8. Back to Tsebol

Chapter eight

Back to Tsebol

Han

T he following week, Mila and I were bundled against the frigid autumn air on the road to Tsebol. I'd taken the extra precaution of filling a glove with dry beans and strapping it to my wrist, hoping to make myself less conspicuous. Though not as big as the capital, the city was large enough that I didn't expect to run into the soldiers from my last visit, but I preferred to be cautious.

Mila sat next to me in silence, knitting a pair of woolen socks. Despite my worries about the journey, I was glad she'd decided to go with me. I hadn't wanted to leave her at home alone. Maybe the trip would give us an opportunity to reconnect. I understood that she was lashing out from pain, but that didn't make it any easier to bear. Every time she shrank from my touch, every time she snapped at me, every night she spent away from our bed hurt a little more.

Getting away would be good for both of us. So long as we avoided the soldiers Yakov and I had fought.

I'd first written to Konstantin Anatolyevich a week after the—a week after Mila had been hurt. Discussing the possibility of Borislav's survival in a letter was out of the question, so I had asked the baker to meet in person. The day before his wedding, he had called on me at home and shared his belief that the rumors were true. Tsar Borislav was alive.

I hardly dared to think about what to expect in Tsebol. Konstantin Anatolyevich had seemed confident, but he wouldn't reveal his source. Not by name, at least. The baker had said he would introduce me to someone who could give me answers, and while I trusted his sincerity, the whole thing could be a trap to weed out traitors. Or it could be a fruitless effort, a crazed beggar's delusions taken on new life as the story spread through the countryside.

Still, after all we'd faced since the war, I had to try. We had so little left to lose. If there was a chance that Borislav was alive, was ready to take the throne, I had to join him. For the opportunity to give Mila something resembling justice against the deserters who had attacked her, to give her a better life, I had to try. She didn't deserve what we'd been through. I glanced over at her, her brown face blank as the needles in her hands flew. I hadn't seen her smile since the morning she'd been hurt. I'd give anything to see her smile again.

She looked up and frowned at me. "What?"

"Nothing." I turned back to the road in front of us. We were nearing the city, the wild countryside giving way to a more developed landscape. Houses separated mown fields, and gradually the fields surrendered their place to buildings crowded around the city wall.

Inside the wall, it was emptier than the last time I had visited. Market day had passed, and with only a month until the first snow, most city-goers were likely at home preparing for the coming long winter.

We made our way through the streets unchallenged. I sat stiff in my seat, scanning the streets for signs of a threat. We were nearing the baker's shop when Mila gasped.

My heart dropped into my stomach. "What's wrong?" I followed her gaze to a pair of soldiers on the corner.

"Nothing," she said. "I'm fine."

She'd said the men who attacked her were deserters, but was it possible she'd been wrong? My vision went red as I watched them. I rested my gloved wrist on her leg, needing to assure myself that she was there, was safe. "Mila, is that them?"

"What? No, of course not."

I glanced over to see her shake her head.

"They took me by surprise, that's all. Is this the place?" She tucked the unfinished socks back into their bag and nodded at the bakery ahead of us.

I cast a wary look back at the soldiers and took a deep breath. It wasn't them. Mila was safe.

As we pulled up in front of the bakery, Ulyana came bustling out to greet us. A faded blue scarf covered her head, and the apron she wore was covered in a dusting of flour. "You're here early!" She took Mila's bag. "I had meant to clean up before you got here."

"That's alright," Mila said quietly, stepping down from the wagon.

Konstantin Anatolyevich's large pink face peeked through the doorway. "Han Antonovich, good to see you again!" He came out and put a hand on Ulyana's shoulder. "You'll have to drive around the block to put the horses and wagon up. These tiny roads, you know. No place to stable on our own street. Here, I'll go with you." He climbed up into the seat Mila had vacated.

I looked back at my wife, but she was already following Ulyana inside. The baker kept up a steady stream of conversation as we drove around to the stable.

"I'm sure you'll want dinner soon. Ulyana has it cooking right now. We have some time before my friend is expecting us. I told Ulyana I was helping you make a business connection and that we'd be gone for the afternoon. I'm sure she wants some time alone with your wife, anyway. She doesn't say anything, but it's hard for her, being away from everyone she knows. She's glad you've come. Gives her a taste of home."

At the stable, Konstantin bounded out of the wagon and unhooked the horses before I could even climb down off the seat. "The brush is on the hook, if you want to brush them down before we go in. I'll just check that the trough is filled."

Once we finished, he led me through a door in the back of the stable. It opened into the bakery, where a young boy stood behind the counter, tending to something in the oven.

Konstantin clapped the boy on the back. "My apprentice. The guild sent him to me last year at his parents' request. Keeps me in business, he does." The boy looked down at his feet, but I saw a flash of a proud smile. "I'll have dinner brought down to you in a bit, alright? Mind the shop while we're with our guests."

"Yes, sir!" The boy turned back to his work.

"We're up here." Konstantin led me up a narrow set of steps in the corner, into a well-furnished sitting room where Mila and Ulyana sat by the window talking.

"Business must be good, Konstantin Anatolyevich," I remarked as I took a seat, "if you're able to have an apprentice."

The big man grinned. "You must call me Kostya."

It was impossible not to like the man. "Business must be good, Kostya."

"Oh, you know." He waved a large hand dismissively. "I can't say much in favor of the army, but they are good for business. The baron is generous, too. He varies his order throughout the guild, encourages local business."

"You're too modest, Kostiukha." Ulyana smiled fondly at him before turning to me. "Lord Ilya gives him twice the business of the other bakers in the city, and he's already been commissioned to provide the sweet pirogi for Prophet's Day."

"And my biggest competition was commissioned for the meat pirogi, and the rest of the bakers for the poor-breads. He's not singling me out, dorogaya." He smiled at Mila. "She gives me too much credit. But how are you, Mila Dmitrievna? We were so sorry to hear of your troubles."

She stiffened. "I'm doing well. Thank you for asking."

Ulyana stood. "Dinner is ready, Kostya. We were just waiting for the two of you. Shall we eat?"

The cramped dining room was obviously not made for more than two or three people, but the food was good, and Ulyana and Konstantin had a cheerful banter that more than made up for Mila's detached silence. I was grateful; I didn't feel up to carrying the conversation myself.

When we finished eating, Konstantin stood, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. "Well, we should be off. We're expected soon."

"You'll be alright?" I asked Mila. She pursed her lips and nodded once. "Then I'll come get you once I've found us a room."

"Don't think of it." Konstantin wore an indignant expression. "You'll stay here tonight, and I'll brook no refusal. We have plenty of room." He leaned down and placed a kiss on his wife's scarf-covered head. "We'll be back for supper, dorogaya."

The walk to the inn was short, the air warm from the early afternoon sun. I kept a cautious eye out for the soldiers from the tavern fight, but I saw none. Konstantin chatted amiably as we walked, stopping several times to talk to passersby or to mention a piece of trivia about a certain house or store.

We finally stopped at the door to an inn, and Konstantin held the door open for me to enter. "Here we are."

I looked around as I stepped inside, blinking in the sudden dimness. The place was empty but for a sandy-haired man sitting in the far corner, slouched over his mug. He looked up as we approached, and I felt a flicker of familiarity.

The man stood, revealing a hook where his right hand should be. "You're late."

Konstantin grinned. "You know me. Never on time. Han, this is Boris Stepanovich."

"Boris?" One of the men that had been imprisoned with me the night I'd lost my hand. Their faces were burned into my memory. Yakov, young and terrified; the grizzled old warrior from Yakov's unit; Benedikt Ivanovich, my childhood friend who Miroslav had burned to death with his magic; and Boris Stepanovich, the man standing across from me.

His eyes narrowed. "Have we met?"

I removed the glove strapped to my right arm, and he relaxed visibly at my missing hand. "We were imprisoned together the night of the battle," I said. "You'll remember my friend, Captain Benedikt Ivanovich?" The smell of burning flesh filled my nose, and I pushed back the memories. Benedikt had deserved better.

His expression darkened. "I remember." He turned to Konstantin. "This is the man you wanted me to meet?"

Konstantin nodded, and Boris Stepanovich gestured for us to sit. He waved for the innkeeper and ordered a bottle of vodka.

As the innkeeper stepped out, Boris looked at me. "What are you looking for?"

"I just want to know the truth." Wherever that would lead me. I just wanted to know if there was any good left in this world. Anyone who could bring justice to me, to Mila, to Yakov and Anna.

"What truth?"

I furrowed my brow. Had Konstantin not told him why we were here? "I want to know—"

He cut me off. "I know what you want to know. What I want to know is why. You knelt. I can't tell you anything until I know you won't betray us to Miroslav."

"You knelt as well." If I'd thought there was even a chance Borislav had survived… No. It was too late to dwell on past actions. "We all did."

"I've answered for my actions."

We fell silent as the innkeeper returned with the vodka and three wooden cups. Boris Stepanovich poured us each a generous serving as the innkeeper left once more.

I lifted my cup to my lips and took a large swallow, relishing the burn of the alcohol down my throat. Then I spoke again. "I would have died for the cause. We all would have. But I believed the cause—the tsar—was dead, rotting on the field. If it had been Otets' will for me to die for my tsar, I would have done so willingly. But given the chance to go home, I wasn't going to seek martyrdom."

He raised an eyebrow. "Do you seek it now? This conversation is treason."

Treason or not, I had to know.

Konstantin cut in. "Han is a close friend of my wife's family, and loyal to the tsar. I trust him, Boris Stepanovich."

The other man's eyes flashed, but he kept them trained on me. "I told you I would meet with him, Konstantin Anatolyevich. If he wants to know, he'll answer me."

I shook my head. "If I was wrong to kneel, I need to know. If I'm given another chance to serve the tsar, to fight for justice, I have to take it. For the sake of the hundreds, thousands of lives Miroslav has destroyed."

Boris Stepanovich leaned back and took a drink. "Konstantin tells me you're a prosperous farmer, and happily married. It doesn't seem that he's destroyed your life."

I slammed my drink on the table, the rage I'd suppressed for the past six weeks boiling up inside me. "Don't presume to tell me what my life is like," I whispered, clenching my remaining hand into a fist. "I lost my hand and nearly my whole livelihood. My wife's family forbade her from marrying me when I returned, and when she married me anyway, her mother didn't speak to her for a full year. I can barely write my own letters, and I'll never wield a sword again. I had to relearn how to do everything at home, and I can hardly come into the city without fearing someone will attack me for being a traitor. My wife was beaten half to death by some deserters that monster allowed into his army, causing the death of our unborn son and destroying her spirit. So don't you d—" I choked on the words, tears of anger clouding my eyes. "Don't you dare tell me Miroslav hasn't destroyed my life."

Chest heaving, I stared at Boris Stepanovich, who watched me with a calculating look, as though weighing the sincerity of my words. Then he nodded.

"Go to the temple outside the city gate. Tell the Brothers there you've come to pray for the tsar. They'll help you find the answers you're looking for."

Some of the tension in my chest released in a silent breath.

"Thank you, Boris Stepanovich," Konstantin said.

Boris grunted, and tossing a coin onto the table to pay for his drinks, strode out of the inn.