The Girl in the Tower (The Winternight Trilogy #2)(68)

“You ought to get drunk,” Kasyan said, shrugging this off. “Thoroughly. It would do you good; you are angry and not sure who to be angry with.”

Vasya merely bared her teeth. She felt her snatched-at freedom keenly. “Lead the way, Kasyan Lutovich,” she said. All around, the city shrieked and bubbled, like a kettle on the boil.

Kasyan’s tight, secret mouth curved a little. They turned down the muddy street from Olga’s palace and were instantly lost in the joyous maw of a city at play. Music sounded from side-streets where girls danced with hoops. A procession was getting up; Vasya saw a straw woman on a stick being hoisted above a laughing crowd, and a bear with an embroidered collar being led like a dog. The bells rang out above them. The snow-slides were crowded now, and folk pushed each other for their turn, fell off the back of the slide or came tumbling headfirst down the front. Kasyan paused. “The ambassador,” he said delicately. “Chelubey.”

“What?” said Vasya.

“It seemed as if he knew you,” said Kasyan.

A clamor rang out in the streets ahead. “What is that?” Vasya asked instead of answering. A wave of people ahead of them were falling back. Next moment a runaway horse came galloping, wild-eyed, up the street.

It was the mare from the market, the filly Vasya had coveted. Her white stockings flashed in the dirty snow. People shouted and ducked out of the way; Vasya opened her arms to arrest the mare’s flight.

The mare tried to dodge around her, but Vasya adroitly seized the broken lead-rope and said, “Hold, lady. What is the matter?”

The mare shied at Kasyan and reared, panicked by the crowd. “Get back!” Vasya told them. The people drew away a trifle, and then came the sound of three sets of steady hoofbeats as Chelubey and his attendants came trotting up the street.

The Tatar gave Vasya a look of languid surprise. “So we meet yet again,” he said.

Vasya, now that Marya was home and safe, felt she had very little to lose. So she raised a brow and said, “Bought the mare and she ran away?”

Chelubey was composed. “A fine horse has spirit. What a good boy, to catch her for me.”

“Spirit is no excuse to terrify her,” retorted Vasya. “And don’t call me boy.” The mare was almost vibrating against her grip, jerking her head in renewed fright.

“Kasyan Lutovich,” Chelubey said, “take this child in hand. Or I will beat him for impudence and take his horse. He may keep the filly.”

“If I had the filly,” Vasya said recklessly, “I would be riding her before the noon bell. I would not have her fleeing panicked through the streets of Moscow.”

The bandit, she saw with anger, was looking amused again. “Big words for a child. Come, give her to me.”

“I will wager my horse,” said Vasya, not moving—she thought of Katya starving because Dmitrii must have taxes to pay for a new war, and her rage at Chelubey fueled a temper already inclined to rashness—“that this mare will bear me on her back before the third hour rings.”

Kasyan began. “Vasya—”

She did not look at him.

Chelubey laughed outright. “Will you, now?” His eye took in the flighty, frightened mare. “As you like. Show us this marvel. But if you fail, I will certainly have your horse.”

Vasya gathered her nerve. “If I do win, I want the mare for myself.”

Kasyan gripped her arm, urgently. “It is a foolish wager.”

“If the boy wants to throw away his property on boasting,” said Chelubey, to Kasyan, “it is his business. Now off you go, boy. Ride the mare.”

Vasya did not reply, but considered the frightened horse. The mare was dancing on the end of her rope, jerking Vasya’s arms with every plunge, and scarcely had a horse ever looked less rideable.

“I will need a paddock, with a fence of decent height,” said Vasya at length.

“An open space and a ring of people is all you get,” said Chelubey. “You should consider the conditions of your wagers before making them.”

The smile had fallen off his face; now he was crisp and serious.

Vasya thought again. “The market-square,” she said after a moment. “There is more room.”

“As you wish,” said Chelubey, with an air of great condescension.

“When your brother finds out, Vasilii Petrovich,” Kasyan muttered, “I am not standing between you.”

Vasya ignored him.



THEIR WAY DOWN TO the square became a procession, with word flying through the streets ahead of them. Vasilii Petrovich has made a wager with the Tatar lord Chelubey. Come down to the square.

But Vasya did not hear. She heard nothing but the mare’s breathing. She walked beside the horse, while the creature thrashed against the rope, and she talked. It was nonsense mostly; compliments, love words, whatever she could think of. And she listened to the horse. Away was all the mare could think, all she could say with head and ears and quivering limbs. Away, I must get away. I want the others and good grass and silence. Away. Run.

Vasya listened to the horse and hoped she had not done something supremely stupid.



PAGAN HE MIGHT BE, but the Russians loved a showman, and Chelubey swiftly proved himself nothing if not that. If someone in the crowd shouted praise, he bowed with a flourish of the rough-cut gems on his fingers. If someone jeered, hidden in the throng, he answered in roaring kind, making his audience laugh.