sir,’ he said, turning away. Mihail couldn’t see quite how he slipped the banknote into his pocket, but was sure that he had done. The concierge disappeared through a door at the back of the lobby. After two minutes he emerged with another man, who came to speak to Mihail, smiling unctuously.
‘It’s been some months since we’ve been privileged to receive a visit from a representative of Collegiate Councillor Chernetskiy,’ he said, handing the letter back to Mihail. ‘I trust that His High Nobleness is in good health?’
No, he’s rotting in a dungeon in the Peter and Paul Fortress. It would not be a helpful response, however much the words would be a pleasure on Mihail’s lips. ‘He’s very well, and sends his regards. He trusts his instructions have continued to be carried out.’ It was pure bluff, but Mihail could hazard a guess as to the nature of the arrangement between Iuda and the hotel.
‘Absolutely.’ As he spoke, the manager guided Mihail towards the front desk. ‘His rooms have remained quite undisturbed.’ He leaned over and whispered in the ear of one of his staff, who turned to the rack of keys behind him.
‘Good. Good,’ muttered Mihail.
The key was handed to the manager and the manager handed it to Mihail. ‘Would you like someone to show you the way?’
‘I’ll be fine, thank you.’ The number, 215, was clearly stamped on the tag attached to the key.
Mihail followed the direction that the manager had involuntarily indicated, leaving the lobby via a short flight of steps on to a corridor from which a far grander staircase ascended. At the top stood the door to a dimly lit dining room, while the stairway turned and continued upwards on either side. However intent he was on his task, Mihail could not help but be awed by the opulence of the hotel – and the expense of it. He was the son of a grand duke, and yet he would never be able to afford rooms in a place like this. The stairs turned again. Mihail glanced at the room that led off the landing, at the front of the building overlooking the street. Its main feature was a grand piano, finished in colourful marquetry. This was still the level of public rooms. After the third flight of stairs, things became less grandiose, but only slightly. The corridor led off in both directions, but all the numbers began with the figure 1. Now the stairs were more mundane, what Mihail might expect in any large building, constructed of iron and twisting back on themselves to take up the minimum amount of space. He needed to ascend only one more flight. He noted the numbers as he passed: 209, 211, 213. At last he was there. He hesitated, then put his ear against the door. There was no reason to expect the room to be occupied. Iuda was a captive. If Dmitry knew of the room, he could not come here in daylight. Even so, Mihail was cautious. Dmitry could have come here at night, and be waiting inside. He knocked and listened again. There was no response. He could think of no more precautions he could take. The key turned smoothly and he pushed the door open.
Iuda awoke. He had slept well. How a voordalak would manage without the tombs of the rich was a mystery. The common man was buried in the ground, but for the rich an ornate chamber was built and the casket was placed within a stone dias so that though it would decay, it would not be food for worms. Iuda lay alongside one such long-departed noble – safe from the sun, comfortable among the dead. He was almost surprised not to find other creatures like himself gathered around the sarcophagus to sleep, like faithful dogs around their master. But there were many graves about the world, and few voordalaki. There were two others in Petersburg though, of that Iuda was sure. Where might they be sleeping, he wondered.
He crawled through the narrow gap that had given him entrance to the tomb and emerged into the cemetery. He raised his hand to his face, but could feel no stains of blood upon it. Even so, he picked up a handful of snow and washed himself. He had no mirror to look in, not that it would have helped. He’d stolen the clothes of the student he had killed – but for the shirt, which was drenched in blood. They