shadows, that even if Sasha Misurov held to his story, they might well search the stable. He gave a heave of his arms and his back and got himself upright, stood up, reeled sidelong and fell, thinking, Fool!—before he landed on his side.
He held back the outcry. He let his breath go. He could not get another for a moment, or see anything past the haze, except he heard deeper voices in the yard, Fedya Misurov's voice saying, "What did he do?"
"Murder," came the answer. "By sorcery."
"Who?"
"The boyar Yurishev himself. Master Yurishev caught him in his upstairs hall, at his wife's door, and chased the wretch into the street before he fell dead—"
No! Pyetr thought to himself. They're lying!
"If you see him," the man said, "take no chances. There was no mark on the victim."
Men die, Pyetr thought. The fools! He was an old man!
And he waited in bitter anticipation for Sasha Misurov to speak up and say, I know where to find him—because there was no reason Sasha should not. The stakes had risen much too high for a stranger to risk for anyone.
But the riders took their leave and rode away.
God, he thought, is the boy still out there?
Perhaps Sasha was inside the tavern, perhaps it would still happen, the boy would hear and tell Fedya and Fedya would say Run after them—
But he heard the elder Misurov say, "Lock the gate tonight." and young Sasha say, not so far from the stable wall, "Yes, uncle. I will."
Pyetr let go the straw he clenched in his fists and felt his last strength leave him, so that tears leaked from his eyes. Every breath was edged with the pain in his back and his side.
He saw the boy come back into the stable, saw him break into a ran to reach him. The boy said it had been the town watch looking for him, asked him to keep still, said he would bandage the wound and take care of him—
Pyetr had no idea why.
CHAPTER 2
« ^ »
P yetr waked with the scent of hay and horses in his nostrils, and felt the pain that came whenever he waked, but the night was past, dusty sunlight shafted through the chinks of logs and the pain, thank the god, was finally bearable. He was afraid to move and start it again. He lay there thinking about moving, he listened to sounds: the horses doing bored, horsely things, the tavern waking up, distant shouts from mistress Ilenka—
Sasha
, she was calling,
take both pails, you lazy lout
! A cock crowed somewhere in the neighborhood.
Then he began to remember why he was lying here on his face in the straw, and remembered that the tsar's law was looking for him, that old Yurishev was irrevocably and truly dead, gone from Vojvoda where he had lived all Pyetr's life, and Yurishev's fool retainers were claiming witchcraft—It was all too absurd: he remembered Yurishev's shocked face in that moment that they had scared each other, and thought it likely old Yurishev had never used a sword in his life. Probably the shock had frightened the old man into his grave, on the spot—and as for witchcraft, good god, Pyetr Illitch Kochevikov could hardly afford a two-kopek charm to ill-wish the old miser, let alone hire some foreign sorcerer powerful enough to strike a man dead on the spot—because certainly no wizard who had ever set up shop in Vojvoda could do a thing like that.
Not at least any of the local ilk, who held forth in cramped little shops and collected and dispensed the town's gossip for coin. If there
were
genuine wizards, Pyetr thought, there were certainly none in Vojvoda. What had happened was an old man dying, and Yurishev's guards protecting their reputations. Probably one man had offered that inspired excuse to the inquiring magistrates, and the rest had immediately taken up on it, that was the truth of what had happened last night. Pyetr Kochevikov believed in human weakness far more than he believed in wizards, human weakness being everywhere evident and sorcery being a
He held back the outcry. He let his breath go. He could not get another for a moment, or see anything past the haze, except he heard deeper voices in the yard, Fedya Misurov's voice saying, "What did he do?"
"Murder," came the answer. "By sorcery."
"Who?"
"The boyar Yurishev himself. Master Yurishev caught him in his upstairs hall, at his wife's door, and chased the wretch into the street before he fell dead—"
No! Pyetr thought to himself. They're lying!
"If you see him," the man said, "take no chances. There was no mark on the victim."
Men die, Pyetr thought. The fools! He was an old man!
And he waited in bitter anticipation for Sasha Misurov to speak up and say, I know where to find him—because there was no reason Sasha should not. The stakes had risen much too high for a stranger to risk for anyone.
But the riders took their leave and rode away.
God, he thought, is the boy still out there?
Perhaps Sasha was inside the tavern, perhaps it would still happen, the boy would hear and tell Fedya and Fedya would say Run after them—
But he heard the elder Misurov say, "Lock the gate tonight." and young Sasha say, not so far from the stable wall, "Yes, uncle. I will."
Pyetr let go the straw he clenched in his fists and felt his last strength leave him, so that tears leaked from his eyes. Every breath was edged with the pain in his back and his side.
He saw the boy come back into the stable, saw him break into a ran to reach him. The boy said it had been the town watch looking for him, asked him to keep still, said he would bandage the wound and take care of him—
Pyetr had no idea why.
CHAPTER 2
« ^ »
P yetr waked with the scent of hay and horses in his nostrils, and felt the pain that came whenever he waked, but the night was past, dusty sunlight shafted through the chinks of logs and the pain, thank the god, was finally bearable. He was afraid to move and start it again. He lay there thinking about moving, he listened to sounds: the horses doing bored, horsely things, the tavern waking up, distant shouts from mistress Ilenka—
Sasha
, she was calling,
take both pails, you lazy lout
! A cock crowed somewhere in the neighborhood.
Then he began to remember why he was lying here on his face in the straw, and remembered that the tsar's law was looking for him, that old Yurishev was irrevocably and truly dead, gone from Vojvoda where he had lived all Pyetr's life, and Yurishev's fool retainers were claiming witchcraft—It was all too absurd: he remembered Yurishev's shocked face in that moment that they had scared each other, and thought it likely old Yurishev had never used a sword in his life. Probably the shock had frightened the old man into his grave, on the spot—and as for witchcraft, good god, Pyetr Illitch Kochevikov could hardly afford a two-kopek charm to ill-wish the old miser, let alone hire some foreign sorcerer powerful enough to strike a man dead on the spot—because certainly no wizard who had ever set up shop in Vojvoda could do a thing like that.
Not at least any of the local ilk, who held forth in cramped little shops and collected and dispensed the town's gossip for coin. If there
were
genuine wizards, Pyetr thought, there were certainly none in Vojvoda. What had happened was an old man dying, and Yurishev's guards protecting their reputations. Probably one man had offered that inspired excuse to the inquiring magistrates, and the rest had immediately taken up on it, that was the truth of what had happened last night. Pyetr Kochevikov believed in human weakness far more than he believed in wizards, human weakness being everywhere evident and sorcery being a
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