3. Tsebol

Chapter three

Tsebol

Han

T ravelers filled the market in Tsebol, buying and selling their summer harvests. Pockets full of the profits from our own crops, Yakov and I pushed through the crowds that stopped to admire the goods at each table. Catching Yakov's eye, I gestured to the blacksmith's tent.

"Looking for a new sword?" my friend asked.

I rolled my eyes. My skill with a blade would never be what it had been, even if I could buy a sword. Following the battle at Barbezht, Miroslav had decreed that anyone selling weapons to the traitors would be summarily executed. Most smiths wouldn't sell weapons to anyone missing a limb, for fear of the tsar. Regardless of my skill, I'd never own another sword.

"Need a new ax, durachok," I said, my teasing tone belying the insult. "I told you that on the way here."

We skirted around a stall filled with kokoshniki and povyazki, headdresses decorated with brightly colored beads. I made a mental note to stop by before we left and buy a new kokoshnik for Mila. She didn't really need a new one, but the harvest had sold well. I could buy her a new one for the harvest feast.

We kept a healthy distance from the tent marked by the metallic smell of magic and a checkered banner. The tent of a traveling Blood Bastard, an illegitimate descendant of Otets. Blood Bastards' reputations were as formidable as their prices were high. Only the desperate sought their services. The desperate and the rich.

Just before we reached the blacksmith's tent, a table full of woodwork caught my eye—specifically, a ring the size of my palm, with various animals carved into it. I didn't know what made me stop, but I picked up the ring and turned it over.

"It's a teether," the old woman behind the table told me. "Babes love the soft wood on their gums when a tooth is coming through. It's rubbed with beeswax to keep the splinters down." She didn't look up as she spoke, but continued carving a design in the edge of the mug she held.

"How much?" The baby wouldn't be born for a few months, but it sounded like a practical thing to have. Not that I knew what babies needed.

"No charge for you."

I looked up at her with raised eyebrows and saw she'd noticed my missing hand. I looked back at the ring, turning it over again. What I'd thought were butterflies carved into the edge were actually tiny letter B's placed back to back. For Borislav?

The woman grabbed my hand and wrapped it around the teether. "For the true tsar," she said in a low voice.

I stared at her, unsure how to respond. A hand grabbed my shoulder.

"There you are!" Yakov said. "I turned around and you were gone."

"Something caught my eye." I held up the ring, glancing back at the table. The woman was busy carving her mug again as several more market-goers browsed her wares.

"Huh. Bit big for you, isn't it?"

"It's not for me, durachok. It's a teether." At his blank look, I explained. "They chew on it when their teeth are coming through. Makes them feel better."

"Oh." Yakov nodded sagely. "Of course. Well, if you're finished searching for trinkets, can we continue shopping? I thought you wanted to be home tomorrow."

***

By the time the market closed, we'd finished our purchases. We loaded up the cart and made our way to an inn brimming with the after-market crowds. Pushing through the room, we found an unoccupied pair of stools, and I waved over a frazzled barmaid.

She had to shout to make herself heard. "We've got shchi and kvass, but if you're looking for pirogi and vodka, you'll have to find somewhere else. The army's been through our whole supply."

"Soup and kvass is fine," Yakov shouted back.

She fiddled with the end of her long braid, smiling at him. "Be right back."

While we waited, I looked around. The smell of cabbage and rye filled the air, along with the overpowering scent of spilled vodka. A group of drunken soldiers, distinguished by their red-trimmed black kaftans, sat in the corner playing dice. Their laughter and shouts drowned out the chatter of the other customers.

"Town's busy this week," I said. "I think we made twice as much as we did our first year back from the war."

Yakov opened his mouth to respond, but the barmaid returned with her arms full. As she set the dishes on the table, a soldier staggered over, leering down at us.

"Shouldn't be serving these types, girl," he said, just loud enough to be heard.

"Beg your pardon, sir?" I laid my hand on Yakov's arm to forestall any rash reaction. There were at least ten soldiers in the inn, and attacking the tsar's men was a hanging offense.

"I'd heard there were some Barbezht survivors in this part of the country." He nodded at our arms and spat on the ground. "Traitors."

Yakov jumped to his feet, fist clenched. "Say that again."

"Ooh, look at this, boys!" he told his companions, who had joined him. "The cripple thinks he can take on the tsar's men."

The whole room had gone silent, watching the scene.

I stood and grabbed Yakov by the collar. "Let's just go," I muttered. Louder, I said, "We are loyal supporters of Tsar Miroslav, and we meant no offense. We'll leave you to your supper." I steered my friend toward the door but found our path blocked by one of the other soldiers.

The first man sneered at us. "Miroslav should have hanged you all."

Yakov's fist connected with the man's nose.

The room erupted in shouts, and Yakov disappeared under a pile of soldiers. I dove into the fray, swinging wildly at anything in reach. Something hit my lip, and I tasted blood. I grabbed a mug from the floor and smashed it over the head of the nearest soldier. He turned on me, too drunk to see straight but still flailing his fists.

Yakov stumbled out of the mass of bodies, breathing hard. I grabbed his arm, and we ran for the door, momentarily unobserved.

As we rushed down the street, the inn door opened behind us. We ducked around a corner into a dark alley in time to see several of the soldiers run past.

I waited a moment to ensure our pursuers were out of sight before turning to my friend.

"Home."

Yakov nodded, pinching his bleeding nose.

I didn't draw an easy breath until we left the city gate. As we pulled onto the moonlit road home, I looked at my friend.

"What were you thinking?" I hissed.

He crossed his arms, leaning back against the wagon seat. "They were asking for it."

"Do you have a death wish?" His temper was going to get us both killed. "You'd best pray they don't find us, or we'll both be hanged. And that's nothing compared to what Mila's going to do when she finds out." She'd already been worried; if she found out I'd been in a fight with some soldiers, she'd lose her mind.

"What was I supposed to do, just take it?"

"Yes! That's exactly what you're supposed to do!"

"Maybe you can handle being treated like scum, but I can't."

I sighed. Sometimes it was easy to forget how young he was. "I hate it, too, but Mila needs me. I deal with the abuse so I can go home safe to her."

He didn't respond, scowling down at the horses' heads in front of us.

"Let's just go home," I said. "You can stay with us tonight. There's no need to wake your mother."

***

It was late, well past midnight when we finally made it home. Not wanting to wake anyone, we left the wagon fully loaded in the barn, stabled the horses, and crept into the dark house.

I left Yakov to find the spare room by himself, making my way to my own room. Mila must have been warm; she'd left the window open, and the breeze coming through the room chilled me. I closed it, stripped off my clothes, and climbed into bed with my wife.

She rolled over, frowning. "Han?" Her voice was slurred with sleep.

"I'm sorry, dorogusha," I whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you."

She sat up and rubbed her eyes, the moonlight from the window illuminating the beautiful curves of her body. "Why are you here? I didn't expect you until dinner tomorrow."

"We decided not to stay." There was no need to worry her with the real reason. Not in the middle of the night, at least. Doubtless she'd wring the truth from me in the morning. I pulled the quilt up and wrapped my arms around her. She leaned in for a kiss, and I bit back a hiss of breath as she brushed my split lip.

She pulled back. "What happened?"

"It's nothing," I said. "Let's go to sleep. I'm exhausted."

She sat up, lighting a candle and holding it close to my face. "Han! What happened?"

"Just a scuffle in the inn." I didn't meet her eyes. "It was nothing."

"And Yakov?" She pursed her lips.

I shrugged. "A few bruises, same as me. Could have been worse."

"Who started it?"

"Yakov, but he was provoked." She raised a brow, but I held up my hand. "Truly! We tried to leave, but one of them blocked us. Yakov threw a punch, and we ran off."

She took a handkerchief and the jar of salve from the bedside table. "He punched, and you ran? Then how did you get this?" She scooped some flowery-smelling ointment from the jar and used the handkerchief to dab it gently on my lip.

"We did run. They attacked—"

"They who?"

No avoiding it now. "A few soldiers," I mumbled.

The handkerchief fell from her hand. "Soldiers? Han…" Her eyes filled with tears, her mood shifting in an instant. "I knew it was a bad idea for you to go."

I ran a hand over my face. "I had to do it, Mila. They jumped on him. If I hadn't pulled him out, he'd be dead."

"And if they come after you, you'll both be dead," she snapped, wiping at her eyes.

I pulled her close again. "It's fine, Milochka. We'll be fine."

"But what if they find out who you are? What if someone recognized you and told them where to find you? Han, they'll hang you!" I could hear the fear behind the anger in her voice. Her hands clenched my shirt.

"Shh," I whispered into her long, loose curls. "They won't. We're not important enough to chase around the countryside. As long as we stay away from Tsebol, they won't come looking for us."

"I'm scared."

My heart twisted. Mila didn't often admit her fears, even to me. I brushed a curl from her face and kissed her brown forehead. "I'll keep you safe."

She shoved me halfheartedly. "I'm not scared for me, idiot. I'm scared for you."

"Nothing can keep me away from you, dorogusha. Not war, not soldiers, not Miroslav himself." I kissed her, long and slow, until she relaxed under my touch. "I'll always come home to you," I said, resting my hand on her belly. "To both of you."

"You swear?"

"On my father's grave." I blew out the candle and said a silent prayer that I'd be able to keep my promises. I didn't believe the soldiers would hunt us down—most of them had seemed too drunk to remember the fight, and even if they did, finding us wouldn't be worth the effort. Still, as I fell asleep, I couldn't help thinking Borislav would never have allowed the country to come to this.