by Dave Duncan
“You will mention to his lordship—”
“He will hear of your contribution, I promise. Now—the journey?”
The procession was nearing the river, so the interrogation would have to be set aside.
“The Czar is determined that strangers shall not learn how much Skyrria has been weakened. Most foreign traders are forbidden to wander outside the walls of Treiden. Even those with permits, like myself, are escorted to and from Kiensk by a roundabout route. Once there we must dwell in the foreigners’ enclave and stray no farther than a day’s march from the city walls. You will go by the route the Czar has decreed or not at all.”
The Blades exchanged sad frowns. They would certainly have to overwinter in Skyrria now.
Beau said, “Thank you, master. We must converse again. Brother, you go and reconnoiter the elementary. Oak and I will see his lordship across the river.”
Hakluyt chose to go with Arkell, and as they coaxed their mounts into the water side by side, Arkell said, “If the Czar is insane, master, explain to me why the people do not rise and depose him.”
“I wish I could, Sir Arkell.” The consul was eager to earn his knighthood. “He may be crazy, but he is not stupid. Never underestimate his cunning! He has clung to his throne a very long time.”
“But hunting down men with dogs? Hounds that rip people to pieces?” The water had risen almost to Arkell’s stirrups.
“Czar Igor has not done well in warfare with his neighbors,” the trader said. “But he had some cause to blame his failure—at least in his early days—on opposition from his princes. Everything he tried to do, in war or peace, was blocked by the princes or the boyars or both. He is also convinced that they murdered his children and his first two wives with witchcraft.”
If the uncouth Basmanov was a typical boyar, the Czar’s attitude might be quite reasonable.
“That is why he makes war on his own people?” They were past the midpoint and the water was dropping. The litter should be able to cross without wetting its occupant.
“Just say that he has tamed the nobility. His hold on the country has never been tighter, and in that sense his reign has been a success. His successors should have an easier time.”
As his horse reached the bank, Arkell looked back and saw the Ambassador’s litter advancing slowly toward him, floating above the silver water like a boat reluctant to get wet. A dozen would-be helpers were creating waves as they milled around, all shouting at the same time. He carried on with Hakluyt toward the stockade.
Cities were all disgusting, Arkell had decided, but Dvono-grad was the worst yet. If a thousand or so log shacks had been dropped from a great height into a cesspool, they would have made something better than Dvonograd. True, pigs rooted in the streets of Grandon or Laville also, but here they wallowed, for the sewage in the streets was hock-deep on the horses. The air was thick enough to stand on and yet there seemed to be no people anywhere. Pigs, dogs, and evil-looking black birds, but no people.
“Where?” he inquired. “Is everybody? Not that I wouldn’t live somewhere else myself if I lived here.”
“We have streltsy with us. The locals hide from them.”
“Are streltsy really as bad as we’ve been told?”
The merchant pulled a face. “I don’t know what you’ve been told. Can you imagine anything worse than that?”
“No.”
“Then they are as bad as you heard.”
“Fire?” They were riding through an empty space floored with cinders; stark stone chimneys stood in bleak memorial to lost homes.
“Of course. Happens a lot in winter.”
“But this looks old!”
“I told you—people have gone. There is no need to rebuild. Many towns have been abandoned completely.”
Thinking of fair Chivial and even fairer Isilond, Arkell could admit that Igor might have problems other rulers did not. But soon he and his guide reached an open bog, evidently the town center. Many of the buildings flanking it were larger and in better shape than the hovels they had been passing, and the merchant identified one on the far side as the elementary.
Arkell looked down as his horse swerved to avoid a buzzing heap lying in the mud. “What is that?” he demanded, his voice an octave higher than he had planned. He pointed. “And is that another?”
“Bodies.” The trader shrugged. “You will see them in Kiensk, also. You get used to them. Skyrria won’t change, Sir Blade. You had best let it change you as quickly as possible.”
It was about to change Arkell by making him lose his last dozen meals.
“No one is allowed to touch them,” Hakluyt added. “They must be left for the dogs and maggots.”
“But who? What were their crimes?”
“These just annoyed streltsy. Some of Viazemski’s men have been billeted here for two months. Rapes, robberies, beatings go on all the time. What else is there to do?”
Lord Wassail was lifted from his litter and carried inside the elementary. It was only a one-room log shed with an octogram outlined in white stones on a dirt floor, but it was tidy enough, and if the lighting was too dim to reveal what was rustling up in the rafters, that might be just as well.
The conjurers were another matter. There were three of them, instead of the standard eight. One appeared to be female, but all were hairy, near-naked savages—painted, bedecked in beads, bones, and disgusting fragments of animals. Arkell would have objected to letting his ward be exposed to their hocus-pocus if he had expected them to achieve anything at all. Confident that no self-respecting elemental would answer a summons from such freaks, he leaned against the wall beside Beau and waited to see.
For the first few minutes, the conjuration was as farcical as he had expected. The enchanters leaped around in the octogram, howling, screeching, and rattling things. He was studying the building, wondering what sort of trees produced such enormous logs, when a blast of spirituality almost knocked him over. All the hairs on his body stood on end, his hands twitched, his teeth began to chatter wildly. Beau gave him a surprised look and gestured at the door.
Arkell fled. His extreme sensitivity was well known and nothing to be ashamed of. He could stand conjurations if he had to. It was embarrassing, all the same. He’d had to run out of Ironhall bindings more than once.
He emerged into blinding sunlight and paused to wipe his brow and gag at Dvonograd’s version of fresh air. He could still hear and feel what was going on inside, but at this range it was bearable. It might or might not be useful. Just because Skyrrian-style conjuration could summon spirits did not necessarily mean they would do as they were told.
“Sensitive?”
He was being studied by a dozen or so assorted streltsy guarding the horses. The man who had spoken was Viazemski himself. Dismounted, he was unexpectedly big.
“Very.”
“Me too.” An unpleasant sneer showed through his tangled beard; the mangled nose was better ignored.
His henchmen chuckled. One said, “Sensitive as a babe on a tit, he is.”
“Never heard that sensitive meant soft,” Arkell remarked, but he assumed such ruffians would cut their own throats before they admitted being sensitive to razors.
“You’re one of the Blade things,” Viazemski said. “Conjured loyalty?”
“Correct.”
“You wanna show us some fancy swordwork?”
“No. I’m not a fairground tumbler.”
Viazemski contemplated him for a few minutes with apparent disdain and all his men smiled, waiting for the devilry to start. Arkell wished he could grow a monster black beard like Oak’s so everyone wouldn’t pick on him, the kid who’d hung his sword on the wrong side.
“Suppose I order Sasha, there, to cut you up a bit?”
The man indicated grinned obediently. He was a lanky youngster in a cuirass and helmet, wearing a curved cavalry saber on his left hip.
“I told you I won’t play games. If he draws on me I’ll maim him or kill him
.” Arkell had no trouble making that pledge and meaning it, because it obviously defined his duty to his ward in these circumstances. His defiance provoked jeers and catcalls, of course.
Viazemski did not join in. “Sasha?”
“Yes, Voevode?” Sasha took hold of his sword and his neighbors stepped clear.
“The horses are thirsty. You and the boys take them down to the river. The foreigner and me’ll stand watch.”
The streltsy scowled but did not argue. Without a word they unhitched reins, tightened girths, and mounted. Arkell watched them drive the herd out of the square and was suddenly furious. Perhaps he had been more frightened than he knew, or perhaps the skin-prickling, gut-churning spirituality was getting to him.
He was alone with the infamous Viazemski. The man’s nose had not been cut away; it had rotted. He was hard to look in the eye and knew it.
“You have your men well trained, Voevode. When they murder and rape is it because you have told them to?”
The monster seemed more amused than offended. “Sometimes, but mostly it’s just high spirits. I’ll make a deal with you, Blade.”
“I doubt it, but you can ask.”
“Hakluyt’s told me about your binding conjuration. We don’t have that in Skyrria. I want you to keep your trap shut about it—your trap and all the others’, including the fat old man you’re guarding.”
Arkell laughed. “You don’t want the Czar poking swords in your heart to see how it’s done?”
The terrorist chief smiled nastily. “Got it first time, smart little sweetie that you are. ’Tis all I ask. In return, I can be a good friend.”
“I told you I don’t do party tricks, Voevode, and we don’t go around bragging about our prowess either.” In Chivial Blades did not have to, but here they had no established reputation.
“Not what I said. I don’t care how good you are with those fancy swords because I’ve got a thousand men to each one of you, so that don’t matter. It’s your binding I don’t want mentioned.”
Arkell calculated quickly and decided he would be giving up nothing if he agreed. In fact, the man’s request was so trivial that it was probably just an opening for something bigger to follow. “If Hakluyt has already told you, then don’t bet your horse that the Czar doesn’t know already. All the knights and heralds and servants we have with us know how a Blade is bound. Keeping all those mouths laced up would be tricky, especially if we have to hang around Kiensk until spring. I might promise to try for a very good friend.”
“You want to leave here tomorrow?”
“Ah. If the stars are favorable?”
If a pig could smile it would look like Viazemski. “We all like to play safe, sonny. An astrologer tells you the omens are good and you meet ill chance, then he’s in trouble. If he tells you they’re bad so you stay home, then nothing happens. Understand? I can make the whole of next month inauspicious.”
So not all Skyrrians were equally superstitious and the Chivians could stay in Dvonograd until they rotted like the corpses in the mud.
“I’m sure you can be persuasive, Voevode. I’ll do the best I can to make our binding a state secret. The sooner we complete our business in Kiensk and depart the better, understand?”
“Yes. Deal, then.” The Voevode held out a large, calloused, and dirty hand. Arkell shook it with a shudder of disgust. Horror though he was, the man might be sincere in this case. Surely the Chief Deputy Monster would welcome any friends he could find, and what he was asking was very little…so far.
Busy day—Beau handing out knighthoods and he making treaties with mass murderers.
The shamans’ wailing in the elementary wound down in a rumble of drums, and the sun had slid close to thatch roofs. The shaggy pony that came splattering across the square was slung about with many weapons and ridden by a slit-eyed, straggly-whiskered little man wearing only a hide around his loins. Beaming broadly, he reined in close and handed the Voevode a bloodstained sack.
Viazemski hauled out the contents to look at. He nodded. “So I was right? Well done, Kraka! Anyone see you?”
“No, Voevode.”
“Good work. The Little Father will be pleased.”
As the pony trotted off, Viazemski replaced the gruesome relic in its bag, dropped it at his feet, and turned to Arkell with a look of innocence incarnate. “What else do we need to talk about, Blade?”
Dry-mouthed, Arkell said, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
The malodorous exile had come home to stay. The thing in the sack was Basmanov’s head.
• 5 •
The best part of a day was the end of it, after all the disrobing ceremonies required to prepare a Czarina for bed. Then Sophie could send her ladies away, settle on her favorite chair with a thick wool rug over her knees, and read by candlelight until the words swam off the page. Only thus could she stop worrying—worrying about anarchy in the streets, about servants and ladies-in-waiting being insulted or assaulted, about Tasha’s interminable wedding preparations—and especially worrying about when Igor would return this time.
A rusty groan from the door tore the silence like a fanfare. The massive book slid off her lap and thundered on the rug hard enough to stun the bear had the bear still been wearing it. But the person who crept in was not Igor.
“Eudoxia! You startled me. Why aren’t you asleep?…”
The old woman displayed her stumps in something between a smile and a grimace. “Letter for you, Majesty.”
At this time of night? There was no writing on the outside. Sophie broke the wax and unfolded the paper.
Must see you! Please please please come!—T.
The writing was smudged and barely recognizable as Tasha’s.
“Who brought this?” Sophie’s throat would barely release the words.
“Voevode Afanasii,” Eudoxia mumbled. “Says he don’t know what’s wrong, but he’s lying.”
“My robe…boots…” Hindered by her flustering old nurse’s efforts to help, Sophie whirled herself into outer garments, pulling them over her night attire while her mind skittered around like a drunken bat. Dimitri had decided, no doubt wisely, that Tasha would be safest staying in the Temkin Palace with Yelena, but the Temkins’ household troops had been stretched to futility guarding both it and Faritsov while providing an escort for the Prince himself at Dvonograd. Old Afanasii had been dragged out of retirement to help, but he had less than a dozen men.
“Who has the guard tonight?” Sophie demanded as she headed for the door and just heard Eudoxia answer, “Both,” before she ducked through into the anteroom. That was bad news. Igor had formed the streltsy irregulars for many reasons, but foremost had been his distrust of the Household Regiment, which had traditionally garrisoned Kiensk. It was, he said, “crawling with boyars’ sons.” Given responsibility for maintaining law and order, the streltsy had enthusiastically promoted anarchy. Lately the Czar had started dividing the watch between the two forces—not because he disapproved of mayhem, but because he was starting to distrust the streltsy too. The result had been worse chaos, sometimes including pitched battles.
Voevode Afanasii was waiting out in the Robing Room, majestic in flowing brocade robes and towering fur hat, sporting an avalanche of white beard and a gold-headed staff. It was beneath his dignity to carry a sword and he was long past being able to wield one. He bowed stiffly to the Czarina, who had known him all her life and trusted him as she trusted Eudoxia. Two young swordsmen behind him held lanterns, and some trick of the light on their eyes and cheekbones made them look terrified. They had probably been plowmen until four months ago.
“It was good of you to come, old grandfather.” Without breaking step, Sophie headed across to the stair. “What in the world is happening?”
He limped after her, thumping his staff. “Her Highness wanted that message delivered to you at once and without fail, Your Majesty. I thought it safest to bring it myself.”
He wasn’t going to elaborate, obviously. “Shall I summ
on a coach, Your Majesty?” He wheezed with the effort of keeping up with her.
“It will be quicker to walk.” She wondered what Igor would say if he heard his wife was out in the streets at this hour, virtually unattended. She should have taken time to waken some of her ladies and bring them.
Stairs in the Imperial Palace were almost as awkward as the doorways, all narrow and tightly spiraled. One of the swordsmen went first and she followed the light of his lantern down.
She might be chasing the wildest of wild geese. Princesses were still innocent children at an age when peasant women were mothers, and Tasha was as jumpy as a dozen grasshoppers at the prospect of being shipped halfway round the world to a country she had first heard of only four months ago. Yelena, who should have been a steadying influence, was being no help at all. After her harrowing experience of giving birth in a peasant’s hovel at the roadside, and still deprived of her husband, she had withdrawn into a sort of permanent trance, obsessed with her baby.
But the geese did not feel wild. And what could Sophie do instead—ignore the note and go to bed? She stopped at the bottom of the stair.
“Who has the watch tonight?”
“It’s shared, Your Majesty,” her guard said. “Wolf-heads here.”
Afanasii arrived. Sophie went on, under low lintels into the Assembly Room, and then the Hall of Columns. A solitary puddle of candlelight revealed a dozen men in black at one of the long tables, with wine and dice, and it was a wonder they didn’t have women there as well. Their leader scrambled to his feet and stepped forth to block her, putting his fists on his hips without a thought of bowing or saluting. He was an ape who had been in trouble so often that she knew his name.
“I have to go out, Sergeant Suvorov. I shall want an—”
“Got a pass, girlie?” He leered.
His men clustered around menacingly. Sophie’s heart thumped in her throat, but she had faced this scene often enough in nightmares and had always known it would become real sooner or later—facing down the streltsy. Now she had no choice; Tasha needed her.