Boris Akunin - The Coronation

My opponent proved to be adroit and strong. He struck me again, and when I tried to grab him by the throat, he put his hand in under his coat and brought out a Finnish knife with notches on the blade. I saw those notches as clearly as if he had held them up in front of my eyes.

The terrible man hissed something that was not Russian, but sounded like ‘I’ll kill you like a dog!’ and his bloodshot eyes gaped wide as he swung the knife back.

I tried to remember the words of a prayer, but somehow I could not, although when, you might ask, should one pray, if not at a moment like that?

The knife was raised high, almost up into the sky, but it did not descend. In some magical fashion the wrist of the hand holding the knife was suddenly encircled by fingers in a grey glove.

The bearded man’s face, already contorted, twisted even further out of shape. I heard the soft squelch of a blow, my would-be killer slumped gently to one side and there standing over me in his place was the elegant gentleman in the top hat, but instead of a cane he was holding a short sword, stained with red.

‘Are you alive?’ my rescuer asked in Russian, then immediately turned away and shouted something in a language unfamiliar to me.

I sat up and saw the Chinese pedlar dashing along the path, stamping his feet furiously, with his head down like a bull charging. He was no longer holding his tray; instead his hand was whirling a small metal sphere above his head on a piece of rope.

‘ Iiyai !’ the Oriental grunted in an appalling voice and the sphere went hurtling forward, whistling by only a few vershoks above me.

I jerked round to see where its great speed was carrying it. It flew straight to its target, which proved to be the back of one of the kidnappers’ heads. There was a repulsive crunch and the victim collapsed face down. The other man let go of the princess, swung round adroitly and snatched a revolver out of his pocket. Now I had a chance to take a better look at him, but I still did not see his face, because it was hidden behind a mask of black fabric.

The driver, who was sitting on the coach box, threw off his oilskin to reveal the same kind of black apparel as the two others were wearing, only without a mask. He jumped down onto the ground and ran towards us, also taking something out of his pocket on the way.

I turned to glance at my rescuer. (I am ashamed to admit that during those dramatic moments I lost my bearings completely and did nothing but turn my head this way and that, struggling to keep up with events.) The elegant gentleman took a short swing and flung his sword, but I did not see if he hit his target or not, because an even more improbable sight was presented to my astonished gaze: Mademoiselle Declique came dashing out of the bushes, clutching a hefty branch in one hand and holding up her skirt with the other to reveal a glimpse of well-turned ankle! As she ran towards us her hat flew off, her hair fluttered loose at her temples, but I had never seen her look more attractive.

‘ J’arrive !’ she shouted. ‘ J’arrive !’ 7

It was only then that I realised the shamefulness of my own conduct. I got to my feet and dashed to the assistance of the unfamiliar gentleman and the Chinese.

Alas, my assistance was no longer required.

The thrown sword had found its mark – the man in the mask was lying on his back, feebly stirring his legs, with a strip of steel protruding from his chest. It ended in a silver knob, and now I realised where the handsome gentleman had got his sword – it had been concealed in his cane.

And as for the coachman, the agile Chinese had dealt with him in excellent fashion. Before the bandit could even take his weapon out of his pocket, the Oriental leaped high into the air and struck his opponent a flying blow to the chin with his foot. The shattering impact jerked the coachman’s head back with a crack so sharp that not even the very strongest of cervical vertebrae could possibly have withstood it. He threw up his arms and collapsed onto his back.

By the time Mademoiselle Declique joined us with her menacing branch, it was all over.

The first thing I didwas to help Her Highness up – thank God, she was quite unhurt, simply feeling stunned.

Then I turned to the stranger.

‘Who are you, sir?’ I asked, although of course I ought first to have thanked him for saving us, whoever he might be.

Xenia Georgievna rectified my blunder.

‘Thank you,’ she said, looking intently at the man with the black hair and white temples. ‘You saved us all. I am Grand Princess Xenia Georgievna. The boy who was with me is Mika, the Grand Duke Mikhail Georgievich. And these are my friends, Mademoiselle Declique and Mr Ziukin.’

The stranger bowed respectfully to Her Highness, doffed the top hat that had miraculously remained on his head throughout the commotion and introduced himself, stumbling over his words slightly, probably because he was quite understandably embarrassed to find himself facing a member of the royal family: ‘Erast P-Petrovich Fandorin.’

He did not add anything else, from which it was possible to conclude that Mr Fandorin did not hold any position in the state service and was a private individual.

‘And this is my valet, or perhaps b-butler, I’m not sure which is more correct. His name is Masa, he is Japanese,’ said Fandorin, indicating the pugnacious pedlar, who in turn bowed low from the waist and remained bent over.

So it turned out that the elegant gentleman was not embarrassed at all but simply had a slight stammer, that the Chinese was not Chinese at all, and finally that the Oriental and I were in a certain sense professional colleagues.

‘And who are these people, Erast Petrovich?’ Her Highness asked, pointing timidly to the hapless kidnappers lying completely motionless. ‘Are they unconscious?’

Before replying, the dark-haired man went to each of the four men lying on the ground in turn, felt the arteries in their necks and shook his head four times. The last one he examined was the dreadful man with the beard. Fandorin turned him over onto his back and even to me, a man totally ignorant in such matters, it was perfectly clear that he was dead – the gleam of his motionless eyes was so completely lifeless. But Fandorin leaned down lower over the body, took hold of the beard between his finger and thumb and gave it a sudden jerk.

Her Highness cried out in surprise, and such crude familiarity with death seemed indecent even to me. However, the black beard parted easily from the face andwas left in Fandorin’s hand.

I saw that the dead man’s crimson features were pitted with pockmarks and he had a forked white scar on his cheek.

‘This is the famous Warsaw bandit Lech Penderetski, also kn-known as Blizna, which means Marked One or Scar,’ Fandorin stated calmly, as if he were introducing someone he knew well, and then added, almost to himself: ‘So that’s what’s going on . . .’

‘Are all these men really dead?’ I asked, realising with a sudden shudderwhat a terrible situation the royal family could find itself in as a result of this incident. If some stroller were to peep round the corner now, the scandal that broke out would echo round the world. Just think of it . . . an attempt to kidnap a cousin of the Russian tsar! Four men killed! And some Warsaw bandit or other! The sacred solemnity of the coronation ceremony would be completely shattered!

‘We have to get them into the carriage immediately!’ I exclaimed with a fervour untypical of me in normal circumstances. ‘Will your butler consent to assist me?’

While the Japanese and I piled the bodies into the carriage, I felt terribly anxious that someone might catch us engaged in this rather disreputable activity. Everything about the business was far from customary for me. Not only was there blood flowing down my face from my bruised forehead and broken lip, I had also stained my new promenading tunic with blood that was not my own.