Darker Jewels (48 page)

“It will not be quickly enough, I fear,” said Father Krabbe with a sour laugh. “Father Pogner expected me some three hours since. He will be very displeased.” He kept up a steady, rapid pace, staying to the middle of the road in order to take advantage of what little light was afforded by the gibbous moon and the special brightness of the June night.

“Father Pogner will understand the delay, when you explain it to him,” said Yuri as he hurried after Father Krabbe, doing his best to soothe him. “Embassy carriages have been damaged before. He knows what these streets are like. I will describe the condition of the wheel and the axle, and he will be sympathetic to your predicament. He must understand that your delay could not be helped.”

But Father Krabbe was not so sanguine. As he extended his pace as much as he dared in the night he complained, “I can’t imagine how the wheel came to break. The uneven paving did not seem enough to cause the spokes to collapse as they did. It doesn’t make sense. The carriage has been over far worse roads before and the spokes did not—”

“You know what it is,” said Yuri, all but running to keep up with Father Krabbe. “A carriage will endure one rough journey after another and appear to be none the worse for it, and then, without warning, it will come apart at the slightest jarring. This is another such occasion, that is all.” He was almost abreast of Father Krabbe now, breathing quickly. He could see that he had not succeeded in mollifying the Jesuit.

“I have been ordered—we have all been ordered—not to venture out at night without a carriage. If it would not have meant a longer delay, I would have accepted Rakoczy’s offer of his carriage, but it would take another half hour to have the horses put-to to ready it.” He waved away the mosquitoes that hummed around him. “I would prefer to obey Father Pogner when I can.”

Yuri was well-aware of the meaning behind the words, but he said, “It must be your visit to Rakoc
2
y that will cause Father Pogner greater annoyance than the damage to the carriage. He will not like it that Rakoczy is planning to tend to the repairs himself.” Whether Father Pogner approved of this or not, Yuri could not like it, for he feared that the Transylvanian would not accept the explanation he had been given: that the carriage had struck a hidden rock in one of the deep ruts, and that had broken the wheel, falling over as a result, not five doors away from Rakoczy’s house. He had not anticipated that: to Yuri’s consternation, Rakoczy’s servants had hurried to lend their assistance, and to claim the obligation to repair the carriage. A close inspection of the spokes and axle might reveal where the woodworker’s saw had weakened six of them, and he was fairly certain that Rakoczy would not be content until he had looked at the vehicle for himself. He knew his work would not escape those dark, knowing eyes.

“Which street is that?” asked Father Krabbe as he straggled to a halt, intruding on Yuri’s apprehension with this nervous inquiry. “I don’t recognize it. Shouldn’t we be at Bread-seller’s Street?”

“It’s just beyond,” said Yuri at once. “There’s another turn, and then the little square, you know the one, with the yellow-fronted bakery? We’ve come from a different direction, that’s all.” He glanced around, hoping that the priest had not noticed the ancient church they had passed twenty strides back, for then he would realize that they were going the opposite direction to the one Father Krabbe supposed. His pulse grew faster at the thought of the risk he was taking—if he succeeded, Vasilli Shuisky would give him gold for a reward and would make him his servant and confidant; from that position Yuri knew he would be able to advance in station and wealth. With the protection of the formidable Shuiskys, Yuri would never again have to be ashamed at his heritage. For the first time since he had come to Moscovy, Yuri was persuaded he would come far enough in life to spite his father.

“These small streets twist so,” said Father Krabbe, a little breathless with his determined walk. “I can see how apprentices become lost.”

“Moscovy has many secrets,” said Yuri, grateful that Father Krabbe could not see his smile.

“Truly,” said Father Krabbe, faltering a bit from the pace and from his own growing disorientation. “But I am sure that we ought to have turned right before now. We are going east—look at die moon, and you can see that.”

“You must be mistaken,” said Yuri, hearing stealthy sounds behind them. He kept moving, his confidence returning.

Father Krabbe heard them, too. “What was that?” he demanded. “Did you hear anything?”

“Dogs? Rats, perhaps,” Yuri suggested. “Better they should be dogs. In these streets the rats are as hungry as wolves.”

“Rats!” Father Krabbe shook his head. “Why should there be rats here? Or dogs, for that matter?”

“As you have said,” Yuri reminded him at once, “the streets twist. Near a bakery there are always rats, foraging. Shortly we will once again bear to the south, to come into the square. If we could climb through walls, we would be inside that yellow- fronted bakery. You need not be troubled.” His tone was so blandishing that it caught Father Krabbe’s attention.

“You have no reason to humor me, Yuri,” he said with severity. “It is fitting that you show the way. This is, as you say, your city. But you cannot blame me if I am concerned.”

“Of course not,” said Yuri, moving a few steps ahead of Father Krabbe as they continued along the old, uneven stones. “I would be bothered if you were as easily misdirected as Father Brodski.” Since Father Brodski was recognized as having almost no

sense of direction, Father Krabbe did his best to chuckle through his panting and his increasing unease. “Yes, I would like to think I have found my way in more places than he; I hope I am more attentive than he is, certainly.” He crossed himself. “And may God forgive me for my pride.”

“It is no pride to know what abilities God has given you, it is gratitude,” said Yuri, repeating what Father Igor had told him all through his childhood. Never had he believed it more than now, but not because of Father Krabbe’s sense of direction. He felt the welling glow of achievement and decided that it was not possible for him to fail after all had gone so well.

“Possibly not,” said Father Krabbe, who had received other instruction in his youth. He stumbled and caught himself, and this time he was not distracted by Yuri’s manner. “This
is
the wrong direction.”

“It will be right soon enough,” said Yuri testily.

“We ought to return to the Beautiful Market Square and take the main street. It may be longer, but I am sure of it. This does not appear—” Father Krabbe was about to turn around when Yuri seized him by the shoulder.

“Not quite yet, good Jesuit Father,” he said, the subservience gone from his demeanor and his voice hard. He came nearer to Father Krabbe, and for the first time menace was in his stance. “There is something I require of you first.”

Father Krabbe stared at him in shock, his vitals turning cold in the warm night. “I am a priest. I have nothing worth taking, you Russian fool. Even my crucifix is only silver,” he declared.

“Ah, there you are wrong,” Yuri corrected him mildly, then whistled, the sound low and sinuous. “You have something I want very much, and I will have it from you or die myself.” He had drawn his long coachman’s knife from its scabbard and now he held it in front of him. “You will have to forgive me for my sin, Father Krabbe.” His soft laughter was the most terrifying sound Father Krabbe had ever heard.

There were two men in the street behind them now, big men stinking of sweat and strong drink, one older, one younger, both capably brutal. They approached confidently, one of them offering the suggestion of a salute to Yuri.

“I’m not alone here, Father, and you are,” said Yuri with satisfaction. “You will not escape.”

“Yuri . . Father Krabbe was about to step back when he realized that the two big men were closing in on them. His voice grew sharper. “What is it you want’ Tell me. What?” He made himself speak more calmly as his fear grew sharper. “You need only tell me, Yuri, and I will do whatever is in my power to aid you. You have my sworn—”

“You’re doing that already,” said Yuri, covering the distance between them once again. “You will help me very much.”

“But how?” Father Krabbe glanced over his shoulder, fright making his eyes wide and his hands wet. “What can you hope to accomplish—” He screamed as Yuri’s knife sank through his habit into his abdomen. He staggered, trying to reach the knife, to undo what it had done. “Yuri!” he gasped.

“Die, you godless Jesuit,” whispered Yuri, all the anger and wretchedness of his early years fueling his deed. “Die, and make my fortune.”

Father Krabbe tottered, crying out as Yuri withdrew the knife and used it once more, again striking deep into his abdomen, ripping. The weight of the blow was enough to drive him to his knees, but the knife in Yuri’s hand gave him mock support. The priest sagged forward into Yuri’s arms as the full impact of pain possessed him.

“Pull him off me,” Yuri ordered the two men breathlessly. “We have to drag his vitals out. I want his intestines pulled across the street so that the rats will eat them tonight and apprentices stumble over them in the morning.” Now that he had actually given the orders, Yuri felt a surge of engulfing joy. To have such power! he had known it would be sweet, this power, for life was so bitter without it. But the gratification was much greater than he had hoped. “Hurry, take him.”

The two hired ruffians moved to comply, one of them taking Father Krabbe under his arms, the other methodically cutting his clothes open. “It’s a shame all this is Polish priest’s wear. It’s a waste. We could sell it if it were Russian,” he observed to Yuri.

“No!” Yuri said. “You will take nothing from him. Nothing. He must be found dead, not robbed.” He fingered the ring once more, smirking as he thought of the use he would make of it. It pleased him to contemplate how much a little ring could do, properly used.

“Still, it is a shame such goods will be wasted,” the older man said.

“They won’t be wasted,” said the younger in disgust. “The first man who finds the corpse will strip it.”

“That’s not important,” Yuri rebuked him. “You’re being paid to help me kill him. You won’t suffer because of this. You lose no value leaving his clothes on him, and his property. I want nothing here that will cause anyone to suppose that I had anything to do with his death.”

“Yes, little boyar,” said the second sarcastically.

Father Krabbe had barely heard this. There was a rushing in his ears and his senses swam in an effort to carry him away from the enormity of the pain in his vitals. The cold that had invaded
him
was increasing, sinking into the very marrow of his bones. He tried to cross himself, but his arms were held in a restraining grip and nothing he did could break free of it.

“There,” said the younger man as he stood back from Father Krabbe, the front of his body exposed, his two wounds bleeding heavily, the deeper one pumping out heavy gouts with every heartbeat. “Gut wounds,” he said contemptuously. “He won’t last long, bleeding like that.”

Yuri came close to his victim. “I’ll start. Be ready to pull when I tell you to.”

The two men nodded, and the older took a stronger grip on Father Krabbe. “He’s going to fight when you start to work on him. They always do when you go for their guts.”

The second added, “And they stink, guts do. Especially when you cut into them, like you did.”

Yuri did not hear this as criticism. “No matter. At this hour there’s no one to notice.”

“Except the rats,” said the older, steadying himself.

“Of course,” said Yuri, and prepared to slice into Father Krabbe as he had done with pigs at home.

The priest knew the knife as heat more than pain, a heat that did not warm him but made the cold greater, and for a little time it robbed him of his breath and the holy words he wanted so desperately to say in order to show God his devotion. The weight increased, comprehensive, enveloping, and he felt the splattering of his blood like a hot rain. He choked on half-uttered prayers. It was inconceivable to him that he was being murdered.

Then the pain was gone and he no longer bothered with breathing, or trying to pray, or life.

“He’s going,” said the first man, sounding disappointed. “No fight.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Yuri told him, breathless with effort and excitement. Too late he thought about the blood on his clothes and boots, and realized he would have to account for it in some way. He reached into his pocket and drew out the ring which he pressed into Father Krabbe’s right hand, hoping that it would not fall or be stolen.

“Slit him open,” ordered Yuri, stepping back from Father Krabbe’s corpse.

The older of the two men sighed and tugged his knife out of his belt. “As you wish,” he said. He exchanged glances with the other, and then they bent over the body, ignoring the stench as they cut into the flesh.

“Good,” said Yuri softly. “Very good.” He had paid these men in gold, and had feared it was a useless extravagance, but now he decided he had done the right thing, the wise thing. Father Krabbe’s death would point to Rakoczy, and Vasilli Shuisky would be as pleased as Father Pogner.

As the younger man straightened up, he turned in Yuri’s direction. “What else, little boyar?”

“Cut him, oh, mere}' of God, cut him,” said Yuri, excitement rushing his words. “Slice him. Make him look as if Mongols had been here.”

The older man laughed unpleasantly. “Mongols? But you want to cast guilt on the foreign exile. Don’t you?”

Yuri nodded once. “Yes. Yes, I want to do that,” he agreed. It was hard to remember his purpose now that the priest was actually dead. He wanted to shout his victory to the world, to let everyone know what he had done; it was an effort to remain silent.

“Yes,” seconded the older man. “So we will break his bones instead. That way you can say it was the exile who did him, for Poles are always riding horses over their foes, aren’t they? Mongols cut the corpses to pieces, Poles break them.”

“Yes,” whispered Yuri. “You’re right. Yes, it must seem that Poles did this. You must make it appear . . . you know how to make it appear.” He folded his arms to keep from shaking. His