The Empire of Time (31 page)

‘I see you’ve got what you wanted,’ he says tonelessly.

‘It would seem so.’

I look to the Mongolian, trying to gauge what his response to me now is. He seems okay, but these men are fiercely proud, and he’ll not forget what I did to him earlier, so I give him the slightest bow of respect.

‘You want to talk?’ Kravchuk asks.

‘Not here,’ I say. ‘Outside.’ And, as the Mongolian makes to accompany him, I add, ‘Alone.’

The Mongolian shakes his head, but Kravchuk places a hand on his arm and nods.

We step outside, into the warm darkness of the evening. The courtyard stinks, but we ignore it. Kravchuk is first to speak.

‘You said you could help me? How?’

‘I can get you introductions. Meetings with the men you want to see.’

He laughs. ‘You’re a
Nemets
. You don’t even know these people.’

‘Oh, I do. Much better than you think. And I also know that you’re in danger. There are agents here – Rus’ agents – who want to kill you.’

That makes him think. ‘They know who I am? What I’m doing here?’

‘Yes.’ But the truth is I don’t know. I’m only guessing now. I am assuming that the Russians got to Kravchuk. That they worked out what was going on.

‘It’s like I said earlier. I want what you want. I want the Horde to succeed.’

‘And is that why you’re marrying a Russian?’

I smile, but he doesn’t see it in the darkness. We are but voices.

‘Expediency,’ I say, not wishing to let him know just what I feel. Not wishing to give him any power over me. ‘If I’m to function here, then I need to blend in.’

‘I see.’ And he does seem to understand that. After all, it’s what he’s doing. Even so, he’s not entirely satisfied, and now he asks the crucial question. ‘So who are
you
working for?’

‘Can’t you guess?’

He hesitates, then, quieter. ‘The Poles? The Livonians?’

I lower my voice, as if I don’t wish to be overheard. ‘No. But close. I report to the Grand Master himself.’

It’s a half-truth, and I’m proud of it, makeshift as it is.

‘I see,’ Kravchuk says, and there’s a new respect in his voice. ‘I should have guessed.’

‘Maybe. But now that you know, there seems no reason for us to be enemies. You and I, we want to bring these barbarians to their knees, no? To humble them. What better way than to undermine their princes, eh?’

And he laughs. A soft and quiet laugh that sounds like genuine amusement. And I begin to laugh also, and when Razumovsky comes out to find me, he finds Kravchuk and I arm in arm, laughing together, as if we’re drunk.

‘Gentlemen!’ he says, putting his arms about us both. ‘It’s good to see you two becoming friends! But come inside now. Come! It’s time for the toast.’

We return inside, and there is my beloved, her single plait, the symbol of her maidenhood, unplaited now, the lace
kokoshnik
removed from her head. As I step towards her, so she holds out a heavy gilded cup. There has been no time for a
devichnik –
a maiden’s party – but she has bathed, as is the tradition, and now she offers me a drink of her bathwater. In another time, another age, this might seem ludicrous, but here this is seen as an almost magical rite, a throwback to their ancient worship of Lado, the fertility god. I take the goblet reverently, cupping her hands gently in my own, and sip, my eyes smiling at hers all the while, drinking of her, knowing that by this time tomorrow she will be mine.

I am up an hour before dawn, preparing myself. First light finds me kneeling in the front bench of St Sophia’s, Razumovsky at my side, the tall, dark-bearded priest six paces distant, praying to the altar before he turns and beckons me across. There is the smell of burning incense, the flicker of candles in golden sconces. All goes well, and within the hour I step from the church, the taste of wine and communion bread strong in my mouth. Razumovsky looks at me and grins, then strides on in front, leaving me to catch up.

The wedding is to be that afternoon, in St Sophia’s, and invitations are hurriedly sent out. I find the haste of it almost indecent, but Razumovsky’s not to be denied. Now that he has me, he wants to keep me and make sure. He doesn’t want me rushing off on some trading venture, only to find his unwed daughter swelling out, the townsfolk gossiping.

Not that I’m against the idea. Oh Urd no. I want her more than anything I’ve ever wanted, and the thought of marrying her that afternoon is like a dream. Indeed, it is my dream. Only Ernst is still missing, and I’ve not a clue yet what the Russians are up to. And Hecht wants me back.

But he can wait. This once they all can wait.

And now the hours crawl slowly, as if Time’s an uphill gradient, and when the bells of the town sound for the midday service, I wonder just how it can be that the seconds can drag so, such that they seem a good twice their normal length. And, of course, I am not to see her yet, not until the ceremony, and as some one is always calling in to congratulate me and bring me presents, there is no way I can slip back and visit Hecht.

And so I wait, and wait some more, until the hour comes and, dressed in my finest clothes, I accompany Razumovsky’s steward to the church.

It’s only then that I realise I’ve no one to give me away. It ought to be Ernst if anyone, but, looking across at the hastily filled benches, I spot one face I’ve come to know too well. Kravchuk.

Impossible
, I think. But someone will have to do the job. Besides, there’s a kind of irony to this. Before I changed things, my bride was his. So maybe Fate intends this.

I walk across and, whispering to his ear, ask him if he will stand in for my father. He straightens, looking strangely flattered by my request, then nods and, standing, follows me back across.

And so we stand there, Kravchuk and I, at the head of that great aisle, as the incense burns and the choir moans its strange, alien refrains, and my love, my darling Katerina, walks towards me, her arm in her father’s arm.

Slowly she comes as in a dream, her dress, hastily adapted from some party gown, seeming to float across the dark stone floor, her hair, braided with silver chains, flowing out from the
pokoinik
– the marital veil – she wears. And as she draws parallel to me, her eyes meet mine and smile, like the promise of an everlasting summer.

I am bewitched. I have never seen such a glorious sight. As we stand there, she to the left, I to the right of the priest, each of us holding a lighted candle, so I understand that all of my life, all of my travels throughout the length and breadth of Time have led to this one, single moment. This is the centre of it. The focus. All else leads to or away from here, like the hub of a great wheel.

We exchange rings –
obruchei
– and then join our right hands as the priest places a lightweight crown on each of our heads, then switches them, blessing us with incense and wishing us ‘a peaceful and long life’ and ‘children and grandchildren to fill your house with abundance and beauty’. All this transpires, and yet for me the service passes in a daze. Somnolent, I say the magic words and make her mine.
Till death do us part
. And even Kravchuk’s presence there – a man I’ve killed, a man I’ve seen kill her – does not affect my happiness. Indeed, his presence seems to be the seal on things, for if the wedding has his blessing, then surely nothing can unbind this.

Even so, as I turn, Katerina’s arm in my arm, and face the congregation, my smile is tempered by the knowledge of Time’s inconstancy. If I could win her from the very teeth of Time, then what’s the chance of keeping her? What tricks and twists might yet unbind this moment?

I cannot bear the thought. A cloud crosses my face. But Katerina seems not to notice. She beams with happiness at my side, and, looking at her, I cannot help but feel that this was
meant.

The great table’s set once more, stacked high with food, a regular
bratchina.
And as I drink the first of a dozen toasts, the room packed with Razumovsky’s friends, so my darling is taken off, to be prepared for her bridal bed, and the thought of it is more intoxicating than any wine, and I long to be there, alone with her, and not here in this stifling room with these endless, foul-smelling, bearded, grinning men.

An hour passes, and I find I’m feeling drunk. It’s hard to deny Razumovsky and, as he fills my goblet once again, I look about me, wondering when she’ll be ready.

Yet even as I turn, there’s a commotion in the doorway and the crowd parts to reveal the
tysiatskii
and several of his men in full armour, their swords drawn, and I wonder what in Urd’s name is going on. As the noise dies, so he takes out a scroll and unfurls it and, clearing his throat begins to read, and even as he does, his men push through that throng and lay their hands on me.

Razmovsky stands there, shocked by what he’s hearing, staring at me in open-mouthed astonishment, even as I struggle to break free. But it’s done now, and I know exactly who has done it. Traitor I am, according to the
tysiatskii
’s words. An agent of the Teutons. I turn my head furiously, looking for him, and find him, smiling in the corner, and curse him, and tell him I’ll cut out his heart and feed it to his lifeless mouth. But Kravchuk merely laughs, his wet mouth showing red as he raises his silver goblet in a toast.

‘To you, Otto! To you!’

I am clapped in irons and thrown into a dark, damp cell beneath the
tysiatskii
’s palace. It would be easy to jump right out of there, only I’m curious to see how they’ll proceed, and what they know, and so I bide my time. Even so, I am in torment, for I had hoped this night to be in Katerina’s arms again, as her husband, staring down into those beautiful eyes as we made love. The thought makes me wonder how she’s taking this, and what her father’s said, and my heart breaks once more thinking of her sorrow. And then, because there’s time to think of everything, I wonder just why Kravchuk acted as he did.

It’s clear I misread him. Whatever else is going on, it’s clear he considers me a threat – a factor to be eliminated. More than that, the man truly is a slug. I bested him and so he takes his vengeance on my wedding night. And maybe, just maybe, he has designs on her still. Maybe he’ll try to have the marriage vows annulled.

The thought horrifies me. I groan aloud, and the guard, hearing it, mistakes it for despair and laughs and begins to taunt me. But his words can’t touch me. Nothing can touch me now, for I have lost the world.

I doze and wake to find them over me. There’s two of the fellows. They haul me up between them then throw me against the wall. I’m winded, but they’ve only just begun. One of them strikes me with the back of his hand, and then the other brings his knee up into my balls. The pain’s excruciating, but I still don’t jump. If I can get to see the
tysiatskii
, if I can get him to listen to me for a moment, maybe I can set things right again.

The beating goes on for several minutes, and then they stand back, chuckling, enjoying my discomfort. I look up at them, then, pulling my chained hands up to my mouth, wipe away the blood. I climb to my feet, then face them, uncowered. My whole mouth stings and I know it’s beginning to swell up, but I can still talk.

‘I must speak with your master. There’s been a mistake …’

But they only laugh, and the bigger of the two, a surly looking fellow, kicks me back against the wall.

‘You’ll speak to us,
Nemets
. And you’ll say “Master”, understand?’

‘I
have
to speak to him …’

This only angers him. He runs at me and throws a punch, and though I turn my head, it hits me squarely on the lower jaw and I feel the bone crack, and the pain’s so great that I slump against the wall, almost blacking out. And I know now that I’m never going to get to see the
tysiatskii
; that there’s never going to be a hearing, and that I’m going to die in this awful, stinking cell unless I jump. And as the Russian stands over me, raising his fist ready to beat my bruised and bleeding face to a pulp, so I raise my eyes to his and spit full in his face, blood and saliva mixed.

Go tell your master that
…

And jump.

Zarah’s angry with me – much more than Hecht was last time out. When she comes to see me in the care ward, she lectures me for a full half hour and, when I refuse to tell her what’s really going on, warns me that she’s going to do her best to get me grounded before I get myself killed. I’m touched by her concern, but there’s no way she’s going to stop me going back. She’s like a mother and a sister to me and, if she had her way, she’d be my lover too, but that doesn’t mean she can dictate to me.

I’ve kidney damage and partial damage to one of my testicles. Nothing they can’t fix, but it means several days’ rest before I can go back. In terms of the Past, that doesn’t mean a thing – I can drop back any time I want – but it makes me restless in the Now. I don’t want to lie there and recuperate, I want to get back to thirteenth-century Novgorod and kick seven shades of shit out of Kravchuk.

To change the subject, I ask about Ernst and whether there’s been any trace of him, and in doing so I learn something that Hecht neglected to tell me first time round.

‘That’s right,’ Zarah says, combing back her short blond hair with her fingers. ‘He jumped back and disappeared immediately. We thought that maybe his focus was faulty, and wasn’t showing a signal, but when Hecht jumped back there was nothing. Not the slightest trace of him. And that’s not right. It’s like he never was there. Only he
was
.’

‘Has this happened before?’

‘Never.’

‘And Hecht doesn’t have an explanation for it?’

‘No.’

Then it’s a mystery. And maybe I’m the one to solve it. I look at Zarah. ‘Where’s Hecht?’

She shakes her head. ‘No way. You’re getting some rest.’

‘I only want to talk.’

‘Yes, and try to persuade him to let you go back before you’re ready to.’

‘He’s not that stupid.’

‘No? He’s a man, isn’t he?’

And I almost smile at that. But I’m not leaving this. ‘Just tell him I want to speak to him. If he’s too busy …’