‘Like us, then, and the Russians—’
‘Yes, only not for a cause. For himself.’
‘Didn’t you ask him who he was working for?’
‘I did, and he asked me why it mattered. Whether there was any real difference.’
‘You weren’t tempted to jump out of there? To go and tell Hudner what was going on?’
‘No. Why should I? I mean, I was intrigued. I thought, well, I thought maybe this was what I’d been searching for all along. A different approach.’
‘Only …’
‘Only Kolya wasn’t interested in what
I
wanted. His only concern was that I’d pass on what I knew.’
‘About Four-Oh and how we do things?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you gave him what he wanted?’
He nods.
I sit there in silence, stunned by the depth of his betrayal, wondering whether this chain of events is linked somehow to my death up the line. Whether that too began a century and more ago.
Yet even as I think that, I realise that I’m looking at Time in completely the wrong way. It didn’t have to happen a hundred years ago. It could have happened yesterday. In fact, for all I know, Kolya isn’t even born yet. He could be jumping back from somewhere in the future, and until we know that—
‘When did all this happen?’
Schikaneder shrugs. ‘I’m not sure. Some time in the 1770s. The women will know. It’ll be in the log.’
‘Which will have changed.’
‘I guess …’
His nonchalance exasperates me. ‘Haven’t you
any
idea where he comes from?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Yes, but what would
you
say? You spent time with him.’
Schikaneder considers that: ‘Twenty-fourth century. The Mechanists.’
‘Why?’
‘Just the odd word or two. Things he let slip when he was relaxed. Jargon stuff.’
For the first time I feel I’m getting somewhere. ‘And his friends?’
Schikaneder laughs. ‘Kolya didn’t have friends. Just acquaintances and people who worked for him. No one was allowed to get close. He’s very single-minded. Or maybe that’s not the word. Self-centred, more like. In fact, I’ve never met anyone quite so self-centred as Kolya. I’ve watched him. He’ll set up whole new timelines and then destroy them, simply to achieve a single aim. He’s not like us in that respect. He’s profligate with Time.’
‘Ruthless, you mean?’
‘Totally. I don’t think the man understands remorse.’
‘And was Kolya the only name he used?’
‘Never anything else. He didn’t even have a surname. At least, I never heard one used.’
‘How long were you with him?’
‘Four months. And you know what? I still don’t know what he was doing. I know what he took from me, but what he did with it …’ Schikaneder drains his glass. ‘I only know what he
said
he was doing.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Making a nest for his cuckoos. Those were his words. A nest for his cuckoos.’
There’s more, but it only confirms what I already know, and as dawn breaks, Schikaneder slips on his cloak and walks me back to the Charles Bridge.
I’m not sure what I feel about the man now that I know what he did. His exile seems far less glamorous than it did – more a question of expedience, of saving his skin by getting out and keeping his mouth shut – yet he still cuts a romantic figure as he stands there in the first light, cloaked and booted, his long dark hair swept back by the morning’s breeze. And when he offers his hand, I take it.
‘Good luck, Otto.’
‘Thanks.’ And, touching my chest, I jump.
Zarah’s there as I come through. ‘Are you ready?’ she asks.
‘No. Give me a moment. I need to see Meister Schnorr.’
I can see she’s not happy, but she nods. ‘Okay. But not too long. If Hecht sees the log there’ll be some explaining to do.’
‘Thanks …’ And I hurry off.
Old Schnorr is alone in his rooms. He looks up, surprised to see me, but before he can say a word, I confront him.
‘Did you
know
what he was? What he
did
?’
The old Meister removes his glasses and rubs at his tired eyes. ‘Our friend, the artist? I know he was unreliable.’ He replaces his glasses and stares directly at me. ‘Why? What
did
he do?’
I tell him, and old Schnorr whistles – he actually whistles – with surprise.
‘Why was he allowed out there?’ I ask, strangely more angry now that the man himself’s not there, now that I’m not within the circle of his charm. ‘I mean, unreliable doesn’t come close. The man’s a traitor. He sold us all out. And for what? Because he was bored.’
Schnorr sighs. ‘I know you must find it hard to understand, Otto, but there were less of us back then. Our friend Schikaneder was an extremely talented young man and it made little or no sense to discard him just because a few of us thought he was eccentric. They’d spent years training him up. It was no easy matter to throw all that away, and besides, Hecht was his champion. If there was ever any trouble, Hecht would intervene. Three, maybe four times he interceded on his behalf, persuading Meister Hudner not to ground him but to persevere, to put up with his eccentricities until he came of age. But he never did.’
‘So what do we do now? Do we tell Hecht?’
‘I think we have to. Only not just yet. Leave this with me for now, Otto. Go to Baturin. Do what you must do. When you’re back we’ll reassess things. As for Schikaneder, keep what you know to yourself for now. Don’t tell anyone. Not Ernst, nor Zarah, not anyone, understand? The less people who know …’
I nod, trusting to his experience. Besides, I need time to think before confronting Hecht, because there’s still the matter of saving Katerina, and if Hecht takes charge he might consider that a low priority.
Zarah is waiting for me back at the platform. She can see from my face that something’s happened, but she’s wise enough not to ask – or maybe she thinks she can find out from Meister Schnorr. Whichever, she’s silent as she hands me my pack, her brief smile as I ascend on to the circle, the only sign of engagement with me.
And then I’m there.
Baturin is a town in turmoil. Ten days ago, the local Hetman, Mazeppa, leader of the Ukrainian Cossacks, fled with two thousand of his men to take sides with Charles of Sweden against his sworn master, the emperor Peter of Russia. The town is fortified and guarded; three thousand of Mazeppa’s men remain to defend it. Huge stores of food and powder are stacked within its storehouses. But the Russian army is approaching and Peter’s most trusted general, Menshikov, and his cavalry are about to encircle the town. It is only a matter of days before an assault begins.
Our two agents are here somewhere, monitoring the situation, only, to be frank, it doesn’t interest me. If it were my choice I would not be here but pursuing Kolya, wherever he is, trying to unravel that thread of time in which he has killed my love and me. My every instinct cries out to hunt him down and change our fate. Instead I am here, in Baturin, doing Hecht’s bidding.
The broad and dusty streets of Baturin are busy as darkness gathers, mainly Cossacks and their women, their bright clothes and boisterous manners giving the evening a carnival air. Yet these will all be dead two days from now. The Russians will put Baturin to the sword as an example to the rest of the Ukrainian Cossacks. More than seven thousand will be slaughtered. And whoever survives that savage blood-letting will perish in the flames that will leave this ancient stronghold a wasteland of ashes.
I am looking for an inn called the Goat of Marmaris. Finding it, I settle on the quay some fifty paces distant, letting my feet dangle above the water.
There’s food in the sack, made to look like the food of this age. There’s also a bag of coins and a knife. I slip the knife into my belt, then, pretending to idle, watch the comings and goings.
It’s a good half hour before the first of our agents arrives, looking about him warily as he enters the inn. He doesn’t see me sitting there in the shadows, but I see him clearly – see the troubled look of him, the way he ducks furtively inside.
Body language. Sometimes it says much more than words. Here is a man with problems, a man almost breaking under the pressures of his life.
A moment later another hurries up, a woman this time, her face veiled. She too stops to glance around before ducking inside, and I know without needing to be told that I have struck gold: that this, whatever it proves, is at the heart of it.
Casually, I stand, looking about me idly, as if barely interested in what anyone else is doing. Yet in that brief and casual survey I become aware of something: I too am being watched. Off to my left, at the mouth of an alleyway, a young Arab boy is studying me with an interest beyond the mere casual.
I’m trained too well, of course, to let him know that I know he’s there, and walk slowly, almost lazily across to the inn. Stopping close by I pause to urinate against the wall, and note his long shadow, cast by the low and setting sun, move past my own.
I wait a while then duck inside, into warmth and shadow and the almost suffocating stench of fat and grease and old cooking. It’s very gloomy and it takes a moment for my eyes to grow accustomed to the lack of light, but they’re not down here anyway, and, guessing that they’ve gone up on to the roof terrace, I climb up and join them.
It’s a mild night for November, but even so, they are alone up there, the two of them, on the far side of the terrace, in one of the corner cubicles. I walk across and stand there at the edge of the terrace, well away from them, though from the look of them they’ve barely noticed that I’m there.
I look out into the evening, seeing the low sprawl of the ancient town spread out below me, the flicker of fires beyond the river, where the various Cossack
voiska
– or ‘hosts’ – have their camps just outside the city walls. It’s a glorious, clear night, and the sky is littered with stars. An almost perfect night.
I take a seat at the side. There’s no sign of the Arab boy, and that worries me a little, but after a few moments a girl – a serving maid – appears. A pretty young thing with an air of toughness about her – as well she might be, having to deal with Cossacks day after day.
‘You want to order?’
‘Just some wine,’ I say, and place a silver altyn – worth three copeks – in her palm.
She smiles and hurries away, and I turn back, looking across at the two who are playing out their little drama.
They are facing me almost, their faces barely inches apart. She has discarded her veil, to reveal a head of lustrous dark hair and a face that, if not beautiful, is certainly handsome. What’s more he is holding her hands – both her hands – with a tenderness that’s unmistakable. This pair are lovers.
Yet even as I watch, something happens. He says something, chiding her perhaps, and she moves back a little, annoyed. He leans towards her, his head tilted slightly, and says something more, his voice so low I can’t catch more than its pleading tone. But whatever it is, it clearly upsets her, for she pulls back sharply, abruptly freeing her hands. She stands.
He looks up at her, anguished now, his hand reaching out for hers, trying to soothe her, only she won’t be soothed. And though I can’t make out what she says to him, I know – if only from his face – that it’s sharply critical.
He looks down, a sudden hopelessness in his face. ‘You
won’t
then?’
‘No.’
And as she says it, I see what it costs her to say that single word, and wonder what it is she won’t do, and why it taxes her so. But he’s suffering. There’s a haunted look of despair now in his eyes.
He stands, staring at her one last time, then, without a glance back, walks away.
I watch him leave, then look back at her, seeing how she stands there still, unmoving, looking down at her hands as if imagining them again in his. And then she gives a little shudder and a tear rolls down her cheek.
I look away, then look back, wondering if I should go across, when suddenly I am aware of someone in the chair beside me. The Arab boy.
‘You want her, master?’ he asks, very quietly. ‘Ten copeks and she’s yours. Yours until the dawn, to do with as you wish.’
I turn and stare at him. His eyes are smiling, as if they understand me. For we are both
men
, after all.
I fish in my pocket for a coin and bring out two silver altyns and a copper grosh – eight copeks worth in all – and hand them to him. ‘Eight. And that’s all you’re getting.’
He nods. ‘I’ll bring her to your room, master?’
‘No. Arrange a room here.’
‘A room would be extra, master.’
I look at him sternly. ‘A room is in the fee.’
His eyes hold my own barely two seconds and then he looks down and nods again. ‘As you wish, master.’
And as I watch him go across to her, I wonder what I am getting myself into, for she’s a whore. Our agent’s lover is a whore.
As I step inside, I can smell her perfume in the air, the same cheap perfume that whores in this and every century seem to wear.
She lies there in the candlelit gloom, naked on the bed, her charms, such as they are, exposed to me. Oh, she’s pretty enough, her breasts full enough, her hips broad enough, to please any man. Only I’m not here to be pleased. I’m here to find out what’s been going on, and why our two agents here have fucked up badly.
‘Get dressed.’
She stares at me in disbelief. ‘What?’
‘You heard me. I want to talk with you.’
She sits up, looking across at me with a perplexed, almost petulant expression. ‘You don’t want me?’
‘I don’t want you.’
And it’s true. I may be a man, and it might be some while since I last had sex, but I really
don’t
want her.
‘What are you, a
castrati
?’
Think what you like
. But she’s annoying me now. How could one of our
Reisende
have fallen for
this
?
‘Get your clothes on. Before I beat you.’
I have no intention of beating her, but I don’t want to waste any more time. If I can find out what’s going on here, I can get back to more serious matters. Like saving Katerina.