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.
PART THREE
CHAPTER XXX
THERE HAD ONLY BEEN THREE LETTERS FROM PAPA. THEY’D all been in Russian, but Mama had helped Tamara to read them. Papa did it deliberately, she knew, to make her learn. It was nicer – even if it was harder – to read his words in Russian, because that was the language he normally spoke to her. It was only recently she had understood that French and Russian were separate. Her parents had laughed when she mixed the two, but not in a nasty way. She still did it now sometimes, but not nearly so much.
Papa had also sent letters to Mama, but Mama had not let Tamara read those. Instead she had read bits of them out to her. It was obvious that Papa had very important business with the tsar. She hadn’t believed Papa at first when he said who he was going to see, but now she was convinced. Even so, she wished the tsar would hurry up and let Papa come home. He’d been gone almost two months. He would be concerned to know how much taller she had grown – he always commented on that.
‘He’s there again,’ said Mama. Tamara looked up. Her mother was standing at the window, peeking through the curtains. The words had not been addressed to her; Mama had been talking to herself. She did that a lot, particularly when Papa wasn’t here.
‘Who’s there?’ asked Tamara.
Domnikiia looked down at her. There was a frown on her face, but it changed into a smile, which Tamara returned.
‘Will you be a good girl and stay here?’ she asked. Tamara nodded. Her mother began putting on her coat, buttoning it rapidly down the front. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said. She kissed Tamara on the forehead and departed.