by Dave Duncan
Winter was almost here; specks of snow danced under leaden clouds, or scuttled into corners. Oak was in a hurry, almost running as he zigzagged between the stalls and crowds in Great Market.
Normally he liked to linger, for this was the throbbing heart of Kiensk, a roaring all-day, every-day fair. Its multicolored booths and tents displayed an infinite variety of wares—banal vegetables to exotic weapons from lands he had never heard of. Here, too, were barbers and fortunetellers, masseurs, tattooers, and spirits knew who else. He enjoyed watching the jugglers, buskers, and acrobats; he liked hearing the minstrels and the cries of the hawkers. He cared less for the screams of criminals being knouted and the public executions. Bear-baiting he enjoyed once in a while, although he cheered for the bear.
The imposing buildings enclosing the square held no interest for him. Behind them lay streets of more modest dwellings, one-or two-room cabins built of thick logs. Their doors opened on the road, but they all had carefully tended yards in the back, usually with a pig and a few chickens. One of these houses was his destination, today and most days.
He was late. Afternoons were when he could enjoy some free time and attend to his personal assignment, which was to explore the outer city. Beau took night hours, usually, when the cavernous cellars under the Imperial Palace were deserted. He had explored them from one end to the other and could tell where he was by smell alone, or so he claimed. Morning belonged to Arkell, who had already mapped out the Imperial Palace very thoroughly and was now working on the rest of High Town.
Their personal lives had adjusted to fit. Arkell played the field at the Treasury bathhouse. Whoever Beau’s close friend was—and Beau never discussed women—she must live in the Palace itself, because the streltsy patrolled the streets of High Town at night. Most afternoons Oak came and tapped on this door here…
And it flew open and Bassa said, “Darling! You’re late. I was so worried. I was afraid you weren’t coming.”
By then the door was closed and he was kissing her. Bassa was gorgeous—dark-eyed and voluptuous. She had a sickly boy child who sat on the rug all the time, sucking on a chicken bone and paying no heed as his mother and the man hauled off each other’s clothes in frantic haste, leaving a trail of garments from the door all the way across to the bed. Bassa was young and big, and randy as a cat. Oak had never known a woman so everlastingly eager, so inexhaustibly energetic. His friend Orson would have raved about her.
Bassa’s husband Mikhail, who was sometimes a farrier and sometimes a cobbler, might be around the house before noon, but not between then and curfew. Oak had never met the man whose wife’s breasts he was so eagerly kissing and fondling, but he could do Mikhail no permanent damage as he rolled on the bed in joyful struggle with Bassa, because she was already carrying a second child. Although it was early days yet, those glorious breasts were swelling splendidly.
Strong as Oak was, she always gave him a good workout. Eventually, inevitably, he conquered and pinned her; she wrapped her legs around him and they coupled. She cried out, clawing and biting, driving him on. He exploded into her. Oh, Bassa, Bassa, Bassa!
In the quiet times, as he lay listening to the slow, satisfied beat of his heart, Oak often wondered if there really was a Mikhail, and who enjoyed her mornings. The first time she had brought him home, she had insisted she was not a slut, selling her favors for money—but of course Mikhail earned so little and the child pined, needing witchcraft. Sob, sob. Oak had left a kopek on the table. One day, feeling especially mellow, he had left two, which had turned out to be an excellent idea. He couldn’t afford three, and was not at all sure he would survive the results anyway.
She nuzzled even closer: Again?
Again of course.
Again? Had he inadvertently paid her twice yesterday?
“No, not again! It’s late. I must go.”
“But darling!…Let me try this…”
Oh yes! He let himself be persuaded.
The curfew was tolling. He leaped off the bed, dragged on his shirt and doublet, then hose, boots. Dusk showed through the window. The watch set up street barriers after curfew, the gates of High Town would be closed. Boots, jerkin, hat. He fumbled with his purse and laid three kopeks on the table, made sure of the baby’s location so he wouldn’t step on it, said, “Bye, love, do it again tomorrow,” and headed for the door.
“Darling, be careful.”
What!? It was only a whisper and she had her back turned, seeming asleep.
Oh, it was like that, was it? He sighed. For a moment he thought of taking back the coins, but she had certainly earned them, no matter what They might have promised her, and more likely They had used threats instead. Would make more sense to leave her the whole purse, since he wasn’t likely to have more need of it; but he didn’t.
The bell had stopped. That alone was serious trouble. He wrapped his cloak around his arm as he had been taught— two turns as padding, the rest hanging loose, available to distract or blind an opponent, or entangle his sword if it was light enough. He drew Sorrow and kissed her. “Dance with me,” he whispered.
The door opened outward, so he hurled it wide and leaped out, swinging his long sword like a scythe in case They were waiting there, but there was no one. The dusk was full of fog and whirling snow. The flakes seemed dark instead of white, tickling eyelashes, dancing in front of him, bewildering him so he wanted to swat them away. He could barely see across the street. He wouldn’t see Them coming, but equally They might not find him again if he could once break free. All he need do was make it to the Foreigners’ Quarter and the knights’ house. Indeed, he could bang on any door, beg shelter, pay for lodging, but he would not do that before he had escaped from Them, or They would burn the house down on top of him and his innocent hosts.
He went left instead of right. That might throw Them off for a moment and it also kept his sword arm free of the wall, but They would know Bassa had warned him; he hoped she would not be in trouble.
He carried his long sword at high guard, which meant almost overhead. Sorrow had a point, but even he could not flicker her around like a rapier, or poke her through a man with a twitch of his wrist. She was not even especially sharp, lest she chip and break in engagement; to do harm she must be swung like an ax, but one hit would always be enough.
The silence was creepy, as if the snow had shut down the city, but he had never been out after curfew before, so he couldn’t judge. His feet made no sound. He reached the corner, glanced around it, and ran along the rail fence to the next house.
They would be behind him, almost certainly, expecting him to take the shortest way home. He found he was walking crabwise, trying to look in all directions at once. He came to the second corner and peered around, straight into a man’s eyes. The man yelled and tried to draw; Ironhall reflexes brought Sorrow slamming down on the base of his neck. Oak cried out in dismay and pulled her free from the corpse. Voices rose behind him, a sudden thud of hooves.
He ran. He had been a fair sprinter before he mashed his leg on Starkmoor, but that old fall might be going to kill him after all. A horse thudded past him on the far side of the road, accompanied by two other shapes than ran in silence, things like bears. A voice spoke and those two turned on him, snarling and growling. He fell back against the house wall, lowering Sorrow to outside guard and raising his cloak-wrapped arm to protect his throat.
The voice called again. The monsters wheeled and were gone into the snowstorm, but the damage was done. The men had arrived. He was hemmed in.
Two of them edged closer, emerging from the fog as black shapes almost invisible. They separated, came at him slowly, blurs in the night. Two-on-one was safe enough if the one was a Blade. Seniors trained against juniors in pairs.
“Don’t do it!” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t!” said the one on his right.
“I know you,” he said. “Sasha!” They had played dice on the journey, gone drinking together.
Sasha favored a curved saber. The man on Oak’s left was holding his weapon point-on, so it was either a rapier or a light blade intended more for thrusting than cutting. They ought to change sides, but Oak was not about to suggest it to them.
For long, cold moments nothing much happened. The rapier man tried a few feints, which Oak ignored. Then Sasha yelled, “Now!”
The streltsy leaped. Oak deflected the rapier with the loose folds of his cloak, weighing it down. He beat Sasha’s stroke aside with Sorrow and stepped past him, slashing him across the kidney as he went. Then he pivoted to deal with the other man. Rapiers were deadly at arm’s length and useless as pudding at close quarters. Oak closed and slashed low, feeling Sorrow thud into flesh, also feeling a searing pain run up his sword arm. In the darkness he had failed to see the man’s dagger.
Two down, although both were writhing and crying out, certainly not dead. There were many more people out there. The high black shape across the road was the man on horseback, and the two bear-things were his dogs, all watching.
“Come and help!” Oak shouted. “Get them to healers, quickly!”
“Three!” said the man on horseback.
Swine!
Three snow-caked shapes solidified out of the murk. Wishing he dared hunt for the dropped dagger, Oak moved farther along the wall to give himself foot room. His right forearm ran blood, pulsing with beats of pain, but it seemed to be working properly, which was all that mattered at the moment. The Litany at Ironhall told of several three-on-one battles and mostly the hero died. It also told of Grand Master’s famous exploit, half a century ago, besting four on open ground, but Oak was not Durendal. Nobody was. Face it, three was not possible.
But he did have the wall at his back and they had just lost two men. Sasha was still screaming. Sasha had been their best, so seeing him cut down so fast ought to make them pause. While Oak could strike anywhere, they must watch out for one another.
They came slowly. He twitched with eagerness to jump one of them, but dared not leave the protection of his wall.
“Cowards!” he taunted them. “There’s only two balls among the four of us. Better on women and children, aren’t you?”
They continued their measured approach in silence— rapier in the middle, cutting swords raised on either side. This time no one made the mistake of shouting warnings, but that helped him as much as them, because when the one in the center lunged, the others were a fraction later. Life became a blur of clashing steel and leaping feet, parry, beat, slash, and even one desperate lunge, shapes dancing in the murk, heaving breath and a terrible fire in his ribs, then stumbling back against the wall and screaming.
Wasn’t him screaming, though. He was leaning against the wall with hot water scalding his side. Two bodies and an abandoned sword lay nearby, and one man was staggering away, bent double as he held his guts in, leaving a black trail on the snow.
They’d told him wounds didn’t hurt until later, but that wasn’t true. His arm was nothing compared to the chest wound…bleeding like a stuck pig, blood hot on his belly, cold on his legs. It hurt, it hurt! He forced himself upright and leaned against the wall, panting and gritting his teeth.
“Now four!” said the horseman.
Oak charged him. It was hopeless, but he was as good as dead anyway. The dogs leaped forward. The small one was as big as he was and the other much bigger. He swung Sorrow and felt her bite. The dog screamed, very humanlike. The big one went for his throat but he raised his arm in time to catch its teeth. The impact hurled him flat, and the monster jaws were big enough to close over his cloak wrapping. He felt bones crack. Then the hound shook him, tearing his arm from its socket. He screamed and tried to strike at it, but he had lost his sword. It shook him again, lifting him off the ground and flapping him like a rug. He was past screaming.
“Vasili! Back!” A whip cracked. The dog yelped.
Oak lay in the snow, feeling it cold against his head, feeling the cold of blood on his side. Pain. Choking. Dying.
Something was howling most horribly.
Shouts: “The dog! Look at the dog! It’s changing! Witchcraft!”
“Cover it, Voevode!” barked a familiar voice. “Quiet, fools! It’s dead, that’s all.”
Hooves thumped close to Oak’s ear and he sensed the horseman looking down at him. “He killed Iakov! How much is he hurt?”
A shape knelt over him. “Chest wound. Looks bad, sire.” Viazemski’s voice.
“Stars! How long has he got?”
“Three or four minutes. No more.”
“He killed my dog! Get him to a healer! He must suffer longer than that.”
“No hope, sire. He’d never make it. Chest wounds, you know.”
“Fire and death! Then strip him and make sure he dies there in the gutter. Leave the body for the rats. Get our wounded to the healers and remove the other corpses.”
“Yes, sire.”
Hooves receded and were gone.
“I’d say he’s as good as dead.”
“Yes, Voevode.”
“Look after the wounded, then. Report to me when it’s done.”
“Yes, Voevode.”
The world was fading in and out, mostly out. The pain had gone. Oak could barely feel his chest, darkness… He saw the flash of a dagger as the man knelt down beside him. Didn’t matter. He was going to die soon and then it wouldn’t hurt any more.
“Easy, easy!” the man said. “Just cut this away, see how bad…” He faded away and came back. Light flared painfully as someone held a lantern down. “He’s not bubbling.” The dagger man was peering at Oak’s chest. “Took a slice of meat off him, broke a few ribs, but didn’t get inside…can staunch the bleeding…healers…”
“But,” Oak said…
“Quiet!” the man snapped. “You’re hallucinating. None of this is happening, understand?”
And it wasn’t. Nothing was.
• 2 •
Something was very wrong tonight.
Sophie assembled with her ladies-in-waiting in the Robing Room. She usually had a long wait there for her notoriously unpunctual husband, but this evening his anteroom door stood open and his guards were nowhere in sight, meaning he was not in his bedchamber. Proper procedure would be for her to ask one of her ladies to ring a bell to summon a page to send to find out where the Czar was. Instead, being daring, she announced that they would go on down to the Assembly Room. She led the way, with her be-gowned entourage rustling and twittering along behind her.
Tonight’s reception was an important one, the first giving of gifts, starring the most senior princes and their wives. Sophie would have expected Igor to be there in person, noting who had been too stingy (and therefore deserved to be taxed more) and who too ostentatious (and therefore could afford to be taxed more), and also calculating how much of the treasure he could carve out for himself.
Tasha and her ladies were already there, all young, gorgeous, and frosted with jewels. Tasha had blossomed amazingly since her return to court, glowing with excitement at her forthcoming adventure. The Queen Elect of Chivial did not correct anyone who addressed her as “Your Majesty.” She could even ignore sour-faced Fedor, who had been forced by his father to flog his three streltsi accomplices to death in Great Market and also write Tasha a letter of apology, which had bothered him a lot more.
Lord Wassail and his Blades were not there. He had never been late before. Sophie dispatched a herald to his quarters, making Fedor frown at her presumption. The man returned with word that His Excellency was indisposed. She knew enough diplomatic gabble to know that this meant absolutely nothing and enough of Lord Wassail to guess that the matter was serious.
“Then we shall proceed without them. Son, your arm.”
“You can’t do this!” Fedor bellowed.
“Oh? You know where His Majesty is?”
“Whether I do or not, you can’t go ahead without him!”
So he did not know. Unusual! “Possibly he and
Lord Wassail are in conference. We shall proceed.”
Sophie was much less frightened of Fedor now, and even of Igor himself. She had not told him her news yet, because she was not absolutely certain, but she felt odd in a way she never had before, and there were times when thoughts of banquets brought her out in a cold perspiration. Nor had she told Beau.
“If you want to stay away, that is your right, Son. Come, Tasha, we’ll go in together.”
Fedor strode forward furiously to escort his stepmother.
Free of the Czar’s brooding shadow, the reception was a stupendous success. Tasha and her ladies went into ecstasies over the gifts. Sophie enjoyed the chance to mingle with the guests. She chatted at length with Chief Boyar Skuratov, who survived in his post by virtue of outstanding senile incompetence. He could not select a pastry from a tray without specific instructions from the Czar.
She flirted mildly with Prince Sanin, recently appointed Marshal of the Army. Any sign of ability or ambition was especially dangerous in that post, but young Ivan Sanin’s only qualification was a spectacular profile. He was probably craftier than Igor realized, but still vain enough to expect the Czarina to be equally charmed by his looks, which he played like a harp as he tried to wheedle Igor’s current whereabouts out of her. She enjoyed the battle of wits.
“You must miss your husband frightfully when he is away!” Sanin’s sigh was accompanied by an arpeggio of eyelashes and shining ivory to explain how fortunate she was that he was available instead.
That was going too far! “But it will not be for long this time. As His Majesty told us…Oh!” She clasped her hands in distress. “But you aren’t a member, are you?”
“Member? Member of what?”
“The Regency Council, of course. I wonder why? You should be, since you carry such awesome responsibilities.”
Having never even heard of this imaginary council, Sanin could only stammer in alarm.
“I will urge His Majesty to include you from now on!” Sophie said firmly.