by K L Conger
While Taras studied the animal at his feet, the other men moved around him in a frenzy of grim activity.
“Someone start a fire!” one man yelled.
“Will that work?”
“They already have some food. They aren’t desperate anymore. If we start some fires, they will stay away.”
“We might as well set up camp for the night, then.”
AN HOUR LATER, THE camp was set. The men were right: after they'd lit the fires, the wolves did not attack again. The company ate a cold meal, then milled around, not talking but needing one another’s companionship.
As the night wore on, men began turning in. Taras had no desire to sleep. He did not feel tired. The images he’d seen since entering Siberia ran unceasingly through his head. He’d never be able to sleep with that going on.
Instead, he pulled out his parchment and found a suitable stick from the fire, picking one that had burned down to black charcoal. Taras started drawing pictures after his mother died. It calmed him. He’d brought a good supply of parchment for his journey, but most had been used now. He’d often given it as payment for supplies along the way. He only retained two small, unused pieces. With careful strokes, he sketched the wolf that nearly claimed his life.
Around midnight, a man he did not know handed him a white fur skin. He took it cautiously. The man spoke a language he could not understand, and Taras was unsure what he wanted.
Another man Taras didn’t know sat across the fire from him. He spoke, and his Russian was better than Almas’s.
“It is the skin of the demon you slew,” he said.
Taras looked up in surprise, then back down at the skin. He appreciated its beauty and gleam. Frozen blood crusted the edges. It was, indeed, the skin of the wolf he'd killed. No blood stained any part of the fur, however, and the pelt was large enough that not an inch could be missing. The skinning must have been done by a master.
“Why is he giving it to me?”
“You killed it. It is yours by right. The meat has been divided up already and stored. We will eat it tomorrow.”
Taras didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know why he should feel upset, so he decided to be polite. “Will you give him my thanks?”
The man across the fire said something in the other language, and the man who had given Taras the fur bowed his head before walking away. Taras sat, looking at the fur and running his hand over the soft pelt for several minutes.
“She was a magnificent creature,” the man across the fire said.
“She was,” Taras agreed. “Fierce and beautiful.”
“And dead.” The man stared at him levelly. Taras glanced up at the man, taken aback.
“You say that as though it’s a crime.”
The man shrugged. “No crime. Simply life. That’s what ferocity gets you—death.” When Taras didn’t answer, the man went on. “Well, what would you rather be: common and alive, or magnificent and dead?”
Taras had no answer. He stared down at the fur covering his legs. The man shrugged and rolled up in his blankets to rest.
Taras did not sleep that night.
AS SOON AS THE SKY grew light, the men rose and prepared to leave. No one had to tell them. Taras got his things together while eating a cold breakfast. Almas found him, and they prepared together but did not talk.
Taras started to mount Jasper when he heard his name. A short man asked about him at the next campfire over. The man, by his clothes, was one of the riders escorting the Khan’s sleigh. Another man pointed Taras out, and the Khan’s man came toward him.
“The Khan has asked for you,” the man said.
Taras looked around to be sure the man spoke to him. “Why?”
The man’s face contorted. “When the Khan asks for you, soldier, you obey.” He stomped off in the opposite direction as well as he could in three feet of snow.
“You should go with him, my friend," Almas said. "The Khan of Kasimov is only a step below the tsar. Show him much respect.” Taras nodded and handed Jasper’s reins to Almas.
He caught up to the little man easily. When they reached the ornate sledge, the Khan sat in the center of the bench, wrapped in his rich furs and watching his sleek horses being harnessed. Taras hung back until the short man announced him, then stepped forward awkwardly, not sure how to behave toward a Khan.
The Khan’s face went from bored to rapturous when he saw Taras. He slid to the side of the sleigh, motioning Taras to come closer. Taras did.
“You are called Taras?”
“I am, your ma—” Taras cut off. He almost said “your majesty” but this man was not a king. “That is my name, my lord.” The man nodded, not seeming to notice the slip. The Khan looked middle-aged, with a long, hanging beard. His hair extended several inches below his thick fur cap, and it held little gray in it. His face was relatively unlined, but his eyes looked tired.
“I don’t think you are aware, soldier, that you saved my life last night.”
Taras felt surprise. “No, my lord, I am not.”
“When you killed that wolf, you stepped into its line of attack. It tried for my sleigh. If you had not, it would have killed me.”
Taras thought back to the previous night. He hadn’t realized the sledge sat directly behind him, but then he never turned around to look.
“You interest me, young man. My men have listened to your group’s gossip. They say you have ridden from England. Is that true?”
“It is, my lord.”
The man studied Taras intently, as though calculating carefully. Then he focused on something behind Taras and clucked his tongue in annoyance. Taras turned to see most of the other men in the group were mounted now.
“It looks like we’re moving out. You need to find your horse,” the Khan said. “Would you consider riding beside my sleigh so we might talk as we travel?”
“I will, my lord.”
“Good. Go get your horse and come right back.”
Taras obeyed, stopping long enough to explain to Almas where he would be. Almas’s eyebrows climbed, but his face remained otherwise unreadable. Taras had no idea whether he was worried or impressed. By the time he rejoined the Khan’s sleigh, the caravan had begun its slow progression.
“So,” the Khan said, “all the way from England on horseback. That’s remarkable.”
“Is it, my lord?”
The Khan leaned back, his head held high as though trying to see Muscovy in the distance. “My ancestors, Master Taras, were the great Mongols. They were exquisite horsemen—invented the stirrup, you know. They could hit a fly with a crossbow from the back of a charging horse.”
“Impressive, my lord.”
“Yes, it is. They would have thought nothing of riding the length of Asia on horseback. Yet,” he glanced at Taras, “it is an unusual feat for a westerner.”
Taras said nothing.
“You are English, but you speak excellent Russian. What brought you here?”
“My father was Russian, my lord. My mother was English.”
The Khan’s ears perked up at this. “A half-breed, you say?”
Taras frowned. The Khan used the term with such nonchalance that he wasn’t sure whether to take offense or not.
“Interesting. You have lived in Russia before, then?”
“Yes, my lord. In Moscow, as a boy.”
“Why did you leave?”
“My father had a falling out with the grand prince, and then my mother died. I think he wanted a fresh start, so we went to live with my mother’s family in England.”
The Khan said nothing for a time, but Taras could feel the man’s eyes on him, looking for a way to use Taras to his advantage. Taras decided to make his answers vaguer. He did not want to give the Khan any more leverage.
“Tell me, boy, if your father 'fell out' with the grand prince, he must have been an important boyar. An advisor, perhaps?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then you were born of the aristocracy, but you
look like a soldier.”
Taras thought carefully about what to say, trying to word his answer so the Khan wouldn’t see opportunity for himself in it.
“I am a simple man, my lord. My parents consorted with sovereigns, but I am happy with the life of a soldier.” The Khan relaxed in his seat, seeming less eager for Taras’s answers.
“Going for the imperial army, then?”
“If the grand prince will have me.”
“Oh, I’m sure he will. The grand prince—the tsar, now—is making much progress in Russia these days.” He glanced at Taras again. “You strike me as a man that could make quite an impact in the court, Master Taras. There is plenty of opportunity for it, if you know the right people.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Yes,” he leaned toward Taras and lowered his voice. “They say the tsar has fallen in love with a pretty little slip of a girl from the Romanov clan.”
“Romanov, my lord?”
“Yes.” He waved his hand in dismissal, returning to his normal tone of voice, “I’m sure you’ve not heard of them. Minor nobles. Her name is Anastasia.”
“So he will take a wife then.”
“Oh, not simply that. He has truly fallen in love with her. He falls all over himself for her, and there’s nothing he won’t do for her. Not that anyone is complaining. It is said she has calmed him down a great deal.”
“Calmed him down, my lord?”
“Yes, well, Ivan is a brutal sort of man. He’s been that way since he was a boy. With her around, he is happier than he’s ever been, and more generous. So,” he looked toward Taras again, “as I said, now is the opportunity for anyone with ambitions to make their show at court.”
Taras smiled politely. The Khan, no doubt, had the same plan: to make his own appearance, for his own aims. “He sounds like a great man, my lord.”
“He is. I think he will do great things for Russia.” The Khan turned to Taras and leaned forward again. “How long did it take you to ride from England?”
Taras suppressed a sigh and concentrated on vague answers again. “Almost a year, my lord.”
Taras thought perhaps the Khan had traveled a long time with only his escort—servants—as company. He seemed happy to have someone educated to converse with.
“Your group reports that you joined them in the north. Did you come into Siberia from up north then?”
“I did, my lord.”
Taras caught an almost imperceptible pause. “And why would you do that?”
Taras's hackles rose. The man was trying to manipulate him again. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to be truthful on this subject, if still vague.
“My father’s family owns some land up north, my lord. When we left Russia, I was a boy but my father showed me a quaint little valley. I wanted to see it again before entering Muscovy.”
There were hundreds of valleys in Siberia. The Khan would not be able to figure out which one, even with a detailed description. He studied Taras speculatively again.
“And how did you find it, your little valley?”
“I found it solitary, my lord. I don’t understand how a man could live in such solitude without going mad.”
The Khan nodded. “A worthy question. I would submit, however, that the company of others can drive a man to madness as quickly as solitude.”
Taras considered the idea, but said nothing.
“So then,” the Khan went on, “you would, if you went to your little valley to live, bring people with you. A coterie of mistresses, perhaps, to keep you warm?”
The forwardness of the question took Taras by surprise, but he answered quickly.
“I suppose so, my lord.”
He’d only missed half a beat before answering, but the Khan’s shrewd ears picked it up.
“Oh, I think not. You are not that kind of man, are you? Well, a wife then.”
“If my lord will forgive me?” The Khan nodded. “I doubt I will come out here to live at all. If I can make a life for myself in Moscow, as you think I can, I will have no reason to live in solitude.”
The Khan stared at Taras in silence for a long time. He had the same weighing, calculating look as before. He stared until Taras shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. He would give anything to ride somewhere else, but walking away would offend the Khan, so he rode looking straight ahead and waiting for the Khan to speak again. At length, he did.
“Well,” he faced front again, “you are a fascinating young man, Master Taras. Whether you know it or not, I owe you my life. I will follow your career with great interest. Unfortunately, I cannot promise you anything in return for my life, except that if you need anything, I will do my best by you. It will have to be enough.”
“I assure you it is, my lord.” Taras hoped he never had to call in a favor from this man.
“Glad to hear it. You have given me my life, which is my most valued possession. God willing, I will be able to be of some service to you in the future.”
Taras suppressed a smile. The man was being sincere. “Thank you, my lord.”
“We will reach Moscow before nightfall. Perhaps you should fall into line with the others.”
“Of course, my lord.” Taras directed Jasper out to the side and galloped ahead to fall in beside Almas. He understood, of course. The Khan did not want to be seen to have a favorite, which is exactly what people would think if they entered the city, talking like old friends. Taras wanted to avoid that as much as the Khan. If people thought him a favorite of a man as powerful as the Khan, he would never get another moment’s peace. They would think he had the Khan’s ear, who in turn had the tsar’s ear.
One thing he knew for sure: intrigues were something he wanted to avoid.
Chapter 14
MOSCOW, MARCH 1547
When the group arrived in Moscow, the first signs of spring peeked out from the winter landscape. Small tufts of grass poked up through the snow and buds appeared on the trees. The market place already thronged with merchants selling their wares. The bustling streets were completely devoid of snow, having been stamped down by people, horses, and carts that were fast replacing sledges for the year.
The group split up when they reached the city. The Tatars would go to the market to sell their goods. The Khan didn’t stop for anyone; he disappeared toward the Kremlin Wall without a backward glance. Taras bid farewell to Almas.
“May we meet again, my friend,” Almas said, extending his hand.
“I hope so.” Taras clasped arms with the other man, and Almas turned to follow his fellow merchants.
Taras led Jasper through the streets for several hours. He tried to dredge up memories of his time here as a boy. In truth, his parents never allowed him to roam the streets, so the city held little for him. He remembered going to the market a few times with his mother, but he'd always found it cold and wet, and been relieved to get back to the palace.
Taras wanted to reacquaint himself with the city, so he wound his way around, getting to know it.
The city rose around the palace, which sat inside the Kremlin Wall. Outside the wall, merchants set up their booths and hawked their goods in Red Square. The Square also served as the site of executions, or the rare public appearances of the tsar.
From there, the city spiraled outward toward less densely populated areas. Be”yond Red Square were Kitay, Gorod, and Varyarka streets. The tsar owned most of the land, much of which housed tradesmen, boilermakers, butchers, the bell ringers, and the gun foundry. The tsar’s gardens and game preserve stretched to the east; his orchards reached to the south. Still farther to the south, a Tatar settlement hunched. West of the orchards sat the tsar’s stables and horsemen. North of them, the tsar’s dogs and falcons were kept. Still farther north the clangs of sword smiths and armories were heard, rather than seen.
Mansions dotted the rest of the land near the city, owned by nobles and wealthy merchants. Beyond them, streets and squares gave way to farmland worked by peasantry. The great Moskva River ran t
hrough it all, at once dividing and unifying the city.
When he ran out of places to explore, Taras turned toward the Kremlin. His stomach fluttered. He had no idea what kind of reception to expect in the palace, and the sight of the bleak, mountainous wall surrounding it made him uneasy. Taras remembered being intimidated by it as a boy; now it had changed into worry. Having lived in Moscow before, he ought to know the function of the wall, but he didn’t. Horrific fantasies of not being able to get out once he’d gone in filled his mind. He pushed them away.
When he stood at the open gate, he took a deep breath. He let his horse walk slowly inside, not in any hurry to present himself. Several palaces, and more than one cathedral populated the grounds. The largest and most grandiose building was the Terem Palace, where the tsar resided. A long building, full of windows, it included several wings and multiple levels. At each end sat a church. The one on the west end was attached, while the one on the east stood a little apart.
The courtyard bustled with people, but Taras was noticed immediately. A rotund man—a clerk by his garb—approached. Taras’s father spoke often of the clerks. They handled the paperwork of the palace. It left them with a great deal of power. Even boyars could live or die by a clerk’s quill. They were indispensable, and they knew it.
“May I help you, my Lord?” He stood a few inches taller than Taras, with a large gut and only small tufts of gray-peppered hair that stuck straight out over his ears.
Taras dismounted to introduce himself. “My name is Taras Demidov. My father was an advisor to Grand Prince Vasily III and I—"
The clerk put up a hand to silence Taras. “What was your father’s name?”
“Nicholas Demidov.”
“And I suppose you want to be presented to the tsar?”
“I would, my lord.”
“Don’t call me ‘my lord.’ You are the son of a boyar, and therefore of a higher standing than I.”
Taras raised an eyebrow at the man’s bluntness, but the clerk had already moved on to other concerns.