The man’s eyes went round with astonishment, and his mouth as well. Under other circumstances, it would have been a very comic expression. His lips moved slightly, as if he were about to speak. But he said nothing. He only slumped, lifeless, to the ground.
Pepsicolova retrieved Cyrila, wiped her clean on the waterman’s shirt, and restored her to her sheath. She plucked the pack of cigarettes from his sleeve. It was half-empty, but in her desperate state, she welcomed it as if it were half-full.
“Hell,” she said. “It’s not like you need ’em anymore.”
The small triumph did nothing to lift her spirits. But she was used to despair; she had been living with it for years, and knew how to function under its weight. Sitting down by the edge of the canal, Pepsicolova dug out a smoke. She straightened it between two fingers and lit up.
She had to think.
The messenger banged on Yevgeny’s door just as he was about to leave for his cousin Avdotya’s party. When he opened it, a private in the red-and-gold uniform of the First Artillery saluted crisply. “Sir! Here by the major’s orders, sir. Your gun has been ordered into position at Lubyanka Square as soon as you can assemble your crew. Sir!”
“Lubyanka Square? Are you sure you don’t have that wrong?”
“No, sir. Lubyanka, sir. Immediately, sir.”
“Very well.” Yevgeny handed the fellow a coin for his trouble. “Are you free to carry further messages?”
“Sir!”
“Go to the barracks and rouse everybody connected to the Third Gun you find there. Give them the same orders you gave me. Then tell Cosmodromovitch that he can count on us. Got that? Don’t bother saluting, you idiot, just go.”
As soon as the door had closed on the private, Yevgeny swore sulfurously. Lubyanka? Tonight? It made no sense whatsoever. However, even as he was cursing out everybody in his chain of command from Major Cosmodromovitch all the way up to the Duke of Muscovy, he was flinging aside his jacket and dress shirt, kicking free of his boots, and struggling out of his trousers. It took only minutes to don his uniform and assemble his gear. Then he was racing down the stairs, bellowing for the hotel staff to bring around his carriage.
Everybody of any rank higher than his own might be a complete and total ass-in his experience, there was no doubt about that whatsoever-but Yevgeny was an officer and a soldier of Muscovy and he knew his duty.
Lubyanka Square was dark and deserted when a team of six galloped in, towing Gun Three on a caisson. The crew dismounted and the gunnery sergeant saluted Yevgeny. “Reporting for duty, Lieutenant. What are our orders?”
“Damned if I know, Sergeant. But let’s look sharp anyway. Set up the gun so it’s trained up the street.” Yevgeny squinted at the shadowy figures of his men, who were briskly unshipping the cannon. “Where are Pavel and Mukhtar?”
“Under the weather, sir.” The gunnery-sergeant’s face was so absolutely without guile that Yevgeny knew immediately he was lying.
“In the brothels, you mean.”
“I was lucky to find as many as I did, sir, on such short notice. It’s that new drug that’s going around. Everybody wants to try it out. The strumpets have doubled their rates, and the good ones are charging triple, and still the lines are out the door and down the street. If I weren’t broke, I’d be there myself.” The gunnery-sergeant spat and grinned. “Luckily, I noticed a couple of girls from Gun Six were still at the barracks and, as I happened to know that their lieutenant was under the weather herself, I requisitioned them.” He gestured toward two sullen- looking gunners who were, nonetheless, setting up the gun with commendable efficiency. “So we’ve got a full crew.”
“Good work, Sergeant. They seem to be doing well enough.”
“Yes, sir. Incidentally, Lieutenant, by ‘up the street,’ did you mean I should aim the gun up Bolshaya Lubyanka ulitsa, Teatralny proezd, Nikolskaya ulitsa, or Novaya ploschad’?”
“All ways are equally imbecilic. Point it west. We can always wheel it around, if need be.”
“Sir.” The gunnery-sergeant turned to the crew and started shouting orders. In no time, the cannon was ready, the slow-match lit and stuck upright in a bucket of sand, and the powder and shot ready to load.
Artillery men did not smoke, for obvious reasons. But when all was done and in order, Yevgeny got out his snuff box and passed it around, letting everybody take a large pinch. “Don’t think I’m unappreciative of the sacrifices you’ve made to be here.” He pulled a wry face. “I was on my way to a party myself.”
“Oh?” one of the men said carefully. “Was it a good one, sir?”
“I think I can safely say that it was exactly the sort of party you think it was. Moreover, I had certain hopes that the company would be good.”
Knowing looks blossomed on his crew’s coarse faces. “Somebody special, eh?” one soldier chanced. “Getting anywhere?”
“Well, you know what they say. First time’s luck, second time’s bad judgment, third time’s love. I got lucky and tonight I was hoping to move the relationship a step closer to the real thing.”
Then, having done his bit for morale, Yevgeny assumed a rigid stance and spun on his heel, all officer once more. It was important to loosen discipline now and again. But it must never reach the point of outright familiarity.
So he stood apart from the others, listening to the silence. Lubyanskaya ploschad’ was lined with commercial businesses and prisons, which meant that however festive the rest of Moscow might be, this area was utterly dead. Not a single pedestrian disturbed the stillness. The night was cold and the city felt wrong to him.
Yevgeny shivered, and wished that Arkady were here with him. It was going to be a long, long night and, knowing what was going on in every bedroom in Moscow, he was absolutely certain it was going to be a lonely one.
But not a quarter-hour later, he was astonished when three dark figures rode into the square on horseback: General Magdalena Zvyozdny-Gorodoka with her famous red hair, Baron Lukoil-Gazprom, and a woman muffled head-to-foot in winter clothes who had the absolute best posture Yevgeny had ever seen.
“Lieutenant Tupelov-Uralmash,” the general said when salutes had been exchanged. “On duty and looking alert, as usual, I see.”
“I’m damnably glad somebody is,” the baron said. “Nine-tenths of our artillery is-”
“Hush. The condition of the army is my business, just as the condition of Gun Three is the lieutenant’s.” The general had been scanning Yevgeny’s crew. Now a quizzical tone entered her voice. “Do you have a mixed team, Lieutenant?”
Yevgeny, who well understood why gun crews were normally single-gender, blushed. “Two of my men were under the weather, ma’am. So I had to improvise.”
The general nodded solemnly. “While normally I frown upon improvisation, tonight is not a normal time. You are encouraged to maintain that same flexibility when the troubles start. In the meantime, keep a sharp eye out.” She wheeled her horse about, and said to the baron, “Now let’s see what else remains of our forces.”
“Precious little, I’m guessing,” the baron grumbled. “But, ma’am!” Yevgeny cried. “Sir! Exactly what are we looking for?”
“I have no idea,” the general said over her shoulder.
“Nor do I,” the baron said. “But this I guarantee: Whatever it is, you’ll know it when you see it.”
The unidentified woman studied Yevgeny solemnly and, soldier though he was, he found himself trembling in atavistic fear. It was like stepping into a jungle clearing and suddenly being confronted by a tiger. Then she flicked the reins of her horse and was gone, after her illustrious compeers.
Arkady returned to the New Metropol in a state of dejection. The last dozen places he had gone to, he had been turned away. The masters and mistresses of the house were engaged, he was told, and from the sighs and laughter he heard from the interior, he was certain this was so. There were signs also that the servants had scavenged the leavings of their masters’ drugs and would themselves soon be similarly engaged. Everybody, it seemed, was enjoying the fun but he.
He found the three stranniks sitting happily in oxblood-red leather armchairs, facing a small table on which flickered three candles. They were drinking glasses of hot tea and discussing theology.
“There,” said Chernobog, “is a perfect model for the triune nature of the Divine. Each flame is separate, but
