Vladimir was as crowded as ever, merchants and farmers filling the streets in constant motion. At the log-built city gate, people streamed in and out without pause. Near the gate stood two men. Both looked like they belonged to the steppe.
The taller one wore a reddish-brown deel and a bearskin cloak, a black fur hat pulled low. The other was a slender youth in a muted blue-green deel, a wolf-fur cape over his shoulders, his head wrapped in a black cloth. The man in red-brown had a face striking enough to make passersby glance twice. He reached out, tugged the cloth over the youth’s head, pulling it down until it nearly covered her eyes.
“Listen. Don’t speak. Not a word,” he said quietly. “That voice of yours—too pretty. They’ll know you’re a woman instantly.”
The youth adjusted the cloth, glaring up at him with blue-gray eyes. The man smiled.
“Look how crowded it is. Keep your eyes on me. Don’t get separated. Let’s go.”
He turned and passed through the gate. The youth hurried after him.
The square beyond was alive with stalls and noise. People stopped to bargain, inspect goods, laugh, argue. Norjin moved steadily deeper into the crowd, his eyes alert, reading faces and movement. A moment’s inattention, and she could lose him in the crowd.
Sweet scents mingled with sharp ones—spices, fish, oil. Something about it stirred a faint nostalgia in Zaya. The warmth of so many bodies softened the December cold.
A flash of light caught her eye. She stopped before a small goods stall. Embroidered ribbons, patterned pouches, roughly carved wooden toys. Beads, combs, small trinkets. Zaya drifted closer and picked up a comb shaped like a bird, its eyes set with blue stones much like her own.
The vendor grinned.
“A gift for your sweetheart? Cute, isn’t it? The girls love these.”
He brought out more items.
“This ring’s the most popular. A bit pricey, but very fine work.”
When Zaya didn’t answer, the man assumed she didn’t understand and began acting out how delighted a woman would be to receive such gifts. The performance was so earnest that Zaya laughed.
“Well now,” the man said cheerfully, squinting at her. “So you’re a boy. Voice hasn’t broken yet? Pretty face you’ve got.”
Zaya hastily pulled the cloth higher over her face.
“Don’t be shy. Don’t worry—once you’re grown, women won’t leave you alone,” he said, thumping his chest in assurance.
Zaya giggled at his confidence.
Suddenly, a hand seized her shoulder and spun her halfway around.
“Sorry, friend. We’re in a hurry,” Norjin said briskly, tossing the vendor a few small silver coins.
Norjin kept hold of Zaya’s hand as he strode away, only releasing it once they reached the back of the market. His expression was unmistakably angry.
“What did you think you were doing?” he snapped.
“I told you to watch me.”
“I was.”
“No. You weren’t.”
“Don’t show other men that face.”
Zaya stared at him, incredulous.
“What face?”
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“Enough. Don’t take your eyes off me.”
Norjin took her hand, not looking at her, and started walking again.
When they returned to the main street, a thunder of hooves suddenly tore through the market. A mounted messenger burst in, people screaming as they scattered aside. The horse raced down the narrow path and vanished through the gates of a large building, a banner streaming from its back.
After wandering a while longer, hunger drove them into a tavern that served food. It was packed, loud with men’s voices and thick with the smell of cooking.
Norjin leaned close and spoke softly.
“See the man drinking mead in the back? Black clothes. Gray beard.”
Zaya followed his gaze. A red-nosed drunk sat slumped at a table as a stout woman set down black bread and grilled meat on wooden plates.
“Lucky,” Norjin murmured. “He’s something like the religious authority here.”
“A priest,” Zaya whispered.
“A priest, then. They say he was thrown out of the church for drinking instead of performing rituals. He speaks Kipchak—perfect for a translator.”
Zaya nodded.
“Not long ago,” Norjin went on with a grin, “A Tatar envoy had come to Ryazan. Handsome fellow, they say. Guarded by a terrifyingly strong woman who tore Ryazan soldiers apart with her bare hands—one after another.”
Zaya choked on her food. Norjin slid a cup of mead toward her, clearly amused.
“That messenger earlier was probably from Ryazan. Rumors travel faster than official word.”
After a while, Norjin rose with his cup.
“Stay here.”
He crossed to the back table and sat opposite the priest, ordering two meads and pushing one across.
“Good day, Father. May God’s blessing be upon you.”
The priest looked up, then beamed.
“Ah! I am Father Stefan. I’ll be sure to offer special prayers for you.”
He drained the cup before finishing the sentence.
Norjin quickly ordered another, took a sip of his own, and grimaced. Strong. Very strong.
Stefan drank again as if it were water. Matching his pace would be suicide. Norjin slowed deliberately, letting the talk drift until—
A bell rang somewhere in the distance.
“Well then,” Stefan said, swaying as he stood. “Time for me to go.”
They followed him out.
Subutai read the report from the advance envoys while listening to the final crackle of collapsing, burned buildings. He skimmed the unnecessary flourishes.
Next was Ryazan. A wooden frontier city. Wood everywhere. It made no sense to him. They knew their cities burned easily, yet took no real precautions. If they chose to leave such a weakness untouched, that was to his advantage.
He tossed the letter to his deputy, Elbek.
“The next target is set. Have the Kipchak commanders prepare.”
“Yes, sir.”
Subutai disliked wasting his own seasoned troops. The first wave was always prisoners or defectors. Elbek relayed orders swiftly. Men scattered to their tasks.
Subutai looked out over the plain. Smoke still rose faintly in places, but the horizon was clear. There was nothing more to see.
Sunlight slanted through the oiled-paper windows of the castle office in Kiev. The city was calm.
The regular council meeting ended as usual. A minor dispute over grain quotas fizzled out when Vasily remarked—without quite realizing it—that the noble had made the same complaint last year. The man fell silent at once. No one knew why. The problem vanished.
Reports that the Tatars had begun moving again, attacking Volga Bulgaria, caused little stir. A bishop’s deputy crossed himself. Bulgar was far away.
Tosha approached.
“Livestock have escaped into the square. Quite a commotion.”
Vasily sighed. He had told them to fix the fence.
“That fence is fixed. A different one broke,” Tosha said, amused. Watching animals scatter through market stalls must be entertaining.
“You’d enjoy it too, wouldn’t you? Shall we go?”
Vasily looked at Tosha.
“Does he have some knowledge of magic?” he said, without meaning to. Tosha hurriedly crossed himself. It wasn’t magic at all—just Vasily’s habit of speaking whatever crossed his mind, entirely unaware that he was doing it.
“Well then,” Vasily said. “Let’s go. We’ll have to settle it anyway.”
They left the chamber and headed for the market.
