The People's Will (40 page)

The two figures had emerged from the corner beside the Nevsky Chapel; one tall, the other taller still. Zmyeevich and Dmitry. They slipped out of the cathedral and into the darkness. Iuda waited. He had last fed the night before, so he was neither distracted by hunger nor drowsy with satisfaction. He spent some time wandering around the quiet, empty building, remembering his conversations with de Montferrand and how he had needed to couch the necessities of his modifications in terms of the aesthetics that would appeal to the architect’s mind. But what Iuda had planned was beautiful, regardless of its function – anyone would see that, when the sun shone.

He skulked back to his perch to wait. In the small hours Zmyeevich returned, alone. Iuda guessed that Dmitry would not be far behind, but he was wrong. Soon dawn began to break. Beams of light cut across the geometric patterns of the marble
floor as the earliest rays of the sun entered from the east through the building’s long windows. To the south and east he had opened every door, every shutter and every gate to ensure that the sun should fill the space inside. A cathedral should be a place of light – that’s what he’d said to de Montferrand. But a cathedral should be a place of shadow too, and knowing the paths of shadow through the light could be of great benefit to a vampire.

He waited a few more hours. It was Monday, and the church would be quiet for most of the day, and he would be safer if the sun was allowed to get a little higher – the ideal inclination had been calculated with utmost precision. At about ten o’clock he began to move. He would not confront Zmyeevich down in the cellar below – that would be suicidal. But it would be simple enough to lure him up to the cathedral, where light would be Iuda’s friend.

And then came a slight perturbation to Iuda’s plans. The northern door of the cathedral creaked open and in walked a figure that Iuda had scarcely paid attention to when first they met, but who had thwarted him since. It was the lieutenant from Geok Tepe – Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin – now, so Iuda had learned, an enthusiastic recruit to the People’s Will. It was no surprise that Lukin was working for Zmyeevich, alongside Dmitry, but it was pleasant for Iuda to have his speculation confirmed. And it made no difference to his plans. Lukin could be easily disposed of – he was only human, as his comfortable stroll across the sunlit floor of the church demonstrated. It took him just moments to find the hidden switches in Saint Paul’s toes and disappear behind the icon. Iuda would deal with him before he could even reach his master, somewhere in the dark of the tunnels, where Iuda would be at his strongest and Lukin at his most vulnerable.

He lowered himself from the pedestal of the statue behind which he hid, and began to climb down into the nave.

Some might call it foolhardy, but Mihail could think of no other option. He had to speak to Dmitry again. The cathedral was quieter today than when he had last come here – empty. He quickly crossed to the icon of Saint Paul and within moments was in the passageway. He proceeded slowly, but with a little more
confidence than on his previous visit; he knew what lay ahead. At least he did in terms of the geography – whether in the chamber below he would find Dmitry or Zmyeevich or both or neither he could not be sure.

He was at the steps. He began his stealthy descent, always turning to the left, never able to see beyond the curve of the wall, but he found no one on the stairs. Soon the dark gap of the lower corridor appeared as a tall black rectangle. His lamp shone against the wall, and with each step, light penetrated further along the passageway, although Mihail knew that the door at the end was too far away to be seen with such dim illumination.

He continued along the corridor, out under Senate Square, lamp still held high,
arbalyet
gripped and ready to shoot. He turned back to check behind him, and saw the slightest of movements, but realized it was nothing but the dancing shadows cast by the rough, uneven walls. He reached the door and put his lamp on the ground, using his free hand to try the handle.

It was locked.

This time, though, he had come prepared. In his bag was a crowbar. It should be easily strong enough to break through. Before he could reach for it he heard a sound, back up the corridor behind him. He turned, raising the lamp again. Still there were only shadows, but at that moment he realized his mistake. The walls on his last visit had not been uneven. They bulged a little with age, but generally he had been impressed by the quality of their construction.

He stepped forward, holding the lamp close to the passage wall to maximize the length of the shadow as he moved ever nearer to the indistinct shape. He was only paces away when he at last saw the figure, pressed into the shadows of the stone wall, motionless and invisible when viewed from the front, but casting a shadow once the light was beside it. Mihail should have been prepared for it – he knew how vampires chose to conceal themselves.

Mihail froze and the
voordalak
moved, aware that he had been seen. He stepped out from the wall and his body filled the corridor. It was not Dmitry. There was no real doubt as to who it was: Zmyeevich. Mihail had never seen him in the flesh, and yet he seemed so familiar. Even Tamara had not met him; her
description came from Aleksei, and the few short hours that he and the arch vampire had spent in each other’s company, seventy years before.

Zmyeevich had not changed one iota. He was an impressive man. His age could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy. A domed forehead was underlined by thick, bushy eyebrows which topped a thin, aristocratic nose. Arched nostrils were almost hidden by a long moustache of dark iron-grey, which contributed to a general air of unkemptness.

It took Mihail only an instant to take all of that in, and then he raised his crossbow and squeezed the trigger, not even pausing to relish the moment – this was not Iuda. The bolt cut the air, faster than Mihail’s eyes could track it, but Zmyeevich’s movement was faster still. His hand was in one place and the next instant in another. If he had been bothered he might have snatched the bolt from the air in mid-flight, but that was unnecessary. He merely brushed it aside with a casual blow of his hand and it slipped past him, level with his heart, but inches to the right. Mihail heard the scraping sound of its ricochet from the wall and moments later the clatter as it hit the floor.

Zmyeevich said nothing. He approached calmly, his lips forming into a smile which spread into a grin, revealing his fangs. Mihail thought to reload, but realized it would be useless – the crossbow had failed once, why should it succeed on a second attempt? He understood how ill-prepared he was. All that remained were his swords. He drew them both – the sabre in his right hand and the short wooden dagger in his left. There was not much room to wield the longer weapon down here, but Mihail felt more comfortable with it. Despite the hours of daily practice in how to use the little dagger that his mother had forced upon him, the army had trained him better with a more conventional blade. And anyway, he doubted he would have the chance to plunge the wooden blade into Zmyeevich’s heart whichever hand it was in. He would feel happier to die defending himself like a soldier.

The
voordalak
continued to walk forward and Mihail felt the hard wood of the door at his back. There was no choice but to stand his ground. Zmyeevich took another pace and Mihail saw his chance; he lunged forward, aiming the wooden dagger
straight for Zmyeevich’s heart, but again the vampire was too quick. He clasped the blade in his right hand and with a sharp twist wrenched it from Mihail’s grip, casting it on the ground behind him. Now Mihail had only his sabre.

Then from over Zmyeevich’s shoulder, far down the passageway, there was a glimmer of light. Zmyeevich perceived it too. He turned away to look, presenting his back to Mihail. Beyond him Mihail could see the flickering flame – most likely a candle – sway from side to side as whoever was carrying it approached, but did not waste a moment in trying to make out who was coming. He raised his sabre. His only chance was to behead Zmyeevich, but there was no room to make the broad horizontal swing that might have achieved it. Instead Mihail could only bring the blade down diagonally.

It caught Zmyeevich just at the point where his shoulder curved into his neck, embedding itself a few inches and drawing blood. Its only effect was to enrage Zmyeevich. He turned and in the same motion swung his arm, catching Mihail’s jaw with the back of his hand and sending him flying into the door behind. The sword fell from Mihail’s hand and his head slammed against the wood. He slid to the ground, scarcely conscious, and stared upwards. Zmyeevich towered over him, considering, preparing to deal the final blow.

But instead the
voordalak
turned again to face the advancing figure, his body blocking it from Mihail’s view.

‘You!’ snarled Zmyeevich.

‘Why not?’ The voice was instantly recognizable – it was Iuda.

‘I’m surprised you dare.’

‘Remember, Ţepeş, I am the master here.’

‘The years have taught you nothing,’ said Zmyeevich. He set off down the corridor towards Iuda, walking but at a tremendous pace. Mihail heard Iuda’s feet moving quickly, the rapid patter of them climbing the spiral stairs. Zmyeevich was relentless in his pursuit. Soon both were gone. Mihail forced himself to his feet. His head swam but he knew he must move. If either one of them were to return then down here he would be vulnerable, but up there in the cathedral it was light – the domain of the living, not the undead.

He moved quickly, picking up lamp, sabre and
arbalyet
and only pausing a little way down the corridor to grab the wooden dagger from where Zmyeevich had cast it. Soon he was at the foot of the stairs, but then he stopped. The fact that there was daylight in the cathedral might mean something else – that the two vampires would remain in the corridor. Mihail had no choice but to go on, but he would at least be prepared. He returned his sabre to its scabbard and the dagger to his coat, then he reloaded the crossbow. However ineffective it might have been before, he’d be a fool to abandon it. He pressed onwards.

Even as he reached the top of the stairs, he perceived that it was getting lighter. Once in the upper corridor he saw that, at the end, the doorway behind the icon was open. Evidently there was enough shade for them to step out into the cathedral. For Mihail, it meant a chance of freedom. He ran forward, but paused as he reached the doorway. He peeked out from behind it.

Zmyeevich stood a little way ahead, to the side of the Beautiful Gate and looking into the centre of the nave, leaning against a pillar. He was in shadow, but even the ambient light was bright. Iuda stood directly beneath the dome, upright and confident. Around him, beams of light cut through the air, entering through the tall windows in the walls of the church and coming down from the dome through the windows there, making the space far brighter than Mihail had known it to be in any other cathedral. But somehow, Iuda had found himself a safe place to stand, at a point where he seemed certain that no light would hit him.

‘You begin to understand why I led you here,’ Iuda was saying, addressing Zmyeevich. He had not seen Mihail.

‘You led us here?’ said Zmyeevich.

‘Don’t pretend, Ţepeş. It should be obvious enough from the fact that I escaped you within minutes of our arriving here. Do you think that I didn’t know my house in Moscow had information that would bring you here? Do you think I failed to understand what you’d see in that mirror down there?’

‘But still you came back.’

‘Of course I did, because there’s more to this – much more.’

As he spoke, Iuda began to walk, almost dance across the floor, weaving between the sun’s rays as they cast a pattern that Mihail
could only guess he knew by heart. Zmyeevich remained motionless. He was not trapped by the light, but there was no obvious safe path to reach Iuda. All he could do was wait.

‘All you seem to have is a means of temporary protection from me,’ said Zmyeevich, ‘but it will soon fade. You cannot leave here until darkness falls.’

‘I assure you I can.’ Iuda continued his motion as he spoke, sometimes leaning so that his body was parallel with the sun’s sloping rays, allowing him to closely avoid them. At one moment a wisp of smoke rose from his ear as it brushed against the light, but it did not perturb him. ‘I know of more dark tunnels leading out of here than the one you just crawled from.’

‘So,’ said Zmyeevich, ‘you are safe from me. And equally I am safe from you. In that case, what was the point of you coming here?’

‘To talk.’

‘Talk then.’

Iuda paused, and then began. ‘I don’t want to be your enemy, Ţepeş. You know that.’

‘You want to be my equal. I cannot allow that.’

‘Oh, come on! How could I ever be the equal of the great Count Dracula?’

‘You couldn’t,’ said Zmyeevich simply, ‘but you still desire it. I should have guessed it the moment we met. But then you were merely human.’

‘Well if I can’t equal you, you have nothing to fear from me. Surely you’ll allow me the fantasy of my forlorn hope?’

‘You’re nothing, Cain,’ said Zmyeevich. ‘If I allow you to live, it is because I have better things to do with my time.’

‘Such as ruling Russia?’

Zmyeevich was silent.

‘We worked together on that once,’ said Iuda. ‘We could again.’

‘You can assist me?’

‘No, but I have the power to hinder you, and I can choose not to use it.’

‘What power?’

‘I have your blood, Ţepeş.’

‘With it you can cause me pain, nothing more.’

‘If a Romanov were willingly to drink your blood, and share your mind, then he would free his entire generation from your influence. If that Romanov were of little consequence, then he would free the tsar.’

‘He would have to do it willingly,’ said Zmyeevich, ‘and even then, there will be future generations.’

‘If he were to die, with your blood in him, he would become a
voordalak
– your vampire offspring. You would control him. And yet your chances to influence
any
other Romanov would cease. Your fox would have been shot, as we say in England.’