by Jasper Kent
‘This is thanks to the bomb last year,’ said Mrovinskiy. ‘Eleven good men dead – others maimed. I hope your friends are pleased with themselves.’
Mihail felt the urge to protest, but there was little point. He noted that his activities were known of in these circles. Konstantin and even Aleksandr might understand the reasons for what he was doing, but others did not, and without their protection he could easily suffer whatever punishment befell any other member of the People’s Will. He did not relish following in Aleksei’s footsteps and spending the next thirty years of his life in exile – or worse.
At last they came to a room on the far side of the palace, overlooking the Neva. Mrovinskiy left Mihail there alone. He wandered nervously, looking first out across the frozen river and then examining the artwork – if that was the word for the panoply of erotica that bedecked the walls. One particular painting caught his eye: a young woman reclined on a bed, the top of her head towards the viewer so that her face couldn’t be seen, the curls of her hair falling across her neck and shoulder, her breasts splayed by the force of gravity, but still pert. A hunched, muscular figure bent over her, leering at those breasts. He pushed her legs up close to her, bent double, with a hand on her buttock as he entered her, though the details of that were not visible. The dark hue of his skin contrasted with the milkiness of hers. His nose was sharp and pointed, as was the angle of his eyebrows, all aimed at the object of his desire. The oddest thing about him was his ears – pointed like a bat’s. For a moment Mihail thought of the woman as Dusya; there was some resemblance in the blonde curls of her hair, but Dusya’s body was more petite. Perhaps Sofia would have made a more fitting model, although Mihail could not find it in him to see her as an object of man’s desire. For no good reason, the male figure made him think of Iuda, and he tried to push the thought from his mind.
‘Engaging, isn’t it?’
Mihail turned. It was Konstantin.
‘It has a certain … curiosity to it,’ said Mihail, returning his attention to the picture.
‘It’s by Zichi – the Hungarian. It’s called “The Witch and the Devil”.’
‘Her identity is the less obvious.’
Konstantin chuckled.
Mihail turned to him. ‘I can’t say I share your tastes.’
‘My tastes? Good Lord, no. This is Sasha’s private study.’
‘It must be distracting.’
Konstantin had no time to either confirm or deny the suggestion; at that moment the tsar himself entered.
‘Your Majesty,’ said Mihail, bowing. Aleksandr gave a brief nod of acknowledgement.
‘You have news?’
‘I do. Zmyeevich is in Petersburg; I’m sure of it.’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘No, but I’ve spoken to someone who has.’
‘You know where he’s made his nest?’
‘No.’ Mihail realized only at the last moment that he should lie about it. Aleksandr’s concern – that of the whole Romanov dynasty – was with Zmyeevich. If Mihail told him of that chamber beneath Senate Square he would rush in there with a squad of specially armed men, intent on dealing with Zmyeevich once and for all – and would very likely succeed. But it could send Iuda scurrying in fear, and Mihail might lose track of him for years, if not for ever. Aleksandr might have some desire to assist Mihail in his quest, but for him it was a side issue. ‘But I’m working on it,’ he added.
Aleksandr eyed him, but if he doubted Mihail’s word there was little he could do.
‘Can we help in that?’
‘Not as yet. Your help with Iuda would be of greater value.’
‘You’ve found him?’ asked Konstantin.
‘I had. He was in the Peter and Paul Fortress, but not any more. I’d like to know who ordered his release.’
‘We’ll look into it. What name was he using?’ said Konstantin. At the same time Mihail noticed Aleksandr nervously straightening his moustache with his fingers. It would seem that he already knew plenty of what Iuda had been up to.
‘He had rooms at the Hôtel d’Europe under the name Vasiliy Grigoryevich Chernetskiy, but he has other aliases.’
Konstantin noted it down. ‘Had rooms?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think he’ll go back there, but it may be worth asking a few questions. Has Zmyeevich tried to make contact in any way?’
‘No,’ said the tsar guardedly, ‘but I have some idea of his plans.’
‘What?’ This was evidently news to Konstantin.
‘How?’ asked Mihail.
‘You forget – I can see parts of his mind.’
‘So what is his plan?’ asked Konstantin.
‘I think he’s given up on me,’ explained the tsar.
‘After a hundred and seventy years? I very much doubt it.’
‘Given up on me, not on us. He thinks he stands a better chance with my son.’
‘Does he?’ asked Mihail.
The tsar remained silent. Konstantin filled the gap with ‘Of course not,’ but there was little enthusiasm to it.
‘But if that’s his plan,’ said Mihail, ‘then his only interest in you would be to see your death.’
Aleksandr paused. His face was grey. His brother took a step towards him, but Aleksandr waved him back. At last he spoke, but it seemed to have nothing to do with the matter at hand.
‘Fifteen years ago I visited Paris. I was the guest of the emperor, Napoleon III. He was not to remain emperor for very long. It was just a year since my son Niks died. A year too since Lincoln was murdered, after he’d freed his slaves. I was walking in the Tuileries Gardens. There was a gypsy there and she read my palm. She was very honest – perhaps she didn’t understand who I was. She told me that she foresaw seven attempts to murder me, that six times my life would hang by a thread and that the seventh attempt would be the last.’
Mihail said nothing. He began to count the number of times they had attempted to kill Aleksandr, but the tsar provided the answer for him.
‘So far there have been six plots – shootings, bombings – but all with the intent of seeing me dead.’
‘The next attempt will come soon,’ announced Mihail. ‘They’re digging a tunnel underneath Malaya Sadovaya Street.’ Even as he spoke, he was realizing the full meaning of what he had witnessed there. ‘They’re going to fill it with nitroglycerin and blow you up as you ride over.’
‘Then that,’ replied the tsar, ‘will be seven.’
Iuda looked down into the cathedral, in precisely the opposite direction to most of those who came to view its architectural splendour. They would strain their necks to look up at the dome from the floor below, whereas he was perched among the gilded angels that ringed the lower reaches of Saint Isaac’s central tower, and could look down and see all who came and all who departed. He had arrived here soon after dark on Sunday evening, mingling with the congregation who came for vespers before slipping up one of the many staircases that were hidden within the church’s thick stone walls. The people had left and then the priest had left and all had become silent.
The two figures had emerged from the corner beside the Nevsky Chapel; one tall, the other taller still. Zmyeevich and Dmitry. They slipped out of the cathedral and into the darkness. Iuda waited. He had last fed the night before, so he was neither distracted by hunger nor drowsy with satisfaction. He spent some time wandering around the quiet, empty building, remembering his conversations with de Montferrand and how he had needed to couch the necessities of his modifications in terms of the aesthetics that would appeal to the architect’s mind. But what Iuda had planned was beautiful, regardless of its function – anyone would see that, when the sun shone.
He skulked back to his perch to wait. In the small hours Zmyeevich returned, alone. Iuda guessed that Dmitry would not be far behind, but he was wrong. Soon dawn began to break. Beams of light cut across the geometric patterns of the marble floor as the earliest rays of the sun entered from the east through the building’s long w
indows. To the south and east he had opened every door, every shutter and every gate to ensure that the sun should fill the space inside. A cathedral should be a place of light – that’s what he’d said to de Montferrand. But a cathedral should be a place of shadow too, and knowing the paths of shadow through the light could be of great benefit to a vampire.
He waited a few more hours. It was Monday, and the church would be quiet for most of the day, and he would be safer if the sun was allowed to get a little higher – the ideal inclination had been calculated with utmost precision. At about ten o’clock he began to move. He would not confront Zmyeevich down in the cellar below – that would be suicidal. But it would be simple enough to lure him up to the cathedral, where light would be Iuda’s friend.
And then came a slight perturbation to Iuda’s plans. The northern door of the cathedral creaked open and in walked a figure that Iuda had scarcely paid attention to when first they met, but who had thwarted him since. It was the lieutenant from Geok Tepe – Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin – now, so Iuda had learned, an enthusiastic recruit to the People’s Will. It was no surprise that Lukin was working for Zmyeevich, alongside Dmitry, but it was pleasant for Iuda to have his speculation confirmed. And it made no difference to his plans. Lukin could be easily disposed of – he was only human, as his comfortable stroll across the sunlit floor of the church demonstrated. It took him just moments to find the hidden switches in Saint Paul’s toes and disappear behind the icon. Iuda would deal with him before he could even reach his master, somewhere in the dark of the tunnels, where Iuda would be at his strongest and Lukin at his most vulnerable.
He lowered himself from the pedestal of the statue behind which he hid, and began to climb down into the nave.
Some might call it foolhardy, but Mihail could think of no other option. He had to speak to Dmitry again. The cathedral was quieter today than when he had last come here – empty. He quickly crossed to the icon of Saint Paul and within moments was in the passageway. He proceeded slowly, but with a little more confidence than on his previous visit; he knew what lay ahead. At least he did in terms of the geography – whether in the chamber below he would find Dmitry or Zmyeevich or both or neither he could not be sure.
He was at the steps. He began his stealthy descent, always turning to the left, never able to see beyond the curve of the wall, but he found no one on the stairs. Soon the dark gap of the lower corridor appeared as a tall black rectangle. His lamp shone against the wall, and with each step, light penetrated further along the passageway, although Mihail knew that the door at the end was too far away to be seen with such dim illumination.
He continued along the corridor, out under Senate Square, lamp still held high, arbalyet gripped and ready to shoot. He turned back to check behind him, and saw the slightest of movements, but realized it was nothing but the dancing shadows cast by the rough, uneven walls. He reached the door and put his lamp on the ground, using his free hand to try the handle.
It was locked.
This time, though, he had come prepared. In his bag was a crowbar. It should be easily strong enough to break through. Before he could reach for it he heard a sound, back up the corridor behind him. He turned, raising the lamp again. Still there were only shadows, but at that moment he realized his mistake. The walls on his last visit had not been uneven. They bulged a little with age, but generally he had been impressed by the quality of their construction.
He stepped forward, holding the lamp close to the passage wall to maximize the length of the shadow as he moved ever nearer to the indistinct shape. He was only paces away when he at last saw the figure, pressed into the shadows of the stone wall, motionless and invisible when viewed from the front, but casting a shadow once the light was beside it. Mihail should have been prepared for it – he knew how vampires chose to conceal themselves.
Mihail froze and the voordalak moved, aware that he had been seen. He stepped out from the wall and his body filled the corridor. It was not Dmitry. There was no real doubt as to who it was: Zmyeevich. Mihail had never seen him in the flesh, and yet he seemed so familiar. Even Tamara had not met him; her description came from Aleksei, and the few short hours that he and the arch vampire had spent in each other’s company, seventy years before.
Zmyeevich had not changed one iota. He was an impressive man. His age could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy. A domed forehead was underlined by thick, bushy eyebrows which topped a thin, aristocratic nose. Arched nostrils were almost hidden by a long moustache of dark iron-grey, which contributed to a general air of unkemptness.
It took Mihail only an instant to take all of that in, and then he raised his crossbow and squeezed the trigger, not even pausing to relish the moment – this was not Iuda. The bolt cut the air, faster than Mihail’s eyes could track it, but Zmyeevich’s movement was faster still. His hand was in one place and the next instant in another. If he had been bothered he might have snatched the bolt from the air in mid-flight, but that was unnecessary. He merely brushed it aside with a casual blow of his hand and it slipped past him, level with his heart, but inches to the right. Mihail heard the scraping sound of its ricochet from the wall and moments later the clatter as it hit the floor.
Zmyeevich said nothing. He approached calmly, his lips forming into a smile which spread into a grin, revealing his fangs. Mihail thought to reload, but realized it would be useless – the crossbow had failed once, why should it succeed on a second attempt? He understood how ill-prepared he was. All that remained were his swords. He drew them both – the sabre in his right hand and the short wooden dagger in his left. There was not much room to wield the longer weapon down here, but Mihail felt more comfortable with it. Despite the hours of daily practice in how to use the little dagger that his mother had forced upon him, the army had trained him better with a more conventional blade. And anyway, he doubted he would have the chance to plunge the wooden blade into Zmyeevich’s heart whichever hand it was in. He would feel happier to die defending himself like a soldier.
The voordalak continued to walk forward and Mihail felt the hard wood of the door at his back. There was no choice but to stand his ground. Zmyeevich took another pace and Mihail saw his chance; he lunged forward, aiming the wooden dagger straight for Zmyeevich’s heart, but again the vampire was too quick. He clasped the blade in his right hand and with a sharp twist wrenched it from Mihail’s grip, casting it on the ground behind him. Now Mihail had only his sabre.
Then from over Zmyeevich’s shoulder, far down the passageway, there was a glimmer of light. Zmyeevich perceived it too. He turned away to look, presenting his back to Mihail. Beyond him Mihail could see the flickering flame – most likely a candle – sway from side to side as whoever was carrying it approached, but did not waste a moment in trying to make out who was coming. He raised his sabre. His only chance was to behead Zmyeevich, but there was no room to make the broad horizontal swing that might have achieved it. Instead Mihail could only bring the blade down diagonally.
It caught Zmyeevich just at the point where his shoulder curved into his neck, embedding itself a few inches and drawing blood. Its only effect was to enrage Zmyeevich. He turned and in the same motion swung his arm, catching Mihail’s jaw with the back of his hand and sending him flying into the door behind. The sword fell from Mihail’s hand and his head slammed against the wood. He slid to the ground, scarcely conscious, and stared upwards. Zmyeevich towered over him, considering, preparing to deal the final blow.
But instead the voordalak turned again to face the advancing figure, his body blocking it from Mihail’s view.
‘You!’ snarled Zmyeevich.
‘Why not?’ The voice was instantly recognizable – it was Iuda.
‘I’m surprised you dare.’
‘Remember, Ţepeş, I am the master here.’
‘The years have taught you nothing,’ said Zmyeevich. He set off down the corridor towards Iuda, walking but at a tremendous pace. Mihail heard Iuda’s feet moving quickly,
the rapid patter of them climbing the spiral stairs. Zmyeevich was relentless in his pursuit. Soon both were gone. Mihail forced himself to his feet. His head swam but he knew he must move. If either one of them were to return then down here he would be vulnerable, but up there in the cathedral it was light – the domain of the living, not the undead.
He moved quickly, picking up lamp, sabre and arbalyet and only pausing a little way down the corridor to grab the wooden dagger from where Zmyeevich had cast it. Soon he was at the foot of the stairs, but then he stopped. The fact that there was daylight in the cathedral might mean something else – that the two vampires would remain in the corridor. Mihail had no choice but to go on, but he would at least be prepared. He returned his sabre to its scabbard and the dagger to his coat, then he reloaded the crossbow. However ineffective it might have been before, he’d be a fool to abandon it. He pressed onwards.
Even as he reached the top of the stairs, he perceived that it was getting lighter. Once in the upper corridor he saw that, at the end, the doorway behind the icon was open. Evidently there was enough shade for them to step out into the cathedral. For Mihail, it meant a chance of freedom. He ran forward, but paused as he reached the doorway. He peeked out from behind it.
Zmyeevich stood a little way ahead, to the side of the Beautiful Gate and looking into the centre of the nave, leaning against a pillar. He was in shadow, but even the ambient light was bright. Iuda stood directly beneath the dome, upright and confident. Around him, beams of light cut through the air, entering through the tall windows in the walls of the church and coming down from the dome through the windows there, making the space far brighter than Mihail had known it to be in any other cathedral. But somehow, Iuda had found himself a safe place to stand, at a point where he seemed certain that no light would hit him.
‘You begin to understand why I led you here,’ Iuda was saying, addressing Zmyeevich. He had not seen Mihail.