He was left staring at the heavy chair with its red cushion, a reminder of the patriarch’s decision. Finally the two priests came to collect it.

‘Tell His Holiness that I’m sorry,’ whispered Va. They nodded, not looking at him, and hurried off with their burden. But he never told them what he was sorry for.

CHAPTER 8

VA SLEPT. NOT for a long time, and then only fitfully. He was awake as the Kremlin bell sounded five.

He found he could move again, although it was like wading through deep mud. His mind felt sluggish too, and that was worse. He needed to be alert. The amputee in the next bed was dozing in between fevered dreams. On the other side, the old man lay perfectly still. His chest had stopped even the slight rise and fall of earlier.

The monk who was watching over them had his head on the open pages of his manuscript, contaminating them with his greasy skin and drool. The lantern that should have illuminated his reading had burned low, and there was no light save for a tiny yellow guttering flame.

Va slipped slowly and carefully out from under the sheet that covered his nakedness. He found the floor with his foot, then his hand, then lowered himself down until he could feel the rough boards prickle his skin. He turned, rolled as quietly as he could, and reached up to touch the old man. He was cold like stone.

Untucking the bed sheet from top to bottom, Va delved inside until he’d found the hem of the old man’s habit. He tugged it up, and up, and over the course of a half-hour he relieved the dead man of his clothing. He only had to kneel once, to force the rigored arms into a position where the habit would keep moving. He knew where to press, which ligaments to pop, to accomplish his task. He rearranged the sheet over the body and sank back down.

When he got the garment back to floor level, he discovered it was in a ruinous state. It stank of post-mortem bowel movements and a decade’s worth of foetid toil. But it only had to be worn for a minute, just long enough, and it would have to do.

He put it on, then crawled on his belly under the beds until he’d made it to the door. This was the moment of greatest risk. Not all the patients were asleep, and many of those who were slept lightly. It would only take one of them to cry out, ask for water or prayer, and he’d be found.

There was a metal ring latch, inherently noisy, but Va raised the bar with the tip of his finger and dug at the frame with his other hand. When the door opened a fraction, he let the latch back down on its stop. He knew how wide the gap had to be for him to slip out. He did it quickly and calmly, knowing that a fast-moving hinge was less likely to creak like a ship at sea than a slow one.

He checked outside, and slipped unseen into the cloisters. He pulled the door back to almost closed and drew his hood over his head.

The Danilov was a maze of buildings, a collection of architecture that stretched all the way back to before the Reversal. It worked to Va’s advantage in that no one would challenge him if he moved purposefully, but against him because he would have to quickly find a way out, and not spend the remaining time until dawn blundering around getting lost.

He chose to circumnavigate the enclosed cloisters and examine the structures all around. On one side was a church, its five domes gazing up in pregnant contemplation. There must be a door leading into it, and Va picked the most likely one.

The flavour of incense flooded his lungs, and the pinprick light of candles showed him the way. His bare feet made no sound as they crossed the tiled floor, and his shadow was unseen behind the row of pillars that led first to the north, then the east end of the basilica. He ran his hand over an iron-bound chest of vestments, but he had no beard to speak of; he’d never pass as a priest.

When he turned and looked down the length of the nave, he saw that there was a man at the altar, prostrate before the icon, hands outstretched on the floor. For a moment he struggled with the urge to join him, throw himself down and acknowledge his betrayal, his stark disobedience of the patriarch. There was a higher calling, though. God Himself. Va’s guts went through turmoil as he clenched his fists and broke into a cold sweat.

It passed, and he left the lone penitent to his vigil. He opened a small door set into the great east porch, and was outside.

Because he had not been conscious when he arrived, he didn’t know which way to turn. The Danilov probably had more than one gate, and even though inside Moskva’s walls, those gates were going to be guarded. He had to be careful.

He orientated himself using the night sky and the beginnings of the dawn’s air-glow in the far north-west. The paths were mostly deserted, and there was plenty of shadow to hide in when someone passed by. At one corner he turned and saw the flicker of bright flame casting shapes up a stone tower. That was the gatehouse he had to avoid. He cut through a series of narrow alleys bordered by workshops and storerooms, and came to the outer wall.

Va had discovered a weakness to walls, and it was this: in one direction, they presented a barrier. They could be as simple as an overturned cart in the street, reinforced with furniture and defended by a rioting mob. They could be as impressive as a city wall, sheer cliffs of finely cut stone tooled by master craftsmen. But they were only difficult one way. The other way, they were as porous as a sieve. Getting into a prison or out of a castle was easy for someone like him.

In the case of the Danilov, there was a stable butting directly onto the wall. He climbed the corral, up the sloping roof and onto the wall itself. He looked over to check he wasn’t going to find himself in a river or a goose pen, then simply slid over. He hung by his fingertips for a moment, and with his toes explored the possibility of climbing down. In the end he dropped the distance, landed with his knees bent, rolled, stood and walked away. No one saw him.

For his plan to work, Va had to find Elenya. He traced around the outside of the wall until he saw the usual crowd of indigents, cripples and beggars clustered around a bonfire. He checked their faces, one by one, until he found her.

She was sitting on her own on the ground, wrapped in her cloak, staring at the flames in the heart of the fire. She radiated anger, and it compelled the rest of her wretched companions to leave her alone.

The group was centred to one side of the gatehouse, clear of the road. There were bottles being passed one to another, with the occasional fight when someone hung onto the drink for too long.

‘Elenya?’ he called.

She didn’t turn, and he stepped out of the darkness.

‘Elenya.’

This time she heard him. Her head swung round and up, and without a word she left the circle and followed him.

‘What in God’s name have you been rolling in?’ she asked him.

‘It’s temporary,’ he said. ‘Do you have any money?’

‘Yes, a few coins. There’s not much to spend it on hanging around outside a church in the middle of a forest.’

‘I need you to buy me some clothes.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Something happened. You’re not supposed to be here, are you?’

‘No. I need you to help me, Elenya, because otherwise I can’t go and find the books.’

She stopped, forcing him to stop too. ‘From the start. What are you talking about?’

‘I saw the patriarch. He’s sending out brothers, a whole host of them, to look for the books and bring them back. But not me. He says I have to stay and pray for their success.’

‘At least you’ll be where I can see you.’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘It’s my point.’

‘No – think about it,’ said Va. ‘The patriarch is sending only those brothers who will fight for the books. If I stay here, I could live until I’m a hundred years old.’