Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (37 page)

'But . . . but you are one of those powers, a-aren't you?'
she stuttered.

'An astute observation.' He allowed himself the slightest
smile. 'But I am merely
one
of them. One of
many.
Others
are involved in this. They will try to make an example of him.
They have to, you understand, because otherwise they are
condoning an act of subversion. If he is let go, then the
enemies of the Czar will think they, too, can get off. The result
would be . . . chaos.'

She buried her face in her hands. 'If I could only see him, speak to him!' she moaned. 'I've visited the prison, but they
won't let me in.'

He nodded slowly. 'Arranging a visit should be a rather
simple thing. But a pardon?'

'Then you can arrange a visit?' Her voice was tiny.

'I will see what I can do.'

She let out a long, deep breath, her eyes holding his gaze.
'You won't regret it,' she promised huskily. Then she swiftly
lowered her eyes. 'And I will show my gratitude,' she whis
pered. 'As you said before, I pay my debts.'

He hid the smile of triumph. 'We shall discuss that later. Now let me see what I can arrange. If I am successful, I will
send an envoy and a carriage to pick you up at your house and
take you to the prison.'

She nodded and rose to her feet, her eyes glistening moistly.
For a moment she hesitated, then bent down over him and
brushed his cheek with her tragic lips. Her warm, sweet breath
lingered on his face, so delicious and overpowering he thought
he would moan aloud.

But he received the kiss impassively, hiding his emotions
behind his usual stoic mask. The kiss was an unspoken pact,
a handshake, a contract. She would honour it. Therefore she
would be his . . . she
was
his now. She had come to him for
help, understanding that it would not be freely given. That she
would have to give something in return. And if one could not
call it love, freely and willingly offered, then it was a reason
able facsimile, at least, and that would be enough.

Then, stifling a convulsive cry, she was gone, her swift,
receding footsteps echoing her haste.

For a long time he sat there, sweetly drowsy. The room seemed chillier now that she was gone. He couldn't entirely
fathom her effect on him. None of his other mistresses had
affected him quite like her. It was as if she warmed the very
air around her with her presence.

And now she was his.

His.

Unconsciously he lifted his hand and touched the spot where
she had kissed his cheek.

The dreaded Okhrana, the Russian secret police, like its pre
decessors before it—and its descendants to come—thrived on
its infamous reputation of omnipotence and horror. Okhrana,
three short whispered syllables long on effect, were enough to
strike terror in the hearts of all who heard them. For it was
the Okhrana which came stealthily in the night and snatched
suspected enemies of the state from their beds, never to be
heard from again. It was the Okhrana which had on all too
many occasions arrested the wrong man, dumping him back
on his doorstep so beaten that he had lost his reason. Specific
evidence of crimes was unnecessary: suspicion, surveillance,
even mere unfounded gossip was all that was needed to have
the merchants of death materialize. And the very word 'Okh
rana' had become yet another synonym for 'oppression', for
the sins and crimes of the Czarist regime. Always the word
was whispered, and only after people looked suspiciously over
their shoulders to make certain no one was eavesdropping. It
was as if mentioning it too loud would somehow give it more
credence, could possibly even summon the dreaded secret police by mere association with its spoken name.

It was to one of the bleak Okhrana prisons that the Prince's
envoy took Senda to visit Schmarya.

Outside the fortress, the muffled sounds of traffic and occasional furtive voices passed quickly by, as though every
one knew of the dark doings inside the dank stone walls and
wanted to put as much distance between the fortress and him
self as swiftly as humanly possible. There were rumours that
even birds were afraid to roost on its roofs and crenellated
battlements.

Inside the fortress, it was even darker, damper, and chillier
than the outside walls promised. Metal-caged bare bulbs cast
grotesque shadows on moist, sweating walls of cells, halls, and
torture chambers. The place was evil incarnate, as if it were a
living, breathing monster, and the misery of its short-lived,
transient population was scarred everywhere—dried rust
splashes on floors and walls from shed blood, agonizingly deep
scratches on stone from fingernails gone mad. Constant
sounds of terror hung in the air. Ghosts of whispers and sighs.
Shrill soprano screams. Hollow clanging ringing out and rever
berating from around comers. All pierced by the bloodcurdling shrieks of agony, the cracks of whips and bludgeons, the
reports of guns.

Senda was certain that if she had to stay here for more than
a few minutes she would surely go mad. It was impossible to
think of Schmarya being held captive here. The image of him
running free kept springing into her mind. He had always
loved the outdoors, the fresh air, the great vast bowl of the
skies. He would not take easily to confinement. Nor to keeping
his tongue. There was too much of the freedom-loving rebel
in him. Surely he had already antagonized his captors. Possibly
had even taunted them.
Dared
them.

The guard who led her to Schmarya's cell had 'Okhrana'
written all over him, as had the hard-eyed administrator, the
other guards, the doctors. No telltale uniforms for them,
though the expressions etched into their faces—blank faces set
with the terribly cold, unfocused eyes of automatons—were
a uniform of sorts, and their quietly ruthless authority their
chevrons and ribbons.

Down, down he led her on rough-cut, winding stone stairs into the bowels of the fortress. She had to walk with extreme caution. The steps were slippery and had been worn concave over the centuries. Claustrophobia moved in on her, squeezing her, trapping her, making it difficult to breathe. Somewhere further below water dripped steadily on stone, ringing
out with bell-like clarity. Rats screeched and shot past her
feet, and the further the stairs coiled underground, the lower
the temperature dropped. The intermingling stenches of
faeces, urine, and vomit were sickening, and she wondered
why the guards didn't bother to wash down the cells. Perhaps
it didn't bother them anymore; possibly they had grown
immune to it. Or was it just an added torture for the prisoners?

The stairs, green and slimy above, had turned to slick,
smelly sheets of brown ice. Something wet dripped down on
her forehead. She glanced up and shuddered. The vaulted stone ceiling above was covered with stalactites of faecal ice. She wiped her forehead furiously with her sleeve.

Finally she and the guard reached the end of the labyrinth
of vaulted mazes. The guard stopped at the last thick iron
door. Heavy sliding bolts were riveted into the iron. Senda
noticed that this particular cell did not have a pass-through
window.

'
This is it,' the guard said, speaking for the first time.

She watched wordlessly as he selected a large key from a
ring and unlocked the door, then slid the bolts out of the wall.
Slowly he pushed the door inward. The creak from unoiled
hinges and the scraping of metal on stone shrieked with unearthly eeriness, the sounds of ghosts and things ghastly.

'I have to lock you in,' the guard said. 'I'll be back to get
you in ten minutes.'

Her jaw tightened. 'That's all the time I'm allowed?'

'I think you'll find even ten minutes is too long in there.'
He grinned, showing long, clavier-key teeth yellowed from
tobacco. 'We call this cell "Paradise", on account of it's the
worst of 'em all. Nobody's ever been locked in there and come
out alive.'

She spun her face toward him, her eyes blazing cold hatred. 'Well,
I
know two people who will!' Refusing to show her fear,
she pushed past him into the small unlit stone-lined chamber.
Like a narrow chimney it soared ten metres up to the ceiling. She didn't think she had ever seen anything so oppressive as
this cell. She would never have considered putting a rabid
animal in here, let alone a human being.

And the stench! It caused the bile to rise in her throat. Then her heels slipped in something mushy, and she fought to retain
her balance. Faeces. Were there no sanitary facilities in any
of the cells?

Behind her, the iron door screeched shut, and the bolt was slammed back in place. She was locked in. The cell was dark, with only the shaft of thin light slashing down from the single
bulb high above. 'S-Schmarya?' she whispered tentatively, her
eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. 'Schmarya?'

There was a sound at her feet and she looked down. The rat
was the size of a huge cat. She let out a piercing scream and pressed herself flat against the cell door. The iron felt cold as
ice.

Then she heard the moan. It came from her left. Slowly she
turned toward it and sucked in her breath.

There had to be some mistake! she told herself. The man
curled in a foetal position in the corner was not Schmarya. He
could not be. Schmarya was tall and blond and stalwart. Not
at all like this filthy, broken, dishevelled shell of a man cower
ing in the corner.

Trembling, she stepped closer and stared down at the
blanket-draped man with an expression of growing horror.
Then she blinked and gulped. Blood rushed to her temples.
The room reeled and she had to clutch the wall to steady
herself.