Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

T he bookseller looked up with exaggerated slowness from the heavy, leather-bound volume on the counter in front of him.

‘Ah, it’s you, Ambassador Taargin,’ he said with a certain sort of breathy reverence, once his confusion at being interrupted by a possible customer at this late hour had subsided. ‘Good evening. Christian and Ilya are upstairs.’

A squall of wind drove the soot-stained London rain against the window. The bookseller slid off the stool, crossed the room between teetering but dusty piles of books, turned the sign on the door to closed, and lowered the blind on the darkness.

The man who had entered – a middle-aged gentleman of military bearing, with a salt-and-pepper moustache – tapped on the volume the bookseller had been studying.

‘Anything interesting?’

‘A collection of folk tales. Rather macabre, but some powerful imagery. I’ll make tea, sir.’

‘Do.’

‘And may I be so bold as to enquire . . . Are the royal family well?’

Vladimir Taargin nodded. ‘The king remains in good health . . .’ He paused. ‘Considering his age. And the crown prince is as energetic as any young man.’

‘And the king’s brother?’ the bookseller asked quietly.

Taargin smiled more warmly. ‘Andrei rides every day. An inspiration.’

‘I am very glad to hear that,’ the bookseller said, lowering his gaze.

Taargin walked past the desk and climbed the uncarpeted stairs to a dingy room on the first floor. The two men waiting for him were seated on a pair of distressed dining chairs by a similarly scarred round table, empty but for a candle in a glass lantern, which cast wavering shadows across the walls. One man seemed to be of a similar age to the new arrival, though was more solidly built. The other was considerably younger, and both had that air which seemed to imply a uniform, even though they were in civilian clothes. They stood as Taargin entered and removed his leather gloves, his eyes travelling over the piles of books stacked in columns of varying heights like a ruined temple, mouldering into dust against the cobwebbed walls.

‘He is bringing tea,’ Taargin said, and went to the window. ‘Do sit down.’

The unpleasant weather was to their advantage. Londoners scurried between the street lights along Charing Cross Road in search of shelter, so anyone pausing to watch the bookshop would have been easy to spot. Taargin was reassured. They waited in silence until the bookseller creaked up the staircase with a tray. Once the cups had been placed on the rickety table and the bookseller had absented himself again, he spoke.

‘Kuznetsov has left for Highbridge.’ He stepped away from the window and took the last available dining chair. ‘Ilya, your information was correct. He has formed a liaison with this former actress, Lillian Lassiter, who owns a theatre in the city.’

The older man, who looked like a walrus, huffed like one, too. ‘A man of royal blood. Taking up with an actress. I did not want to believe it.’

‘It is distressing,’ Taargin replied, ‘though I do not know why we should continue to be surprised by the company he keeps.

‘Perhaps we are finally rid of him, and he will rot in the English provinces,’ the walrus added hopefully.

Taargin crossed his legs and drank his tea, his little finger carefully extended. ‘I pray you are right, Ilya.’ He shook his head. ‘His ideas may wither without his rabble-rousing but we must encourage people, including our dear prince, to forget him. Or learn to hate him. That would be even better.’ He set down his cup. ‘And perhaps quicker.’

‘Do you believe, sir, that Crown Prince Stefan is still fond of Kuznetsov?’ Christian, the younger man, asked.

Taargin pursed his lips and placed the tips of his long fingers together, studying the dusty floor. The smell of decaying knowledge in the room made his nostrils flare.

‘Stefan has not spoken his name, has not breathed a word of social equality, meritocracy or democracy, since Kuznetsov left the country.’

‘That is a good thing, isn’t it?’ Christian said.

‘Dear boy, a dwindling interest would be welcome, but this sudden change in the prince . . . it smacks of concealment. His rooms are searched daily for seditious literature, those close to him are watched for signs of sympathy with these dangerous beliefs. However, as yet we cannot pierce the veil and look directly into his mind. I have fears. I have doubts.’

He saw them reflected in the faces of the two other men.

‘And there is the matter of Stefan’s visit to this country in the summer,’ Christian said. ‘I understand the Prince of Wales intends to ask Stefan to accompany him on a tour of England.’

Taargin nodded. It had taken a great deal of work to place Christian at St James’s Palace, but the information he procured was invaluable. ‘What sort of tour?’

‘Factories, schools, shipyards,’ Christian said. ‘Mention has been made of both Newcastle and Sheffield.’

‘Keep me closely informed, Christian,’ Taargin said. ‘Sheffield is too close to Highbridge to be comfortable. This trip is ill advised, but the king will not forbid it for fear of offending the royal family here.’

‘The General Strike in May ended in a victory for the ruling class,’ Ilya said softly.

‘The revolutionaries instigating it were handled with kid gloves!’ Taargin snapped. ‘The stain of socialism has leaked from Russia across our mountains, and lapped up on the shores even here.’ He controlled himself, and finished the lukewarm tea in his cup. ‘Nikolai Kuznetsov is a danger to our nation, and I dread to think what might happen to our poor country if the crown prince comes to the throne while still under his influence. Our friends will watch him in Marakovia. We shall keep watch here, and do all we can to show Nikolai in his true colours.’

‘What if that does not work, sir?’ Ilya asked, his voice low and heavy. ‘What if on this visit—’

Taargin lifted his hand. ‘We have a duty, my friends, to our country beyond anything else. We did not bleed on the battlefield to hand our lands to a rabble. I say again, we have friends, we have purpose. I pray we are never forced to choose between the prince and our country, but if that day comes . . .’

‘For Marakovia,’ Christian said.

‘For Maravovia,’ Ilya echoed, his voice hollow.

‘Indeed,’ Taargin replied darkly, and the shadows around them seemed to thicken.