Authors: Jasper Kent
There was no way Dmitry could have told anyone here his suspicions as to how the two engineers beneath the Star Fort had really died. Even in his own mind, in the day since the bodies had been found he had fluctuated between the rational conviction that some lunatic had torn out the throats of those two men, and the heartfelt certainty that he had once again seen the scraps of humanity that remained once a
voordalak
had satisfied its hunger. Dmitry had no doubt that such creatures existed, but existence was not the same as presence. It had been a long time, just as it had been a long time since Russia had warred with France. But after forty years, the French were back. Perhaps they had brought the
voordalak
–
le vampire
– with them.
He and Captain Shulgin had quickly agreed that the killings were the work of a madman. For Dmitry the distinction was moot. A vampire was in many ways just a man with his own particular kind of madness. But at least a madman could die – die by a bullet or a blade. A vampire required more specialist methods. But if Dmitry started suggesting any of those then it would be
he
who was deemed mad. Instead he prepared, quietly and alone, just as his father had done. All the officers were warned that there was a killer on the loose, and a few chuckled at the thought that one more way of dying would make any difference. Dmitry bit his tongue and did not suggest what a difference it really could make. At least there had been only two deaths. Perhaps the creature had been merely … passing through.
For the moment, Dmitry’s worries concerned a more tangible foe. Since the enemy’s abortive attack across the Chernaya, the tide seemed to have turned a little in Russia’s favour. They had taken the round hill to the south-east of the city just two days before, and it had already been fortified by the men of the Kamchatka Regiment – hence the hill’s newly assumed name of the Kamchatka Lunette. The French apparently called it Le
Mamelon
, observing immediately, as any Frenchman would, its resemblance to a nipple. New defences had been built close to the hill, the most northern of which was the White Works, and it had been while Dmitry was inspecting these – simply to have some idea of their layout – that the French had attacked. It was a bold move, and the right thing to do – attempting to dislodge the Russians while their defences were still incomplete.
The attack had come two hours ago, and as darkness had fallen Dmitry had had ample opportunities to retire back to the city, but he had not taken them. There was much that he could learn by observing the French tactics – not to mention the faulty tactics of his own side – but that was merely an excuse. The truth was that Dmitry had spent the last half-decade waiting for something to happen, for something to change and make his life interesting. God knew it wouldn’t be at headquarters. Being out here was a throw of the dice. If it ended in death – hateful though it was to admit it – he would not mind. He did not want to die, but it was a gamble he was prepared to take against the prospect of … something new.
Another shell came in, closer, and this time Dmitry’s descent on to the earth was involuntary. He lay there for a moment on his stomach, his face pressed close against the pale clay that had been exposed when the White Works’ defences were dug, giving it its name. He was uninjured. He had escaped death. But still there was nothing new.
‘You promised to tell me of Chopin.’
Dmitry turned his head and couldn’t help but grin. Tyeplov stood over him, looking calm and in control despite the noise of battle around him. He was holding out his hand towards Dmitry. A sensation of embarrassment ran through him, at being discovered in so vulnerable a position. It was hard to discern whether the feeling was better or worse for the fact that it was Tyeplov who towered above him.
‘Now?’ he asked, accepting the hand and letting Tyeplov effortlessly pull him to his feet.
Tyeplov tilted his head to one side. ‘I could ask Prince Galtsin instead.’
Before Dmitry could respond, Tyeplov had begun to climb the
rickety
wooden stairway that led up to a platform just below the parapet of the earth defences. Dmitry followed him, feeling suddenly invigorated by his presence. At the top, Tyeplov hoisted his gun from his shoulder and positioned himself between two gabions – the earth-filled wicker baskets that made up so much of Sevastopol’s defensive front line. He fired a shot and then stepped back behind the gabion to reload. Within seconds he was ready to fire again.
‘That’s a
shtutser
!’ exclaimed Dmitry.
‘A Minié,’ said Tyeplov, pulling back to reload once more, pouring both powder and bullet into the barrel in what seemed like a single action and then swiftly ramming them home.
‘Where did you get it?’
‘From a Frenchman,’ Tyeplov explained. ‘A dead one.’
Dmitry laughed, more to please Tyeplov than because he found the idea amusing. ‘Serves him right,’ he said, without quite understanding what he meant by it. He looked through the next gap between gabions. The French were in full attack now, running forward towards the defences. Somewhere to his right, Dmitry could just make out a breach – perhaps blown by their artillery, perhaps not yet fully built in the rush to defend the Kamchatka. That was where the infantrymen were heading. He heard the report of Tyeplov’s gun, and saw one of them fall. Tyeplov ducked in again, but within seconds was once more taking aim. Another man tumbled to the ground.
‘You want a go?’ asked Tyeplov as he loaded.
Dmitry grinned and took the offered rifle. It reminded him of the first time his father let him hold a gun – though then the target had been nothing more dangerous than a pheasant. He leaned out between the gabions and tracked the figure of a running Frenchman, scarcely visible through the gloom. He squeezed the trigger and felt the gun recoil, but the soldier carried on.
‘You’re aiming a little high,’ said Tyeplov as he took the gun from Dmitry and reloaded it before handing it back.
Dmitry had never been a good shot – it wasn’t an essential skill for a horseman – but with a weapon like this, shooting became the sort of skill any officer could aspire to. He tracked another of the enemy, taking Tyeplov’s advice, and fired again. It seemed
like
the same instant that the man fell. Dmitry could see the blood draining from his neck and staining the snow as his arms flailed, as if trying to drag him onwards in his attack. Dmitry laughed and felt Tyeplov pat him on the back. He handed over the gun again and Tyeplov reloaded.
‘Your father killed quite a few Frenchmen in his time, I hear,’ said Tyeplov as Dmitry aimed once more. ‘A true Russian hero.’
Dmitry let the barrel of the gun drop as he fired and his bullet implanted itself harmlessly in the snow. Realization came to him – and with it disappointment. So that was what it was all about. Tyeplov was fishing, most likely for the Third Section. Tsar Nikolai might claim that the families of Decembrists were guiltless of any offence, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to trap them into revealing their sympathies. But none of that quite explained the depth of Dmitry’s regret at discovering Tyeplov’s true interest.
‘He was for a while,’ said Dmitry, ‘but he ended up disgracing us all.’ It was an absolute inversion of the truth. When Dmitry had thought Aleksei to be a soldier, and worse, a spy, just like Tyeplov, he had had little respect for him. Only when he had discovered that Aleksei was a member of a society dedicated to bringing Russia the government it deserved had he seen him as a hero. Tyeplov offered the gun back to Dmitry, who raised his hand in refusal. He felt sickened at his own actions, at the pleasure he had taken in killing a man in so impersonal a way. That wasn’t Dmitry; he’d done it only to please Tyeplov – to be with him and to be like him.
Tyeplov shrugged and aimed the gun himself. ‘You don’t believe that,’ he said with quiet conviction, then fired again.
‘I do.’ Dmitry knew better than to attempt to play any games. These government agents were not subtle, so he’d heard, though he had never before met one. It was best to counter their suggestions with simple certainties.
The French were in retreat now. Evidently the breach had been successfully defended, and now they had no hope other than to flee the Russian guns. Tyeplov happily fired at their backs, his aim unerring.
‘I have friends who say your father was the bravest man they ever met.’
‘They knew him?’ Dmitry could not hide his surprise, or his curiosity.
Tyeplov fired again, and another man fell. ‘Oh, yes. Long time ago, of course.’ The battle was over now. The French – all but a few stragglers – had gone back to their lines. Tyeplov fired again and there was one straggler fewer. ‘Though he was never much use with a gun, was he – your father?’ Tyeplov stepped away from the gabions and made his way back down the steps, clearly deciding there was no more to be done.
‘What do you mean?’ Dmitry’s voice sounded indignant, even though he knew that his father had always been more comfortable with a sword than with a musket.
‘Because of his hand,’ explained Tyeplov. He turned and aimed the rifle back up the steps at Dmitry. He waggled the muzzle up and down to highlight the odd way he was holding the forestock. The last two fingers of his left hand were curled into his palm, and he allowed the gun simply to rest on his index finger, with his thumb steadying at the side. It was just the way Aleksei held a gun, having lost the last two fingers of his left hand to a Turkish blade.
‘That’s what they used to call him,’ said Tyeplov, still pointing the gun towards Dmitry, ‘long before they knew his real name.’
‘Call him?’ Dmitry came down the steps, pushing the barrel of the gun to one side. It was quiet all around now, and he wanted to get back to the city and away from Tyeplov, but he was fascinated to learn more.
‘Because of his hand,’ Tyeplov said again. ‘That’s where he got the nickname.’
‘What nickname?’ asked Dmitry.
Tyeplov glanced from side to side and spoke softly, almost reverently. ‘The three-fingered man,’ he replied.
To whom it may concern
,
Please grant the bearer, Tamara Valentinovna Komarova, full access to the information she requires regarding Prince Volkonsky
.
L. V. Dubyelt
Tamara held out her hand and Gribov returned the letter. She did not want him looking at it for too long, lest he notice it was undated. It had once borne a date – 2 October 1852 – but if she had left that on there it might have diluted the sense of urgency that was conveyed. The simple stroke of a knife had removed it from the top of the page. Questions over the date might also have led to questions as to precisely which source of information Dubyelt had been granting access. He had meant the archive in Petersburg, but Tamara could think of no reason why he might not also have meant the one in Moscow. She certainly wouldn’t suggest anything to the contrary to Gribov. Nor would she point out the ambiguity over exactly which Prince Volkonsky was meant – the Decembrist exile, Sergei Grigorovich, or the Minister of the Imperial Court, Pyetr Mihailovich – a distinction she had not made clear even when Dubyelt had originally signed the authorization. Tamara was interested in both princes, and much more besides.
Gribov stood, picking up a lamp that had been glowing dimly on his desk, and went to the door. Tamara turned her head to follow his movements, but did not realize that he intended her to accompany him until his curling finger beckoned her. She rose and walked out of the office after him.
‘I hope you don’t mind my natural sense of discretion,’ he said as they walked along the dim corridor.
‘Not at all. It does you credit,’ she told him. She had not been sure that it would work, but in the end he was like any official – afraid of his superiors. At first she had asked him, and he had said no. Then she had shown him the letter. She had verified that Yudin was away from his office, otherwise Gribov would have gone straight to him, unwilling to let the decision rest on his shoulders. But in Yudin’s absence, a letter from General Dubyelt, with the general himself too far distant for personal verification, had seemed certain to sway Gribov. In the end, he had reacted just as she had hoped. She understood men like Gribov – she understood men.
‘If it were down to me, I would allow anyone in,’ he explained as they walked. ‘Such a beautiful library should not be kept a secret.’ They had come to the top of the dark stone stairway down
to
Yudin’s lair, opposite which the door led out to the open air of the Kremlin. In front of them was a dead end, decorated with a hanging tapestry, a copy of something French and medieval – a virginal woman attended by a unicorn and a lion. The red of the woman’s hair reminded Tamara a little of herself, but the slight figure and diminutive bosom of the tapestry were more akin to Raisa than Tamara. The unicorn gazed vainly into a mirror held in the woman’s hand, but Tamara had only a moment to study the reflection before Gribov pulled the curtain aside to reveal a door that Tamara had not known existed. He unlocked it with a heavy iron key.
Beyond lay a staircase, longer, narrower and far, far older than the one that would have taken them to visit Yudin. Gribov led the way and the path twisted and turned until the memory of daylight above was forgotten and all sense of direction was lost. The stairs ended in a long straight corridor that Tamara could only guess led beneath the Kremlin, since to lead out of it would be nonsensical. Other corridors connecting, presumably, to other entrances split off, but Gribov ignored them. At last they came to another door, which Gribov unlocked with another key. Now he allowed her to enter first. The room was too dark for her to make out any detail, but she sensed a vast space in front of her. Then Gribov stood beside her and turned up his lamp, suddenly illuminating all that was around them.