Boris Akunin - He Lover of Death

Senka was really desperate to get to that treasure, and as quick as possible.

The passage was about a yard wide, with something trailing down off the ceiling – cobwebs maybe, or dust. And there was squeaking from the floor – rats. They were all over the place in the basements –the motherland of rats, those places were. One of them jumped up on Senka’s boot and sank its teeth into the folds. He shook it off and another jumped on. They had no fear at all!

He stamped his feet: scram, damn you.

He walked on through the passage and every now and then the pointy-nosed grey vermin scuttled from under his feet. Their bright eyes glinted in the darkness, like little drops of water.

The lads had told him that last winter the rats went crazy with hunger, and they ate the nose and ears off a drunk who fell asleep in a basement. They often gnawed at babies if they were left unwatched. Never mind, thought Senka, I ain’t no drunk or little baby. And they can’t bite through these boots.

When the splint burned out, he didn’t light another. What for? There was only one way to go.

It’s hard to say how long he walked in the dark for, but it wasn’t really that long.

He held his hands out and ran them along the walls, afraid of missing a turning or a fork.

He should have been feeling for the ceiling instead. He hit his forehead on a stone – the smack set his ears ringing and he saw stars. He bent his head down, took three short steps, and the walls disappeared from under his hands.

He lit a splint.

The passage had led out into some kind of vault. Could this be the chamber Siniukhin was talking about?

The ceiling here was smooth and curved, and made of narrow bricks – not exactly high, but high enough so he couldn’t reach it. The bricks had flaked away in places, and the chips were lying around on the floor. It wasn’t a very big space, but it wasn’t small either. Maybe twenty paces across from wall to wall.

Senka couldn’t see any chests.

But there was a heap of sticks lying by the wall on the right. When he walked over he saw they weren’t sticks, they were iron rods, all black with age.

It looked like there used to be a door opposite the passage Senka had come out of, but it was blocked off with broken bricks, stones and earth – there was no way through.

So where was the huge treasure that Siniukhin and his family had suffered such a horrible death for?

Maybe it was under the floor, and Siniukhin didn’t have time to say.

Senka went down on all fours and crawled round the floor, knocking as he went. The floor was brick too, and made a hollow sound.

In the middle of the chamber he found a big purse of thick leather, which had turned stiff and hard. It was tattered and useless – but something jingled inside. Now then!

He turned the purse inside out and shook it. Scales or flakes of some kind clinked as they fell to the ground. A couple of handfuls, the pieces no bigger than the nail on his pinkie.

Were they leaves of gold?

It didn’t look like it – they didn’t glitter bright enough.

Senka had heard that you tested gold with your teeth. He gnawed on one of the flakes. It tasted dusty, but there was no way he could bite through it. So maybe it was gold. God only knew.

He tipped the flakes into his pocket and crawled on. He lit another three splints and scrubbed the whole floor with his knees, but still he didn’t find anything more.

Then he sat down on his backside, put his head in his hands, and started feeling miserable.

Some treasure. Was Siniukhin just raving? Or maybe there was a hiding place in the wall.

He jumped to his feet, picked an iron rod out of the heap and started sounding the walls out.

And a fat lot of good that did him – all he got was earache from the noise.

Senka took one of the flakes out of his pocket and held it close to the flame. He could make out a stamp: a man on a horse, some initials. It looked like a coin, only kind of crooked, like someone had chewed it.

Feeling all frustrated, he stuck his hand back in the purse and felt under the lining. He found another flake and then a coin – a proper round coin, bigger than a rouble, with a bearded man stamped on it, and some letters too. It was silver money, Senka realised that straight off. There had quite likely been a whole bagful here, which Siniukhin had taken and hidden. No way he would ever find them now.

There was nothing else for it – Senka set off back along the underground passage, with almost nothing to show for his pains.

Well, a round piece of silver. And those flakes – maybe silver, maybe copper, who could tell? And even if they were silver, they wouldn’t add up to real riches.

He took the iron rod he’d used to tap the walls, to keep the rats away. And he was sure it would come in handy – it had a good hefty feel to it.

Even though there wasn’t any treasure in the vault, when Senka came out of the passage, into the cellar with the brick pillars, he pushed the stones back in place anyway. He’d have to come back with an oil lamp and search a bit better – maybe there was something he’d missed?

On the way out, from the spot where the mole had asked which exit he wanted to go to, Senka turned left, so he wouldn’t wind up in the Old Rags Basement. Walk back past that door, with those eyeless corpses behind it? No thank you, that’s a treat we can do without.

Senka felt amazed at his own daring – after a horror like that, how come he didn’t go haring out of the Yerokha, and even went hunting for treasure? It meant one of two things: either he was a pretty hard case after all, or else he was as greedy as they come – and his greed was stronger than his fear.

That was what he was thinking when he walked through the side door into the Tatar Tavern. When he got outside the flophouse, he screwed his eyes up at the bright light. Well, well, it was morning already, and the sun was gleaming on the bell tower of St Nikola of Podkopai. He’d spent the whole night creeping around underground.

Senka walked along Podkolokolny Lane, looking at how pure and joyous the sky was, with its lacy white doilies. He should have been looking around, instead of staring at the clouds.

He walked straight into someone – as solid as cast bronze. Bruised himself, he did, but whoever it was didn’t even budge.

Oh Lord – it was the Chinaman.

After all these goings-on, Senka had forgotten all about him, but the Chinee was dogged – he’d stayed put in that street all night long. And all for seventy kopecks! If those lousy beads were worth even a three-note, he’d probably have had a fit.

Slanty-eyes smiled: ‘Good moruning, Senka-kun.’ And he stretched out his stubby hand to grab Senka’s collar.

Sod that!

Senka smashed him across the arm with the iron stick out of the vault. That made the nifty heathen pull back sharpish.

Oho, off we go again – the old catch-me-if-you-can routine. Senka spun round and sprinted off down the lane.

Only this time he didn’t get very far. As he went running past a fancy gent (what was a dandy like that doing in Khitrovka?), Senka’s pocket caught on the knob of his cane. It was weird – the stroller’s cane wasn’t jerked right out of his hand, like it should have been. Instead, it was Senka who stopped dead in his tracks.

The dandy pulled the cane lightly towards him, and Senka went with it. He looked respectable all right, with a silk stovepipe hat and starched collars. And he had a smooth face too – handsome he was, only not so young any more, his hair was grey at the temples.

‘Unhook me quick, mister!’ Senka yelled, because the Chinaman was getting quite close. He wasn’t running, just strolling towards them in no great hurry.