Heart of Iron (19 page)

“I get the picture,” I said. “Chiang Tse told me about it.”

“There were Chinese merchants who helped with the smuggling. The streets adjacent to the English factories were choked with opium dens and supply shops. I was a boy, with nothing to do. It was in these shops that I found something unusual.”

“A wise Chinese mystic,” I suggested, being familiar with the conventions of the penny dreadfuls.

“No,” he said. “A Portuguese man, from Macao — he had come to Canton to patronize the opium dens there, and he… I don’t really know much of his story, but he said he would teach me to do things that no one else could do.”

“And the fact that he spent his days in the opium den did not seem suspicious?”

He laughed. “As I said, I was bored. But he did keep his word.”

Jack smoothed his hair, remembering. “This Portuguese man, Paolo was his name, he spoke of strange things — of how opium unlocked something within him, enabled him to fly. He said he would teach me to fly.”

I made a face. “Please tell me that you didn’t become one of… those.”

“You mean opium smokers?” Jack smiled. “No, although hashish eating was something I picked up later in India. But no, Paolo spoke of unlocking my mind’s hidden abilities… I suspect that he was intoxicated, insane, and extremely dull, but there wasn’t much else to do. His teachings seemed to be based on imperfectly understood Confucian philosophy and local superstitions, as well as whatever foolishness he had learned in his homeland.”

“And? He told you some magic words, made you a potion?”

Jack grinned and picked up his booklet. “I shall not tell you anything more if you keep interrupting me.”

“Sorry.”

“Oh no, it is too late. You’ll have to wait for the next time I feel like talking.”

I sulked. “You are just trying to be like one of those serials you love so much.”

“Maybe. Go read about your Sweeney Todd.”

“The stories are all the same,” I complained. “I read
The String of Pearls
a million times, and all the other Sweeney Todd stories are the same. Tell me how you became Spring Heeled Jack.”

“I will,” he said. “Just not now: I have to maintain my mystery, after all, or you won’t ever want to talk to me.”

I sighed and went back to my letter. There was at least two weeks on the train ahead of us and I decided he would tell me during the journey. At least it would keep the boredom at bay.

“I feel conflicted,” I wrote to my mother, “for even though I have no immediate plans of marriage, I feel I should be moved by the attentions of at least one of these young men. One of them especially has proven himself a loyal friend who has risked much to help me, and who was always considerate and kind. I feel I should be returning his interest, and I wonder whether I should compel myself to develop affection for this fine gentleman.

“Now, the other gentleman is a more complicated case — he is also a good friend and a kind companion, but I fear I have not have many opportunities to talk to him of late. Moreover, I fear that if I were to start a courtship with him, society would not approve. He is a foreigner, and recent political tensions may prevent any possibility of marital happiness. And yet… ”

A knock on the door interrupted my epistolary exercises. I rushed to the door before Jack, and found myself face to face with Rotmistr Ivankov.

“Looking good, lad,” he said and slapped my shoulder with enough force to make my teeth chatter. “Wild night last night, yeah?”

“I’ve seen wilder,” I lied. “What can I do for you, rotmistr?”

“There are some Englishmen downstairs, interviewing the staff,” he said. “They are looking for a very tall Englishman and someone who’s traveling with him. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about it, but I figured better safe than sorry and that I should drop you a word. In case it’s someone you know, even though I’ve never seen those folks they’re looking for, and neither have my cornets.” He gave me an exaggerated wink and was gone before I could muster a thank you.

Jack and I tried not to panic as we threw everything we had unpacked the day before back into our satchels — at least, I tried not to panic. Jack seemed composed, but I felt certain it was playacting. Who could stay calm considering the terror of facing Dame Nightingale? I was afraid of her even before her letters had shown me a true depth of her passion — and I now knew of how much love and, conversely, hatred she was capable. Now I was mad with fear.

“Sasha,” Jack called me. “You must control your emotion. You are as pale as a ghost and look guiltier than sin. Appear casual, walk easy. They are looking for a girl, not a hussar.”

It felt like a bad dream, listening for footsteps and voices. Finally, the sense of fear and helplessness solidified into a piercing realization the people who were looking for us would not stop, and they would unlikely have any reservations about killing us. I forced these thoughts out of my mind and pulled the straps on the satchel closed. Jack stood by the window, eyeing the snow outside.

“We could jump out of the window,” he said. “I mean, I could jump. You won’t be recognized.”

“You think so?” I said, uncomfortable with the idea of going near the spies all by myself.

“Unless you want me to carry you as I jump,” he said. “I have never tried it before, with a person.”

I did a quick calculation in my mind. “If you jump out of this window carrying me, the impact will either kill me or break some bones at the least.”

“There’s the answer then.” He smiled, encouraging. “You can do it. Besides, someone has to pay the bill.”

I picked up my satchel and sighed. “I’ll meet you at the bridge. Then we can go to the station, meet the train from St. Petersburg, and see if Eugenia sent any messages.”

Jack nodded and opened the window. Cold wind lifted the thin white curtains and a few snowflakes danced into the room, melting the instant warm air touched them. Jack stood a moment with his foot on the windowsill, looking at the street below. The next second, he leaned out of the window as if estimating the distance, and then he was gone in a swirl and a flap of his long coat.

I fought the temptation to rush to the window and see but there were voices outside. I shut the window with nary a look and swiftly exited our room. In the hallway I saw three men in tweed jackets that were much too light for the weather, and it took great effort to not speed my steps or otherwise betray my distress. I nodded to them as I passed with my newly developed swagger, and they nodded back, showing no signs of recognition.

I thundered down the stairs, forgetting decorum, and felt like I drew a breath for the first time in years when I entered the downstairs dining room. Warm smells of cabbage and fish washed over me. I found the owner, let him know we were leaving earlier than anticipated, and paid for our lodging.

The rotmistr and his two cornets sat at the same table as before — in fact, in my panic and confusion I thought for a moment that they were always there, not real people but mere decorations. The rotmistr raised his gigantic hand and waved at me; I had the presence of mind to wave back. The cornets saluted without getting up, and I returned the salute. Just as I turned to leave the tavern, there was a commotion outside, a ringing of hooves and terrified whinnying of horses, and a woman’s scream.

The usual din in the tavern died down; but only my friends the hussars and myself were foolish enough to bolt outside. The picture we discovered made my heart feel like it was frozen to my ribs by a sudden gust of especially cold wind.

Dame Nightingale herself, dressed in furs, screamed and pointed, as several men in civilian clothes — but with military bearing — circumvented an upset carriage, under the wreckage of which two heavily dressed figures struggled weakly. I assumed Jack had spooked the horses with his leaping, and it was he Dame Nightingale directed her pursuit after.

Passersby gathered around the wreckage and helped the passengers out; one of the horses thrashed on the ground with a broken leg. Discussion started among a merchant and two bureaucrats about whether it should be put down and by who. Freedmen, factory workers, waiters from the tavern as well as a few diners with their napkins still around their necks appeared, and a sizeable knot of people assembled, clogging Balchug Street. The English had to wrestle through the crowd, and their progress was slow and reluctant.

Dame Nightingale turned and saw me; her eyes tore through my disguise as if it were mere smoke, flimsy enough to be dispelled with a single breath, and gave a slow smile. “Sasha,” she said. “How good to see you.” With a flick of her wrist she directed the attention of the men in civilian clothing to me. The immediately moved toward me.

“Now now,” the rotmistr said. (I was so terrified of Nightingale I’d forgotten he was there.) “Leave the young man alone.”

The cornets drew closer to me, their hands on the hilts of their sabers, and I remembered that I wore one as well.

My dead Uncle Pavel had a larger, broader hand than I — the hilt of his saber felt too wide and too heavy, but its curve fitted into my palm snugly enough.

The English, all moving at once, as if their movements were mutually articulated by invisible strings, put their hands in the pockets of their coats. I assumed their attire concealed weapons, pistols or knives.

The rotmistr moved to my left, his shoulder almost brushing mine, and advanced half a step in front of me, as if to shield me from the English. Thankfully, his broad back obscured the sight of Dame Nightingale’s snakelike stare, freeing me from her hypnotic influence.

“Stand down, rotmistr,” I whispered in Russian. “They won’t dare do anything here, in the middle of the street, with all these people around them.”

“Right you are, little hussar,” the rotmistr said. He turned to glance at me, his grin flashing a full foot over my head. “They’ll wait till you’re all by your lonesome somewhere secluded. You better run along and find your friend. We’ll keep them entertained here, if that is acceptable?”

“Thank you,” I whispered, and stepped back until his large frame concealed me from the English view entirely. I had left the sidewalk, and struggled through the bushes fringing the side of the tavern. I turned and ran, Nightingale’s voice echoing faintly behind me, my boots sloshing through the snow.

I dashed across the street and ducked between two buildings. The yards behind them connected and I ran through them until I was well clear of the crowded scene on Balchug Street. The yards, surrounded by tall townhouses with dark windows, had accumulated veritable mountains of snow. The din of the street was extinguished by its softness, and — stumbling through knee-deep drifts — it felt as if I were miles away.

The rotmistr and the cornets had done a wonderful thing for us, even though they had met us only the night before. I was lucky, I supposed, that the rotmistr was so kind, and didn’t take my behavior as an affront — he seemed rather amused by it, truth be told. I smiled when I remembered the way he grinned and winked, like a conspiratorial child.

I found an exit back onto the street, and stumbled out of the snow, stomping my feet on the pavement. The crowd thronged far behind me, and I could just make out the rotmistr’s head above the crush. I could discern some shuffling and pushing where he and the cornets were, and could hear a shrill rising female voice, but could not understand what she was saying, or even who it was with any certainty. However, there didn’t seem to be any Englishmen emerging from the crowd, so I sheathed my saber, changed the satchel from my left hand to my right, and ran toward the bridge. As I crossed it, the icy air pricked my chest from the inside with a million stinging needles.

I stopped to rest only when I reached the embankment on the opposite side. It seemed quieter there in the deep blue shadow of the Kremlin, and I walked slowly, looking for Jack. He wouldn’t have gone far.

I found him sitting on the frozen, snow-covered steps leading from the foot of the bridge down to the water, black and sluicing over the fringe of ice that was forming on the embankment’s stone walls. “Are you well?” he called to me.

“Yes,” I said. “But they are after us — they’ll get here soon if the rotmistr fails to hold them off.”

“The rotmistr?”

“Come on — we have to hurry.”

Jack leapt up the steps and I had trouble keeping up with his pace. We decided to walk to the next bridge and cross back into Zamoskvorechye, and head for the train station. We would meet the St. Petersburg train and intercept the courier returning with a message from my aunt. We planned to then hire a coach to take us north, to the Eastern Station where we could catch the train heading to Nizhniy Novgorod and further east, all the way to Turkestan and China. I hoped we would confound our pursuers enough to lose them — there were five train stations in Moscow, and they had no way of knowing which one we would head to, even if they guessed that we were leaving the city.

There was a thundering of hooves behind us, and a small group of hussars rounded the Kremlin wall and headed toward the embankment. They wore the same colors as the rotmistr — blue and red with white pelisses. I waved at them and called out, “Are you with the Muscovy Regiment?”

“Yes, lad,” one of them replied. “Semionovsky?”

“Indeed,” I answered. “Listen, if you’re heading down Balchug, there are some Englishmen who started fisticuffs with three hussars just a little while back. Rotmistr Ivankov was there.”

“The rotmistr?” the man sat straighter in his saddle. His breath clouded the air and left a thin patina on the silver tack of his bay gelding. The horse snorted, breathing out great plumes of dense white vapor, and I could see hairs on its muzzle rimed with hoarfrost. “We better go see if he needs help. Thanks for telling us, lad.”

“What was that about?” Jack asked as the hussars departed.