3. Three

By the time Ryurikov reached a road, indigo suffused the sky. Only a vivid ribbon of sunlight peered through the trees, effectively blinding him. The sound of horses clopping along packed dirt had him skittering behind a tree, grateful for the green cloak allowing him to blend in, although it was tattered now. He peered past the trunk, bark and moss crumbling under his touch as a carriage came into view. A garish orange wood with citrine trims, the driver dressed in a red uniform, surrounded by tassels.

Good grief, it was hideously perfect.

Ryurikov waited for the thoroughbreds to trot past before spinning out from behind the tree. He launched at the back of the carriage and grasped its cargo rail, hoisting himself up to the roof. He slipped free the dagger from his belt and jumped onto the driver’s back, blade at the man’s throat.

“Stop,” Ryurikov commanded.

With a pathetic whimper, the driver pulled the reins, slowing the horses to a standstill. Inquiring voices called out from the carriage while Ryurikov patted the man’s shoulder.

“No need to be brave, they aren’t worth dying for.” He swung his long legs over the seat’s side and hopped down, cloak flapping behind him.

With one swift tug, he opened the carriage door. Another pull, and a male occupant came tumbling out, swiftly held at knifepoint, back pressed against Ryurikov’s chest. He smelled of citrus and flowers, of wealth.

“Your valuables, if you please,” Ryurikov said to the woman now screeching. Because manners were everything in these situations.

Manners the driver clearly didn’t have.

Ryurikov caught movement from his peripheral and swayed to the side. The sharp whistle echoed beyond the nearest trees. Horses whinnied in fright and jerked the carriage a few steps forward. He sneered as the body of his hostage collapsed to bleed through fine, periwinkle silk, a bolt firmly wedged in his chest. The silence was swiftly shattered, the woman’s screeching an encore accompanied by sobs.

An undignified sound left the driver when Ryurikov’s glare flicked to him. The man hurried to reload his crossbow with trembling hands. Ryurikov’s steadier touch flung the dagger, blade glinting in the tarrying sunlight before lancing the driver’s neck, sending him sideways off the seat and to the ground with a thud.

A rush of blood pooled the earth when Ryurikov yanked free the blade. The man gurgled, throat clicking in his failure to swallow. Mood now soured, Ryurikov marched back to the carriage, the woman within still screaming loud enough for it to score his ears. Fuck. This was not how he wanted it to go.

“Valuables,” he barked.

The woman’s racket didn’t stop, her face twisted with horror, but she pulled the pearls from her neck and dug around the large pink dress for a pouch. She tossed both his way. Ryurikov almost felt bad for leaving her with two bodies in the middle of nowhere, but he had no time to squander on pity. This was not his fault.

Well. It wasn’t all his fault.

Ryurikov put it out of his mind and fled.

Hours of walking without food wore him down. It made him tetchy. He didn’t especially fancy stopping so near a skimble-skamble he still wasn’t going to take the blame for, but a pitiful village of log homes greeted him at the forest’s edge. Hearth smoke drifted along a cool breeze, distant merriment bringing an odd comfort Ryurikov couldn’t find a home for in his heart.

Down a narrow dirt road shrouded by night, he approached a tavern and invited himself in, the door already open—only to discover that it was not, in fact, a tavern. Rather, a home of an intensely large family.

They all froze, looking up from where they sat on rickety benches surrounding a firepit, mouths agape and eyes wide. Ryurikov shuddered.

Children. So many children.

“Pardon me, I thought this was a tavern.” He spun back ’round to leave.

“We can put you up, sir,” said the eldest. He looked twenty, barely. Honey-coloured eyes bright and short auburn curls a mess.

A more thorough scour told Ryurikov that there were no parents, only twelve children. He pressed his lips together. “And you’ve a bed to spare, have you?”

“Yes, sir.” The lad jumped up from the bench to bring him the bowl he’d been cradling. “You can have my stew if you’re hungry.”

Ryurikov peered down into the bowl. “That’s not stew—”

“It is sir. It’s basic, is all. It’ll only cost you an ore.”

“For the half-eaten porridge?”

“The stew sir, and the stay for the night.”

“Don’t suppose this pathetic excuse for a hamlet has a bordello?”

The lad considered this for a moment. “No, sir. Please, stay. The tax collectors have been, and we haven’t enough food for the month.”

Ryurikov sighed. “Fine, but I’m not taking your stew.“ No matter how hungry he was.

He brushed past a frail shoulder, his gaze journeying along the curious faces before he discovered the beds in the back. Wood planks slapped together with string, covered in spare leather and pelts.

It wasn’t that Ryurikov was picky about where he slept. Years of being a wanted man had taught him not to be a chooser, but he drew the line at sleeping directly next to children. He shuddered again, then made to move a bed. The moment he tried, it threatened to collapse, propped up on stones.

Fuck.

When he turned, they were all still staring at him, with only the youngest licking their bowls clean. They couldn’t be any older than a year. Ryurikov closed his eyes, counted to ten.

“Lad,” he said.

“Andrew, sir.”

Ryurikov motioned for him to approach, which he did in a scramble, still holding the bowl of pretend-stew. Gritting his teeth, Ryurikov procured a crone from the stolen pouch and tossed it with a flick of his thumb. The coin fell, nose-first, to the dirty planks with a plink, its hag-like contours glinting in the low light. Andrew was too perplexed to even pick it up.

“Take it,” said Ryurikov.

With that he laid down, the bed creaking and wobbling under his weight. He turned so he wouldn’t have to look at their stupid little faces, while Andrew picked up the coin, gasped, and did a poor job of stifling a sob.

“This is too much, sir.”

“Shut up, I’m trying to sleep.”

In a faintly choked whisper, “Thank you.”

Ryurikov settled his head on an arm and shut his eyes against the sound of excited chatter, of parentless children eating their shitty, watery porridge, who were persistently being shushed by Andrew, and still failed to be quiet. He listened to them crawl into their beds, planks creaking. None tried to touch him, to pickpocket him. Once everything fell silent, Ryurikov allowed himself to relax.

His eyes flew open to darkness once again. He must have rolled onto his back at some point, and now lay with his arm around one of the toddlers, who had nestled against his side and was using his arm as a pillow, cloak as a blanket. Crafty little shit.

That wasn’t what woke him, though. It was the nimble fingers working to undo his belts and lower his breeches that had stirred him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ryurikov demanded in a whisper, using his knee to knock away the hands.

He could barely make out the honey-coloured eyes in the dark, but guessed who it was. Andrew shifted. A flinder of moonlight drifting in through a narrow window touched his face, delicate features glowing silver. So young, and determined, apparently. Ryurikov smacked his hands away this time.

“You’ve given us too much, sir. I know–I know what they do in the city for that kind of coin. I can do it. I won’t let my sister do it, she’s too young.”

“If you keep going, I’m throwing this child at you.” Ryurikov jerked his head at the sleeping form on his numbed arm.

Andrew’s gaze flicked to the toddler, then back to him. “You don’t want…?”

“What I want is to sleep.”

A nod, then the lad slipped off him. Ryurikov would have breathed a sigh of relief, if he didn’t see Andrew walk to lie on the floor by the pit, the fire within long since dwindled to embers. He gnashed his teeth, forced himself to lay back down, and go to sleep.