At this point Shea realized that he and Chalmers were alone in the camp. The Rus had galloped away from the Don as fast as the Polovtsi had dashed toward it. None of them seemed to have fallen off, but quite a few had dismounted, and were holding reins with one hand while busily crossing themselves with the other.
Shea let out a long gusty sigh of relief, at having changed the pronoun in the adaptation of Burns from “us” to “them.” Otherwise he might have routed the Rus as well, which Igor would not have appreciated.
Igor had not dismounted, and now he rode back, accompanied by Mikhail Sergeivich and two or three others. All, Shea noted, were keeping their hands very close to their sword hilts, except for one who had a bow in one hand and an arrow in the other.
“By God’s Holy Mother, Egorov Andreivich!” Igor exclaimed. “That was like something out of a tale. What did they see?” There was more than a touch of awe in the look Igor gave Shea. but also more than a touch of comradeship.
“Rurik Vasilyevich and I gave them a good look at their lice, Your Highness. Ah, does Your Highness know what a louse looks like?”
Prince Igor’s eloquent look told the psychologist he’d made a major blunder.
“Um, well, in the Silk Empire they make, uh, crystals, and these crystals let us see things like bugs, or flaws in Jewels, that are too small to see with just our eyes.
“If you looked at a louse through one of these crystals, you’d see that it has a small head and huge stomach, three pairs of legs, large jaws, and each of its eyes is made of millions of other eyes.”
“Monsters,” Igor said.
Shea nodded. “Exactly. The Polovtsi saw themselves covered with monsters, and panicked.”
The prince’s look was now one of complete amazement. “No bogatyr in any tale ever did a thing like that.”
“One other thing, Your Highness. The Polovtsi have a sorcerer with them. He may send more after us than arrows.”
Shea was relieved to see Igor shift back to the practical. He rose in his stirrups and called to the trumpeters and banner-bearers to signal the rally, then beckoned Shea and Chalmers.
Igor’s men rallied around the banner, except for the scouts, who rode out at once to open the distance between themselves and the main body. Igor also set out a rearguard in case some of the Polovtsi regained their wits and courage.
Shea offered to join the rearguard in case the pursuit took magical form. Igor thanked him all over again and accepted the offer.
As they rode into the fading light, Shea wished this dimension had a bookmaker to take his bet that the bathhouse was now as sacred as the church in the eyes of a good many men of the Rus. He could have made a pile.
* * *
They rode night and day until they were all away from the Don, and even after that set double guards around each encampment The two psychologists agreed that one of them should he awake at all times, although Shea didn’t care for Chalmers’ remark:
“I can hardly sleep anyway, so why shouldn’t I keep watch?”
The return trip seemed to take even longer than the trip out, without hope of Florimel’s quick recovery to spur them along. One night Chalmers commented that everything seemed to take longer, cost more, and smell worse in this Continuum than in any of the others they’d visited.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Shea replied, “Remember what you said about the peculiarities in the world of the Aeneid?”
“There were a great many such,” Chalmers said. “Which ones were you thinking of in particular?”
“All of them, and your explanation,” Shea said. “Homer lived four hundred years after the Trojan War, and Virgil lived eight hundred years after Homer, besides being a Roman with a political axe to grind.”
“So?”
“Suppose whatever Borodin used for his opera — an old Russian epic, I suppose — was written by one of Igor’s contemporaries. Maybe one of his nobles, it would be favorable to Igor, but it might leave in a lot of the details.”
“Such as lice and smells and taking forever to let anywhere?” Chalmers snapped. “I suppose that could be an explanation. It is hardly an excuse.”
Shea decided that Chalmers was in no mood for academic analysis, and turned away to take the first watch.
* * *
By the evening of the third day, Chalmers was feeling more reconciled to the realism of Igor’s world and the absence of Florimel.
“Did that chief have any intention of negotiating at all?” he asked Igor as they made camp.
“They still respect the truce banner, though not as much as they used to,” the prince replied.
“The wizard said that their rules, even among themselves, are breaking down,” Shea added.
Igor frowned, and Shea gave a thought to one of the virtues of being a Hero — what would be a grimace on an ordinary man was an earnest, noble expression on the prince’s face. “I wouldn’t mind seeing them fight among themselves, but if they no longer keep trade-truce . . . Curse them for the Devil’s own spawn and fools as well!
“Trade law holds that no one may be attacked at a neutral trade site, or for three days’ journey before or after. In the lands of the Rus, of course, the princes punish theft, three days or no three days. But trade law holds even for the steppe, or has until now.”
“Does that mean, Your Highness, that if we find Florimel . . . ?” Reed’s voice faltered, “if we find Florimel — for sale — that we couldn’t challenge it there, or for three days after?”
“In the lands tithe Rus you could,” Igor replied with a touch of pride. “No one may be enslaved among us except according to the provisions of the law, and before witnesses. And the wise man will register his slaves, whether Rus or foreign, with the chiliarch’s clerk, so that if they flee, or are stolen, their ownership will not be in question.
“But those who buy slaves on the steppe, by tradetruce, do not question their origins. And if they go to the chiliarch’s clerk and say, ‘I bought this slave on the steppe’. the clerk has to accept it. If it turns out that the slave belonged to someone else, or was not a slave at all, well under the law, Polovtsi raids are treated as fire and shipwreck a natural loss.”
“I can see room for all kinds of corruption,” Shea muttered.
“I have seen it, Egorov Andreivich.”
“But how do we get my wife back?” Chalmers pursued.
“I could see about having her purchased by one of my agents,” Igor replied. “That’s risky, you never know how the bidding will go. A counterraid would be risky too, with that sorcerer among the steppe tribes. The only man I could count on would be my brother Vsevolod, but we might be enough if we can catch them before they reach the truce area.
The psychologists could see that Igor was now the warrior-prince, considering options. They said no more, nor, as he walked off to his own campfire, did he.
III
Harold Shea sipped cautiously from the silver goblet in his hand. The mead in it was strong and sweet. Already he found himself unable to focus on the frieze of Olga’s revenge, that marked the point where the walls of this chamber arched up to form its dome.
The inside of the dome was painted gold, and the afternoon sunlight gilded it further. How many more sips before it was too bright to look at?
His companions at the table were also hard to see but not because of what he’d been drinking. Despite the long embroidered robe of fine green wool that Reed Chalmers wore, and the brighter silks and brocades that clad the Rus, they were all lost against the paint and gilding of the walls. Bright reds, blues, and greens patterned with gold — the prince, princess, and Mikhail Sergeivich fit right in.
“Vsevolod will ride,” Igor said. “The bards don’t call him a fierce aurochs just to flatter him. He maintains a full band at Kursk, so they can start at once.”
“The prince your brother needs to get his harvest in, as do you,” Euphrosinia pointed out.
“Who needs warriors for that? We could be over th
e Don and back before threshing is over!”
“And who will collect your taxes if your men are over the Don? Besides, if the rains come early, you’ll do well to return before butchering is over.”
“Hm . . . Can the two of you control the weather, Egorov Andreivich?”
“I’m afraid not, Your Highness.”
“Someone needs to keep an eye on young Sviatoslav Borisovich,” Mikhail Sergeivich commented. “He’s been talking too loudly and too long, of late.”
“The ambitions of the young,” Igor said. “Boris Vsevolodovich, God rest his soul, is a year dead. With the old stallion gone, the young one is kicking up his heels.”
“Unless God brings Sviatoslav to a better mind, he’ll be in your court before another year’s out,” Mikhail Sergeivich replied.
“Perhaps I should require his services on this expedition.”
“Would you trust him at your back?” Both Euphrosinia and Mikhail Sergeivich seemed to speak at once.
“Ah, well . . .”
“And what is that sorcerer likely to do?” Mikhail asked.
“Probably set a trap with an illusion spell,” Chalmers answered. “He’ll be aching for the chance to pay us back.”
“So will that chief,” Euphrosonia said. “Will he even keep trade-truce?”
The talk turned to boyars and princes willing and able to ride. There was no question that the Polovtsi had numbers on their side, and it was obvious that the raid on Nizhni Charinsk had shaken many of the Rus.
“The raid may have been fortuitous but no one wants to ride against a sorcerer,” Euphrosonia concluded.
“They will if I order them, and I will if I must,” Igor growled. “I have sworn to free those captives.”
“They will ride more willingly after harvest,” the princess said.
The meeting broke up shortly afterward. Chalmers and She took a turn in the palace yard to stretch their legs then returned to their room. “The last thing I expected here was a Board of Directors meeting,” Shea groused. “If I had taken a few more sips I would have sworn I was back at Garaden.”
Chalmers did not respond and Shea looked closely at his colleague. They’d survived some nasty spots in various dimensions, but this was the first time Shea had seen Reed Chalmers so close to the breaking point.
“My wife . . . is a slave, and I can’t cut the bastards’ throats!” Shea could hear the tears, but they didn’t — quite — show.
“Reed,” Shea said, and then no more for a while. When Chalmers seemed more in command of himself, Shea continued.
“Igor’s doing the best he can, but we shouldn’t depend on him. There’s magic in this universe so what can we do with it?”
They tried to recall verses on freedom and emancipation, but their harvest was meager. Slavery was also a part of this universe, so they doubted the effectiveness of any spell based on its immorality. The few spirituals that Shea remembered emphasized freedom in the next world.
“I don’t think it would be any use trying to freeze the Don so she could walk across it, even if we could get there,” Shea concluded, looking out at the sunset. “Maybe my subconscious will trigger something tonight. The morning is wiser than the evening, even if the Rus do say it all the time. Coming to dinner, Doc?”
“Not tonight. I really have no appetite.”
Physician, heal thyself, Shea thought as he took another look at Chalmers, but he seemed safe to leave for an hour or so.
The Ohioan was not that enthusiastic about Kievan cooking, which, like that in the Fairie Queen, emphasized elaborate, highly spiced dishes. (A sturgeon stuffed with a carp stuffed with a mullet stuffed with a trout stuffed with something Shea couldn’t identify stuffed with an egg stuffed with a pea was one main dish he remembered without pleasure.) But he wished to keep on the good side of the Patriarch, whose profession naturally required him to deplore the presence of sorcerers in the prince’s domain.
So Shea put on his best robe and a seemly mien, and went down to his place at a table near the prince’s. Shea was surprised when the Patriarch sat down with him, instead of taking his seat at the high table.
“May God smile on you and your house in all their lawful undertakings,” the Patriarch murmured.
“May we always deserve His favor,” Shea replied, wondering where this was leading.
As dinner progressed, it turned out that the Patriarch, who was near Shea’s own age, wanted to hear about his travels. The psychologist edited these a bit, thinking that he’d better not admit to encountering demons and living to tell about it.
“I always loved tales, so I badgered my father into having me taught to read,” the Patriarch said wistfully. “Naturally, he thought I had a desire for the religious life.”
“Being able to read lets a man pursue all kinds of wisdom,” Shea said, hoping he couldn’t go wrong with that response.
“Or unwisdom,” the Patriarch replied. Original vocation or not he was a churchman now.
The Patriarch left right after dinner and so did Shea. Reed Chalmers was dozing in their chamber and Shea went quietly to bed himself.
* * *
Chalmers and Shea spent the next few days thinking up potential spells and wishing there were some way to test a few of them. After what Malambroso had said about the piety of the Rus, they would not have cared to test many in the shadow of the basilica, even if the Patriarch had been friendlier. Chalmers avoided company, and seldom left their chamber. Shea did not press him to socialize. Chalmers was in no mood to be diplomatic.
But there were times when Chalmers wanted no company at all, and Shea spent those in the practice yard. Regular dimension-hopping meant regular sword practice, even back in Ohio. Shea worried about leaving his colleage at these times, but there was nothing he could do, and as a psychologist he knew when to leave well enough alone.
I never thought to play shrink to Doc Chalmers, Shea thought. He’s supposed to be my mentor.
“Contagion and Similarity should work in this universe,” Chalmers summarized one morning, “and you proved that Synthesis will. There’s a strong literal element to the magic here. Your willow-bark analgesic might not have been so bitter if you hadn’t insisted on that in your spell.”
“There’s also that strong element of reality we discussed,” Shea replied. “Willow-bark tea is naturally bitter. It might not have worked otherwise.”
“Malambroso seems to have found a way around any limitations of this world’s magic,” Chalmers said bitterly. “His see-the-expected spell would be just the thing for rescuing Florimel.”
“We’ll be expected to defeat such spells. Igor doesn’t want his men confused when they have to fight.”
“He is still planning to ride, then?” Chalmers asked.
“Oh, yes. He thinks it will discourage further raids, and besides, he just can’t stand Polovtsi.”
“When is he leaving?”
“He hasn’t said.”
* * *
The next day Shea was returning from arms practice when he met Igor. The prince wore old riding clothes and invited the psychologist to take a turn on the ramparts with him.
Igor’s fortress — Shea couldn’t quite use the Rus word kremlin with a straight face — was a good deal less imposing than its later Muscovite counterpart. It covered a considerable area on a rise of ground near the western edge of Seversk, but most of it was built of wood, including the walls.
A stout railed platform ran around the ramparts. The upper part had archery slits, and there was a deep ditch clear around the castle. The ditch served (from its smell) as the fortress’ garbage dump, and also (Shea suspected) as a firebreak. Seversk was nine-tenths wood, and from where he stood beside the prince Shea could see three burned-out blocks without looking hard.
Inside the main parts were two outer courtyards and an inner one. The larger of the outer ones held the storehouses, kitchens, and servants’ quarters. It was also the place where taxes collected in kind were deposited, in
sacks, barrels, chests, carts, or whatever else they came in.
The other courtyard had an outer gate guarded by two stone towers and an inner gate that led to the inner courtyard. Here were stables, smithies (one recently rebuilt, judging from the mixture of smoke-blackened and new wood Shea saw), and more storehouses. Shea didn’t know precisely where the kitchen was; from the temperature of the food it had to be some ways from the dining hall.
Inside were the quarters for the prince’s household troops, the family quarters, the basilka the treasury. and (noises in the night hinted) the dungeon. The place would not last long against medieval or even Roman siege engines, but this did not seem to be an era, or an area, where sieges were feared. The fortress walls kept thieves out of Igor’s treasury and fires out of his bedchamber, and that was enough.
The sun was crawling down toward the horizon: Shea had been here long enough for the days to shorten. He thought of everything the term “Russian winter” conjured up and hoped that he, Reed, and Florimel could be back in Ohio before the days grew much shorter.
“It seems we have less to fear than Mikhail Sergeivich thought, from my cousin Sviatoslav Borisovich, the prince said “The first three carts of his taxes are in the lesser courtyard, together with a pack train. They are being unloaded now.”
A party of men with Igor’s colors on their shields came tramping up to the main gate. Shea counted twenty-five or thirty, all on foot but armed with everything but lances. Igor saw them too.
“Ah, those must be the men I bade Oleg Nikolaevich send out returning. There was a small tax matter that is no concern of yours that I wished to see settled peacefully before we left. We shall have to —”
He broke off, as one of the approaching men nocked an arrow. “The fool —” Igor began.
The “fool’s” arrow picked off a guard on top of the tower. Several more arrows soared up, then whistled down on the heads of the remaining guards and the men on the ramparts to either side of the towers. On the ground, the men not wielding bows drew their swords, except for a few who pulled axes from under their cloaks.
The Exotic Enchanter Page 4