She Lover of Death: The Further Adventures of Erast Fandorin by Boris Akunin

silent, and let me state immediately for the benefit of the gentlemen of the police that Lavr Zhemailo will never, under any circumstances, even under threat of imprisonment, betray his helpers and informants.
    My meeting with the high priest of the sinister sect of worshippers of death commenced in a dark and gloomy cellar, the location of which has remained a mystery to me since my cicerone delivered me there with a blindfold over my eyes. I could smell damp earth, several times cobwebs dangling from the ceiling brushed across my face and once a bat flew past with a loathsome squeak. After this prelude, I felt sure I would see some appalling vault with slimy walls, but when the blindfold was removed, there was a rather pleasant disappointment in store for me. I was standing in a spacious, superbly furnished room that resembled the drawing room of a rich house: a crystal chandelier, bookcases, chairs with carved backs, a round table like those that are used for spiritualist seances. The person I spoke to told me to call him ‘Doge’. Naturally, he was wearing a mask, so that I could see only his long, snow-white hair, small grey beard and exceptionally keen, or rather, I should say, piercing eyes. The Doge’s voice proved to be resonant and beautiful, and at times quite spellbinding. There can be no doubt that he is a talented and exceptional individual.
    ‘I know you, Mr Zhemailo, as a man of honour, and that is the only reason I have agreed to meet you.’ Thus did my mysterious companion begin the conversation. I bowed and promised once again that the ‘Lovers of Death’ need not fear any indiscretion or foul play on my part.
    My reward for this promise was an extensive lecture, delivered by the Doge with such exceptional eloquence that I was enthralled even against my own will. I shall try here to convey the content of this eccentric sermon in my own words.
    The venerable Doge asserts that man’s true native land is not the planet Earth or the condition which we call life, but in fact the absolute opposite: Death, Blackness, Non-existence. This is the true homeland of all of us. That is where we formerly dwelt, and where we shall soon return. For a brief, insubstantial moment, we are doomed to dwell in the light, in life, in existence. Precisely doomed, that is, punished, expelled from the bosom of Death.
    All of the living, without exception, are winnowed chaff, dross, criminals condemned to the daily torment of life for some crime that we have forgotten, but which must be extremely grave. Some of us are less guilty and therefore condemned only to a short sentence. Such individuals return to Death when they are still infants. Others, who are guiltier, are condemned to hard labour for seventy, eighty or even a hundred years. Those who live to extreme old age are the most evil of wrong-doers and unworthy of any indulgence. But nonetheless, sooner or later, Death in its infinite mercy forgives everyone.
    At this point your humble servant, unable to restrain himself, interrupted the orator.
    ‘A curious assertion. And so the length of our lives is not set by God, but by Death?’
    ‘Let it be God – use whatever name you wish. Only the judge whom people have called God is by no means the Lord Almighty, but merely an acolyte in the service of Death.’
    ‘What an appalling image!’ I exclaimed.
    ‘Not at all,’ the Doge reassured me. ‘God is stern, but Death is merciful. Out of benevolence Death has endowed us with the instinct of self-preservation, so that we will not feel oppressed by the walls of our prison and will fear any attempt to escape from them. And Death has also granted us the gift of oblivion. We have no memory of our true homeland, of our lost Eden. Otherwise not one of us would be willing to bear the torment of imprisonment and there would be a genuine orgy of suicides.’
    ‘What is so bad about that, from your point of view? After all, surely you actually exhort the members of your circle to