The Wolf Master/Chapter 6
When the trail is clear the horse will follow it, even in darkness. If the trail be hidden, the dog will smell it out. But when the trail is at an end horse and dog look to their master, the man.
MONSIEUR BERTRAND was a mild soul and a daring trader. He bought in Moscow damask stuffs, silks and red leather, paid for them in silver and took his chances of robbery and shipwreck with all the equanimity of the philosopher that Margeret had named him. Having traveled for some years along the rivers of Muscovy, he spoke the language well, and a knew a deal of the half-oriental and wholly—to his thinking—barbaric court of the Tsar. While Kirdy listened intently and the sick captain swore, he unfolded the tale of the Kremyl.
“It has been, messieurs, a night of more bloodshed than judgment. Only yesterday I met the unfortunate Dmitri in all health and hardihood upon the steps of the Kasna—that is how they call their treasury. He was at the head of some followers who were bearing forth certain jewels and monies.
“A merchant at court must have his ear sharpened, to catch intrigue. For weeks I have perceived a conspiracy against the Tsar—” the worthy Bertrand pronounced it “Zar”—“and Dmitri must have been drunk as a trooper if he knew nothing of it. Some of the older princes and one Michael Tatikof lead the conspirators. Dmitri drank deep and laughed and feasted his eyes on jewels and fine horses. Good!
“Late in the evening this Tatikof, who had been from the city for several days, appeared at the head of a company of boyare. They concealed among their horses a sleigh. Upon this sleigh rested a casket. And, messieurs, if you were to think for a thousand days you would never hit upon the meaning of that casket.”
With a half smile on his thin lips, he paused to glance at the two listeners—he spoke in French, translating rapidly for Kirdy's benefit when he noticed the youth's eager interest.
“It was the coffin of the real Dmitri, the son of Ivan the Terrible. In the coffin reposed the body of the child, dressed as when he had been murdered—even a toy in his skeleton hand. C'est incroyable, mais c'est—la Russe! Unbelievable, but—this is Russia. Tatikof and others had suspected for some time that Dmitri was an impostor; but in what way could they prove their suspicions? Dmitri, the false Dmitri, had shown a jeweled cross; he had been acknowledged by the empress-mother; moreover he had the army behind him—”
The Frenchman shrugged one shoulder toward Margeret, and, with a tentative glance at Kirdy, went on:
“Tatikof exhibited the body of the boy to the elder princes, while the false Dmitri was reveling in the palace. The dead lay in judgment upon the living.
“Good! It was decided to slay the false Tsar. You see, messieurs, it is an easier matter to prove a dead man an impostor than a living man a fraud. And the army, except for the palace guards and the Moscow strelsui or militia, was in the steppes chasing some Cossacks. A fool's mission.
“And Dmitri died like the reckless fool he was. Sound asleep. His gossip Basmanof was awake. Tatikof stabbed Basmanof in a gallery leading to the quarters of the Tsar. Then the boyare entered the sleeping chamber of the false Dmitri, and now the impostor lies dead—”
“Name of a dog!” shouted the captain. “Dmitri, I do not believe he was a pretender!”
“My dear captain, he was a consummate and daring liar. In all the world, where will you find such another? Saint Denis—he had himself proclaimed emperor, and took a wife of the blood from Poland!”
“But, do you believe the conspirators, with their skeleton?”
Bertrand glanced at Kirdy covertly and took snuff.
“My dear Margeret,” he said under his breath in French, “what the do you or I know? I believe the Muscovite princes because they have the upper hand.”
“We took oath to—”
“Be loyal to this Dmitri? Eh, well, he is now dead. I can admire his spirit, but I condemn his lack of wisdom. If he had not made a mock of the churches and said his prayers to a ribald mask he would not have made enemies of the stiff old boyare. He gave his soul to the devil for a stake to gamble with.”
Margeret, who had been tearing the coverlet between strong fingers, shook his head impatiently.
“But the palace guard!”
“Some of your sheep-headed archers were cut down. Be grateful, my friend, that you were not on duty. Saint Denis! I believe your dinner was tampered with!”
“The militia—”
“Slept and snored, but now has been won over by the boyare. It guards the gates and scratches its thick head. Meanwhile the boyare are hunting down the followers of the false Dmitri.”
Going to the window, he gazed with some curiosity at bodies of halberdiers and mounted nobles passing through the square at the end of the street. Smoke was rising from different points in the city, and veiling the clear light of early morning.
“I must go,” he said thoughtfully, “to pay my respects to the victors, at the palace.”
“And I,” Margeret muttered, “to my men.”
“Impossible! Your ailment is providential. Even if you could stand, you were better between the sheets. Margeret, you are an excellent soldier but an execrable diplomat.”
“God's thunder! If my archers are to be put to the point of the sword—”
“Content you! I saw them penned in barracks. The boyare know the worth of your fire-eaters. Lie perdu until I can bring you fresh news.”
Weakness rather than conviction forced Margeret to stretch himself on the bed again; but when Bertrand bowed and moved to the door Kirdy stepped to his side.
“Merchant, take me with you!”
Bertrand tapped his snuff-box reflectively and pursed his lips.
“Ah, my nez Kitaisqui[1] worthy people will avoid the streets this day. Why would you come?”
Kirdy swept his arm toward the rising sun.
“Thence rode I to set eyes on the great lord of the Muscovites. If I may not behold him in life, I would see him in death.”
After a second glance at the placid-appearing Mongol, the Frenchman bowed assent, rather grudgingly. He was a judge of character and he discovered in Kirdy's eyes a certain smoldering eagerness that puzzled him.
THE two took their way over the trampled snow, seeing much and saying little, each occupied with his own thoughts.
Kirdy reflected that a passport written and signed by the Captain Margeret would be worse than useless, now, to Nada. He wasted no time in surprize over the end of the false Dmitri; it had happened and now he meant to see for himself the body of the impostor, so that he could say to the Cossacks without any shadow of doubt that the traitor who had cost the lives of thousands of the brothers was dead.
So thinking, he paid little heed to the bodies that lay in the narrow streets. At times they passed by a house that was beset by strelsui and nobles. Then Bertrand hung back and would have fetched a circle to avoid the armed men, but Kirdy pushed through the mob, saying that nothing was to be gained by slinking like dogs. In fact, the soldiery, seeing his erect head and imperious manner, often cleared a way for him and the Frankish merchant.
“Eh, it is terrible,” Bertrand sighed, watched men run into a door under upflung shields, while arrows flickered down from narrow windows. “It is a massacre of the Poles.”
There was real regret behind his sigh, because the shrewd trader foresaw that this slaughter of the visitors would be ample excuse for the ambitious and powerful King Sigismund to lead his armies into Muscovy, and that a great war would follow on the heels of civil conflict—with more plundering than profit for himself.[2]
The more they penetrated the noisy streets the less they were able to learn of events.
An officer of the town watch glared at them suspiciously, taking them for Poles or Jews in disguise, and was utterly astonished when they told him the Tsar was dead.
“Okh—who would give orders if not our great illustrious prince? How can he be dead? There was an order given to cut down all who are not orthodox believers—”
Pulling at Kirdy's arm, Bertrand hurried on, only to be stopped by a drunken halberdier who presented his pike, and roared drowsily:
“Stand—enemies of the faith! Put down your weapons and bend the head!”
Him Kirdy quieted with a gold piece and passed on before the slow-thinking warrior reflected that more plunder might be had where the ducat came from. They saw a whole colony of Jews scurrying like hares into a dark alley where a barricade was being put up—a flimsy rampart of tables, benches and posts.
“It is a dark hour, my Lords!” a blind beggar declaimed, shaking his shaggy head. “Ai-a, who knows what word is true, and what is false? A priest said we had a new Tsar—long life and glory to him. Give a copper for bread, my Lords!”
“The belly endures no interregnum,” murmured Bertrand. “Ah, here is a client who knows me.”
He accosted a bearded noble who was forcing his way on horseback toward one of the Kremyl gates, followed by a wild-looking array of fur-clad slaves and men-at-arms. The Muscovite knew nothing at all of events, save that he had been summoned to attendance by the doumnii boyare, the councilors. But he allowed Kirdy and the merchant to pass through the palace gate with him, and that was something gained.
Here there was less fighting, but little more enlightenment. Kirdy saw a young woman with painted cheeks and mincing step—a being in voluminous velvets and silk garments, who yet looked at him out of haggard eyes, led away between two files of guardsmen. With her were two elder men who walked proudly and held hat and gloves as precisely as if they were bound for a court audience instead of gaol.
“The bride of the false Dmitri,” Bertrand whispered. “The princess of Sandomir. A pawn, thrust in advance of king and bishops.”
“She does not weep,” Kirdy commented, with approval.
The way into the Tsar's quarters was barred to them, and they learned that the boyare were in council. It was a dwarf of the troupe of buffoons who told them where the false Dmitri lay—a jester of the company Kirdy had seen the night before.
“Nay, Uncle,” the little man laughed, “which Dmitri doth your soberness seek? The skeleton or the corpse?”
“What difference?” retorted the merchant with a grimace.
“By the holy angels, a mighty difference! One, that was no more than a fistful of bones yester-eve—that a starved jackal would turn from—now is an honorable relic, and worketh miracles by account of the priests. The other, that was our celestial prince but a day agone, is now accursed cold meat that an honest butcher would spit upon—”
“Where lies he—this false Dmitri?” asked Kirdy.
“Ohai—he lies for all to see. Come, Uncle Merchant, come my Lord of Tatary! I will show you! Permit me to conduct you to the royal seat. He lies in state.”
Grimacing, the dwarf pushed and mumbled his way through the crowds, beckoning over his shoulder to the two, until he came to a dense throng where elbows and fists were needed to clear a way. This was in front of a dark pile of stone, a silent monastery, where Bertrand informed Kirdy, the empress-mother had taken refuge.
Here on a table lay two bodies stripped of all clothing.
The one on top, with its feet resting upon the chest of the other, was that of Basmanof Kirdy recognized the harsh, lined features of the noble who had betrayed one master and had died in defense of the false Dmitri. He pushed closer to the table to look at the body of the impostor.
He saw a powerful figure, terribly gashed about the chest, and he caught his breath suddenly, while the dwarf chuckled.
“Ohai, my Lord of Tatary—we have fitted him for his journey to the land of Satan.”
Kirdy beheld upon the head of the dead man, a mask. It was grotesque and evil, with the ears of an animal, the grin of a satyr and the mouth of a monster. Through the holes of the mask the dead eyes stared up at the gray sky.
“Holy Mother,” whispered Bertrand, “what mockery!”
The assassins had taken down the mask found in Dmitri's chamber and had placed it upon the man who had made a jest of the sacred pictures.
The men of the crowd, emotionless as so many statues, looked from the bodies on the table to the young Mongol, who pushed steadily closer to the head in the mask. A murmur went up as he stretched out his hand.
“Name of a name,” the merchant cried, “do not touch it!”
But Kirdy had lifted the heavy painted lacquer countenance and was studying the pallid features beneath—the strong features of a youth no older than himself, without a beard. A knife had slashed open the right cheek near the nose.
“Is this your Tsar?” he asked Bertrand.
“Aye, that is Dmitri,” the merchant nodded, and crossed himself. He started to say something more, but changed his mind and motioned to Kirdy to come away.
Kirdy replaced the mask, folded his arms in his sleeves, and withdrew through the crowd that opened to let him pass. The dwarf lingered with his fellows and the two visitors walked slowly from the Kremyl grounds. Bertrand was chewing his lip and frowning, and when they were alone in a narrow alley, spoke to Kirdy abruptly.
“Why did you lift the mask?”
“To see the face,” the young warrior made answer simply. “Men told me that the Khaghan of the Muscovites had a mole or wart on the cheek near the nose. I did not see it.”
Several times Bertrand's lips moved before he found words that satisfied him.
“You have more boldness than discretion, my friend! A mole! It must have been slashed away. The cheek was cut.”
“Aya tak,” Kirdy nodded, “aye so. It is an evil fate, that of the emperor of this people.”
The Frenchman shrugged.
“Savages! Worse will follow, I fear.”
Through Kirdy's mind the cry of the jester rang like an echo:
“His long journey to the lands of Satan.” Aloud, he added to his companion. “Now I must sleep!”
For two days and a night he had not closed his eyes, and for many days he had not taken more than a remnant of rest; he was a little bewildered by the fighting in the city, and the crowds from which he could not escape. He wanted to be alone, to think about what had happened. But he attended the older man to Bertrand's house near the tavern, and the Frenchman looked after him thoughtfully when he strode away.
Weary as he was, Kirdy was careful to lead his horses from their stable where plunderers might find them and take them with him when he sought Nada's dwelling to report his lack of success in getting the passport and to tell the girl all that had taken place during the night.
He found the house guarded by Toghrul and Karai, and learned that Nada had gone out on foot to investigate matters with her other men. Kirdy gave the tribesman a message for his mistress and Toghrul prepared a bed for him in a corner of the dining-hall—a bed of straw, with a saddle for pillow.
Almost at once Kirdy fell into a deep sleep, rousing a little when he heard voices. One of the voices sounded like Nada's, and he fancied that she was giving orders. A light footfall stirred the straw near his head, and he was aware of a scent that seemed to come from the open steppe—of flowers warmed by the sun.