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ONE – IN WHICH KIRNOV RECEIVES HIS UNPLEASANT TASK

"What is thy bidding, my master?" Maximillian Pavlovich made an obedient bow towards Prince Dolgorukoi.  The protector of all Moscow stood within the panels of a concealed room, gazing out at the theatre audience through a paneled window from above and behind the crowd.  Center stage was directly ahead, and this view of the theatrical performance was unparalleled, if a bit distant. 

"Mr. Kirnov, leave the drama for the actors.  It can be amusing, but irritating as well."

"Yes, Your Excellency.  I do apologize," Kirnov immediately straightened up. 

"This is serious."

"Of course, sir."

"Look over there.  Do you see?"

"What?"

"My box.  Do you see?"

Kirnov held the opera glasses to his face and peered across the theatre from the small window.  A faint smile cocked his lips.

"You are spoiling Erast Petrovich again, I see," he spoke.

"He's asleep, Max.  For the love of God, it's Korsakov, and he's asleep."

"Not for long.  We are about to reach the battle scene where the cannons will go off," Kirnov smirked deliciously.

"Maximillian Pavlovich, you must find out why he's so tired."

"You have him working on those murders in Chinatown." 

"Four dead in the last month alone?  I'm working him night and day, and with good reason.  This madman must be caught.   I brought him here tonight to report to me, and to give him a moment to relax."

"Congratulations.  I'd say you accomplished at least part of that," Kirnov chuckled.    "Forgive my impertinence, but that case should have been mine.  It's more suited to my temperament than to Erast Petrovich's.  He is the beloved scion of the blessed day,  whereas I am a creature of the sacred night."

"Erast Petrovich is up to the challenge of solving this case, Mr. Kirnov.  I gave it to him to make him stretch.  He will work up to the challenge.  He delights in being tested, being pushed beyond his limits."

"It should have been mine."

"You do not speak Japanese or Chinese.  Therefore, the case belongs to Fandorin."

"Why did you ask me here, Excellency?"

"When he leaves the theatre tonight, follow him."

"Didn't we agree you wouldn't assign me the task of following our own people?"

"This is different, Max.  You know it is."

"Yes, Excellency, I can tell you are concerned.   But isn't he already giving you regular reports and updates, on neat, tidy pages using his typing machine?"

"His reports tell me everything and nothing at once.  He's hiding something from me, out of an effort to spare my feelings or to avoid my disapproval, no doubt.  I do have an idea how his mind operates.  I want you to follow him."

"I will do as you wish, but he is sure to spot me.  He always has in the past.  What am I to do when he becomes angry?  How shall I explain myself?"

"Don't get close enough that he will see you."

"He never sees me.  He merely feels that I am there."

"Follow him and see where he goes, what he does."

"As you wish."

"Make sure he is not involved with Opraksina again."

"The countess is in France with her sister."

"France.  Hmph.  You can't keep her far enough away from him.  She won't be happy until she can suck the very marrow from his bones," the prince frowned.  Kirnov managed a well-mannered chuckle.  "Did you talk with her as I asked?"

"I politely relayed your displeasure with her continued pursuit of our beloved Fandorin."

"And what was her reply?"

"It does not bear repeating, my prince."

Actually what the countess had suggested was that Kirnov had wanted her out of the picture in order to have Fandorin to himself.  What followed was several minutes of internal debate for Mr. Kirnov—how upset would Dolgorukoi be if Max were to kill Opraksina right then and there?  Would he be sent into exile for a very long time?  Or would he be granted an Order of St. Vladimir and be given a quiet retirement in a faraway sunny climate? 

Exactly how upset would Fandorin be if he ever found out that Kirnov had slit Opraksina's high, elegant throat and let the life's blood pour out of her?  (Perhaps a stake to the heart as well, just to be sure?)  There would be a duel involved, no doubt.  That idea horrified Kirnov.  No one living or dead had ever beaten Fandorin in a duel.  It would be suicide to harm Opraksina, because being the hot-headed boy that he was (no matter his age and usual sangfroid) Erast was certain to challenge him.  Kirnov didn't want to see Fandorin get hurt any more than he wanted to be hurt himself, especially over someone like Opraksina. 

So in the end, alas, the capricious and cruel Countess was alive not because Kirnov feared his master Dolgorukoi's displeasure, but because Kirnov was more afraid of upsetting his friend Erast Fandorin. 

The cannons on stage expelled their plumes of fire and gunpowder.  In the prince's box, Fandorin jolted awake and nearly tumbled from his chair.  He brushed himself off and shook his head to clear his mind, sitting up straighter and trying not to draw more attention to himself.  Frol appeared at his side and slid a cup of black coffee into his hands.  Erast nodded his thanks and politely sipped the beverage.   In the meantime, Kirnov was shivering with amusement and sympathy.   

"She told you to go to hell, did she?" Dolgorukoi asked, smiling to himself.  Kirnov shrugged but nodded, giving the prince his opera glasses.  He didn't need to hear the truth from Kirnov, especially when he probably already knew full well when had transpired. 

"Follow Fandorin," the prince continued.  "See that he is not endangering himself excessively.  I know only too well how our little boy enjoys a touch of danger.  You may permit him a bit of a thrill, a chase, or perhaps some trifling gunplay or what-not, only if it is reasonably safe.  But, please, Max, I beg you, don't let him get hurt.  We need him.  Please?"

"As you wish, my prince."

"Thank you, Maximillian Pavlovich.   I knew you wouldn't let me down."

"It is my pleasure to be of service, Your Excellency.  Just one thing….."

"Yes?"

"I must know.  The question buzzes around my brain.   Do you ask Erast Petrovich to follow me when you think I'm misbehaving?"

"Of course I do," the prince grinned broadly, slapping Kirnov on the shoulder.  With that, Dolgorukoi left Kirnov puzzling to himself. 

TWO – IN WHICH KIRNOV ENCOUNTERS THE DEMON OF TEMPTATION

Prince Dolgorukoi was not going to like this, not one little bit.   Maximillian Pavlovich simply couldn't believe he was seeing what he was seeing. 

After the performance had ended, and at what he deemed to be an appropriate and safe distance, Kirnov had followed Fandorin from the theatre back to his home on Malaya Nikitskaya.  It had taken Fandorin precisely fifteen minutes to change out of his coat and tails and into a loose silken shirt and pants of oriental styling.  Upon his departure from the entrance of the house, Fandorin exchanged a handful of words with his Japanese valet.  They bowed to each other reverentially although Masa was wearing a disapproving scowl.  The master was bubbling with anxious excitement as he wrapped up in a full length fur coat which hid most of his clothes.  He drove off in a fast-moving droshky, handling the horse quite well, actually. 

It had consumed Kirnov that Erast Petrovich must have been cold in that thin outfit, even if he was wearing a heavy coat over it.   Kirnov had traced behind the black droshky on foot, learning to pick out its tracks in the fallen snow, knowing instinctively that as he was dressed, Fandorin could only be headed towards Chinatown.  Erast Petrovich was on his case, eager to complete his work.  Kirnov was impressed.  He was glowing with warm thoughts about Fandorin, ready to forgive him for being dragged out so late into this cold night.   What a good boy!  Even as tired as he was, Erast was doing what he was supposed to be doing.

Or was he……

Kirnov had followed the sound of Fandorin's happy whistling all the way to the Pretty Peacock, at which point Max's heart filled with dread and anger.  What was Erast Petrovich doing at a whorehouse, particularly at one which catered to those who had peculiar tastes and depraved requests?   Although Kirnov was not entirely familiar with every aspect of the case that Fandorin was working, he could not see the link between tracking a murderer and visiting a brothel that catered to those with too many rubles and the coarse taste for perverse pleasures. 

Kirnov tried to reason with himself.  Perhaps Fandorin came here to work out his frustrations.  Whip and fuck a few pretty girls?  Put a saddle on a heavy wench and ride her like a mare?  What Fandorin did in his off-time was purely his own business, and Kirnov could excuse nearly any weirdness in Erast Petrovich.  The young man had had a difficult few years, a veritable trial by fire.  People who had endured physical and emotional hardships and survived often carried around strange neuroses and atypical behavior patterns.  These odd personality tics were exposed to the light only in unguarded moments, when they were under heavy stress or feeling especially excited.  It seemed Dolgorukoi should have taken Fandorin to a den of sex and vice instead of the theatre.  Kirnov mused for a second with that thought in his head before shaking it away again. 

No.  This was the wrong track to follow.  Erast Petrovich was not one to shirk his duties.   To be loafing about in a whorehouse while there was a murderer on the loose in the very vicinity in which he was exercising his perverse pleasures?  This would have been  completely out of character for Fandorin.  Erast was up to something else.  He was not here seeking sexual release.   He might be gaining it, but he wasn't here seeking it.  That's what Kirnov had to force himself to believe. 

Kirnov had watched the patrons slink up in their carriages and on horseback and in droshkies and so forth.    Well-dressed men and women (and women?) dripping in furs and jewels and such.   Spoiled aristocrats with too much time on their hands and money to burn.  The world should be rid of them, Kirnov decided with a disgruntled, mocking chuckle.  But he did not wish to include Erast Petrovich among their number.   It was a good thing he was still wearing a decent suit himself.  He did not seem entirely out of place.  Kirnov had had to get closer.  It had been absolutely necessary to go inside and find out where Fandorin was and what he was up to.

Maximillian Pavlovich was not prepared for what he observed.   He stood where he was, concealed in shadows, unable to believe his eyes. 

Fandorin was seated in a semi-enclosed, almost private area behind short paper walls.  He appeared to be having tea with a succession of patrons.  Other people sat like Erast was sitting, in their own semi-enclosed, almost private areas, also having civil, pleasant, fully-clothed discussions.  Men and women, women with women, men with men, men, young men, young women, all together.  They would talk, chat, discuss.   Every now and then, a pair would leave their enclosed area, travel down a long aisle, and disappear into the very back of the establishment, where Kirnov surmised there had to be a staircase which led to the upper floors of the building. 

They must be bartering, it occurred to Kirnov, watching the man and woman with whom Erast was currently sharing tea.  Erast spent several minutes talking with them.  A married couple by the looks of it, wanting to add a little spice to their relationship, no doubt.  An older man and a much-younger woman.  Not bad looking, either of them.  Their relationship together appeared loving.  Their admiration of Erast was a shared interest.   They spoke familiarly with him.  The young wife touched his cheek and put her hand on his arm, and the husband did not bat a lash at this odd behavior.  Whoever they were, they managed to secure a muted, shocked laugh and a wonderful blush out of Fandorin.  But eventually they left him alone.

Not for long though.  A middle aged woman pounced into the area nearly the second after they left.  Kirnov was immediately reminded of Opraksina even though this particular woman was blonde and curvy and plump and perfectly lovely, truth be told.  She didn't have Opraksina's royal bearing or aristocratic sneer either.  Now why couldn't Erast get himself into a stable relationship with this lovely lady?  She sat down beside Fandorin instead of across from him, but Erast did not take offense at her forwardness.  They didn't make it through one cup of tea before they departed together down a small aisle and into an altogether different part of the establishment.  Minutes went by.  A half an hour passed.  The woman finally emerged.  She was adjusting her  well-tailored clothing, touching up her hair, smiling at her own reflection in the mirrors as she went.  She looked like a cat who had swallowed a juicy, delicious, beautiful canary.  Kirnov was suddenly incensed. 

When Erast Petrovich returned to his designated, semi-enclosed area, it was no longer private.  Kirnov waited for him with bated breath.  Fandorin was understandably a bit shocked to see him there.  The young man was shaking.  He folded his long limbs under the short table and silently poured Kirnov a cup of tea.  He offered it to him with a small bow of his head.  Max sat there seething, watching steam rise from the cup, watching Erast try to steady his hands around his own ceramic vessel.  Max was trying not to think about the smile on the face of the well-tailored woman as she had departed. 

"K-kirnov-san," Fandorin murmured finally.  "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"If it were permissible, I would turn you over my knee."

"Your every d-desire is permissible here, Kirnov-san."

There was a lustful purr to Erast's voice that took Max by surprise.  This was not the Fandorin he was accustomed to dealing with, that inflexibly-starchy and priggish creature who literally consumed confidential files and dealt so expertly with state matters that Dolgorukoi sent to him for completion.   The man before him seemed to be an earthly embodiment of sensuality and temptation—gleaming eyes, flush features, a rumbling, hushed, seductive voice that was setting off fireworks inside Kirnov's flesh.  

Seeing Erast out of uniform, or out of a frock coat at the very least, didn't help with the disorientation.  The black silk clothing draped around Erast Petrovich made his blue eyes brighter and more beautiful to behold.   The dark silk accentuated his slender but strong build.   It was almost as much torture as those silken white, nearly transparent nightshirts Fandorin had been wearing when confined to his bed for a week last summer, during their pursuit of Herr Radespeller.  Had one of Kirnov's demons caught up with him but taken possession of Erast instead?  If true, this could only be the demon of temptation.  Oh God, how Kirnov trembled at the idea! 

"You are supposed to be working," he scolded, hoping to jolt Erast with a reminder of his sacred duty. 

"I am," Fandorin said, having found his calm reserve once again.

"From the flat of your back?" Kirnov lowered his voice and hunched over the small table.   Fandorin imitated the posture to whisper in Kirnov's direction.  He was mere inches from Kirnov's shoulder, and he lowered his voice as well. 

"From w-whatever position is required or requested.  Kirnov, if you jeopardize my p-progress, I shall be very displeased with you."

"Progress!?" Max gulped, hardly daring to breathe.    Erast pulled back to take a sip of tea, and the enticing aroma of warm jasmine battled in the small space with the hint of musk and eternal damnation.   Fandorin leaned close again, watching a distant spot beyond Max's shoulder as he spoke.   Max was watching the curve of Erast's jaw, the fine hairs on his earlobe, the faint scar on his top lip that could have been a healed bite.   He inspected the texture of the gray hairs at Fandorin's closest temple, and he wondered, as he stared at Erast's pale skin, if evil of the mind was more dangerous than evil of the heart. 

"Over the last month, as I have established myself here, I have n-narrowed my list of suspects to three very promising persons- one of whom is watching us even as we speak.  The other two left a short while ago.  If you have been here long, you must have seen them.   The Morozovi – an older man and his young wife.  Do not turn and look.  Mr. Zima-Volkov is there to your left.   The thin man with blond-gray hair and glasses.  He has been watching me since I arrived, but he hasn't come to speak with me yet.   He won't until later.   We should be pretending to barter, or he will become suspicious."

"For what are we bartering?"

"Me," Erast whispered one word, biting his bottom lip ever-so-lightly, and giving Max a sensual smile that dripped with the promise of things that might leave Kirnov burning in hell for the rest of eternity.   Kirnov had heard a rumor once batted around court that early in his short military career, Fandorin had been taken prisoner and held captive by a Turkish pasha who had locked him up for a year in his harem.  Whether there was any truth to this, Max did not know, but the idea of it had piqued his interest to say the least.  He didn't know why that rumor sprang into his mind at this particular moment.  Actually, he did know why, but he couldn't bring himself to admit it.  Kirnov's ears were ringing so badly he was afraid he would faint.   Evil of the mind was much more dangerous, he decided.  Sins committed with intent were unforgiveable.  Sins committed in the heat of emotion might be forgiven, because there was at least some hope for the human heart to feel remorse or regret or pity or love.   

"You?" Max whispered fearfully. 

"All of the v-victims in my case have been juujun."

"Which is what?"

"A sexually-submissive partner, and s-so that is what I am when I am here."

"Sexually submissive?" Kirnov questioned, his breath and heart-rate speeding up.   No wonder the departing woman had been smiling so!  That cat hadn't eaten a canary, but a veritable firebird!  No, not even a firebird! She had dined on a pure-bred peacock!

Fandorin nodded once, running a finger carefully to the back of Max's closest hand.   Kirnov slapped the touch away as if it had burned (it had!)  Fandorin recoiled from the violent reaction, blinking big big eyes in fright for a half second. 

"You've been coming here for a month?" Kirnov snarled, struggling to keep his voice low and inaudible to even the next enclosed space. 

"I'll do whatever is required," Erast hissed back. 

"You've been selling yourself?" Kirnov couldn't decide if he wanted to cry or laugh or slap Fandorin across his face.   On one hand, it was no wonder the young man was tired.   At least that small mystery was solved.  But the problem remained that he had to rid Erast of this demon.   That was going to prove more difficult.  When one demon has established a foothold, other demons find entrance much easier.  To leave one demon free to manipulate a man was to invite other evil spirits inside.  

"Sell, no.  T-technically speaking, I offer a t-temporary lease."

Kirnov reached across the table and seized Fandorin by one wooden button on his beautiful silken clothes.   It was sheer chance he had been able to grasp the button—he had actually been reaching for an earlobe and Fandorin had anticipated the move, dodging sideways.   Kirnov dragged Erast forcefully away from the tea setting and out into the snow-filled street, where he tossed him bodily up into his droshky.   When Fandorin made to get out of the bouncing carriage, Kirnov turned him around and slapped him hard across the cheek.  An oriental from the establishment rushed out into the street, gave Kirnov Fandorin's coat, bowed to them, and rushed back inside to the warmth that waited. 

People at the windows were watching this little drama unfold.  Fandorin moved as if to slip out behind Kirnov when Max took the horse's reigns into his fists.  Max dropped the reigns, whirled, put one knee between Erast's thighs, pinned him back against the bear pelt throw, and lifted his chin with the handle of his horse whip.  They stared at each other for several long  seconds.   Was Fandorin testing Kirnov?  The demon of temptation made a quick reappearance.  Erast gave Max a wicked, astonished smile.   Max raised the whip as if to strike Erast again, but Fandorin wisely pulled back out of reach.   Max shook the crop handle at him dangerously, then picked up the reigns again, worrying about the horse instead. 

Fandorin slid into his full length fur coat and shielded himself from the cold in the corner of the conveyance.  Max cracked the whip over the top of the patient horse.  As they pulled away from the establishment, Max sat beside Erast in the tight space.  Their hips were touching, bouncing, rubbing together for the entire trip.   It was absolute agony for Kirnov.  Fandorin was hiding his face down inside his coat.   His sparkling blue eyes peered up over his furry lapels once or twice, but the ride was almost completed in awkward silence. 

As they rounded the corner back onto Malaya Nikitskaya Street, Fandorin lowered his coat edges, tilted back his head, and gave a terrific laugh to the night sky.   Masa emerged from the house running.  He stood muttering to himself in his native tongue as he waited for the conveyance to stop.   Erast was shuddering against the side of the droshky for several seconds.  When he had contained his amusement, he straightened up and gave Kirnov an apologetic, bashful look.  Fandorin cautiously put his hands on the reigns to slow the horse. 

"My G-god, Max!  That was very well played.  I d-do think they believed you.  I know I did.  Let's hope at least that Mr. Zima-Volkov was convinced."

" 'Bout damn time," Masa gargled syllables, taking the reigns and walking both beast and droshky towards the estate stables where a faithful hand was already waiting to put the horse to bed.    Watching her trot off tiredly, Fandorin felt a certain sympathy and kinship for her.  

"Sorry," Fandorin called in the near darkness. 

"Tea in study.  Go inside.  Go inside now," Masa ordered.  

"We'd better go inside," Fandorin whispered to Kirnov, taking him by one arm.  Max was in no mood.  He wrestled out of the touch as if shaking off a snake. 

"Erast Petrovich, I have to make a report to Prince Dolgorukoi in less than six hours.   What the hell am I supposed to tell him?" Kirnov said as coldly as he could manage. 

"Report t-to….are you….Kirnov?  He sent you?  You aren't g-going to tell him what I've been doing, are you?" Erast gasped fearfully.   "Max!  You m-mustn't!  I'll be ruined!" 

THREE – IN WHICH KIRNOV IS THE VICTOR

It was hard to tell exactly what Kirnov was relaying to Prince Dolgorukoi.  Erast Petrovich hung back to the other side of the chamber as he had been ordered, watching them keenly, all the while clasping and unclasping his hands in terror.  Kirnov was revolving in space and time while keeping his back to Fandorin, talking with both his hands waving in the air, bouncing them back and forth, gesticulating backwards towards Fandorin every sentence or so.  The prince's jowls dropped.  His eyes bulged.  His whiskers flapped in the breeze. 

Was Kirnov telling Dolgorukoi the entire truth?  It certainly appeared so. 

Fandorin hung his head when Dolgorukoi advanced on him.  The prince scolded him with a stern frown, picked up one of his hands, and in reproach tapped him tenderly three times on top of the knuckles as if Erast were a misbehaving school boy.  Dolgorukoi finished by scowling at the beet-red young man.   No doubt then.  Kirnov had told him everything!  Erast stung with hurt, but this was no time to show it. 

"Mr. Kirnov will be taking charge of this case at once."

"Yes, s-sir," Erast said meekly, hiding both hands behind his back and staring at the floor.

"You may assist him."

"Thank you, Exc-c-cellency."

"You will do as he commands.  Is that understood?  I would prefer that you not endanger yourself to solve this case.   I want this madman caught, but I don't want you to be harmed in the process if you can help it," he repeated sternly.   

'Yes, Excellency."

"I have to say, the logic of what you did is most practical, most practical indeed, Erast Petrovich.  I admire your determination, your unswerving devotion to duty," Dolgorukoi relinquished a half-smile.  Kirnov barely restrained his urge to roll his eyes and instead glared at Fandorin over Dolgorukoi's shoulder.

"I c-couldn't very well ask another officer to perform d-duties I myself was not willing to undertake.  It would have b-been impossible to find someone on such short notice who could easily adapt to the necessary restrictions, to assume the necessary obeisance.  I apologize if I overs-stepped, if I acted without thinking."

"No.  You were thinking correctly.  Quite right," Dolgorukoi bounced his head eagerly while trying to appear stern and fatherly at the same time.  "No, you were being practical.  I do understand.  You will brief Mr. Kirnov over breakfast, and I will listen to every detail."

Erast Petrovich shot Maximillian Pavlovich a cold glance, but he bowed to the prince as he reluctantly replied, "Yes, Excellency.

* * *

"So, to sum up," Kirnov said, tapping his pencil on his notepad and sipping at his tea.  "You have four dead in the last month, encompassing the last two weeks of January and the first two weeks into February.   There were three young men, and one young woman presenting herself in a boyish appearance, who performed certain services at the Pretty Peacock, which is why you decided you had to establish yourself there over the last month in order to scope out the territory, get a feel for the clientele, survey your available suspects from close up.  You have made yourself the bait to take your bear."

"Precisely so," Fandorin replied between bites of oatmeal and a nip of sausage and a sip of tea and a tidbit of cherry tart just to be sure.  Dolgorukoi watched them behind half-drooping eyes.  He had finished his breakfast some time ago, and was merely watching Kirnov talk to Fandorin, and Fandorin talk to Kirnov, and he wasn't surprised at how little by little, they almost forgot that he was there. 

"Your prime suspects are as follows:  Mr.  Arcturus Zima-Volkov, who is attached to the University of Moscow as a professor of Asian history.  Forty five, unmarried, no previous trouble with the law.   Mr. and Mrs. Morozov.  Mr.  Morozov, Vlasi, is attached to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.  You met him briefly in Japan, at which time he was not married, but was involved in an affair with a much younger man who vanished under mysterious circumstances never to be seen again.  I would be curious to know if he made any advances on your person at that time."

Fandorin pondered to himself for a moment before his eyes went wide.  A particular event had been recalled to mind, no doubt.  Kirnov watched for further explanation, but Erast ducked down, taking a drink of tea, hiding his eyes until he composed himself to his normal placid calm.  Kirnov continued, logging the thought away for later that he must learn in what manner these previous advances had been made, if they had been dangerous in nature, if they had been reciprocated, and if so if that was the source of Erast's reluctance to respond to the direct question. 

"Mr. Morozov and his wife Ludmilla approached you this evening with an offer of becoming their…live-in…..companion?  Nevermind.  That's not important," Kirnov dismissed, unable to hide his own discomfort. 

"None of the victims was killed at the Pretty Peacock, so the offer of coming to live with the Morozovi is indeed very important.  It could be the first step towards our conclusion.  It should not be dismissed from our minds," Fandorin corrected, gobbling the last bit of his sausage and finishing his cup of tea.   He cast a carefully glance at the prince, but Dolgorukoi had his eyes closed in quiet contemplation. 

"Why necessarily does our suspect have to have ties to the Far East?" Kirnov questioned.

"The manner in which the victims were found," Prince Dolgorukoi interjected, opening his eyes again.   Fandorin agreed eagerly, tearing into an orphan roll on the table and chewing voraciously. 

"Tied up?" Kirnov checked his notes.  

"Not merely tied, dear Maximillian Pavlovich.  Tied in a specific and sexual manner," the prince intoned.  "Erast Petrovich was kind enough to show me photographs and erotic paintings as well.  The patterns were one in the same."

Kirnov raised a puzzled brow at Fandorin, and he managed to earn a twitchy half smile of embarrassment from Erast. 

"Shall I spare your d-delicate sensitivities?" Fandorin asked.  How ironic to hear Erast considering someone else to be of a tender disposition!  Kirnov hoped there was a thin layer of sarcasm on top of those words that he merely hadn't detected.  One of the incident scenes they had been required to catalogue during the Radespeller case had made Fandorin pass out cold.  Right there.  Right in front of the entire local police force.  What's more, once Kirnov had managed to revive him, he had utterly refused to steel himself and take another try.  He had sat on the stoop quivering, looking bloodless and blue.   A female officer of the local force had sat with him, fanning his face, holding his hand, talking to him in a quiet, soothing voice.  Of course, it's not often one is asked to reconnoiter the violently-blasted corpses of three teenage school girls, but then again, it wasn't as if Max had enjoyed it.   He had scolded Erast very roughly that day, telling him he was useless, no better than a novice clerk.  He may have even used the explicative 'fucking cherry', more than once.

"On the contrary, be specific.  You will do me no good otherwise," Kirnov smirked. 

"It is c-called kinbaku.  Related to hojojutsu, kinbaku is an ancient form of art that involves the binding of the body into shapes and poses, weaving the ropes into designs and patterns.  Samurai used hojojutsu to restrain p-prisoners, sometimes to torture them.  Kinbaku is more of an erotic art than a martial art.  It can be used for confinement.  It can be also used to train the body to hold a certain position for a long period of time without harm to the soft tissue or joints.  Kinbaku can….um…." Fandorin's voice trailed off because he felt Kirnov wasn't paying much attention to what he was saying. 

"Go on," Kirnov swallowed the last of his tea and poured himself more.  He also filled Fandorin's cup.  The prince waved his hand away, shaking his head to the offer. 

"If employing methods of s-self-tying, kinbaku can also be used to achieve a meditative state in which a sense of well-being and harmony fills the b-body."

"You tie yourself in knots with ropes and meditate on harmony and  well-being?  Somehow I'm having a hard time picturing this," Kirnov frowned.  The trouble was, Max wasn't having a hard time picturing that, and it bothered him that Erast had mentioned it at all. 

"It's difficult to explain," Fandorin offered the words with a bowed head. 

"Venturing out on a limb, I would conclude this rope art is being used by a sexual sadist or sadists to restrain unwilling people," Kirnov said bluntly.  The clipped words caught Fandorin by surprise, and they angered him, but he came around slowly to the possibility that Max could be right.

"Yes," he acquiesced.  "It is p-possible that someone who does not entirely understand the art is employing it incorrectly and with severe consequences to his victims." 

Kirnov blinked at him, studied Dolgorukoi for a half second, and leaned forward in order to release the top-most thought in his mind, like tipping the lid off a garbage pail to allow the worst stench out. 

"You give this madman too much credit.  Your murderer is turned on by the idea of having these victims trussed up and helpless so he can have his way with them.  Why do I need to speak Japanese to understand perversion?"

"Is that how you define perversion, Mr. Kirnov?  Any eroticism whose appeal is beyond the realm of your own personal tastes?"

"Tying people up and fucking them to death isn't exactly romance, Mr. Fandorin," Kirnov snorted. 

"Strictly speaking, the cause of d-death was strangulation from the pressure of the ropes, and the weight of the body, not any f-physical injury from the f-fornication.  The lovemaking was perhaps an afterthought."

"He slept with them after they were dead?" Kirnov dropped his knife with a loud clatter.

"No, that would be necrophilia, which does not appear to be our killer's preference," Erast tried out a tiny smile.  "What I meant to s-say is that if we proceed on the assumption that these are not accidental d-deaths, that they are being committed on purpose, then the deaths themselves might have been the entire goal of these assignations, and that the sex was performed merely because it was expected.  To do otherwise would have aroused the suspicion of the victims."

"But you are certain that your perpetrator is a man?"

"Yes.  Evidence would seem to indicate there is at least one man not our victims involved."

"Evidence?  Body fluids of a particular nature?  I see.  Your victims were lured to their doom, carried out the requests of their client or clients, and not untied afterwards?"

"Indeed that must be our supposition, if we assume the deaths are purposeful.  The unfortunate victims were left to die.  Even not left.  Perhaps the murderer stays to watch them die?  Perhaps that is when he or she or they experience the most pleasure from the entire transaction."

There was a small silence.  Fandorin finally stopped eating.   He dabbed his mouth and glanced up at Kirnov once, then twice.  Erast made a face—one of amusement and impatience.  He took a sip of tea and rolled his fingertips in the air in fluid circle. 

"Mr. Kirnov, please say whatever is on your mind before you permanently injure the bridge of your nose with that fearsome expression."

"Very well.  Mr. Fandorin, when you were in stationed in Japan, were you in the habit of tying people up to have sex with them?  If our murderer must have Asian connections and perverted tendencies, you could also be considered a suspect in these crimes."

"I c-could indeed," Fandorin agreed with a bemused twinkle in his eyes.   "Do I need to tell you that I am not your murderer?"

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" Kirnov growled.  Fandorin frowned at him.

"If I am the k-killer, would I set a trap for myself and use myself as b-bait?" Erast demanded testily.

"Why not?  There's something rather Zen about that, isn't there?  You catch yourself doing what you ought not to be doing, and you turn yourself in to yourself, and then you surrender to me.  I may have solved this case without having lifted a finger," Kirnov laughed, and the prince chortled softly as well. 

"But you are ignoring the most important element of this case in your supposition, Mr. Kirnov," Fandorin spoke more slowly, and was nearly able to manage his stutter, which tended to increase when he was stressed and nervous. 

"Am I?  What's that?"

"My v-victims have all been juujun."

"And?"

"If I am to fill both roles, if I am to be dominant and submissive at once, if I am to be both killer and victim, I would be tying myself up."

"You said that was possible, didn't you?"

"Mr. Kirnov, it would be both difficult and pointless, not to mention utterly unsatisfying, to tie myself up and then commit suicide."

Kirnov coughed up a mocking laugh, wishing the mental image of Fandorin naked and tied up would vanish from his mind.   Did Erast have to keep mentioning that??

"God, how you make my head hurt, Max," Erast admitted under tone, rubbing the space between his eyes in the center of his brows.  Dolgorukoi  was silently chuckling once more.  He opened one eye, then the other, and motioned to his valet, Frol, who immediately came to the table and  poured the prince a shot of brandy. 

"I'm going to have to see these prints and these photographs as well," Max demanded. 

"As you wish.  S-shall I bring them here?"

"No, Erast Petrovich.  Return to your home and finish briefing Mr. Kirnov there," Prince Dolgorukoi ordered, wearing an enigmatic expression.  His whiskers moved left-right-left as he pondered unspoken thoughts.   "The sooner we catch this villain, the better, gentlemen.  I won't have Moscow developing the reputation of being a sexual sadist's playground."

FOUR – IN WHICH FANDORIN LETS DOWN HIS GUARD 

Kirnov found Fandorin and Masa in a drawing room, sitting on reed mats and thin cushions, folded in poses of quiet contemplation.   Max had spent the last hour leafing through pages of questionable pornography and crime scene photos particular to this case that had made his flesh crawl and his heart ache.  His predominant impression was a dreadful fear for the immortal soul of Erast Petrovich Fandorin.   He had also been left irritated, puzzled.  Why was it that for the most part pornography involved women in foolish or staged or dangerous predicaments?  He could not be convinced that for every man wishing to see his favorite geisha in bondage, there was not also a man who wished to see a favorite heretic in bondage too.  Was there a male equivalent of a geisha?  He would have to ask Erast, but not right at this juncture, because that would seem strange and weird, and he wanted to convey his displeasure with this material, not a covert interest in rooting through even more of it. 

How best to convey his discomfort to Fandorin without alarming or irritating him?  That wasn't going to be easy without being able to admit his own feelings on the subject, and for the subject, to be honest.  There were inevitable drawbacks to being unable to admit one's attraction to another human being, particularly if that beloved other happened to be one's own gender.   The first barrier was revulsion with one's self.  There are people who spend a lifetime stuck on the first barrier.  If that first barrier can ever be crossed, the second barrier is a dread fear of inspiring nothing but revulsion in the other person.  Add to that the third barrier of societal disapproval, and the fourth barrier of God's own disapproval.  Even if he could admit he had feelings for Erast, Max could not hope to show his own feelings, and so he had no choice but to be sarcastic and humorous and disapproving.

Masa popped open both eyes, jumped to his feet, and gave Kirnov a small bow.  Then he hurried away without another word, sliding the door closed and disappearing into parts unknown. 

Maybe Max shouldn't be disapproving at all.  He was watching Fandorin slowly open his eyes.   Erast was preparing himself for an onslaught of anger and disgust.  Max had to admit to himself that it had taken a great deal of courage on Fandorin's part to even allow him to see this material.   To take it to the prince would have been simple.   Fandorin and Dolgorukoi obviously shared a facet of this fascination.  The Governor-General would not have been so lenient with Fandorin's moral transgressions of the last month if he didn't in some manner appreciate the subject matter.  It was hard not to be parental, and therefore loving and protective, towards someone who was always so eager for approval.   To be fair, Fandorin was not so eager for approval as he seemed  deeply stung by disapproval.   Dolgorukoi had learned that praising and rewarding Fandorin stroked the young man's weakest point, his ego, and it created a need in Fandorin for even more positive reinforcement, more approval.  Erast lowered his chin and clicked his jade beads nervously between his fingers.  He was almost asleep where he sat.   His sleepiness made him even seem more vulnerable.  Max couldn't bring himself to be sharp and cruel, not when it was taking all of his strength not to seize the stiff and officious tit in his arms and smother him with kisses and bites. 

"I am going to need your help on this case," Kirnov said with a bow.   He would take Dolgorukoi's lead in how he handled Fandorin.  It was the best approach because it had been tried and obviously had been proven accurate.   Be fatherly with Fandorin—that was Dolgorukoi's approach. 

Those words made Fandorin brighten, so like a small child that Kirnov felt his heart hurting in his chest.   In response, Kirnov softened his anger as much as he could, but he kept in mind his purpose here.  This case?  No.  This case would be solved or unsolved by the will of God.  What Max Kirnov did towards the resolution of this case was immaterial.  And to be honest in his heart of hearts, it did not matter to him that someone was killing whores.   The sooner they were released from their sinful, miserable existence, the better for their immortal souls.   Clearly Max's purpose here was to save Erast Petrovich from himself before it was too late. 

"Where shall we begin, Kirnov-san?" Fandorin asked solicitously. 

"Which of your suspects do you like best for this case?"

Kirnov remained standing, watching Fandorin stretch and rise and stretch a hint more.   He was stiff and he was tired.  After the heavy meal he had indulged in, his eyes were drooping.   His late nights were catching up to him.   Good.  He should be made uncomfortable by what he was doing.  Max decided that keeping Fandorin awake for as long as possible would be punishment enough for today. 

"I am t-torn on that," Erast admitted. 

"Please to explain," Max requested, imitating an oriental cadence of speech. 

"The Morozovi would s-seem at first blush to be the ideal suspects, that is one.  It might take t-two people present to make the third party comfortable enough to submit to unusual requests.  The societal expectation is that one rarely commits murder in front of witnesses if they can help it.  That assumption could have been what put the victim as ease, allowing the perpetrators to strike.  But…but no," Erast shook his head. 

"Do you feel that Vlasi would not kill in front of Ludmilla for fear of her disapproval?"

"He would never terrorize her.  Ludmilla is a timid creature who cares only for p-pleasing her husband.  I cannot imagine her as a killer.  In turn Vlasi cares for nothing but k-keeping her happy.  He will give her anything.  He will stop at nothing to maintain her happiness.  I cannot imagine he would alienate her by doing something so ungentlemanly as killing someone that m-makes her very happy indeed."

"Is she is agreeing to these meetings in order to make him happy?"

"Yes."

"He could be killing them on his own, without her knowledge."

"Yes."

"She could be killing them without his knowledge."

"I would warrant that is p-possible but not probable."

" 'Please meet with me.  My spouse is not here.  I want to see you alone.'  It would be easy enough to do."

"Yes."

"Have you….how have your…..when you have met with them….." Kirnov faltered, unsure where to place his words or his feet.  Fandorin strode to the mantle, cut the ends off two cigars, lit them both, and brought one to Max.  Kirnov accepted it with a nod of thanks. 

"She t-touched me.  He watched her touch me.  I would v-venture to guess she wants these meetings to be instructive.  She is s-seeking to learn more about ways in which to please him in the bed ch-chamber.  That is her only goal."

"And his goal?  What does he do?"

"I….um….that is to say…"

"After spending an hour of my life scalding my eyes with those lurid images, nothing you can say would at all surprise or alarm me."

"Usually Vlasi sat beside the bed and watched.  Once I reclined in his arms as she pleasured me.   He k-kissed me while- - -" Fandorin's voice trailed away.   He was having a very hard time talking about this, probably because of the look on Kirnov's face.

"What sacrifices you make for the good of the state,"  Max mocked.  He couldn't help it.   The words poured out of a dark place inside, and he hated himself when he heard them coming out of his mouth.  Erast was wounded, blushing blood red, but he held his tongue.  "Go on.    What else has he done?"

"He restrained my hands.  I was not allowed to t-touch Ludmilla.  On that he was very clear."

"Does he use rope to restrain your hands?"

"No.  He h-held them in his own hands."

"All right.  Has she used rope to restrain you?"

"One time, s-she used a scarf to tie my hands to the bed frame, and then b-blindfolded me with a long glove.  But she was incredibly c-c-careful, constantly checking to make sure I wasn't being bruised, asking if I was comfortable.  She is a sensitive cr-creature, I tell you, and was most concerned to know that she was not hurting me."

"How do you suppose they treat each other when you are not there?" Kirnov wondered.  Erast took a drag off his cigar.  He contemplated a long moment, and shook his head, speaking calmly and slowly. 

"No doubt in my mind.  Vlasi is submissive to Ludmilla's every whim, and she in turn has no whims that would not be to his liking.  She dominates him while giving the outward appearance of wifely submission.  They are very well suited to one another, ironically."

"On what do you base this assumption that she is the dominant one?  You said she wants most to please him."

"But he is willing to subvert half of his own desires in order to avoid alarming her with predilections she might find distasteful.  It is perfectly acceptable for her to want a young man in her bed.  It is not acceptable for him to want a young man in his bed.  For them to want a young man in their bed together?  Perfectly acceptable as long as she is the one touching me, and not him.   But I am not allowed to touch her, because that is also unacceptable.  He denies half his own self because he wishes to make a favorable impression on her.  No.  She must be considered the dominant partner, even though it might appear otherwise to you."

"Now you're making my head hurt."

"Aren't  you g-going to sit down?" Fandorin said wearily, putting his cigar out and folding up once more on the thin cushion and reed mat. 

"I think better while standing," Kirnov replied.   "Tell me about the other one."

"The p-professor?  A much-simpler situation.  He is a narcissist."

"Have you spent your time with him doing whatever he asked in order to please him?"

Erast narrowed his eyes.  "No.  It's s-strange."  He stifled a yawn into the knuckles of his hand.  "Forgive me," he bowed his head. 

"We can continue later," Kirnov offered, stubbing out his own cigar. 

"No.  I should c-convey as much information as s-soon as possible."

"In brief, what have you done when you have been with the professor?"

"I have met with him f-four times.  I have read to him, and he has t-touched himself.  He kissed me once, on the cheek, and whispered in my ear."

"What did he whisper?"

"I cannot recall at the m-moment," Erast lied, blushing.  Why he lied, Kirnov could surmise.  The professor had said something touching and personal, or he had made a remark that cut Erast to the quick.  Either way.  It wasn't important what he had said, but the manner in which he had said it—in an intimate fashion. 

"What do you read to him?"

"Asian history," Fandorin chortled in private amusement.

"Has he done anything strange to you?  Anything out of the ordinary?"

"Is that not p-peculiar enough?" Erast purred.

"Perhaps he's shy and he finds you intimidating.   While keeping you busy, he may adore you without fear."

"An interesting assessment," Fandorin whispered.  His eyes drooped and his chin sagged to his chest, pulling his head downwards.   He had fallen asleep in between one word and the next. 

"Why is he a narcissist?" Kirnov wanted to know.  He tapped Erast on the shoulder impatiently.   Fandorin tumbled sideways, jerking awake again.  "Where is your bedroom?  Come on then."

Putting an arm around Fandorin's waist, Kirnov scooped him upright and walked him towards the door.   The material of Erast's robe was warm with body heat and smooth to the touch.  Max couldn't help but wonder if it felt as good from the inside as it felt from the outside.  Once in the hallway, Max encountered Masa.  He was glad for the help.  Fandorin was rousing himself, shaking his head.  

"A s-small nap would be most welcome," he stammered.  Masa opened another door, and Kirnov walked Fandorin into the room, giving him over to his valet. 

"I'll show myself out," Kirnov said, and he intended to leave quickly, but he couldn't help himself watching through the opened portal. 

Masa was stretching Fandorin's sleeping body across his bed.  He pulled the silken covers under and then over his master.   Erast was whispering in Japanese, turning his head side to side as if fighting sleep.   He was raising his arms in defense.  Masa moved Erast's hands down and tugged the covers up to his neck.  Erast blinked at him in drowsy confusion, mumbling softly.  Masa laughed.  Erast smiled, and then was instantly, deeply asleep.  Max was not yet to the front door when Masa stopped him at a run. 

"One moment," the Japanese said, bowing, touching Kirnov's arm, bowing again.  "You must help."

"Help how?"

"Fandorin-san.  You have to stop him."

"Is he trying to get back up?" Kirnov mused, pulling on his coat. 

"No.  Master sleeping sound.   This case.  You have to stop him what he is doing."

"Oh, believe you me, that is my utmost goal."

"Don't let Erast-san go back to the Peacock.  Danna puts himself in danger there.   He open himself to darkness.   I don't want him to stare into darkness again.  Darkness no good for him." 

Kirnov couldn't help but wonder if Masa was conscious of the same demons that he himself sensed. 

"Danna?"

"Master."

"I will watch over your master.  I have no intention of letting him go back there alone."

"Thank you.  Thank you very much."

"How do I say 'you're welcome'?"

"Do itashi mashite," Masa smiled.  Kirnov imitated, and Masa smiled even wider. 

"How do I say 'Chain the rogue's ankle to the bedpost until I come back tonight'?"

"Too long to translate.  Don't worry.  I keep him here."

"How?"

"Take off you coat," Masa ordered.  Max slipped out of his jacket as the valet put his hand in the pocket of the long fur coat that Fandorin had been wearing earlier.  "Put this on," the valet then ordered, taking Max's own coat away from him. 

Kirnov crept inside the luxurious fur and fastened the front.  He was bathed in Fandorin's scent.   It was wonderful and intoxicating.  The coat smelled of cold air and jasmine tea and cigar smoke and incense and body musk and that laugh that Erast has expelled last night, and that shy stammer, and his haughty arrogance, and his immaculate hair, and his beautiful long limbs, and his quietest sigh.  Max felt dizzy with anguish and longing.   Masa opened the door and unceremoniously pushed him out into the snow and cold.  Max walked along the path towards the street.  With great fear and trepidation, he put his hand slowly inside the pocket, nearly sure of what he would find.

His guess was correct.  His fingers sank into the mystery of Erast's precious jade beads.   He swallowed nervously, and drank misery and elation in one gulp. 

FIVE – IN WHICH A LINE IS CROSSED 

"I must have taken your coat by mistake."

Fandorin pounced at Kirnov the fraction of the second after Masa opened the door that evening around nine.   Max did not bat him away.  He put the coat around Erast's shoulders and took both his hands, spilling the beads into his trembling grasp.   Fandorin gushed words in broken syllables.  Masa took the coat off of Fandorin's shoulders and hung it by the door. 

"Oh, th-thank you.  Oh.  I was s-so worried.  I thought I had dropped them last night in the snow.  But ha-hadn't I had them in the s-study? I c-couldn't remember.  I thought I had lost them.  I'd never be able to solve this case without them.  Oh, but it's all right.  Max has had them all day.  Th-th-thank you, Max."

The coat was forgotten.  It could have gone entirely up in smoke and it wouldn't have mattered, Kirnov smiled to himself.  Erast stroked his beads between his fingers and all the tension left his coiled frame.  Max wished now that he had kept the coat.  He had walked all the way back to his house, and upon arrival, he had lain down in the bed still wearing the full-length fur.  He had had the most distasteful and arousing dreams.   He had touched himself not once but twice, his face buried in Fandorin's scent, his lips whispering that precious name of love and desire.   He had imagined a thousand ways to pleasure Erast, and was embarrassed now that he was face to face with the object of his unspeakable urges. 

The demons had watched and scorned him mercilessly.  But let the demons mock him if they wanted.  Fandorin threw both arms around Kirnov and kissed him impulsively on both cheeks twice, right, left, right, left.   For such an indulgence as this, Erast Fandorin—warm from sleep and pulsing with energy—Kirnov could listen to the ridicule of a thousand demons.   Nonetheless, proper societal manners must be observed.  Kirnov set Fandorin away from himself, scowling at him for the breach of etiquette. 

"Thank you.  I'm sorry," Erast wound down his syllables and stopped babbling. 

"I understand completely.  I once knew a priest who lost his soul when he broke his rosary," Kirnov said, unable to stop the flow of words.  "He had tried to hang himself.  The cord broke, and the beads were lost over the bridge into the water.  The priest fell in the water too.  Air demons and water demons and fish demons gathered every last precious stone and ran in all directions.   It would never be possible to retrieve them, not in a thousand years.  His soul was lost forever.  The priest could not help but see God's disapproval in this, and he has spent the rest of his days making amends for what he has done."

"Tea?" Fandorin whispered, blinking in surprise as he digested the small tale. 

"We don't have time for tea.  You have an appointment with the Morozovi."

"Have I?"

"You have.  In forty five minutes."

"Where am I m-meeting them?"

"At their house."

"How did you…?"

"Find out where they lived?  Come now, I have not been idle.  I have learned everything there is to learn about them."

"All today?"

"All while you have been sleeping."

"I was n-not asleep that long," Fandorin blushed.

"Ten hours," Masa interjected. 

"Was it that long?" Erast asked timidly. 

"Sleep like dead.  Crows gather in anticipation.  They spend afternoon staring in Master's window, deciding which bite to be first."

Erast smiled at this mental image, but Kirnov felt a shiver of cold premonition. 

"I make more tea when you come home," Masa said.  "Put on clothes and boots.  Time for work."

* * *

"You are coming to say goodbye.  You cannot see them again, because you are returning to a former lover who is very angry with you for what you've been doing."

Erast Petrovich blinked at Kirnov in mute surprise as snowflakes whirled around him, landing in his hair, in his long lashes, lighting on the shoulders of his blue cloak. 

"They will be upset, but understanding.  They will ask you for a final tryst.  You will agree."

Erast continued to blink.

"They are looking out the upstairs window.  Lean closer to me."

Fandorin remained on his own side of the droshky.  His eyes were beginning to narrow.

"You have no need to worry for your safety.   They will see me leave, but I will not be far away.  I have people watching from all directions."

Fandorin was making a bitter sour face now.  Kirnov wanted to smile, but forced himself not to do so.    He deftly pulled an envelope from his pocket.

"How many meetings have you had with them?"

"Three."

"How much money have they given you?"

"1000 rubles."

"How much are you charging them?" Kirnov asked as calmly as he could.

"250 f-for half an hour.  500 for a f-full hour."

"Two half hours and one hour.  1000 rubles.  Tell me, Erastushka, are you worth that much?"

"Every last kopek, Mr. Kirnov," Erast replied through gritted teeth.  Maybe that tale about the harem was true?

"Give them back their money," Kirnov said, pressing the envelope into his hands.

"Why are we doing this?  It will s-surely alienate them.  It may b-be viewed as an attempt at ext-tortion.   We will never have the opportunity to be this near to them again."

"They are not your killers," Kirnov dismissed. 

"And how do you know this after one day…exactly ten hours….minus however long you slept…one day's worth of careful study?"

"Because I am older and wiser than you.   I can see the truth because I look into people's souls."

"Nonsense! We should be d-dealing with facts, Mr. Kirnov, not f-foolish superstitions.  What about the missing young man with whom Mr. Morozov had a tryst?"

"He was indeed involved with a young man while stationed in Japan, and the young man disappeared.   But I am willing to dismiss that as mere unfortunate coincidence."

"Why?"

"Because of Ludmilla."

"I d-do not follow your logic."

"I'll explain when you come back.  Go on now.  Go on.  Wait."

"What?" Fandorin had started to climb down but pulled his leg back up.

"Repeat to me what you are going to do."

"I'm going to go inside and return their money, that is one.  I will be exceptionally apologetic and kind to them but explain I will not be able to see them again, that is two.   I will agree to a final tryst if they request it, that is three.  Most important, four, five, six, I will leave, find you, and drown you in the M-moskva River."

"You seem to have the plan," Kirnov nodded, "except for a minor detail or two."

"Exactly how many p-people have you got s-stationed around watching me while I try to have a tryst with the Morozovi?"

"If I tell you, everyone will know.  Go on then."

Fandorin climbed out of the droshky, gave Kirnov a final, perturbed glance, and strode away.  Kirnov resisted the urge to watch Erast until he reached the doorway.  Max pulled the conveyance around the corner, down another street, and another still, before parking the horse in front of a very stylish dressmakers' shop, and climbing out himself.   Kirnov paced in front of the dressmakers' window, making sure he was not visible as he saw the lights go on in the second floor of the elegant house.

There actually weren't any other gendarme watching over the scene.   Matters were entirely in Maximillian Pavlovich's hands, but there was no reason to alarm Erast Petrovich by telling him this.  Besides, Kirnov had liked the idea of how Fandorin had squirmed at the notion that other officers would be watching the goings-on.  Perhaps it might make him feel more humility and shame about what he was doing.

If the Morozovi were the ones responsible for the deaths, Kirnov would frankly be very surprised.  Yes, they had had meetings with each of the victims, and therefore they had had opportunity.  But they did not have the motive.  If anything, Vlasi and Ludmilla  wanted to keep the victims alive.  What they wanted was someone to bridge the gap between them, and complicating their marriage with the burden of four dead bodies made absolutely no sense whatsoever, even given the husband's internal battle, his mental split between his acceptable and unacceptable sexual desires. 

If, however, Max had overlooked internals motives that were impossible to deduce from outside study, there was still hope.  The Morozovi were unlikely to actually kill someone in their own home.  None of the other victims had died in a personal residence.  They had been left to die in rented rooms in expensive (and also inexpensive) hotels.   Unless they convinced Fandorin to leave with them and go to another location, it was unlikely the night would end in death, but rather la petite mort at best.

Considering how the temperature was dropping and the wind was picking up, Kirnov cursed that this had better be the fastest orgasm in Fandorin's young life. 

SIX – IN WHICH ICE AND FIRE ARE BOTH DEMONSTRATED 

"Four hours.  Four goddamn cold hours.  Four hours of freezing the flesh to my very  bones.  My marrow is stiff as ice.  Erast Fandorin, you are not a juujun.  You're a sadist."

"Nothing more than you d-deserve.  Have some more tea."

Fandorin gave a perfectly wicked laugh and wrapped another blanket around Kirnov's shivering shoulders.   Masa stoked the fire to raise the flames, and wrapped warmed bricks in heavy towels.  Erast knelt down beside Max and tucked the wrapped bricks under his frozen feet. 

"Now I will explain to you why the Morozovi could not have been your murderers," Kirnov began, clearing his throat.

"Do n-not trouble yourself, Kirnov-san.  I interrogated them at length, and I am satisfied they are not our k-killers."

"Because they told you so?"

"Drink your tea," Fandorin muttered crossly. 

Erast poured himself a cup and one for Masa as well.  The valet accepted the cup and sat down opposite his master on the reed mats and thin cushions.  Kirnov was next to the fire in a large chair, with his bundles of blankets and warming bricks, sniffling, feeling morose and blue in more ways than one.   He envied the ease with which Masa and Erast were interacting.  This wasn't the stuffy, priggish, official Fandorin either.  He was being warm and funny, very familiar.   It didn't help matters that he was fresh from a quick jump in the tub, and dressed again in a silken outfit under his dressing gown—the one that Masa had chosen for him was a wonderful cobalt color, like the purest, deepest sapphires.   Fandorin was looking far more attractive than any human being had the right to, as far as Kirnov was concerned, especially considering all Kirnov could think about was how Erast had spent the evening! 

Masa and Fandorin exchanged a few words in Japanese, the end result of which was that Masa nearly expelled tea out of his nose, and Erast lolled disgracefully back on the floor, shivering quietly all over with laughter.  One of his knees fell down, and he stretched out his limbs to pull himself upright.  Masa leaned off his mat, loomed nose to nose with Erast and scolded him profusely in Japanese.   During the scolding, Erast stared at his valet patiently, nodding along with whatever he was saying.  When Masa had finished venting whatever was on his chest, Fandorin began shaking again from head to toe with humor.  Had the Morozovi given Fandorin something to drink that had gone straight to his head, Kirnov wondered, staring in puzzlement at Erast.   Was that even possible? 

Before when they were on assignment together, Kirnov had tried to determine how much Fandorin had to drink before he became tipsy, when he went from tipsy to drunk, and even the point at which he might lose consciousness.   Purely out of morbid curiosity.  Two shared bottles of the most expensive champagne had had no effect on either man, which might explain why state functions left them bored to death and stone-cold sober.  Six tall glasses of very cheap vodka had made Erast slightly dizzy, and it exaggerated his stammer.  Was he drunk?  No.  Tipsy, yes.   They had never drunk enough to make Erast pass out.   Kirnov had passed out though, much to his own personal shame.  That had been frightening, actually, because he couldn't remember what he might have said that night.  Fandorin was still speaking to him in the morning, so apparently he hadn't gotten too out-of-hand.  So what had the Morozovi done to the young man to leave him in this bewildering, relaxed state?  Was it a combination of alcohol and fatigue, or was it something else entirely?  A combination of alcohol, fatigue, and sexual exertion? 

Fandorin felt the disapproving gaze Kirnov was shooting him.  He set his tea cup aside and waited for Kirnov to speak, but Masa kept talking. 

"Go sen, danna?" Masa frowned. 

"Go sen," Erast confirmed. 

"Go sen?" Masa clearly wasn't believing what his friend was telling him.  He sputtered more words at Erast, who kept nodding emphatically. 

"Ichi, ni, san, yon, go sen," Fandorin motioned to each of his fingers on one hand in turn.  Finally, Fandorin crawled to his knees, then leapt to his feet, and strode out of the room.  He brought back an envelope—the very envelope from Kirnov which had contained 1000 rubles.   The soft brown parchment was stuffed to overflowing with crisp, clean bills. 

"What in God's name?" Kirnov whispered, his eyes bulging.

"The Morozovi refused to take the money back, and instead gave me 5000 rubles for tonight," Erast responded.  He gave the bills to Masa, who laid them out in neat stacks, shaking his head in disbelief. 

"Six thousand rubles.  Roku sen," the valet whispered.  "Master, that is quite flattering."

"Flattering?" Erast echoed grimly, his amusement evaporating.   "I tried to give it back to them, but they refused.  They said I should use it to leave this lover who was pressuring me to abandon them," he added, giving Kirnov an angry sideways glance. 

"It is a good thing Master can live by his wits," Masa said, stacking the money together and pushing it away from himself.  "If not, he might never get out of bed."

Now would be a good opportunity to question Fandorin about the harem rumor, but Kirnov couldn't find the courage to breath for fear he would be seething with anger.  He prayed feverishly that Erast did not take Masa's innocent suggestion to heart. 

"What I do is no different," Fandorin murmured, putting the money back in the folded, soft brown parchment.  On his knees, he walked to Kirnov, bowed down most humbly, and presented him with the envelope. 

"How is serving the state like prostitution?" Kirnov asked, holding the gift awkwardly in his hands.  It burned like hell fire.   Seeing Erast on his knees and face before him hurt even worse.  This was clearly God's punishment for subjecting Fandorin to sinful temptation again tonight. 

"I use what is my best talent to make a living.  Whether it is my brain or my cock, how is that any different?" Erast wondered,  straightening up in front of Max before bowing to him again, putting his forehead against the floor. 

"Stop doing that," Max whispered.  Erast rose up, glared hard at him, and bowed even lower, displaying just how limber and lithe he was.   Max couldn't help himself.  He imagined again how Erast had spent the evening, how the Morozovi had been so very  blessed to have this wonderful creature in their possession for four hours, obedient to their every whim, there fully for whatever they might crave or request.   How he envied them!  How he wanted this flexible, beautiful creature in his arms, underneath him in bed, whispering his name in ecstasy!  Erast lifted his face from the floor in order to speak, but he kept his eyes lowered. 

"You may think 5000 rubles is impressive, but others with greater talent than I can command even more in compensation.  There is always more I can learn, new tricks, new talents, and that will increase my worth.  However, the truth remains that no matter how much I learn, no matter how useful or servile or intuitive I become, no matter my skill in pleasing my betters, I am only a valuable commodity as long as I can perform the requests of those who command me.   If I wish to eat, to have small pleasures in life, to have freedom of movement, the occasional cigar, I have no choice but to do as they wish of me.   As long as I serve for money, no matter the capacity, I am very much a whore," he concluded contritely. 

Perhaps there was time yet to save him, Kirnov listened, his hopes rising. 

"What in the hell am I supposed to do with this?" Max demanded, tapping Fandorin on the back of the hands with the envelope of money.  Erast pushed the touch away.

"Do as you will with it.  Your whore has earned it for you."

The bite of those words was impossible to ignore.  God's own fury blazed at Max from Erast's wounded eyes.  The young man rose straight from his subservient bow to his full standing height in a single fluid motion of unspeakably-beautiful grace.  He turned on one slender foot, and strode from the room without another word.   Masa and Max stared at each other in embarrassed silence.  Glass things started to break in the room across the hall.  Masa's face filled with fear.  Fandorin howled out an indecipherable word in another language, his voice mangled by grief and anger.  More glass things broke in quick succession.   Fandorin screamed again, and this time the scream died away in muffled sobs.  Masa leapt to his feet, bowed to Max, and left the room. 

SEVEN – IN WHICH BLOOD RUNS COLD

Breakfast at nine with Prince Dolgorukoi was conducted without a single hint of the uncharacteristic emotional display seven hours previous.  Erast Petrovich was chilly, serene, and impeccably polite with Maximillian Pavlovich.  Although neither of them displayed outward signs of discord, Prince Dolgorukoi was no fool.  The clues were there for the Governor-General.  He was undeniably concerned.   What was he seeing that Max did not?  Fandorin was his usual cold and stiff self.    The only oddity that Kirnov could detect in Fandorin's person was that he was not wearing cologne today.  Kirnov surmised that the many crashes of glass had been small bottles of scent being smashed into thousands of pieces on the floor.   

Taking respectful turns, Fandorin and Kirnov reported their findings of the previous day.  Kirnov had made arrangements to meet with the Morozovi, and Fandorin had questioned them about the case while Kirnov had waited outside a short distance away.  On the surface it was the truth.  The Morozovi were removed from the list of suspects because neither Max nor Erast believed they could be responsible for the killings.   Dolgorukoi couldn't help but agree.  He decided that their next move should be a closer, individual inspection of the remaining suspect, Mr. Zima-Volkov.  The manner of action would be left to their discretion with the caveat that all due caution would be exercised and all due haste applied. 

And then the prince spoke pleasantly about his upcoming holiday to France, and how he hoped to see Paris in the spring, and how he was looking forward to sunshine and flowers and would this eternal snow never stop?   He proposed that Fandorin should consider a small holiday once this case was concluded.  Erast had sent his assistant Anisii Tulipov on a holiday, packed him off with his sister and a nurse in tow.  So why couldn't Fandorin allow himself a small escape for a week or two?  When was the last time Fandorin had taken an extended holiday?  Dolgorukoi suggested Constantinople or perhaps Rome, and Venice was beyond lovely in the spring.   The dread chill around Fandorin melted slightly, and he admitted he had not been to Constantinople for many years, that he wasn't overly fond of Italy on the whole, and it would be nice to have some strong Turkish coffee again.   

Kirnov interrupted Fandorin's reminiscing about scalding beverages to offer to meet later to discuss their plan of action.   Would six in the evening be appropriate? Erast had calmly replied that Masa would be home at six, and Max was welcome to call at that time.  What was left unsaid was whether Erast himself would be home at that time, but Max decided not to pursue the matter.  He left them to discuss coffee presses and the perfect roasting factor for several  particular types of coffee beans.    

"Tell me about the finest coffee you have ever tasted," Dolgorukoi cajoled Fandorin as Max was leaving.  Kirnov was wearing a hint of a smile.  It did not sting that he was able to leave without being missed, or even properly dismissed.  Maximillian Pavlovich was under no illusions about who the prince loved best.  

Kirnov was surprised however when he received a summons to bring himself back to the palace that afternoon at precisely two.  Max received the message by courier at a coffee shop down the street from the university office of Asian Studies.  He had planted himself there in front of the window in order to watch the comings and goings of Professor Zima-Volkov, but frankly, he wasn't sure the bastard was even there.  His prime suspect could have walked right past the window Max was staring out of for hours on end, and Kirnov wouldn't have known the difference or likely cared.

Max had spent the rest of the morning and the afternoon composing the apology he would be delivering to Erast this evening, because clearly he had done something unforgivably cruel.   The trick was not in composing the proper apology.  The most difficult struggle would be in keeping himself composed and not throwing himself at Erast's feet and begging forgiveness in sobbing, halting breaths.  It was going to take a will of iron not to make a complete ass of himself one way or another.   Either Max was going to start sobbing, or Max was going to drag Erast horizontal and pleasure him senseless, or Max was going to open his stupid mouth and alienate Erast finally and completely.   Whatever happened, it would all be Prince Dolgorukoi's fault, because that manipulative bastard had brought the two men together in the first place, and he should have known, he HAD to have known the kind of turmoil he was going to cause. 

When Kirnov galloped back to headquarters with scant minutes to spare, Fandorin was nowhere to be seen.  Max had been hoping for a chance meeting in public, where the apology could be delivered, which would put pressure on both of them to be kind and understanding and above all else polite and unemotional.  The Governor-General was in a terrible fury, and Dolgorukoi made no attempt to hide his wrath.   Even Frol was testy with Kirnov.  Max had barely closed the door to the prince's private study when Dolgorukoi lashed out at him.

"Maximillian Pavlovich, you will apologize immediately for whatever it is that you have done to Erast Petrovich.  Is that clear?"

"Excellency, what did he say to you?"  There was no point in Kirnov denying the seriousness of the situation.  He simply needed to know which particular facts Fandorin had relayed.   

"Fandorin said nothing.  He would not tell me what had occurred, no matter how I coerced and whispered to him.   But he was furious with you, and he was terribly hurt.   While I have seen him furious a handful of times, I have never seen him that upset."

"Your Excellency, I - - -"

"He kept repeating to me that he interrogated the suspects while you waited outside.  I would be curious to know, Mr. Kirnov, why you waited outside.  Why was it necessary that you wait outside?"

"If I could explain myself….."

"Don't bother!  I suspect I may not want to know!"

"He told you nothing?"

"We sat here, staring out the windows, watching the snow, and he didn't say a word for forty-five minutes.   For forty-five minutes, Kirnov, he let me talk my fill.   Have you ever known him to keep his mouth shut that long?  I fell asleep, and when I woke up, he was asleep too.   Frol gave us warm cocoa, and again we said nothing of consequence for an hour or more.   We talked about France again.  I very nearly promised I would take him there.  Could he be pining for Opraksina?  Is that what is wrong?  But no, no.  He did not mention her once.  That isn't the problem.  You!  You are the problem, Mr. Kirnov!   I gave Fandorin his leave around noon.  He was going to go shopping, he said, in preparation for tonight.  Could he bring me anything?  Only this killer, I told him.  He left, promising me he would do his best."

"Shopping?" Kirnov puzzled.  "What for?"

"I didn't ask!" Dolgorukoi bellowed. 

"May I be excused?" Max whispered. 

"Why?" the prince demanded.

"I have a terrible feeling," Kirnov whispered, putting a hand over his heart.   "My blood is running cold."

"What do I care if you have a terrible feeling?"

"Fandorin left here at noon?"

"Yes."

"He has been at large for more than two hours!   He would never let time like that go idle, would he?"

"No."

"That is why I have a terrible feeling," Kirnov shuddered.    

EIGHT – IN WHICH TIME IS TURNED AROUND

"I have been unwittingly cruel to you, and I beg your forgiveness."

Kirnov had practiced the words all morning and all afternoon.   He chanted the contrite speech over and over in his head as he walked to Fandorin's small house on Malaya Nikitskaya Street.  The master was not home, and Masa was most concerned.  Max borrowed the phone to call headquarters.  On command from Kirnov, officers and gendarme from headquarters spread out around the city in search of the last known whereabouts of either Erast Fandorin or Professor Zima-Volkov. 

"I should never have asked you to do those things last night.  It was unforgiveable, and it was wrong, and I am utterly, completely, terribly sorry."

Fandorin had been spotted in a bookstore near the university between one and two.  The clerk was the daughter of the owner, a blushing sweet creature of sixteen, and she remembered Erast Petrovich very well.  Why was Kirnov not surprised?  Fandorin had purchased several books on Asian history, and the clerk had noticed that he was carrying two paper parcels from other stores.  One parcel had contained a length of thin rope.  The second parcel had contained expensive cologne.   If the parcels had been wrapped, how had she determined their contents?  She had guessed the contents of the first because of the shape and weight of the package.  She had learned the contents of the second because she had accidently undone the binding, and the bottle had slipped out.   Luckily it had not broken.  Kirnov wondered if that was the true extent of the tale, because her counter, her sleeves, her hands and her right cheek were touched with the same light musk that Fandorin preferred. 

The professor had taught a class at the university at noon.  It had lasted until two.   He had received a letter by courier which had produced the most profound excitement and agitation in the meek, quiet man.  He had dismissed the rest of his lectures for the day.  At two fifteen in the afternoon, the professor had taken a droshky to Chinatown, and he had not been seen since.   Ironically, if Max had been in the coffee shop and had not been summoned back to the palace, he would indeed have seen the professor racing past. 

So that narrowed their search to hotels expensive and inexpensive in the Chinatown district, and if one took into account boarding houses, and backrooms, and establishments where an extra ruble here and there could allow a room and privacy, there were merely hundreds of possible places where even as they searched, Erast Fandorin could be dying in a manner most unpleasant.  The gendarme started at the Pretty Peacock and threw every room, nook, cranny, cupboard, and armoire to pieces, and yet no sign of Fandorin had been recovered.

A thousand years passed as the canvass spread out in all directions of the compass. 

Kirnov's demons were mocking him again.  He was driving his fellow officers and gendarme mercilessly, but he had no choice.  He was being tormented by two equally-ruinous horrors—that Fandorin would be dead before they found him, and that Fandorin would beat him to the goal of revealing the killer's identity.  And knowing Erast Petrovich the way he did, Kirnov knew the smug bastard would probably happily go to his grave if it meant he would be able to whisper for all eternity 'I beat Max Kirnov at his own game'. 

Two streets had been systematically searched by three in the afternoon. 

Four streets were completed by three thirty.

Six streets had been finished by four.  Still there was no cause for hope.

At five, they found a sign of God's willingness to forgive.  Fandorin's favorite walking cane and a book of Japanese history written by Professor Zima-Volkov were located in an upstairs room at the Righteous Path.   Fandorin's favorite musk lingered in the air.  Well, if it couldn't be interpreted as a sign from above, it might at least be considered a goddamn clue.   If that wasn't enough, there was a calling card for L'Hotel Cerulean face up by the telephone. 

* * *

"The gendarme seem excited over there.  They are conducting a house by house search," Zima-Volkov commented as he peered out the window and took off his glasses in order to rub the lenses clean. 

"Rather a frantic one by the looks of it," Fandorin confirmed, and not without a tiny smile.  The professor replaced his glasses, and Fandorin returned to his chair and his book.  "Shall we continue?"

"I've heard a murderer has been praying on young men," he whispered. 

"Perhaps they have uncovered a lead?" Erast whispered back, shrugging one shoulder.   "I'm not in charge of the case.  I couldn't tell you."

"I don't know about you, but it would not do for me to be discovered here," Zima-Volkov said nervously. 

"Nor me either one," Fandorin confided.  "Is there…somewhere else…..somewhere more private where we might adjourn?"

"Your home, perhaps?" Zima-Volkov ventured.

"My valet might find it curious.  Your home?"

"It won't do," Zima-Volkov shook his head, giving no further explanation.

"I've an idea," Erast murmured.  He leaned off-balance sideways out of the chair and retrieved his coat from the bedpost, and began rifling through the pockets for his wallet.  His jade beads unfurled on the covers.  His cane tipped sideways and rolled under the bed.  He uncovered small name cards from hotels around the city.  His slim fingers tipped cards left and right and all directions, until finally they emerged from the pile of hotel cards holding a silver-trimmed, pearl colored beauty with blue writing on it.  Erast climbed out of the chair and went to the telephone.   He showed the professor the card in his hand – L'Hotel Cerulean.  Zima-Volkov offered a half smile and a nod.

"I don't believe I've ever been there," the man said quietly. 

"Watch them and make sure they aren't getting closer," Fandorin motioned to the window.  The professor agreed at once, greedily snagging Erast's beads off the bed in order to study them.   

"Jade—the stone of healing, of judgment, of spiritual growth, of immortality," he said on his way to the window. 

"And protection against harm," Erast whispered.   An anxious Fandorin watched Zima-Volkov as the scholar caressed the beads most covetously.  While his first impulse was to retrieve them, Erast allowed this small transgression in hopes of making the professor more assured that he was in control of the situation.   Erast clicked the telephone receiver and dialed home, praying Masa would pick up quickly.   He was not disappointed. 

"Is this L'Hotel Cerulean?  I'd like a room, please.  A room!  I said I'd like a room.  No!  Not a womb!  A room!  ROOM!  Can't you understand me?  Why would a hotel like the Cerulean hire someone who can't speak Russian to answer their phone?!  Do you want me to call the Metropolitan?  It's right next door!  A room!  Yes!  Do you have one?  There's a helluva mess here in Chinatown.   Police everywhere.  I want a quiet room.  Do you have one?  Oh, thank God.  The name is Fandorin!  Erast Fandorin!  Shall I spell it for you?  No?  All right!  Goodbye!" 

"Any luck?" Zima-Volkov said, returning to Fandorin's side. 

"Yes.  Yes indeed," Erast grinned, clicking the receiver down.    He held out his hand, and Zima-Volkov reluctantly returned the jade beads. 

NINE – IN WHICH SIX ROPES ARE USED 

The first rope didn't hurt.   Fandorin was kneeling naked on the floor beyond the far side of the enormous bed, congratulating himself on having taken the time and care to buy the highest quality hemp.   If he was going to surrender himself to the chance of being suffocated by even the most delicate noose, it made sense to get the best.  There should be less bruising, and he would leave a better-looking corpse to present to the world if matters should get completely out of hand. 

The second rope didn't hurt either.  Truth be told, as the twisted fibers were stroked against his naked thighs, Erast was holding his breath to keep from moaning.  This was not something Max Kirnov was going to understand, not in a thousand years.   There weren't enough silk paintings or words to relay how wonderful this felt.  It had to be experienced, and Max was simply never going to let himself lose this much control, because control was all that Kirnov seemed to understand or desire. 

The third rope was applied and Erast's limbs began to tingle, just a slight bit, but there was nothing wrong with that.  Not at all! Fandorin was beginning to anticipate which pattern Zima-Volkov was going to use.  Same as victim number three.  At least that could be counted as corroborating evidence, Erast whispered gleefully to himself.  He allowed a smile to show through.  Zima-Volkov paused, stroking down the side of his bound torso, his hand touching skin and rope and skin again. 

"Do you like it so far?  You did say this was what you wanted."

"Very much," Erast whispered.   He earned a smile from the professor, for the truth of the words was evident between his legs.  The fourth rope was applied, pulling his arms behind his back, and from there it snaked down and separated to his ankles on either side of him.  Fandorin was not nervous in the least until he found that moving even an inch to his left or his right was no longer possible unless he lifted his entire body as one.  Up and down was possible, and this was not a coincidence. 

"Is there something more you would like?"  

Victim number two had been wearing a blindfold, but victim number four had worn a gag.  Which one to choose to put Zima-Volkov most at ease?

The professor tipped Fandorin's head back, running his fingers through his hair.  Lips teased the side of his brow and words dropped down into his ear.

"I have a surprise for you, because you have been such a good boy."

Fandorin hoped that surprise wasn't pointy, metallic or ballistic in nature.   It proved to be silken, teasing whispers of pleasure from the young man.  A blindfold was stroked over his skin and up his body, then it was twisted with the greatest care over his eyes and tied into his hair.  The ends were left to dangle with the rope that held his ankles and arms.   

The fifth rope was wound around his hips and thighs and knees in a complicated manner which pulled his legs apart invitingly.   Even from this interesting position, Fandorin was working.  He had started to worry that the cry of entrapment might be raised.  He tried to puzzle his way to an argument which disproved he was being both willing and coercive in this situation.  Willing?  Undoubtedly.   However, though money changing hands denoted a purchased willingness, the fact of the matter remained that agreeing to have sex, even agreeing to have sex for money, was not the same thing as agreeing to let someone strangle you.   In short, all bets were off. 

When feathery kisses started to trail down his chest towards his navel and over his abdomen, Erast understandably lost his train of thought.  He discovered that lying backwards on the floor with his legs folded up at his sides was perfectly possible, even preferred.  While it was mildly disconcerting to be able to touch his elbows to the bottoms of his feet, it wasn't all bad.  His head was filled with dizzy remembrances of the first night he had spent in Countess Opraksina's bed.  She had tied him spread eagle and tormented his cock with silk scarves and twists of pearls and the length of her tongue and feathery kisses that drove him insane.   He had spent a week captive in her St. Petersburg house (hardly leaving the bed) before she had unwillingly released him to return to Moscow and duty.   He had lost his heart, and she had gained a devoted slave. 

Erast was panting and writhing (alas, most carefully) when Zima-Volkov finally swallowed him.   There was nowhere to go but inside that dangerous heaven, and nowhere else he wanted to be.   He even shamelessly hoped for a second or two that Masa had not had time yet to find one of the gendarme in Chinatown and race to the Cerulean.  Would his friend remember the time they had come here, pretending to be from the Japanese consulate?  The occasion had been Masa's birthday.  They had rented the penthouse suite for three days, and had ravaged half the maids that had crossed their path.  Very gently ravaged.  Ah, truth be told, the maids had done more than their own fair share of ravaging, as far as Erast was concerned. 

The first bit of disagreeable pain was confronted silently when Zima-Volkov refused to complete what he had begun.   That is to say that he would not let Erast come.   It was simply unpleasant and to be endured.   It was not the first time he had been left hanging.  Hopefully not the last time either, he thought wryly.   

To his surprise, Erast heard the unexpected slide of clothing across the bare floor and across skin.  Was the professor getting dressed?  No.  The tell-tale jangle of unseen objects spoke a different tale.  He was rummaging in Fandorin' s pockets.   Whatever for?  Fandorin trembled when he heard the clatter of his beads against each other. 

"What are you doing?" Erast whispered hoarsely, gasping for air. 

The second bit of disagreeable pain was confronted with a surprised shout when his jade beads were wound around his genitals, clenched tightly to the point right beyond pleasure.   Remaining even one point past pleasure was enough to bring another shout, but his second cry was smothered with a salty kiss.    The kiss was replaced by a tight gag, and a sixth rope was introduced—this one around his throat.   Matters had fallen out of his hands now, and all depended on outside forces he could not control.   That position was by far the most uncomfortable to endure. 

TEN – IN WHICH FANDORIN FINDS PEACE

"Please.  Please. Oh. God.  Please."

The words were whispered against Erast's cheek by someone above and behind him.   Rough, scrabbling fingers yanked the gag away from his mouth.  They moved down his sides, touching rope, then skin, then rope, then skin before grasping his ribs and tugging him into a seated position.   Someone slapped his cheek and chin repeatedly. 

"BREATHE!!" Max Kirnov screamed directly into Fandorin's ear, from in front of him. Erast jolted and struggled to inhale, and shook his head side to side.  There was a prick of pain on the back of his neck as the rope around his throat was cut, and then unwound.  He took a deep, rasping breath, and Kirnov gave a sigh of relief. 

"You're going to be the death of me.  Why can't you do as you're told?" Max pleaded with him.  These words were brushed to Fandorin's neck and cheek—clearly Kirnov didn't want to be overheard.  Even the slightest rush of pleasure was causing Erast a thousand torrents of pain.   Lips tantalized the edge of his cheek, and his entire body tensed in anticipation and dread.  He titled his head back and gave a dizzy moan.  When had he blacked out?  Where was Zima-Volkov?  Max moved around to face him, cupped his cheeks in large palms, holding his head steady.

"Fandorin, can you hear me?"

Erast gave a slow rasp and tried to refrain from passing out again.

"He went down the back stairs!" another officer shouted from the doorway.

"Goddamn it!  Go after him!" Kirnov bellowed like an enraged battle general.    The very next second, a much-different voice entered Erast's ear.   "Shh, shh.  Let me get you out of this.  Not to worry, peacock," Max soothed, letting the silken material of the blindfold fall down Fandorin's bare skin.   It tickled as it left. 

One arm came loose as the bonds were cut.  Erast let the limb hang limp at his side.   His second arm came loose, and it hung as useless as the first.  The tiny knife Kirnov was using to release him slid under the rope holding Erast's thighs apart, then under the bonds on his ankles.  Fandorin was shuddering non-stop, feeling like a spider whose web was being demolished around her. 

"Stupid, reckless, foolish," Kirnov was muttering, his voice growing louder.  "Were you trying to get yourself killed?  What were you thinking?"

Max faltered in his task when Erast whimpered softly.   Kirnov echoed a sympathetic sound in return, caressing Fandorin's shoulder. 

"I'm sorry.  I promise not to scream at you, not until you are better.  Then I plan to call you all kinds of filthy names and scream at you quite vociferously," Max said cruel words in a soothing voice. Erast struggled not to snort because he was afraid the laughter might turn into sobs from there.  The ropes cinched tight around Fandorin's chest and back came loose more slowly.  He could feel the indentations that remained down in his skin.  He could take a deep breath for the first time in days, it seemed.  He was nearly free.  Nearly.  There was one last bond to cut. Erast leaned his cheek against Max's shoulder, and steeled himself, hoping he could keep his mouth shut against what was coming. 

"Let me….um….I do apologize, but….sorry, peacock."

Erast howled in pain at the touch of rough fingers against his member.  Max was trying to decide how to hold him without hurting him and yet be able to release the strand of beads wound tightly into his flesh.  The tiny knife blade touched bruised skin, and the lower half of Erast's body, out of reflex and instinct, jerked itself back from the sharp implement.  He heard the precious beads splashing to the wooden floor, rolling away like a thousand raindrops.   A sob escaped Erast's throat.  Another followed before he could quiet himself.  He sank his face against Max's skin and encountered the taste of snow and wind.   Max touched him very personally, massaging gently, handling most carefully before letting go again.

"I'm sorry.  I gave you a tiny little cut.  All better?" Max whispered, his voice gentle even if his hands were rough.  Erast was losing his battle to stay awake.  He was collapsing into Kirnov's shoulder, hiding his face in Max's warm neck.  He couldn't lift his arms, but that didn't matter.   Kirnov rolled Fandorin carefully onto his side, and pulled a blanket off the bed to cover him.  The feeling began to return to his legs.  They unfurled by degrees.  Fandorin's face slid down onto Kirnov's chest.  Max murmured comforting words, lifting Fandorin like a feather as Erast lost consciousness.

He awoke to the whisper of Japanese and the smell of home.  Involuntary tears rose up behind his eyes.   Someone had bathed and dressed him, nestled him into soft blankets and cushioned him with luxurious pillows.   A now-familiar rough hand caressed the curve of his jaw.  He could hear Kirnov's commanding voice right above him, and he tensed in shame and terror too. 

"Thank God.  He's coming around finally.  Masa, I'm going back to the station.  Don't let him get out of this bed!"

Masa responded to Kirnov's Russian bark with a quiet sigh of Japanese, but it was clear they understood each other and were in agreement.  Hot breath on his ear and neck made Fandorin shudder in remembrance.   He raised his arms defensively. 

"Don't worry, peacock.  Get some rest."

Kirnov left a small breath, a touch (a kiss?) on the tip of Erast's ear, and then vanished off the edge of the bed.   Masa was now next to Fandorin, helping him lift his head.  Erast forced himself to sit up, and he stayed there even though the effort made his head pound.   Masa put a cup of tea against his master's mouth and let him drink.  Fandorin swallowed quickly and painfully, and regretted it when he tasted strong black tea (the one used for ritual purifications, if he recalled correctly).   

Fandorin avoided Masa's worried eyes, keeping his own gaze locked on his hands in his lap.   His friend took the cup away and carefully dabbed a sweet smelling liniment on his bruised lips, then massaged his throat as well.  Fandorin wasn't sure when Kirnov left the room.  For a few seconds he could feel those penetrating eyes on him, and the next time he chanced looking up, the doorway was empty except for shadows.  Fandorin trembled and stared down into his lap again, drawing his feet away from the gathering gloom, pulling his knees to his chest.  Masa didn't chide him or scold him.  Things must have been very close.  He bid Erast drink a little more tea and he started speaking in a hushed tone.

"You looked into the darkness again, didn't you, Master?"

Fandorin nodded wordlessly. 

"Hm," Masa whispered.  "Did the darkness look back?"

Fandorin quivered in reply. 

"Not good," Masa shook his head, wrinkling his nose.  "Two day ritual not enough.  Three day ritual necessary.  Five day ritual better.   All right with you?"

Sticks of incense burned near the bed in Masa's small shrine.  They were filling the room with smoke and mist and memories.   Short candles burned there as well.  Their light washed over the Seated Buddha's stomach and over the offerings that littered the bottom of the wooden vessel around his form– golden coins, one of Erast's favorite pears, two bagels, an emerald green ribbon.  Fandorin felt a lump rise in his throat when the candle light caught the upright stem and glorious petals of a bright purple orchid which had been sacrificed for him.  Things must have been very close indeed for Masa to have put a living object into the shrine.  But who had put the shot-glass of cherry brandy in there?  

"Kirnov-san left these for you.  I will restring them, good as new."

Masa indicated a large teacup next to the shrine, where Fandorin's unfettered jade beads glowed in the flicking candle light.   Erast's face was transformed by regret and misery, and he fought with himself. 

"I will find silk threads.  You stay?"

Masa made to move away from the bed, but Erast reached out one hand, clutching uneasily at the edge of his friend's robe.  The movement displaced Fandorin's sleeve, and revealed the purple and blue snaking bruises around his wrists and up his forearm.  Fandorin froze in place, his eyes widening in horror.  So much for that very expensive rope and less bruising! He began to shiver, wondering what he must look like all over.  Masa carefully picked up the hand, tenderly squeezing it in both of his own.  He surreptitiously covered the bruises once more.  He was searching Fandorin's face in concern.  Intangible fears were there before Fandorin could conceal them. 

"Sleep, danna.   Do not worry.  Darkness is powerless here," Masa promised.  He guided Erast back down to the covers.  Fandorin curled up on his side next to the strong tree that Masa had made of himself in the middle of the bed.  He trembled for a moment from the unbearable chill in his bones.  He knew he was falling to sleep and he did not have the strength to fight.   "Sleep, danna," Masa repeated softly. 

With one hand, he reached down, stroking his master's shoulder and the nape of his neck in careful, gentle circles.    He let go of Erast's hand long enough to bundle the covers closer.  The bed titled slightly, and Fandorin felt Masa sitting closer to him and leaning over him protectively.  Soothing humming filtered around Erast.  It was reverberating inside his throbbing skull and distracting him from the pain and fear which lurked in every corner.  There was no need to fight sleep.  Erast could relinquish himself for an hour or so.  Surely that wouldn't be out of bounds—an hour of dearly-bought sleep before pulling himself out of bed and getting back to work? He had a case to close, after all.  Fandorin pushed the darkness away with one peaceful breath, and followed it with a second.   

ELEVEN – IN WHICH TEA IS ANTICIPATED

"How was France, Your Excellency?"

"Mr. Kirnov, France was beautiful as ever.  How is Moscow?  In good condition, I trust?"

"A den of thieves and whores and villains and saints and martyrs and holy fools."

"Just as I left it?" Dolgorukoi was laughing, glancing around the theatre house at the unsuspecting audience. 

"Except for the snow.  It has finally begun to melt."

"I missed it," the prince whispered, raising his glasses to his eyes.    "Wonderful.  Erastushka is here.  I need to scold him.  I was informed that Opraksina was back in Moscow."

"She was here briefly.  She and her husband were fighting.  She was using Fandorin to make the Count jealous.  It was a temporary invasion, nothing serious."

"Why can't Erast say no to her?"

"The secret to that, I have discovered! At ten she arrived at the train station.  At eleven she was in her carriage, headed for Malaya Nikitskaya Street.    By twelve fifteen, she had Fandorin out of his clothes and flat on the floor of the study.   That woman fucks like a wild mink!  I was quite worried for Erast's safety." 

"Look at how she makes him glow," the prince chuckled, taking his glasses away. 

"He is downright luminescent tonight, isn't he?  But it's not because of the Countess.  She left last week.  I was never so glad to see the backside of a woman in all my life."  

"If not the Countess, who else has brought this healthy color to Erast Petrovich?  The last time I saw him, he was pale as death itself.   After what he went through, to show up the next morning and make his report to me in person?  I could not believe he wasn't in the hospital.  I remember how you screamed at him too!  Did he at least take my advice and go on holiday?"

"No, he did not, and I warned him you'd be cross if he spent two months sulking around Moscow while you were away," Kirnov promised, hiding his eyes behind his own glasses and staring across the audience.  

"He won't leave for a second if he fears you're going to replace him."

"Nonsense.  His fears are unfounded.  He is irreplaceable, and we both know that."

"You no longer find him to be—what were your words?  An impossible, arrogant prick?  An officious tit?"

"He's an officious tit, all right.  He is all of that and more," Kirnov shrugged.  "I have begun Japanese lessons, by the way."

"Have you indeed?  So, Mr. Kirnov, you will be ready for the next mad killer who speaks Oriental tongues, will you?  Very good!  Is Erastushka an admirable teacher?"

"He is," Kirnov answered crisply.  Dolgorukoi waited a beat, smiled with wolfish amusement, and covered his own eyes with his looking glasses. 

"The case has been closed against Zima-Volkov while I was away?" Dolgorukoi asked.   "Surely with evidence such as Fandorin provided you, there was very little work left to do.  Like breadcrumbs in the forest."

"The case has been closed, in a manner of speaking," Kirnov answered. 

"I don't like the sound of that."

"I regret to report that Zima-Volkov hanged himself in his cell."

"I've told them to take the sheets off the beds in the jail, but no one will listen to me," Dolgorukoi scowled. 

"Bedsheet, nothing.   Someone smuggled a rope in to him.  One of his students.  They were the only ones to visit.  We were very careful to monitor who came and who went."

"Which of his students brought him the rope?"

"I couldn't tell you.  But curiously enough, it was very high quality hemp."

"Why is that at all curious?  A rope is a rope."

"I sticks in my mind as curious, that's all."

"How does Erast seem to you?" the prince asked after a small pause.    "Do you see him often for these Japanese lessons?"

"Twice a week.  We have tea.  We converse.  I'm learning very quickly, he says."

"When do you meet again?"

"Tomorrow afternoon.  He seems none the worse for wear to me," Kirnov shrugged casually, wishing it were the truth.   Even Masa had murmured quietly to Max that he was glad Kirnov was distracting Fandorin with these language lessons because his master was more subdued than usual. 

"I will expect to see you both early tomorrow," Dolgorukoi said, tapping Kirnov on the shoulder with his gloves.  "I will judge for myself how he seems."  

"As you wish, Your Excellency," Kirnov bowed.    The prince made as if to leave, facing the exit and holding his glasses contemplatively as he frowned and then smiled and then frowned again.  Frol had even opened the panels to allow him to go.

"Like a wild mink?" Dolgorukoi lowered his voice, raising a brow, one whisker twitching.

"It was terrifying," Kirnov shuddered.   

"What?  Did she attack him in front of you?"

"We were having lessons, yes.  If Masa hadn't dragged me from the room, I'd have been forced to watch."

"She's very territorial, the Countess.  You should be cautious of her," Dolgorukoi warned on his way out of the secret paneled room.  Frol closed the doors.   

After he had had a quiet minute to realize what the prince had really been saying, Max Kirnov gave a twisted smile to match his tormented soul.  He marveled with unfeigned admiration that the Governor-General was not nearly as ingenuous as he might lead people to believe. 

 Le Fin