The Diamond Chariot (74 page)

Fandorin woke up soon after dawn, suffering from an agonising migraine. The day before it had been a dull pain, sweeping over him in waves, but now it was as if someone had inserted a large screw into his temple and they kept turning it, turning it. Even though it was already in right up to its head and could go no farther, some implacable force still kept on tightening that screw, and he felt as if his cranium would give way and crack open at any moment.

But even worse was the fact that O-Yumi had disappeared again. When Erast Petrovich opened his eyes, the only person he saw beside the bed was Masa, holding a small basin of ice and a wet towel at the ready. The mistress went away, he explained as best as he could. Before midnight. She put on her cloak and left. She said she would be back and ordered me to prepare ice.

Where had she gone? Why? And would she come back?

His thoughts were agonising. Thanks to them and the icy compresses, he managed to forget about the screw for a while.

His second arrived at half past seven, dressed as befitted the solemn occasion – in a black frock coat, black trousers and a top hat instead of his customary fez. The top hat did not suit the Don’s plump-cheeked face.

The titular counsellor had been ready for some time. His agonised face was as white as his shirt, but his tie was knotted neatly, the parting in his hair glinted sleekly and the ends of his moustache were the very model of symmetry.

Not being entirely convinced of his valet’s acting ability, Erast Petrovich had not explained to him that Tsurumaki had been identified as the major
akunin
, so Masa greeted the Don with every possible politeness. And the servant was also not aware, thank God, of the purpose of this morning visit, otherwise he would quite certainly have tagged along after his master. He was told to stay at home and wait for O-Yumi to arrive.

They got into a carriage and set off.

‘Everything has been done as planned,’ the Don informed Fandorin in a conspiratorial voice. ‘The rumour has been circulated. It’s a convenient spot for people to spy on events. There will be witnesses, have no doubt about that.’

It was depressing to look at the villain’s ruddy, smiling face, but the titular counsellor made an effort and forced himself to thank Tsurumaki and talk about the weather, which was simply wonderful for the rainy season: overcast but dry, with a sea breeze.

The carriage drove higher and higher along the main road. The seafront and the prim residences of the Bluff had been left behind now, and on all sides there were hills, bushes and sandy paths for healthy walks.

‘They’re here already,’ said Tsurumaki.

Three black figures were standing off to one side of the road, in a round open space surrounded on three sides by thick undergrowth. One of the men removed his hat to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief – from the red locks, Fandorin recognised Bullcox. The second man was wearing a scarlet uniform with a sword, and holding a long bundle under his arm. The third had a Gladstone bag between his feet. No doubt a doctor.

‘Aha, and there is the public.’ The Japanese chuckled contentedly. ‘We have a full house.’

The spot certainly had been well chosen. Although the bushes might appear to conceal the sparring area from prying eyes, the impression of privacy was deceptive. A cliff rose up right above the open space, its top also overgrown with some kind of vegetation, and protruding from the greenery were top hats and bowler hats, and even a couple of ladies’ white umbrellas. If the sun had peeped out from behind the clouds, no doubt there would also have been the glinting of opera glasses.

The public will be disappointed, thought Fandorin, stepping across the grass, which was wet with dew.

Bullcox’s second nodded curtly and introduced himself – Major Ruskin. He also named the doctor – Dr Stein.

‘I have something important to say to Mr Bullcox,’ the titular counsellor said when the major unrolled the piece of silk wrapped around two swords.

The reserve plan was absolutely elementary. Ask Bullcox whether he had broken his wrist recently. Bullcox would say no, he hadn’t. Then expose Tsurumaki publicly, in front of witnesses. Starting with the base deception unworthy of a second, then immediately moving on to the most important part – the accusation of conspiring against Okubo. There was no proof, but the treachery shown by Tsurumaki would set the witnesses against the Japanese and make them hear the vice-consul out. Bullcox might be beside himself with jealousy, but he was a state official and would understand quite clearly the significance of the vice-consul’s declaration. Tsurumaki had not only organised a political assassination, he had attempted to cast suspicion on Britain and its representative. That which was hidden would be revealed, and Bullcox wouldn’t be interested in a duel any more. The audience was in for a disappointment.

If not for his headache and his anxiety about O-Yumi, the titular counsellor would undoubtedly have contrived something more serviceable. The reserve plan, the frail child of a migraine, proved to be no good for anything and crumbled to dust at the very first contact with reality.

‘The Right Honourable Algernon Bullcox warned me that you were capable of something like this,’ Ruskin replied with a frown. ‘No, no. No apologies. The duel will go ahead in any case.’

‘I do not intend to apologise,’ the vice-consul assured him coldly. ‘This is a m-matter of state importance.’

The major’s face set in an expression of dull-witted intransigence.

‘I have received clear instructions. No negotiations between the two opponents. Would you care to choose a sword?’

‘Hey, Ruskin, why are you dragging things out over there?’ Bullcox shouted irritably.

‘I have been informed that your friend recently suffered a fracture of the right wrist,’ Fandorin told the second hastily, starting to feel anxious. ‘If that is so, a duel with swords cannot take place. That is actually what I intended …’

The Englishman interrupted disdainfully:

‘Rubbish. Algernon has never broken his arm. That trick won’t work. I’d been told there were not many gentlemen among the Russians, but everything has its limits!’

‘After Bullcox, I’ll deal with you,’ the titular counsellor promised. ‘And I’ll hammer those words back into your cast-iron head.’

This shameful outburst by Fandorin can only be explained by his annoyance with himself – Erast Petrovich was already beginning to realise that nothing would come of his plan. He only had to look at Tsurumaki, who was making no attempt to conceal his smirk of triumph. Could he have guessed about the plan? And now, of course, he was quite sure that the Russian had lost.

But there was still one hope left – to tell Bullcox everything when they stood face to face. Without looking, the vice-consul took hold of one of the swords by its leather-covered hilt. He dropped his cloak on the ground, leaving himself in just his shirt.

The major drew his sabre.

‘Assume your positions. Cross swords. Commence at my blow. The conditions state that fighting continues as long as one of the opponents is capable of holding a weapon. Go!’

He rapped his sabre against the crossed swords with a clang and jumped aside.

‘I have something I must tell you.’ Fandorin began rapidly in a low voice, so that the seconds would not overhear and interfere.

‘Hah!’ the Right Honourable gasped instead of answering, and launched a furious barrage of blows at his opponent.

Barely able to defend himself, the vice-consul was obliged to retreat.

There were exclamations above his head, the sound of applause; a woman’s voice shouted, ‘Bravo!’

‘Just wait, will you! We’ll have plenty of time to fight! You and I have been the victims of a political intrigue.’

‘I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! Only not straight away. First I’ll neuter you, like a ram,’ Bullcox wheezed, then slid his blade along Fandorin’s sword and made a thrust straight for his crotch.

By some miracle Erast Petrovich managed to dodge. He fell, jumped to his feet and assumed a defensive stance again.

‘You idiot!’ he hissed. ‘This concerns the honour of Britain.’

But looking into the Right Honourable’s bloodshot eyes, he realised that the other man simply couldn’t hear him, and just at this moment he couldn’t care less for the honour of Britain, or for any matters of state importance. What did Okubo and devious plots have to do with this? This was an event as old as the world itself, a battle between two males over a female, there was nothing in the world more urgent and remorseless than this battle. The clever Don had understood that from the beginning. He knew there was no power capable of placating the bloodlust that seizes the abandoned lover.

And the titular counsellor felt afraid.

From the way Bullcox attacked and the assuredness with which he parried the clumsy thrusts of the former provincial grammar-school champion, the outcome of the duel was clearly a foregone conclusion. The Englishman could have killed his opponent many times over, there was only one thing stopping him: he was absolutely determined to carry out his threat and kept directing all his attacks exclusively at Fandorin’s loins. To some degree this simplified the task of his weaker opponent, who only had to concentrate on defending one area of his body, but the resistance could not continue for long. His wrist, unaccustomed to swordplay, turned numb, and parrying blows became harder and harder. Erast Petrovich repeatedly fell, unable to retain his balance, and Bullcox waited for him to get up. Twice he had to beat off a thrust that had pierced his defences with his bare left hand, and once the tip of the blade furrowed his thigh as Fandorin barely managed to wrench himself out of the way.

His shirt was black from dirt and green from grass stains, there were red blotches spreading on his sleeves and blood was flowing down one of his legs.

In his despair the titular counsellor was struck by a comforting idea – since all was lost, why not run over to the Don and slash his fat belly open in farewell?

The vice-consul had long ago abandoned his attempts to bring Bullcox to his senses. He was saving his breath, his eyes fixed on only one point – his opponent’s slashing sword. He didn’t try to counter-attack, there was no question of that. He could only fend off steel with steel and, if that didn’t work, with his arm.

It was becoming clear, however, that the Englishman did not run in circles round the cricket field every morning, or stretch a chest-expander, or raise heavy weights. For all his subtle skill and dexterity, Bullcox was beginning to tire. The sweat was streaming down his crimson face, his fiery curls were glued together, his movements were becoming more economical.

And then he stopped and wiped his sweat away with his sleeve in a most unaristocratic manner. He hissed:

‘All right, damn you. Die as a man.’

This was followed by a furious onslaught that drove Erast Petrovich into a corner of the open area, right up against the bushes. A series of lunges was followed by a mighty, slashing blow. This time too, Fandorin managed to jump back in time, but that was what the attacker was counting on; the vice-consul’s heel struck a projecting root and he fell flat on his back. The audience on high gasped, seeing that this time the Right Honourable was not going to allow his opponent to get up – the performance had reached its climax.

Bullcox had already pressed Fandorin’s right hand down with his foot and raised his sword to pin the Russian to the ground, when he suddenly started pondering, or perhaps even daydreaming; his eyelids closed halfway, while his mouth, on the contrary, fell half open. With this strange expression on his face the Right Honourable swayed to and fro for a second or two, them went limp and collapsed directly on to the panting Erast Petrovich.

A startled dragonfly soared up out of the grass in a flutter of little rainbow wings.

They are just the same
As those of angels and elves –
A dragonfly’s wings

A BLUE STAR

How greatly everything had changed compared with the night before! The world had not ceased to be dangerous. On the contrary, it had become even more unpredictable and predatory. From somewhere out there in the gloom – Fandorin knew this for certain – the keen eyes of a man with cold serpent’s blood were watching him relentlessly. But even so, life was beautiful.

Erast Petrovich sat in the darkness, with the peak of his uniform cap pulled down over his eyes, waiting for the agreed signal. The tip of his cigar glowed brightly in the dark – it must be visible from any of the roofs nearby.

The titular counsellor was in a state of bliss that flooded body, heart and mind.

His body – because the migraine had passed off and his cuts and bruises were not aching or stinging at all. When the bleeding duellist was brought home, the first to run out to meet him had been O-Yumi. She wouldn’t allow Doronin to call a doctor and dealt with the injured man herself. She smeared something smelly on the slashes on his arms and thigh – and the bleeding instantly stopped. Then she gave Erast Petrovich a herbal infusion to drink – and a tight steel band seemed to fall away from round his head. Fandorin shook his head and batted his eyelids and even smacked himself on the temple, but there was no nausea, or pain, or dizziness at all. And what was more, the tiredness had also disappeared. His muscles were supple and taut, rippling with strength, he could have taken up his sword again – and who could tell who would have come off best this time? This magical new-found lightness in all his limbs had not faded during the day; in fact the feeling had grown stronger. And that was very apropos – the night ahead promised to be stormy.

Bliss filled his heart because O-Yumi was sleeping in the next room. And when all was said and done, wasn’t that the most important thing?

Bliss filled his mind because once again Erast Petrovich had a plan, and this time a real one, thoroughly thought through and prepared, unlike that recent bastard mongrel of a plan created by a sick brain, which had almost cost him his life. It was simply miraculous that he had survived!

When the victorious Bullcox collapsed on his vanquished foe, none of the spectators could understand what had happened, let alone Fandorin, who had already prepared himself for death. He pushed off the Englishman’s heavy carcass and wiped down his forehead (which was streaming with cold sweat) with his hand (which was streaming with hot blood). The Right Honourable lay there face down with his hand flung out, still clutching the hilt of his sword.