge of the troop of Don Cossacks which guarded the tsar’s residence. He had hoped that Danilov would be here too, but he’d been away for almost a week. Dr Wylie said he was due back soon, but the tsar could wait no longer.

‘And when do you plan to reach Petersburg, Baron?’ he asked.

‘A little over a month from now, Your Majesty; certainly before the end of the year.’

Aleksandr squeezed his lower lip and considered what might come to pass in that space of time.

‘I can easily find a courier,’ added the baron, ‘if your despatches are more urgent.’

‘No,’ said the tsar firmly. ‘Certainty is more important than speed. I need them to go with a man I can trust.’

‘You can certainly trust me, Your Majesty.’

‘And me,’ added Colonel Nikolayev.

‘You will ensure that Baron Frederiks completes his journey safely?’ asked the tsar.

‘I would die rather than fail in my duty,’ said Nikolayev.

‘There shouldn’t be any need for that,’ said Aleksandr. He had hardly heard what the colonel had said. He examined the packages in front of him. There were five of them, mostly addressed to various ministers and generals who worked in the capital. It was the envelope on the top of the pile that was of most importance to him. He handed the other four over to Frederiks.

‘These are to be opened immediately upon receipt,’ he said.

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ replied the baron.

Aleksandr held the final envelope in his hands. He looked at the name on the front, written in his own handwriting:

Nikolai Pavlovich

‘This is for my brother,’ he said with sudden resolution, passing it to the baron. He had thought of addressing it to ‘Kolya’, and of signing it ‘Sasha’. Those were the names they had always called each other by, face to face, but today it didn’t seem appropriate. ‘But remember, he is only to open it in the event of my death.’

‘I might as well burn it now, and save the trouble,’ said Frederiks.

‘I don’t recall suggesting that it was to be opened in the near future, Baron,’ said Aleksandr icily. ‘But my brother is nineteen years my junior, so the time will come.’ He knew as he spoke that the time might come sooner than any of them thought. ‘Now is there anything more?’ he asked.

There was a general shaking of heads. The tsar rose to his feet and the others followed suit. Soon he was left alone. He raised his hands to his face and fell back into a chair, sucking in lungfuls of air. The shaking returned; he had managed to contain it throughout the meeting, but the effort had exhausted him. Now it took him over completely.

At least he had done what needed to be done. That letter to Nikolai explained everything – well, not everything, but enough. Even so, there was something else he had meant to include with the papers; something he couldn’t remember. It concerned Colonel Danilov; a commendation perhaps? Aleksandr could not recall.

Another spasm of pain racked his body. He struggled out of the chair and tugged on the bell cord. The effort exhausted him and he collapsed into the chair, with but one thought on his mind: Wylie would be here soon – Wylie would help.

The coach rattled to a halt and the door opened. The starets climbed up inside. The tsaritsa sat alone. Her face was veiled, but she was easy to recognize. The starets had sent a note asking her to meet him here. He had known she would not fail to attend. She feared for her husband – and in that fear she would do anything to save him.

‘Father, how did you know?’ she asked as soon as the carriage had begun moving again.

He raised a finger to silence her. ‘First, we pray,’ he said.

They spoke in unison, as they had done before. ‘Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy upon me, a sinner.’

There was a moment’s silence after the prayer was finished, but Yelizaveta Alekseevna could not contain herself for long. ‘You said it in your letter – how did you know my husband was ill?’

Should he claim to have heard it from above, the starets wondered. He decided against it. It might add sway to his authority, but a simpler answer would be more effective.

‘Who could not know?’ he replied. ‘This is a small town and he is the tsar. Even my ears are not immune to rumour.’

‘But you said you could help.’

‘It is not only I who can help – prayer is available to all of us.’

He could not see her face, but the way her head dropped revealed her disappointment. She had been hoping for something a little more temporal.

‘Your letter suggested…’ She could not finish her sentence.

‘There are certainly other things that can be done,’ said the starets, ‘but none will have any effect unless we open our hearts to God and ask that He ensures their success. Can you do that?’

The tsaritsa nodded. ‘You know I can. I must.’

The starets paused for a moment. The approach he was about to suggest was outside what would be considered his realm. ‘There are preparations that can be administered – blessed by the Lord – that can be of great efficacy.’

‘Medicines? My husband has two doctors with him day and night. There can be little they have not tried.’

‘They are like all men of science – they place too much reliance on what they have observed and too little on what they have been told. Who was it that created your husband’s body?’

‘I… I don’t understand.’

‘Who created all our bodies?’ The starets’s voice was raised.

‘The Lord God,’ whispered Yelizaveta.

‘And so whom would you most trust to care for them – a man who has studied for a few decades, or the Lord, who knows everything?’

‘The Lord,’ she said.

‘It is your faith in the Lord that will heal your husband. The remedy I give you will merely be a conduit for that faith.’

‘May I take it?’ Her voice was eager, as was to be expected.

‘I do not have it with me. Such a treatment takes time to prepare.’

‘Perhaps Dr Tarasov already has some. Do you have a name for it?’

‘No!’ said the starets firmly. ‘Doctors are proud of their learning – too proud. It makes them jealous of the greater knowledge of others. They would never allow it.’

‘I will not tell them,’ she said.

‘Good. It will not take me long to prepare it. I will contact you again when I have.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

‘Now stop the coach, if you please.’

She banged on the carriage ceiling with the tip of her cane, and their rocking motion came to a halt. As the starets was about to climb down, she reached forward, grabbing his hand and bringing it to her lips to kiss. He let her hold it there for a few moments before pulling it gently away.

‘You have great faith, my child,’ he said. ‘Your husband will thank you.’

He stepped out of the coach and closed the door, watching it rattle off into the distance before turning and continuing on his way.

It was a thing of beauty. Aleksandr had never really noticed before – he had thought of it as just a tool – but some craftsman had poured his soul into its creation. The handle was of nacre. It shone warmly in the early morning light, the band of gold around its middle glinting as it caught the sun. The handle was capped with more gold, shaped into the form of a helmet, its plume intricately carved, to no practical purpose. The base of the handle, again wrapped in gold, was where the blade was pivoted. The blade itself was exquisite. It was steel, but shone almost as brightly as the gold leaf embossed into its side. It had been well cared for – not by Aleksandr himself, but by Anisimov, his valet. The gold leaf was patterned with curlicues, but again they were mere decoration – perhaps even a distraction.

It was the edge of the blade itself that fascinated Aleksandr the most. He had used it – or one like it – every day since he had first become a man, but he had never stopped to consider it until now. It was a marvel how something so straight, so narrow, could be so unutterably sharp. A saw was serrated to make it cut more effectively, as were many blades, but a razor was different. Its acuteness lay in its simplicity. He rested his thumb against the edge of the blade, with only the slightest force. He could feel it pressing against his skin, but that did not convey to him how it really felt. With any other item, to feel was to caress, to run one’s fingers over the object and experience not just one static sample of its texture but to feel how it moved, how it interacted with the skin.

But with a razor, that could never be. If he moved his thumb just slightly, one way or the other, then his skin would not sense its texture, but be ripped through by it. It was King Midas, never to touch but that it destroyed what it touched. He pressed a little harder with his thumb, daring himself to draw blood, though the very idea of it repelled him. He moved his thumb away, holding the razor once again by the handle, and began to sharpen it against the strop.

His face was already lathered. He raised the edge to his cheek and scraped it slowly downwards, revealing a swathe of smooth, pale skin. He flicked the razor and a mound of lather landed in the sink. He returned it to his face and repeated the action again and again until his cheeks were clear. Then he raised his head and began to shave his neck, starting on the left and moving round to the right.

He took a sharp intake of breath as the blade curved round the tip of his chin. He looked at himself in the mirror. There it was, beneath his lower lip, a smudge of red that grew into a droplet as his heart continued in its task of pumping, unaware that it was forcing the blood so vital to it out of the tsar’s body. The droplet became too large to support itself and plunged downwards. Aleksandr would have sworn he heard it as it splashed on to the porcelain of the sink and splattered in a hundred directions. He looked down, gazing at his own blood. Another drop dripped from his chin and into the bowl.

He felt a knot in his stomach, a revulsion at the sight of blood – his own blood – that he had never felt before. But the feeling quickly changed. It was still located in his stomach, but the sensation was now one of hunger. He licked his lips and stared down at the red droplets that glistened against the white porcelain. He reached out with his finger to scoop one up, but then stopped as he noticed his own reflection gazing back at him, tinted with red. His bald forehead was familiar, but he looked old – as old as he felt. He frowned and touched his upper lip with his fingers. There was nothing there, but in his reflection, he could clearly see a long moustache of dark, iron grey.

The nausea returned and the room around him began to swirl.

His eyes flicked open suddenly. It was morning and – though he could not see it – the sun was high. Now should be the hour of his deepest slumber, but the passenger of R zbunarea felt awake and vibrant. The sides and lid of the coffin squeezed in tight around him, but it did not matter. He did not need to rise in order to enjoy the experience – it was not his experience anyway, but a stolen one, taken from a mind linked, however weakly, to his own.

Within moments, the sensation faded. The pain to his chin was inconsequential. The blood was of more interest, but he was old, and perhaps becoming jaded. Blood was commonplace.

What was of significance was that he had experienced anything at all. Until then, there had been nothing. When he had urged the tsar, from the prow of R zbunarea, to visit Chufut Kalye, he had sensed no response. When he had imagined himself above the caves, guiding Aleksandr down into them, he had had only his imagination to see that what he had asked had been done.

But now, with the blood that was already in Aleksandr, and with the shock of the blood that had left his body, a connection had been made. It had not lasted long, but that would come. Aleksandr was alive, and that could only heighten the resistance of his mind. Soon things would be different.

Aleksei arrived at the palace in the midst of uproar. He saw the back of Tarasov’s heel as it disappeared in the direction of the tsar’s rooms. Volkonsky was in close pursuit. Aleksei joined the chase and soon found himself in Aleksandr’s bedchamber. There was a small crowd gathered around the washstand, and Tarasov pushed his way through. Aleksei stepped into the gap and saw for the first time what had attracted so much attention.

The tsar lay on his back on the floor. His head was being cradled by his valet, Anisimov. There was blood on the tsar’s chin, but it was no more than a smear; blood loss was certainly not the cause of his collapse.

‘What happened?’ demanded Volkonsky.

‘His Majesty cut himself whilst shaving,’ said Anisimov, almost whimpering. ‘He fainted. I didn’t catch him in time.’

‘Did he hit his head?’ asked Tarasov.

‘I don’t think so,’ replied Anisimov. ‘Not hard.’

Dr Stoffregen – the tsaritsa’s personal physician – arrived and knelt down beside the prostrate figure. He looked over the tsar briefly, then began to rub eau de cologne into his forehead and temples.

‘Too late. Too late,’ moaned a voice quietly in Aleksei’s ear. It was Wylie. The sight of his patient in so weakened a condition had sent him into a panic.

‘Get him on to the bed,’ shouted Aleksei. The command had some effect, and those around him began to lift the tsar off the floor.

At that moment, the tsaritsa arrived. Aleksei had scarcely seen her move from her own rooms since arriving in Taganrog. Stoffregen immediately stepped away from Aleksandr and went to her side. Fortunately, there were enough others around to take the tsar’s weight, and soon they had him on the bed.

‘Stand back! Let him breathe!’ ordered Tarasov. The crowd moved away from the bed. The tsar groaned and threw his head from side to side. Then he became calmer, and his eyes flickered half open. The tsaritsa went to him. Tarasov and Wylie stood in quiet discussion. First Aleksei then Volkonsky joined them.

‘What can you do for him?’ asked Volkonsky.

‘I would suggest leeches,’ said Tarasov.

‘You want to let his blood?’ asked Aleksei, aghast.

‘It’s a standard medical practice.’

Volkonsky nodded. ‘I’ll ask him,’ he said. He went over to the bed and bent down to speak in the tsar’s ear.

‘Send them to the devil!’ Aleksandr’s answer was loud and forthright. He stared over at Wylie and Tarasov as he rejected their advice, but within seconds the effort was too much, and his head fell back on the pillow.

‘What he needs is a spiritual physician,’ said the tsaritsa.

‘I think what he also needs is a little peace and quiet,’ said Volkonsky softly and out of the tsaritsa’s earshot, although the remark was not directed at her. It was sound advice. The room began to clear, leaving only Tarasov, Stoffregen and Yelizaveta inside.

‘Cain is not dead,’ announced Aleksei. It was more than an hour since he had arrived back at Taganrog, and the first opportunity he had had to speak to the two doctors alone.

‘What?’ gasped Wylie. ‘How do you know?’

Aleksei told them the story, or what they needed to know of it, from his return to Chufut Kalye up to Iuda’s departure, though he avoided ever using that name.

‘But you escaped,’ commented Tarasov, stating the obvious.

‘Cain wanted me to escape,’ stated Aleksei bitterly. ‘He said that he wanted a head start, and that’s what he meant. I was released at dawn, giving him a little over twelve hours’ lead on me. He wants to ensure that I witness his victory.’

‘Released?’ said Tarasov. ‘So he had an accomplice?’

Aleksei glanced over at Wylie and saw a knowing smile on the Scotsman’s face. ‘I don’t think he needed one, did he?’

‘Did he mention it in his notebook?’ asked Aleksei.

‘Not specifically,’ replied Wylie, ‘but he did speculate on the endless uses to which the by-products of a vampire’s body might be put.’

‘By-products?’ said Tarasov. ‘Like the skin on the book, you mean?’

‘Or the hair on the head. I’m right, am I not, Colonel Danilov?’

‘Entirely,’ said Aleksei, quietly impressed at Wylie’s perspicacity. ‘The rope was made from the hair of a voordalak. At dawn, when the sun hit it, it just burned away.’ He held out his hands, palms up, and showed them the charred skin where the rope had been in contact with his wrists. It still itched.

‘And where do you think Cain is now?’ asked Tarasov.

Aleksei looked around, almost fearing that his answer would be even more literal than he meant it to be. ‘Here,’ he said simply.

‘In Taganrog? But why?’

‘Because of the Romanov Betrayal.’

‘And what is that?’

‘That’s something that only His Majesty can tell us.’

‘And will he?’ demanded Wylie.

‘He’ll have to,’ replied Aleksei, ‘eventually.’

‘He’s asked for a priest.’

Tarasov looked ashen as he spoke. It was a little after five the following morning, and few of them had got much sleep.

‘Is it as bad as that?’ asked Volkonsky.

‘He seems to think so.’

‘I’ll go fetch Father Fyodotov,’ said Diebich, who had been waiting outside the tsar’s room with the rest of them. He marched out swiftly.

‘I don’t understand it,’ whispered Aleksei to Wylie, who sat beside him. ‘There’s been no sign of Cain, but still the tsar’s condition worsens.’

‘Perhaps whatever Cain gave him in the cave was enough,’ suggested Wylie.

‘Then why did Cain need his book? There was something more he planned to do. He’s not done it, and yet still Aleksandr is dying.’

Wylie looked at him harshly. It was not something that any of them wanted to hear uttered out loud. ‘It may be that that is precisely Cain’s concern,’ he said. ‘The death of His Majesty – a true, Christian death – might not suit his plans at all.’

Aleksei said no more. Wylie was right. In some ways the tsar’s death would be a blessing for all – not least for Aleksandr himself – but Aleksei prayed they could find another way.

The monastery was not far, and Baron Diebich returned with the priest within half an hour. A small crowd followed him into the tsar’s room, and he began by saying a blessing. Aleksandr opened his eyes and smiled at the sight of the priest, and when the blessing was over, he spoke weakly.

‘Thank you for coming, Father Fyodotov. I wish to confess. I ask you to hear me – not as an emperor, but as an ordinary man. Please do it quickly. I am ready for the sacrament.’

The others departed, leaving the tsar and the priest alone together.

The act of confession took almost an hour. When Fyodotov emerged, his face was sallow. Volkonsky slipped in immediately to speak with the tsar. The rest of them looked at the priest. His face was paler even than Aleksandr’s own had been. His eyes scanned the ground as he walked out of the building, afraid to look up and make contact with those of anyone else. At the door, Aleksei caught his arm and spoke to him.

‘What did His Majesty say?’ It was a question born of instinctive concern, but one that no priest could ever answer.

Fyodotov’s eyes flicked up and looked into Aleksei’s. In them Aleksei saw a fear that he had seen in few soldiers – never before in a priest. The eyes scanned his face, as if in search of – begging for – responses to the sort of question a priest might normally be expected to answer, not ask.

‘I can’t tell you,’ he whispered. ‘I can’t.’

The first time he said it, it was the normal reply of a holy man observing the sanctity of the confession. The second, it was the purest expression of fear.

CHAPTER XXV

VOLKONSKYu EMERGED FROM THE TSAR’S ROOM ALMOST immediately.

‘He wants to speak to you – alone,’ he said. All eyes turned to follow the direction in which the prince was looking; all except Aleksei’s. His eyes had no need to move. Volkonsky was staring straight at him.

‘Me?’ he said.

‘He says he wants to tell you about Cain.’

Aleksei glanced around the room, nodding at both Tarasov and Wylie to indicate that they should come too. All three approached the door, Aleksei in front. Volkonsky stood in the way.

‘He said just you.’

Aleksei nodded briefly, and Volkonsky let him in, stepping back across the doorway in case his word was not enough to keep the two doctors at bay.

Aleksandr lay in bed, propped up on a mound of pillows, smiling benevolently. Strange though the comparison seemed, he might easily have been mistaken for someone’s grandmother – and yet now more than ever Aleksei could think of no one more suited to rule their nation.

‘You’ve had dealings with voordalaki before, haven’t you?’ said the tsar. His voice was barely more than a murmur, but its clarity was absolute.

Aleksei nodded.

‘It seems we’ve both been keeping things from one another,’ continued Aleksandr.

‘I’ve kept nothing from your physicians,’ said Aleksei. Then he realized that now, only absolute honesty would do. ‘Almost nothing,’ he added.

‘Then bring them in.’

Aleksei went back to the door and opened it, beckoning to Tarasov and Wylie. Volkonsky looked over to his master for confirmation, and got it. The door closed behind the two doctors, and the three men sat beside their tsar; Wylie on his left, Aleksei and Tarasov on his right.

‘Do you remember your grandmother, Colonel Danilov?’ Aleksandr asked.

Images came rushing back to Aleksei of the old, decrepit house and the old, decrepit woman whom as a child – even though he had laughed at her – he had loved more than anyone in the world except his parents. As he’d grown up, his cynicism over her silly, hand-me-down stories had overtaken the kinder feelings he should always have held for her. As he’d grown old, he’d learned that much of what she had said was true – even though in her mind truth had meant merely belief – and had learned to love her once again. It was she who had first told him of the voordalak, but even before he had read the words, he had understood the meaning of Nullius in Verba and had had to wait until he saw such creatures for himself before accepting what she had told him. If he had accepted what she had said from the outset, perhaps God would not have felt obliged to provide him with proof.

A cold, clammy hand squeezed his, awakening him from his reverie. ‘Do you, Colonel?’ asked Aleksandr, clutching his hand.

Aleksei nodded.

‘My grandmother was an empress,’ explained the tsar, ‘the greatest empress Russia ever had.’ He paused for a moment, in thought. ‘The greatest leader. All over the world, they think it. The English call her Catherine the Great; La Grande in France. Yekaterina Alekseevna she was officially. I just called her babushka, though not often to her face.’

The tsar smiled, lost in similar memories to those that had washed over Aleksei moments before, but he stepped out of them more quickly.

‘She raised me to be tsar,’ he continued. ‘She knew my father would succeed her, but she could see he wasn’t right for it. Even so, they didn’t need to… I could have stopped them. Perhaps Papa was lucky; babushka never told him of the Romanov Betrayal.’

Aleksei glanced at Wylie and Tarasov. They were both staring intently at the tsar. There were tears in Wylie’s eyes. It was hard to comprehend that such depth of affection could come from a foreigner, but perhaps the affection itself proved that the once Scottish doctor was now no such thing.

‘I bet your grandmother told you stories, Danilov.’

Aleksei nodded and squeezed the tsar’s hand. Wylie’s emotion was infectious, and Aleksei doubted he would be able to speak.

‘And I bet you didn’t believe them, did you?’

A shake of the head this time.

‘Well, that’s where we differ.’ The tsar spoke with a little more gusto now. ‘Or, I suspect, where our grandmothers differed. No one with any sense would disbelieve what Yekaterina told them. Do you know what she told me?’

‘No,’ whispered Aleksei, though the tsar had already told him some of it – but it was obvious there was more.

‘She wasn’t a Romanov, you see,’ explained Aleksandr. ‘Not by blood. But in her belly she was. That’s why they told her everything – all the family did. Someone had to know, and she was the strongest any of them had ever met. So she learned the story of Pyotr, her husband’s grandfather, my great-great-grandfather. Pyotr the Great they called him. Pyotr the Sly was what she said.

‘He travelled all over the place did Pyotr. And on his travels he met the strangest of men. One of them became a close friend – travelled with him up north, to the swamplands on the Gulf of Finland. This friend told Pyotr he should found a city there, but Pyotr said it was impossible. The friend brought in engineers from his own country, and somehow – through sheer, brute force, they managed to drain part of the swamp. And that’s where Pyotr built his fortress. He named it after two saints, one of whom shared his own name – the Peter and Paul Fortress. It’s still there, more than a hundred years on – right at the centre of Petersburg.

‘After that, the rest of the city was easy to build – easier. Pyotr’s own men began to take on a greater share of the work, following the techniques that had been begun for them. I say men, but Pyotr may not have thought of them as such. They were serfs, but they were still freer than the workers they took over from.

‘And as you know, within nine years, the city was built, or built enough for Pyotr to declare it as the new capital. And Pyotr asked his friend what he could give him in exchange for his help.

‘“Half the city,” came the reply.

‘Pyotr laughed. Such audacity was unusual. “The city is the new capital,” he said. “The city is Russia. I cannot give you half Russia.”

‘“For what would you give me half of Russia?” asked the friend. Pyotr didn’t reply, and so was presented with another question. “What is it that you most desire?”

‘When my grandmother first told me this story,’ said Aleksandr, breaking from his narrative, she asked me to guess what Pyotr’s answer was. Of course, I got it wrong, but every subsequent time she told it, she asked me again, and I’d still get it wrong, deliberately. I’d answer “Power!” or “Wealth!” or “Victory!”, but babushka would smile and shake her head.’

‘And what did Pyotr answer?’ asked Tarasov. Aleksei scowled at him for breaking into the tsar’s recollections, but Aleksandr did not notice, and was happy to answer the question.

‘Pyotr replied, “Enlightenment.” It was all he had ever wanted – to know.

‘“That I can give you,” said the man. “But it is worth more than half of Russia.”

‘“I will not give all of Russia,” Pyotr said.

‘“No, but you can give me your soul.”

‘Pyotr did not blink at the concept. His response was far more practical. “How?” he asked.

‘His friend explained. He was what we would call a voordalak. An undead creature. He told Pyotr of how, when he, centuries before, had become a voordalak, he had briefly known the mind of every other such creature on the planet. This was not a blessing that was shared by them all, but one which he would endow on Pyotr – in exchange for half his nation.’

‘What was the name of this voordalak?’ asked Aleksei, though the answer was already forming itself on his lips. Aleksandr looked at Aleksei perceptively, detecting the foreknowledge that the question implied.

‘He told Pyotr the name in his own language, then translated it into French, and then Russian. Its meaning was “the Son of the Dragon”.’

‘Drakonovich?’ whispered Tarasov.

‘So you might think,’ explained the tsar, ‘but the creature chose to formulate his Russian name in a slightly different manner. He chose…’

‘Zmyeevich,’ interrupted Aleksei. His voice was full of hatred.

‘Zmyeevich – that’s right,’ said Aleksandr, without surprise at Aleksei’s knowledge.

‘How did you know?’ asked Wylie.

‘We met,’ answered Aleksei.

‘When?’ said Wylie.

The tsar interrupted them before a reply could come.

‘1812,’ he said.

Aleksei was astonished. ‘How did you know?’

‘Because I saw you,’ said the tsar, simply. ‘But I’m getting ahead of myself. We are speaking of 1712, not 1812. According to my grandmother, Pyotr expressed no doubts as to the existence of such a creature as the voordalak. He asked merely how he could become one.

‘Zmyeevich explained that the process was simple. First, he would drink Pyotr’s blood. He would drink deeply. It would be enough to kill Pyotr, but not immediately. Then, Pyotr need only drink a little of the blood of the voordalak, but it would be enough to ensure that he did not die, but lived for ever as another such creature. Then they two could rule Russia together – and for ever.’

‘It’s just like in Cain’s book,’ hissed Wylie. ‘You knew all along.’

Aleksandr laid his head back on his pillow for a few moments. Telling the story was a strain for him, and he needed the strength to continue.

‘Pyotr asked for three days to prepare himself,’ he continued.

‘He agreed?’ asked Aleksei, aghast.

‘He asked for three days to prepare himself,’ the tsar repeated. ‘Then he met Zmyeevich where they had arranged, just before midnight, in the place we now know as Senate Square. Zmyeevich was there, waiting. Pyotr knelt down in front of him, by the very bank of the Neva, which they together had tamed, and ripped open his shirt, exposing his flesh to the voordalak. The fangs descended and Pyotr felt Zmyeevich’s lips close around his throat as his teeth penetrated his skin. It was, he later told, an ecstatic sensation, to feel the very blood being drained from one’s body, but Zmyeevich did not go too far. What he drank would kill a man, but the man would still have the chance of – in a quite perverted sense – salvation.

‘“Now, give me your sword,” Zmyeevich said. Pyotr unsheathed it and handed it, hilt first, to the voordalak. Zmyeevich took it, and with its tip inscribed a cut across his own breast, from which blood began to ooze.’

Aleksei hung his head and shut his eyes tightly. The image was far, far too familiar; not a memory of Zmyeevich and Pyotr but one much more recent and, for Aleksei, indescribably more poignant – an image of Iuda and… God knew whom. But even by closing his eyes, Aleksei could not shut out the tsar’s story.

‘“Drink!” instructed Zmyeevich. Pyotr looked up at the voordalak, and his mind became filled with understanding. He knew all that Zmyeevich knew – and Zmyeevich was centuries old. He gazed at the blood which ran in a thin line down the creature’s chest. He desired to taste it, though he knew that that desire came not from himself, but from whatever had passed into him when the vampire had drunk his blood. He might share Zmyeevich’s knowledge, but he had also to share his tastes.

‘Pyotr stood back up on his feet, his eyes fixed on the bloody wound in front of him. He felt weak from his own loss of blood, and he knew that to consume a single drop of Zmyeevich’s would make him strong again, make him strong for ever, make him immortal. All he had to do was to bend forward and suckle.

‘But he did not. Instead, he looked Zmyeevich in the eye. “You imagine that I would want to become a thing like you?” he hissed. Then at a signal from him, Pyotr’s personal guard revealed themselves. They grabbed Zmyeevich. He was strong, but there were a dozen of them, and they wrestled him to the ground. Pyotr stepped forward and, with what little strength he had, placed his foot on the monster’s chest.

‘“I have beaten you, Zmyeevich. Russia has beaten you. We have taken everything we could from you, and given you nothing in return.”

‘“You have betrayed me,” replied Zmyeevich, with a snarl. “I helped to build your city. I gave you knowledge. Without me you would be nothing.”

‘“You took as much as you gave,” said Tsar Pyotr. “Do you think I didn’t know what you are – you and all those you brought with you? Do you think that I didn’t observe that as your kind grew fat, good Russians would vanish in the night? You came to feed, not to help. Don’t forget; I know your mind. You would not have shared Russia. You have tried to rule me and thereby rule my country. You would probably have succeeded. But instead you will die.”

‘Pyotr raised his hand to his brow. He felt faint. He knew he must end it quickly. He held out his hand to the commander of the troop – a Colonel Brodsky – who placed in it a stake made of hawthorn. He raised it, preparing to strike, but did not have the strength. He handed it back to Brodsky. “You do it,” he said.

‘It was a momentary distraction, but enough for Zmyeevich to exert his huge strength and throw off his captors. Blows from his bare hands were enough to kill two of them, snapping their necks like dry sticks. He ran towards the Neva and then turned back to Pyotr.

‘“It was your choice, Romanov,” he shouted. “To live or to die. You are dead now – dead since I took the blood from you. To live, you only had to drink my blood in exchange, but you refused. You feel unwell. Your heart beats weakly – it has little to pump, too little even to sustain itself. Soon you will die and you will die knowing this: I have your blood – Romanov blood. That cannot be undone. You have completed the first part of the transaction, but rejected the second, but it is not only you who can accept. I shall ask them all, in each generation, and one day, one of them will accept, and then, Romanov, Russia shall be mine.”

‘“Kill him!” shouted Pyotr, though he had barely the strength to make a sound. The soldiers ran across to Zmyeevich, but he was ready for them. He leapt into the Neva. The moment he jumped was the moment Pyotr lost consciousness. Zmyeevich must have been a strong swimmer. No trace of him was ever found.’

‘But Pyotr lived!’ said Aleksei. ‘For another thirteen years.’

‘He certainly did,’ said Aleksandr. ‘Pyotr was far more cunning than anyone gave him credit for. Do you know what he’d been doing in those three days he had asked Zmyeevich to wait? He had been eating: rare beef, venison, liver – kishka especially. Anything to build up the blood. He’d known he was taking a risk, that Zmyeevich might still take enough blood to kill him, but Pyotr was always a gambler. They took him straight to his bed, and he was there for almost three weeks. They fed him on the same sorts of things. He had no appetite, but he knew he must do it to live. Before long, he was as healthy as he had ever been.’

‘But why go to all that risk?’ asked Wylie.

‘For the enlightenment that Zmyeevich had promised him. He claimed that in those few moments, as the monster fed on him, he could see the whole world. He saw the future of Russia – an illustrious future. The knowledge faded quickly, but he remembered a little of it, enough to make his country a great one. Perhaps if he had completed the process it would have stayed for ever – but at what cost? Later in his life, he occasionally saw images in his mind that he knew must come from Zmyeevich – as do I. I saw you through his eyes, Aleksei Ivanovich, briefly, when he met you in 1812. Though why you were with him, I still do not know. Perhaps one day you will tell me.’

‘And did he call on the other generations of Romanovs?’ asked Wylie.

Aleksandr shook his head. ‘Not all. Or perhaps he did, but they kept it to themselves if so. He certainly visited my grandfather, Pyotr III. Convinced him too.’

‘To become a vampire?’ asked Wylie, astounded.

‘That’s what Yekaterina told me – and that’s why she overthrew him, though she had plenty of other reasons. But she wasn’t a Romanov, you see, so she was… immune. When Zmyeevich came back to take his prize, he learned that the tsar was dead. Yekaterina was waiting to confront him. He knew he wouldn’t get anywhere while she was alive, but he had time to wait. He was not confined to a single generation.’

‘But hang on,’ interrupted Tarasov. ‘You – and your grandfather – are descended from Pyotr by his daughter Anna Pyetrovna.’ The tsar nodded. ‘But she was born in 1708, before any of this happened. How could this… infection be carried to you by her?’

‘It’s not an infection,’ explained Aleksandr. ‘Zmyeevich took Pyotr’s blood, not the other way round. Pyotr’s blood was Romanov blood, as was Anna Pyetrovna’s – as is mine. It doesn’t matter if it was taken before or after she was conceived.’

‘Contagious magic,’ muttered Tarasov.

The tsar nodded. ‘That would seem to be the term for it.’

‘Yekaterina told you all this?’ asked Aleksei.

‘Some of it. Cain told me more. He was quite keen that I understood what was to happen to me. He claims to understand much more of it than Zmyeevich.’

‘I bet he does,’ said Aleksei.

‘So what happened – in the cave with Cain?’ asked Wylie.

‘He had a vial of Zmyeevich’s blood. He offered it to me. All I had to do was drink it. Then death for me would not be an ending, but a transformation. I would rise again, a new creature, wiser, stronger, more powerful than I had ever been before. I would live for ever.’

‘Just as Zmyeevich promised your great-great-grandfather,’ said Aleksei.

‘Yes, but babushka had warned me. I would get all those things, but I would become completely subservient to Zmyeevich. Russia would still be mine, but I would be his. Cain confirmed it. They were going to take me away, back to Zmyeevich’s country, but then I’d return and rule Russia. Someone would eventually understand that all wasn’t right, but by then, Zmyeevich hoped, it would be too late; he would have taken his grip on power.’

‘And when you refused, that was when he decided to kill you,’ said Aleksei. ‘I must have arrived just in time.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Aleksandr. ‘My refusal meant nothing to him. He told me I had no say in the matter.’

‘But I thought a man could only become a vampire willingly.’

‘That’s what Zmyeevich thought – and why he waited so long. Cain believed it at first, but he wasn’t going to be fool enough to take Zmyeevich’s word. He experimented. It turns out the victim does have to be willing – and that in this case, he was.’

‘You were happy to become a voordalak?’ gasped Aleksei.

‘No,’ said Aleksandr. ‘The free will does not come in drinking the vampire’s blood. It comes in allowing one’s own blood to be drunk. Pyotr did that quite happily, and his acquiescence is – apparently – good enough for all of us.’

‘Not quite all of you, I think,’ said Wylie, with half a smile.

‘What do you mean?’ asked the tsar.

‘Something in Cain’s notebook,’ explained the doctor. ‘I didn’t understand it at the time, but now it makes more sense. It said something like, “In each generation, the blood can exert its influence on only one sibling. Whichever is first touched, the others become free.” Once Zmyeevich exerted his power over you, he lost any chance of doing the same to your brothers or sisters.’

‘My brothers, safe?’ said the tsar joyously, despite his weakness, and sitting up a little. ‘Konstantin, Nikolai, Mihail – all of them?’

‘So it would seem,’ said Aleksei, ‘though I wonder how Cain knew.’

‘He didn’t write that down,’ said Wylie.

‘He didn’t shy from experimenting on humans,’ said Aleksei. ‘Why not an entire family?’ He tried to force the image from his mind as he spoke.

‘He’s been planning this for a long time,’ said Aleksandr. ‘Not as long as Zmyeevich, obviously, but this isn’t the first time I’ve encountered him. That was during the Patriotic War.’

‘In 1812?’ Aleksei failed to hide his astonishment.

The tsar nodded. ‘At the very time of Bonaparte’s occupation of Moscow. I was in the capital. He came and offered me much the same arrangement. Back then, he thought I needed to be in agreement, but on the other hand, our country was in direst need. He said Bonaparte would be no match for Zmyeevich and me if we stood together. He even claimed that Zmyeevich was already working to liberate Moscow from the French yoke.’

Aleksei glanced at the other two men, but realized that no one in the room but himself could know what had really happened in Moscow. It was a surprise to him that Iuda had been to Petersburg in that time, but it was perfectly reasonable. Aleksei had spent most of the five weeks of Bonaparte’s occupation of the old capital hiding in Yuryev-Polsky. He had assumed that Iuda had remained in Moscow, but why should he have? There would have been plenty of time for him to travel to Petersburg, spend several days there, and return. His visit to Aleksandr would have taken only a fraction of that time. But all that was history. Aleksei’s concerns now were for the present, and for the tsar.

‘You’re safe now,’ he said. ‘Neither Cain nor Zmyeevich will get to you while we’re here.’

‘Safe?’ wailed the tsar. ‘How can I ever be safe? Even in death I can seek no protection.’

‘Don’t say such things, Your Majesty,’ said Tarasov.

‘Believe me, I would gladly ask you to kill me now if it would free me of this curse, but it will not. To die would be to bring about all that Zmyeevich desires.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I have drunk his blood,’ said Aleksandr, his lips articulating precisely, though only the slightest of sounds escaped his throat.

‘What?’ exclaimed Tarasov, but it was just as Aleksei had suspected.

‘At Chufut Kalye – he gave me wine. I didn’t think. I didn’t understand – not then. I just drank it. When Cain offered me Zmyeevich’s blood, he was toying with me. I had already drunk it. It’s in me. The blood has been exchanged both ways, and there is only one further step before I come to be like him.’

‘One step?’

‘I must die. You’re right, Aleksei Ivanovich, Cain was about to kill me when you interrupted us, but it was no act of petty vengeance. The blood had been exchanged – that is the purpose of the vampire’s bite, but death itself does not have to be caused by that bite. He wanted to stab me, but I could be poisoned, fall ill. I could have been like that poor fellow Maskov and fallen from my carriage. Cowards die many times before their deaths, but I must truly be afraid to die, for when death comes it will bring for me so awful a resurrection that I cannot bear even to think of it.’

‘You’re not going to die,’ said Wylie, though the sorrow in his voice would have done little to convince Aleksandr of his confidence in the statement.

‘I think the blood I drank may be poison anyway – or perhaps Cain added something to it. I have felt ill since that day. I’ve been taking quinine in the hope of curing myself, but I feel no better. Cain likened my contamination to malaria, and I reasoned that a similar ailment might respond to the same cure, but who knows? It may even have made things worse.’

‘What can we do?’ asked Tarasov. He did not appear to have any expectation of an answer.

The tsar tightened his grip on Aleksei’s hand. ‘When I die, Colonel Danilov will know what to do. He must be to me as Colonel Brodsky was to my great-great-grandfather.’

‘Your Majesty, there would be no greater pleasure for me than to kill Zmyeevich, but he could be anywhere in the world. I would have to…’ Aleksei knew this was not what Aleksandr meant, even before the tsar interrupted him.

‘Pyotr wasn’t sure whether his plan would succeed. He couldn’t know whether, once Zmyeevich had drunk his blood, he might find irresistible the urge to do likewise. So Brodsky brought the wooden stake; he had been given two alternative sets of instructions for what to do with it. He was lucky Pyotr had such strength of will. I fear you may not be so fortunate, Aleksei.’

The two doctors stared at Aleksei, dumbfounded. Aleksei himself said nothing, but in his heart he made a silent promise. He would allow no mawkish sentiment to sway him, and his love for his tsar would drive his hand. He prayed it would not come to pass, but he knew that if it did one day become necessary, he would do his duty by his tsar.

CHAPTER XXVI

ALEKSANDR OPENED HIS EYES. HE FELT AS THOUGH HE HAD slept for an eternity. He looked around him. All was familiar. He was in his bed, in his room, in his palace, in Taganrog. A memory returned to him. He had spoken to Danilov, Wylie and Tarasov and told them all he knew. He should have done it earlier. He should have told Danilov the first time he set eyes on him – in the flesh. But when General Barclay introduced them, it had been two years since he had seen that image of the colonel, viewed through Zmyeevich’s eyes. His fears over Zmyeevich and Cain had then long since faded, washed away in the jubilation of Bonaparte’s defeat. It had all seemed unreal, and he had convinced himself his recognition of Danilov was a coincidence. And even if it had been him in the vision, did that make him friend, or foe?

Still, Aleksandr really should have told all to Danilov back at the Nevsky Monastery, as he set out for Taganrog after that first letter from Cain. It had been thirteen years since Cain had spoken to him. Aleksandr hoped he had given up, at least for this generation. But in that time, Danilov had proved himself to be a brave and loyal officer, and Aleksandr had been able to dismiss any doubts over the nature of his relationship with Zmyeevich. But even in Petersburg, Aleksandr had found it difficult to truly appreciate the danger that might come from Cain. It was all too fantastical – a terror by night. The greater danger came from the plotters amongst his own men, and so he had been happier to leave Danilov in the capital, close to where that danger lay. Even so, he had been glad to see him when he first arrived in Taganrog.

Not that the threat from the Northern – or Southern – Society had diminished. He might still fall prey to one of their assassins. Now the consequences would be worse. His death now carried with it a far greater dread. Perhaps though, it would not be so bad for Russia. If his death – whatever his subsequent fate – marked the beginning of a new dynasty, one that was not touched by Romanov blood, might that not save his country from this curse? Beyond that, if Russia became – God forbid – a republic, it would end Zmyeevich’s hopes for ever.

But no. It was not for one man, even a tsar, to toy with the succession to the Russian throne as ordained by God Himself. Aleksandr would die and his brother would take his place; a brother who, so Wylie had said, would remain untainted by this plague of the blood. He had asked Danilov to carry out the task. Danilov had seen these creatures; he would not fail. But whatever the outcome, Aleksandr was glad to have unburdened himself to those three. He felt better.

He really did feel better. He raised his arms from the bed and looked at them. They were still pale, but they did not glisten with sweat as they had done before – and most importantly, they did not shake. He felt his forehead; it was cool. His stomach didn’t tug at him as though desperate for freedom. In fact, he felt hungry. It was a wonderful sensation, having for so many days been unable to tolerate even the smell of any but the most insubstantial foods.

He threw the bedclothes aside and was about to stand, but a voice interrupted him.

‘Whatever are you doing?’

It was his beloved wife, Yelizaveta. She was seated a little way from the bed.

‘How long have you been there?’ he asked in surprise.

‘Since dawn,’ she said.

‘What time is it now?’

‘Almost eleven.’

‘On what day?’

‘Tuesday,’ she said. ‘You’ve been asleep for a day and a half.’

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and attempted to stand. That was not such a wise idea. He ached all over, but that was still no bad thing. The aching was an aftereffect; a reminder of what had been, not a warning of what was to come. It was best to stay in bed for now though.

‘Anisimov!’ he bellowed. The sound was louder than he had expected. His voice was returning too.

His valet’s head appeared around the door. ‘Anisimov,’ said the tsar, ‘open up the shutters. And then go fetch Dr Wylie. And Tarasov. And Danilov.’

Anisimov followed his master’s instructions in the order they were given. The autumn sunlight flooded in through the window, and the valet left to summon the three men. Yelizaveta came over to the bed, and Aleksandr clasped her hand.

‘How utterly beautiful it all is,’ he exclaimed, gazing at the sunlight pouring in.

The two doctors and the colonel arrived presently. Yelizaveta was perceptive enough to leave the men alone. ‘I must write to my mother and tell her how much better you are,’ was her proffered excuse.

Wylie and Tarasov poked, prodded and examined Aleksandr in ways with which he was all too familiar. Danilov stood back throughout, leaning against the door. The doctors then moved aside and discussed their patient in undertones. They beckoned Danilov over and the conversation continued in the same vein. At length, they turned to face the tsar.

‘Am I better?’ he asked.

‘You have no symptoms.’ It was Wylie who responded.

‘So I’m better.’

‘You are as you were before your visit to Chufut Kalye.’

‘Before I drank the blood of a voordalak, you mean?’ said the tsar, irritated by the doctor’s equivocation.

‘If your ailments were as a result of… what you drank,’ said Tarasov, ‘then it would seem that the effect has passed.’

‘For Heaven’s sake,’ said Aleksandr, slamming his arms down on the bed and immediately regretting it. ‘Danilov, will you speak plainly?’

‘I’ll speak honestly,’ said Aleksei. It seemed to Aleksandr a quibbling distinction, but the colonel made his meaning very clear. ‘We have no idea what we’re talking about,’ he explained. ‘The good doctors here know about the disorders of men – but your affliction does not fit well into that category. I have encountered vampires, but every one of their victims I have ever seen has either become such a creature himself, or has died and become their prey. I have never met anyone in the limbo in which you find yourself.’

‘Take a guess,’ replied the tsar.

‘We think Zmyeevich’s blood has left your body,’ said Aleksei.

‘Cain’s book said that such a purification might take weeks, even months,’ explained Wylie.

‘But Your Majesty’s use of quinine may have precipitated matters,’ added Tarasov.

‘So I am not at risk of becoming… like Zmyeevich.’ The three men glanced at one another like naughty schoolboys. ‘Well?’ Aleksandr insisted.

‘If you were to die now, we believe you would die a normal death,’ said Danilov. ‘Your corpse would putrefy and rot like any other.’

Aleksandr blanched slightly at the words, then stifled a giggle, then laughed out loud. ‘Was ever a man so pleased to learn of his own mortality?’ he said.

‘Who knows?’ said Aleksei, returning the tsar’s smile. ‘Ask a priest.’

‘I did,’ said the tsar. ‘I asked Father Fyodotov. He was no help at all, which is why I called on the three of you.’

The two doctors both expressed their congratulations on Aleksandr’s recovery, as did Danilov, but the colonel watched the tsar throughout with an eye of concern that was unnerving.

‘Can I get up now and go about my business?’ Aleksandr asked.

‘Not yet, I think, Your Majesty,’ said Wylie, striding over to the bed to ensure that Aleksandr did not attempt to get out. ‘Your body is weakened from fighting its assailant. It has been victorious, but now it needs rest.’

‘Oh, very well,’ said the tsar. He felt he had the energy to go out and run all the way along the perimeter of the town, but he knew the sensation wouldn’t last. ‘Send Volkonsky in, would you?’

Wylie nodded, and the three men turned to leave.

‘And thank you,’ said Aleksandr. ‘All of you.’

‘It must be by his death,’ said Wylie. They were the same words Aleksei had heard uttered months before, and then, as now, their object had been the tsar, but on this occasion they were motivated by an affection that would not have been dreamed of in Prince Obolensky’s house in Petersburg. Aleksei was pleased Wylie’s train of thought was following his own.

They had gone down to the beach, where they felt assured of speaking in privacy. Volkonsky had been summoned to the tsar’s presence, as requested. It was a good thing that, for now, he would not hear their conversation, much as they might need his complicity, when the time came.

‘The question,’ replied Aleksei, ‘is when he dies.’

‘A long time from now, I should hope,’ said Tarasov.

‘I think we need a more precise reply than simply “sooner” or “later”.’

‘When he is free of Zmyeevich’s blood, you mean,’ said Wylie.

‘But he is free of it,’ said Tarasov. ‘I know it’s guesswork, but we’re all agreed.’

‘And that’s why Cain is coming for him,’ Aleksei pointed out. ‘He knows that any dose of Zmyeevich’s blood will wear off eventually. He needs to re-administer it.’

‘But why risk coming here?’ asked Wylie. ‘He could gain access to His Majesty at any time – back in Petersburg even – and slip the blood into his food or drink.’

‘That’s true,’ said Aleksei, ‘but I think Cain will act here and soon.’

‘Why?’

‘For two reasons. The first is simply that that was what he implied when we spoke in Chufut Kalye.’ Aleksei knew that Iuda could lie just as easily as he could tell the truth, but that did not mean he always lied. If he did, then predicting him would be child’s play.

‘And the second?’

‘The second,’ replied Aleksei, ‘is that he is afraid the tsar will die.’

‘Afraid?’ asked Tarasov.

‘Desperately. His Majesty can only die once. If that happens when he is free of Zmyeevich’s blood then all is lost for Cain – and Zmyeevich.’

‘And so he’ll try to get His Majesty to drink more,’ concluded Tarasov.

‘Exactly,’ said Aleksei. ‘And then kill him – as quickly as possible.’

‘But the influence of the blood lasts for weeks,’ said Tarasov. ‘We’ve seen that. Cain would have no need to rush.’

‘He can’t take the risk. Cain hasn’t observed the state of the tsar’s health. And anyway, how do we know that the period during which the outward symptoms manifest themselves has any correlation with susceptibility to becoming a vampire?’

‘We can make a good guess,’ said Tarasov.

‘We can,’ said Aleksei. ‘But that’s not a chance Cain can take. If you ask me, his biggest fear right now is that Aleksandr is so weakened by what he’s suffered he may die anyway.’

‘So what can we do?’ asked Tarasov.

Aleksei hesitated. What he had in mind would be more readily accepted by the tsar himself than by his two loyal doctors. But he knew it could not be executed without them. His reply, when it came, was soldierly.

‘We do what the enemy least wants us to do.’

‘How?’ asked Tarasov.

‘We make sure Cain’s greatest fear becomes a reality.’

Aleksandr reclined on his bed. It was now a day since his recovery. That, at least, was how he saw it, though his doctors seemed less confident. Should they not at least have faith in their own remedies? Perhaps they knew more than they were telling. He certainly did not yet feel well enough to get up, but he felt no worse than yesterday. Better? It was hard to judge. Time would tell.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come,’ he boomed. There, that proved it. His voice was quite recovered. He had attempted only to raise his voice a fraction above the normal level, but he could not disguise its strength.

Volkonsky entered. ‘Are you able to receive visitors, Your Majesty?’

‘Visitors?’ Aleksandr found himself almost excited at the prospect. ‘Who?’

‘Drs Wylie and Tarasov. And Colonel Danilov.’

Aleksandr tutted. ‘Oh, they’re hardly visitors, are they?’ he said petulantly. ‘Never mind. Send them in. Send them in.’

Volkonsky left. Aleksandr was not entirely sure he wanted to see Danilov, Wylie and Tarasov. They were all intelligent gentlemen – cleverer than he was, he knew that. And so what he’d managed to piece together over the preceding day would surely have occurred to them much more quickly – particularly if they had been working together. Perhaps, with luck, their minds had got beyond the point which his had reached, and found some alternative to his own dark conclusion, some hidden door in the woodwork that would allow him a quick exit from reality. God knew he had sought one.

But his reasoning seemed utterly sound. When he had first told all to Wylie, Tarasov and Danilov, he had told them of his terror of death; not the terror most men have – that fear of the unknown that latches on to every tiny doubt they might have about the goodness of God and the cleanliness of their own record – but a concrete, confident fear that his death would mean his rebirth as a creature that had spewed forth from Hell. If he had died then, his fate would have been inescapable. It had seemed inescapable for all time. He had prayed. ‘Let this cup pass from me,’ had almost been his words to the Lord, but he understood that they would be blasphemous. At the same time he knew that even to have thought them was for God to have heard them. The blasphemy could not be undone.

And yet, it seemed, God had indeed answered his prayers. The cup, or at least the fever, had passed from him. Wylie and Tarasov might feign ignorance, but Aleksandr had known in his very bones that he had recovered. That the vigour of his blood – Romanov blood – had been powerful enough to defeat that which had invaded him. It had taken both time and torment, but in the end he had won.

But the Lord had only taken one cup from his lips so that He might offer him another chalice – one that contained a venom far less appetizing, and yet far less foul. Aleksandr might have lived to fight another day, but if he did fight another day, there was every chance he would lose. He was forty-seven years old. His babushka had survived to sixty-seven. He might well do better. And yet every day of that life he would run the risk of dying – dying with the blood of Zmyeevich, freshly introduced, inside his body. There was only one solution – to die when he was certain that his blood was pure. And that time could only be now.

Colonel Danilov entered first, then Dr Tarasov, and finally Dr Wylie. Each looked upon the tsar with his own brand of affection and his own veneer of pity. But, to a man, their faces were grave. They were clever men; the tsar knew that. It was flattering to have his conclusion endorsed by such minds as theirs.

Aleksei breathed deeply as he left the tsar’s bedchamber. Prince Volkonsky had been hovering outside. He looked at Aleksei enquiringly. Aleksei shook his head briefly and the prince’s face fell. Baron Diebich looked from Volkonsky to Aleksei and back. There could be no mistaking the news.

Wylie and Tarasov came out of the room a moment later. Their faces showed the same gloom as Aleksei’s.

‘Is there no hope?’ asked Volkonsky.

‘There is only hope,’ replied Wylie.

‘He seemed so much better,’ said Diebich, as if the assertion would change things.

‘A flicker of life,’ Wylie told him. ‘I have witnessed it in more than one case. The will of the patient can be strong enough to overcome all symptoms, but only briefly.’

‘How long does he have?’ asked Volkonsky.

‘Days – perhaps hours.’

‘The poor tsaritsa,’ muttered Diebich.

‘He has asked to speak with you,’ said Tarasov, addressing Volkonsky. Diebich half rose to his feet, but Tarasov raised a hand to him. ‘Only the prince, I’m afraid, Baron – for the time being.’

Diebich nodded and pressed his lips together hard. Volkonsky went into the tsar’s room. Aleksei took another deep breath. There were still matters to be discussed with the doctors. Diebich was slumped mournfully in a chair beside his master’s door. Aleksei glanced at first Tarasov and then Wylie, nodding towards the door that led out to the garden, before heading through it.

Neither of the doctors was cut out to be a spy. They appreciated the fundamentals – that if three men intended to meet for a private conversation, then it was wise for them not all to head off to it at the same time – but the execution of their seemingly casual departures from the house was excessively theatrical, and the timing of the separation between their exits too precise. It did not matter. No one would be concerned that three of the tsar’s staff were talking at this time – however much they might be curious about the role of an interloper such as Aleksei. In their grief, no one in the house would be up to observing anything much.

‘You think His Majesty will be able to convince Volkonsky?’ asked Aleksei.

‘He has to,’ said Tarasov. ‘The prince is far too sharp not to spot what’s going on – and to stop it. He has to know that what we are planning is, ultimately, in the tsar’s best interests.’

‘And His Majesty is the only person who can convince Volkonsky of that,’ added Wylie.

‘The prince will think he’s delirious,’ said Aleksei. ‘We should have stayed to add the weight of our voices.’

‘If Volkonsky wants our opinions, he will seek them,’ insisted Tarasov. ‘Those two have known each other a long time – in the end, Volkonsky will obey. And the tsar is not going to tell him everything.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ conceded Aleksei. ‘But we do need Volkonsky. Security is vital.’

‘You’re sure Cain will come?’ asked Wylie.

‘He must. There’s nothing he can do once His Majesty is dead, and so he will try to find a way to administer a further dose of Zmyeevich’s blood. Then – if I were him – I’d also make sure of the tsar’s death. It would be foolish to leave anything to chance.’

‘We should be grateful you’re not him,’ said Wylie.

‘Are we really certain that the effects of the first taste of the blood have passed?’ asked Tarasov.

‘We can’t know for sure,’ said Aleksei, ‘but I’m convinced Cain thinks they are. That is why he will come.’

‘And we’ll be ready for him,’ said Tarasov.

‘You two will be attending the tsar,’ replied Aleksei. ‘Volkonsky will arrange a guard around the palace. I’ll make sure he puts me in charge of them.’

‘From all we’ve seen, Cain’s a dangerous man.’

‘That’s why they’ll have orders to kill,’ said Aleksei. That, and other, more personal reasons.

‘If only we could do more,’ said Wylie.

‘You can do the most important thing of all,’ insisted Aleksei. ‘You must both make sure that His Majesty eats and drinks nothing in the hours leading up to his death – otherwise everything else we do will be a waste of time.’

Aleksei walked away from them briskly and strode back towards the house. He had seen that Volkonsky was beckoning to him.

The tsaritsa was more desperate than the starets had ever seen her. She had heard from Father Fyodotov – and other gossips in the royal household – how grave her husband’s condition was. Fyodotov seemed to know more, but his lips were closed by the seal of confession. The starets wondered how much Aleksandr had told him.

She had come to the monastery again to speak to him – at his summons, though he felt certain she would have sought him out anyway.

‘He is dying, Father,’ she said after they had recited the Prayer of the Heart.

‘Has he made his confession?’ It was better for the starets not to reveal the conversations he had had with Fyodotov.

‘Yes. And then it seemed he had got better, but it was only a passing rally. He might die within hours, the doctors say.’

The starets leaned forward. This was surprising news. ‘As soon as that?’ he asked.

‘I should be with him, Father. But you are my only hope.’

‘Jesus Christ is the hope of the world,’ said the starets. ‘I am merely His representative on Earth.’

‘Please, Father – there is so little time. Do you have the remedy you promised me?’

The starets might have taken time to lecture the tsaritsa on the virtue of patience, but from what she had said, he knew that time was now pressing. For the tsar to die now would be intolerable. He slipped his hand into his robe and brought out a small vial. He handed it to the tsaritsa. She took it from him and grasped it to her chest. A flood of hope ran across her face, and yet still she doubted.

‘So little?’ she said.

‘So little your faith?’ he replied. ‘That is all that is needed.’

She nodded and looked down at the thick, dark liquid that clung to the glass sides of the bottle.

‘Should I mix it with his food?’ she asked.

‘With food, or with drink – but only after the food has been cooked. Or it can be given to him directly, if he will take it.’

‘Why shouldn’t he?’

‘His doctors will try to prevent you giving it to him, and in his state, he may be swayed by them. You must be determined.’

‘I will be.’

She remained kneeling, staring at the floor of the stone cell in the monastery, awaiting her dismissal. He did not delay her.

‘Go now, my child,’ he said. ‘I will pray for you both.’

The tsaritsa thanked him, then rose to her feet and left quickly. The starets stood and went to the doorless archway that formed the entrance to his cell. He watched her as she left, clearly battling against her own ill health simply to make it to this appointment, which she believed would save her husband.

She was mistaken; Iuda knew that full well as he pulled the starets’ robe off over his head. He had more work to do that night, and beneath the habit he was almost dressed for his next task. The other monks might remark on his disappearance, but they had always seen him as a nomad – a starets who occasionally used their home as a place of quiet contemplation. There were many like him.

The military were by nature far more suspicious. To have passed himself off as a soldier for any length of time would have required forged papers and – to get close to the tsar – at least one personal recommendation. But the acquisition of the lieutenant’s uniform whose tunic he was now buttoning up had been a much simpler affair – taken from a drunken soldier whose half-hearted resistance had provided little entertainment. The others might miss him, but they would not find his body for another few days, at the very least.

Iuda straightened his new collar and noticed that his fingers felt wet. He looked at them and saw blood still damp on the uniform. It did not matter – his plans would be carried out before anyone had the chance to inspect him.

He took one final glance around the cell. Stone walls, of one kind or another, had become quite familiar to him over the last few years, but no more. He hurried out into the night.

CHAPTER XXVII

IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT. WEDNESDAY WOULD SOON BE THURSDAY, and Thursday, 19 November 1825 was the day that Tsar Aleksandr I would die. Aleksei had not discussed with Wylie or Tarasov the exact hour, but all agreed it would be before noon. Aleksei felt happier not to know.

Volkonsky had been content to place the guard under Aleksei’s orders – a mixture of regular troops close to the palace and Colonel Nikolayev’s Cossacks covering a wider perimeter. Volkonsky himself wanted to stay by Aleksandr’s side, along with the tsaritsa, Wylie, Tarasov, Diebich and several others. Aleksei would spend most of the night at the tsar’s door, much as he would have loved to ride once again with the Kazaki. But that was where Iuda would be heading, whatever direction he might come from, and so Aleksei would be in the best place to intercept him. He considered standing guard inside the bedchamber itself, but it would be an insult to the tsaritsa – and all those who loved Aleksandr – to see Iuda exterminated over the very bed upon which the object of their love lay dying. More than that, Aleksei felt uncharacteristically disinclined to be present at the death of a man whom he held in such esteem.

He had made one tour of the palace grounds already. He wished he had known the men better – he did not recognize many of their faces, let alone know their names. But Volkonsky vouched for them, and they vouched for each other. There was one concern; a Lieutenant Morev had not reported for duty. The view of most of his comrades was that he was a drunk and they were better off without him, but it was still a cause for apprehension. He asked to be informed the moment the man was seen.

It was distasteful even to attempt to think in the way that Iuda did, but Aleksei knew that his foe rarely did anything without forethought, and so it was a necessary unpleasantness. Though they might remark on the absence of a lieutenant, there would be less note taken of his return. Who was to say that in the meantime he might not have been recruited to Iuda’s cause? Recruited by induction, to use Iuda’s own word. He would have to be willing, but a young drunken soldier might easily be persuaded. Iuda would also need the assistance of a voordalak to carry out such a plan. But – who knew? – Zmyeevich himself might be nearby, awaiting his henchman’s success. And then there was always the beautiful Raisa Styepanovna. If she were assisting Iuda, then the processes of persuading the young lieutenant to accept his rebirth as a vampire might have been very simple indeed. But if the soldier did return, Aleksei would be waiting, and if he was no longer human, Aleksei would know.

He leaned against the wall, beside the door to the tsar’s room, and listened. He heard no sound from within. He tried to picture the scene inside, but he remained glad that he was not a part of it. It would be a long night for him, standing guard outside, but for those who sat in tears beside Aleksandr’s bed, it would be an eternity.

Aleksandr looked at the figures around him and smiled. So many of those he loved were here. Most important of all was Yelizaveta. She would be devastated by his death – but how much more would she suffer to learn of the alternative? He knew that if Cain and Zmyeevich succeeded in their plan to make him a voordalak, then he would have no vestige of the affection he had once held for his wife. She would not know it, but she would be happier for him to die.

His greatest regret was that he would never see his brothers again – his sisters too, though none of those living had remained in Russia still. But he would have dearly loved to say goodbye to Konstantin, Nikolai and Mihail. He and Konstantin had grown up side by side – there was only two years between them – but he still sometimes looked upon Nikolai and Mihail as children. He had been eighteen when Nikolai was born. All three of them were fine men. He might have preferred to have had children of his own, but Aleksandr had no qualms about the succession passing to his brother.

It would not, however, be his brother Konstantin. Few in Russia knew it, but Konstantin did not want to become tsar. It was the wisest opinion he had ever expressed, and one which Aleksandr shared. Konstantin was too much like their father. Aleksandr had begun his reign by removing an unsuitable tsar from power; he was not going to end it by bequeathing his throne to another. Nikolai would make a far better ruler – better not just than Konstantin would be, but better than Aleksandr had been. The reason, at least in part, was obvious. Nikolai had been less than six months old when Yekaterina died. He had never been touched by her influence. Aleksandr loved his babushka, but he knew that she had ruined him.

It was already morning, as far as he could guess. The shutters were closed, but light was just beginning to seep through. He had drifted between sleep and wakefulness throughout the night. These, he knew, were precious hours, the last he would spend with Yelizaveta Alekseevna.

The door opened. Aleksandr started, wondering who it might be, but it was only one of the maids. She carried a tray. On it was a bowl of broth, and beside it some bread. She placed it on the table next to the bed.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Yelizaveta, reaching over for the bowl. She held it under Aleksandr’s nose.

‘Drink, my darling,’ she said.

Aleksandr would have dearly loved to accept. It was not out of hunger – though he was hungry – but simply to allow his wife the feeling of having done something to help. But Danilov, Wylie and Tarasov had drilled him thoroughly. Their concern was his – the prospect of his eternal damnation. A small slip now could ruin everything. He glanced over at Wylie, but it was only for confirmation of what he already knew. The side-to-side movement of the doctor’s head was minimal, but Aleksandr understood it. He feigned a violent coughing fit and pushed his wife’s hand away.

She returned the soup to the tray. ‘Perhaps later,’ she said, and Aleksandr nodded through his seizure.

‘You may go,’ said Diebich to the maid. The girl hurried out, frightened by what she had seen in the tsar. Aleksandr lay back on his pillow and tried to rest. As his eyelids lowered, he noticed Volkonsky leaving the room, almost as if in pursuit of the maid.

‘You were instructed to bring no food or drink.’

Aleksei immediately recognized the voice as Volkonsky’s. It came through the window. Aleksei had been taking another tour of the grounds. It was light now, and he was satisfied no voordalak would attempt to gain admission to the tsar, but there was still the possibility of human attack – and Iuda was most definitely human.

Aleksei looked inside. The prince was talking to a girl – one of the maids; Aleksei couldn’t remember her name. They were just outside the kitchen. He went in through the kitchen door, and was with them in seconds.

‘He told me you had asked for it, sir, for His Majesty.’ The girl was almost in tears. All in the palace – the staff as much as anyone else – were living on the ragged edge of their emotions, but to be interrogated by Volkonsky, however benevolent his motivation, must have been an ordeal.

‘I?’ thundered Volkonsky.

‘Asked for what?’ said Aleksei. His tone was lighter than the prince’s, though it had the same sense of urgency.

‘She brought His Majesty soup,’ Volkonsky explained. ‘Says some officer gave her the instruction.’

‘A lieutenant,’ said the maid.

‘Lieutenant Morev?’ asked Aleksei.

‘No, sir. I know Lieutenant Morev,’ she said. ‘We all do. I didn’t recognize this one.’

‘And he told you to fetch soup for His Majesty.’

‘That’s right – well, no. He had the soup; he’d brought it from the kitchen. He gave it to me and told me to take it in.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Tall, sir. About your age. Blond hair – needed cutting.’

Aleksei rubbed his hand across his mouth.

‘Cain?’ asked Volkonsky.

Aleksei nodded. ‘Did he drink any of it?’ he asked.

Volkonsky and the girl replied together, both in the negative.

‘Where is it now?’

‘It’s still there,’ said Volkonsky.

‘Well, get back and make sure he doesn’t touch it.’ If the prince objected to taking orders from a mere colonel, it wasn’t reflected in the speed of his departure. ‘Which way did he go?’ said Aleksei, turning back to the maid.

‘Back into the kitchen,’ she replied, pointing.

‘How long ago?’

‘Five minutes.’

Aleksei ran into the kitchen. The same air of gloom hung over the staff in there as it did in the rest of the house.

‘A lieutenant came through here,’ said Aleksei. ‘Tall. Blond. Which way did he go?’

The head chef pointed to the back door.

‘He just wanted something to eat,’ said a voice.

‘I thought I saw him heading for the beach,’ added another, more helpfully.

Aleksei ran outside and looked around him. ‘Heading for the beach’ covered a multitude of directions from a house situated so close to the sea. Aleksei guessed that Iuda would veer more to the east, avoiding going back past the tsar’s bedroom windows, from which he might be recognized.

‘Who goes there?’ came a shout. A young ryadovoy emerged from the bushes, his bayonet aimed at Aleksei’s belly. ‘I’m sorry, Colonel,’ he said, as soon as he recognized Aleksei.

‘Doing your job,’ said Aleksei curtly. ‘Did a lieutenant come by? Blond?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And where did he go?’

‘That way, down the coast road.’

Aleksei was already running. The boy was lucky not to have attempted to stop Iuda. If he had, it was unlikely he would be alive now. Within seconds, Aleksei came across someone who hadn’t been so fortunate. This one he recognized – a captain by the name of Lishin. He also recognized the wound to his neck, two jagged, parallel lesions separated by the width of two fingers. It was the signature of Iuda’s favourite weapon.

But in killing, Iuda had made a mistake. He’d dumped the body off the road and on the beach. Footprints – the round, tiptoe-like indentations of a man running – led away across the sand. Aleksei chased after them. He constantly felt he was about to fall over as the soft surface beneath his feet collapsed with every step, but still he ran as fast as he could.

At last he saw his quarry. Iuda had his back to him, intent on his task of dragging a dinghy down towards the sea. Destabilizing though it might be, the sand brought the blessing of making Aleksei’s approach silent. When he was only a few paces away, he launched himself, feet first, at Iuda’s back. With the run-up he had had, his feet landed with tremendous force, smashing Iuda’s ribs against the side of the boat. Aleksei felt confident he had managed to break something.

Aleksei was on his feet in moments, but Iuda lay on his side on the ground, clutching his chest and moaning. Aleksei pressed his boot against Iuda’s shoulder and rolled him on to his back.

‘Not enough of a head start over me this time,’ he said.

‘It would seem not.’ Iuda’s voice croaked with pain.

‘Where were you off to, I wonder,’ said Aleksei. ‘You couldn’t have been going very far in that.’ He glanced out to sea. That yacht – which had been there every day while he had been in Taganrog – stood on the horizon, as if waiting. ‘Over there, perhaps?’

Iuda rolled slightly on to one side, as if trying to look where Aleksei was pointing, but in an instant he flung himself back the other way, and Aleksei felt a sharp pain in his calf. His sword was in his hand in an instant; its tip at Iuda’s throat. He could see the double-knife in his hand, with fresh blood on it; Aleksei’s own, mixing with Lishin’s. The wound to his leg stung, but he doubted it was serious.

He jerked his head to one side and pressed the blade a little harder against Iuda’s skin. Iuda threw the knife away from him. It rolled half a dozen times before coming to rest in the sand.

‘I take it my plan failed,’ said Iuda.

‘Which plan?’ Aleksei never understood his reason for asking it. Perhaps some subconscious voice, thinking faster than he ever could, had suggested it to him. Perhaps that voice came from outside of him. Perhaps he was just trying to be sarcastic. The reason did not matter – the result did.

Iuda considered for a fragment of a second before answering. ‘The poisoned-soup plan.’ Aleksei scarcely listened to the answer; the delay had told him everything. Iuda had needed to think about it, which meant there was more than one answer – more than one plan.

Aleksei turned and began to run back to the palace. The pain in his ankle from the rockfall at Chufut Kalye was beginning to hurt, but he ignored it. Ultimately, Iuda had chosen the right answer – the plan Aleksei did know about. It was obvious enough; the soup had been handed over by a man in a lieutenant’s uniform, and Iuda, lying there in the sand, still wore that uniform. If he’d answered differently, he’d have told Aleksei even more, but he had told him enough. Iuda had at least one more line of attack, and Aleksei had to get back to the tsar and prevent that attack from coming to fruition. He had had to abandon Iuda, but it was a worthwhile sacrifice to save the tsar.

Damn it! Why hadn’t he just killed Iuda? A single thrust of his sword would have done it. Somewhere inside Aleksei there were the remnants of an absurd sense of chivalry. You have a man as your prisoner – it would be ungentlemanly to kill him. He was a fool, but it was too late to turn back now. Iuda would be gone already, and there was no time to be wasted if Aleksandr was to be rescued. He didn’t even turn his head. There would be nothing to see, and it risked unbalancing him as he ran across the sand.

He had to consider what Iuda’s other plan might have been. Surely it could not succeed. There were three men around the tsar’s bed who knew he should consume nothing – not to mention the tsar himself. Iuda had described the other plan as the ‘poisoned-soup plan’. How precise had he meant those words to be? It had not been the ‘blood in the soup’ plan, but Aleksei would bet there was Zmyeevich’s blood in there too. Iuda had to improve on his previous attempt – he had to ensure that death came to Aleksandr within moments of him consuming the blood. A cocktail of blood and poison would serve his purpose – and also block off the one possible escape route the tsar had: to survive a few more weeks and wait once again until the influence of Zmyeevich’s blood left his body.

Aleksei was on the road now, and able to run faster, though his own exhaustion compensated for any advantage. Ten years ago, he would have covered the ground more quickly – but ten years ago, he might not have been wise enough to guess what Iuda was up to. He arrived at the house with aching lungs, but still he dashed on through towards the tsar’s room. Outside it stood Diebich. His face was disconsolate, but it was impossible for Aleksei to tell whether this was in anticipation or consequence of the dread event, nor was there time to ask. He opened the door to Aleksandr’s room.

‘Drink, my darling. Drink.’ It was a voice Aleksandr trusted. He was still drifting between sleep and wakefulness, but he had listened to the conversations around him.

‘The end is close.’ It had been Wylie who said that. He was a good doctor, and a good friend. There were many men in Russia like him – from all walks of life. It was not simply their skill or their kindness that was remarkable, but the fact they had chosen to make Russia their home. It was easy for a native to love his country – he had no choice. But that someone like Wylie should adopt Russia as his homeland said a lot about the man – and the country.

‘Might we be alone?’ His wife’s voice.

‘We must stay by his side.’ Volkonsky. They went back to before Aleksandr was tsar. Pyotr Mihailovich had helped make him tsar. There was no matter upon which they did not trust each other.

‘Some privacy, please!’ Yelizaveta Alekseevna again.

No one else had spoken. Aleksandr had strained to open his eyes and seen that many around him had taken a step back from the bed. Volkonsky looked fixedly out of the window; Wylie and Tarasov were in feigned conversation.

‘Please drink.’ The tsaritsa’s lips were close to his ear. He felt her warm breath. Her fingers rested upon his cheek and her palm cupped his chin. There was something cold there too – glass. She was pressing a bottle against his lips. ‘It will cure you,’ she said.

Aleksandr knew that he was beyond cure, but he was thirsty. He smelled wine; good, red wine. His doctors had refused him any drink, but for the little water they carefully rationed to him. He understood why they were doing it – he had agreed, but this might be his last ever chance to taste a fine French vintage. And it came from his wife, of all people. She would never harm him.

And besides, there was another figure in the room – tall and dressed in dark clothes. Aleksandr could not see his face, but he was sure he recognized him. On his finger was a ring in the shape of a dragon, with emerald eyes and a red, forking tongue. Aleksandr did not know how he had entered, but if the others in the room had been aware of his presence, they would have cowered in terror. His deep, grinding voice was compelling as it spoke.

‘Drink! Drink! Drink!’

Aleksandr parted his lips slightly and his wife began to tip the bottle.

Aleksei strode across the room and swung his open palm at the tsaritsa’s hand. The tips of his fingers caught Aleksandr’s cheek, but it did not matter. What mattered was that the vial in her hand was flung from the tsar’s lips and on to the bed. Huge gobbets of the thick, crimson liquid inside spilled out, sitting as perfect, hemispherical domes upon the sheet for a few seconds before slackening and oozing their way into the linen as wide, red stains.

What the hell had they all been thinking, wondered Aleksei. Tarasov, Wylie – even Volkonsky – all looking away like wise monkeys. Were they all in league with Iuda? Possessed by Zmyeevich? No – they were simply fools, persuaded by a woman’s love. Now that the spell was broken, they rushed over to Aleksandr.

‘How dare you?’ hissed Yelizaveta Alekseevna.

‘How dare I?’ replied Aleksei, his voice quiet, but unshakably firm. ‘I would not condemn His Majesty’s very soul.’

‘How could the gift of a holy man condemn his soul?’ asked the tsaritsa.

Aleksei calmed. She seemed sincere.

‘A holy man?’

‘A starets, from the monastery.’

Had she been fooled? It was impossible to tell. It seemed likely she was quite ignorant of the horror she had almost perpetrated, but that could be a façade; Iuda had wiles that could persuade the most faithful of wives.

‘A starets? Tall and blond, with grey eyes, I imagine.’

She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said in a whisper.

‘That was no medicine,’ said Aleksei.

She looked up at him. She had not moved since he had struck the vial from her hand. She knelt on the floor, arms stretched out across the bed and across her husband’s pale, limp body. ‘It could not have made things worse,’ she said bitterly.

Aleksei wondered if he should reply. He could find no words that would help her. The decision of whether to speak was taken from him. Dr Wylie had approached the tsar’s bed and been examining him. He raised his hand and Aleksei obeyed the gesture with silence.

The tsar’s breathing was shallow. His eyes were closed and his skin showed a pallor worse than Aleksei had ever seen, but there was no sheen of sweat to it. The tsaritsa knelt up and Volkonsky stepped in closer. Aleksei took a step backwards. It was not his place to intrude on this moment.

Aleksandr’s eyes opened slowly, flickering like the shaking fingers of an old man as he tried to gain a final glimpse of the things he loved. His frail hand reached for the table beside him, feeling its way, and his fingers found the crucifix that lay there. He lifted it and turned his head so that he might glimpse it. Now he lay back, exhausted from the effort, letting the figure of Christ fall back on to the tabletop. His eyes remained open, gazing at the woman who had stood beside him, and a smile formed on his lips.

He breathed in deeply, then released a sigh of unutterable contentment. Then he breathed in no more.

Wylie took a step towards him and examined him briefly. The tsaritsa looked up into the doctor’s face, but saw in his eyes no hint of solace. She released a sob, but then became silent. Wylie raised his hand towards the tsar’s face, but Yelizaveta saw what he was doing and reached out herself. The doctor withdrew his hand and the tsaritsa touched her late husband’s face, gently closing his eyelids. Wylie stood and faced the room before making his announcement.

‘The great monarch has stepped into eternity,’ he said.

CHAPTER XXVIII

IUDA WAS TERRIFIED. IT WAS A NEW AND REVOLTING SENSATION. He enjoyed the feeling of fear – more in others, admittedly, but also in himself. Fear focused the mind, precipitated action, punished failure, but above all it forced Iuda to flee from it. It forced him to the extremes of his abilities – mental and physical. There was no other emotion that could so powerfully drive him to achieve what most would regard as impossible.

But terror was different. Terror was to sit in the dank hold of a ship, in the presence of a creature so dangerous even Iuda would hesitate before deceiving him, and to wait for events to unfold. That was the worst of it – it was out of his hands. Not like a stone rolled down a hill, which gathers momentum, dislocates more stones to join it in its descent, ever accelerating in a noisy cascade until they crash upon some innocent in a terrible, but predictable landslide. This was like a coin thrown in the air; a coin he had weighted, but whose landing still had no certainty. The die was cast.

‘Look again.’

He reached out and took the spyglass from the hand that offered it, wincing at the pain in his cracked ribs. His eye dwelt on the ornate ring rather than looking up at the face of its owner. The tail of the gold dragon curled around his finger and the red, forked tongue seemed to flick out, reaching for Iuda. The emerald eyes were almost as compelling as those Iuda was so conscientiously trying to avoid.

He walked over and pulled back the shutters on the porthole. In the distance, he could see the Taganrog shoreline and the tsar’s palace. He had been aboard R zbunarea before, several times – to plan, to discuss, to gloat over events which had not yet come to pass – but this time there was nothing to be decided, except perhaps his own fate. And his fate was bound to the fate of the tsar. He glanced across the hold before raising the spyglass to his eye. Zmyeevich had retreated into the shadows, wary of even the small patch of sunlight Iuda had allowed to enter. Perhaps, if it came to it, Iuda would be able to flee. The steps were not too far away, and outside the daylight was bright. It was a cool autumn day in human terms, but for Zmyeevich, it would mean an instant, burning death. But Iuda would still have to get as far as those steps – and Zmyeevich could move with enormous speed. The open porthole might help, but Iuda did not rate his own chances.

He looked more closely at the palace. The flag still flew above it – three horizontal stripes of white, blue and red. He did not need to look for long. He collapsed the spyglass and closed the shutters, turning to Zmyeevich with a shake of his head.

‘He lives?’ asked Zmyeevich.

‘It seems so. Do you feel nothing?’

Zmyeevich closed his eyes and breathed deeply. After a moment, he opened them. ‘No,’ he said, ‘nothing.’

‘Would it be instantaneous?’

‘It has always been in the past, but I’m sure you must have conducted some… experiment to determine that.’

Iuda chose not to comment. Zmyeevich had benefited hugely from what Iuda had discovered, but he still gave the impression that the experiments upon his fellow creatures disgusted him. It was another reason he should be feared.

‘Your influence over him was real enough.’

‘I have drunk his blood – his family’s blood. That gives him some insight into my mind. Sometimes that insight may influence his actions – influence him, perhaps, to drink what he knows he should not. But the connection is weak and capricious compared to what it will be once he has drunk my blood and succumbed to death. And until then, I cannot know his mind. I do not know it now.’

‘Things would have been easier if Danilov hadn’t been here,’ said Iuda. He had not conveyed to Zmyeevich the information that he had had the opportunity to deal with Lyosha and had not taken it. Beyond Iuda’s own motivations, it was useful for him to be alive simply as someone to shoulder the blame.

‘Captain Danilov – a colonel now, you tell me – appeared to be the most resourceful of them all on the brief occasion that we met; though it seems he is a little prone to sentimentality.’

The last phrase struck Iuda as odd. It matched his own assessment of Lyosha, but he could think of nothing he had told Zmyeevich that might give him that impression. He was about to claim the colonel was lucky, but it would weaken his position. ‘He’s certainly caused us problems,’ he said instead. ‘But you can afford to be patient – he won’t live for ever.’

‘You think we have failed in this generation then?’

‘Aleksandr still lives,’ said Iuda, ‘so there is still hope.’

‘Danilov has a child, does he not?’

‘A son.’

‘Perhaps he will thwart me next time.’

‘I think not,’ said Iuda.

He opened the shutters and looked through the spyglass once again, letting out the minutest of gasps at what he saw.

‘The flag of death is flying?’ asked Zmyeevich.

Iuda nodded. The tricolour above the palace had been lowered to half mast to make way for the invisible flag that superstition maintained had been raised there by Death itself. He closed up the spyglass and stepped away from the porthole. This time he did not close the shutters.

‘I feel nothing,’ said Zmyeevich.

Iuda’s sense of defeat was not overwhelming. Aleksandr was dead and had died free of Zmyeevich’s blood. It was a disappointment, but he suspected he would not have benefited greatly from Zmyeevich’s power over Russia. He doubted whether the vampire shared his stoicism, and suddenly felt his terror increase a thousandfold. The dark presence in the room with him seemed to smoulder with wrath. ‘You’re sure?’ he asked.

‘I would know,’ said Zmyeevich firmly. He strode across the hold towards the door, passing within inches of the beam of light that entered through the open porthole, but not touching it. ‘I felt, for example, as if it was my own skin that was burning.’

Iuda flicked his eyes around the room, searching for any route of escape, but he saw none. Zmyeevich stood between him and the door. The porthole was far too small. ‘Burning?’ he asked, trying to give himself time to think. ‘When?’

‘I felt before as you tattooed me; as you flayed the skin from me,’ continued Zmyeevich.

‘I see,’ said Iuda, now understanding. He slipped his hand inside his coat.

‘I saw, as well as felt,’ said Zmyeevich. ‘Saw through the eyes of a vampire which I created; a vampire which you enslaved, which you abused. He was my offspring.’

‘You’ve benefited from what I’ve learned.’

Zmyeevich nodded, his face thoughtful. ‘True enough,’ he said. ‘Though what you learned from him, I cannot guess. I also learned your tricks.’

Zmyeevich took two long, brisk strides across the room. Iuda moved at the same moment, towards the light of the porthole. The mirror he had taken from his pocket was now in his hand. But Zmyeevich was quicker. This time he made no diversion, walking directly through the sun’s rays, his cheek burning briefly as it passed through, but he did not flinch. He stood between Iuda and the porthole.

‘For example,’ he said, ‘I have learned that a mirror is of no use without a source of light.’

Iuda could see he had been outmanoeuvred. If he could have reflected the sunlight into Zmyeevich’s face, he might have fended him off, but he had no chance of getting near the porthole. He cast the mirror aside and heard it smash against the wall.

‘I can still be of help to you,’ he said. He was surprised how calm his voice sounded.

‘Why did our plans for Aleksandr fail?’ asked Zmyeevich. Iuda was strangely reminded of his father, his patronizing voice asking some question of mathematics or history that his young son should easily have been able to answer, but failed to.

‘Because of Danilov.’ The word ‘sir’ almost tumbled from his lips in pursuit.

‘I saw Danilov too,’ said Zmyeevich, ‘through my offspring’s eyes, when he returned to Chufut Kalye. We were on the verge of tasting his blood. And then nothing. The child of my blood died. The last image his eyes saw’ – Zmyeevich’s own eyes blazed as he spoke – ‘was you.’

‘That was necessary,’ said Iuda.

‘Perhaps, but you let Danilov live. That was unforgivable.’

Iuda opened his mouth, but had no words to speak. Zmyeevich stepped forward. His foetid breath invaded Iuda’s nostrils, and only fear prevented him from throwing up. Zmyeevich placed a hand on his shoulder and the other under his chin.

‘I would not sully my lips with your blood,’ he said.

Iuda felt the grip around his chin tighten. A click somewhere in his neck told him that his vertebrae were moving apart. His skull was filled with a squeaking sound, like a cork being removed from a bottle. He knew that Zmyeevich had sufficient strength to rip his head from his shoulders in an instant, but to kill him quickly would have been unnecessarily merciful. It was an error, though. Zmyeevich had not learned all Iuda’s tricks.

Iuda’s hand searched for the side pocket of his coat. He had no weapon, and even if he had had, Zmyeevich was too close for him to strike. But then his hand closed around cold glass. He had found what he was looking for. Still, he would have to be lucky. He raised his hand and then flung it forward.

The vial flew through the air across the ship’s hold, spinning top over tail, but the stopper did not come out. The dark liquid within remained constrained by its glass walls. Iuda’s aim had been true. The porthole was not large, but large enough. The vial disappeared through it and into the open air beyond.

From deep within his chest, Zmyeevich’s scream filled the room, and his grip instantly relaxed. Iuda did not wait. He raced to the door, only glimpsing what he left behind. Zmyeevich stood still, his eyes shot with blood, his whole body shaking as if under the strain of some tremendous weight as he tried to resist the agony that surged through his veins.

Iuda had little time. The vial of Zmyeevich’s blood would have burst into flame as soon as it was hit by the sun’s rays. It would soon burn to nothing, and then the searing pain in the blood in Zmyeevich’s own body would recede. Iuda threw himself through the door and up the stairs to the deck, rejoicing in the sensation of the sun on his back. The ship’s crew stood in bemused horror at the sound of their master’s screams, but they did not go to his aid. Neither did they attempt to hinder Iuda’s escape.

He climbed down into the dinghy and rowed away, parallel to the coast, not towards it. He had no plans to come ashore anywhere near Taganrog.

It was dark now. It had been almost twelve hours since Wylie had announced the death of Tsar Aleksandr I. Almost twelve hours that Tsar Konstantin I had reigned, though he did not know it. It would take a week for news to reach him in Warsaw; about the same to reach Petersburg. Taganrog knew already. The flag above the palace would have told them, and gossip spread rapidly.

The palace had died its own death since that morning. Yelizaveta had composed herself and quietly retired to her rooms. The guards had been stood down; there was no one to guard. Wylie and Tarasov had no one to make well. The staff sat idly in their quarters. There was only one less soul to tend to in the house than there had been when all awoke that morning, and yet the reason for anyone to be there had gone.

Aleksei noticed it now as he returned more than when he had left. It had not been a long trip, but a necessary one – just to Orekhov and back. He had to go by carriage, which slowed him down, but he had driven himself, so there had been no questions.

When he got back to Taganrog, he had called immediately at Wylie’s lodgings. Both doctors were there. The three went together to the imperial palace. Tarasov uneasily eyed the heavy burden that Wylie and Aleksei carried between them.

Volkonsky let them in through a side door. His face was grim. He knew what they had to do, but he had chosen not to participate. It was to the good – someone had to wait outside Aleksandr’s bedroom. They arrived at the door. Aleksei felt the urge to knock, and almost laughed at himself.

‘This is going to be the worst part,’ he said to Wylie.

‘I’m a doctor,’ came the reply, ‘a field surgeon. I’ve operated on men who’ve screamed in agony as I worked. I don’t think I’m going to have any qualms over whatever must be done to a dead body.’

‘The worst part is the pain we’re causing the tsaritsa,’ said Tarasov. Wylie nodded.

Aleksei opened the door. It was dark inside. Only the moonlight, leaking through the closed shutters, cast any light, picking out on the bed Aleksandr’s familiar, still profile.

The three men went inside, closing the door behind them.

CHAPTER XXIX

TAGANROG WAS JUST VISIBLE, A FEW VERSTS AWAY TO THE SOUTH-west, its lights shining through the early twilight. In the other direction the road led to… who knew where? It was an adventure – the first ever adventure in the life of a man who, since the instant of his birth, almost forty-eight years before, had spent each moment of his existence under the minutest scrutiny. Freedom was terrifying to him, but so, so exciting. To make his own way in life, to plan his day, merely to be ignored as he walked down a street – all those were joys too familiar for others to appreciate.

He looked down from his horse at the four men who had made it possible: Volkonsky, Wylie, Tarasov and Danilov – two soldiers and two doctors. They had killed him, and they had resurrected him. And it had taken them less than a day. It was terrible to say goodbye, not because of who they were or what they had done – though there was that too – but because this was the final goodbye, the final cut that separated him from the life he had known.

‘I so wish we could have told Yelizaveta Alekseevna,’ said Aleksandr.

‘She would have wished to come with you,’ replied Volkonsky.

‘I would have dearly loved that,’ Aleksandr answered, ‘but in the end, she would not have. Even if her mind had grown accustomed to the privations of our new life, her body never would have.’

‘She is a frail woman, Your Majesty,’ said Tarasov.

Aleksandr nodded, then frowned. ‘I’m not “Your Majesty” any more,’ he pointed out. ‘That burden has passed on.’

‘So what should we call you – Aleksandr Pavlovich?’

Aleksandr smiled. ‘For the next few minutes, yes,’ he said, ‘though it’s not the name I will be keeping.’

‘Where will you go?’ asked Aleksei.

‘I don’t know. And if I did, I would – as with my new name – keep it to myself. Only Volkonsky will know these things; it’s much safer for all that way.’ He looked down at the four mournful faces in front of him. ‘This is worse than when I was dying!’ he exclaimed.

There was laughter all round.

‘You would have made a fine actor, Your… Aleksandr,’ said Wylie.

‘There was no acting involved. Whatever it was that Tarasov gave me had me halfway to death already.’

‘It was laudanum,’ explained Tarasov. ‘I’m not even sure its effects will have worn off sufficiently for you to be riding yet.’

‘He has to leave today,’ said Aleksei. ‘Someone might see him.’

‘I don’t think anyone’s going to recognize him looking like that,’ said Volkonsky.

Aleksandr put his hand to his face. There was stubble on his chin that would soon grow into the full beard that would be essential if he was going to pull this off. The sides of his cheeks felt the cold of the wind where his sideboards had been shaved. For now, that – plus the application of a little grime – was all that could be done to change his facial appearance. It was his clothing that would fool most people. He wasn’t exactly dressed like a peasant, but he no longer looked like a city dweller. His clothes were practical – comfortable, even. There was no sash across his chest, no epaulettes on his shoulders or cockade on his hat, and these were the things by which he was recognized as tsar, not by his face, which few outside Petersburg or Moscow would know. At least, that was what he had been assured.

‘I hope you’re as much a master of disguise as you claim to be, Aleksei Ivanovich,’ he said.

‘And what was the one vital thing I did say?’ Aleksei asked with a laugh, his Russian countering Aleksandr’s instinctive French.

Aleksandr repeated his question, switching to his people’s language. It felt a little uncomfortable on his tongue, as it always had done, but he would get used to it.

‘That’s better,’ said Aleksei.

‘Will Major Maskov’s body really pass for mine?’ asked Aleksandr. He looked at Wylie as he spoke. It was a strange repetition that the doctor should be involved in falsifying the deaths of two successive tsars. Not that Pavel’s death had been a falsehood, merely the declaration of its cause. They had never spoken of it, and Aleksandr would not change that now.

‘His body was remarkably well preserved, thanks to the nature of the soil,’ said Wylie, his eyes seeming to guess Aleksandr’s thoughts. ‘The fact that his death occurred earlier than yours will scarcely be noticed – and the embalming process distorts the features. By the time the body gets to Petersburg, I doubt anyone will want to examine it too closely.’

Aleksandr swallowed hard at the thought. ‘You must ensure that his family is well cared for, Volkonsky.’

The prince nodded.

‘And what of Cain and Zmyeevich?’

‘I think we’ve convinced them,’ said Aleksei. ‘No one saw Cain return after he rowed out to that yacht – and the yacht itself left within hours of your “death”.’

‘But if they should become suspicious…’

‘In a few years, you’ll be of no use to them,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Once the new tsar has established himself, you’ll be… forgotten.’

‘Charming.’

‘I mean,’ explained the prince, ‘that few would believe a man who returned to the capital and claimed to be the late tsar; fewer still would let him retake the reins of power.’

‘What about those False Dmitrys?’

‘That was in a different time,’ said Volkonsky.

‘Zmyeevich wouldn’t run the risk,’ added Aleksei.

‘So the Romanovs are safe,’ said Aleksandr, ‘until the next generation; then what of my poor nephew?’

‘I’ll see that he remains safe,’ said Volkonsky.

‘You’ll tell him?’

‘If it proves necessary. And if Zmyeevich or his emissary returns I can call on Colonel Danilov’s experience.’

‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ said the colonel.

‘You must go,’ said Volkonsky.

Aleksandr turned and looked to the east. A thin orange line was just appearing on the horizon where the sun rose. He had never felt so alone. The whole thing felt like madness to him now, and yet was this not the moment he had yearned for since – when? – his father’s death? Regardless of Cain and Zmyeevich, he had always dreamed, sometimes planned, how he would one day be free. It was far, far too late to turn back.

‘Yes,’ he said with a sigh, ‘I must.’

He reached out his hand, and each of the four men kissed it in turn.

‘I will forget none of you,’ he said, and turned his horse into the sun.

He did not look back; he would have seen nothing through the tears in his eyes. They were the tears of a newborn, thrust into a world he did not understand and would have to learn. For his entire life he had been a virtual god – destined first to rule and then, by betraying his own father, becoming ruler of this beautiful country. Then that life had ended, and he had spent a day in death. Now he was reborn.

First a god, and then a corpse, but as of today he was all he had ever wanted to be. Today he was a man.

All four of them got very drunk that evening, sitting in Volkonsky’s rooms. They started on vodka, but then Wylie brought out a bottle of whisky, which was something Aleksei had never tried. He liked it.

‘I don’t think I can bring myself to let them bury Maskov amongst the tsars,’ said Volkonsky. ‘It’s not right for either family.’

‘I’m sure you’ll work something out,’ said Aleksei.

‘We have a lot to work out,’ said Wylie. ‘There will be many in Petersburg who ask questions.’

‘Make sure our stories hang together, you mean?’ asked Tarasov.

Wylie nodded.

‘You keep a journal, don’t you?’ said Volkonsky, addressing Wylie.

‘Of sorts.’

‘I do too,’ said Tarasov.

‘We’ll go through those,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Make sure there’s nothing in them that doesn’t fit our version of the story.’

‘What about other people’s recollections?’ asked Wylie.

‘It’s only you three that know about any of this, really,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Until His Majesty spoke to me, I suspected nothing – beyond his illness.’ He breathed deeply. ‘It’s been a long two days.’

‘I’d rather you kept me out of this,’ said Aleksei.

‘You refuse to help?’ Volkonsky was astounded, as well he might be.

‘Not at all. I mean, keep my name out of your journals.’

‘Why?’ asked Tarasov.

‘Because I have no good reason to be here. If people see my name – particularly people who know what I do for a living – they’ll start to wonder. What was a spy doing hovering around the tsar’s deathbed?’

‘The others here will remember you,’ said Wylie.

‘Maybe, but just as another soldier. I doubt there’s many here can even remember my name.’

‘I’d be prepared to bet the tsaritsa remembers it was you who knocked that bottle out of her hand,’ said Volkonsky. All of them joined in his laughter. ‘But I see your point,’ he continued, when it had subsided.

‘I’ll leave tomorrow,’ said Aleksei.

‘So soon?’ said Wylie, refilling Aleksei’s glass.

‘Makes me easier to forget.’

‘None of us here will forget you, Colonel,’ said Volkonsky, raising his glass to him. ‘Nor will His Majesty,’ he added more quietly.

‘I think you mean Aleksandr Pavlovich,’ said Wylie.

There was another round of laughter, which faded into silence. Aleksei was suddenly reminded of another occasion when he had sat drinking with three friends – many occasions. When had been the last? In Moscow, in 1812, just before they had set out west with the Oprichniki. Everything had changed after that – after Dmitry, Vadim and Maks had died. It was odd, but from somewhere Aleksei had the sense of having been in the presence of Maks very recently – or of someone like him. It was not one of these three, but then who? It did not take him long to work through the list of people in whose company he had been of late. For an awful moment, he thought it might be Kyesha, but it was not.

It was Aleksandr Pavlovich. Yes, he was old, spoilt and jaded, but just that morning he had rode away from all he had with more of a sense of curiosity than dread – or at least a reasonable balance of the two. That was the sort of thing Maks would have done, had he lived.

‘You’ll remain in contact with him?’ Wylie asked. ‘In his new life?’

‘He’ll send me word under his new name of where he is,’ said Volkonsky. ‘I’ll send him money, and whatever else he needs.’

‘He had quite enough gold packed into those saddlebags,’ observed Tarasov.

‘He may need it,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Could any of us learn to live like he plans to?’

‘So what is his name going to be?’ asked Wylie.

‘I’m sworn not to tell,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Suffice it to say that Aleksandr I is no more.’

‘To the new tsar, then,’ said Aleksei, holding his glass up high. ‘To Konstantin I.’

Four glasses clashed together, and four voices spoke as one.

‘Konstantin I!’

Aleksei had only a little more packing to do in preparation for his departure, and he chose to leave it until the following morning. He was just pulling off his boots when he noticed a new item amongst his possessions, sitting on top of his saddlebags. It was a letter. He went over and picked it up.

The handwriting was familiar, as was the text itself. He ripped it open, but even before he read the signature, he knew that it was from Kyesha.

Dear Aleksei Ivanovich,

You must have discovered by now, as have I, that your attempt to destroy Cain in Chufut Kalye was unsuccessful. I do not blame you for it. You left the task to my kindred, and that seemed as appropriate to me as it must have done to them. The failure to achieve what all of us so desired is theirs, not yours.

I have no doubt that should you encounter Cain again you will set aside the poetry of vengeance in favour of the certainty of a steel blade or a lead bullet. And yet even in that, I carry in my heart the hope that of the two of us, it is not you who next encounters him. It is only fitting that it should be a creature such as I that ultimately brings an end to his life.

Indeed, you will be pleased to learn, I have already chanced upon some clues that may lead me to where he is currently hiding, planning, I believe, to recommence the experimentation to which your actions so effectively put an end. With luck, I will be upon him within days. As to the ending of our encounter, I am sure you will one day learn its outcome, one way or another.

I hesitate to say farewell under a name I once used in order to deceive you, but it is the only one by which you know me and is one which, I hope more than know, you regard as that of a friend.

With the greatest admiration, three-fingered man,

Innokyentii Sergeivich Lukin

Aleksei folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. It was a good thing that Kyesha planned to pursue Iuda, because Aleksei himself most certainly did not, not for now, whatever the fate of the Romanovs might be. As to whether he would succeed – it was possible. One day, Iuda had to die. One day, his luck would run out. Perhaps it would be to Kyesha that the luck would flow.

But Aleksei could not help but remember another letter he had received years ago, from Dmitry Fetyukovich. Dmitry had, like Kyesha, discovered some clue as to the location of Iuda and set off in pursuit, urging Aleksei to follow. Aleksei had done so, and found Dmitry dead, and Iuda free. From Kyesha there had been no such entreaty, and Aleksei was not going to pretend there had been. His path was north, to his home – to his homes. It would be a long journey, but tomorrow it would begin.

He looked at the clock. Tomorrow was today. He went to bed.

Only Wylie rose to say farewell to Aleksei. They had agreed on that the previous night. It was all part of Aleksei’s plan that his involvement not be too clearly remembered. An early farewell from the late tsar’s personal secretary and his two physicians would raise eyebrows.

‘I almost wish I’d never met you, Aleksei,’ said the doctor.

‘This would have happened, even if I hadn’t come.’

‘I know. And far worse. You’re a brave man.’

‘Quite a compliment, from an Englishman.’

Wylie raised an eyebrow, then smiled. ‘Are you heading straight back to Petersburg?’

‘Moscow first, but only for a short while.’ Aleksei did not explain the real reason for his haste. The Northern Society had spoken of assassination, but they had also considered a spontaneous uprising, if Aleksandr were to die of other causes. In saving one Romanov, he might have ended the whole dynasty. And that would end the threat from Zmyeevich. Perhaps it was a worthwhile price.

Wylie shivered and hugged himself. ‘It’s turning cold,’ he said.

‘It’ll get colder as I head north.’

‘I’d better not keep you.’

Wylie held out his hand. Aleksei took it, then embraced the doctor.

‘Goodbye, Aleksei.’

‘Goodbye… James.’ The sound of the first letter was strange on his tongue.

Aleksei mounted his horse and headed away. He turned and gave one final wave to Wylie, then accelerated to a canter. His departure seemed far easier than Aleksandr’s had been the previous morning as he headed off with a new name into a new life.

Aleksei knew what that name was now. Volkonsky had taken him aside the previous night and told him, afraid that the knowledge was too vital to be possessed by just one man. There was nothing remarkable about it:

Fyodor Kuzmich.

Aleksei wondered if he would ever meet a man going by that name. He hoped so.

As he rode north, he felt the cold begin to penetrate him, but it was of no concern. He thrust from his mind thoughts of what had happened in Taganrog and the Crimea – even in Moscow with Kyesha. He turned his mind instead to what was ahead of him – Domnikiia and Tamara, only a few days away. The cold did not matter, however much he hated the winter. It could never be winter where they were.

It even began to snow – a light, fine snow that did not settle – but Aleksei did not mind. If it was snowing here, then it would be snowing in Moscow, and Domnikiia and Tamara would feel it too. The snow was therefore beautiful. He let the tiny white flecks embrace him, as though they were a blanket of stars.