The Wolf Master/Chapter 7

OGHRUL'S almost soundless tread roused Kirdy, and he grasped at his sword hilt before he saw the old man squatting near him, waiting to be noticed.

“The khanum says to thee, O Kazak,” the servitor began at once, “it is better to lie hidden than to walk in the eyes of men. It is much better to wait than to seek recklessly. So wilt thou abide her coming. The horses are fed.”

“Has she gone forth again?” Kirdy was disappointed and a little vexed, though he did not show it.

“Aye.”

“There is fighting. I must talk with her.”

“When she wills.”

“She is safer behind walls.” Kirdy thought of the boyarin who had been lashed by her whip, a certain Tatikof who had promised to seek her out.

Toghrul pondered, and made response gravely.

“When the end appointed by the unalterable decree has come, life is then lost, and for all there is an end ordained. What avail, to go thither or sit here? She will not be harmed, now!”

“How long have I slept?”

“The sun was sinking, O Kazak—night came and now the sun has risen.”

With an exclamation the young warrior sprang to his feet. He had slept for eighteen hours, and there was much to be done. After plunging his head and hands in a basin of cold water brought by Toghrul, he made a hasty meal of mutton and wine, and learned that Nada intended to ride from Moscow that night. The guards, it seemed, had been removed from the gates, to deal with a conflagration that had broken out at the other end of the city.

“See to the horses, Toghrul. There will be looting.”

“Aye. The khanum has said that thou wilt ride forth with us.”

And all at once it seemed to Kirdy that nothing in the world could be finer than to ride with Nada and her men of the steppe. Whither? What matter? He was restless and uneasy here in the city, like an unbroken colt penned in with strange horses.

“I can not do that,” he said slowly.

Toghrul did not seem convinced.

“Allah khanum yok—khanum Allah bir tzee,” he muttered cryptically. “Allah said no to the woman—the woman said yes to Allah.”

“What words are these?”

“O Kazak, I said I shall water the horses and groom them, against thy need, this night.”

Still afoot, still alone—he had left Karai, perforce—and still deep in moody reflection, Kirdy fared forth into the mud and the snow and the anger of the streets. He went first to the imperial stables behind the Terem, looking for all the world like a Cathayan noble with an interest in fine horse-flesh. So acute was his curiosity that he asked if all the emperor's beasts were in the stalls. As he did not stint gold pieces, he learned at length that the illustrious Tatikof had led out a half dozen Arab-breds, and that three Turkish racers had been missing since the night before last.

This matter he pondered, remembering the riders he had seen when the moon was setting that same night.

From the stables he made his way leisurely toward Bertrand's quarters and discovered that the worthy merchant was not at home. Upon this, he sought out Margeret's tavern, but contented himself with a table in the tap-room instead of seeking out the sick captain. Here he sat, apparently lost in the contemplation of the intelligent Asiatic, sipping wine occasionally, until the afternoon wore on and Bertrand did not appear. He climbed the stairs and passed an hour listening to Margeret's roared-out comments on the madness that had seized the boyare.

At the end of the hour he had what he desired—a more or less detailed account of the false Dmitri's daily routine, habits, and especially his manner of exercising his horses.

He had taken his leave, ceremoniously, of the captain, when he ran into Bertrand at the foot of the stairs. The merchant coughed, bowed, and would have passed on up, but Kirdy put a hand on his arm.

“Good sir, you think I am not—a Cathayan. Perhaps you are right. Will you honor me by sitting at table with me? They serve a Wallachian wine that is light and healthful.”

Bertrand drew back into the shadow and tried to gaze into the lowered eyes of the young warrior.

“A plague on't! What are you?”

“A seeker, who will bring no harm to you.”

“I think—”

But Bertrand kept his thought to himself, and decided to accompany the Mongol noble. They faced each other over cups of spiced white wine, and the merchant waited for Kirdy to speak. He waited until his patience yielded to his fears.

“What master do you serve? Are you Tatikof's spy?”

Kirdy smiled.

“Let me tell you a story. Once there lived a sultan who was a very fox for wiles. He was called Motavakel Shah, and he summoned his enemy to his house, thinking to teach him fear. A lion—one of his beasts—was let loose into the room by his servants. Though the lion ran past the table, the guest of Motavakel did not rise from his cushions nor utter a word. Then snakes were turned into the room, coiling past the feet of the host and the guest. Still the foe of Motavakel did not raise his feet or his voice. A dish was placed before him and under the cover of the dish were scorpions.

“'Nay,' said the guest of Motavakel, 'this is a night not of the lion, or the serpents, or the scorpions, but of the sword!' And with the blade at his girdle he slew Motavakel and fled unhurt.”

“Ah, a parable. Is your sword, then, hidden?”

“Good sir,” Kirdy said quietly, “it is not you I seek. But the time for trickery is past, the moment of the sword is nigh. Answer then, swiftly, remembering that what I seek from you is—truth! When you saw the body that lay under the mask, yesterday, you were troubled by doubt.”

“And you!”

“I also. The one mark that marked Dmitri beyond doubt—the wart was gone. It might have been slashed away. But when a trail is hidden, a man has fled—who shuns pursuit.”

Bertrand leaned forward breathing quickly, his eyes probing Kirdy's.

“The false Dmitri has fled?”

“Leaving another body to hide his trail.” Kirdy turned the porcelain cup slowly in his lean hand. “Perhaps. Every soul in the palace would have looked for the wart upon the face of the dead man. It was gone, and the slash was covered by the mask.”

“Tonnerre de Dieu! No Muscovite reasoned thus! What man are you?”

“One who has tracked beasts. Man is not otherwise. Tell me first why you doubted that the body was Dmitri's—the false Dmitri's?”

Bertrand glanced to one side, then the other.

“A little matter,” he whispered. “Two, I should say. I saw his Illus—the impostor the day before. Eh, well. I noticed the cut of his hair, being exact in such conceits of dress. The hair on the body seemed to be longer than Dmitri's.”

Kirdy nodded silently.

“Good!” The shrewd merchant warmed to his contention. “The late Tsar shaved his chin. The body, also, was shaved, but the hair on the chin was soft and ill-cut—as if, pardie, this man had worn a beard until it was cut off hastily, to make him resemble some one else.”

“Then, Uncle Merchant, was there a man in this court who looked like the false Dmitri?”

Bertrand chewed his lips reflectively.

“Aye, so. One Stanislav Bouthinski, a Pole. A secretary, I believe, to the ambassadors of that country.”

“Hai!” Kirdy's dark eyes gleamed, as if he had hit upon the slot of a stag. “You, my good sir, are no Muscovite. You have lived at other, and wiser, courts.”

The touch of flattery warmed the Frenchman, who said again that the Muscovites were savages.

“Bouthinski is missing. Today I searched for him, and his people told me he must have fallen in the massacre. Many hundred Poles have been cut down, and trampled into the mud.”

A new doubt struck him.

“But what of all this? Grant that the false Dmitri may have fled, leaving another body already slain in his bed. Grant that this body is Bouthinski's—naked as a peeled turnip and slashed on the cheek. None the less, Dmitri is now approved false, and a pretender. How could he escape—”

“Three fine horses were missing from the stables that night. Three riders passed through the guards—and who could win out of the gates save this man who called himself the Tsar?”

“It is possible.”

“Aye, so. Men say that this false Dmitri was shrewd as a fox. Surely he had scent of the conspiracy against him. He left the army, and summoned Basmanof after him. Then, leaving this body of his friend in his bed, he went from Moscow. Whither?”

Bertrand shrugged and felt for his snuff-box.

“Not to the Poles, I'll wager.” He laughed grimly. “Peste! What a fellow! Destruction to all he touches!”

“He would not flee to the Cossacks. He had betrayed them.”

The merchant, who knew the courts of Europe, and the Cossack, who had fought under the monarchs of Asia, measured each other with understanding eyes. Kirdy took time to think over all that had been said, because he wished to have it firmly in his mind in order to decide what to do next. Bertrand mused along a different line.

“St. Denis! I heard a rumor that the bride of the impostor did not seem to be dying of grief. It may be that she knows he is alive.”

“I have heard that woman's tears are soon dried.”

“Well, pardon me, but I have discovered otherwise, my friend. However, it is clear that the young has not taken his bride with him, if indeed he lives.”

“Could he win a following from the army in the south?”

The merchant shook his head and took snuff, wiping the brown grains from his coat carefully.

“After the massacre in Moscow the Polish regiments will turn on the Muscovites, and when the dog fight begins, the Tatars will plunder both. It is true that Sigismund's regiments—and they are many—were sent hither to support this Dmitri. But when the time came to draw the sword he abandoned the army and fled like a jade-robbing knave from the city. Even so—such is the charm of his presence—the Muscovite cavalry might have been won to his cause, but he mocked the traditions of these stiff-collars. He put an actor's mask on the ikon stand. So now they say he has sold himself to Satan.”

Bertrand smiled, contemplating the savagery of these pagans, as he chose to call them.

“But where are you going?”

Kirdy drew tighter his girdle and glanced out into the gathering dusk.

“Perhaps this dog-soul is dead; perhaps not. But if he lives, he must have taken refuge in the steppes. He has good horses, and I go to follow while the trail is fresh.”

Leaving the worthy merchant utterly astonished, Kirdy ^hastened from the tavern and was turning into the open square where the great bell hung upon its stone dais, when he beheld torches moving in the same direction.