Nine Layers of Sky (11 page)

“Don’t worry. We’ll be long gone by the time they get their act together.”

The ground was already far below: a maze of old houses and bare-branched cherry orchards. The mountains were suddenly very close, as though the cable car was climbing up the rim of the world.

Had Ilya killed those people, back there in the room? Memory was only now beginning to sharpen and clarify. The carpet had not been red, after all, but a dull institutional green, covered with blood. It had been, he had said, hard to tell who was in the room. She looked down at her hands and saw that they were shaking.

“Elena,” Ilya said. Tentatively, he patted her sleeve. “Don’t
worry.
I told you—I’ll look after you.” He looked suddenly younger beneath the junkie pallor, and she thought, oddly, that he would have been an attractive man, given half a chance. Perhaps he still was.

“When we get to the top, we’ll make our way down the other side, to one of the villages.” She was thinking aloud.

“That’s a reasonable plan. Then find a car. Hire someone to take us somewhere. Over the border would be best, into Kyrgyzstan. It’s the closest city, isn’t it? And if it’s anything like the rest of the former Soviet Union, bureaucracy will be so bad between the different countries, it’ll take time for the police to catch up.”

“Ilya, wait,” Elena said blankly. She couldn’t leave town just like that. There was her mother and sister to think of; there was Moscow and Canada. “I was thinking more of finding somewhere to hide, not leaving the country. I haven’t got much in the way of papers—no passport, no travel documents, just my identity cards and my Party card. I haven’t got much money, either. And I’m wearing stupid shoes.”

Ilya smiled, a real smile this time, not the wolfish grin. “Here,” he said. He reached into his overcoat pocket and took out a sticky package. “Take it. If you have money, you probably won’t need papers.” He thrust the money into her hand and she took it gingerly. The edges of the notes were wet and red. She estimated, dazed, that it was approximately five thousand dollars.

“Where did you get this?” she asked, but she already knew.

“From a dead man’s jacket. He won’t need it. I’ll keep the other half.”

“Your contact had ten thousand dollars in his pockets?” She owed her current circumstances to the pockets of a dead man, back there on the Tashkent road. She nearly asked Ilya if he’d thought to steal the man’s teeth.

“It would probably have been yours anyway. I think it was payment for the object.” He gave her a sharp glance. “Which is safe, yes?”

“I think so.” She scrabbled in her handbag. “Here. You might as well see it for yourself.”

Ilya took the ball in his undamaged hand, weighing it. As he did so, the ball split.

“It’s broken!” Elena said, dismayed.

“It’s unraveling. . . .”

They stared at the ball. Filaments were spinning out over Ilya’s fingers. It resembled a spider’s web: a matted tangle of glossy dark hairs, so fine that they drifted up into the still air. Within the center of the threads lay a smaller object, like a nested doll. It was roughly in the shape of a small coiled fossil, but made of bronze. A thin groove ran down one polished side. Ilya dusted the filaments from his palm. They floated down onto the floor, where they formed a brief black pattern before melting into ash.

“What
is
it?”

“Elena, I don’t know.” He seemed as baffled as she. “Can you hang on to it? My pockets have holes in them.”

“What if it’s dangerous?”

“I’ll carry your bag if you like.”

But the fur coat had only a shallow pocket, and she did not want to relinquish her bag and the money. “No, that’s all right. I’ll carry it,” she said.

They were almost at the summit of the hill. Elena lapsed into calculation. A thousand dollars would be more than enough to get her over the border, stay somewhere cheap for a few nights, then get a train ticket to Moscow or St. Petersburg. She could lose herself there, in the big cities where no one cared who you were or what you had done. She had been standing in the foyer when Ilya went upstairs. They would surely not want her for murder, would they? She was an accomplice in the eyes of the police, she told herself firmly, nothing more. And the rest of the money could be mailed back to Anna and her mother. Four thousand dollars would buy visas and tickets; it would get them to Canada.

But what about the FSB? Her original reasoning had been correct; they wouldn’t care whether she was guilty or not. If she was arrested, lawyers would have to be hired, costs met, bribes delivered. All the Canada money would be gone, eaten away into a bottomless sink of red tape and corruption. She would rather become a fugitive than see that happen, but it was beginning to sink in that she might have blown any chance of working on a space program again. Long-term gains, long-term losses. She found herself veering between excitement and despair.

“What about you, Ilya? Do you have any travel documents?”

“Sort of.”

That meant any papers he had would be forged, bought on the black market. It was none of her business.

The summit of Koktubye Hill was lost in cloud. She could see the radio mast lifting out of the mist like a spear. Closer lay the dumpy domes of the cafe yurts. If only they could stop for a moment, get a glass of tea . . . But all of her possibilities had narrowed down to flight. She fumbled in her bag for the mobile and dialed her mother’s number. She could, at least, tell them not to worry, even if it was a lie. The thought of the police suddenly appearing on the doorstep, her mother, unsuspecting, shuffling to the door in her slippers— no, it was not to be borne. The phone rang and rang until the answering machine clicked in.

“Mama? It’s me. I’ve had to leave town for a day or so, I’ve got caught up in something a bit tricky”—
understatement
—“and I need to sort things out. Please don’t worry. I’ll call you later.”

Ilya was watching her, his face unreadable.

“I had to call them,” she said defensively.

“I didn’t say you did not.” He turned his head and stared up the hill to the destination of the lurching cable car. Elena tried not to think about her unsuitable shoes. She knew what lay on the other side of Koktubye: the long slope, heavy with scree and scrub, falling hundreds of feet down into the valley below. And these high hills were only the foothills of the mountains. Beyond lay the great wall of the Tien Shan.

Stop it. So what if you ruin your shoes and your feet
hurt? At least it isn’t snowing. All you have to do is make it
down the slope and then Ilya will find someone with a car.
If she started fretting now—if she started
thinking
—she would sit tight in the cable car and wait to be arrested.

Machinery whined and groaned. The cable car had only recently been renovated; Elena tried not to think of all the years it had spent rusting in heavy snowfall. The car swung ominously upon the rail and ground to a halt. Ilya rose shakily to his feet and helped Elena from the car.

“How are your shoes?”

“I’ll manage.”

“I’ll help you.” He gave her feet, in their smart high-heeled pumps, a quick, measuring glance. “If it becomes a real problem, you can have my boots, but they will be too big.”

“My God,” Elena said in wonder. “You
are
a gentleman, aren’t you?”

“You might say I was raised in an old-fashioned way.”

They slipped behind the yurts of the cafe; no one was around. They passed a dog on a rope, which rose to its feet, growling, and a large, mild cow. Elena took the muddy path through the trees, which ended in a barbed-wire fence.

“We’ll have to go over.”

“Or under,” Elena said, ducking grimly. She felt her fur coat catch on the wire, saw Ilya reach down a hand. After a moment, he pulled her coat free, but his hands were trembling. If he went into serious withdrawal, what was she to do? She knew little about cold turkey. Was it like a bad case of the flu? Or worse? Or was Ilya not an addict at all, but simply ill? The subject would have to be raised at some point, but for now, Elena compromised by asking, “By the way, are you sure you’re all right?”

He nodded briefly. “Yes.”

If he was a typical man, Elena thought with a mixture of irritation and pity, the last thing he’d want would be a fuss.

“Good,” she said, and set off down the slope. It was not too bad if she went sideways and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, but this was the gentler part of the hill. Elena found herself regretting the erosion of the snow. A fall now would result in bruises or worse, in broken bones. She looked up once at the mountains and felt dizziness snatch at her: that old sensation of looking down into the sky. The Tien Shan were so huge that they distorted perspective. From farther down the slope, there was a sudden rattle of movement. Elena frowned, trying to see.

“What was that?”

“I don’t know.” Ilya’s face was set and abstracted, as though he was listening to the wind. He muttered, “I can’t hear—” then broke off.

“They keep goats around here,” Elena said, but the sound came again and when she looked down the slope she could see something little and dark, leaping among the stones. A cat, perhaps—but then it stood up on its hind legs. “It’s a monkey,” she said, startled, and Ilya replied, “No, it is not.”

“What is it, then?”

“Some kind of ghoul. I saw it in the marketplace yesterday.”

“A
ghoul
? I went through the market. I didn’t see anything like that until—until that girl went for me.” It occurred to Elena that Ilya might have followed her.

“We should hurry,” Ilya said. He pointed to the wall of the mountains. “Look.”

There was a front coming in over the Tien Shan; a band of clouds trailing streamers: a spring storm coming over the Chinese border, that would be as much sleet as rain. Elena gritted her teeth and slithered down the slope.

Two

ALMATY, KAZAKHSTAN, 21ST CENTURY

Ilya did not like taking Elena with him, but he could not leave her to the mercy of the authorities. If the FSB man had not been so close behind, Ilya would have demanded that Elena give him the object, paid her the bulk of the money, and been gone. With the object no longer betraying her presence to the
rusalki,
as Ilya was now sure it had done, they would leave her alone. But the situation had become complicated by the murders and the consequently certain involvement of the FSB. Ilya had firsthand experience of such people. Those who were not brutal were incompetent and lazy, and could often be bought off over more trifling matters, but murder was a serious crime. He could hardly try to explain to them that the murders had not been committed by anything human. He had seen the marks in the shredded flesh, the bites on throat and rib cage. The men in the room had been killed by
rusalki
, but he did not know why and it was not, in any case, an explanation the police would believe.

Moreover, it looked as though Westerners stayed at the Hotel Kazakhstan, and a set of murders would be bad for business. People would suspect the
Mafiya.
The Westerners would stay away, and he knew that few enough of them came to Kazakhstan in the first place—corruption, red tape, and violence made it a hard place in which to do business, even for the big oil and gas companies. No, the hotel manager would surely insist on the case being treated properly, and the girl at the desk had known Elena. So he had no choice, really. They must both run, and Kyrgyzstan—close, mountainous, with a different bureaucracy—was the most practical choice.

Ilya did not want to respond to the small voice within that told him he would welcome a companion, especially such a pretty one. He had learned to do without friendship over the years, without women other than whores, but it was never easy. He stole a look at Elena, picking her way through the stones, her face set in determination. An intelligent woman, too, and a brave one.
The best thing you can do, my hero, is to
stay as far away from her as possible. Such a woman
should have nothing to do with the likes of you.

The storm front was coming in fast over the mountains. He could no longer see the ghoul, but no doubt it was there, hiding among the stones. But he had the sword. If he could slay
rusalki,
he could surely dispose of this one small creature. Unless there were more than one, and they were following . . .

The
volkh
’s voice echoed in his head:
not human.
What am I, then?
Ilya silently asked the wind, but there was no reply. He listened for that other small voice, but there was nothing.

At the bottom of the slope, a road led toward a scattering of buildings that looked like one of the old communal
kholkhoz
farms. The city had ended abruptly, far behind them now and cut off by the mountain wall. To Ilya, it seemed as though Almaty huddled against the Tien Shan for protection, seeking shelter from the endless steppes. He remembered the steppes in earlier centuries, still swept by the wild horsemen, the riders with their leather armor, their hunting eagles, their swift and deadly bows. Two generations and Russian guns had put an end to that. The riders were gone, replaced with accountants and car salesmen. Perhaps it was better. Ilya did not know, but he wondered where such dreams might go to die.

He heard Elena’s foot slip on loose gravel even before she cried out, but did not manage to reach her before she fell. She sprawled across the slope, hands scrabbling for purchase. Ilya, cursing his own weakness, hurried over and helped her up.

“Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so. Bruised.” She stood up. She had dropped her handbag. Ilya spotted it among the stones. He picked it up. “No, I’m all right.” She leaned against him, steadying herself as she secured a shoe, and before he could think better of it, he put his arms around her. It was a long time since he had felt so close to anyone.

I am here.

Ilya blinked. A sudden burst of light spilled from the bag in his hand. Ilya saw a space open in thin air, a spark running up it like a fuse. There was a burst of light high in the air above the mountains, then it was gone.

Ilya stared, but there was nothing there.

“What was that?” Elena whispered.

“I don’t know.” Embarrassed, he let her go. “We’d best get moving.”

It was no more than early afternoon, but the sky was already dark with rain. They had reached the road. The village was perhaps half a kilometer ahead. Ilya could see a light in a window, heard voices idly discussing the weather. He paused for a moment and listened further. He could hear the small creatures in the mountains: a squirrel running along a branch, the sudden flutter of a flock of birds flying upward, then the rattle and rush of branches being thrust violently aside. And all the while a pounding sound upon the wet earth, as insistent as a drum. It was a long time since he had heard that sound: the noise of hoofbeats, a multitude of horses, ridden fast.

“Ilya?” Elena asked. “What’s wrong?”

He had expected sirens, not horses. “I don’t know,” he said. “I can hear hoofbeats.”

Elena looked around. “Where? I can’t see anything.”

“They’re in the mountains,” Ilya murmured, but even as he spoke, it was no longer true, and the hair prickled at the back of his neck. The riders were down from the slopes, and at the head of the road on which they were now standing. The horses, free from the constraint of the trees, ran swift as thought, faster than any normal animal. And they were bringing the storm with them.

“They’re coming for us,” he whispered.

“My God, Ilya—who? What are you talking about? Where are they?” Elena was looking wildly about her. She would not yet be able to see or hear them, but they were coming. “If someone’s after us, we have to get off the road.” She pointed to a strip of trees on the other side of the valley, marking the path of a streambed. She tugged at Ilya’s sleeve. They stumbled across a bank of stones toward the trees. The drumming noise grew louder, blotting out all other sound and deafening Ilya. He put his hands to his ears, but it did no good. Then the first wave of rain hit them, drenching and sudden.

They had almost reached the trees when Ilya made the mistake of looking back. The riders were coming through the rain. They bore banners the color of blood, and they wore short leather jerkins and close helmets. The front line rode without reins, gripping their horses with their knees, their bows trained upon Ilya and his companion. He had seen nothing like them for over a hundred years. Elena had turned, too, and he saw her face grow blank with shock. As he stared, the riders parted. A figure was riding with them, dressed in a tall conical helmet and armor made of gold, chased and configured with images of leaves, lions, and spirals.

He heard Elena gasp, “That’s the Golden Warrior!” They could not see the face beneath the golden helmet. The Warrior raised a hand, gave a command. Elena said,
“No.”
She grabbed Ilya’s arm, dragging him in a zigzag toward the trees. Something small and dark darted between his feet, and the ground seemed to give way beneath him.

He was alone, staggering through a landscape of branches and mist and rain.

Do not be afraid. I am here.

He tasted cloud-cold on his tongue and then, quick as a dream, the sun came out. The warriors were gone. And Ilya was not where he had been.