by Harold Lamb
"Ohai—he lies for all to see. Come, Uncle Merchant, come my Lord of Tartary! I will show you! Permit me to conduct you to the royal seat. He lies in state."
Grimacing, the dwarf pushed and mumbled his way through the crowds, beckoning over his shoulder to the two, until he came to a dense throng, where elbows and fists were needed to clear a way. This was in front of a dark pile of stone, a silent monastery, where Bertrand informed Kirdy the empress-mother had taken refuge.
Here on a table lay two bodies stripped of all clothing.
The one on top, with its feet resting upon the chest of the other, was that of Basmanof. Kirdy recognized the harsh, lined features of the noble who had betrayed one master and had died in defense of the false Dmitri. He pushed closer to the table to look at the body of the impostor.
He saw a powerful figure, terribly gashed about the chest, and he caught his breath suddenly, while the dwarf chuckled.
"Ohai, my Lord of Tartary—we have fitted him for his long journey to the land of Satan."
Kirdy beheld upon the head of the dead man a mask. It was grotesque and evil, with the ears of an animal, the grin of a satyr, and the mouth of a monster. Through the holes of the mask the dead eyes stared up at the gray sky.
"Holy Mother," whispered Bertrand, "what mockery!"
The assassins had taken down the mask found in Dmitri's chamber and had placed it upon the man who had made a jest of the sacred pictures.
The men of the crowd, emotionless as so many statues, looked from the bodies on the table to the young Mongol, who pushed steadily closer to the head in the mask. A murmur went up as he stretched out his hand.
"Name of a name," the merchant cried, "do not touch it."
But Kirdy had lifted the heavy painted lacquer countenance and was studying the pallid features beneath—the strong features of a youth no older than himself, without a beard. A knife had slashed open the right cheek near the nose.
"Is this your tsar?" he asked Bertrand.
"Aye, that is Dmitri," the merchant nodded, and crossed himself. He started to say something more, but changed his mind and motioned to Kirdy to come away.
Kirdy replaced the mask, folded his arms in his sleeves, and withdrew through the crowd that opened to let him pass. The dwarf lingered with his fellows, and the two visitors walked slowly from the Kremyl grounds. Bertrand was chewing his lip and frowning, and when they were alone in a narrow alley, spoke to Kirdy abruptly.
"Why did you lift the mask?"
"To see the face," the young warrior made answer simply. "Men told me that the emperor of the Muscovites had a mole or wart on the cheek near the nose. I did not see it."
Several times Bertrand's lips moved before he found words that satisfied him.
"You have more boldness than discretion, friend! A mole! It must have been slashed away. The cheek was cut."
"Aya tak," Kirdy nodded, "aye so. It is an evil fate, that of the emperor of this people."
The Frenchman shrugged.
"Savages! Worse will follow, I fear."
Through Kirdy's mind the cry of the jester rang like an echo:
"His long journey to the land of Satan." Aloud, he added to his companion: "Now I must sleep!"
For two days and a night he had not closed his eyes, and for many days he had not taken more a remnant of rest; he was a little bewildered by the fighting in the city, and the crowds from which he could not escape. He wanted to be alone, to think about what had happened. But he attended the older man to Bertrand's house near the tavern, and the Frenchman looked after him thoughtfully when he strode away.
Weary as he was, Kirdy was careful to lead his horses from their stable, where plunderers might find them, and take them with him when he sought Nada's dwelling to report his lack of success in getting the passport and to tell the girl all that had taken place during the night.
He found the house guarded by Toghrul and Karai and learned that Nada had gone out on foot to investigate matters with her other men. Kirdy gave the tribesman a message for his mistress and Toghrul prepared a bed for him in a corner of the dining hall—a bed of straw, with a saddle for pillow.
Almost at once Kirdy fell into a deep sleep, rousing a little when he heard voices. One of the voices sounded like Nada's, and he fancied that she was giving orders. A light footfall stirred the straw near his head, and he was aware of a scent that seemed to come from the open steppe—of flowers warmed by the sun.
Chapter VII The Reflections of Monsieur Bertrand
Toghrul's almost soundless tread roused Kirdy, and he grasped at his sword hilt before he saw the old man squatting near him, waiting to be noticed.
"The lady says to thee, O Cossack," the servitor began at once "it is better to lie hidden than to walk in the eyes of men. It is much better to wait than to seek recklessly. So wilt thou abide her coming. The horses are fed."
"Has she gone forth again?" Kirdy was disappointed and a little vexed, though he did not show it.
"Aye."
"There is fighting. I must talk with her."
"When she wills."
"She is safer behind walls." Kirdy thought of the boyarin who had been lashed by her whip, a certain Tatikof who had promised to seek her out.
Toghrul pondered and made response gravely.
"When the end appointed by the unalterable decree has come, life is then lost, and for all there is an end ordained. What avail, to go thither or sit here? She will not be harmed now!"
"How long have I slept?"
"The sun was sinking, O Cossack—night came. And now the sun has risen."
With an exclamation the young warrior sprang to his feet. He had slept for eighteen hours, and there was much to be done. After plunging his head and hands in a basin of cold water brought by Toghrul he made a hasty meal of mutton and wine and learned that Nada intended to ride from Moscow that night. The guards, it seemed, had been removed from the gates, to deal with a conflagration that had broken out at the other end of the city.
"See to the horses, Toghrul. There will be looting."
"Aye. The khanum has said that thou wilt ride forth with us."
And all at once it seemed to Kirdy that nothing in the world could be finer than to ride with Nada and her men of the steppe. Whither? What matter? He was restless and uneasy here in the city, like an unbroken colt penned in with strange horses.
"I cannot do that," he said slowly.
Toghrul did not seem convinced.
"Allah khanum yok—khanum Allah bir tzee," he muttered cryptically. "Allah said No to the woman—the woman said Yes to Allah."
"What words are these?"
"O Cossack, I said I shall water the horses and groom them, against thy need, this night."
Still afoot, still alone—he had left Karai perforce—and, still deep in moody reflection, fared forth into the mud and the snow and the anger of the streets. He went first to the imperial stables behind the Terem, looking for all the world like a Cathayan noble with an interest in fine horseflesh. So acute was his curiosity that he asked if all the emperor's beasts were in the stalls. As he did not stint gold pieces, he learned at length that the illustrious Tatikof had led out a half dozen Arabs, and that three Turkish racers had been missing since the night before last.
This matter he pondered, remembering the riders he had seen when the moon was setting that same night.
From the stables he made his way leisurely toward Bertrand's quarters and discovered that the worthy merchant was not at home. Upon this he sought Margeret's tavern, but contented himself with a table in the taproom instead of seeking out the sick captain. Here he sat, apparently lost in the contemplation of the intelligent Asiatic, sipping wine occasionally, until the afternoon wore on and Bertrand did not appear. He climbed the stairs and passed an hour listening to Margeret's roared-out comments on the madness that had seized the boyars.
At the end of the hour he had what he desired—a more or less detailed account of the false Dmitri's routine, habits,
and especially his manner of exercising his horses.
He had taken his leave, ceremoniously, of the captain when he ran into Bertrand at the foot of the stairs. The merchant coughed, bowed, and would have passed on up, but Kirdy put a hand on his arm.
"Good sir, you think I am not—a Cathayan. Perhaps you are right. Will you honor me by sitting at table with me? They serve a Wallachian wine that is light and healthful."
Bertrand drew back into the shadow and tried to gaze into the lowered eyes of the young warrior.
"A plague on't! What are you?"
"A seeker, who will bring no harm to you."
"I think—"
But Bertrand kept his thought to himself and decided to accompany the Mongol noble. They faced each other over cups of spiced white wine, and the merchant waited for Kirdy to speak. He waited until his patience yielded to his fears.
"What master do you serve? Are you Tatikof's spy?"
Kirdy smiled.
"Let me tell you a story. Once there lived a sultan who was a very fox for wiles. He was called Motavakel Shah, and he summoned his enemy to his house thinking to teach him fear. A lion—one of his beasts—was let loose into the room by his servants. Though the lion ran past the table, the guest of Motavakel did not rise from his cushions nor utter a word. Then snakes were turned into the room, coiling past the feet of the host and the guest. Still the foe of Motavakel did not raise his feet or his voice. A dish was placed before him and under the cover of the dish were scorpions.
"'Nay,' said the guest of Motavakel, 'this is a night not of the lion, or the serpents, or the scorpion but of the sword!' And with the blade at his girdle he slew Motavakel and fled unhurt."
"Ah, a parable. Is your sword, then, hidden?"
"Good sir," Kirdy said quietly, "it is not you I seek. But the time for trickery is past; the moment of the sword is nigh. Answer, then, swiftly, remembering that what I seek from you is—truth! When you saw the body that lay under the mask, you were troubled by doubt."
"And you!"
"I also. The one mark that marked Dmitri beyond doubt—the wart— was gone. It might have been slashed away. But when a trail is hidden, a man has fled—who shuns pursuit."
Bertrand leaned forward breathing quickly, his eyes probing Kirdy's. "The false Dmitri has fled?"
"Leaving another body to hide his trail." Kirdy turned the porcelain cup slowly in his lean hand. "Perhaps. Every soul in the palace would have looked for the wart upon the face of the dead man. It was gone, and the slash was covered by the mask."
"Tonnerre de dieu! No Muscovite reasoned thus! What man are you?"
"One who has tracked beasts. Man is not otherwise. Tell me first why you doubted that the body was Dmitri's—the false Dmitri's?"
Bertrand glanced to one side, then the other.
"A little matter," he whispered. "Two, I should say. I saw his Illus— the impostor the day before. Eh, well. I noticed the cut of his hair, being exact in such conceits of dress. The hair on the body seemed to be longer than Dmitri's."
Kirdy nodded silently.
"Good!" The shrewd merchant warmed to his contention. "The late tsar shaved his chin. The body, also, was shaved, but the hair on the chin was soft and ill-cut—as if, pardie, this man had worn a beard until it was cut off hastily, to make him resemble someone else."
"Then, Uncle Merchant, was there a man in this court who looked like the false Dmitri?"
Bertrand chewed his lips reflectively.
"Aye, so. One Stanislav Bouthinski, a Pole. A secretary, I believe, to the ambassadors of that country."
"Hai!" Kirdy's dark eyes gleamed as if he had hit upon the slot of a stag. "You, my good sir, are no Muscovite. You have lived at other, and wiser courts."
The touch of flattery warmed the Frenchman, who said again that the Muscovites were savages.
"Bouthinski is missing. Today I searched for him and his people told me he must have fallen in the massacre. Many hundred Poles have been cut and trampled into the mud."
A new doubt struck him.
"But what of all this? Grant that the false Dmitri may have fled, leaving another body slain in his bed. Grant that this body is Bouthinski's— naked as a peeled turnip and slashed on the cheek. None the less, Dmitri is now proved false and pretender. How could he escape?"
"Three fine horses were missing from the stables that night. Three riders passed through the guards—and who could win out of the gates save this man who called himself the tsar?"
"It is possible."
"Aye, so. Men say that this false Dmitri was as shrewd as a fox. Surely he had scent of the conspiracy against him. He left the army and summoned Basmanhof after him. Then, leaving this body of his friend in his bed, he went from Moscow. Whether?''
Bertrand shrugged and felt for his snuffbox.
"Not to the Poles, I'll wager." He laughed grimly. "Peste! What a fellow! Destruction to all he touches."
"He would not flee to the Cossacks. He had betrayed them."
The merchant who knew the courts of Europe, the Cossack who had fought under the monarchs of Asia, measured each other with understanding eyes. Kirdy took time to think over all that had been said, because he wished to have it firmly in his mind in order to decide what to do next. Bertrand mused along a different line.
"St. Denis! I heard a rumor that the bride of the imposter did not seem to be dying of grief. It may be that she knows he is alive."
"I have heard that woman's tears are soon dried."
"Well, pardon me, but I have discovered otherwise, my friend. However, it is clear that he has not taken his bride with him, if indeed he lives."
"Could he win a following from the army in the south?"
The merchant shook his head and took snuff, wiping the brown grains from his coat carefully.
"After the massacre in Moscow the Polish regiments will turn on the Muscovites, and when the dogfight begins, the Tartars will plunder both. It is true that Sigismund's regiments—and they are many—were sent hither to support this Dmitri. But when the time came to draw the sword he abandoned the army and fled like a jade-robbing knave from the city. Even so—such is the charm of his presence—the Muscovite cavalry might have been won to his cause but he mocked the traditions of these stiff collars. He put an actor's mask on the icon stand. So now they say he has sold himself to Satan."
Bertrand smiled, contemplating the savagery of these pagans, as he chose to call them.
"But where are you going?"
Kirdy drew tighter his girdle and glanced out into the gathering dusk.
"Perhaps this dog-soul is dead; perhaps not. But if he lives, he must have taken refuge in the steppes. He has good horses, and I go to follow while the trail is fresh."
Leaving the worthy merchant utterly astonished, Kirdy hastened from the tavern and was turning into the open square where the great bell hung upon its stone dais when he beheld torches moving in the same direction.
Chapter VIII The River Gate
Several riders, accompanied by a score of men-at-arms and link-bearers, were entering the street where Nada's house stood, driving some captives with arms bound before them. Hastening his pace, Kirdy drew closer and recognized the bearded Tatikof among the horsemen.
He passed behind the cavalcade, skirted the edge square to the mouth of an alley that led to Nada's stables. Then he ran as if a thousand fiends were at his heels. In the snow the footing was bad, and more than one log or wagon wheel made him plunge before he came out at the sheds and saw that they were empty. Nada's sleigh, too, was not to be seen.
A half-squad of Swedish halberdiers were standing talking by the gateposts at the street end, evidently waiting for Tatikof and the company. Kirdy leaped to the rear steps of the house and pushed at the door. It was fastened—barred by the feel of it. He thrust his fist through the tallow paper of the nearest window and called softly.
Karai's delighted bark answered him.
He was half through the window when a figure ap
peared out of the darkness, and he recognized Toghrul's broad face.
"The khanum must leave the house by this way," he said quickly. "The Muscovites come for no good. Where are the horses?"
"Allah!" grunted the tribesman. "I saw warriors with long spears, and I sent Karabek with the five horses and the sleigh away at once."
"To the khanum? Where is she?"
"I do not know. Karabek says she is buying clothes at the Jew's bazaar. He will tell her of the coming of the Muscovites when he finds her—"
A warning hiss from the old man made Kirdy aware of footsteps approaching the side of the house, and he hauled himself through the window without waiting to see who might be approaching. It proved to be the halberdiers, with one of the boyars and a lantern. And they stationed themselves where they could watch both the house and the sheds.
"How many are with thee, Toghrul?"
"One, and the dog."
"Fool! The way was open to flee!"
"Nay, the house is in my charge. What do I know of these Urusses? Go thou and talk with them, for they beat at the door."
There was no escape by the rear now, and Kirdy saw that some men with firelocks and lighted torches were outside the only other window on the lower floor. The openings above were no more than slits to let in light and air. The log houses of Moscow had been built to keep out thieves and the cold.
Listening at the front door, he made out Tatikof's deep voice.
"Within there! I bear an order from the council. The lady Nada must go with me. Open!"
"The forehead to you, great lord! What seek you of Nada?"
"An order is to be obeyed. Open!"
"She is not here."
A moment of silence and then Tatikof laughed.
"She was seen to go in and only a Cossack has come out since. What man are you?"
Kirdy did not answer at once. Nada had no Cossacks among her servants; Tatikof's spies might have penetrated his disguise—but surely the servitors had been in and out since he left.
"Nichevo—no matter!" he responded cheerfully. "I have no quarrel with you, Tatikof, nor you with me, yet I swear to you one thing: If your men break into this house many will go to bed in their graves."