‘Well, thank you, Colonel,’ replied the doctor. ‘Sadly, I have not yet had the honour of speaking there, but when I return to London, I hope to make my mark.’

  ‘You’ll be acquainted with a compatriot of yours who’s also been working in these parts. A gentleman by the name of Cain – a fellow of the Society, I believe.’

  ‘Richard Cain is here – in the Crimea?’ exclaimed Lee. Both Dr Wylie and the tsar looked over towards them, presumably not just at the raised voice.

  ‘So I believe. You know him?’

  ‘I’ve read his work – a brilliant man. Perhaps a little too enthusiastic as a vivisectionist, but sometimes there are prices that must be paid.’

  Count Vorontsov joined them, and the conversation moved on. Aleksei’s best guess was that Lee was what he seemed to be. For a start, he could see no motivation in one man leading a double life as both Cain and Lee. Russia was not short of British émigrés, particularly doctors, as Wylie exemplified. But if Lee was to be trusted, then it meant that Cain was a real person; an Englishman, a scientist and Fellow of the Royal Society. On the other hand, it might just be a case of stolen identity; some imposter writing the name in the notebook and using it to sign the letters in the safe assumption that the real Richard L. Cain was never likely to set foot across the English Channel.

  ‘An interesting correlation with the notebook, don’t you think, Colonel?’ It was Wylie who spoke to him. Vorontsov and Lee were now talking to Diebich.

  ‘The quinine you mean?’ asked Aleksei.

  ‘That too, but I was referring to the story of the oopir.’ Aleksei looked at him quizzically. ‘Utter nonsense that a second stabbing would resurrect it, I’m sure you’ll agree,’ continued Wylie.

  ‘I would assume so,’ said Aleksei. He could not recall ever having stabbed a voordalak twice, though on one occasion he had attacked with so jagged a piece of wood that it was impossible to say how many times the creature’s heart had been pierced.

  ‘I know so,’ said Wylie, interrupting his thoughts.

  ‘How?’ asked Aleksei, making no attempt to disguise his astonishment.

  ‘It’s in Cain’s book,’ said the doctor grimly. ‘Cain heard that story and decided to investigate it. He repeated the experiment on three separate occasions. Without exception, the creatures remained dead.’

  It struck Aleksei for the first time what a profoundly useful thing Cain’s notebook might prove to be. So many times he had relied on folklore, on his grandmother’s dark tales of fabulous beasts, to inform him of how he might deal with these creatures. Cain turned superstition into science, and with it brought certainty. Aleksei realized he had been wooed by Kyesha, who by his very nature must take the side of his kin. But in the ultimate analysis, was Cain doing good or ill? As with all learning, it was not the knowledge itself that could be classified as good or evil, but how it was utilized.

  Now was the first real chance that Aleksei had had to discuss the notebook with Wylie. There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask. The one he started with was of a very general nature. ‘You’ve read it all now?’

  ‘I have,’ replied Wylie. ‘And with every word I have become more and more astounded. If you hadn’t shown me the effect of light on the creature’s skin – I can only assume that is what the binding is made from – I would have taken the whole thing as some perverted joke. The words on the cover are almost a warning – tattooed, I believe, by the way.’

  ‘Tattooed?’

  ‘On to the living skin of the vampire before it was flayed.’

  Aleksei felt his stomach tighten. ‘My God!’ he muttered.

  ‘This Richard Cain is a strange man indeed.’

  ‘I suspected briefly that he and Dr Lee might be one and the same; both English, both scientists.’

  ‘It’s not that bloody difficult for you people, is it?’ said Wylie, with a mocking snarl.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Robert Lee is not English. He’s as Scottish as I am.’

  After that the party travelled on to Baidar and then Sevastopol. In Aleksei’s opinion, the tsar overworked himself, visiting fortresses, hospitals and dockyards and even inspecting the Black Sea Fleet. On the other hand, they were closing in on Bakhchisaray – filling his day would make the time go faster, or at least not allow his mind time to dwell on what was to come. Close to Balaklava, he rode out ten versts on horseback to pray at the monastery of Saint George. Aleksei was reminded of the statue back in Petersburg, of Aleksandr’s great-great-grandfather, Pyotr, styled – as Aleksei saw it – after Saint George. Perhaps those associations Aleksei had made with the symbol of the serpent beneath his feet were beginning to come true. The tsar could know nothing of those connections, but somehow he instinctively took comfort from that famous, dragon-slaying saint.

  ‘And before you even think about it,’ Dr Wylie had said to him after Colonel Salomka had mentioned the monastery to which the tsar was riding, ‘my country’s patron saint is Saint Andrew. Saint George is the saint of the English.’

  Aleksei had smiled, but he hadn’t known either country’s saint. Cain was English, and was – in his own, very modern way – fighting the monsters that threatened humanity. Probably a coincidence, but again Aleksei wondered whose side he would take when, and if, he finally met Richard Cain.

  The following day, after more exhausting engagements, the tsar decided once again to travel by carriage, where he slept on the final leg of his journey to Bakhchisaray. They arrived late in the afternoon. Even at that hour, Aleksandr continued to do his duty. He visited the ancient palace of the Crimean Khanate, the baths and, finally, the mosque. The mufti led a service of prayers for the tsar’s long life, which Aleksandr himself attended, politically standing behind a screen so that he would not be seen supporting a religion other than that of his nation.

  When they left the mosque, darkness was drawing in. Here they were at last in Bakhchisaray, and the time of the voordalak was at hand. Aleksei would have to be wary. Fortunately, the tsar returned directly to his lodgings and went to his room. Wylie reported that His Majesty was feeling a little unwell, but it was only to be expected after the exertions of the past few days.

  Aleksei asked one of the locals in the tavern where they were staying about Chufut Kalye. He didn’t say much, but pointed along the road to the east. They were just on the foothills of the mountains that guarded the peninsula’s southern coast, but already the steep limestone cliffs formed a twisting canyon along which it was impossible to see very far, certainly not to the citadel that Kyesha had foretold they would visit.

  But the dying rays of the sun did highlight something in the rocks much closer to Bakhchisaray, overlooking the palace itself. It was a natural formation, created by centuries of rain and wind, but Aleksei could not help but see a human face looking over where the tsar slept – a giant skull formed of stone.

  Aleksei’s thoughts turned once again to Golgotha.

  * * *

  It was an uncomfortable and unaccustomed sensation. The dark figure, wrapped in an overcoat against the cold wind, stood on the very prow of Rzbunarea and, though his eyes were tight shut, stared out across the water and over the land.

  Usually, there was some sense of response; just as when an officer commanded a foot soldier, he would hear the occasional ‘Yes, sir!’, so it was normal to sense some response from the mind into which his will was being applied. It was not necessary to feel that response, any more than it was necessary for the officer to hear the soldier – he knew full well, in a disciplined army, that the orders would be obeyed – but even so, it gave comfort.

  But with this half-breed there was nothing. Tonight, he was . . . Beethoven. He smiled at the analogy. What he had to achieve was akin to playing the piano whilst being deaf to the sound produced when his fingers pressed the keys – worse than that, he could not even feel the keys with his fingertips. And yet he knew what to do with his fingers. The movements were practised, repeated a thousand times before. He had no need to feel the keys or hear the resonance of the strings to know that what his will had directed would come to pass. The officer had no need to look through his spyglass and observe the hundreds that lay dead as the consequence of his command.

  Confirmation would come, but it would not be immediate. Beethoven could turn and see, if not hear, the applause of the crowd. His own ovation would come in the form of a cart, with a single, oblong packing case as its load, racing down from the mountains and across the steppe to where Rzbunarea waited.

  He formed his entire will around two simple words:

  Chufut Kalye

  * * *

  Aleksandr awoke with a desperate intake of breath. His bed felt steady beneath him. He had been on a boat, but he was on dry land again now. There had been a conversation, but it had been one-sided. Aleksandr had heard the man clearly, but whenever he replied, his words had fallen on deaf ears.

  It had been a dream. It had taken Aleksandr a few moments of wakefulness to realize that, but now it was clear. And as that clarity descended, so the details of the dream faded. He had been standing on the deck of a ship – or perhaps not even on it. Beneath his feet he had seen the waves lapping against the hull of the vessel. He had been level with the deck, but floating out above the sea.

  He had instantly recognized the tall figure with its full eyebrows and thick moustache, contrasting with a smooth, domed forehead much like Aleksandr’s own. And yet though he knew the man, he could not place him. Perhaps it was a family friend who had visited often in Aleksandr’s childhood, but whom he had not seen for many years.

  The man had been telling him to go somewhere. He had spoken it very clearly, but now Aleksandr had forgotten. He remembered repeatedly saying, ‘Yes,’ or ‘I understand,’ or ‘I will,’ but still the demand was repeated. Aleksandr had been willing to go there, eager to go there, but however much he had insisted, he had not been heard. Now he was still eager to make that journey, but he could not recall where.

  The dream had ended, as dreams often do – Aleksandr’s dreams, anyway – with him falling. Whatever force of will it was that had suspended him above the waves was suddenly broken, and his stomach had flown upwards as his body descended. He had reached out and grabbed the wooden rail of the boat, clinging on to it for a few vital moments as the sea spray dashed against his feet. The man to whom he had been speaking did not act to save him. His own hand was inches from Aleksandr’s, steadying him against the rocking of the boat, but he did not move a single muscle to aid the tsar.

  Then Aleksandr’s fingers had begun to slip and he had fallen backwards, his arms flailing, into the waters beneath him. In his last seconds, he had had the strangest, most incongruous perception. As he had fallen ever downwards towards a watery oblivion he had been pursued; pursued by a dragon – a golden dragon, with eyes of deepest emerald, and a protruding, forked, red tongue that flickered at Aleksandr as the waves consumed him.

  Then he had awoken, and the one aspect of the dream he knew with terrible certainty he had to remember eluded him. He stared into the darkness for an unmeasured period of time, and realized that sleep would be his salvation. Sleep would recover the memory and abate the terror.

  And so it did, but sleep took many hours to come.

  A rush of air awoke Aleksei. He hadn’t intended to sleep, but it was inescapable. Before he could even open his eyes, he was further roused by a shout.

  ‘Diebich!’

  The tsar was in his nightclothes, turning his head around like a strutting cockerel in search of his chief of staff. He seemed not even to notice Aleksei, sprawled uncomfortably in the chair.

  ‘Diebich!’ he bellowed again.

  The baron emerged from his room across the hall. He was pulling on his tunic, but still wearing – and displaying – his longjohns. Evidently, the first call had inspired him to dress before meeting his master, the second had convinced him not to.

  ‘Diebich, we shall be visiting Chufut Kalye today,’ said Aleksandr.

  ‘Chufut Kalye, Your Majesty?’

  ‘Yes. You know where it is.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Diebich, becoming more alert.

  ‘Arrange it then.’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ then, ‘Why, Your Majesty?’

  ‘Why?’ asked Aleksandr, with an indignation which Aleksei perceived as affected, but perhaps Diebich did not. ‘Because I am your tsar.’

  Aleksandr turned back to his room and noticed Aleksei for the first time. It was unspoken, but the same question – ‘Why?’ – was on Aleksei’s mind too. Aleksandr must have guessed, for he averted his eyes and hurried on into his room.

  They left Bakhchisaray on horseback, under the gaze of the great stone skull. The route was flat for the first few versts as it headed out of town, but then the path began to steepen. The road – if it could be called such – hugged the hillside on its right, with the valley sloping away to the left. Beyond that, on the other side of the valley, another precipice rose, equally unassailable. While the land remained relatively flat, gypsy encampments were scattered, displaying horrendous poverty. Aleksei wondered whether the tsar might stop to learn more about them, but he seemed too intent on his goal even to glance to one side. Most of the remainder of the party were pleased to bypass such squalor and head onward into the narrowing gorge.

  Aleksei kept his neck craned upwards, searching the tops of the hills that overshadowed them. Though steep, they were still largely wooded until close to the very top, where they became craggy and vertical. There, little plant life could take root. There were plenty of caves in view, but none seemed inhabited. The soldier in Aleksei felt fearful of the whole terrain. They were trapped on either side, with no open ground behind them for more than a verst and perhaps worse in front. For anyone looking down on them they were easy targets.

  Suddenly, Colonel Salomka shouted and pointed over to the left, to the tops of the cliffs on the other side of the valley. There, through the trees, they caught their first glimpse of the citadel. It was still distant, but the straight edges of manmade structures could be seen to merge with nature’s more graceful curves. They continued up the slope and the trees began to thin, affording them ever better views of their objective.

  As they came to the head of the valley, the path turned across it, almost doubling back on itself, and they found themselves at the foot of the final slope leading up to Chufut Kalye. The soil was too thin now, it seemed, for trees, and coarse grass covered the ground up to the cliffs, interspersed with a few bushes. Here they were forced to dismount to make the rest of the way on foot. The entrance was a natural gap in the cliff, which had then been reinforced – effectively replacing the cliff – by a stone wall, in which only a small doorway allowed access. As far as Aleksei could see on either side, there was no other breach in the cliffside. If the heavy door was closed, then no creature without wings could reach the plateau beyond.

  Through the doorway, a short path took them above the level of the wall and into the city itself. All were surprised by the degree of civilization. The Karaites who lived there were comfortable and well organized – a contrast to the gypsies they had passed below. The people – or at least the men; the women appeared bound to stay indoors – greeted the tsar with curiosity and some affection. Their customs might be strange, but Aleksei could see no immediate threat to Aleksandr. He certainly felt more comfortable than he had in the valley below. The greatest reason for this was that it was the middle of the day. The citadel was the highest point for miles around – nothing cast a shadow on it. And so, whatever it was that might make some move against the tsar, it would be of this world.

  The Karaite chief took tea with Aleksandr and then introduced him to his wives and children. The women were all beautiful, but Aleksei was disturbed by how pale they looked – almost bloodless. Was it some Jewish law that kept the women indoors, or was there a greater need to protect them from the sun? A city of human men and vampire wives? It seemed impossible. Aleksei sniffed the air. He noticed nothing of that smell that he had learned to recognize in Kyesha, and which he hoped would be shared by any like him.

  The tsar was further impressed by the school which he was shown. He was told that all the children in the city attended. He commented on his wish that every child in Russia could go to school, but Aleksei remembered that the tsar had been making wishes like that ever since he had come to power. Nothing had come of them.

  The citadel itself was partly built from stone blocks, but also constructed from existing caves, which had been further carved into shape by the hand of man. There could be little said against them, except perhaps that high on the hilltop and with the windows unglazed, the draughts might be discomforting. The tsar was informed that the earliest occupation, in natural caves with little human modification, dated back over two millennia. Those parts of the city were mostly unoccupied now, but Aleksandr expressed an interest in seeing them, and so some of the party – Aleksei, Wylie, Salomka and a couple of locals to act as guides – accompanied him as he left the populated heart of the city to view its wilder environs.

  They soon reached the other side of the plateau, and Aleksei gazed down into a gorge even less hospitable than the one through which they had ascended. Again there was a steep cliff, perhaps three or four times his own height, dropping away beneath his feet before transforming abruptly into a slope of at least forty-five degrees. There were fewer trees than on the other side, and Aleksei could see no pathways. Across the valley, broader than the one they had come through, a similar slope led up to a similar plateau – though Aleksei could see fewer signs of caves. Far to the west he could just make out a collection of houses. He could not quite get his bearings, but it was not Bakhchisaray, or at least not the part they had come from. An outlying farm, perhaps.

  The area they had come to was rocky, and the caves represented an earlier stage in the development of their inhabitants. Some still showed the neat edges that indicated human modification, but many appeared entirely as God had created them, with His usual disdain for anything so mundane as a straight line. Though they may not have been built by men, they had certainly been inhabited by them. The party went a little way down into one of them and discovered the walls covered with scratched writing and drawings. The local who went with them said that these went back to the Middle Ages, and Aleksei saw no reason to doubt it. Beyond, the tunnel continued onwards into darkness. No one was tempted to go too far in and so they returned to the surface.