"I believe you will discover," Darger said, "that the Diamond Fund is, briefly, unguarded."

A wondering light dawned in the sergeant's eyes. "Yesh," he said. "It would work."

"Then you may release me, and we shall part as friends."

"Hah! Let a shlippery bastard like you free? Not a chansh." Sergeant Wojtek turned away and started back up the tunnel, leaving Darger strapped motionless to the gurney.

"You gave me your word as a member of the Royal Guard!" Darger called after him.

"Chump!" the sergeant said over his shoulder."I shtopped being a Guard the inshtant I made up my mind to deshert."

To be chosen for one of the Kremlin troops was a great honor for a Muscovite soldier and one that only the best received. However, when the naked giant came crashing through the government buildings, supernatural dread had gone before him in a great wash of terror. Warriors who would have stood their ground in the face of superior forces and fought to the death, broke and ran. Those charged with defending their nation's very center of power scattered in a panic.

In their wake, Surplus drove Chortenko's blue-and-white carriage up the Trinity Tower causeway and parked it before the Armory.

Surplus knocked hard on the door with the heavy silver knob of his cane. Then, when there was no response, he pushed the door open. "This way," he said, and entered the unguarded building.

Arkady followed a step or three behind him, carrying the carpetbag of makeshift burglar tools and from time to time murmuring, "the Duke of Muscovy," in the manner of a man trying to keep in mind some desperately important fact or duty.

The Armory had from Preutopian times been kept as a museum of Muscovy's and before that Russia's greatest treasures. There was much to see here. But Surplus moved swiftly past the larger luxuries and won-ders-the gilded coaches and carved ivory thrones and the like-straight toward the Diamond Fund. "Come briskly, young man. We might as well get some use out of you...as a mule, if nothing else."

"The Duke of Muscovy," Arkady mumbled. He shivered convulsively "You're cold! And your coat is sodden. Have you been rolling about in puddles?" Surplus removed Arkady's overcoat and replaced it with a ceremonial greatcoat that was thickly woven, intricately embroidered, and worth a fortune in any bazaar in the world. "There. That will keep you warm," he said. Then, "Dear Lord! That awful grimace! Every time I look at you it gives me a fright. Here." Using his cane, he hooked down a medieval helmet with a serene silver face-mask from the wall. He placed it over Arkady's head, cinching the straps with particular care to the lad's comfort. "Now try to keep up. We haven't much time."

Down the lightless gray halls they scurried, pausing every now and again so Surplus could pick a lock (the tools taken not from the satchel but from the pocket case, which he had planned to use at the Pushkin) and so select some choice item. It would have been easier to smash the glass of the vitrines. But that would have been vandalism, and Surplus was no vandal.

Quickly, he loaded down Arkady with the best of what he saw: the Imperial Crown, which was covered with nearly five thousand diamonds and topped by a red spinel, the second-largest such gemstone ever found; Catherine the Great's scepter, which contained the famously large Orlov Diamond; a jewel-encrusted armored breastplate that he didn't recall having read about but which looked respectably gaudy; and much more as well. Arkady's greatcoat pockets he stuffed to overflowing with cunningly made jeweled eggs.

"Can you see?"

"The Duke of Muscovy."

"Yes, yes, most admirable. I commend you for your sense of duty. Try to focus on the moment, however. We have serious matters which must be dealt with first." Surplus heaped Arkady's arms to overflowing with damascened swords, platinum goblets, jewel-hilted daggers and the like. For himself, Surplus was careful to keep his arms unencumbered and his wits sharp. But whenever he came upon loose gems, he slipped them into his pocket, until he had a good solid handful.

Arkady's load would make Darger and him rich beyond belief. The loose stones were only insurance.

A museum was a spooky place at night, lit only by bioluminescent columns. Those small random noises indigenous to any old buildings were all too easily assigned patterns by a nervous mind. So when Surplus, who was far from a coward, first heard what might have been distant footsteps, he ignored them.

Then came the sound of breaking glass.

Surplus froze. Someone else had entered the Armory with the same intentions as he, and had just smashed open a display case.

Well, there was more than enough wealth here for two; it would take weeks and wagons to remove it all. But the very act of looting, as he knew from experience, excited greed. And greed made men violent and unpredictable. "We must leave now, Arkady," Surplus murmured. "I want you to follow me as quietly as you can. Do you think you can do that?"

There was no response.

"Arkady?" He looked around for the boy. "Arkady?" He looked around for the boy. But Arkady had disappeared. But Arkady had disappeared.

...19...

The Pearls' grand procession was a grave disappointment. The streets were at first empty, and then they were filled with unhappy-looking people, all hurrying away from the heart of the city. None looked festive. Some carried torches, true, but they didn't look like the sort who could be trusted with them. Nobody cheered or threw flowers. After a few tentative waves were ignored, the Pearls withdrew from their windows and sulked.

When at last they pulled up before the Great Kremlin Palace, there were no musicians playing and no ceremonial troops to greet them. The plaza was eerily dark and still.

"Where is everyone?" Nymphodora said, when the Neanderthals had helped them down from their coaches. Neat lines of streetlamps burned quietly over desolately empty spaces.

"I dunno," Enkidu said. "But if it was up to me, we'd turn around right here and now and go home." He held up his hands to fend off the Pearls' glares. "I know, I know! I was just saying."

Olympias sniffed the air. "I smell smoke. Is there a building on fire? Is that why there's nobody here?" "That is none of our concern," Russalka said. "Let us go to our royal husband."

With Neanderthals to their front, back, and either side, the Pearls entered the palace and swept up the great staircase to the Georgievsky Hall. There were no guards at the door and the hall was empty. Lanterns burned unattended. The silence was so absolute it seemed to reverberate.

"Maybe we shoulda sent word we was coming," Enkidu said uneasily. "Hush," Russalka snapped. "We go through those mirrored doors over there." They pushed into the octagonal Vladimirsky Hall and came to a halt. For this room was not empty. Shaggy members of the Royal Guard slouched in delicately carved chairs that were surely worth more than they were, smoked cigars and spat on the floor, leaned against pristine white walls which would doubtless require cleaning as a result. Two were on their knees, shooting dice.

"Cease this scandalous behavior!" Russalka commanded. "A palace is no place for such slovenliness. Our royal husband will be outraged when we tell him about it."

The guards stared. Those who were seated or kneeling rose to their feet.

"Excuse me for pointing this out, Gospozha," said their leader. "But you're not supposed to be here at all. Much less ordering anybody around."

A Neanderthal stepped forward. "My name's Enkidu. These are my boys." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Somehow, I seem not to have caught your name."

The bear-man's lips curled back in a snarl. "Captain Pipaluk, of the Royal Guard."

"Well, Captain Pipaluk, I think you oughta treat these ladies with respect. They come all the way from Byzantium to marry your boss-man. They can cause you a lot of trouble."

All the bear-guards laughed coarsely. "Marry the duke?" their leader said. "Impossible!"

"He's in the Terem, right? Through that door there?

Deadly serious again, Captain Pipaluk said, "He was the last time we saw him. But we're not going through that door until we're sent for-and neither are you."

Enkidu smiled brutishly. "In that case, we're just gonna have to go through you guys." As he spoke, the Neanderthals and the bear-guards all casually arrayed themselves for a fight.

"Well, well, well," Captain Pipaluk said. "This is a clash for the records. The gene vats of Byzantium against those of Russia. The old culture versus the new. Decadence against youth. Come to think of it, you're even dressed for the part, with those pansy outfits and those silly little hats. I believe what we have here is a genuine passing-of-the-torch moment."

"You know what?" Enkidu said. "You speak real good. I don't got no doubt you're smarter than we are. Maybe you got better reflexes, too. Who knows, you might even be stronger. Stranger things have happened. But we still got one big advantage over you."

"Oh, yeah? What's that?"

Enkidu cracked his knuckles. "We got you outnumbered three to one. In my experience, that means we win."

With a roar, the two groups surged into each other, fists flying.

"Men!" Aetheria said. "Honestly."

"Oh, I know," Euphrosyne said. "They look nice enough-but they're always fighting and starting wars and the like. I think they're just trying to impress one another."

"Well, they're certainly not impressing me," Eulogia said.

"Meanwhile," Russalka pointed out, "the way to the Terem Palace is open. Let's just go."

"Oh!" gasped Nymphodora. "Can we?"

"Fortune favors the bold," Russalka said, and strode straight for the door. The other Pearls hurried in her wake.

Anya Pepsicolova had had a home once. To return there was unthinkable, for it would bring the full weight of Chortenko and the underlords down upon her parents. In her new and nightmarish life, she had made many enemies but no friends. She had slept in a constantly changing series of cheap flats where she had kept only the most utilitarian of possessions. Fleeing, there was, in all of Moscow, only one possible destination.

Chortenko's mansion.

Chortenko lived right off of the Garden Ring. From his front step, five separate fires were visible. But his mansion, unlike so many others, was not ablaze.

Well...that could be remedied.

Now that her head was beginning to clear, Pepsicolova was all but certain that she was not Baba Yaga anymore. Which meant either that the massive overdose of drugs she had taken was wearing off or that she'd fallen into a lower spiritual state, shedding her supernatural aspect and becoming merely human once again. She was not at all sure which interpretation she would have preferred, given the choice.

If she was only human, however, that meant she would have to use cunning and guile, things her discarded witch-self would never have bothered with. Pepsicolova entered the mansion through the front door and walked calmly and unhurriedly to the records room. There Chortenko's two dwarf savants were poring over a mountainous heap of files. Igorek picked up a report, flipped through it committing its contents to memory, and then handed it to Maxim, who did the same. After which, the report was carefully placed atop a roaring fire in the fireplace.

The dwarfs looked up incuriously as she entered.

"I am going to set fire to this building," Pepsicolova said. "Your master will want to know this information. Go immediately and tell him."

Igorek and Maxim rose and left the room.

Pepsicolova scooped up an armful of documents and one of the reading lanterns. Then she went to the top floor and set fire to all the curtains. That would start the house ablaze well enough, and by the time the fire burned down to the basement, she expected to have completed her business here.

When enough time had elapsed for those on the ground floor to smell smoke, a servant came running up the stairs with a carafe of water in his hand. "Tell your master that Anya Alexandreyovna has come home," Pepsicolova said. "Also, the building is on fire. It contains much that he values, so I'm certain that he'll want to know." To her own ear, her words sounded mild and reasonable. But something in her tone or expression made the servant turn tail and run, water spraying with each long stride. Not long later, she heard somebody outdoors banging a hammer on an iron fire triangle.

Back down to the first floor she went.

Throwing the mansion's front doors wide open, Pepsicolova dropped a single folder on the mat. A few paces inward, she dropped a second folder. Leaving a line of reports behind her like a trail of breadcrumbs, she made her way down to Chortenko's basement study, where he had once kept her in a cage.

For her, this was where it had all begun.

Here, it would end.

Pushing open the door, she found herself in a room she knew only too well. At her entrance, the dogs leaped and barked and bayed in their cages, throwing themselves desperately against the bars. Already, they could smell smoke from the upper floor. It imbued the air with a tinge of madness.

Closing the door behind her so that the final file was wedged under it, half on the landing and half in the study, Pepsicolova studied the dogs dispassionately. Had they been human beings, she would have left them in their cages without a second thought. She did not much like people. In her experience, they deserved pretty much whatever happened to them. But these were dogs and hence as innocent as she had been when the secret police had first brought her, naked and weeping, to this room. She could not let them die here.

Pepsicolova drew Big Ivan, the least favored of her knives, from her belt, and, using his hilt as a hammer, systematically smashed all the locks one by one.

The dogs leaped and danced as she released them, hysterical with freedom and fear. Some of them bit her, but they didn't really mean it and so she didn't mind.

She had just broken open the last of the cages when she heard footsteps on the stairs. "Don't do this, please," a woman's voice pleaded. "Please, Sergei Nemovich. Let me go." If there was a reply, Pepsicolova could not hear it.

Then Chortenko kicked open the basement door. He had the files she'd strewn about in the crook of one arm, and pulled an elegantly dressed society lady after him with the other. Her he threw into the room. Whipping off his glasses, he turned his bug-eyed gaze on Pepsicolova. His face was flushed with anger. But as always his tone was mild and controlled. "You have crossed a line, little Annushka," he said. "So I-"

The dogs attacked.

Chortenko fell backward as he was swarmed and overwhelmed by the newly freed animals. The society lady darted into a corner, shrieking with fear. But the dogs did not attack her. They were all rabid to tear the flesh from their tormentor's living body. Snarling and snapping and foaming at the jaw, they fought each other to get at Chortenko. But if the male dogs were savage, the bitches were even worse, ripping and tearing at the spymaster with unholy glee.

Foremost among them was Pepsicolova herself.

Her knives were forgotten. She used only her jaws and nails. The sound that Chortenko made as her teeth sank into his throat-a high-pitched sort of scream, more of a squeal, actually-was almost as good as the taste of the flesh she ripped from his struggling body.

Arkady, meanwhile, was staggering through the ruins of the Terem Palace, half-blinded by his mask. He was not precisely clear how he had found his way here. But the fragmentary decoration was familiar to him from his schoolboy history texts. The Duke of Muscovy must surely be here somewhere! Yet nowhere in this shambles could he find any trace of that great man.

Icons crunched beneath his shoes. He tripped over an enamel stove and fell flat on his face. When he regained his feet, a staircase opened up before him and all in a rush he found himself down at its bottom.

At last, Arkady stumbled into the Golden Porch, an antechamber of sorts into which a passage from the Great Kremlin Palace debouched. This room, unlike all the others he had seen, was at least intact. But it too was deserted.

Disheartened and exhausted, Arkady sank down at the top of a short flight of stairs overlooking the antechamber. In daylight, assuredly, it would have looked splendid. Now, however, lit by only two guttering candle-lanterns, one to either side of the stairs, it was cavernous and dark, a palace of shadows at the end of time. Was everybody else dead and only he alive? Had he somehow outlived humanity, dooming himself to eternal desolation and despair? Or was he himself dead and inexplicably condemned to search through the ruins of his life, forever seeking and never finding?

Such were his confused and incoherent thoughts when the Pearls Beyond Price flowed through the doorway into the Golden Porch, chattering and laughing. Only to come to an abrupt halt at the sight of him.

The Pearls' sudden unease was perfectly understandable. In a mirror across the room, he could dimly make out an eerie sight: a man in a lavishly brocaded surcoat, wearing a helmet with a smooth silver facemask, topped by a crown covered over with diamonds, sat brooding heavily and in perfect solitude. It was himself. In the unsteady lantern-light, surrounded by the reds and golds of the highly decorated walls, he might have been a hand-colored illustration in a children's romance. King Saladin resting after his victory over the Zengids, perhaps, or Ivan the Terrible wracked with guilt after murdering his son.

The Pearls clustered together. Then Nymphodora stepped forward and timidly said, "Sir?"

Arkady looked up. Several of the Pearls gasped. Apparently they had not all been absolutely sure he was alive.

"Sir, I must ask. Who are you?"

"I...?" There was an answer to that question, he was sure of it. Arkady sought for it in the reeling corridors of his mind. It was all terribly confusing. But then he remembered his quest, his duty, the sacred errand that had sent him out into the terrible streets of Moscow on this most horrific of all nights. He must find the Duke of Muscovy. He had a message for the Duke of Muscovy. He must warn...

"The Duke of Muscovy."

With screams of delight, the Pearls converged upon him.