It did not matter. What did matter was the list Aleksei held in front of him. He opened the desk drawer and found some paper. It did not match the paper on which the list was written, nor would he be capable of seamlessly imitating the handwriting on it. It was unimportant – it simply meant a little more work. Instead of replacing one page, he would rewrite all five. He could disguise his hand, and even if he was caught out, he could say he had copied the list.

  It took him only half an hour to complete the task – simply to copy names from one sheet of paper to another. He should have looked at the list in detail before. There were a few names that surprised him, but none that he cared to do anything about, except for that one on the second page. He glanced at his work once he had finished.

  Grigoriev, V. F.

  Gusev, I. B.

  Danilov, A. I.

  Demidov, E. B.

  Dmitriev, P. P.

  Of course, it would take more than that to remove suspicion from Dmitry completely, but Aleksei would have to work that out when the time came. His hope was still that the entire plot would collapse and that the list would never be needed. He pondered for a moment whether he should have removed his own name as well, but it would have been foolish. Whoever he handed the list to – if he chose to hand it over at all – would clearly be aware of his membership and of where his true loyalties lay. If they saw that his name was missing, they would know the list had been tampered with, and if they knew that, they might well infer that it was not only Aleksei’s name that had been removed. Better to keep the changes to a minimum.

  Aleksei screwed the sheets of the original list together into a loose, crumpled ball, then lit them using the flame of the lamp. He dropped the burning papers into the grille of the fire and watched them writhe and curl. The flames quickly began to lessen, before all the paper was consumed. He poked it with the fire iron and it burst briefly into flame again. It went out a second time, with only a tiny patch of paper still unblackened. A glowing red line of flameless combustion worked its way slowly across the last few names, like an advancing army viewed from above, turning in on itself and forming a circle which shrank smaller and smaller before vanishing to nothing, finally exhausting its fuel supply. Even then, some of the paper, now as ashes, maintained the shape it had had before the flames reached it. The ink of the names was still visible, blacker on black. He stirred the remains with the fire iron, and the cinders collapsed to powder. Any information they might have carried was finally destroyed.

  Aleksei turned back to the bedroom. He glanced in on Tamara as he passed. She was sleeping soundly. Today, Aleksei realized, she had a little more in common with her half-brother than she had had before. It was a strange world he inhabited that forced him now to make secrets of not one but both of his children.

  CHAPTER VII

  KYESHA PICKED UP THE THREE BONES EASILY AND CAUGHT THE fourth on the back of his hand, even though it was quite unnecessary by the rules they had formulated. He was merely showing off. His first question of the evening had been a simple one:

  ‘What were their names?’

  Aleksei happily answered. ‘Pyetr, Filipp, Andrei, Iakov, Varfolomei and Iuda. They’re aliases, of course. The three that weren’t there were Foma, Matfei and Ioann.’

  ‘How very pious,’ observed Kyesha.

  ‘What’s in a name?’ said Aleksei bitterly.

  ‘What happened to them? For three.’

  Aleksei nodded. The game was by now no more than a formality. Kyesha had no trouble picking up three or four, and probably more. It was an easy game for a vampire – with agile movement and an ability to see in poor light. But Aleksei would not judge him yet. Perhaps he was a mortal human who merely practised a lot. He succeeded easily in the task.

  ‘They’re dead.’

  ‘All of them?’

  Aleksei’s eyes flicked at the knucklebones and Kyesha rapidly went through the motions of the game, as though it were some sacred ritual that by tradition had to accompany each question.

  ‘All of them?’ he asked again, when he had finished.

  ‘All of them,’ said Aleksei.

  ‘Did you kill them?’ Again the same action.

  Aleksei considered before answering. Was this what Kyesha had truly come to find out? And once Aleksei told him, would he take revenge for the deaths of his fellow creatures? It seemed unlikely. Why be so scrupulous? A voordalak might kill two or three in a night simply for food – Aleksei had seen it himself. They could kill dozens if they had reason to. If Kyesha had come to take revenge on Aleksei, he would have just got on with it.

  ‘Yes, I killed them all,’ he said. There was a bragging tone to his voice, as he took pleasure in telling this voordalak what a dab hand he had been at dispatching others of his kind. Just as Domnikiia had reminded him the previous night, some of the deaths had been matters more of luck than design, but Aleksei had been there and made sure that luck had gone his way. Even so, he knew that his real good fortune lay in the fact that Iuda had found him more interesting alive than dead.

  ‘It seems then that there’s no need for me to avenge my brother’s death,’ said Kyesha. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the sixth and smallest of the knucklebones he had first shown Aleksei at the tavern, just nights before. They were in a tavern again. This one sat opposite the Church of St Clement, where they had met. Its red-plaster walls were visible through the window. ‘This is getting too easy,’ said Kyesha. ‘And I think my next question is going to deserve five.’

  He scattered all six bones across the table, and again picked up the largest.

  ‘For five then,’ he said. Aleksei nodded his agreement. Kyesha paused and then asked the question. ‘Is it true that they were voordalaki?’

  Aleksei did not even have time to accept or reject the question before Kyesha comfortably picked up all five bones and caught the sixth. It was a strange relief to hear the word on Kyesha’s lips. It proved nothing about his nature, but it confirmed to Aleksei that this had little to do with one brother avenging the death of another.

  ‘It’s close enough,’ said Aleksei. Kyesha raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Iuda was human, though the others never guessed. He was as foul a creature as any of them – I’m not sure there’ll be any distinction made at doomsday.’

  Kyesha cast the bones again. ‘For three – are you sure Iuda was not a voordalak?’ He picked them up without trouble.

  ‘I saw him in daylight,’ said Aleksei. More than he could say for Kyesha.

  ‘For one. Did you kill Iuda?’

  ‘I did.’

  Kyesha gathered the bones again. ‘For three,’ he said. ‘Did you kill Iuda?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘For five. Did you kill Iuda?’ Kyesha threw the large bone into the air, then picked up one, two, three, four and five off the table. He turned his hand over, opening his palm to receive the falling bone, but it did not reach him. Aleksei’s hand shot forward and plucked it out of the air just inches above Kyesha’s fingers.

  Kyesha smiled. ‘You can tell me tomorrow,’ he said. With that he left.

  It was surely mere coincidence that the route Kyesha had chosen to take away from his meeting with Aleksei at the Church of Saint Clement was exactly that taken by the Oprichnik Foma after a similar meeting at the same location in the autumn of 1812. Aleksei’s desire to follow had been much the same on both occasions, though in 1812 he had had no idea what his pursuit might ultimately reveal; today, his intent was merely to confirm what he already suspected – that Kyesha was a creature of exactly the same nature as Foma. They were to the south of the city centre, and so to head north was a reasonable decision for anyone. It was just before the Vodootvodny Canal that Kyesha’s path diverged from Foma’s, turning to head west instead of continuing north.

  Aleksei kept a safe distance. It was no surprise to him that he could remember the route along which he had pursued Foma, so many years before. There were few events of that autumn that had not been retraced and repeated endlessly in his mind in the intervening years. The process of following was different now. The city was free. It was crowded, even at this late hour, with Muscovites, and empty of occupying soldiers who would stop anyone who caught their interest and question them about their business. The benefits accrued more to the pursued than the pursuer. Aleksei still had to be stealthy, to avoid Kyesha seeing him, while Kyesha had nothing to slow his progress.

  Kyesha turned north again and on to the Stone Bridge. Aleksei was forced to hang back. On the streets, it had been possible to get quite close to his quarry, to use buildings and alleyways to hide in if Kyesha happened to turn back. But now there was nothing. From the middle of the bridge, Kyesha would have a clear view all around him, the streetlamps providing ample illumination, despite the lack of moonlight. Aleksei could only wait while Kyesha moved further and further away. Eventually he would have to risk crossing the river himself, but he was fortunate. A group of three men – drunk, but not so drunk as to slow their progress – began to walk over the bridge. Aleksei followed, a few paces behind. Now he had mobile camouflage. He could easily step out to the side and look around the men and make sure that Kyesha had not got too far from him, but if Kyesha were to turn, all he would see would be the three revellers ambling along. Even if he did catch a glimpse of a figure behind them, he would not recognize it as Aleksei.

  Aleksei was in the dead centre of the bridge when Kyesha stepped off its northern end. Aleksei could not see which way he had turned. There was no sign of him heading east along the embankment, or north along Manezhnaya Street, clearly visible as it ran alongside the Kremlin. Aleksei darted over to the left-hand side of the bridge and looked down. There he saw Kyesha heading west and about to disappear once again between the built-up houses. Aleksei instantly abandoned all attempts at subterfuge and sprinted across the remainder of the bridge. He was unlikely to be seen by Kyesha, who was now out of sight, but unconcerned if he was. Kyesha’s chosen route was precisely that which Aleksei would have taken had he decided not to follow Kyesha but return straight home. True, there were many turnings Kyesha could take in the tight web of streets he had just entered, but the one that figured greatest in Aleksei’s mind was towards Arbatskaya, where Valentin and Yelena Lavrov lived as, more importantly, did Domnikiia and Toma.

  Aleksei reached the end of the bridge and stared down the road where he had last seen Kyesha. There was no sign of him. But Aleksei’s intention had now changed. Instead of determining where Kyesha went, his highest priority was to ensure that he did not arrive at one particular address, or that if he did, he would find Aleksei there waiting for him.

  Aleksei ran home by the directest route. He saw no further sign of Kyesha, but made no attempt at stealth. Kyesha – or anyone trying to avoid detection – would have heard his approach a block away. He entered the house and went to Domnikiia and Tamara’s rooms. Both were asleep. All was as it should be, but that only told him that Kyesha had not come yet, not that he would not arrive later. It was impossible to guard both Domnikiia and Tamara while they remained in separate rooms. He went into his daughter’s room and pulled back the bedclothes. Only her head and feet poked out of her long nightdress. Even her hands were hidden, tucked into the sleeves. He picked her up and carried her across the room. She stirred a little, but did not wake. They entered the other bedroom and he laid her down on the bed next to her mother, pulling the blankets over her. Then he went back to their living room and, for the second night in a row, opened up his saddlebag.

  He gripped the solid wooden handle of Dmitry’s toy sword. It was well made, even though all those years ago Aleksei had had no idea what the real function of such a sword might be. He went back to the bedroom and slipped it under the mattress on his side of the bed. Then he lay down. He reached across and rested his hand on Domnikiia’s hair, listening to the sounds of breathing that came from her and from Tamara, easily distinguishing one from the other. It would have been a blissful way to spend the night, were it not for the fear that gripped him.

  He knew it would have been safer to wake Domnikiia and warn her, but he refrained, not, as he at first told himself, to spare her anguish, but to spare him her reproach. It was he who had brought this on them; his inquisitiveness that had meant he couldn’t resist Kyesha’s bait. She would not have said anything directly; quite the reverse. She would have told him that they were in this together – there had been only a few months, at the beginning of their relationship, when they had not known and feared the voordalak together. More than dividing them, it was a part of what they were as a couple.

  But Tamara made things different. Whatever Domnikiia might say about being unafraid for herself, she would loathe Aleksei for bringing her daughter into danger. And in those circumstances, it would be ‘her’ not ‘their’. There was only one person in the world that Domnikiia would turn her back on Aleksei for – at least, he hoped only one.

  But whatever Domnikiia’s thoughts might be, it was easier to avoid the issue. He would explain Tamara’s presence by saying she had had a nightmare – even if she had no memory of it herself.

  Nightmare or no nightmare, it was not Toma who lay awake that night until the first orange light of dawn glowed behind the curtains and the birds struck up their announcement of the new day. Kyesha had not come. Moscow was a big city. There were many places towards which he might have been heading, and why should he know where Aleksei was living anyway?

  The dawn meant he would not be arriving here, whatever his ultimate intentions; not until nightfall at any rate. If he was a voordalak, then in some dark cellar of the city he would be settling down to rest. The knowledge brought comfort to Aleksei, and he finally allowed himself to fall into a troubled sleep.

  Dawn came to the Dardanelles an hour later than it did to Moscow. It did so just as Rzbunarea steered quietly out of the Aegean and into the strait. Its passenger hovered at the top of the ladder that led down to the hold. He had wanted to see them pass this place. An oddly mundane desire for a man of his stature, whose journey would change the face of Europe, but he was, nonetheless, a man with a sense of history. He gazed out at the coast of Asia Minor stretching away to the south. Somewhere there had stood Troy. Even he was not old enough to know where, but he was wise enough to know its existence was no myth.

  The route that the ship was taking, at least for now, was that of Jason. Ultimately, their destinations were different, but Jason’s goal of Colchis had not been so far from where Rzbunarea was headed. Jason’s quest had been to bring back the Golden Fleece. That – unlike Troy – was surely a myth, certainly as far as its magical properties went. And it had been guarded by a serpent. If that were true, the passenger of Rzbunarea would surely have known about it. He glanced down at the golden beast that entwined his finger and smiled to himself. He was in danger of believing his own propaganda. But he, like Jason, would bring a great treasure back with him when he returned this way.

  He gazed to the east, into the mouth of the strait, set against the backdrop of the morning twilight. He could sense to within a second of arc where the sun was. Normally, he would not have cut it so fine, but he had wanted to see the strait.

  It was at the very moment the first sliver of the sun’s disc appeared on the horizon that he slipped once more below deck.

  ‘You must have been up and out very early.’

  For the briefest of moments, the terrifying thought crossed Aleksei’s mind that Kyesha had found him, accompanied by the far more astonishing concept that if Kyesha could be out and about at this time of day, he could not be a vampire. Both ideas were quashed in an instant as Aleksei recognized the voice as one so familiar to him – that of his own son.

  He turned and saw Dmitry sitting in the hallway of the hotel reading a pamphlet.

  ‘Well, you know me,’ said Aleksei, smiling. It wasn’t the smartest thing to say. Dmitry did know him, and knew therefore that early rising – certainly at his own volition – was not an obvious feature of his character. Perhaps Dmitry would take it as ironic. He had awoken particularly late this morning, due to not sleeping the previous night, and then spent an hour playing with Toma. After that he had come straight to the hotel to collect his mail and change his clothes. ‘How long have you been waiting?’

  ‘Almost four hours,’ said Dmitry.

  ‘You only just missed me,’ Aleksei lied, hoping the hotel’s patron had not over-elaborated his story to Dmitry. ‘You should have left a note.’

  ‘That’s what I did yesterday.’

  Aleksei had not come to the hotel at all the previous day. ‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Me too. But I had to see you. I’ve been so excited since Monday.’

  ‘I think we’d better walk,’ said Aleksei, glancing pointedly over to the hotel keeper, who was unconvincingly pretending not to listen to their conversation. Dmitry nodded and stood up. Aleksei led the way out on to the street. They turned south, away from the centre of the city.

  ‘I was as surprised as you are,’ said Aleksei.

  ‘You can’t have been! I mean, no one’s more loyal to the tsar than you.’

  ‘I’m loyal to Russia. That’s what we all have in common.’

  ‘Well, I see that now. I always thought you saw them as one and the same thing,’ said Dmitry.

  Aleksei knew that he would have to lie to his son. He had lied before – to those he loved as well as those he despised – but this time was different. Each word he said against the tsar would be a lie that only made Dmitry admire his father more. What would become of that admiration if the truth were ever revealed?

  ‘Aleksandr has changed over the years,’ replied Aleksei. That was true enough, and for the worse, in Aleksei’s opinion. It was the war that had caused it all, most agreed on that. In the first decade of his rule, leading up to Bonaparte’s invasion, Aleksandr had had plans drawn up both for government reform and emancipation of the serfs. It had been his minister, Speransky, who had done the real work, but Aleksandr had been behind him. But with war, priorities had changed and Speransky had fallen from favour. And after the war, Aleksandr had suddenly begun to see himself as a peacemaker – he’d found an almost evangelical zeal for it – and seemed to forget the need for change at home. He was happier to be seen as a figure on the world stage, a wise older brother settling the disputes of his fellow kings, kaisers and emperors. And if he would not act as a force for transformation at home, others would, and the transformation would consume him. Aleksei could easily list the tsar’s faults, but he could not share the rebels’ ideas of how to address them.