Lamps had been lit along the paths but their thin light illumined little. As she hurried under the black, dank foliage and dripping branches, she began to wonder if she had taken a wrong turn. She had been walking briskly for some minutes and had come no closer to the gates.

Surely they would not lock the Water Gardens, with so many people still inside the Tea Pavilion?

A man loomed up out of the fog. She slowed her pace, glancing behind, to see if there was anyone else on the path. To her dismay, she realized she was quite alone. She turned around and began to hurry back the way she had come.

The man's pace hastened to catch up with her.

The path divided into two ahead; she grabbed her skirts and broke into a run, taking the left fork.

Mustn't panic. Try to retrace steps . . . find the Pavilion . . . be safe there.

She had lost all sense of direction now, but she could see the glow of a lamp up ahead. She began to hurry toward it-and ran straight into the arms of the shadow pursuing her.

"Steady there," he said. The dim lamplight illuminated the warm brown eyes of Feodor Velemir.

"Count Velemir?" she cried. And then anger replaced relief and she shook herself free of his steadying grip. "What were you doing? Following me?"

"Protecting you, madame," he said with a wry smile.

"Am I so important that the spymaster of all Muscobar must devote his valuable time to following me?"

"Ah. So Kazimir told you."

"I wonder why you never thought to do so yourself." To her annoyance she found she was trembling like a frightened schoolgirl. Pull yourself together! Pull yourself together! she told herself. Was she trembling with fear-or anger? "But was it really me you were protecting? Or were you trailing someone else?" she told herself. Was she trembling with fear-or anger? "But was it really me you were protecting? Or were you trailing someone else?"

He did not answer.

"I came to you for help, count. I have answered all your questions with complete candor. And in return I have received nothing but evasions."

Still he said nothing. The fog seemed to grow more dense around them. Then he said, "Tell me what it is you want, Elysia."

"I want to return to Vermeille. My work here is done. It's obvious to me that no one here can-or will-do anything to help Gavril. Perhaps one of your agents, count, could send word to my housekeeper, Palmyre, to tell her I am coming home?" And, pulling her hood closer about her head, she set out again along the path.

Velemir hurried after her, blocking her way again.

"Do you doubt me, Elysia? I made you a promise-and I always keep my word." He spoke in a low, intense voice that sent a shiver through her. "But these matters take time. And there have been distractions. Unwanted distractions."

"What do you mean, distractions?" she said, exasperated. "If you mean what happened to Stepan-"

"Stepan?"

Shadows loomed up out of the fog, people coming toward them from the Pavilion.

Suddenly he swept his arm around her, pulling her close as if about to kiss her. His breath was warm on her cheek, faintly sweet with anise. Too surprised to twist away, she heard him whisper, "Forgive me, Elysia."

The men walked on past-and when the sound of their footsteps had died away, he took her arm and began to hurry her along the path.

"Isn't it customary for the woman to slap the man's face in these circumstances?" Elysia said breathlessly.

"It was unpardonable of me to take such a liberty." He spoke to her in a quiet, intimate voice, more the tone a confidant or lover might use. "It was essential that I should not be recognized. Here, of all places." He stopped, his hands still enclosing hers. "Listen to me, Elysia. I don't know what you've heard or who told you. But I beg you, do not condemn me until you have learned all the facts."

"Facts!"

"My carriage is waiting at the gates of the Gardens. The fog is growing thicker by the minute. At least let me take you back to the palace in comfort."

Elysia sat in silence as Count Velemir's carriage rolled away from the Water Gardens into the drifting fog.

"You met our friend the doctor again?" Velemir said.

"Since you know everything about my comings and goings," she began, "it is hardly necessary for me to confirm or-"

"What's that noise?" Velemir raised the carriage blinds, leaning out.

Elysia listened. It was the same roar of shouting she had heard outside Saint Simeon's, the roar of an angry crowd.

"The street's blocked ahead," the carriage driver called down. The carriage slowed to a standstill. "Hundreds of people."

Elysia looked out from her side of the carriage. The foggy darkness had turned from black to flickering red and gold. Torches. They had run into a torchlit procession.

"They've filled the Palace Square, excellency. We may not get through."

"Drive on, coachman!" Velemir ordered. "I want to see what this is about."

The shouting was louder now, the glow of torches brighter. Elysia thought she could identify words and a name.

"Stepan! Stepan!"

"Stepan the Cobbler?" she said. "The one who died in your custody?"

"Stepan the assassin," Velemir said coldly. "Remember? He tried to stab the Grand Duke."

The street wound down toward the Winter Palace. The coach slowed to a crawl as they reached the square in front of the palace. People pushed around them, past them. From the coach window Elysia could see that the square was filled with a vast crowd, many bearing flaming torches whose glare cast red shadows on the white stucco walls of the palace. More ominous still, behind the high palace railings-behind the elaborate ironwork grilles with their spread-winged sea-eagles-the White Guard was ranged. The shouting of the crowd had become deafening.

"We shouldn't go any farther," Elysia whispered.

"Look." He had not heard her. "There's the ringleader."

As she followed his gaze she saw a man climbing up to stand on a herring barrel outside the main gates, immediately beneath the gilded Orlov crest. The shouting slowly stilled as he raised his arms, and some of his words carried to them across the square.

"Our brother Stepan dared to strike a blow for his comrades."

"Stepan!" roared back the crowd.

"Now we must strike a blow for him. To honor his memory." The rough, strident tones were familiar. She recognized him.

"Matyev," she said under her breath. So this was their "philosophical society" meeting. What had Kazimir gotten himself mixed up in? Was this the reason for Velemir's interest in the scientist? The fact that he kept company with insurgents? Or was soft-spoken, short-sighted Kazimir one of the rebels behind this uprising?

"You know this man?" demanded Velemir.

She could have bitten her tongue. Why had she spoken his name aloud? But his attention was already diverted.

"What's going on?" he muttered. "What's Roskovski playing at?"

"Who is Roskovski?" Elysia asked, noticing a ripple of movement along the line of the White Guard behind the palace railings.

"He's giving the order to load and prime," Velemir said, craning out of the window.

"To fire on the crowd?" Elysia said, horrified. "It'll be a massacre."

"You're right. Something has to be done."

Suddenly he threw open the carriage door and jumped out, clambering up onto the driver's seat, seizing the whip and reins from the driver.

"Feodor!" she cried.

"It's all right, Elysia, I'll take care of you." The next moment, Elysia felt the carriage jerk forward.

"Way! Make way!" Velemir shouted.

Elysia sat, tightly clutching hold of the strap as the carriage gathered speed. People in the crowd, taken by surprise, hastily jumped out of the way.

What was Velemir planning to do? Ram the gates? The carriage rolled from side to side, jolting and bumping over the cobbles. She could hear the outraged cries of the people in the crowd, could feel the thumps and thuds of stones and missiles hurled at the moving carriage.

"Hold your fire!" Velemir's voice rang out above the din.

The carriage swerved round in a tight arc, rocking wildly. Elysia's head cracked against the backseat. Dizzied, she realized that they had come to a standstill right in front of the railings. And then she heard Velemir's voice ring out again above the crowd's jeering, clear and strong as a brazen bell.

"Colonel Roskovski. Hold your fire! Hold your fire!"

Elysia peered out of the little front window. Velemir was standing up on the driver's seat right above her head, facing the crowd.

"Who the hell are you?" barked a voice from behind the railings.

"Feodor Velemir!" Velemir replied. The name went rippling through the crowd on a low whisper, brushwood catching alight. "And you can charge me with insubordination later, Colonel. But I will not let you fire on these good people. If they have grievances, we should listen to them."

"I have my orders. Get out of the way, Velemir."

"Feodor! They're going to fire," Elysia cried.

"The Grand Duke cares about these people, Roskovski. His His people. If one-just one of this crowd-is harmed, it will go ill with the soldier who fired the shot. I give you my word." people. If one-just one of this crowd-is harmed, it will go ill with the soldier who fired the shot. I give you my word."

"There he stands, Feodor Velemir, in his fine clothes!" Matyev cried to the crowd. His face, in the flaring torchlight, was contorted with fury. "Why should you listen to him? All the Orlovs have given you is lies-and more gilded lies!"

"Stand clear, count!" ordered Roskovski.

Velemir clambered down from the coach. Elysia watched in astonishment as he walked up to the railings as nonchalantly as if he were out for an evening stroll.

"Shoot if you must, Roskovski," Velemir called out. He swung around, his arms flung wide as if embracing the crowd. The gesture was sublimely theatrical-and impossibly gallant. "But you'll have to shoot me, too."

"Down with the House of Orlov!"

"Justice! Justice for Stepan!"

What am I doing here? Elysia wondered. Elysia wondered. Why did I ever come to Mirom? Why did I ever come to Mirom? She was almost beyond terror, possessed by a strangely detached sense of calm. She was almost beyond terror, possessed by a strangely detached sense of calm.

"Justice!" Velemir cried. "I promise you justice!"

"Feodor, they'll tear you to pieces," she whispered.

A stone whistled through the air, striking him a glancing blow on the temple. He staggered, then righted himself again.

She held her breath, fearing a hail of stones, fearing to see him tumble to the ground, bloodied and battered.

The crowd's shouting slowly subsided until she could hear nothing but the crackle and spit of the burning pitch on the torches.

And in the silence there came another order, roared from behind the railings. The line of glowing matches went out, one by one.

"Tell your men to stand down, colonel!" Velemir commanded. "It's over. These good people will go home in peace-and I will personally hold an investigation into Stepan's death. I give you my word."

"Your word!" Matyev echoed. He spat. "Word of the Orlovs' spymaster. Worthless. No, worse than worthless."

"You have grievances," Velemir said, ignoring Matyev. "We will meet and you can tell me your grievances. Together we can work to put them right. We can work together to build a new understanding. A new Mirom."

Another man had appeared beside Matyev and was whispering urgently in his ear. There was something familiar about him. Elysia craned her head to try to see if she recognized him-and caught a glint of torchlight on the glass lenses of spectacles. Altan Kazimir? She prayed it was not, but the likeness was undeniable.

"Tomorrow, at ten in the Senate, I will meet with you and your representatives."

Behind Matyev, the great iron gates of the palace swung slowly open.

The carriage began to move forward. Elysia saw the silent line of the White Guard standing behind the railings. She waited, tensed, for the first stone to crash onto the carriage, for the first protester to break from the cover of the crowd and launch himself toward them. But no one moved.

When she looked back to catch sight of Matyev, he-and his accomplice-had vanished into the crowd.

CHAPTER 22.

Gavril's head hurt. Ahhh, "hurt" came nowhere near; it throbbed, pounded, hammered. . . . The pain flared purple and black like a thunder-filled sky. He couldn't remember so bad a hangover since his graduation night at the College of Arts . . . and he could remember little enough of that uproarious student riot of drinking.

He tried to open his eyes. Daylight flooded in, cruel, bright daylight, sharp as citrus juice. He shut his eyes again. Now he felt sick. A terrible, gut-aching sickness.

He retched, wincing and groaning as each heave only made his head pound more.