Aleksei pulled the papers towards him and started sorting through them, choosing which he would hand over intact to the representatives of the new regime, which he would summarize and which he would leave out. It would take all day just to do that.
‘Can you come and play?’
He turned. Tamara’s face was grinning through the door. It would be so easy to say yes, but this had to be done – and she had to learn that sometimes she couldn’t have what she wanted.
‘I’m sorry, my darling,’ he said. ‘Not just now.’
Toma ran back into the other room. Aleksei heard her voice as she went, speaking to her mother. ‘I told you he’d say no,’ she said, with an air of smugness. It looked like she wasn’t the only lady in the family who had yet to learn she couldn’t always have what she wanted. He turned back to his papers.
The one on top concerned the poet Aleksandr Sergeivich Pushkin. Aleksei moved it swiftly into a pile he would not be showing to anyone – he would burn them, most likely. Pushkin had a revolutionary spirit, but it manifested itself only in what he wrote, never in what he did. He was a better poet than Ryleev and a worse rebel – he would not have managed to kill a dozen in twenty years, with or without a guillotine, unless each one had challenged him to a duel.
Underneath that was a small paper envelope. Aleksei wondered for a moment what it was, and then remembered with a shudder. It was where he had placed the two fingers Kyesha had given him, the last time they had met in Moscow. It seemed a little crushed by the papers on top of it. Would a sensation as mild as that be transmitted to Kyesha, wherever in the world he might now be?
He picked up the envelope. It felt surprisingly light. He opened it and looked inside. There were no fingers. God forbid Tamara should have found them. But the desk had been locked all the time Aleksei had been away – and Domnikiia would not have let the little girl near it. What if Valentin Valentinovich had taken them? It was he who had allowed Aleksei the use of his desk – along with this section of the house – and had given him the keys. He might well have kept a spare set. Aleksei could only laugh at what his host might think at finding a pair of severed fingers in his desk. What if he had taken them out into the sun?
But when he looked inside the envelope once again, he saw that it was not empty. He tipped the contents out on to the desk. It was a dusty, grey powder – not a huge amount, but instantly recognizable for what it was: the final, rotted remains of a dead vampire. It had been over fifteen years since Kyesha had abandoned his humanity and become a voordalak. Now that he was dead, those years of decay had acted upon his remains in an instant. There was little left of him. It was hard to mourn his passing, but it was difficult, unlike with most of them, not to regret his becoming a vampire. Clearly Kyesha had chosen the path he had taken, but in their conversations there had been no sign of the base malice Aleksei had known in the Oprichniki. Even so, he knew Kyesha had killed, and would have killed again, and so ultimately his death had to be applauded.
There was one concern though. Aleksei could not be sure – there were a hundred ways in which he could have died, at the hands of any righteous Christian he might have chosen to attack – but Aleksei felt it in his bones. Wherever it had taken place, it had been brought about by the man for whom Kyesha had himself been searching.
It had been done by Iuda.
CHAPTER XXXII
ALEKSEI HAD BEEN IN MOSCOW FOR NINE DAYS, UNDECIDED as to what to do. It was easy to assert that action must be better than inaction, but to do the wrong thing now could bring disaster, and change the future of Russia for ever. Even if he simply went to the wrong place, he might find himself too distant from events when they finally occurred to have any influence over them. True, little was likely to happen in Moscow, but Moscow was at least reasonably central. The seat of government was to the north, in Petersburg; Tsar Konstantin was to the west, in Warsaw, though presumed to be preparing for his return, if he hadn’t already set out; the Southern Society, and its revolutionary fervour, was to the south, around Kiev. Minsk was the city most ideally positioned between those three potential powder kegs, but Aleksei was damned if he was going to Minsk.
And that was the point on which his judgement might have been a little more subjective. Moscow meant Domnikiia and Tamara. They were reason enough to stay, particularly when there was no good reason to leave. He was reminded of the winter of 1812, after Bonaparte’s hasty retreat from Moscow. Then he had lingered in the city with Domnikiia, awaiting events. Then, the event had been a letter from Dmitry Fetyukovich, announcing that he was on the trail of Iuda and the last remaining Oprichnik, Foma. This time, he would be summoned… how?
There was a polite knock at the door. Aleksei opened it. A footman stood outside.
‘A gentleman to see you, sir.’
‘Send him in.’
‘He’s in a great hurry and says you must accompany him,’ the servant replied.
Aleksei put on his coat and grabbed his hat, heading out to the front door. Waiting for him was Lieutenant Batenkov, that young stalwart of the Northern Society in Moscow.
‘I have a message for you, Colonel,’ he said, ‘from Dmitry… from Lieutenant Danilov. You must come at once.’
They walked briskly through the snow, towards the Kremlin and then past the manège and the Bolshoi Theatre before heading up to Lubyanka Square. The club was as busy as Aleksei had ever seen it. He saw Dmitry across the other side of the room, and forced his way through to him, half listening to the hubbub of conversation that filled the air. Three names stood out – the brothers Romanov: Konstantin Pavlovich, Nikolai Pavlovich and Mihail Pavlovich.
‘What’s happened?’ asked Aleksei as soon as he and Batenkov had reached Dmitry.
‘Grand Duke Mihail,’ explained Dmitry. ‘He reached Petersburg five days ago.’
Of the surviving brothers, Mihail, the youngest, was the only one whom Aleksei had met personally. Aleksandr had briefly introduced them six years before, and had recommended the soldier to the grand duke. The news that Mihail should have gone to the capital at this time was no surprise. ‘And Konstantin?’ Aleksei asked. It seemed the obvious question.
‘No,’ said Dmitry. ‘That’s just the thing, but worse than that, Mihail is refusing to swear allegiance to Konstantin.’
‘What?’ That was news – or more likely, rumour. ‘Are you sure?’
‘We’ve heard it from three sources.’
‘Why should he refuse?’ asked Aleksei.
‘It’s a coup d’état,’ said Dmitry. ‘Nikolai is trying to take over.’
‘But Nikolai swore allegiance to his brother days ago – as soon as he heard Aleksandr was dead.’
‘He would do, wouldn’t he?’ Dmitry seemed very sure of what was going on. ‘That way no one suspects him, and he can see which way the wind is blowing. And see what his agents could do in Warsaw.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Konstantin is being held prisoner – that’s why he’s not back in Petersburg.’
‘Oh, come on!’ Even as he spoke, Aleksei wondered if his scepticism was a reflection of his naivety. It would be a very Romanov way of doing things. Both the father and the grandfather had had power ripped from them by other members of the family. Why should this generation be any different? ‘What do our friends in the Polish Society say?’ he asked.
‘There’s no news,’ said Dmitry. ‘I’ll be honest – what we’re hearing from Warsaw is vague so far.’
‘The plan was for them to rise up at the same time as we did,’ said Batenkov, who had been listening intently to the conversation.
‘Exactly,’ said Dmitry. ‘And if they see that Konstantin has been arrested, who are they to know that it’s not as a result of a direct order from us, having taken charge here.’