by Dave Duncan
Snow streamed past horizontally, coating sleds and horses and people, turning everything into a white fog until sky and earth merged and even the other teams were hard to see. The cold grew more deadly by the minute. They had gambled and lost, and Tasha would be the first queen of Chivial to freeze to death.
“Bad for the horses,” Wilf complained.
“If they freeze solid we’ll have to carry them.”
Wilf never understood jokes and that one wasn’t very funny anyway.
The cold and endless travail had thrown Arkell into a sort of trance, and it took repeated shouts from the rear to jerk him out of it. He looked back to see Beau waving frantically. When his signal was acknowledged, he turned his sled around, so Arkell copied and followed. Beau had seen a gap in the scrub, which Arkell had missed completely in the white hell, but a few moments sufficed to confirm that it was indeed a trail, a track worn through the bush by traffic. The drivers urged their teams into a trot and life began to seem possible again.
The going was still not exactly easy, for the snow had drifted unevenly, making the horses stumble. Once or twice Arkell thought he saw traces of hoofprints, which were a reminder that the government must not be counted out yet. A courier who knew the way could have reached Morkuta already and alerted the garrison. Still, even a jail would be better than this.
The right horse stumbled, the others whinnied in alarm, and the rig came to a shuddering halt, tilted to the left. The second sled emerged from the blizzard.
“What’s wrong?” Beau yelled. One lame horse could kill them now.
The trouble was a high drift across their path, and the obstruction blocking the wind was just visible through the swirling white murk. Arkell pointed a snow-caked arm at it.
“Morkuta,” he said.
• 11 •
Oak doubted that. It was a stockade, too new-looking to be what he expected of Morkuta. The gate stood half open, lodged in place by drifts, not wide enough for three horses abreast.
Beau, an anonymous snowman, twisted around to him. “Any port in a storm. Go bend a hawser on a binnacle or whatever you sailor types do.”
Oak climbed out of the sled where he had spent two days crammed in beside his ward, powerless to help as the cold and buffeting drained the old man’s life away. Wassail desperately needed rest and shelter, and so did Oak himself. He was sick from the throb of pain in his shoulder.
Just inside the gate he found tracks not yet obliterated and horse droppings that steamed when he kicked them. The timber buildings looked new, built after the wars, and the chimney on the largest was smoking. He floundered across to it. Finding the door unlocked, he let himself in, taking the storm with him.
The squinty little windows were caked over, so most of what light there was came from a blaze in the fieldstone fireplace occupying much of the far wall. Oak forced the door shut, then turned to face the occupants as they scrambled to their feet and drew swords. There were eight of them, all hairy, scruffy, and unprepossessing. The leader who stalked forward was a big man missing an arm, and the sight of him raised Oak’s heartbeat to fighting speed.
“Declare yourself!” Then Viazemski’s eyes widened at the sight of the cat’s-eye sword. He laughed and sheathed his own. “By the stars, I feel outnumbered already. Welcome to Mezersk, Sir Oak.” He offered his hand.
Oak ignored it. “Travelers seeking shelter, eight of us.”
“We are the Czar’s men and this is a royal hunting lodge. His Majesty would never refuse hospitality to wellborn travelers on such a day, let alone the honored Chivian Ambassador.”
Mezersk seemed more like a fort than a lodge. Heaps of baggage and a stink of wet fur suggested that the streltsy had arrived very recently. Now the sheep had followed the wolves into their lair, but they had no choice. Shelter first and fight later.
“We need assistance with the horses.”
“Gladly. Fyodor, Andrei—all of you—go help our guests. I am happy to see you in good health, Sir Oak.”
“I was in better health when we met the last time.”
“But not when I had to leave so hurriedly.” The smirking scoundrel thought he could call in a debt—I saved your life. His henchmen might not know that story, or they might be friends of the men Oak had slain, with debts of their own to repay.
“Your companion on that occasion was surprised to see me yesterday.”
“Wasn’t he!” The streltsi’s pig face was particularly horrible when he smiled.
“You were present?”
“I heard.”
Either the scoundrel had just come from Kiensk or some of his men had. Had Viazemski been sent to hunt down the fugitives? Or had his actions in saving Oak turned him into a fugitive also? Oak did not think this meeting could be pure chance.
“We can reminisce later.” He went back out. The others had unharnessed the outside horses of Wassail’s sled and brought it right to the door. They were about to unload their ward.
“Viazemski and seven other streltsy,” he announced. “They just got here.”
“I don’t mind killing streltsy,” Beau said. “Was he surprised to see you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Remember your bedroll, Timofei.”
“Don’t you speak to me like that!”
Beau caught her arm as she tried to go past. “Listen! Viazemski himself will certainly recognize you but his men may not. It’s possible the Voevode can be bought, but streltsy turn brigand whenever the fancy takes them. Rape first and ransom second? Stay in character!”
The girl screamed at him, close to hysterics with fear. “You incompetent idiot, you’ve ruined everything! You couldn’t find a way out of Skyrria in ten thousand years. You’ll run around in circles until you freeze to death or the Border Patrol drags you back to Kiensk. You think the Czar will honor my marriage treaty after this insult? I don’t! And if he does, I swear I’ll have your head on a post for a wedding present.”
But Queen Tasha did grab up a bundle to take in with her, and so did the Yurievna woman. Beau and Oak carried their ward inside and set him on a bench by the hearth.
Beau glanced around the hall. “Help the men unload, boys.”
The Queen glared. “Come, Sergei!” She led the way outside again.
Two long benches stood by the fireplace and two more flanked a plank table in the center of the hall. There was no other furniture, but the floor was littered with heaps of clothes, blankets, and tack. Bags, baskets, pots, buckets, and a skinned sheep’s carcase on the table showed that it would serve as a kitchen. The streltsy were camping, not resident.
The Blades could not leave their ward, who huddled on his seat, head down, breathing loudly. Viazemski sat at the table in the middle, showing no special interest in Queen Tasha. A couple of the streltsy helped bring in the baggage. Everyone else had gone to see to the horses.
When Timofei and Sergei had finished, they shed furs and came to kneel before the hearth. Throwing another log on the blaze, Beau leaned over them. “That’s good! You really look like boys sitting there. If there’s trouble, get under the bench—fast!”
Oak expected another blast from Tasha, but Wassail spoke first.
“Timofei?”
“My lord?”
His face was a sickly gray, his mouth loose, eyes half closed. He spoke in a hoarse whisper. “I am sorry. We nearly died out there.”
“No one can predict weather in Skyrria, my lord. Not your fault.”
“Yes, it was my fault. I want you to know. I suggested this and overruled my Blades’ objections. The fault is mine.”
“There may be no fault, grandfather. One storm does not make a winter.”
Oak upgraded his opinion of Queen Tasha from Spoiled Brat to Spoiled Brat with Promise.
The streltsy began drifting back in ones and twos. Eight were not bad odds for three Blades and a knight, and if the Viazemski snake changed its skin there might be no fight at all. Weeks ago he had accepted a testimonial from Lord W
assail. Since then he had defied the Czar by sending Oak to the healers—why, if not to curry Chivian favor? Nor would he overlook this opportunity to gain merit by aiding a king’s bride.
“Timofei?” Beau said again.
She grimaced at him. “Sir Beaumont, sir?”
“Bring a grub bag. I’m hungry.”
Queen Tasha rose and walked the length of the hall, to the baggage heap. She brought back a heavy pack, deliberately walking in front of the Voevode.
He studied her progress with interest, then sneered across at Beau. “A promising lad you have there, Commander. I know his sister.”
Door and shutters rattled, fireplace puffed smoke. The hall grew warmer, water began dripping somewhere. The newcomers held the fireplace, the streltsy the table, and time crawled by. The two factions snacked, conversed in whispers, each watching the other. It was an absurd standoff and Viazemski was the key—he knew that and found the situation amusing. Oak could not decide what to make of the man, unwilling to believe so despicable a reputation could hide a heart of gold, yet aware that the ruffian’s brazen lack of conscience gave him an odd sort of charm.
A couple of hours passed. Wassail seemed somewhat restored, sitting between Beau and Arkell. The women had moved to the opposite bench, beside Cuthbert and Wilf. Oak stood behind his ward, brooding on the accursed misfortune of the storm that had delayed their escape. Without that, they would have been well on their way up the Dvono by now.
Apparently Wassail was thinking much the same. Suddenly he said, “Voevode?”
The streltsy leader rose and walked closer, but not too near the unblinking Blades. “My lord?”
“Spirits of air and chance rule the weather,” the Ambassador rasped, “and certainly it was prankish chance made us meet in this lodge. But Skyrria is very big and there must be a reason why we are both in the Morkuta area at this time. Will you tell what business brings you here?”
That awful smile again—“You left Kiensk without leave, my lord. I was sent to catch you and bring you back.”
“Nonsense. Even ignoring Sir Cuthbert, you know that eight men cannot arrest three Blades.”
“I was separated from my main strength by the blizzard, but they will come in time. Meanwhile, you will not be leaving.” He was lying, of course…wasn’t he?
“Then I should ask Sir Beaumont to kill you all now.”
That did not seem such a bad idea to Oak. The streltsy would dislike it, though, and they were listening intently.
The one-armed man shrugged. “It would be an act of war. Your retainers back in Kiensk are hostage.”
When it came to deceit and perfidy, Wassail was out of his class dealing with a thug like Viazemski. He coughed a few times and tried again. “You still have that paper I signed for you once?”
The brigand lowered his voice. “It may be around somewhere.”
“We lost our way. I’m thinking of hiring some local guides. Guards, even. I could pay well.”
“How fortunate some people are!” A grin twisted Viazemski’s beard. “Wouldn’t mention that happy situation too loudly around here, Your Honor. If I were you, I mean. I have my suspicions not all those lads of mine are perfectly honest.”
“Just you, then?”
“I’m certainly not.”
The Walrus glared. His lungs bubbled.
Arkell came to his rescue. “You told me once that you could be a good friend.”
“I tell ’em all that, sonny. Have you heard what I did to my mother?”
Oak decided it must be his turn. “Did you talk to the Czar yesterday?”
Viazemski chuckled. “Mostly I listened to the Czar yesterday.”
“How did you explain my resurrection?”
“Told him I was sure you were dead when I left. Your binding makes you very hard to kill, see?”
“Thanks for that.” And that was all the thanks Oak would ever give him.
“You’re welcome. Next?” He leered.
“Me.” Beau’s smile was brilliant and Viazemski’s grew more cautious.
“How may I help you, Commander?”
“No, how may we help you?” The Blade chuckled. “My lord, the Voevode’s tale smells of fish. I doubt he would ever lose his way, yet he arrived just before we did. One asks oneself why any honest man would leave Kiensk in the middle of the night during a blizzard and take the shortest road to the border.”
“Suggest a reason,” Wassail growled.
“Because he has spies within the Imperial Chancellery, perhaps? Could he have learned that Chief Boyar Skuratov had sent word to the Czar denouncing the notorious Viazemski as a traitor?”
The streltsi’s furious pallor was confirmation enough. “What are you implying?” He spoke through clenched teeth. “What do you know?”
“I know that you are a wonderful trader, Voevode.” Beau seemed barely able to contain outright laughter. “Igor’s dogs are snapping at your backside and yet you pretend indifference when His Lordship offers you the chance to escape from Skyrria with us. What terms shall we offer? You want to hear our fees for killing off those ruffians behind you before they decide to sell you to the Czar? How much will you pay us not to tell them the truth?”
“You did this?” Viazemski was white with rage. His hand toyed with his sword. “You chose a strange way to reward me for saving your man’s life, Commander.”
Behind the inevitable smile, Beau’s eyes were cold as steel. “I was rewarding you for not warning us that Oak was in danger. The saving came a little late. We may credit it to your account, if you and your pack wish to discuss cooperation.”
“In return for what?”
“Guide us to the border, help us past the White Hats, escort us across Dolorth.”
For himself, Oak would sooner share a bed with a pack of hungry wolves, but his ward needed all the help he could get.
The streltsi glanced around to confirm that his men were listening. “Make us an offer.”
“My lord,” Beau said, “buy me these brutes.”
“A thousand Hyrian ducats apiece.” Wassail gasped for breath and then continued. “That’s about fifteen hundred rubles. Three times that for you. I have the money in bankers’ drafts, so warn your shifty friends they can’t…” Gasp! “…earn it with a knife in my kidneys. I can…turn it into gold when we reach Konigsfen, in Fitain.”
“Four times for me.”
“No. Take…it or leave it.”
Viazemski scowled. “I’ll have to consult my boys. If we have dissenters, can we divide their share among the survivors?”
Wassail tried to laugh and grimaced in pain. “Beau?” he gasped.
“Why not? Make it ten thousand for the gang of them, my lord, and may the worst man win.”
The streltsi went off to confer with his accomplices. They removed to a far corner, but whispers soon grew into argument. Trust was in very short supply.
“Beau?” Wassail croaked.
“My lord?”
“What have you been up to now?”
That was something Oak wanted to know also, and Arkell was almost gnashing his teeth.
“Me?”
“Don’t deny it, just tell me.”
Beau sighed. “When we moved from West Wing to the Foreigners’ Quarter yesterday, my lord, your red silk hat box was inadvertently left behind.”
“Didn’t know I had a red silk hat box.”
“It is of no matter in itself. It was empty, except for the secret compartment, which the Chief Boyar’s spies would find very easily as soon as we had gone. Of course VoevodeViazemski has his own spies inside the Imperial Chancellery, so he heard the news and decided to leave town before the Tsar was summoned back. Certain papers discovered in that secret compartment were written by Czarevich Fedor himself, clearly showing that he has been conspiring with a foreign power, namely you, to overthrow his father. Shocking! One of the notes implicates His Turpitude over there as a fellow conspirator. Czar Igor will certainly want to get to th
e bottom of the matter.”
Wassail gagged and turned almost purple before he caught his breath. “You made me a spy? Spirits! Igor will be after us with his entire army.”
Even Arkell was horrified. “You implicated your ward in sedition and high treason? Why?”
“Why?” Beau looked as innocent as spring flowers. “Isn’t that obvious, brother? No one plants documents that incriminate himself, so these must be genuine—simple, yes? But the Czarevich? I’ll guarantee Skuratov and the rest of those geriatric boyars went into such a tail-chasing spin that they won’t think to look for us for days.”
“But what of Sir Dixon and all the others we left behind? They’ll be arrested and tortured. Beau, that’s terrible!”
“Rubbish!” Beau said impatiently. “Igor will see through the whole thing the moment he returns. He knows Fedor wouldn’t write letters to a man he’s been seeing practically every night for months. He can barely write at all. My imitation of his hand was very crude.”
“But Viazemski must know he’s innocent!”
“Innocent?” Beau echoed incredulously. “That horror isn’t innocent of any crime ever invented. Obviously he panicked and ran when he heard he was under suspicion—why? The chance that dropped us together here may have been good luck.”
“I doubt it,” Oak muttered.
“What of Fedor?” Arkell said. “Will he learn of this?”
“Sure to,” Beau said cheerily. “He’s the heir and there’s always lickspittles slobbering around the heir. Someone will tip him off.”
“You certainly left them something to think about,” Arkell conceded.
Surprisingly, he laughed. Then Wassail chuckled.
If they were happy, Oak supposed he should be. Night was falling, the hall almost dark, and the stack of firewood would have to be replenished soon. Who would dare leave the standoff to do that—one Blade and three streltsy perhaps?
The door crashed back against the wall, admitting a blast of snow and fog, a troop of men, and a chorus of obscene complaint. They stamped their boots and shouted, then slammed the door shut. Their insignia were too caked with snow to be discernible, but clearly they were not streltsy. There were about a score of them, enough to make the hall crowded and tip the odds drastically. Even before they uncovered their faces, Oak recognized the sepulchral growl of Czarevich Fedor.