‘If it proves necessary. And if Zmyeevich or his emissary returns I can call on Colonel Danilov’s experience.’

‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ said the colonel.

‘You must go,’ said Volkonsky.

Aleksandr turned and looked to the east. A thin orange line was just appearing on the horizon where the sun rose. He had never felt so alone. The whole thing felt like madness to him now, and yet was this not the moment he had yearned for since – when? – his father’s death? Regardless of Cain and Zmyeevich, he had always dreamed, sometimes planned, how he would one day be free. It was far, far too late to turn back.

‘Yes,’ he said with a sigh, ‘I must.’

He reached out his hand, and each of the four men kissed it in turn.

‘I will forget none of you,’ he said, and turned his horse into the sun.

He did not look back; he would have seen nothing through the tears in his eyes. They were the tears of a newborn, thrust into a world he did not understand and would have to learn. For his entire life he had been a virtual god – destined first to rule and then, by betraying his own father, becoming ruler of this beautiful country. Then that life had ended, and he had spent a day in death. Now he was reborn.

First a god, and then a corpse, but as of today he was all he had ever wanted to be. Today he was a man.

All four of them got very drunk that evening, sitting in Volkonsky’s rooms. They started on vodka, but then Wylie brought out a bottle of whisky, which was something Aleksei had never tried. He liked it.

‘I don’t think I can bring myself to let them bury Maskov amongst the tsars,’ said Volkonsky. ‘It’s not right for either family.’

‘I’m sure you’ll work something out,’ said Aleksei.

‘We have a lot to work out,’ said Wylie. ‘There will be many in Petersburg who ask questions.’

‘Make sure our stories hang together, you mean?’ asked Tarasov.

Wylie nodded.

‘You keep a journal, don’t you?’ said Volkonsky, addressing Wylie.

‘Of sorts.’

‘I do too,’ said Tarasov.

‘We’ll go through those,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Make sure there’s nothing in them that doesn’t fit our version of the story.’

‘What about other people’s recollections?’ asked Wylie.

‘It’s only you three that know about any of this, really,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Until His Majesty spoke to me, I suspected nothing – beyond his illness.’ He breathed deeply. ‘It’s been a long two days.’

‘I’d rather you kept me out of this,’ said Aleksei.

‘You refuse to help?’ Volkonsky was astounded, as well he might be.

‘Not at all. I mean, keep my name out of your journals.’

‘Why?’ asked Tarasov.

‘Because I have no good reason to be here. If people see my name – particularly people who know what I do for a living – they’ll start to wonder. What was a spy doing hovering around the tsar’s deathbed?’

‘The others here will remember you,’ said Wylie.

‘Maybe, but just as another soldier. I doubt there’s many here can even remember my name.’

‘I’d be prepared to bet the tsaritsa remembers it was you who knocked that bottle out of her hand,’ said Volkonsky. All of them joined in his laughter. ‘But I see your point,’ he continued, when it had subsided.

‘I’ll leave tomorrow,’ said Aleksei.

‘So soon?’ said Wylie, refilling Aleksei’s glass.

‘Makes me easier to forget.’

‘None of us here will forget you, Colonel,’ said Volkonsky, raising his glass to him. ‘Nor will His Majesty,’ he added more quietly.

‘I think you mean Aleksandr Pavlovich,’ said Wylie.

There was another round of laughter, which faded into silence. Aleksei was suddenly reminded of another occasion when he had sat drinking with three friends – many occasions. When had been the last? In Moscow, in 1812, just before they had set out west with the Oprichniki. Everything had changed after that – after Dmitry, Vadim and Maks had died. It was odd, but from somewhere Aleksei had the sense of having been in the presence of Maks very recently – or of someone like him. It was not one of these three, but then who? It did not take him long to work through the list of people in whose company he had been of late. For an awful moment, he thought it might be Kyesha, but it was not.

It was Aleksandr Pavlovich. Yes, he was old, spoilt and jaded, but just that morning he had rode away from all he had with more of a sense of curiosity than dread – or at least a reasonable balance of the two. That was the sort of thing Maks would have done, had he lived.

‘You’ll remain in contact with him?’ Wylie asked. ‘In his new life?’

‘He’ll send me word under his new name of where he is,’ said Volkonsky. ‘I’ll send him money, and whatever else he needs.’

‘He had quite enough gold packed into those saddlebags,’ observed Tarasov.

‘He may need it,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Could any of us learn to live like he plans to?’

‘So what is his name going to be?’ asked Wylie.

‘I’m sworn not to tell,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Suffice it to say that Aleksandr I is no more.’

‘To the new tsar, then,’ said Aleksei, holding his glass up high. ‘To Konstantin I.’

Four glasses clashed together, and four voices spoke as one.

‘Konstantin I!’

Aleksei had only a little more packing to do in preparation for his departure, and he chose to leave it until the following morning. He was just pulling off his boots when he noticed a new item amongst his possessions, sitting on top of his saddlebags. It was a letter. He went over and picked it up.

The handwriting was familiar, as was the text itself. He ripped it open, but even before he read the signature, he knew that it was from Kyesha.

Dear Aleksei Ivanovich,

You must have discovered by now, as have I, that your attempt to destroy Cain in Chufut Kalye was unsuccessful. I do not blame you for it. You left the task to my kindred, and that seemed as appropriate to me as it must have done to them. The failure to achieve what all of us so desired is theirs, not yours.

I have no doubt that should you encounter Cain again you will set aside the poetry of vengeance in favour of the certainty of a steel blade or a lead bullet. And yet even in that, I carry in my heart the hope that of the two of us, it is not you who next encounters him. It is only fitting that it should be a creature such as I that ultimately brings an end to his life.

Indeed, you will be pleased to learn, I have already chanced upon some clues that may lead me to where he is currently hiding, planning, I believe, to recommence the experimentation to which your actions so effectively put an end. With luck, I will be upon him within days. As to the ending of our encounter, I am sure you will one day learn its outcome, one way or another.

I hesitate to say farewell under a name I once used in order to deceive you, but it is the only one by which you know me and is one which, I hope more than know, you regard as that of a friend.

With the greatest admiration, three-fingered man,

Innokyentii Sergeivich Lukin

Aleksei folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. It was a good thing that Kyesha planned to pursue Iuda, because Aleksei himself most certainly did not, not for now, whatever the fate of the Romanovs might be. As to whether he would succeed – it was possible. One day, Iuda had to die. One day, his luck would run out. Perhaps it would be to Kyesha that the luck would flow.

But Aleksei could not help but remember another letter he had received years ago, from Dmitry Fetyukovich. Dmitry had, like Kyesha, discovered some clue as to the location of Iuda and set off in pursuit, urging Aleksei to follow. Aleksei had done so, and found Dmitry dead, and Iuda free. From Kyesha there had been no such entreaty, and Aleksei was not going to pretend there had been. His path was north, to his home – to his homes. It would be a long journey, but tomorrow it would begin.