Free He Lover of Death by Boris Akunin Page B

racket, eh, Speedy?’ Sprat asked in a whisper.
    ‘But what if the Ghoul only put his men in the barn just in case? Because he was afraid the Prince might try something? Then it’s the shiv for you and me.’
    Senka was really afraid of making a racket. What if that Yoshka started firing bullets through the ceiling?
    Sprat whispered: ‘Who can tell. . . OK, let’s watch for a bit.’
    The men in the meadow finished their papyroses and threw them away.
    The Prince was the first to speak. ‘Why didn’t you come with your Jack?’
    ‘Yoshka’s teeth have been bothering him, his cheek’s swollen right up. And why do I need my Jack? I’m not afraid of you, Prince. You’re the one who’s scared of me. You brought Deadeye along. A woman’s a match for you.’
    Manka chuckled in a loud, deep voice.
    The Prince and Deadeye locked eyes once more. Senka saw Deadeye drum his fingers on his cane. Maybe they’d guessed there was something shady going on.
    ‘If you want to bring a woman, that’s your business.’ The Prince put his hands on his hips. ‘Lording it over women is all you’re good for. When I’m the ace, I’ll let you run the mamselles of Khitrovka. It’ll be just the job for you.’
    The Ghoul didn’t rise to the bait, he just smiled and cracked his long fingers: ‘Of course, you, Prince, are an outstanding hold-up artist, a man on the make, but you’re still wet behind the ears. What kind of ace would you make? It’s barely five minutes since you got your deck together. And you’re far too reckless. Every last nark in Moscow’s after you, but I’m a safe pair of hands. Do the decent thing and stand down.’
    The words were peaceable, but the voice was jeering – you could see he was riling the Prince, trying to wind him up.
    The Prince said: ‘I soar like an eagle, but you scrounge like a jackal, you feed on carrion! You’re a fine talker but Moscow isn’t big enough for the two of us! You’ve got to be under me, or . . .’ And he slashed a finger across his throat.
    The Ghoul licked his lips, cocked his head and said slowly, almost gently: ‘Or what, my little Prince? Be under you . . . or death, is that it? And what if that Death of yours has already been under me? She’s a handsome girl. Soft to lie on, springy, like a duck-down bed . . .’
    Manka laughed again, and the Prince turned crimson – he knew what the Ghoul meant. And the Ghoul got what he wanted – he’d driven his enemy wild with fury.
    The Prince lowered his head, howled like a wolf and went for the man who had insulted him.
    But Manka and the Ghoul obviously had everything arranged. He jumped to the left and she jumped to the right, stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled.
    Down below the hay rustled, a door banged and Yoshka flew from the barn, though the other two stayed put. He had a shooter in his hand – black, with a long barrel.
    ‘Stop right there!’ he cried. ‘Look this way. You know me, old friend, I never miss.’
    The Prince froze on the spot.
    ‘So that’s how you operate, is it, Ghoul?’ he asked. ‘No respect for the rules?’
    ‘Quite correct, little my Princeling, quite correct. I’ve got brains, and the rules aren’t made for people like me. Now both of you get down on the ground. Get down, or Yoshka will shoot you.’
    The Prince grinned, as if he thought that was funny. ‘You don’t have brains, Ghoul, you’re a fool. You’re no match for the Council. You’re done for now. I don’t have to do a thing, the grandfathers will do it all for me. Let’s lie down, Deadeye, and take a rest. The Ghoul’s condemned himself.’
    And he lay down on his back, crossed one leg over the other and took out a papyrosa.
    Deadeye looked at him, and trailed the toe of his low boot across the ground – he must have been feeling bad about his suit – and lay down too, on his side, his head propped on his hand and his cane by his side.
    ‘Well, now what?’ the Prince asked. Then, turning to