The People's Will

Chapter XXIII



‘NO ARMY TO assist you this time, mitka?’

‘An army couldn’t help me,’ Dmitry replied. He looked Iuda up and down. He had been anticipating this moment for weeks, ever since he had understood that it was Iuda who had caused Raisa’s death. There had been one opportunity for Dmitry to be avenged, but some part of his mind had held him back – he knew now it was Zmyeevich’s power over him. One part of Dmitry’s mind, that fragment of Raisa that still lingered, wanted Iuda dead – craved it like he sometimes craved blood. That part hated Iuda, but Dmitry did not. A greater part, Zmyeevich, needed him alive – or at least had done for a while. Now Zmyeevich was at best indifferent. At Saint Isaac’s he had been toying with Iuda. He would kill him if the opportunity arose, but he did not require Dmitry to do it. The worst of it was that Dmitry’s own mind was an irrelevance. The desire for vengeance was the more noble cause – if nobility had any meaning for a vampire – but it still made Dmitry the proxy for another’s wishes. To be ruled by Raisa was no better than being ruled by Zmyeevich. Dmitry needed to be free, to act from his own desires, and only one man could advise him how. Vengeance would have to wait.

Dmitry’s former mentor appeared his usual self; calm and strong. His surroundings were not the most salubrious, but a voordalak did not always have the choice. ‘You look well,’ Dmitry continued. ‘Zmyeevich told me you were dead. He lied to me.’ It was not the only lie his master had told.

‘Not a lie, I think,’ said Iuda. ‘An exaggeration born of his optimistic nature. It was a very close thing. How did you find me?’ He moved to the new topic without pause for breath.

‘Sofia Lvovna is suspicious of everyone and has them followed. She reported that Dusya was spending her time here. Only I could guess why.’

‘You knew about Dusya and me?’

‘I had my suspicions. She and Luka – you and Luka. One only had to complete the triangle.’

‘You came alone?’ asked Iuda.

‘Zmyeevich doesn’t know I’m here.’ It was probably true. Dmitry was making a great effort to exclude any intrusion into his mind.

‘Why should I believe that?’

‘Believe what you will.’

‘So why have you come?’

Dmitry leaned back against the hard brick wall of the sewer and slid down to the ground, his hands covering his face. He breathed deeply and tried to work out what he had come to say. It was hard to know how to begin. The best he could come up with was ‘I miss you, Vasya.’ It had always been true, even while he had hated him.

Iuda laughed. ‘Don’t be an ass, Mitka. You’re not capable of it.’

Dmitry looked up. ‘I miss having someone who seemed to know the answers. I miss having someone I trusted.’

‘You have Zmyeevich.’

‘I can’t trust him. As you say, we’re incapable of it. Now I know that it’s a wise state to be in. It saves us from being tricked – being treated like a prostak.’

‘Can I take it that the great Count Dracula has duped you in some way?’ Iuda sounded delighted, as well he might.

‘That’s what I’ve come to you to find out.’

‘And you trust me.’

‘I trust that you know more about vampires than anyone on the planet.’

‘Tell me what you want to know then.’

Dmitry breathed deeply and then began. ‘A few nights ago a man came to speak to me. His name’s Lukin.’

‘Mihail Konstantinovich?’

Dmitry nodded. ‘You remember him. He was at Geok Tepe. A remarkable man.’

‘Really? How so?’

‘Anyone who can steal from you must have a certain distinction. He’s seen your journals – or says he has.’

‘Says he has?’ asked Iuda cautiously.

‘That’s what I want you to confirm – or, please God, deny if you can.’

‘What?’

‘I know what happens when a vampire and a human exchange blood – obviously I do.’ Dmitry paused, hardly able to bring himself to speak of what he had done. ‘But what if two vampires were to do the same – to exchange their moribund blood?’

Iuda smirked. ‘But what vampires would do such a thing? The very concept would be repugnant to them.’

‘Not so repugnant to deter you from carrying out experiments on it,’ shouted Dmitry, deflecting attention from his own foul behaviour on to the fouler things that Iuda had done to dozens of their brethren.

‘Knowledge must be advanced.’

‘Just tell me what would happen.’

‘To begin with,’ Iuda explained, ‘the effect would be much the same as between human and voordalak: a sharing of minds. The difference of course is that there would be no bodily change of one – the human – into the form of the other. Instead a mental transformation takes place. The mind of one would be subject to the will of the other and those parts of it that were no longer used – replaced by the other’s mind – would wither, like an unused limb.’

It was much as Mihail had said. Dmitry had not doubted it. ‘Which mind would wither?’

‘The weaker, of course. The most notable case I have seen in vivo is with Zmyeevich and his Wallachian cohorts. Through exchanging blood with him they became little more than animals, useful only to do his bidding. Those that he sent to Russia with me were typical specimens. I’m sure Lyosha described them to you.’

He knew – or at least he guessed. And why shouldn’t he? Why would Dmitry be asking if the circumstances did not apply to him.

‘Is this what Lukin told you?’ Iuda asked.

‘Pretty much.’

‘Then the man is a genius – or he has read the work of a genius, which is more likely.’

‘Can the process be reversed?’ asked Dmitry.

Iuda shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. But it can be halted. Complete separation of the two vampires involved – if it has not gone too far.’

‘Too far?’

‘There comes a point where the weaker voordalak has lost his will sufficiently that he is beyond hope. However much he resists, the stronger can put into his mind the desire to return and exchange blood once again. It’s a vicious circle. I’ve known vampires so far gone that they attempt to claw their way through rock to get back to their master.’

‘I see.’

There was a long pause. Dmitry stared at the ground, but he could feel Iuda’s eyes bearing down upon him.

‘For what it’s worth, Mitka, I think you still have a chance.’

It was worth nothing, but why would Iuda lie about it? Did he even need a reason?

‘Now tell me about this Lukin,’ said Iuda briskly. ‘What’s he after?’

Dmitry swallowed. He did not want to tell Iuda the whole truth – that Lukin was his nephew, Aleksei’s grandson. Iuda might discover it soon enough for himself, but it gave Dmitry some last vestige of defiance to keep the secret for now. Besides, the boy had far more illustrious antecedents than that. He laughed weakly before replying. ‘You’ll never guess it, Vasya, but he’s a Romanov – the bastard son of Konstantin Nikolayevich.’ Iuda’s laughter was more hearty. ‘You’re sure?’

Dmitry could not help but smile. ‘Zmyeevich is – he can tell, of course.’

‘He can?’

‘In this case at least. Lukin drank some of Zmyeevich’s own blood, right in front of us. So Aleksandr Aleksandrovich is safe from Zmyeevich, and he couldn’t do anything – if he killed Lukin, the whole lot of them would be free.’

Iuda seemed intrigued. ‘Indeed they would. When did this happen?’

‘Wednesday,’ said Dmitry.

‘Two days ago,’ mused Iuda. ‘I take it you’re not going back to Zmyeevich.’

‘No.’ Why not, just for a little longer? ‘No,’ he added more firmly.

‘And what about Zmyeevich himself, will he stay in Petersburg?’

‘Why should he? There’s nothing he can do to the Romanovs now until Aleksandr Aleksandrovich dies and Nikolai Aleksandrovich becomes Nikolai II.’

‘You speak as though the current tsar were already dead.’

Dmitry managed a laugh. ‘He’s as good as. You know what’s going on.’

Iuda nodded. ‘That though was not the only thing that brought Zmyeevich to the capital.’

‘Ascalon, you mean?’

Iuda said nothing.

‘It’s gone,’ said Dmitry. ‘If it was ever there.’

‘It was there.’ Iuda seemed confident.

‘You found it?’

‘Long ago.’

‘And where is it now?’

Iuda emitted a mournful sigh and then began to speak in English:

‘This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,

This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,

This other Eden, demi-paradise,

This fortress built by nature for herself

Against infection and the hand of war,

This happy breed of men, this little world,

This precious stone set in the silver sea,

Which serves it in the office of a wall,

Or as a moat defensive to a house,

Against the envy of less happier lands,

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this …’

Iuda came to a halt, gazing wistfully into nothingness, but Dmitry completed his words.

‘England?’ he said. He might have guessed simply from the language that Iuda had spoken, but he had taught himself English over the years, and what better way to learn it than by reading Shakespeare? ‘That’s where you’ve taken it?’

Iuda smiled. ‘I still have some property there. An estate in Essex. A house on Piccadilly.’

‘And in which have you hidden Ascalon?’

Iuda laughed. ‘Who says it’s in either? England may not be Russia, but it’s big enough to hide a little fragment of stained wood – and more.’

‘More?’

Iuda’s mood suddenly darkened. ‘I think you should go now, Dmitry.’

Dmitry felt suddenly alone. He realized he had been enjoying himself. Talking to Iuda was not like talking to Zmyeevich. In neither case could he say he was regarded as an equal, but unlike Zmyeevich, Iuda was a show-off and he saw Dmitry as a worthy audience. It made him better company. Dmitry doubted if he would ever be able to kill him, however much the latent spirit of Raisa begged it.

‘Why?’ Dmitry asked. ‘Couldn’t I come back later?’

‘I won’t be here later.’ Iuda paused and looked down at him.

‘Mitka, you’re a danger to me, you know that. Even if you don’t want to, you’ll tell Zmyeevich what you know. You don’t even need to tell him. He knows your mind. He knows you’re here. He knows I’m here.’

‘What if I refuse to leave?’

Iuda gave a curt smile. ‘Goodbye, Mitka.’ He turned and walked away, not towards the steps by which Dmitry had entered, but along the tunnel of the sewer. Dmitry could listen to his footsteps long after his figure had become enfolded in the darkness, but soon even they faded beyond the limits of perception.

He was alone.

Mihail walked swiftly along the dark streets. He looked around. He was somewhere to the north-west of the city, on Vasilievskiy Island, but he couldn’t tell precisely where. He couldn’t recall how he had got here. All was quiet. It was late and cold and few souls had the desire to be out. But some would, and it was those – one of those – that Mihail sought.

There was a noise ahead, coming from a side street. Mihail froze, surprised that he had been able to perceive so slight a sound, but pleased by it too. He pressed himself against the wall, becoming a part of it, his arms spread wide, following the line of the brickwork. He prayed that he wouldn’t be seen, but at the same time knew that there was no need for prayer. The sound grew louder; footsteps in the snow – two pairs of them. He only needed one, but the other would prove little hindrance.

They turned the corner and came towards him, unaware of the figure that stood in perfect stillness against the wall and watched them. They were workmen and they were sober, which indicated they were heading out to whichever factory employed them, not returning home. They didn’t speak. They walked past Mihail – inches from him – and still didn’t get any hint that he was there. Mihail felt pleased – proud even – at his ability to become invisible, but he didn’t dwell on the emotion.

One man was half a pace behind the other, and Mihail struck. It was a heavy blow with his fist to the back of the man’s head. Mihail felt the skull fracture and compress under his knuckles. A cosh would not have done as good a job. The man crumpled silently. He might be dead already, but he certainly would not survive even a few hours unconscious in the freezing Petersburg night. His friend sensed that something had happened and began to turn, but Mihail was ready for him. He took only a moment to relish the expression of horror in the man’s eyes before clamping one hand over his mouth and pushing his head firmly backwards, though not so firmly as to break his neck – the victim had to be alive.

With his free hand Mihail ripped away the thick scarf that kept the man’s throat warm and cosy in the night air. Beneath it was a high collar, but Mihail easily tore that away too, revealing pale, taut skin. He didn’t delay. He bared his fangs and thrust his head forward, enjoying the slight popping sensation as the skin first resisted and then yielded to their sharp points. Then he enjoyed even more the warmth of the blood that flowed into him, nourished him.

He would get used to this.

Mihail awoke and sat upright in a single instant. He was cold, but covered in sweat. He forced himself to salivate and smacked his lips, trying to cleanse his mouth of the repellent taste, but the flavour had gone already, left as part of his dream. But the fear lingered. It was not the first time he had seen through Zmyeevich’s eyes in the days since he had drunk the monster’s blood, but it was the most vivid.

And yet he couldn’t be sure even of that. Had Mihail genuinely perceived what Zmyeevich perceived as he stalked his prey through the night streets, or was it as simple as a dream – a creation of Mihail’s own mind, reacting to the awful knowledge of whose blood he had consumed? Either way, it was a price worth paying for the victory Mihail had won over the vampire. And there might be further benefits too if Mihail could learn to control this second sight, and thereby discover Zmyeevich’s secrets.

Mihail looked around him and quickly remembered where he was. He had slept at the cheese shop, in the living room. In the far corner Kibalchich was asleep in a chair. They were adhering to Sofia’s rule that no one should be alone, and it made sense that the two men who best understood the engineering of what was being done should stay closest to it.

In truth there was little more that needed to be done. Kibalchich had fetched dynamite from its hiding place, wrapped in sailcloth and then sunk into the Neva where it could easily be retrieved using a rope attached to a tree on the bank. It was perfectly dry, but even if it had got damp its explosive potential would have been undiminished. Mihail laid it in place and ran the wires back along the tunnel. Then he and Kibalchich had sealed up the chamber where the dynamite had been placed, first with wooden boards, then piling loose earth in behind. In the end the tunnel was only a little shorter than it had been. The shaft down to the cellars below was still easily accessible – that was important, at least for Mihail. The only clue that there was anything beyond was the two thin wires emerging from the compacted dirt. He carried them back, feeding them through his hands to avoid any chance of twisting, and left them just inside the tunnel entrance where they would be hidden even if someone entered the living quarters of the shop. He set up the switch, but connected only one of the wires.

In the army he would have used a magneto, but this approach, described to him by Kibalchich, was just as effective and could produce sufficient electromotive force to ignite the blasting caps from just a single Leclanché cell. The trick was to wire in a Rumkorff coil. The switch was held closed for just a few seconds, allowing the current to stabilize. Then it would be released, the circuit would be broken and the sudden drop in current would induce much higher tension in the other half of the coil, enough to cause detonation. The added benefit was that if the operator were to be interrupted or even shot, he would still release the switch and would in death complete his task.

Through the drawing of straws that task had fallen to Frolenko. They’d moved the table over to the wall on the street side so that he could stand on it and peep through the top of the window to watch as His Majesty’s carriage rolled past. It would mean that he could both time the moment of his action and see its result, though it might do him better to throw himself to the floor at that point, to avoid the shards of window glass that would be impelled towards him. After that he’d have a good chance of escape. There would be confusion and it would take a few seconds to connect the bomb with the cheese shop, especially as all in his entourage clustered around the body of the dying tsar.

None of it would come to pass.

Aleksandr knew already. He’d known even before Mihail had told him, thanks to the Ohrana and his wily Minister of the Interior, Loris-Melikov. The tsar would continue with his Sunday routine of travelling by coach to see the changing of the guard at the Manège, but the route would not take him down Malaya Sadovaya Street, not until the People’s Will had been smashed, and that would only happen when they had gathered enough information to arrest every member they could. Mihail doubted it would be very long.

But the People’s Will knew none of this. Their greatest fear was discovery. With the arrest of Zhelyabov and the absence of Shklovskiy, Sofia Lvovna was completely in charge, and she had become obsessed with security. On cold reflection Mihail realized it was unlikely that she suspected him individually, but she was wise to be circumspect. There was no opportunity for them to leave and no excuse for it. Food was brought in for them – and even if it hadn’t been, there was plenty of cheese.

Mihail checked that Kibalchich was still sleeping, then climbed down to take another look at the lower cellars – the ones that Dmitry had so conveniently unearthed. He went back to the ancient dank corridor and along to where it ended at those three rusty gates. Only one remained locked. No one had attempted to open it up or explore further. What would be the point? Beyond, it was clear to see that the stone roof had collapsed and the pathway was impenetrable. Somewhere it must connect to one of the buildings above, but it had long fallen into disuse.

Of the two chambers, the first was still used as a workshop, but was filled with clutter. There were over thirty Leclanché cells there, along with wires, picks, shovels, incandescent bulbs, Rumkorff coils and everything else that a sapper might need to send a city wall crumbling to its foundations. All of it was surplus to requirements. The other chamber was tidier, but still a number of accumulator cells and reels of wire were stacked up against one wall. It too had an iron gate, but this one had been unlocked, assuming it had ever been locked – there was no sign of a key. Inside it was featureless, but for a simple alcove, about a foot high and at eye level, set into the wall. It was empty, but on the stonework above it was an inscription, written in an alphabet that Mihail could not comprehend.



No one else could make out the language, neither did they seem to care. Their minds were set on the explosion to come. It was late on Friday now; still a day and a half until the tsar’s carriage was due to roll past, though Mihail knew it never would. And even if for some reason the tsar did change his plans and come this way, he would be in little danger. How difficult would it be for Mihail simply to reverse two wires and render the entire trap ineffective? Wiser not to do it yet, though. Kibalchich could come down at any time and check that everything was in order. Sabotage was best performed at the last minute.

Even so, it would be preferable to get out and warn the tsar. More than that, Mihail had his own trap to spring – and this place was perfect for it. It would take only a little preparation, and he himself would be the bait, but bait would only lure its victim if the victim knew of its existence. That was why Mihail sought the opportunity to break free and speak to the tsar. There was no doubt that Aleksandr would help; Mihail had saved him, in a far greater way than by warning him of the plot against him. Mihail had drunk Zmyeevich’s blood. It might mean that he would be haunted for ever by those terrible dreams, but it had made the tsarevich immune. There was nothing that His Majesty wouldn’t do for Mihail when he heard the boastful but utterly irrefutable words, ‘Your Majesty, I have saved your dynasty.’

‘Your Majesty, I have saved your dynasty.’

‘I find that very hard to believe,’ Aleksandr replied.

‘I assure you, I’m speaking the truth.’

‘An assurance from a creature such as you, Cain, means nothing.’

Iuda considered. He looked around him. Once again he was trapped like an animal in the zoo, in a cage that protruded into the tsar’s more comfortable portion of the room. It was not a position of power, but at least Aleksandr had agreed to see him – that demonstrated he still regarded Zmyeevich as a threat.

‘What proof can I offer?’ Iuda asked. ‘Your family’s happy survival for another century?’

‘That would be a start. You would still be around to receive payment.’

‘You would not be around to give it.’

‘My descendants would honour my word,’ said the tsar.

‘I wouldn’t trust you to honour your own word.’

‘I am a Romanov.’

‘Ha! So your word is as good as Pyotr’s was to Zmyeevich.’

‘So it seems neither of us trusts the other,’ said Aleksandr.

‘Then neither of us can benefit.’

‘I must contradict you. You say you have saved my dynasty – if that is true, then I have already benefited.’

Iuda smiled in acknowledgement of the tsar’s trap. ‘I overstated my position,’ he said. ‘I have it in my power to save your dynasty.’

‘How?’

‘I have found the bastard we require.’

Aleksandr sat down, rubbing his moustache. ‘Whose child?’

‘The child of your brother, Konstantin.’

‘He’ll never agree.’

‘He need never know.’

Aleksandr considered, remaining silent for several seconds. Iuda tried to follow his thought processes, but he was a difficult man to fathom. When he spoke, it revealed a concern for the practical rather than the moral considerations. ‘You propose to go to Pavlovsk and just kidnap the child?’

‘It is not one of his acknowledged sons,’ Iuda explained.

‘Who is it then?’ snapped Aleksandr.

‘His name is Lukin – Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin.’ As he spoke Iuda looked for any flicker of expression in the tsar’s face that might indicate he was aware of Lukin’s existence, but he saw none.

‘How do you know he’s Kostya’s boy?’

‘I know he’s a Romanov, and what’s more Zmyeevich knows it too.’

‘How?’

Iuda decided that it was best to come clean. ‘Because he has already drunk Zmyeevich’s blood. In doing so he has saved your son Aleksandr Aleksandrovich. It will take only a little more effort for your whole family to be saved.’

‘By killing him?’

‘By killing him.’

‘And why should we need you to do it? There are dozens of men in this very building who would kill at a single word from me. Better still, I could do the thing myself.’

‘Would they know how? Would you?’ asked Iuda. ‘Would you know how to deal with him, once dead? Would you be able to find him before Zmyeevich’s blood left his body? Would you know how to determine whether or not it had? Would you be able to feed him more of the blood, if necessary? Would you—’

Aleksandr halted him with a wave of the hand. ‘You’ve made your point,’ he said. ‘And then what – how would you prove what you’d done?’

‘I’d bring him to you. It would be easy to demonstrate that he was a voordalak.’ Iuda imagined the moment even as he spoke. There was another side to this that had nothing to do with the Romanovs. Iuda would have in his power the vampire offspring of Zmyeevich – a creature who shared the great vampire’s mind. What power might it give Iuda over his former ally? But that was for another day. ‘Then you would give me payment.’

‘But at that point you’d have done your work. Why should I need to pay you?’

A lesser man than Aleksandr would not have made the case against his own trustworthiness, but the tsar knew very well that Iuda would have got that far already.

‘And at that point I would take Lukin and present him to your brother. I’m not sure just how deep the rift it caused between you would be, but hardly worth it for the little I ask.’

Aleksandr considered. ‘Very well,’ he said at length. ‘Do what you will with him. Then bring him here and show him to me.’

He turned to leave, but there was something else he needed to be told; there was no point in dealing with a dead man. ‘One more thing,’ shouted Iuda. ‘As a sign of my good faith.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t take your coach along Malaya Sadovaya Street this Sunday. They’ve dug a tunnel under it and they plan to blow you to kingdom come.’

Aleksandr gave a knowing smile. ‘I’m well aware of that,’ he said.

‘I see,’ said Iuda. ‘Then you probably know something else that should mean you won’t shed too many tears over the fate we have planned for Mihail Konstantinovich.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘He’s helping to dig it.’

Why, Dmitry wondered, did he continue? This was no question of, with Shakespeare still on his mind, ‘Bitj ili nye bitj.’ Dmitry did not seek death, nor did he know whether a voordalak was capable of suicide. The question was less profound. He knew he must get away from Zmyeevich, just as Iuda had told him, so why did he remain here in Petersburg? Why did he continue to pose as Shklovskiy? Did the success or failure of these fools, the life or death of Aleksandr, really matter at all to his existence? It did not – but it mattered to Zmyeevich and the fact that Dmitry continued to play his role simply demonstrated just how deeply in thrall to Zmyeevich he was.

‘You’ve done well in my absence, Sofia Lvovna,’ he said.

‘We were unable to communicate with you. I think I made the decisions that you would have.’

It was a small meeting – just the inner circle of the Executive Committee, those that hadn’t already been arrested: Sofia, Bogdanovich, Kibalchich, Rysakov. The only surprising face was Dusya’s; she’d never seemed anything more than a foot soldier in the organization. But when generals were dropping – or being arrested – left, right and centre there would be many a battlefield promotion. Her new-found status would be a boon to Iuda.

‘Is everything ready for Sunday?’ Dmitry asked.

Sofia nodded. ‘Aleksandr will not escape.’

What did it matter now? Not to the few gathered here, but to Zmyeevich? Aleksandr Aleksandrovich was lost to him, thanks to Mihail, so what would be achieved by his father’s death? Was that to be just the start? Would Zmyeevich go on to engineer the death of the new tsar, so that the boy Nikolai could take the throne, under Zmyeevich’s control? The people here would gladly help with the first step of that, though they didn’t expect there would be any need to remove a second tyrant once the first was eliminated; the people would see to that – so the theory went. On the other hand, might Zmyeevich use this threat to the current tsar’s life as one final inducement to persuade him to become a vampire? Dmitry did not care, but Zmyeevich cared on his behalf.

‘Any news of Zhelyabov?’ Dmitry asked, still feigning interest.

‘Were you expecting any?’ Sofia’s tone was a little pointed.

‘I think we’d know by now if he’d talked,’ Dmitry replied.

‘And how would we know that?’

‘Because if he had talked, none of us would be here to discuss it. We’d all be under arrest.’ It was straightforward reasoning and Sofia should have understood too. Dmitry suspected that there was something more to her question.

‘Perhaps he’s only told them what they know already,’ said Sofia.

‘By other means,’ added Dusya.

Dmitry noticed how he had become the focus of everyone in the room. True enough, he was the chairman of the committee, but that role had never previously drawn such attention. He chose to play the innocent.

‘Andrei’s clever like that,’ he said, nodding. ‘But eventually they’ll realize he’s not giving them anything new – and then we’ll have to act fast.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be the first to know,’ said Dusya.

‘Just as you were the first to learn of his arrest,’ added Rysakov, ‘long before the rest of us – before it even happened.’

Dmitry grinned. It was now abundantly clear what this meeting was all about. He glanced at Sofia and saw she had a revolver trained on him. Kibalchich had moved to lean against the door, blocking it as an escape route. All eyes were on Dmitry.

‘Go on then,’ he smiled. ‘Tell me what you’ve got.’

‘Not yet,’ said Sofia. She nodded to Rysakov who walked over to Dmitry, caressing a coil of rope in his hands. He went behind the chair and flipped a strand of the rope over Dmitry’s head and across his chest before tying it tightly. Dmitry’s arms were pinned to his sides and to the back of the chair. He gave the vague impression of struggling against his bonds, but he didn’t try too hard. That was best left as a surprise.

‘Now we can hear the evidence against you,’ said Sofia. ‘Dusya?’

Dusya stood. ‘I saw you,’ she said simply. ‘I saw you outside Trigoni’s apartment. The gendarme spoke to you before they went in to make the arrests. You’d gone before they came out.’

It was all a fabrication, and Dmitry could guess that it came at Iuda’s behest. There was no point in denying it – they had clearly made up their minds and anyway he had no desire to remain with them a moment longer. But even so, he’d rather his denunciation was based on the truth than a lie.

He turned to Dusya. ‘Are you sure it was you who saw me, or was it Vasiliy Grigoryevich Chernetskiy?’

‘Vasiliy Grigoryevich is a prisoner of the tsar, as you well know,’ snapped Sofia. ‘And even if he were free, I’d happily take his word over yours.’ The gun in her hand trembled, but didn’t falter in its aim towards his heart.

‘Vasiliy Grigoryevich was released three weeks ago,’ countered Dmitry, ‘on the personal orders of the tsar.’

‘Rubbish!’ said Dusya. ‘But if anyone would know, you would, wouldn’t you, Colonel Otrepyev? You’re the man who put him there.’

Dmitry shrugged. ‘That I won’t deny.’

‘You admit it?’ asked Bogdanovich.

‘I admit it. Otrepyev and I are one and the same.’

‘Do they know about the tunnel?’ asked Sofia.

‘They?’

‘The Ohrana – or whoever you’re working for.’

‘I work for no one,’ said Dmitry, wishing it were true. ‘Certainly not for you.’

‘Then you’re an enemy of the people.’

Dmitry laughed. ‘The people? The people whose will you claim to represent? When it comes to it, you’ll find out just how little you understand the people.’

Sofia shook her head and smiled. ‘It’s a shame you won’t live to see it,’ she snarled, ‘but it will happen. A brave few of us will begin it. We’ll kill the despot and yes, the people will be shocked, and saddened, but they’ll pause to think and then they’ll understand what has happened and the chance they’ve been given. And they’ll grab that chance with both hands and they’ll follow us. They will take the reins of power and we will guide them to a new future – free from hunger, free from tyranny. Free from monsters like you.’

Dmitry’s nostrils flared. He breathed deeply. For the first time in many years he felt passionate. She knew nothing, none of them did, but he would tell them.

‘You brave few? Brave? Your brave plan is to skulk in tunnels like rats. You’ll wait for Aleksandr to come past so that you can kill him without having to face him. Then you expect the people to rise up and do the real work for you, and if they fail, you’ll stay hidden and let them take the blame. Brave?’

‘What would you have us do?’

‘Act like men, if you can. Stand up and shout what you believe, like we did on the quatorze, on 14 December 1825. Three thousand stood in Senate Square to end Nikolai’s tyranny before it could even begin. Three thousand faced canister and grapeshot as the tsar ordered his men to fire upon their comrades.’

Dmitry knew that he was forgetting so much: forgetting that he was a vampire and should not care about such things; forgetting the fact that he himself had walked away from the square before the guns had begun to spit death. But he had not been a vampire back then. He was talking with the voice of the man he should have grown to be instead of the creature into which he had descended, and he enjoyed the deception, not least because he was deceiving himself.

‘They failed,’ sneered Sofia.

‘As you will fail. But at best, your failure will be forgotten. All the people will remember is the tsar’s bleeding corpse, ripped to tatters by your bomb. He will be a hero and his son – fool that he is – will bask in their mourning. If you go down in history at all it will be as cowards, as killers, as assassins. But we’ll be remembered. We who stood up to be counted, we who faced our oppressor and looked him in the eye even as he cut us down, we will inspire the future. We will have the streets and squares named after us. You will achieve nothing but death because you understand nothing but death. We deal in hope while you wallow in terror. We are Bonaparte – you are Robespierre.’

Sofia laughed, quite genuinely. ‘You are Bonaparte?’ she shrieked. ‘You are mad! The Decembrists achieved nothing. They demanded nothing but an easier life. They stood for themselves, not the people. And yet you talk like you were one of them. Did you stand there in your mother’s arms, suckling at her teat as the guns opened fire? Did you toddle up to Nikolai, tug at his coat and mewl at him until he granted a constitution? You’re living a fantasy. You yearn for a past that never existed, like all who oppose change. You say we understand nothing but death? You’ll understand it soon enough.’ She raised the pistol to eye level.

Dmitry breathed deeply. He did not know where his words had come from. However rambling and idealistic they were, he was proud of them. But he feared – he knew – that his predictable, pathetic self would return to him before long, and so he relished the moment all he could.

‘I was there,’ he said slowly. ‘I was eighteen years old. I stood on Senate Square with my father and we faced the guns together.’ Lies! Lies! All lies! Whose was the voice in his head that screamed? Zmyeevich’s? His own? He did not care, as long as he could ignore it for just a few seconds more.

‘Quite, quite mad,’ said Sofia, a hint of sympathy in her voice.

Dmitry stood, spreading his arms to rip through the rope around him. The flimsy wooden chair collapsed under the strain and Dmitry hurled its fragments across the room. Sofia’s jaw hung open in limp surprise, but she held the gun steady. Dmitry took a step forward and it went off. The bullet hit him somewhere in the chest, passing right through, but he scarcely noticed it.

‘My God!’ whispered Sofia.

Dmitry took another step. Bogdanovich and Rysakov threw themselves forward and grabbed Dmitry’s arms, but he cast them easily aside. Kibalchich looked on with detached fascination. Dusya failed to hide an appreciative smile. Had Iuda told her that Dmitry was a vampire when he had told her to denounce him? Had she come with a more appropriate weapon than a revolver? It seemed not. Iuda did not want Dmitry to die – he merely wanted to demonstrate his power.

Sofia raised her aim a little higher and fired twice more. She was a good shot. The bullets hit Dmitry’s face barely an inch apart. He felt blood on his cheeks and heard a gurgling, snorting noise when he tried to breathe through his nose. Sofia dropped the gun and raised her hands to her face, covering her silent scream. Only Dusya failed to show any shock. She grinned salaciously, relishing the moment.

Dmitry could have killed them all there and then. Perhaps five minutes later he would have, but it would be an ignoble way to end his fine speech, wallowing in the death he had just condemned. He made for the door, against which Kibalchich still leaned. Even his veneer of detachment could not disguise his horror, but he had not lost his presence of mind. As Dmitry reached forward to drag Kibalchich out of his way, the young man stepped aside, opening the door with one hand and almost offering Dmitry an exit with the other. It seemed to mock Dmitry’s oratory, but he chose not to punish it.

Moments later he was out of the room, down the stairs and running through the cool, dark night. He slowed to walking pace and laughed loudly, but soon fell into silence. His mind began to fill with unwanted intruders: the true memories of what had happened in Senate Square, a hunger for blood, and the presence of Zmyeevich, probing his thoughts, commanding his will. He knew that those first two interlopers would never be far from him, but Zmyeevich could be escaped. There was nothing in Petersburg for him now. Nothing in Russia, nor even in Europe. But it was a big world and Dmitry would travel across it until he was far away – far from Zmyeevich. He would seek out a new world, or a new continent at least. And when he set foot on it he would make it his home. He would live in a land that was what Russia should have been. And he would be free.