“Don’t believe her!” a man said in a terror-choked voice. “She’s killed two-”
But the warning was cut short. The man made a strangled noise. Then the grotesque figure collapsed into its component parts, the man tumbling down to the ground unconscious and the woman leaping free. “So much for him,” she said. “They have no stamina, these modern youngsters. It was the invention of fire that did it. Fire and edged tools have made them all as weak as porridge.”
Darger opened his mouth and shut it again.
“Alcohol?” Kyril said brightly, extending the bottle.
“Yes!” The alarming woman snatched it out of his hand. “And that rag you’re wearing as well.”
The kerchief whisked itself from Kyril’s neck. There was a long silence.
At last Darger said, “Are you in need of assistance, madam? Perhaps we can…” His voice trailed off. Waving his hands through the murk before him to make sure, he said, “She’s gone.”
“Good. That crazy bitch stole my bottle!”
“The chap she was riding seems not to be injured. His breathing is steady.” Darger examined the man’s face. “Huh!”
“Something wrong?”
“No, no, it’s just that I know the fellow. Well, he is nobody of any consequence, and so we may safely forget him.” He hoisted the dark form into a sitting position, and left the man leaning against the side of a building. Then he said, “Is there any approach at all we haven’t tried yet?”
“Well… There’s still the south wall. I never heard of there being a way in there. But what the fuck do I know?”
“If it’s a possibility, however remote, we must explore it. Diligence, Kyril! Diligence is all.”
Koschei sat on a wooden chair he had carried from his hotel room to a quiet spot on the Kremlin’s south wall, by the Annunciation Tower, smoking a pipe. His klashny was a reassuring weight in his lap. God was a burning presence in his brain.
He waited.
The strannik’s part in tonight’s activities was simple. When the demonic Tsar Lenin was safely in power, he was to give up his contemplation of the Moscow River and stroll across the Kremlin grounds to the ramparts overlooking Red Square. There, he would start shooting people at random. Meanwhile, from their perches atop Goom and St. Basil’s, Svarozic and Chernobog would do the same. This would create panic and help to trigger a riot that would quickly spread to engulf the city. Thus they would do their small bit to bring about the Eschaton. In all likelihood none of them would live to see God striding the streets of Moscow. But Koschei was confident that they would all die having done what piety required.
“You are silent,” observed the devil crouching at his feet. “We have nothing to discuss,” Koschei said.
“You were not always so reluctant to talk to us.”
“There was a time when I sought for grains of truth hidden in your lies, like a sparrow picking oats from a steaming horse-turd. This being my last night before my soul is translated into the afterlife, however, I prefer to spend my time in prayer and meditation.”
“There is no afterlife. You will die into eternal oblivion.”
“God says otherwise.”
“Where is this God? Show him to me. You cannot. The steppes of Russia are vast and empty. I crossed them on foot and he was not there. On my journey I killed every human being I encountered. Angels did not descend from the sky to stop me. The city of Moscow is thronged with people of every sort and not a one of them has ever met with God. The history of Russia stretches far into the past and there is in all of it not a shred of evidence for the existence of such an entity.”
“I feel His holy presence within me even now.”
“Your temporal lobe has been stimulated by drugs we provided you.”
“Intending evil, you achieve good. Such is the irresistible power of the Lord.”
“The power, rather, of self-delusion.”
Koschei frowned down at the scoffer. “Why are you even here?”
“At this moment, there are few places in Moscow that are safe for my kind. One of us died leading the uprising in Zamoskvorechye. When that happened, three of the remaining four deemed it best to leave our uprisings to continue on their own momentum. Only Tsar Lenin is still in public view.” “But why here? With me.”
“Does my presence offend you?” “Yes.”
“Then that is reason enough.”
Some time passed in uncompanionable silence. Then Koschei said, “What are you looking at so intently?”
The metal demon rose up on its haunches, like a hound. It pointed downward, across the road that ran just below the wall. A few scattered pedestrians, gray in the moonlight, hurried toward the gathering in the Alexander Garden. There were no carriages. “You see that small pump-house by the river?” It was practically invisible, but the strannik’s sight was good. He nodded. “It is built on the site of the ancient outlet of a hidden tunnel which leads into the Beklemshev Tower, and from there into the Terem Palace. Its existence has for ages been the subject of rumor and speculation, though most believe that it leads to the Secret Tower, and is in fact commonly held to be the reason for the tower’s name.”
“You know everything-and nothing. Why bring up this useless fact?”
“Because there is a rider on the road.” “Oh?”
“Traveling fast.”
Koschei stood and fixed his keen eyes on the woman leaning low over her steed. Her hair flew out behind her as if her head were on fire. The horse was gasping and overheated. “You should be happy, demon.”
The metal gargoyle did not look up. “How so?”
“That woman is killing the poor beast with overexertion. Another dumb animal dead, and a soul on its way to Hell for her wicked deed. Surely that elates you.”
“You know nothing of Hell. Is your klashny loaded?”
“It is. Why do you ask?”
“Because the rider is none other than General Magdalena Zvyozdny-Gorodoka. In the temporary web of alliances that we have woven, she is our common enemy. The only possible destination she can have is the pump house entrance to the Beklemshev Tower tunnel. The only possible reason for her to enter the Kremlin is to see the Duke of Muscovy.”
“So?”
“If she speaks to the duke, he will tell her of all our plans. Inevitably, she will demand to know how they can be thwarted. No one else could possibly answer such a question. Yet for the Duke of Muscovy, extraordinary feats of analysis are possible. I am instructing my brothers to hurry to his side and kill him first.”
“That is hardly necessary,” Koschei said, rising from his chair.
He raised his klashny and took careful aim.
The first shot sent up sparks by the horse’s front hooves. A little too forward and several feet too low, then. The second shot disappeared into the night. Probably too high. But the third shot took the horse right in the chest. It stumbled and fell, sending the general flying.
Koschei waited until she stopped rolling, and then placed eight shots in her unmoving body.
The Pearls Beyond Price were finally, completely ready. Their clothes and jewelry were perfect from tiaras to slippers, and their hair and makeup were works of art. They looked each other over minutely and were pleased with what they saw.
Then they had their escorts assemble before them.
Enkidu saluted. “We got the six carriages lined up outside. Decorated with swags of flowers, the way you said. Plus the horses’ manes are all plaited and their hooves gilded too.”
“It wasn’t easy painting them hooves either,” Atlas said. “They didn’t much care for it.”
Making a dismissive gesture, Russalka said, “We’ve changed our minds. We only need three coaches. That way there will be one of us at each window to wave to our adoring subjects-to-be, whichever side of the street they happen to be standing on. You may send the others away.”
“Are you planning on going out dressed like that?” Nymphodora asked.
Enkidu looked down at his navy blue uniform. Behind him, the other Neanderthals stood fidgeting and shifting
