Even she laughed at that. ‘Why, yes. Isn’t that likely.’

‘But if I’d been allowed to look for the books, I’d be facing all kinds of danger. Shipwreck. Disease. Wild animals. Raiders. Followers of foreign gods. Those who took the books. I could be killed in a dozen different ways.’

She stopped smiling.

Va continued. ‘Don’t you see? The patriarch forbids it, so I don’t have letters of commendation, money for travel or food, even anything to wear. I’ll have to stay: stay and be safe; stay and live a life of prayer behind this wall.’

She did see. ‘You can’t guarantee you’ll die sometime soon, can you?’

‘No. I will try and get the books back. I will try to stay alive long enough to bring them home – though I can’t guarantee I’ll succeed.’

‘And you’re much more likely to get yourself killed out here than in there.’ She patted her hip. Va could hear the tinkle of coins. ‘If I were to help you, which I’m not saying I will, what would you do next?’

‘I’d have to leave Moskva this morning. The hospitallers will discover I’m missing when they meet for morning prayer. They’ll tell the patriarch’s advisers, and eventually the patriarch. I’ll have a head start, but if I wait in the city, I won’t make it out. They’ll take me back to the Danilov and watch me night and day. This is my only chance to get away.’

‘You could always renounce your vows, leave the Church, and go and look for the books as a free man. That’d save all this sneaking about. Go in there and tell them you’re leaving. That’s what someone with some backbone would do.’

‘But I’m a monk. That’s what I am.’

‘Yet you’re disobeying your earthly leader. You can’t have it both ways. You can’t choose when to obey and when not to. Even I know that. I thought you were a man of integrity, Va, but it turns out you’re just like the rest of your God-bothering brothers.’

‘I have to get the books back. The patriarch is wrong about me, and he’ll say as much when I present him with every volume that was stolen. He’ll forgive me and insist I take my greater vows there and then.’

‘Do you know what’s so frustrating about this?’ Elenya hitched up her skirt and unlaced her purse from her belt. Va hurriedly looked away. ‘We always take the most complicated, convoluted route to do everything. It could have been easy. You were in love with me, but I was horrified. I was too good for you, the great lady from the great family, and you were worse than nothing, a foreigner, a soldier-assassin, a murderer who was going to be strung up by his neck as soon as his luck ran out.’ She threw the money at him and turned away, disgusted at herself.

Va caught the leather purse, aimed at his head. ‘I wish that was still true. I’m still that man.’

‘But you don’t love me any more!’ she screamed into the night. Close by, a big dog barked repeatedly and gruffly.

‘Quiet. You’ll wake the dead. It comes down to this: you’ve a better chance of seeing me die sooner if you help me now. Your shame will be over, and you can go back to your family and do whatever it is that noble ladies do. You can still marry.’

She looked over her shoulder at him and wiped away her tears. ‘Damaged goods. No one will believe you’ve never touched me. I’m trapped by my feelings. You’re trapped by your vows. And I can’t stop feeling the way I do about you.’

‘I won’t forsake my vows.’

‘Then we’re both damned by our own hands,’ she said. ‘My heart’s already broken, so I suppose it can’t get any worse.’

He held up the purse. ‘I can’t take this. It has to be yours.’

‘And the clothes on your back?’

‘You’ll own those too.’

‘Do you know how stupid that sounds?’ She reached out and snatched the purse away. Untying the strings, she tipped the meagre pile into her hand and sorted through them. She passed him two copper coins embossed with the double eagle. ‘You need to get rid of that stink. Find a bathhouse. I’ll buy you your clothes.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I wish I could hate you.’

‘I wish you could too.’

She refilled her purse. ‘We’ll have to be quick. Let’s go.’

A city like Moskva never slept. There was always somewhere to do business, to eat, to sleep, to buy and sell. Va didn’t know the specifics of which street to walk down or which door to knock on, but he could tell the mood of a place by listening and looking and smelling. The bakeries were firing up their ovens, the smiths coaxing their furnaces back from the embers into a working white heat, laundries were boiling their vats: bread and iron and soap were there to taste in the air.

Elenya bartered for unclaimed washing while Va scrubbed himself down in an ancient bathhouse. The outside of the building was blackened wood, but that was just a cover for the stone colonnades and smooth worn steps inside. Everywhere was the drip-drip of condensing steam, and rare shadows moved in and out of the mist while he plunged and scraped.

One of the attendants brought him a bundle of clothes. Some of them fitted, and none were too small. They were rough city clothes, not suitable for the rigours of the road, but he wouldn’t say anything to Elenya. Most likely, it was all that she could afford. After five years of nothing but the freezing southern wind and a black habit, anything was going to be different. The boots were someone else’s, still warm from their feet. He hoped she’d bought them rather than stolen them, and again he decided not to mention the matter. He washed his habit in the bath water when he’d done. He was going to take it with him, change into it as soon as he could.

He was unrecognizable to himself. Like the bathhouse, the outside was masking the true nature of what lay within. He was a monk, a man set apart from the masses to be holy, to pray and work in God’s house. He’d put off one appearance and taken on another.

He used to do that long ago. Disguises helped him get close to those he’d been paid to kill. The voices of the dead said to him: ‘See how it is. You haven’t changed. Still Va Ironhand. Still the killer. Still the trickster. All you need is a dagger.’

He could see them all around him, pointing, accusing, showing him their ruined throats and gaping chests. He spun round and barely made it to the basin in the corner of the room. He vomited everything up, and was left dry-heaving, clutching at the wall.

‘Mercy. Mercy. If I do this, if I bring back the books, will you leave me alone?’

He wiped his mouth slowly, deliberately, and when he straightened up, they had gone. A moment later, so had he.

CHAPTER 9

AS FAR AS Benzamir was concerned, a domesticated animal was one that didn’t deliberately try and kill a human. He’d been around creatures that would sooner rip his head off than look at him, but he thought himself fortunate that the camel came with neither claws nor a carnivore’s appetite.

It was the most disagreeable thing he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. And now he owned one. Wahir assured him that all camels were like this one, and that it wasn’t personal. Benzamir wasn’t so sure: he was certain he could see evil intent in the camel’s eye, just before it spat at him. Again.

He’d paid over a few of the coins the sheikh had given him to a man who seemed unnaturally delighted to make the transaction. All the camels on show looked much the same, varying only slightly in smell, temper and how much of their coat was moulting. He was led by Wahir, who seemed to know his camels well enough.

‘What do I do with it?’ he asked.

‘If you want a saddle, you can get one.’ Wahir pointed back into town. ‘Have you really never ridden a camel before?’

‘No. We’re not a camel-riding people.’

‘We’ll get a saddle. You’ll need to buy some water-skins, and some food for the journey. We’ll need to eat.’