The People's Will

Chapter XIV



IT WAS FRIGHTENINGLY simple. All that mihail needed to do was go to the Hôtel d’Europe, present the letter and he would be allowed access to Iuda’s rooms. But that was what made it frightening. Would Iuda really be so remiss as to allow an intruder such easy access to his inner sanctum? And yet Iuda had been absent – a prisoner in distant Turkmenistan for more years than Mihail could guess. In that time things would have begun to slip out of his control. And even now he was still a prisoner, in the Peter and Paul Fortress. What could he do to endanger Mihail? But Mihail would be circumspect.

The hotel occupied the entire west side of Mihailovskaya Street, stretching from Nevsky Prospekt all the way back to Italyanskaya Street. Mihail chose to wear his dress uniform. It would not make him stand out from the crowd – not in Petersburg – and it might lend him some air of authority if the letter wasn’t enough. It was late afternoon by the time he arrived. He’d spent the day in the Imperial Public Library, just a little further down the Prospekt, on the corner of Sadovaya Street. He’d spent most of the past few days there, while waiting for the Ohrana to finish their search of Luka’s flat, but hadn’t managed to find much that he didn’t already know.

The old man he’d met in Senate Square had told him that Ascalon was the sword, or possibly the lance, that Saint George had used to slay the dragon. The documents he found in the library confirmed it, but added little. Ascalon was indeed the name of the weapon, though as to its being a sword or a lance, the tales varied. The earliest reference to the name seemed to be as late as the sixteenth century, though legends of the weapon itself were far older. The name did derive from the city of Ashkelon in Asia Minor. There was also a connection with the Karaite Jews, just as Dmitry had mentioned. The city of Ashkelon had been home to a large Karaite community. There was a famous letter from the Karaite elders of the city, written after the fall of Jerusalem in the First Crusade. It described how they had found money to pay the ransom on captured members of their community, and also for holy relics.

That was all he could discover. It was fertile ground for speculation. Had George’s lance been one of those holy relics? Had it first acquired the name, long after its use against the dragon, by virtue of the time it spent in the city – even if it had taken centuries for that link finally to be written down? Had the Karaite Jews of Ashkelon delivered the lance to the Karaite Jews of Chufut Kalye? Iuda had built an entire laboratory in the caves there, but had his purpose also been to take Ascalon from the Karaites? Had he succeeded? And of what interest was it to Dmitry?

There were no answers, and the tenuous links that formed in Mihail’s mind were quite without substantiation. He left the library earlier than he had done on previous days, before dusk – he had no desire to encounter any of the voordalaki he knew to be in the city. Even in the evenings it was light in the area, thanks to the bright arc lights – Yablochkov Candles – that illuminated Aleksandrinsky Square, beside the library. It was a harsh, unnatural luminance that might at first be mistaken for sunlight, but not for long. Neither was it like the illumination of a candle or a lamp, or any of the various other electric lights that had been invented in recent decades. Mihail had studied them all, and knew their strengths and weaknesses. They would be switched on again in a few hours, but Mihail’s work would be done by then.

The hotel lobby was busy when he entered. He had chosen the time carefully, between afternoon and evening, when those whose reason for being in Petersburg was to frequent the prestigious boutiques on Nevsky Prospekt were returning, and those whose plans were for dinner or a night at the theatre would be preparing to leave. The busier it was the less likely Mihail would be subjected to serious scrutiny.

He waited until the concierge had finished giving an elderly lady and gentleman directions to the Mariinskiy Theatre, and then approached him. The man looked tired and irritable, but forced a smile as Mihail came near.

‘I wonder if you could present this to the hotel manager,’ said Mihail, handing him the envelope, and within it the note that he had recovered from Luka’s rooms. Underneath was a one-rouble bill, folded up. The concierge smiled as his fingers rubbed across it.

‘With pleasure, sir,’ he said, turning away. Mihail couldn’t see quite how he slipped the banknote into his pocket, but was sure that he had done. The concierge disappeared through a door at the back of the lobby. After two minutes he emerged with another man, who came to speak to Mihail, smiling unctuously.

‘It’s been some months since we’ve been privileged to receive a visit from a representative of Collegiate Councillor Chernetskiy,’ he said, handing the letter back to Mihail. ‘I trust that His High Nobleness is in good health?’

No, he’s rotting in a dungeon in the Peter and Paul Fortress. It would not be a helpful response, however much the words would be a pleasure on Mihail’s lips. ‘He’s very well, and sends his regards. He trusts his instructions have continued to be carried out.’ It was pure bluff, but Mihail could hazard a guess as to the nature of the arrangement between Iuda and the hotel.

‘Absolutely.’ As he spoke, the manager guided Mihail towards the front desk. ‘His rooms have remained quite undisturbed.’ He leaned over and whispered in the ear of one of his staff, who turned to the rack of keys behind him.

‘Good. Good,’ muttered Mihail.

The key was handed to the manager and the manager handed it to Mihail. ‘Would you like someone to show you the way?’

‘I’ll be fine, thank you.’ The number, 215, was clearly stamped on the tag attached to the key.

Mihail followed the direction that the manager had involuntarily indicated, leaving the lobby via a short flight of steps on to a corridor from which a far grander staircase ascended. At the top stood the door to a dimly lit dining room, while the stairway turned and continued upwards on either side. However intent he was on his task, Mihail could not help but be awed by the opulence of the hotel – and the expense of it. He was the son of a grand duke, and yet he would never be able to afford rooms in a place like this. The stairs turned again. Mihail glanced at the room that led off the landing, at the front of the building overlooking the street. Its main feature was a grand piano, finished in colourful marquetry. This was still the level of public rooms. After the third flight of stairs, things became less grandiose, but only slightly. The corridor led off in both directions, but all the numbers began with the figure 1. Now the stairs were more mundane, what Mihail might expect in any large building, constructed of iron and twisting back on themselves to take up the minimum amount of space. He needed to ascend only one more flight. He noted the numbers as he passed: 209, 211, 213. At last he was there. He hesitated, then put his ear against the door. There was no reason to expect the room to be occupied. Iuda was a captive. If Dmitry knew of the room, he could not come here in daylight. Even so, Mihail was cautious. Dmitry could have come here at night, and be waiting inside. He knocked and listened again. There was no response. He could think of no more precautions he could take. The key turned smoothly and he pushed the door open.

Iuda awoke. He had slept well. How a voordalak would manage without the tombs of the rich was a mystery. The common man was buried in the ground, but for the rich an ornate chamber was built and the casket was placed within a stone dias so that though it would decay, it would not be food for worms. Iuda lay alongside one such long-departed noble – safe from the sun, comfortable among the dead. He was almost surprised not to find other creatures like himself gathered around the sarcophagus to sleep, like faithful dogs around their master. But there were many graves about the world, and few voordalaki. There were two others in Petersburg though, of that Iuda was sure. Where might they be sleeping, he wondered.

He crawled through the narrow gap that had given him entrance to the tomb and emerged into the cemetery. He raised his hand to his face, but could feel no stains of blood upon it. Even so, he picked up a handful of snow and washed himself. He had no mirror to look in, not that it would have helped. He’d stolen the clothes of the student he had killed – but for the shirt, which was drenched in blood. They weren’t ideal, but they were better than the ragged garments that he had worn for three years in gaol. They would be enough to get him into the hotel without raising too many eyebrows. There he had plenty of other outfits to choose from. And he would need them. Tomorrow was the appointed day for his meeting. It would not do to be ill-dressed for that.

He headed south, back to the centre of town.

There were three rooms in the suite: a bathroom, a bedroom and a study. The bathroom and bedroom were much as might have been expected in any great hotel, except that nothing had been cleaned or even touched for many months. The windows were shuttered. A thick layer of dust sat upon every surface. The wardrobes and drawers were filled with clothes of every style, from the finest evening dress, through a variety of military uniforms, to peasant outfits. Iuda was prepared for any eventuality – for any disguise he might need to adopt. He had not, it seemed, been prepared for moths. Half of the garments were unwearable, most had one or two holes. But it was not these for which Mihail had come.

The study contained three locked cabinets. Mihail had no qualms about wrenching them open. Within he found what he’d been looking for – and much more. The first cupboard contained notebooks – more than fifty of them, all written in English. Some dated back to the 1810s, the latest was as recent as 1877. Mihail had brought a knapsack for the very purpose, but he could not take all of them. With luck he would have the chance to return for more later, but he could not be sure of it. He skimmed through them, trying to determine which were the most valuable, checking dates and headings and glancing over the body of the text for any words that might shout out at him. His English was good, but he did not read it like he could Russian; each word had to be deciphered and understood, rather than simply recognized as a familiar shape. It took him two to three minutes to scan the first volume. He moved on to the second.

He froze. There it was, written in the Latin alphabet but still unmistakable, his grandfather’s name: Aleksei Ivanovich Danilov. Preceded by one and followed by two others that Mihail knew almost as well: Vadim Fyodorovich Savin, Dmitry Fetyukovich Petrenko and Maksim Sergeivich Lukin. The last bore the surname that Mihail had adopted and was still using. There was nothing much to the entry – just a note that they were the four officers who would be liaising with Iuda and the others when they were in Russia. It was dated 27 August 1812. It was the beginning of a story that Mihail knew well.

He quickly worked his way through the notebooks. There may have been other references familiar to him, but if there were he missed them. Everything was in too much detail to be of any real use. These were the day-by-day observations of a scientist; they described the minutiae of what Iuda had seen, but made little effort to explain it. It was only when it got to the more recent volumes, from the 1870s, that Iuda had begun to set down his conclusions about the nature of vampires, drawn from so many years’ experimentation. These Mihail slipped into his bag, along with those from 1855 to 1860 – the years that Tamara had been in contact with Iuda, and a few more after that. Mihail was keen to discover how much Iuda had really known about his mother and, vitally, whether he even guessed at Mihail’s existence.

The second cupboard contained other papers – not Iuda’s own writings but mostly correspondence he had received. Rather than being categorized by date they were divided into folders named after cities: Constantinople, London, Moscow, Simferopol, Saint Petersburg and others – the cities Iuda had been in when he received the letters, Mihail guessed. Again, he had to compromise and took only Moscow and Saint Petersburg. At the bottom of that cabinet there was also money – both paper and coins, some Russian, some from across Europe. The coinage would be too heavy, but he took the banknotes. He wasn’t short of funds, but there was a pleasure in stealing from Iuda – a breach of the eighth commandment that served as an aperitif to the violation of the sixth that Mihail would soon commit against him.

The final cabinet was the most securely locked, and on smashing his way into it Mihail understood why. It contained blood – dozens of small glass bottles and vials, each carefully labelled with a name. Some Mihail recognized: Raisa Styepanovna Tokoryeva, Marfa Mihailovna Danilova, Vadim Fyodorovich Savin. It seemed that Iuda collected blood as a child collects postage stamps. From every person – man or vampire – that he had encountered and had been afforded the opportunity, he had taken blood, even before he became a vampire. Of the names Mihail recognized all were dead, or at least so he presumed – hoped. There was one exception: Zmyeevich. His was the largest bottle of all, though it still fitted in the palm of Mihail’s hand. He made sure the seal was good, then slipped it into his bag.

He looked at the other samples and wondered what he should do with them. Most, if not all of the donors were dead, but still Iuda might have some foul purpose for them. Even if not, it was disrespectful – particularly for the likes of Marfa Mihailovna, Aleksei’s wife – to have the remnants of their corporeal existence here on display long after they had died. Perhaps they should be returned to family members, or buried with due ceremony so that their owners’ souls could rest in peace. But Mihail doubted that God would require any such ritualism to help in His judgement of who was and was not righteous. Besides, Mihail did not have room to take them all. Thankfully the newly rebuilt hotel was an exemplar of modernity. The bathroom had running water – both froide and chaude according to the enamel labels – and a sink that drained directly to the sewers. It was a simple if time-consuming task to empty out every bottle and wash its contents away. It struck Mihail as odd that the stuff hadn’t congealed, but evidently Iuda had found a way to keep it as fresh as on the day it had been drawn from the body. No doubt it was described somewhere in all those journals.

At the bottom of that last cabinet there was a small, brown envelope – unmarked. Mihail picked it up. The contents hidden within were small and unyielding – six little lumps as hard as stone. Mihail could make no guess as to what they were. He ripped open the paper and poured the contents on to the table. Now there was no misunderstanding: two distal phalanges; two intermediate phalanges; two proximal phalanges. They were the bones of the smallest two fingers of the left hand of his grandfather, Aleksei Ivanovich, cut from him in a gaol in Silistria in 1809. It was a slight leap of intuition, but Mihail felt confident in it. There was no doubt that they were finger bones, and who else’s would they be? How they had come into Iuda’s possession was a mystery, but they would not remain there. Mihail returned them to the envelope and placed it in his bag.

It was time to go. Mihail had been in the room for over an hour now. From what he could guess, Luka’s duties had simply been to keep an eye on things while Iuda was away. Mihail was playing the role of his replacement, and the manager might become suspicious if he stayed too long. He looked around him at the mess he had made; the smashed cabinets and the pile of emptied bottles. It did not matter. No one would be entering here. The hotel staff was under orders not to and Iuda was safely locked up. It was a shame. Mihail would have liked him to know just how easily this inner sanctum had been penetrated.

He took one last look around the place, then headed for the door.

Iuda turned off Mihailovskaya Street and into the Hôtel d’Europe. It was much as he remembered it: the elegant high ceilings, the bustling clientele, the attentive staff.

‘Round the back!’

Iuda felt an iron grip on his shoulder as he spoke. He could have broken the man’s arm without a second thought, but he required the goodwill of the hotel and its staff.

‘What?’

‘If you’re looking for work,’ explained the concierge, ‘it’s round the back. Though to be frank, I don’t rate your chances.’

Iuda switched from Russian to French, in the hope of making it clear he was very much entitled to use the front door. ‘Is Monsieur Kryukov available?’

‘Who?’

‘Kryukov, your manager.’

‘Kryukov’s not been here for two years. It’s Sazanov now.’

‘Well go fetch Monsieur Sazanov, and when you find him, tell him that Collegiate Councillor Chernetskiy is here.’

‘Chernetskiy?’ The idiot seemed to recognize the name. ‘But …’

‘Just go and do it.’ Iuda raised his voice a little. It had the desired effect.

Moments later a figure approached, almost bowing as he walked. Iuda presumed him to be Sazanov.

‘Your High Nobleness. I should have known. I should have known.’

‘Known what?’ snapped Iuda.

‘That we were to be graced by your presence.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of your man. You sent him ahead. To prepare the room for you.’

Iuda squeezed his jaws hard together, feeling the muscles tighten. He’d been right to be concerned. Luka had given something away before he died. Iuda should have come straight here and not wasted so much time the previous night.

‘I sent no one,’ he said firmly. ‘When was this?’

‘An hour ago. An hour and a half.’

‘How long did he stay?’

‘He’s still up there. He has the key.’

In seconds Iuda had crossed the lobby and was bounding up the steps. He had no trouble remembering the way and the unending flights of stairs did nothing to exhaust him. He recognized the bronze faces that decorated the rails of the final staircase, with snakes in their hair, like Medusa. Soon he was at the door of 215. It was locked. He prepared to put his shoulder to it – it would offer no effective resistance to his strength.

‘Sir! Please!’ Sazanov was at the far end of the corridor, moving with surprising swiftness for a man of his build, but red-faced and out of breath. In his hand he was waving a bunch of keys. ‘Use this.’

Iuda snatched the keys from him, holding the one that had been proffered. ‘Go!’ he snarled.

‘But sir, that’s the master key. I can’t leave it with a guest.’

‘I’ll return it when I’m done,’ Iuda whispered. Something about his tone convinced the manager, who waddled quickly away. Iuda turned the key and flung open the door to his room.

Mihail threw himself down on the bed. This hotel was far less grand than the Hôtel d’Europe, but he was happy to be here. His heart was still pounding; not from exertion, not through fear, but simply at the thrill of seeing his quarry – though not at all where he had expected him to be.

Mihail had just turned on to the final flight of stairs that descended into the lobby when he had seen Iuda – not his face, simply the back of his head, but the straight blond hair just touching his collar was clue enough. Then he’d turned and Mihail had seen his profile. They’d met only on one occasion, in that gaol at Geok Tepe, but Mihail had spent the whole time studying him, learning his every feature, so that even at a distance of half a verst he would be able to pick him out, hunt him down and kill him.

Mihail’s first instinct was to strike there and then. In his knapsack he carried the simplest of weapons; one that had proven effective against vampires – though never yet in his hand. But to rush down the stairs and attempt to plunge a short wooden dagger into Iuda’s heart was too risky. Iuda was strong and fast. The lobby was crowded with people. Even if he succeeded, he would be arrested. And he would have to take Iuda by surprise, and where would be the fun in that? This was to be punishment – an execution. The pleasure would not be solely in Iuda’s death, but in the knowledge that Iuda understood he was about to die and the reason for it. Iuda must know regret.

And so it was better to wait. Somewhere on a train between here and Saratov a trunk was being delivered, at Mihail’s request. He would be reunited with it soon. Inside he would find far better tools to complete the task, devices he and his mother had worked on together; had tested as best they could. Ideally it would be a slow death – and a painful one – so that Iuda would have time to contemplate. There was a way it could be done – a modern, scientific way. Mihail had seen it with his own eyes. But it would take careful preparation.

He’d slipped back up the stairs and hidden in the room with the piano. Iuda had passed in a whirl of fury and Mihail had not waited. He headed down as quickly as he could. He almost bumped into the hotel manager on the stairs, but the man was so flustered that he did not even notice. At the exit the concierge held the door for him and tipped his hat with a conspiratorial wink. Mihail felt sure the man wouldn’t reveal that he had witnessed Mihail’s departure, though it would matter little if he did.

Now he was safely back at his own hotel on the other side of the city centre, the bag of loot sitting on the table, tempting him to delve inside and discover its secrets. But he restrained himself; there would be plenty of time for it later. One simple thought possessed him: Iuda was free. It shouldn’t have been too much of a surprise. Mihail recalled everything he had seen in Geok Tepe that had been designed to restrain Iuda. There would be nothing like that at the fortress – the troops were unlikely even to know what Iuda was. It might be worth scouring the newspapers for news of the mysterious, bloody deaths of fortress guards, but that would most likely be covered up. No one escaped the Peter and Paul Fortress; a record like that could only be maintained by the occasional editing of the facts.

On the other hand Iuda’s liberty did present new possibilities. In the fortress he had been invulnerable. Mihail would have had no chance of getting in there. Now there would be opportunities to creep up on him; to catch him alone. Mihail even knew where to find him, though it was unlikely he would stay much longer now at the Hôtel d’Europe. But perhaps there was some clue as to where he might go in the papers Mihail had taken. He went over to the table.

As he moved, he heard a sound – a light tap against the window pane; then another. He opened the curtain, but could see nothing. The sound came again and this time he caught a glimpse of some tiny fragment ricocheting off the glass. He pulled up the sash and looked down. A figure stood below. In the darkness he couldn’t make out a face, but from the build he felt sure it was female.

‘Mihail?’ The voice was hushed.

‘Who is it?’ he hissed back.

‘It’s Dusya. Come down.’

‘Why?’

‘Please.’

He pulled his head back inside and closed the window. Then he dumped the knapsack in his trunk and hid it under a pile of clothes. He slipped on his coat and went downstairs. Dusya had been at the back of the building – Mihail did not care to pay for a room with a view – but when he emerged from the hotel she was waiting for him.

‘How did you know where to find me?’ he asked.

‘You gave Luka your address, didn’t you? You think he wouldn’t tell me?’

It was conceivable, but when would he have had the chance? More likely she, or one of them, read it on the card they’d found on Luka’s body before they dumped it in the river.

‘What happened to him?’

She breathed deeply, as if about to speak, but then her eyes filled with tears and she flung herself forward, burying her face in Mihail’s chest. Mihail could do nothing but reciprocate. He put his arms around her and held her. They stood like that for half a minute and then she lifted her head to look up at him, her eyes still glistening. The look suited her.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, her voice choked. ‘It must have been the Ohrana.’

It was a convincing show, but it still seemed unlikely. ‘Wouldn’t they have just arrested him?’ Mihail asked.

‘You understand what we do. He’d have run rather than be caught. And they’d prefer him dead than free. Punishment is more important to them than justice.’

‘So what is it you do?’ Mihail had guessed, but he needed to know more.

‘Come with me,’ she said.

‘Can’t you tell me here?’

‘Please.’

She walked away without looking over her shoulder to verify that he was with her. He had no option but to follow. She led him away from the river and from the centre of town into an area he was not familiar with. He quickly caught up and walked alongside her.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘Somewhere safe.’

‘Why weren’t we safe before?’

‘They’re always watching.’

‘Watching me, or watching you?’

‘We both spoke to Luka, so they’re watching us both.’

She walked quickly for someone of her stature, her eyes fixed on the ground ahead of her. Mihail grabbed her by the arm, forcing her to stop and turn to face him.

‘Who are “they”?’

She looked up at him in silence, her eyes, still moist, gazing into his.

‘Please,’ she insisted. ‘It’s not far.’ She began walking again.

They passed an insalubrious-looking tavern, but didn’t go in. Just beyond was an alleyway. Dusya ducked inside, grabbing Mihail’s hand and pulling him after her. They were beside the kitchens. Warm air blew out of an open window, making the alley warmer than the street they had come from, and filling it with the smell of pork and cabbage.

‘What is it then?’ he asked.

She reached up to him and put her hands on either side of his head, pulling him down towards her. She was going to bite him. He had been a fool not to bring a weapon, and not to consider the possibility that she might be a vampire. But he had considered it; he always considered it, with every individual he met. That was how his mother had raised him. He had seen Dusya in daylight twice now – on the train and when he had followed her. Any doubts were dispelled when he felt her lips not on his neck but on his own lips, trying to kiss him. He pulled away. It was madness. It was not what he was here for.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you want me?’ As she spoke, she allowed her overcoat to fall open. She began to unfasten her blouse beneath, revealing more of her pale white flesh with each button.

It was pathetically clumsy; inept and fake. But it was too late. Even as Mihail watched her he sensed somebody behind him and the world went black. He felt coarse material sucking against his mouth as he breathed in and a cord tightening around his neck. He reached up to pull it away, but Dusya’s hands grabbed his wrists and held them down with surprising strength. Then he felt a screaming pain at the back of his head, and stars filled the darkness, and then he sensed no more.