‘I see,’ said Dmitry, avoiding an explicit wink, but trying to convey the same implication with the tone of his voice. He leaned forward and spoke into his father’s ear. ‘Don’t overdo it though. People will never believe what you did if you only announce it after the revolution.’
Aleksei scowled at him, and Dmitry realized he had probably said too much. Perhaps his father would never reveal his role – that would be like him; not so much modest as secretive. It was hard to believe that his father had actually raised his hand against the tsar, but there were others in the south who would have been eager to do that. Aleksei had obviously helped them in some way. And that meant there would be at least a few in the Southern Society who knew, and so the name Danilov would eventually make it into the history books.
‘What’s the mood here?’ asked Aleksei.
‘Confused. Impatient. The news can only have reached Petersburg a few days ago, so there’s been no time for us to hear anything back. We can only guess that they will start an uprising. There’s a lot suggesting we should all go up there, and concentrate our strength. But others say we’ll be needed here. If the new tsar takes flight, this is where he will come.’
‘Konstantin isn’t even in Russia at the moment.’
‘That’s why we should act now.’
‘Is there any consensus?’
‘For the moment, it’s wait and see – at least till we hear from Petersburg.’
‘And your personal view?’ asked Aleksei.
‘I’d rather be where the action is.’
Aleksei patted him on the shoulder. ‘A chip off the old block,’ he said. Dmitry was reminded of what Domnikiia had said to him, about his similarity to Dmitry Fetyukovich.
‘Do I take after Uncle Dmitry at all?’ he asked.
Aleksei frowned, and then laughed. ‘Not at all. Whoever gave you that idea?’
Dmitry had never really thought Domnikiia would say anything to Aleksei about their meeting – now he was sure she hadn’t, otherwise Aleksei would have made the connection. He was still curious to know what she had meant, though.
‘You named me after him,’ he said.
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean you’ll be like him.’ He changed the subject. ‘Anyway, how’s the training going? Every day at the manège, I hope.’
‘Most,’ said Dmitry, ‘but there are lots of other things to train in. They haven’t given up square-bashing yet.’
His father glanced down at the piano. ‘Not tempted to join the band?’ he asked.
‘It’s not easy to march with a piano.’
‘You’re keeping it up though?’
Dmitry nodded.
‘Good,’ said Aleksei. ‘Next time you’re in Petersburg, there’ll… well, you’ll see.’
Dmitry was about to ask his father what he meant, but it was clear he was being deliberately enigmatic. ‘So what do you think we should do, Papa?’ he asked instead.
‘About what?’
‘About the revolution.’
‘Like you said,’ replied his father. ‘We wait.’
Even in the Crimea it was turning cold now, especially at night. The crescent moon was low in the sky, but still cast a reasonable light. This was the third night in a row Iuda had sat out here. He hoped it would be the last. He’d chosen the spot some way to the north of Chufut Kalye. The hills were lower here, which helped with the cold. There was no snow as yet, but it could be seen on the mountain peaks to the south.
It was an ideal location. The trail he had left should be easy enough to follow. He had gone back to Karaite citadel and talked to several of the locals there. A few had recognized him from when he had first reconnoitred the land, years before, but none guessed how close he had been living to them in the meantime. Certainly, anyone who asked wouldn’t have too much difficulty gaining directions to an inn in Simferopol where he – still under the name of Cain – had been staying.
At the inn, they’d learn that the Englishman, Cain, had presented himself as a keen geologist, interested in the cave formations in the region. They’d be told the area he’d been asking questions about, and the fact that he intended to set up camp there.
Not too obvious, he hoped. It shouldn’t matter though; anyone – any creature – that followed the trail would have such an overwhelming sense of their own superiority – against all historical evidence – that they would not be looking for a trap. Even if they were, the worst it could do would be to scare them off.
On the other hand, it could be Lyosha who came after him. He might be buoyed by his victory over Iuda – however pyrrhic it had been, considering that it required the death of Aleksandr – and have decided to pursue him. Would he get lucky and actually manage to kill Iuda one day? The chances were that someone would – someone less squeamish about it than Aleksei, probably. It had become a growing concern for Iuda, and that was what tonight’s undertaking was all about.
His worst fear was that it would be Zmyeevich himself that came, though more likely he would see such personal involvement as beneath him. Iuda regretted having made an enemy of him. Their alliance had begun in 1812, when Zmyeevich had first sent Iuda to Russia to contact the tsar, under the cover of a band of mercenaries whose mission had been, even in Zmyeevich’s eyes, secondary, though the defeat of Russia would have done him little good. He would make a terrible foe, but better to be alive and faced with an enemy like that than to be dead. More and more recently, Iuda had been reminded of his own mortality.
Somewhere behind him, lower down the hill, he heard a sound. He reached into his pocket and drank from the small pewter flask he found there. It tasted foul, but he knew he had to drink it – not too much though. He almost gagged as he swallowed; there was little chance of overconsumption.
Whoever it was was skirting along the hillside, round to the right. Iuda could still hear them, though they had not yet climbed high enough to have come into view. It would seem they wanted to greet him face to face. Foolhardy, perhaps, but it was necessary for an avenger to be known to his victim. That was why Zmyeevich had insisted Aleksandr know most of what was going on. It had proved a mistake then; it would now.
A face appeared, rising up over the brow of the hill with the moon behind it, but illuminated by the single lamp Iuda had placed beside him. It was the face he had been expecting. There was no attempt at stealth. He came to a halt a few paces away.
‘Good evening, Cain,’ he said.
‘Good evening…’ Iuda pretended not to remember the name. ‘Ruslan, isn’t it?’
‘It was once. I prefer Kyesha now.’
‘Ah, yes! Maksim Sergeivich’s poor little brother Innokyentii.’
‘You knew I’d go to Saratov?’ asked Kyesha.
‘I knew it must have been you who gave my book to Danilov. The only link you could have with him was through Maksim Sergeivich.’
‘So you set me up? Aleksei too?’
‘I have to admit I had formed only the vaguest of plans,’ said Iuda. There was no need for deceit. ‘You really did all the thinking for me; though if I’d been organizing things, I’d have been a little better prepared for Lyosha when he arrived at Chufut Kalye – or I’d have made sure he arrived a few weeks later. One thing at a time is best, I always find.’
‘And now you’re starting all over again.’
Iuda looked around him at the barren hilltop. ‘Here?’ he said. ‘No, I think my cave-dwelling days are over. I was just waiting here for you.’
‘Just like you were waiting for Aleksei?’
Iuda decided it was time to show a little weakness. ‘You learn quickly,’ he said, with a self-effacing smile.
Kyesha took a step towards him. Iuda felt his heart quicken as he welcomed in the familiar sensation of fear. This was not the kind of fear he had experienced with Zmyeevich on R zbunarea – this was the good kind, the kind that told him he was alive.