Ilya Anastasi Shuisky Stasi swung cheerfully off his favorite horse, hampered by the heavy furs that protected him from the cold. He tried to whistle, but the air was simply too chill for that; he contented himself with humming the merry tune that had circled in his mind for the last few hours. He wondered idly why no one had left a torch burning for him. Maybe his father was upset with the late hours he had kept down in the village. No matter, he thought, caressing his horse's mane. Father's experiment can surely afford to be put off till the morrow. True, Stasi had promised to help him tonight, but who could have foreseen that Anatoly Kerovsky would have just gotten into town? Passing up a drink with his friend would have been a crime, in Stasi's mind. Of course, one drink had turned into two, two had multiplied into many more, and then the prettiest of the tavern wenches had sat on his lap and whispered in his ear. No, his father's experiments had not been a priority after that. Stasi picked his way slowly through the darkness, leading his horse carefully through the gateway to the courtyard. It shied uneasily, taking a few dancing steps to the side. He stopped and smoothed its main with a steady hand, and whispered in its alert ears. "Easy now, easy. There's nothing wrong. They just didn't leave a light on for us. Steady." He cursed under his breath when he kicked the archway in the darkness. His father must truly be angry. Quickly he banished those thoughts, burying them under memories of 'Lana's soft skin beneath him amid the heavy blankets of her bed. He savored the remembered sensations. A strange smell hung in the courtyard, something he could not identify. It wasn't the chemical smells he was used to. No, whatever it was, it had probably scared his horse. Perhaps father had gone on with the experiment without him, and used some new acquisition Stasi wasn't familiar with yet. He frowned, leading the mare to the stable doors by following the walls. No light penetrated the heavy cloud cover. The breeze, faint outside the walls, was trapped and magnified in the courtyard. Stasi's long blond hair stung his face as it whipped in the wind. He had lost the ribbon that tied it back long ago; most likely it was tangled somewhere in Lana's bed. The wind was moaning softly, giving Stasi chills of a whole different kind, and he was quite certain that he could hear the scurrying of rats' feet on the cobblestone. It was a relief when his mittened hand found the stable door at last. Keeping one hand on his horse's reigns, he fumbled for the heavy door ring and finally managed to pull it open. He winced as the coldness of the iron ring shot straight through the heavy fur covering his hand. Numbly he tied the reigns in a loose knot around the ring, then went into the sheltering darkness of the stable. He had to summon the courage to take his glove off, but it was the only way he'd be able to find and light the lamp. He ripped the mitten off quickly, plunging his hand into the freezing air. A gasp escaped him as his numb fingers fumbled across the shelf by the door. He cursed under his breath. Where was it? The thought struck him that the lamp had not been returned to its proper place, and that the stable's flint and steel were gone with it. Then his fingers met freezing metal and he yelped; the cold stung like fire. Quickly he tore off his other mitten and lit the lantern with shaking hands. Then he dropped to one knee, grabbed the mittens, and shoved them back on, wondering in pained amusement if his hands would be warmer if he set the furs on fire. Although he wanted to get warmer, he knew he had an obligation to his poor horse first. He stepped back into the wind of the courtyard, shivering at the low moans that echoed hauntingly in the stone courtyard. He was about to untie the reigns when the sound of rats' nails on stone distracted him, and he brought the lantern up to shine on the full courtyard. A man was bound to the wooden hitching posts by the gateway, his bloody, striped body naked in the freezing air. His feet were flayed open; pools of blood had frozen around his knees and ruined feet. In quiet frenzy, rats were tearing bits of flesh from his legs and back. Stasi recoiled in horror and nearly dropped the lantern. He stared wide-eyed at the nightmare before him, one hand covering his mouth as he desperately fought to keep down his dinner. The rats climbed over the still body. It was no use his dinner quit his stomach to reside on the cobblestones. After a few moments he straightened and took halting steps toward the body. Some of the rats scattered at his approach; bolder ones simply looked at him and continued their feasting, the blood freezing in the tiny wounds instead of running over the ravaged flesh. Standing by the doorway so he could face the corpse, he set down the lantern on the cobblestone. Gingerly, he reached out and lifted the face up into the light. It was his father. A cry of horror tore from Stasi's throat as his hand flinched back. The pain-drawn face dropped back to it's hanging position between stretched shoulders, but now it seemed the sightless eyes stared at him. He fell to his knees, retching out the remains of his dinner helplessly onto frozen pools of blood as the rats scurried in renewed interest in the events around them. Stasi leaned on his hands retching and choking, until weakness permeated his muscles. Gasping, he slowly looked at the frozen form. His eyes searched frantically for any signs of the identity of the monstrous perpetrators. Nothing. Nothing? He'd heard of this somewhere before. He staggered to his feet, panic warring with horror for dominance over his mind, when the memory finally came into focus. The Church had done this! He grabbed the lantern and ran to the house entrance, forgetting about his horse. Wind whistled as he flung open the door. Somewhere inside another door must be open. He ran through the halls to his father's laboratory. It was destroyed -- the glass vials and beakers smashed, the delicate western measuring devices crushed, the cabinet demolished. Whirling, he ran out and to the main hall. The doors were opened, and two bodies lay crumpled at the entrance. He knelt by them -- two of the servants, dead by the sword. At least their deaths had been relatively swift. Up the broad staircase then, and there were more bodies. The priests had spared no one, seemingly. Even Tatyana the kitchen girl, only eight years old, lay in a pool of freezing blood. He stumbled on, tears blinding his eyes, until he reached his father's study. There was a large pile of ash in the midst of the stone floor, the charred covers of leather-bound books strewn carelessly in it like the bodies in the halls. Stasi leaned against the door frame, letting it support his weight as his legs trembled beneath him. Cold tears slid down his cheeks and froze there as he surveyed the remains of one of the largest libraries outside Moscva. The ash drifted like snowflakes in the wind that fluttered through the open windows. Footsteps behind him. Did some of the servants survive? Stasi turned slowly, bringing up his lantern to see who it was. Black-robed hands grabbed him and pulled him forward before he had a chance to do more than cry out. The hands pulled him down, hands on his back pushed him to the floor. His sword was gone in seconds, and the lantern now held a few feet from him. Black robes surrounded him. "Ilya Anastasi Shuisky," a voice intoned. Stasi looked up, but all he could see were shadows. "You are guilty of heresy and alchemical witchcraft. You are sentenced to death. Thus are all minions of the devil destroyed." He fought and yelled as they drug him outside and tied him next to his father, where defiance transformed to terror and the terror to agony. The last sound he heard were the sound of rats on the cobblestone. How to Teach Children and Save Them Through Fear Punish your son in his youth, and he will give you a quiet old age, and restfulness to your soul. Weaken not beating the boy, for he will not die from your striking him with the rod, but will be in better health: for while you strike his body, you save his soul from death. If you love your son, punish him frequently, that you may rejoice later. Chide your son in his childhood and you will be glad in his manhood, and you will boast among evil persons and your enemies will be envious. Bring up your child with much prohibition and you will have peace and blessing from him. Do not smile at him, or play with him, for though that will diminish your grief while he is a child, it will increase it when he is older, and you will cause much bitterness to your soul. Give him no power in his youth, but crush his ribs while he is growing and does not in his wilfulness obey you, lest there be an aggravation and suffering to your soul, a loss to your house, destruction to your property, scorn from your neighbours and ridicule from your enemies, and cost and worriment from the authorities. -From the Domostroi (mid-16th century) Chapter l - Blasphemers and Heretics I. If a member of another faith, regardless of which faith, or a Russian, should blaspheme our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, or His Mother the Holy Queen, Mary, the Virgin Mother of God, or the honourable cross, or its holy servants, each such case should be investigated thoroughly, using all possible means. An inquiry about it should be organised, and the blasphemer of God should be burned at the stake. 2. And should some scoundrel come into God's church during the holy liturgy and should he in some way try to prevent its completion, he should be seized, his action investigated, and he should be condemned to death without mercy. 3. And should someone, upon entering God's church during the holy liturgy while singing is going on, start directing insults against Patriarch, or Metropolitan, or Archbishop, or Bishop, or Archimandrite, or Igumen, or the ecclesiastical order {in general}, and thereby disrupt holy singing in that church, the Sovereign should be informed of this, an investigation should be inaugurated, and for his action the scoundrel should be whipped at the marketplace. -Excerpts from The Code of Law of 1649 (Ulozhenie) All are not cooks that walk with long knives. -Russian proverb ………. Zagorsk, Russia 1689 A.D. ….. It is cold. Colder than hell. Colder than the bottom of the Volga. Both cold and pain comes in immeasurable doses, far greater than you thought possible, though you've been exposed to a great deal of both. The pain, especially. It is too cold, you cannot think. The fact that you are here, experiencing the cold, is troublesome. It is a problem that gnaws at you, but you cannot focus your mind upon it, because the cold absorbs all of your thought. It flails at you with icy winds, ripping into your flesh like knives. And somewhere, you hear the chittering of rats. You must force your eyes open, for they are frozen shut. That hurts even more. You look upon your father's face, still dead and frozen where they left him hanging, here in the courtyard. Where they left _you_ hanging. You are tied to the other hitching post, right next to your father. When you move, frozen blood crackles and falls off of you. You hear loud squeaks of protest, and then become aware of an even sharper pain at your feet. When you look down, you take in your nakedness, and then see your bare feet, dragging on the cobblestones in a frozen puddle of blood, and there are rats swarming around them, gnawing on your toes and climbing up your legs. <><><><><> Cold. He'd always hoped that hell would be hot, just for a change from all the winters he'd lived through. Where were those lakes of fire he'd heard about? Hadn't the priests always said that sinners like him would burn in everlasting flame? He wondered for a moment if he should open his eyes at all, considering what horrors undoubtedly awaited his vision. But he couldn't stand for a second the isolation that blindness brings, couldn't endure not knowing fully the reality that hinted at its existance through the sound of rats claws against stone. He forced his eyes open. The nightmare vision etched itself on his mind in a matter of seconds -- his father, himself, the blood, the rats. In a near panic he tried to kick the creatures off. It was so hard to move! Was this what hell was, a place where you spent eternity dying again, and again, reliving every last painful moment? He had to get free, had to get away. Frantically he looked for what was binding him. Surely he could get free. He had to get free. <><><><><> <> Your arms are tied to the post by sturdy ropes. The binding is tight enough to hold you up, though not as tight as it could be....if the ropes weren't already frozen, and you so cold as to make all effort difficult, you could probably wriggle your way free in time. But it seems a futile task. The icy wind scours you. The rats scatter when you kick at them, but they're back almost immediately, watching you and waiting, while their fellows continue gnawing on your father. You labor at breathing, and feel your extremities turning numb. If you stay out here much longer, you will die....but that happened already, didn't it? <><><><><> He could feel the ambivalence settling over him like a comforting cloak. He remembered his father telling him that the cold drained all will to survive from its victims. His father had said that people lost in the cold laid down to die, accepting what was to come, instead of struggling to keep the spark of life. He hadn't understand that desire to give up then... but now it was beginning to make sense. Who designed this particular hell? he wondered. Where was everyone else? It would be a little more bearable, probably, if something besides rats kept him company. The rats... He laughed humourlessly. If they would only chew on the ropes, he'd be able to get out of this trap. But why would they chew on a frozen rope when they had him? Another way out, then... Frozen things could be broken... but even if the rope was frozen straight through he doubted he could break it. Still, his desire to be free was just slightly greater than the tempting call of oblivion. Well, perhaps he could just force his hands out. He'd undoubtedly lose a bit of flesh and blood on that path... but what did that matter? Nothing, in the long term. And since he was going numb, perhaps he wouldn't even feel it too much... Decided, then. Trying wouldn't kill him. <><><><><> <> Trying won't kill you, but failure might. You can feel the warmth in your body slipping away while you tear at the ropes, even to the point of letting them dig painfully into your flesh. The pain is amplified by the cold, of course, in the same way that bumping your foot, normally just a spasm of pain, can become agonizing when your foot is half-frozen. You see your skin tear, and blood begin flowing, and tears sting your eyes before freezing on your cheeks and lashes. Your struggles become weaker and more desperate. You almost have one arm free, when you finally lose all sensation in your limbs. Trying futilely to stay awake, you sag against the post, and recall that someone once told you that a man has the best dreams of his life while freezing to death. Instead, you only have a recurring dream of waking up in the icy courtyard over and over again, each time to find your father's frozen body next to you, and the rats, always the rats, swarming over both of you. Your struggles against the ropes are endless, like Sisyphus rolling his stone up the hill, and pain becomes a constant. Finally, you have one such dream in which you do not wake up tied to the post, but lying naked in the snow. Your skin is already turning blue again, yet you have sensation in your body -- demonstrated by the pain you feel when a rat sinks its teeth into your naked calf. You feel another one scurrying over your bare shoulders. <><><><><> He couldn't bear it... this dreamed taste of freedom was the worst torture yet. Tears of frustration and anguish came almost immediately, and he fought them down as best he could. He gasped in pain as the rats began to feast yet again, and instinctively kicked off the one on his leg, and rolled to dislodge the one on his back. Rolled? Confused, he opened his eyes and looked around. <><><><><> <> You are lying in the courtyard. Your father still hangs from his post, but you've managed to work your way free of yours. The bloodstained ropes that held you up are still loosely tied to the other post. Rats are still crawling over him, though they are giving you a cautious distance. And you're still naked and freezing. <><><><><> He gasps as realization strikes him. Free? He had actually gotten free? Obviously, he had. And this was no time to sit around gaping. If he didn't get inside soon, he would freeze... again. Again? He shook his head againt the obvious inmpossibility of the situation and instead lurched to his feet. It took a few tries, but he did it. He stumbled a few freezing steps toward the doors, then stopped. *They* had been inside. Were they still there? Trembling not just as a result of the cold, he changed his direction and instead went toward the stables. There'd be blankets in there, something to keep him warm... <><><><><> <> The fanatical priests didn't even bother to take your horses. The one you rode back from town is waiting there, as are the others. They begin stirring when you enter the stable. It's only a little warmer in here, but you do find some blankets. Wrapped around you, they stop a little bit of your shivering. <><><><><> He leaned against one of the horses for a moment, enjoying a little of its body heat. Still, he could not stay outside much longer. Long exposure to the cold would ensure that his feet wouldn't be able to carry him inside. Were the priests still inside? He was almost to afraid to find out. But as he thought about it, it seemed to make more sense that they had left. They would have done something if they had noticed him struggling, noticed that he was still alive. A small voice crept up inside, pointing out logically that he hadn't been alive when they left, and he obviously had no right to be walking around now. He shoved that voice into a little corner of his mind. He had to get warmer. Therefore he had to go into the house. He approached the doors quickly, and entered as quietly as he was able to. If they were still here, this time he would be on guard. Slowly (and very carefully) he made his way toward his rooms. <><><><><> <> By the time you reach your house, your feet are like blocks of ice. At first the pain was terrible, walking barefoot over the snow-covered ground, as if icy knives were stabbing the soles of your feet. You had to force yourself to keep going. By the time you get inside, your feet are numb, and you're staggering, with a shivering, wobbly gait. It is dark inside, and you don't hear any noise but the wind outside. You find another servant lying at the foot of the stairs to yours and your father's rooms. Vitaly, eyes wide and throat slit. You step over his outstretched arms and make your way carefully up the stairs. In your room, you find your books yanked off the shelves, and all your personal letters have been taken from your desk...probably burned in the fire downstairs. But the priests have come and gone. The ashes in your fireplace are cold, but there is still a pile of wood, and the tinderbox is untouched. <><><><><> He gasps at the look in Vitaly's eyes... accusatory and quite dead... his fault. His and his father's. Tears threaten again, though this time they are mixed with a growing anger. He makes his way past the body and up the stairs as quickly as his feet allow. He pauses for a moment in the doorway of his room, the sight of the fallen books striking him almost as deeply as the body on the floor below. But quickly his eyes focus on one splendid item... the plain, unadorned tinderbox. He stumbles across his room and grabs it with trembling hands, then falls to his knees in front of the fireplace. More important than finding warm clothes, creating the fire absorbs the focus of his mind. <><><><><> <> The fire starts easily. After the cold that numbed your body, the heat is almost painful. You bask in the warmth for quite a while before your mind turns to other things...like the fact that a fire would certainly alert others in the house that you're here, and the smoke might even be visible from outside. But if anything living remains in the house (besides the rats), you haven't heard a sound. <><><><><> For a while he merely basked in the warmth, welcoming the slight pain as the cold finaly relinquished its hold on his body. Curled up on the flagstones in the horse blankets, he let his mind go numb even as feeling returned to his nose, his toes... But as he finally felt blessedly alive again, ill thoughts fluttered at his consciousness, denying him the peace he longed for in his idle by the fireplace. His father was dead, denied burial, tortured, just like he'd been tortured. The servants were dead, all of them, as far as he knew, and the guilt of it lay at his feet. And the priests would be back. Surely their greed would outweigh the fear that sorcery tainted the Shuisky riches, and they would come to claim the mansion and all its property as forfeit to the holy mother church. "Damn you." For the first time since they caught him he spoke. His voice was harsh and dry. He pushed himself up on his hands, hands that were pale but unmarked. Not one wound, not one scab. Not even a patch of skin roughened or chapped. It made no sense. He cradeled his right hand with his left for a moment, examining it under the flakes of blood which brushed off without hint of where they'd come from. Incomprehensible. Why? How? Unknown. What could keep a man from dying, when death was unavoidable? He shook his head. There were things he had to do, and quickly. His father. He had to take care of his father. He shuddered, the thought motivating him to get up and get dressed. Quickly he found his warmest winter wear and donned it without the help of servants, layering stockings until he could barely fit into his boots. He grabbed his sword on the way back to the courtyard. He had to cut him down with something. After that... he couldn't quite think that far yet. <><><><><> <> In the courtyard, the rats are still doing their grisly work. You feel sickened again, at the sight of the torn and ragged condition of your father's legs, where the rats have gnawed at him. Sickened and angered....and there is the bloodstained spot where YOU were hanging. You can still see strips of skin hanging frozen from the ropes that held you.... <><><><><> His guts twisted into knots, and only through long practice at drinking did he have the skills to fight the nausea down. He stumbled toward his father, drawing his sword as he did. "Get off him!" He shouldn't have shouted, someone might hear, but the horror overwhelmed any common sense. He swept his sword low at the rats, he stomped his feet, anything to drive them away. "Get off him! Get off!" He hardly noted the edge of hysteria in his voice. <><><><><> <> The rats scatter, but only to just out of range, and sit there chittering at you defiantly. <><><><><> Good enough. He took his sword in both hands and hacked at the ropes that bound his father until they broke. His father's body fell onto the cobblestones of the courtyard, frozen in the throes of death. He knelt and reached out hesitantly to his father's face with one gloved hand. Blue eyes stared sightlessly at the sky. Frozen. He couldn't close his father's eyes. "Papa..." The word was half whisper, half moan. He had to get the body to the family crypt, but how was he supposed to do that? It would be almost impossible to cary him. He would try anyway. But as soon as he put his arms around the frozen torso the overwhelming reality of the situation crashed over him and he fell/sat back on the icy cobblestone. "Why am I alive?" he asked the wind, the rats, anything that might listen. "I should be dead. Why am I alive and he's dead?" Then he paused in dreadful silence... Had the priests been right? Had he and his father been dealing with the devil? The thought sobered him. He'd never seen the devil, or anthing remotely demonic. But did that mean it wasn't true? He was alive, he shouldn't be alive... and he wasn't a shade, certainly. But why him and not his father? He hadn't dealt with the devil, he hadn't sold his soul. But a horrible possibility came to him. Had his father? Were those damned priests right, and had his father sold himself to save his son's life? He stared at his father, dreading the answer. But the frozen corpse gave no hint of what had happened. He found himself trembling again, though this time not because of the cold. He was damned. The priests were right... He sat lost in horror for a moment, but only a moment, til the sounds of the rats broke him out of the trance. He got up hastily, his mind still reeling. The crypt wasn't far away, only a few steps from the walls of the courtyard, behind the house. Perhaps he could get one of the small sleds and enlist the aid of his horse. That was it. He looked at the rats once more... they'd descend on his father as soon as he left. Nothing to to about it but go quickly. <><><><><> <> Your horse seems spooked, less cooperative than usual. Maybe he is just loathe to go out into the cold again, after thinking he was going to spend the rest of the night in his stable. You have to waste time calming it down, fumbling with the sled and hooking it up, and finally you get back to the courtyard. As you expected, the rats are all over your father again, and you have to chase them away once more. The horse isn't thrilled about pulling a corpse, but you finally get it moving toward the crypt. <><><><><> He leads the horse, one hand on the reins, the other stroking the horse's main, soothing it as much as possible. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I know you're cold. I'll get you some nice blankets after this." He was wondering at the same time if he was lying. He couldn't risk staying long at the mansion, the priests might come back. And even if he survived a second execution, he surely didn't want to go through that again. Which meant he had to ride out soon. He looked up into the crystal clarity of the sky above to check the position of the stars. Even if the rest of his world had changed completely, the paths of the stars would stay constant. He'd have to leave by dawn at latest. Any more time spent here could only increase the chance of danger tenfold. Finally he reached the crypt, an ornate little building that he'd never much liked in the daytime, and certainly did not like now. Tethering the horse to a nearby branch, he opened the crypt door with a trembling hand. He'd never been here at night... no telling what unhappy acestral shade might greet him. Perhaps if they sensed he was laying to rest one of their kin they wouldn't bother him. He entered, and looked for a place, any place, to ensconce his father's body. <><><><><> <> No ghosts interrupt the interrment of your father. This is the Shuisky family crypt. Your grandfather and great-grandfather are buried here. So is your mother. You barely remember her -- she died of illness when you were very young. Your father never spoke of her except in idle passing comments. You don't really know how much he missed her, or how loving their relationship was. Your father wasn't a very emotional man, and sometimes he could be cruel.... but he gave you everything a father could give his son. Now all you can do for him is put his body to rest. As soon as you get the freezing corpse hefted onto a stone shelf, next to your mother's tomb, you hear the ubiquitous chittering of rats. <><><><><> He freezes in mid turn, his jaw clenching. Unacceptable. They couldn't. It was wrong. What, had they followed him all that way, turning him into some morbid piper? He turned to face them, a sudden thought of how to rid himself of their presence once and for all coming to his mind. He had oil. He had fire. He had cloth. And he could easily find a suitable branch outside. All the makings of a torch. The mauseleum wouldn't burn -- it was pure stone, with no inflammable trappings. But the rats... they could burn. <><><><><> <> The looseness of the door to the crypt is a clue to how the rats got in...indeed, your father planned to have the crypt repaired this summer, he never got around to it... You find the materials to make your torch. The only problem with your plan is that starting a fire in the mausoleum requires fuel. <><><><><> He didn't have as much of an intention to set a fire in the room itself... just to set the rats to burning. With a long fiery torch he'd probably be able to set quite a few of them alight. And those that didn't get burned would still run away, long enough for him to try to forget they existed. Then he could leave without feeling as guilty as he did now. <><><><><> <> The rats are pretty nimble. You manage to smack a few of them with the burning end of your branch, sending them scurrying away with singed fur. Outside, the wind is dying down, and the sky to the east is turning pale. <><><><><> Dawn? Already? Suddenly panic struck him. He had to get out of here, now. Sunlight might bring back last night's guests. Forgetting the rats, he closed the door of the crypt behind him as best he could and grabbed the reins of the horse. Back in the courtyard again. He took the mare into the stable where it was warmer, but didn't unsaddle her yet. Instead he grabbed some saddlebags and ran into the house. He had to leave. He'd take three horses... one to ride, one to carry food for him and all three horses, one to carry blankets and some valuables. He wasn't too far from Mosow.... perhaps he'd sell one later. Quickly he went to the kitchens and grabbed up some food that might keep... bread, cheese, cured meats... almost nothing could spoil in the freezing temperatures of Russia in winter. Whether it could actually be eaten was another matter entirely.... He brought those supplies back to the stables, enough for one horse to carry, and picked up another set of saddlebags. Returning to the manor, he searched his father's room quickly, retrieving any money he could find, or any small valuable that he could take with him. He didn't intend to be a beggar. He looked regretfully at all the books, burned to charcoal. Easily the most valuable items the room had held... all gone. He couldn't even take them with him. Then he went to his room. There he paused, looking at the remnants of a life now denied to him. Stifling an urge to hunt the priests down and kill them one by one, he quickly collected a few personal items. His hunting knife, given to him long ago. A few items of clothes. Blankets. A good, heavy cloak. All appropriate to a journey in the midst of winter. He grabbed some writing materials as well... he hated to do without. He took these items down to the stables as well, and picked up one more bag. A quick run to the laboratory, to see if there was anything left their to take with him. He hadn't gotten to see the devastation it might have suffered before they had caugh him. Its possible that something might remain. He could scavenge what he could, then ride out toward Moscow. <><><><><> <> Your labs, your notes, all are a shambles. Rare minerals, essental elements collected from around the world, and precious volumes of arcane lore, some of them one-of-a-kind....all were burned by the priests. Even some ancient alchemical scrolls from China, which you and your father hoped to decipher someday, are all ashes. You find some mercury splashed on the floor, and a a jar of rare herbs that didn't shatter completely. A few links of silver chain from a talisman.... You spend too much time gathering up bits and pieces of alchemical substances, stuffing vials and cloth bundles into your pockets. When you emerge from your house and get on your horse, you see other riders approaching, from far down the road. <><><><><> If there was any justice in the world, at least one of those priests would have killed himself setting fire to all the substances in the lab... he knew from experience that the smoke from some of them could be deadly when burned. Given the absence of corpses, however, it seemed that desireable result hadn't occured. He could hardly bear to think about all that had been lost. He walked back outside. *I can ride to Moscow... it's not far there. Perhaps find some of my relatives, spun some tale about what...* The sight of horses made his thoughts falter. *...happened.* "Oh no," he said softly. "That's not fair. Not at all." He was all ready to go, he only needed a few more minutes. But that was out of the question now. He spurred his horse forward anyway, catching up the lead rope on the other two, and pulled up the hood of his cloak so that it obscured his face. His sword was ready at his side, and even more importantly he could reach his small supply of elements. If he could just find something flashy, and quickly, he'd be able to get out of this unscathed. At first he would just ride away... *And hope they don't have crossbows.* If they stopped him, he'd try to bluff his way out... And if that didn't work, it wouldn't hurt to scare them out of their wits with a little devil-sorcery and obvious proof of life-after-death. <><><><><> <> When you ride off, the riders pursue. And as they get closer, you see they are not priests or peasants, but soldiers. That could be good or bad. Relations between Church and State vary, and the commander of Zagorsk is known to be a rather irreverent man who has little patience with the demands of the Orthodox priests who are always wanting to burn some poor peasant at the stake. On the other hand, he's also a very greedy man -- if word got to him that the Shuiskies have been killed, he might just send his men to seize the estate. He might not have been complicit in letting the priests murder you, but once the deed is done, he'd have no qualms validating their charges of sorcery posthumously and thereby using that as a justification to seize all your father's property for the State. You still being alive would present a definite problem. <><><><><> *Soldiers. Well, better than the priests. At least they'll give me a cleaner death if it comes to it. Time to do a little acting.* He reigned in the horse and turned, facing the soldiers. Without taking his hood down, he spoke in a loud, authoritative voice. "Why are you following me, Commander? Surely your business lies in the Shuisky manor, not with me. Its occupants, after all, can claim it no longer, and there must be quite a lot inside those walls that would draw your interest." <><><><><> <> The Commander waves his men to a halt, and stops a few yards away from you. His horse snorts briefly, while yours is shifting restlessly beneath your saddle -- she is both unnerved and tired, and certainly won't perform well if you're forced to try leading the soldiers on a chase. "I'm very interested in someone who rides so furtively away from the Shuisky manor while claiming knowledge of what we will or won't find within," he says. "Now pull away your hood and let me see your face." The soldiers, you note with dismay but little surprise, are all carrying crossbows. No muskets, at least, though some might well have pistols hidden beneath their cloaks. <><><><><> *Well, if they kill me, they kill me. There's not much I can do about it now.* "I'm very much in a position to know everything about Shuisky manor, Commander. I was, after all, born, raised and killed there." He threw back his hood with a touch of dramatic flair, revealing a young, handsome face surrounded by long blond hair and kept warm by a neatly-trimmed beard. "Illya Anastasi Shuisky, at your service. Surely you remember me." He holds up a hand to stall any interruption, hoping to have his say before the Commander does anything rash. "I'm leaving, Commander, forfeiting all claims to my lands. The priests underestimated my talents when they tried to kill me, but I've no intention of giving them a second chance. I know you don't care about them and their cries of witchcraft. Take the manor, then, and let me be on my way." <><><><><> <> The commander looks understandably startled, but he recovers quickly. "And why do you leave in such haste? If you are innocent of the priests' charges, how can you abandon your estate? Or are you confessing guilt?" He narrows his eyes. For the moment, he has left alone your comment about being killed, perhaps having taken it as sarcasm. <><><><><> He sighs. "Commader, I'm not guilty of anything. But you know full well that if I stay I'm a dead man. Once the priests have made their decision, it's final. They'll be after me again and again until I'm dead, and nothing's going to change that. And I don't want to die, not like my father did." A bit of the true horror that he had experienced is reflected in his tone, giving it a depth and truth that carries. He looks over his shoulder to the west, then back to the Commander. "I hate abandoning the estate, sir," he says softly, "but I don't see as I have a choice. I have relatives who will take me in without fear of reprisals from provincial priests. I would rather the estate fall into the hands of the state, under your guidance, than be confiscated by the church." <><><><><> <> The commander thinks a bit, while you wait tensely. It would be very simple for him to simply have you cut down now. But of course that could create awkward rumors for him too, if his men don't all remain silent. "Go on, then," he says at last. "But if you're seen here again, I can hardly offer protection from the priests to a dead man. Do you understand?" <><><><><> He breathed a sigh of relief. "Believe me, sir, I've no intention of ever coming back here again." Taking the reins in a firmer grip, he turned the horse around toward Moscow. <><><><><> <> Muskva is a long ride away. You were just there a few weeks ago, and weren't expecting to return so soon. You do have friends there, and a few distant relatives -- with luck, it may be quite some time before news of the Shuiskys' demises reaches the big city. <><><><><> As he rode at an easy pace (not wanting to exauhst his horse further) he mused on the future. It was by no means apparent. He could not stay in Moscva for long... it was the home of the Church, and surely the news would filter back to them sooner or later. The way his luck was running, it would be sooner. He had only rode a little ways before deciding to switch horses. The mare was tired and cold, and deserved a rest. He could actually let her rest, but he could let her start the journey without being burdened. Once that was accomplished, he turned his thoughts back to planning. Perhaps it would be better to leave Russia alltogether. Poland was an option... He shook his head in disgust. Poland. Perhaps Austria. He could learn German without too much trouble... The future was nebulous before him. It had never been that way before. He'd always had a firm grasp on destiny... <><><><><> <> Moscow is a city of almost half a million. Everything but everything can be found here, at least during the summer months. Unfortunately, these are the winter months, when very little but food and vodka will be available in the markets. But woodcutters will be doing a brisk business. The first thing you see, when coming to Moscow, is always the village of woodcutters who live outside the city gates, continuously bringing sledloads of fresh timber from the forest and hewing it into the preformed lengths and widths that allow Muscovites to quickly rebuild their houses after the periodic fires that are a fact of life in the huge city. There are also farmers, bringing food into the city, and you can mingle with them without too much difficulty, for Moscow's gates are rarely guarded except when there is a threat of rebellion or siege, which has not happened in over a decade. Your problem will be what to do when you get *in* the city. The Shuisky family is large and prominent in Moscow, but your father's branch is regarded as the poor, rural cousins; you can't count on more than cursory hospitality from your kin. <><><><><> Illya rode in through the main gates, hardly paying attention to his surroundings. Immersed in thoughts and future plans, he didn't think it necessary to look again at the sights he had seen a few times before. He had come to Moscva twice before, both times in the company of his father in search of new additions to his father's alchemical possesions. He had decided on the road that staying in Moscva for very long at all would be akin to suicide. And while he had survived death the last few times he did not want to push his luck... whatever demon had given him this gift of life might have put a limit on how many ressurections were possible. For a moment he felt a pang of guilt and horror, wondering not for the first time what hell would await his soul once he finally walked with death. These feelings he clamped down on, merely drawing his hood closer around his face as he passed a peasant church. It would be easy enough to ask for and recieve some hospitality from his kin for a short time if he claimed he were on an errand for his father. A few days in which to sell one of the three horses and a number of the riches he'd purloined before he abandoned the manor. Then he could set out for the border, staying in taverns or having to rely on the money-induced hospitality of others. He'd heard tales that the West was more enlightened when it came to the sciences... He nudged his mount in the direction of the manor where his relatives lived. <><><><><> <> It is a cold, cloudy day, but no snow is falling, and the temperature is somewhere above freezing -- by Russian standards, the weather is wonderful. Townspeople who have probably been trapped inside for the past few days, unwilling to risk the cold and the snow, are now emerging from their homes to replenish their supplies of food, vodka and firewood, and the merchants are opening their stalls. You see a few soldiers riding down the streets, and some disapproving priests haranguing a troupe of street performer. The traffic is beginning to tromp the snow underfoot into mush, and unless there is more snowfall soon, it will become mud, which will refreeze, and then become covered with snow, and so the streets of Moscow will become one great morass when the spring thaw comes. Some of the main streets are paved with wooden slats, making them much more passable, but most of Moscow still looks like one enormous medieval village. You pass the German Quarter, heading for the estates of the wealthy. The Shuiskys were once among the most powerful Boyars in Moscow, and Prince Vasili Shuisky was Tsar before the Romanov dynasty replaced him. That was almost a century ago, but the Shuiskys still have a great deal of power in the government, even if they occasionally lose their lives as a result of a misplayed bid for power. You pass through Red Square, where three bodies are on display, about average. One is a woman who had her eyes and tongue torn out -- she must have done something vexing enough to the authorities to merit a little bit of creativity. The other two are men who were flogged and then hung, probably just petty thieves or blasphemers. Only yards away from the corpses, a large bearded man is dancing with an even larger bear, with an appreciative audience gathering around him. A pair of soldiers stands not far off, leaning against their muskets and watching the dancing bear act with disinterest, while a nobleman curses at the crowd that blocks his sled. His grooms strike blows at them with their horsewhips, and the peasants disperse long enough to let the sled through. You are halfway across Red Square, following behind the nobleman's sled, which is going in the same direction you are, when you feel something like a hundred prickly needles jabbing your spine, and icy fingers stroking the back of your skull. It is almost painful, and extremely unnerving -- it is the sort of sensation your grandmother, who was full of superstitions your father scoffed at, would have attributed to someone stepping on your grave, or putting a curse on you. <><><><><> The sight of priests puts a foul taste in his mouth and sets his heart to hammering. It's impossible that they would recognize him... all the same, memories of what they did to him were all too fresh. Even worse, the bodies in Red Square. He looks away as quickly as possible, but only after his memory puts his father's face on one of the bodies. It was a relief that he could follow the aristocrat and leave the square quickly. Then suddenly needles prick up his spine. He gasps at the foreign sensation, his right hand going to the back of his neck in automatic reaction. Even though the day was somewhat warm he shivered. Confused and slightly disoriented, he looks around. *Could it be the work of the priests back home... do they know I escaped?* he wonders, as he searches for any visible source of the odd sensation. <><><><><> <> The soldiers' eyes rest on you, as you pull your horse to a halt. The dancing bear suddenly growls, causing the audience to skitter back a few steps. The bear settles onto the ground with all four paws, and his trainer looks around and locks eyes with you for a moment. <><><><><> A bear trainer? Surely not. What business would someone like that have with him? He looked at the man once, racking his extensive memory for any hint of recognition. Nothing. He shook his head and spurred his horse forward. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention, which was exactly what he was doing now. <><><><><> <> As you leave Red Square, that strange sensation fades. A quarter mile further is the Shuisky mansion. Mikhail Sergeyovich Shuisky is the patriarch of the Muscovite Shuiskies now. He is your father's cousin, and you have met him twice in your life, the last time several years ago, on your last trip to Moscow. He had no sense of humor, and seemed condescending towards your father and his odd pursuits. His wife Olga was a little friendlier. He had a large brood, five sons and eight daughters. When you arrive at the mansion, one of your cousins is already in the stables, and looks up as you ride into the courtyard. His name is Vassily -- he's a few years younger than you. He struck you as a bit of a bully; he was teasing his sisters every time you saw him. He watches you curiously, but you're not sure if he even recognizes you. A servant is moving to intercept your horse. <><><><><> He did wonder on the short ride about just what that sensation was. Even if it was a curse or something else sinister, however, there wasn't much else he could do about it except be on guard. It was very likely that this new life of his would be full of mystical surprises. The walls of the Shuisky household looked somewhat comforting, even though he knew he would not be too welcome there. *Best make the most of it while I can. I could really use a few nights in front of the fireplace before setting off again.* Vassily was in the courtyard. Ilya would have much rather paid respects to his aunt first, but this would do well enough. He pulled back the hood of his cloak. "Cousin Vassily," he says, cheerfully enough. "It's been a long time. It's me, Ilya. How are you?" <><><><><> <> "Ilya?" he looks nonplussed. "I am well. I did not know you and your father were coming to visit." He doesn't look overly hospitable either, but Vassily has always been a rather annoying boy. The groom pauses, when Vassily recognizes you. <><><><><> He did wonder on the short ride about just what that sensation was. Even if it was a curse or something else sinister, however, there wasn't much else he could do about it except be on guard. It was very likely that this new life of his would be full of mystical surprises. The walls of the Shuisky household looked somewhat comforting, even though he knew he would not be too welcome there. *Best make the most of it while I can. I could really use a few nights in front of the fireplace before setting off again.* Vassily was in the courtyard. Ilya would have much rather paid respects to his aunt first, but this would do well enough. He pulled back the hood of his cloak. "Cousin Vassily," he says, cheerfully enough. "It's been a long time. It's me, Ilya. How are you?" <><><><><> <> "Ilya?" he looks nonplussed. "I am well. I did not know you and your father were coming to visit." He doesn't look overly hospitable either, but Vassily has always been a rather annoying boy. The groom pauses, when Vassily recognizes you. <><><><><> "It is just me this time," he responded casually. "Father is... too busy... to make the trip to Moscow. He sent me by myself. But you mean to tell me that the message did not reach your father? We made sure to send uncle notice that I would be coming." He dismounted and gave the riens to the groom, not bothering to give him instructions. "Is uncle Mikhail in?" <><><><><> <> "We recieved no letter," Vassily says, in a tone that suggests he doesn't believe any letter was sent, but he'd probably have that tone even if he had seen a letter. The groom takes the reins from you, however, and wordlessly takes your poor tired mare and her companion into the stables. "Yes, Father is here," your cousin says, and then grudglingly "I suppose you'll want to see him; I'll have a servant check and see if he is busy." <><><><><> He hands the servant the reins without even looking at him and walks over to Vassily. "I'd appreciate it. It's been a long day already. So, tell me, how is Uncle? It has been a while since we've exchanged any news." <><><><><> <> "Father is doing well, he had a nasty cough this winter, but he seems to be getting over it. There isn't much news lately, but with the roads thawing out, perhaps we will soon receive some news." Diverted from his ride, he walks with you back to the mansion, and snatches the arm of a serving girl. "Go tell my father his nephew Ilya from the country is here!" he snaps at her, managing to make "Ilya from the country" sound faintly condescending. She nods, looking frightened, and you know Vassily must terrorize the servants, probably with pettiness rather than any real monstrous acts, such as many tyrannical nobles perpetrate on their hapless peasants. Your father was unusual, in that he usually treated his servants well, and was well-liked by them in return. Naturally, the priests, who are usually at the forefront in demanding harsh and sadistic punishment for all offenses, decided that all must die. The serving girl who hurries off at Vassily's command looks a little like Tatyana would have looked if she'd lived a few more years. You feel a wave of nausea, and suddenly your knees are weak. Vassily turns to look at you with cold, curious eyes as you struggle to banish the visions. <><><><><> He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, willing the images to go away. Finding that closing his eyes actually made things worse, he opened them again and focused on anything that wouldn't remind him of home... which meant his cousin for the moment. What had he just been saying? <><><><><> <> Your cousin, ignoring your disquiet, simply waits silently for the servant to return. He could at least offer you some Vodka to warm you up, but no.... By the time the girl returns, the queasy feeling has passed. She says fearfully to Vassily "He wishes Ilya Anastasi to come up to see him, Master." Vassily grunts, and gestures at you grudgingly, as another cousin enters the room; a plump pleasant-looking girl on her way to becoming buxom, who can only be Katya, who was a prepubescent brat the last time you saw her. She spots you and beams with delight. "Cousin Ilya! What a pleasant surprise!" Vassily's expression only sours more. "Cousin Ilya is going to talk to Father, he has no time for your prattle, Katya." She makes a pouty face at him. <><><><><> Ilya gives her a friendly smile, wondering silently if she is still as bratty as the last time he'd seen her but not letting a hint of the question be apparant on his face. "Katya, it's wonderful to see you again. Perhaps we can talk later," he suggests. "Right now I have to see your father." He follows the servant, wondering if her fear was because she had to talk with Vassily, or worse (and more likely) that it was spawned by contact with Uncle. It was probably the latter.... He sighed and hoped this would go well. <><><><><> <> "Promise!" Katya wheedles, in that teasing, ingratiating manner pretty young women learn. Vassily, walking behind you, ushers you up the steps. Mikhail Sergeyovich Shuisky is waiting for you in the outer chamber of his bedroom suite. He is as foreboding in appearance as the last time you saw him, large but not quite fat, with a huge grizzled beard, and bushy eyebrows that seem ever on the verge of collapsing over his beady, penetrating eyes. He is sitting on a sofa with a blanket over his legs; you recall that he has had circulatory problems in his legs for years, and walking or standing for long periods has been difficult for him lately. He will probably be bedbound soon, which will probably not improve his disposition or diminish the dread with which his servants and family members regard him, "Ilya Anastasi," he grates. "I was not aware that you planned a visit. Is your father also in Moscow?" <><><><><> For the briefest of moments before he entered the rooms he contemplated telling his uncle some of the truth of what happened in Zagorsk. He had the right to know. But there was no telling how he would react, and it could lead to an awkward situation at best if he insisted that Ilya stay. No, better to lie totally that tell even half the truth. When he entered the room and remembered just how much his uncle scared him, the decision was doubly affirmed. He gave his uncle the sort of reverent bow that this much more important and powerful relative would expect. "Uncle Mikhail, it is an honor to see you again. My father has sent me by myself, for he had business to conduct at home. He had assured me that he had written in advance to give notice of my arrival; I can only assume he then forgot, or the message was waylaid." He shrugged slightly with an apologetic smile. "I was only planning on staying in town for a couple of days, three at the most, before returning home." <><><><><> <> "And why did he send you?" Mikhail Sergeyovich asks. "What is your business in Moscow?" <><><><><> Ilya smiled slightly, knowing the response he was about to receive. "The usual reasons. He is lacking some supplies for his... persuit of knowledge... which need to be replinished. Various items and substances that are impossible to find in the provinces. There are several people here who I have been instructed to conduct business with." <><><><><> <> "More of that black magic nonsense," your uncle grunts contemptuously. "Your father fritters away his wealth on mysticism, and he'll lead you to ruin also. Well, you can stay here for a day or so if you must, but don't expect me to lend you any money. And don't talk about your occult dabblings here in Moscow; the Church has been riled by the ascension of Piotr, and they are just looking for heretics to burn." His expression darkens. "And I especially don't want you talking about that nonsense in my household -- if I hear a word of it, I'll kick you out and inform you to the priests myself!" <><><><><> He nods shortly as the muscles in his neck and back knot tensely at the mention of priests. "Believe me, uncle, I won't say a word. I know to walk softly. I'm... beginning to think it's all nonsense anyway, but I couldn't pass up a chance to come to Moscva again." He half bows again, hoping that this will mean the end of the interview. As curious he was about the new tsar, he had no desire to prolong the conversation. "Thank you, uncle, for your hospitality." <><><><><> <> The Shuisky patriarch coughs and waves a hand at you. "Go then. You and your father are courting disaster with your odd pursuits, mark my words." Vassily hovered just outside while you spoke to his father, and as he follows you back down the stairs, for the first time says something to you with real interest in his voice: "Do you and your father really practice black magic?" <><><><><> There was an iciness somewhere deep inside him that was now creeping outward to envelope his soul. Why was Vassily interested in this? Did he want some form of power? Did he want to tell the priests and win favor? Ilya couldn't even intertain the notion that Vassily could be interested in any sort of intellectual persuit. "No, we don't. It's all nonsense, really. Utter nonsense." Inside him something cried *I don't want to talk about this!* as an image of his father surfaced in his mind. He blanched for a moment and threw out a hand against the wall to steady himself as his equilibrium lurched. "Right now I'd just like to sleep some. I was out late at the tavern, didn't get much rest before the ride. If you'll pardon me, I'd like to go find my bed." <><><><><> <> Disappointed, Vassily frowns and nods. "Very well then." He takes his leave brusquely, leaving you to find a servant who will lead you to a bedroom. Downstairs, though, Katya is waiting as promised -- she lurked just out of sight until Vassily left. Suddenly she appears on your heels in the hallway, while you follow a servant to one of the small (and probably cold) guest rooms. "So, what did you and Poppa talk about?" she asks. "You didn't even tell me why you're in Moscow!" <><><><><> "Ah, Katya," he says with a weak smile. "We talked of nothing important. It seems that father's letter announcing that I was coming for a few days never arrived." He shrugged slightly. All he really wanted right now was a bed, but if he didn't satisfy her curiosity now, she'd never let him rest. "So I just talked to him about why I was here, and how long I'd stay. Which is only a few days, I'm sad to say." He gave her a friendly smile. "I'm afraid I'm not here for any exciting reason, just to purchase a few items that you can't get in Zagorsk." "So, he continued, hoping they'd get to the room soon, "how have you been? It's been many years." <><><><><> <> "Oh, what are you buying?" she asks immediately. "Are you going to the main market? Will you take me? I never get to go anywhere! I want to see Red Square and perhaps a puppet show or buy some new dresses, especially some foreign ones. Do you think there will be silk in the markets yet? I would really like a silk dress, like the one Anna got in her dowry when she married, and I don't see why I should have to be married before I can get one. I would look quite lovely in silk, don't you think, Cousin Stasi? Poppa says I am becoming very pretty and that I should have my pick of husbands, but that it won't be soon because I'm too young and there is plenty of time to arrange a suitable match." She says the last half in disappointment, half in satisfaction. Knowing your Uncle Mikhail, you doubt very much that Katya will be doing much picking at all. She continues to chatter on as you enter your guest chambers (cold as you expected, with long-dead, almost frozen ashes in the hearth) and watch a servant laboriously starting a fire and beating the bugs out of your mattress. <><><><><> He sighed silently, knowing full well that he had brought this on himself. "There's nothing you'd be interested in in what I'm getting. And I doubt there's much in the markets right now that you would find interesting at all. When I passed through on the way here I hardly saw more than horses and furs. I think you'll have to wait for summer before anything like silk appears," he adds with a soft tone to his voice. He looks at the servant for a moment, hoping he'd get the fire started soon. He hated being cold. Not that he used to care, but... Forcing the thoughts out of his mind, he turned his attention back to Katya. "I'm sure you'll find a wonderful husband," he tells her. "And you'll be able to see a little more of the city. Do you get to go out at all? Have you heard anything about the new tsar?" <><><><><> <> "I haven't been out all winter," Katya pouts. She wrinkles her nose and says "That's all everyone talks about now, Tsar Piotr. The boyars are in a stew and Poppa is always talking to other noblemen, and every day someone else has been arrested or exiled or fled to a monastary. It's all so boring!" The servant is slowly getting a fire started. Katya shows no indication that she's going to leave you alone without be prompted out, as you're probably the first sustained audience she's had in quite a while. <><><><><> Katya's definition of boring certainly was not his own. He stood a little closer to the budding fire as he thought over her somewhat chilling words. This was definitely not a climate he wanted to stay long in. He was a nobody in Moscow, so there was little chance he'd get drawn into intruiges. Still, it was enough to make him want to leave the city all the quicker. "I'm sure your father has real reason to be concerned with everything," he said, the words flowing almost automatically. "And believe me when I say there's really not much going on in Moscow right now, besides politics." He looked at the bed somewhat longlingly, making sure she noticed the look. "I'd love to talk more, Katya, but I really need to get some rest. It's been a long ride and I'm very tired." He yawned to get the point across. <><><><><> <> "Oh....well, very well." Katya is obviously disappointed, but cannot ignore such an obvious dismissal. "But I would still like to go with you to the market even if it is boring, it would be less boring than staying inside another day. Promise you'll take me when you go, won't you?" She stands there, clearly not planning to leave until you agree. <><><><><> Her accompanyment was the last thing he wanted, especially since even an idiot would be able to realize that the only thing he was buying supplies for was for a long journey on horseback... surely nothing they needed in Zagorsk. "I... can't take you without your father's consent. You know that. If you can get his permission..." (*and there's no chance in hell of that,* he thought, bemused), "that I will take you, certainly. But it is up to him." <><><><><> <> "Oh....all right." Katya leaves, looking dejected indeed. And not without reason. Her last trip to the markets, before the winter, may well have been the last time she'll leave this house before she's married. Single woman of marriageable age are commonly hidden away until their wedding day, and your uncle is definitely a traditionalist. Finally left alone to sleep, you get the first real rest you've had in days, and sink into a mercifully dreamless slumber. When you wake up, the fire has died down, and you don't hear movement outside the door. You don't know if it's day or night or how long you've slept. But what woke you up was a telltale skritching on the floor. Rats. As common here as in any other large Russian household. Before now, it wouldn't have bothered you much, but it takes you a lot longer to go back to sleep after being reminded that you're sharing this room with the vermin also... <><><><><> He stretched contentedly as warm sleep slipped away from him. Finally he felt recovered from the ordeal of the previous days... his limbs relaxed and warm, his muscles not aching in overexertion and exposure. He didn't open his eyes, not wanting to disturb the warm peace he'd settled into. Until he heard what had summoned him to wakefulness. The sound sent a chill down his spine and he sat bolt upright, looking around for the creature. *Look at me, scared of rats,* he thought bitterly. *Vassily would laugh and laugh...* Rising out of the bed, he crossed to the fire and coaxed a little more heat from it, the warmth of the hearth flagstones under his feet wonderful. But now that he was awake, he wondered what time it was. he did have only so much time in Moscow,, and a few things he had to acomplish before he left. If it was still daylight, he'd have to go out. He crossed over to a window to find out the answer. <><><><><> <> The light is dim and the air is chill -- meaning it's either morning or evening, but since both last virtually the entire day at this time of year, except for midday when the sun makes one of its rare appearances like yesterday, or night, that doesn't tell you much. You don't hear much movement, though. <><><><><> His stomach growled. No matter what time of day it was, it had been a while since he had eaten, and he was hungry. Pulling on another layer of clothing to keep away the chill, he decided to make his way to the kitchens. There he could find something to eat and figure out what time it was as well. As he left his room he ran a hand through his long blond hair, pushing it out of his eyes and into a semblance of order. Regardless of what time it was, he could start figuring out exactly what supplies he was going to need. The first was a map of some sort, to give him a good idea of how long a journey to Poland would take and where shelter might be found along the way. This was Moscow, certainly someone would be able to tell him that. As he walked he combed through his many memories of the city and its quiet population of those who sold wares of a more intellectual or questionable bent. Hopefully he would be able to remember someone who could provide the information he needed. <><><><><> <> Moscow has many intellectuals, although those of a more unorthodox persuasion stay very quiet indeed. In tumultuous times like these, they are probably trying to avoid notice, and you'll have to approach them quite discreetly if you don't want doors slammed in your face. But no matter how tight the Church's grip becomes, there are always soothsayers, pagans, and other heretics hiding in the shadows. And alchemists. However, you know well that it doesn't do to underestimate the ability of the priests to root out those they want to punish. In the kitchen, some servants are preparing a large kettle of broth, and you see old, hard loaves of bread and dried vegetables lying on wooden boards, causing your stomach to rumble loud enough to be heard outside. The servants look up, blinking at you with a lack of recognition and instinctive wariness, quickly shifting to safe servility since you must be at least some sort of guest. <><><><><> Servants. He could handle servants, always could. Putting on a friendly smile that usually made younger women anxious to serve him and matrons anxious to coddle him like one of their own sons, he ducked through the doorway. "Hello," he said in a friendly tone. "I'm one of Uncle Mikhail's guests. I haven't had a bite to eat almost all day and thought perhaps one of you would be kind enough to show me if there's anything to eat?" <><><><><> <> "Certainly, Master," one of the older women says. They quickly produce a meal of greens and beet soup (today would be Friday, meaning no meat or eggs or milk -- Uncle Mikhail probably maintains the outward appearance of an Orthodox household, at least). While you fill your stomach with the not-very-savory but nourishing fare, one of them musters the courage to ask "Where have you come from, Sir? We haven't had any guests at all from outside Muskva for all these winter months." <><><><><> He devours the food happily, enjoying the slow spread of warmth that the soup spreads through his innards. "From Zagorsk," he answers his questioner, rewarding her curiosity with a frank and friendly answer. "A very cold journey, I might add." The experiences of the last few days did not seem to effecting his apetite anymore... he was ravenous. "What time of day is it?" he asked between bites. <><><><><> <> "Zagorsk," she repeats, nodding, probably not knowing exactly where it is. Servants rarely leave the immediate neighborhood, especially not kitchen servants. "Why, it's morning," she says. "Most of the family is at church." She looks at you a bit oddly, since one would expect a guest of the family to accompany them to church. You know that Uncle Mikhail was well aware of your father's aversion to church, and probably doesn't want you seen there and stirring up questions. <><><><><> "Morning? Already? I must have been more tired than I thought." He smiles at her as she stares at him. "I had a very long ride and was incredibly tired. I guess they decided to let me sleep until I woke." It was nice to know the time. He could go out a little after the family got back from church. The markets would be opening then, and going out any sooner would be pointless... and would also raise questions in some as to why he wasn't in church. He wasn't really certain if he'd ever be able to set foot in one again anyway... <><><><><> <> It is only a couple of hours before you hear the return of the Shuisky family -- including cousins you haven't yet met on this visit. You were hoping you might slip away now that you can do so, but naturally Katya manages to find you straight away, as you are leaving the area of the kitchens and trying to reach the stables. "Cousin Stasi!" she calls out cheerily. "You're up! You slept a long time. You should have gone to church with us, why didn't you? Are you going somewhere now?" <><><><><> He smiles to himself and turns to face the incorrigible girl. "Good morning, Katya. How are you? Forgive me for not accompanying you to church, I slept all morning. I told you I was tired yesterday." He flashes her a grin. "As for me, I'm going off to market now. I should see you later tonight, I'm sure." He half turned toward the stables, knowing full well she wouldn't let him go that easily. <><><><><> <> "Oh, what are you going to buy?" she asks, following you as predicted. She doesn't repeat the request to accompany you, having no doubt learned by now that her father won't let her go, but continues trailing you wistfully. "I would really like a new comb, and perhaps a mirror. And some sweets, although I know they are sinful." As you head out into the cold outdoors, you see Vassily and another of your cousins - a young man your own age named Dmitri, not as mean as Vassily, if you recall, but not much friendlier -- standing by the stables. Katya continues to walk with you, but pauses, perhaps afraid of being yelled at by her brothers, whom you know will not be as easy to divert as her. <><><><><> "Nothing on my list is very interesting," he responded to her automatically. "Just things that papa needs in Zagorsk. Nothing interesting at all, more's the pity." Perhaps he would get her something small if he could afford it. The poor girl's life wasn't going to be very much fun. *No doubt uncle will marry her off to someone just like him,* he thought with an internal shudder. The sight of Vassily and Dmitri nearly make him pause as well, though he forces himself to keep walking forward. *Are they waiting for me? No, why would they be?* Still, Vassily's question about last night resurfaced in his mind. Nothing good could come out of his interest. Perhaps, if he could get everything he needed now, he would leave this very night and not tempt fate anymore. "Morning, cousins," he said politely as he walked by them and into the stables. <><><><><> <> Katya follows you only to the gate of the stable, and leans against it watching you continue on with an unhappy pout. "Good morning, Cousin Stasi," Vassily says. "Where are you off to this morning? Surely not church?" <><><><><> "I'm afraid I've missed church this morning, cousin," he answered, attempting to quell the uneasy feeling growing inside him. "It's to the market for me today." He strokes his mare's nose in greeting, then continues to saddle her, letting most of his concentration focus on the simple task. Still, the best way not to have to answer awkward questions was to ask quesitons yourself. "What have you heard about the tsar's new city?" he asked as he placed the saddle onto his mare's back. <><><><><> <> "What new city?" Vassily asks. Dmitri says "I have heard rumors he is thinking of leaving Muskva." Vassily scoffs. "Rumors! I have heard rumors the Czar has audiences with the Devil. Don't believe everything you hear, Dmitri!" Dmitri looks down uncomfortably -- such talk, even in sarcastic jest, is dangerous. Then Vassily shifts his attention back to you. "Why do you ask, Cousin? Are you planning to go somewhere besides back to Zagorsk?" <><><><><> He takes the bridle and bit from where they're hanging on the wall and laughs. "Go? Where would I go, Vassily, without my father's permission? I'm not so foolish as to abandon the manor, no matter that it's in Zagorsk. What would I do without money or title?" He grins and turns back to his mare. "Besides, you mentioned the new city yourself yesterday, when I arrived. Said you may even be going there. I hadn't even heard of it before... Zagorsk has to be one of the most boring places in the world. We get no news at all. So," he began adjusting the tack, "I'm curious. When did he decide to build it? <><><><><> <> [Remember, I corrected that post -- the "new city" hasn't even been begun yet, it was a historical glitch on my part.] "I know nothing about a new city, and I would not rely too much on anything you hear at the marketplace," Vassily says. "Rumors are thick as fleas on a whore's --" "Vassily!" Dmitri says scoldingly, as Katya, listening nearby, raises an eyebrow with interest. Vassily just sneers and gives the girl a glare, causing her to retreat hurriedly back to the house. "Well, enjoy your shopping then, cousin. Don't be too eager to look for excitement, you might find yourself at the center of it." <><><><><> The corner of his mouth quirked up in a slight smile at Vassily's crudeness. He could prolong the converation, but he had no desire to stay in the presence of his sour cousin any longer. Instead he pulled himself lightly astride his mare's back with practiced ease. "There's only one kind of excitement I'm interested in, and then it's best to be at the center," he told his cousins with a mischievous grin, and directed his horse out the gate at a trot. Maybe the joke, if Vassily actually understood it, would reinforce in his cousin's mind that Ilya was much more interested in the mundane pleasures of life than dangerous alchemy. As he rode he scanned his considerable memory for a way to best get a map from here to at least Poland. He didn't even want to think of a cross-country trip without a map; though he had never travelled it, he guessed that if indeed there even was a road leading there, it would be overgrown and hard to discern from its surroundings. A map would keep him and his mare from starving and freezing, and therefore was essential. He ignored the thought that buzzed in his head reminding him that freezing hadn't stopped him before... <><><><><> <> Vassily smiles slightly, with an appreciative nod, as if the suggestion that you might share his interest in whores has raised his estimation of you. Neither of your cousins troubles you further as you ride out of the Vassily estate. The day is overcast, and colder than when you arrived, but it's still clear and warm enough for there to be plenty of people out on the half-frozen, half-muddy streets. Once again, you dive into the hustle and bustle of Muskovites seeking some relief from the long winter, as they shop to replenish their plain, stale stocks of food, or gather in a crowd to watch someone being whipped for insolence, or having his tongue pulled out for speaking profane words within earshot of a priest. These are the things that relieve the dull tedium of Russian life. And as you approach one of the more literate neighborhoods, where a merchant who actually reads can occasionally be found, and books imported from other countries, and not yet seized and burned by the Church can even more occasionally be purchased, something relieves the dull tedium of your existence with a sharp jolt to the spine...a return of that unnatural sensation you felt the day before as you crossed Red Square. <><><><><> Ilya hurried past the demonstrations of discipline and torture, reminded all to easily of what had happened at home. Even if he wasn't in danger of his life, he decided, he'd still want to leave Russia. Too many nightmares, too many memories. Then it happened again. He gasped as the sensation washed over him. What was it? Some mysterious effect of whatever deal his father had made for Ilya's life? What did it mean? Confused and somewhat frightened, he looked around the streets, wondering if there was anything visible that had triggered the odd sensation. <><><><><> <> Around you, the townspeople glance your way with momentary curiousity as you stop astride your horse to look up and down the street, while they continue walking past. Lounging against the corner of a hewed wooden bathhouse, a little distance behind you, you see a huge shape, too large to be a man. The hulking shadow must be that of some awful beast, and it gives you a start, before the shadow splits in two, and pedestrians do a hasty sidestep to avoid the bear that comes padding out into the street. It lies down and rolls over in the muddy ice, sticking its legs in the air, and then the huge bear-tamer you saw the day before in the Square steps out after it, and speaks to the animal in a jovial, scolding tone. "Volkh, stop that, this is no place to take a nap!" <><><><><> Illya's eyes widened at the sudden appearance of bear and trainer, partially because even the thought of a trained and supposedly tame bear was still foreign to him... but moreso because he recalled the sight of this same bear-trainer yesterday, staring at him as that strange sensation washed over him. Surely this was more than coincidence. "He's a beautiful creature," he said to the bearkeeper as he patted the neck of his mare soothingly. The last thing he wanted was for her nervousness to provoke the bear. "How long have you had him?" Harmless conversation was for the best; after all, who could know what role this man may play... coincidence did occur. <><><><><> <> "Volkh? Ah, we're old friends." The bearkeeper laughs. "Not the best bear I've ever had, but not the worst. He's obedient but a little lazy." The big man grabs the bear by the scruff of the neck and seems to literally haul it to its feet, though the bear still outweighs the man by hundreds of pounds. "And speaking of old friends, are you perhaps looking for one?" <><><><><> He simply looked at the man in silence for a moment. The question had thrown him off balance, and for a while response would simply not come. Was the bearkeeper hinting that someone was looking for him? Why would anyone be sent to find him? Who even knew that he was in Moscow except his family? But why would the man ask such a question of a stranger? "I... ah, no. I'm simply here for the market. In Moscow you can find many things if you take the time to look." He knew his confusion was apparant on his face and felt no need to hide it. Hopefully it would provoke the man to perhaps explain his cryptic overture. Perhaps he was somehow connected with one of the men he was trying to find? <><><><><> <> "Oh, that's true. Muskva has grown a great deal, hasn't she?" He pats the bear on the head. "But she's not big enough for many like us. Have you met the lord of the city yet, or is that where you're heading?" <><><><><> "Lord of the city? You mean the czar?" He shook his head, his voice quiet. Talking about the new czar could bring unwanted attention from people he desired no contact with. "I'm no one. What business would I have with him?" <><><><><> <> "The Czar?" the big man exclaims, with such a depreciating guffaw that a passerby looks at him a bit nervously. Indeed, the wrong person merely hearing the word "Czar" spoken in a scornful tone could land this odd bear-tamer in a barrel of boiling oil. He seems unconcerned, however. "No, young fool, I don't mean the Czar. Now you're either very young and ignorant, or you do a good job of pretending to be." Abruptly, shockingly, he turns and begins walking away. "Come with me and have some vodka," he says. His bear follows him. <><><><><> Ilya felt a hot flush rise in his cheeks at the man's words. He nearly made an angry retort, yet bit the words back as the man turned away. *Who _is_ this man?* he wondered. It was tempting to merely let the man leave, and yet... no answers would be forthcoming without him. And Ilya sensed that there were things that this man knew that he wanted to know. An explanation of cryptic words, an explanation of the odd sensation that seemed to note his presence... and perhaps more? Was this man somehow connected with what had happened? Was this some devil come to bring him into service, in payment for his life? Unable to turn away, Ilya followed.