The People's Will (16 page)

It had taken only moments for them to deduce where Iuda had gone. The wire rope that had bound him by the neck was discarded on the floor. In the middle of the cellar the ice on the frozen pool, which before had displayed merely the single crack that Dmitry had caused, was now smashed to a thousand floating, bobbing lumps. The glassy mosaic reminded Dmitry of the mirror into which they had just gazed, but he knew it would require something more than mere ice to make him see his own reflection.

Dmitry dived in in pursuit, while Zmyeevich headed back to the surface via the cathedral. The pool was an illusion; appearing simply to be standing on the cellar floor, it in fact went beneath it. From there the pipe turned to the horizontal and narrowed. It was too tight for Dmitry to make much use of his arms, but he kicked hard and propelled himself through. He could hold his breath for a long time, but if the pipe didn’t come to an end eventually, then the lack of air would subdue him in just the same way that the cold might. But Iuda would face exactly the same problems – and Iuda had come this way in full knowledge of what lay ahead.

Dmitry’s pursuit of Iuda had a new passion to it – a hatred that he had not been able to feel towards anyone since becoming a vampire. But in that time, there had always been one regret – that Raisa, the woman who had turned Dmitry into a vampire, was dead. His feelings for her were not the romantic love or corporeal lust that had attracted him to her in life. It was more of a pack instinct; the sense of loyalty that a dog has to its own kind. There was a practical side to it too – the fact that he could learn so much about his new state from her – but her loss had affected him more viscerally than could be dismissed with so rational an explanation. It still did.

Because she had made him, part of her mind had been in him, guiding and teaching him. With her death, that had gone, all except one tiny splinter which stuck in him like a bee’s sting after the insect itself has fallen away: a desire for vengeance. For Raisa’s death to be avenged would do her no good, but still that bit of her which remained inside Dmitry sought it on her behalf. It would act as a warning to others; even from beyond the grave, they would be punished.

But until today, until he had gazed into that mirror, he’d had no idea what had befallen Raisa. In the hours before her death her mind had become confused, unhinged, incapable of his understanding. And today, for a few moments, he had felt the same. The jumbled images of her last hours had suddenly coalesced. He still did not know just how she had died, but he knew that she, like him, had gazed into a mirror that had the power to let her see her own true appearance. Whatever effect that might have had on Dmitry or Zmyeevich, the impact on Raisa – a woman who loved her own beauty – had been devastating. Perhaps it hadn’t caused her death directly, but it had prevented her from defending herself when she most needed to.

It had all come from looking in a mirror. The mirror that Dmitry had seen today had been created by Iuda and Iuda had tricked them into looking at it. The mirror that had destroyed Raisa’s mind had been created by Iuda, and he had tricked her, or enticed her, or cajoled her into looking at it. Iuda had brought about her death, and now Dmitry would kill Iuda – whatever Zmyeevich might say about needing to keep him alive.

Dmitry kicked his legs more vigorously. Ahead he could see the dimmest circle of light, like the moon forcing its way through thick cloud. A second later he became suddenly colder still. He no longer found his arms constrained by the sides of the pipe, nor his kicking to have any effect whatsoever on his motion. He was swept sideways, far faster than he could propel himself by swimming.

He was out in the Neva. It was as he had suspected – the only way that Iuda’s escape route could make any sense was if it led to that vast waterway. Dmitry had no idea how many millions of barrels of water flowed each day from Lake Ladoga out into the Gulf of Finland, but he was now a part of it, and it was indifferent to him.

He exercised what little control he had over his body, and swam upwards. Within seconds he hit the ceiling of the underwater world, and fully understood just how quickly he was travelling, as his fingertips scraped across the underside of the ice sheet. As a
voordalak
he had discovered the ability to find texture in even the smoothest wall in order to climb it, but here he could find no purchase. Even if he’d managed to hold on, he doubted it would have helped him much. This was no thin covering like that over the pool into which he’d dived. However he might kick and beat his fists against it, he would achieve nothing. All he could do was let the current take him until, somewhere out in the gulf beyond, the ice began to part. Iuda would be long gone, but with luck Dmitry would still be conscious, though he would have no chance to breathe before then. He must make the best use of the air he had. He tried to relax.

He came to a halt with a painful thud which propelled the air from his lungs and into his mouth. He tried to keep hold of it, but saw bubbles rising up in front of his eyes. He had hit the pier of a bridge – it could only be the Nikolaievsky. Now he had some slight hope. He scrambled up the stonework, still feeling the Neva pressing against his back and trying to carry him away. Soon he reached the ice again, but here it was nothing like the solid barrier he had encountered before. Where the river met the pier, the ice was broken and fragmented. He thrust himself upwards through it and felt the night air against his face. The river still grabbed at
his legs, and blocks of ice barged into him, threatening to crack his skull.

He swam forward through the barrage of miniature icebergs and found the lip of the ice shelf. He pulled himself up out of the water and prepared to fall forward, to allow himself a few moments to catch his breath and to dispel the coldness that was beginning to affect even his vampire body. He felt light-headed – a combination of the cold and the breathlessness, and perhaps the lingering influence of Iuda’s mirror. It had been enough to drive Raisa to insanity – it was possible that there might be some effect on him.

But before he could compose himself he saw in front of him a figure running across the ice. It could only be Iuda. He must have followed the exact same path through the water that Dmitry had, just seconds ahead of him.

Dmitry hauled himself to his feet and resumed his pursuit. Iuda was heading back upriver, in the direction they had come, but veering towards the northern bank. He reached it at the Menshikov Palace, almost directly across from Senate Square. Dmitry didn’t bother to see whether Zmyeevich had yet emerged to join the chase. He ran with long strides, wary of the slippery surface, but knowing that the real problem would be to stop or make a sharp turn. Iuda chose not to attempt to climb the stone embankment, but instead ran alongside it, looking for the next point at which steps came down to the water’s edge. Dmitry was able to see the location and head straight for it, gaining ground on his quarry.

But as Iuda reached the steps he hesitated. Dmitry heard shouts and saw that on the embankment a small band of soldiers had spotted Iuda, who did not seem inclined to deal with them. He changed his plan of getting up on to land and continued along the frozen river. His feet slipped as he tried to accelerate and it took him seconds to get up to speed. Again, it was all a chance for Dmitry to get closer. The soldiers – six of them in total – split into two groups. Some came down on to the ice and the others ran along the bank, paralleling Iuda’s movements below them. Dmitry could only guess that they had seen his uniform and realized that he must have good reason to be chasing a fugitive at this time of
night. He had discarded his greatcoat back in the cellar, but his tunic was enough for them to recognize his seniority.

Iuda swung away from the bank, out towards the centre of the river, making good speed again. Ahead of him stood the pontoon bridge, spanning the river from the Winter Palace to the Stock Exchange. In the summer it offered a convenient but somewhat undulating route out to Vasilievskiy Island, but now it was held firm by the ice. Dmitry remembered it stretching out from Senate Square on the day of the Decembrist Uprising, but it had long since been moved upstream. Iuda disappeared beneath it, under one of the central spans.

Dmitry was close to him now, and the three soldiers who had come down on to the river were not far behind, but the men who had remained on land had made far quicker progress, running over snow rather than ice. Soon though they would have run out of land as they came to the fork at which the Great and Lesser Nevas split. Instead, they turned on to the pontoon bridge itself, running across it at almost the moment Iuda darted beneath.

Seconds later, Dmitry was under it too, and he saw Iuda ahead of him, heading out to the middle of the widest part of the river, trying to leave as late as possible the choice of which branch to take. But out there, the ice was at its weakest and he might easily fall through. Perhaps that was his plan, to return once again to the water, where his capture would be impossible.

From the bridge above him Dmitry heard shouting. Shots rang out and Iuda fell. Dmitry looked and saw the three soldiers on the bridge, their rifles still aimed. The bullets would do little permanent damage to Iuda, but they had knocked him down and left him scrabbling on the slippery surface, trying to regain his footing. Within seconds Dmitry was upon him.

The two
voordalaki
slid further out across the ice, carried by Dmitry’s momentum. He looked into Iuda’s face – a face which he had in his time regarded with both love and indifference. Now he felt only hatred. It was almost a separate part of his mind, that fragment of Raisa that remained in him. It was she who wanted revenge, and Dmitry was happy to comply.

It was a rare thing for one
voordalak
to kill another. Dmitry had never seen it done, but he had heard talk of it. He and Zmyeevich
had discussed it, aware of the fate that eventually must befall Iuda. There were many ways, but in present circumstances one seemed obvious.

Iuda was lying on his back, his head towards Dmitry. Dmitry pressed his knees against Iuda’s shoulders and then took his head firmly in his hands, one under his chin, one at the back of his skull. Decapitation would kill a vampire, but it did not have to be the neat, clinical severance of a sharpened blade. Iuda writhed and struggled, but Dmitry knew he had the strength; together he and Raisa had the strength.

But then he stopped. He could not say why. It was as though some third presence in his mind had said ‘No’ – and that third voice held sway. Dmitry tried to ignore it, but already it was too late. A semicircle of three soldiers had formed beside them. The other three had climbed down off the pontoon bridge, and were already approaching.

‘What the hell’s going on here?’ barked one of them, a captain, before adding ‘sir’ as an afterthought.

Dmitry rose to his feet, gazing down at Iuda with loathing but trying to appear calm and dignified. His heart beat fast from the chase and the cold and the lack of air, and his head still reeled, pulled in different directions.

‘This man is in my custody,’ he said, aware of how heavily he had to breathe. ‘My commendation for your help in his recapture, but I’ll take it from here.’

It was a sign of the times that a captain would dare question a colonel, even in these strange circumstances. It would not have happened in Dmitry’s day.

‘Sir, are you really sure?’ he said. ‘You’re wet through and frozen. God knows you could be wounded and you wouldn’t feel it.’

‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you, Captain.’ Dmitry emphasized the man’s rank.

‘Sir, look,’ the captain persisted, pointing across the ice. ‘The fortress is just there. What better place for him, if only overnight?’

Dmitry looked. The captain was quite right. There stood the Peter and Paul Fortress, the stronghold at the heart of Pyotr’s city, and also its prison. There was no need for him to comply. He could
easily deal with these six and do with Iuda as he chose. But that would mean six corpses, and he knew that his and Zmyeevich’s presence in the city would be better kept secret. And still his mind was in turmoil.

‘Very well,’ he growled.

One of the soldiers hauled Iuda to his feet. Iuda’s eyes darted around, looking for a chance to escape. Once he was away from Dmitry, he might not find it so difficult. Dmitry reached into his pocket and drew out the manacles that he had taken from Iuda back in the cathedral, scarcely half an hour before.

‘Use these,’ he said.

The captain complied.

‘And be careful with him. You don’t know how dangerous he can be. Put him in the deepest cell they’ve got. Don’t take the cuffs off him. Don’t let him even see a window.’ Dmitry hoped he sounded casual.

‘Absolutely, sir.’ The captain knew his place better now that he had got his way.

‘Don’t let him out for exercise and don’t let anyone question him without my authority, you understand? Colonel Otrepyev.’

‘Sir. Do you require an escort, sir?’

‘No. I’ll be fine. Carry on.’

The captain saluted and turned. He and his five men led Iuda away to the Neva Gate, the gate from which Dmitry’s father had departed on his journey into exile, half a century before. It would take them only a couple of minutes to cross the ice to the fortress. When they thought they were out of earshot, one of the men said something that raised a laugh. The captain snapped at them and order was re-established. With discipline like that they might just survive the short journey. If they did, then perhaps it would all prove to be for the good. Keeping Iuda captive was a burden to Zmyeevich and Dmitry – if His Majesty was happy to take on the responsibility, then who were they to complain? If they could get him as far as the cell, then even Iuda would not be able to escape.

All the same, Dmitry did not relish having to relate what had happened to Zmyeevich. He turned and headed back. On the quay, just beside the Winter Palace, the dark figure stood silhouetted, waiting for him.

It hadn’t taken Mihail long to work out where he was. His mother had told him of the place – she used to work here. This was Fontanka 16; the building beside the chain bridge; the headquarters of the secret police. In her day it had been the Third Section; now it was the Ohrana, but it all meant much the same.