‘What have you discovered, Aleksei Ivanovich?’

Kyesha learned quickly. That evening, he approached Aleksei from downwind. The first Aleksei knew of his presence was a voice, whispering in the darkness just before he arrived at his rooms. He started and then turned. Kyesha’s face was close. Aleksei wondered how he could have missed that unmistakable smell in the past. He had known for some time what his first question to Kyesha would be.

‘What do you know of the Romanov Betrayal?’ he asked.

‘Only a little more than I care.’

‘Don’t piss me around,’ said Aleksei.

‘I’ve heard Cain use the phrase occasionally. I never understood it.’

‘Is Cain his real name?’

In the darkness, Aleksei saw Kyesha shrug in a disturbingly human manner.

‘Is he even English?’

‘He could be. I don’t have an ear for the accent. His French and Russian are both near perfect.’

‘I’ve seen a letter from him,’ said Aleksei. He would make no mention of the letter’s recipient. He doubted if Kyesha would be interested. Aleksei’s concern might be the safety of the tsar, but Kyesha’s only interest was in vengeance against Cain.

‘And?’

‘What do you know about Bakhchisaray?’

‘He mentions it in the letter?’ asked Kyesha.

Aleksei nodded.

‘And you’re going there?’

‘That’s the plan.’

‘From there, he’ll take you to Chufut Kalye,’ said Kyesha.

‘“Take” us?’

‘He’ll find a way.’

‘And what is Chufut Kalye?’

Kyesha said nothing. He was looking over Aleksei’s shoulder. A man was walking past on the other side of the road – a serf by the looks of him. As he turned back, Aleksei felt sure he glimpsed Kyesha licking his lips.

He grabbed Kyesha by the arm. ‘We can’t talk here,’ he said, leading the voordalak down the street. When the serf was out of sight, Aleksei repeated his question. ‘What’s Chufut Kalye?’

‘Did you ever hear of a sect of Jews known as the Karaites?’ Kyesha asked.

Aleksei had heard the name, but little more. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘Some of them claim they’re one of the lost tribes of Israel, others that they’re descended from Khazars, but it’s all really just to shake off the blame for murdering Christ.’

‘I’m not really interested in the theology,’ said Aleksei, though it surprised him that Kyesha should be.

‘Well, they used to be all over the Crimea. There are fewer now. Chufut Kalye was their citadel. It’s an old fortress – partly built, partly burrowed. There’s a handful of them still live there.’

‘How far is it from Bakhchisaray?’

‘A few versts. It’s a bit of a climb.’

‘And what will happen when we get there?’ asked Aleksei.

‘I’m not a fortune teller.’

‘You must have some idea.’

Kyesha stopped walking and turned to Aleksei. ‘Do you really want me to tell you what I think’s going to happen?’

‘Tell me.’

‘It’s very simple,’ Kyesha informed him. ‘You will kill Richard Cain.’

Aleksandr heard the coachman call to his horses, and the carriage began to rattle along the road. He leaned out of the coach window and looked back. Volkonsky stood there, watching his departure. Aleksandr was sorry to leave him behind, but he was concerned for the tsaritsa, and though she had her doctors with her, she needed a man of sterner temperament to make sure she did nothing to risk her health. The tsaritsa herself had not felt well enough to come out and say farewell, but she had watched from a window.

Though he might miss Volkonsky, Aleksandr still had with him sufficient aides. Baron Diebich sat opposite him in his carriage. Somewhere else in the train, a few coaches behind, was Colonel Salomka. And, of course, he had his own doctors with him; Wylie and Tarasov were back there somewhere too.

The excursion was planned to last just seventeen days. The original idea had been for longer, but Yelizaveta had insisted he should not be away for so many weeks. It was certainly important for them to get back to Taganrog before the weather really turned on its path towards winter.

In the end, what did it matter if he planned to be away for seventeen days or seventeen years? On the tenth day they would arrive at Bakhchisaray. He did not know if he would ever leave.

He looked further down the short line of carriages and wagons that accompanied him. Behind them, a few of the party rode on horseback. It was difficult to pick out individual figures, but one was clear.

Aleksandr sat back down inside the carriage. He knew that he must face what was ahead of him, but he also knew that, in Aleksei Ivanovich Danilov, he had an ally.

R zbunarea weighed anchor. Its course was back, west, along the northern coast of the Sea of Azov, but keeping well away from the shore. It was not even certain that there was any need to track Aleksandr Pavlovich; what had to be done might just as well be achieved at a distance. But on the other hand, proximity would lead to flexibility. There was still much that could go wrong, despite the assurances he had been given.

They would sail to Sevastopol, or thereabouts. The royal party was travelling by land, and so their paths would diverge even before R zbunarea left the Sea of Azov. It was a pity that Bakhchisaray wasn’t closer to the coast, but otherwise it was a well-chosen location. The cargo could not, of course, be carried through so populous a city as Sevastopol, but a slight diversion to an appropriate, secluded cove would make it easy to take on board.

There had been rumours – rumours which had crossed Europe, though no human would have noticed – about what else was going on in Bakhchisaray, but they were of little concern to the passenger of R zbunarea. When this was all over, perhaps he would take revenge on behalf of his entire race, but for now he had more pressing needs.

And even before the ship took on its cargo, there was one essential task that its passenger had to perform. It would take concentration and fortitude, and for that he would require rest, even though there were still days to prepare. Rest now would make him ready.

He lay back and listened to the creaking of the ship around him. It was pleasant to be surrounded by wood, but the wooden hull was not so comforting as the tighter wooden walls that now entombed him as he rested. He reached out and pulled the lid over him, sensing it above him, inches from his face. Now all was dark. He slept.

‘LORD JESUS CHRIST, HAVE MERCY UPON ME, A SINNER.’

Their two voices spoke in unison, but the starets kept his low, allowing the kneeling tsaritsa to dominate as they spoke the Prayer of the Heart.

‘Why have you come here?’ he asked.

The tsaritsa looked up, and the starets could see fear in her eyes.

‘It’s my husband,’ she said.

‘Has he been unfaithful?’

‘No.’ The starets raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes,’ the tsaritsa acknowledged, ‘but not recently, and that’s not what I’m concerned about.’

‘Then what is your concern?’

‘Father,’ she moaned, ‘I’m afraid for his soul!’

‘We should all fear for our souls,’ he said softly, ‘but prayer will be our salvation.’

‘There are some acts that are beyond salvation.’

The starets paused, wondering what the tsaritsa could know of her husband. ‘Acts?’ he asked.

‘Acts which cannot be repented.’

He spoke the word that she seemed afraid to utter. ‘Suicide?’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’ Her response was scarcely voiced, but in the stone-walled cell of the monastery, it filled the air.

‘Why do you think he contemplates that?’ The starets deliberately avoided repetition of the term she had been so keen to leave unuttered.