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  Silence fell among the boyars, and the bear growled. A low, guttural hum, like the purr of a six-thousand-pound cat. It opened its enormous jaws and sent forth a deafening roar.

  The spell was broken.

  The boyars yelled and jeered, shaking their fists and pulling gold and silver coins from their pockets. They were taking bets.

  Taras watched the bear with fascination. He could have easily fit his entire head inside its snout. On one side of the room, two large holes had been bored into the wall. Between them stood a thick column. The man holding the bear’s chain attached it like a shackle to the metal pole. Taras realized it wasn’t two holes, but a cleared-out tunnel. He could have stuck his arm through one of the openings, around the metal column, and come out the hole on the other side. This had been purposely fashioned to chain creatures such as this to the wall.

  The man holding the chain finished securing it. Those who had helped push the bear in stood back. The man who’d held the chain hefted a ten-foot staff. He carefully unlocked the padlock that secured the door of the bear’s cage, then stood back, using the staff to push the lock off the gate. He then used the hook on the other end of the staff to pull the door open.

  Breaking into an awkward lope, the bear bounded down out of the cage, barely noticing the two-foot drop, and made straight for the boyars. He came within six feet of the outer-most table before the chain jerked him back. Dust rose from where the chain attached to the wall, and the entire palace shuddered.

  The boyars cheered and slurred about what good sport this would be. Taras put his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his fists and watching with interest.

  Another, much smaller cage was brought in. This one held two dogs. They were large hunting dogs, obviously ferocious. Next to the bear, they looked like puppies. The servants set the two cages down and released the dogs.

  The dogs launched themselves at the bear, barking and snapping. Taras found his knees straightening. Entranced, he simply could not sit anymore.

  Nikolai watched Taras watch the spectacle.

  As soon as the first dog touched the bear, jumping onto its back and ripping out a chunk of fur and flesh, the war was on. The bear howled and swatted at the dog, which let go and jumped back, even as the second dog darted in at one of the bear’s hind legs.

  And so it went on: the dogs attacked; the bear swatted and snapped at them, sometimes making contact, sometimes missing.

  Minutes later, the first breakthrough came. The bear lashed a foreleg out toward one of the dogs, raking its razor-sharp claw across the animal’s underbelly. The dog yelped, its high-pitched squeal contrasting sharply with the barking. The bear, seeing its advantage, lunged toward the injured animal, but the dog backed far enough away to be out of reach. The bear licked blood from its paws while the dog settled down to lick its wound, its entrails poking out of the injury.

  The instant the dog screamed, the courtiers went wild, screaming and cheering, some instantly collecting on bets. A line of servants stood between the boyars and the ‘show’ to keep them from getting too close for safety. Most of the boyars were drunk. They abused the servants standing between them and the bear, shouting at them to move out of the way. The servants stood fast, however. If any of the boyars got through and were hurt, it would likely mean death for them.

  Taras pulled his gaze away from the spectacle long enough to look at the tsar. Ivan sat on his throne, fingers steepled, and watched the happenings in the room with self-reservation, but obvious pleasure. The tsarina must have excused herself some time before because she no longer sat beside her husband. Taras supposed it was a rather barbaric display. He couldn’t help but be fascinated.

  The uninjured dog took more risks. Ten minutes later, things became considerably messier. The bear reared up on its hind legs in frustration, unable to catch the uninjured hound. Then the injured dog re-entered the fight. He sunk his teeth into the back of the bear’s hind leg and pulled hard. The bear staggered, trying to keep its balance, but the dog kept pulling, its teeth sinking down to where the bear’s ankle would have been—Taras was unsure whether bears had ankles or not. Bouncing on one leg, the bear fell flat onto its belly with a crash.

  The uninjured dog leaped right when it should have gone left, and barely got out of the way in time. It landed only inches shy of the bear’s snout. The bear lunged up onto its feet, trapping the dog beneath its front paw. The injured dog retreated. The other was trapped. With its other paw, the bear dug into the trapped dog’s belly and, when it yanked it’s claw back, the dog was torn in two.

  Blood sprayed the front row of spectators with blood. They hardly noticed. Screams and cheers erupted and more bets were collected upon. Taras could hear the bear crunching the dog’s bones between its teeth.

  He sat down slowly. A deep, cold void expanded in his chest. He’d seen death before—both of animals and men. This felt different. When an animal was slaughtered to feed a family, it was done with respect and a worthwhile purpose. When a man died on the battlefield in defense of something he held dear, rich, drunken spectators did not cheer the bloodletting to its gory climax.

  Deciding perhaps sobriety was not the way to go, he picked up his goblet and drained it. When he lowered it to the table again, his hands shook. Nikolai reached across the table for a pitcher of vodka. He refilled Taras’s goblet.

  “Might as well drink up,” he said. “It’s not going to get any better.” Taras obeyed, draining another goblet.

  The show came to a standstill, as the bear seemed content with his one conquest. The boyars, however, were not. They threw things at the bear—spoons, knives, food, cushions—trying to provoke it. The servants kept throwing the injured dog into the path of the bear. Eventually the second animal was torn limb from limb, as the first had been. More cheering ensued, and Taras drank more deeply from his goblet.

  Taras wanted to fill the empty chasm of his chest with warm mead and wait for daylight.

  Chapter 19

  THE NEXT MORNING, INGA walked through the corridors with considerably less spring in her step than usual. She felt like her hands were dragging on the ground and kept looking down to see if they were. Yehvah promised not to make her work all day, but she would have to work at least through the morning.

  The feasting lasted until sun-up, and the palace lay in shambles. It all had to be pristine before the boyars woke up. Luckily, most of them would sleep until afternoon, which gave the palace servants more time to set things right.

  The entire experience had been unusual for Inga. She’d been taught her entire life that God divinely appointed each person in society to their place. It was as blasphemous for a servant to dress above her station as it would be for a boyar to dress as a beggar. Boyars could fall from their prestige, but that, too, would be God’s will. In such a case, it would be only right for them to dress and act differently than before. Inga, on the other hand, was simply “filling in.”

  From the moment she entered the Great Hall, she felt as out of place as a bath tub in a cathedral. Like the entire world's eyes were on her. It wasn't so, but she felt downright blasphemous. She had no right to be there.

  Then she came face to face with Taras. He smiled at her, and warmth filled her. After that, things felt less awkward. Even pleasant. Until she caught Sergei looking at her from across the room. He unnerved her.

  She realized she’d been moving around only a small corner of the room. Perhaps he stared at something else in this direction and not at her at all. She circled far enough that she would not be in his line of sight. His eyes followed her. When she stopped so a boyar woman could take a drink from her tray, he took the opportunity to turn his body, adjusting his position so he could watch her more easily.

  Her heart skipped a beat. He wore a predatory look. Her hands began to shake and she'd hurried into the adjoining staging room, where drinks were loaded onto trays and empty goblets cleared away. The man in charge, whose name Inga didn’t know, frowned at her still half-fu
ll tray quizzically. She shoved it into his hands and leaned against the nearest wall for support.

  He set the tray down and came over to rest a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right dear? Something ailing you?”

  What could she say? Someone looked at her and she got scared? “I... felt faint.”

  The man nodded. “The air in the room is close, and I understand you don’t usually serve among the boyars.”

  She nodded.

  “Then I am unsurprised. You did well to come out rather than risk a fainting spell while in there. Take a few deep breaths and then you’ll need to go back in.”

  Inga did as he told her and re-entered the room. Sergei continued to stare at her for most of the night. She could only ignore him and keep her distance.

  Even after the bear baiting, the carousing lasted a long time. The boyars got their hunting weapons and bludgeoned the bear to death. It was to be roasted for tonight’s supper. After that, they'd roamed the palace in their drunken stupor, playing all sorts of sordid games and vandalizing everything in their path. Taras and Nikolai staggered with the best of them. As dawn approached, they fell where they stood and slept where they fell. The servants picked them up as best they could and lugged them to more appropriate sleeping chambers.

  Inga changed out of the gaudy serving attire back into her normal clothes and was helping clear dishes from the Great Hall when she saw Anatoly staggering down the corridor. The old man had one of Taras’s arms slung around his shoulders. Taras’s feet dragged on the floor as Anatoly struggled beneath the dead weight.

  Inga put down her pile of dishes and hurried over. Wedging herself beneath Taras’s other arm, she took some of his weight from Anatoly’s ancient shoulders, and they made their way to Taras’s rooms. They dropped him on the bed none too gently, but he was out cold and didn’t wake. Instead he groaned, rolled onto his side and lay still.

  “Thank you, Inga,” Anatoly, panted. Large drops of sweat speckled his broad, wrinkled forehead, and his white hair looked damp.

  Inga nodded. “Is there anything else you need?”

  The older man shook his head. “I can manage from here. I will undress him so he is more comfortable.”

  Inga nodded and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Then she went back to the Great Hall, picked up the pile of dishes, and kept going.

  Hours later, the effects of being up all night threatened to topple her. Though not all the servants stayed up for the entire feast, she was not the only one who had, so she could not expect special privileges.

  Late afternoon dwindled, and Bogdan would be preparing dinner soon, but the palace remained quiet. Its occupants had slept the day away. They only now began to stir. Servants could not wake their masters, unless instructed beforehand, but they must be ready in case their masters awoke and needed anything. As such, breakfast had to be prepared as usual—even if no one was awake to eat it—and all the palace chores had to be done.

  “Inga.”

  The voice sounded far away. Inga turned toward it, feeling like she moved in slow motion. Yehvah approached, looking Inga up and down.

  “You look terrible, child.”

  “I feel terrible.” Her voice sounded garbled.

  “What?”

  Inga repeated what she’d said.

  “Stop mumbling, child.”

  Inga sighed. She carried a sack of silver knives. The bag was not large or heavy, but Inga let it drop with relief.

  Yehvah glanced around. They stood alone in the corridor. She pursed her lips as she did when trying to make a decision.

  “Where are you taking that?”

  “To the east wing storage rooms. Extra silver.”

  Yehvah nodded. “Let me do it. I need you to go to the Mistress of the Laundresses. Tell her I need her and her girls to do a collection. Everyone is waking up and finding their garments stained with food, blood, and heaven-only-knows what else. Tell her to leave her tubs immediately. On my orders.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She has set up extra wash tubs on the other side of the courtyard, in the corner of the south and east walls. I know it’s a long walk. Do this one thing, then you can go back to your room and sleep.”

  Inga’s head came up slowly. As comprehension dawned, a ridiculous warmth spread through her. “I can go to sleep?” She smiled stupidly.

  “Not for long,” Yehvah cautioned, though Inga could swear the older woman fought to keep the corners of her mouth down. “I’ll need you at dinner, so you’ll only get a few hours. You’ll have to come when I wake you. But if you don’t sleep soon you’ll be walking into walls.”

  Inga nodded, handing the silver to Yehvah. She’d already walked into more than one wall today, but she didn’t tell Yehvah that.

  The new resolve to finish her task so she could find her pillow returned some of the spring to her step. It didn’t last long. It was a long way to the Kremlin Wall, and her feet felt heavier with each step. Several times she considered lying down to sleep in the corridor.

  After what seemed like hours, she arrived. The laundresses were hard at work exactly wehre Yehvah said they would be. They’d dragged five extra tubs, each the size of a small pond, into the shadow of the Kremlin Wall. Each tub brimmed with steaming, soapy water, and a dozen young women surrounded it. They stood up to their elbows in suds, sweating the steam away, and grating clothing against their wooden washboards. Heaps of soiled clothing were piled behind them.

  Yana, a rotund woman, did not walk between her girls, keeping a sharp eye on their work, as usual. Rather she worked beside them, washing as fast as her thick arms could go and calling out encouragements to the others. Each woman would finish washing one article, wring it out, and run across the courtyard to where dozens of lines had been strung. The clothing would be draped over the next available spot on the line and the washerwoman would dash back, taking another article from the pile on her way to the tub. It looked exhausting.

  “Yana.”

  Yana looked up sharply at Inga as she approached. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Yehvah wants you and your girls to do a collection.” A collective moan sounded from the women.

  Yana pursed her lips angrily. “Doesn’t Yehvah know we have more clothes now than we can hope to wash before midnight? How many things can they have dirtied in one night?”

  Inga winced at the woman’s reprieve. “They’re all waking up now and have more.” When Yana didn’t move, Inga added, “Yehvah’s orders.”

  Yana took a deep, slow breath. Without looking at them, she motioned to her women with one hand. “Come girls, let’s be quick.”

  In moments, Inga stood alone in the courtyard.

  Inga wanted her bed badly, but seeing the steaming, soapy water made her want a hot bath almost as much. Knowing she wouldn’t get one today, she turned to go back to the palace. After a few steps, she changed directions, realizing that going the other way, through the lines of drying laundry, would be the faster route to her room.

  Ducking between lines of damp garments, Inga headed toward the servants’ entrance at the corner of the courtyard. It would take her to a corridor leading directly to the servants’ rooms—without passing through any of the busiest parts of the palace. When she cleared the clotheslines, her eyes stayed on the cobblestones in front of her. She prayed she would make it to her room before passing out.

  A shadow loomed over her. She slowly raised her eyes, then danced back several steps, inhaling sharply.

  Sergei stepped out in front of her, and when she stepped back, he followed her. He advanced nonchalantly until her back came up against something solid. It felt like wood, but she didn’t take her eyes from Sergei to see.

  Sergei advanced until he stood directly in front of her. Lifting one thick hand, he grazed her jaw, then ran his fingers back through her hair, pushing her headscarf off. She stood paralyzed, trembling under his fingers, remembering with terrible clarity what he’d done to Natalya. If she screamed
, no one would hear her. Yana and her girls had gone, and no one else was close by.

  Sergei leaned forward, his nose by her jaw. His breath reeked of onion and garlic. She could do nothing, and if she didn’t struggle, it might hurt less. His powerful body closed in against her. His teeth grazed her ear. They brought her out of her trance.

  Jerking to the side, she tried to worm out of his arms. He caught her wrist easily and she brought her other hand up, hitting him hard across the face. The slap startled him enough that he loosened his grip. She turned to run. He grabbed her around the waist, digging his fingers into the flesh of her belly. She cried out and elbowed him hard in the ribs. He grunted, and she lunged from his grip, only to feel his hand lock around her wrist like an iron vice.

  Fighting off the rising torrent of panic, she turned and kicked at his crotch with all her might. She landed the kick, but he turned to the side at the last moment, and the kick missed its mark by a hand’s breadth. He still gripped her wrist, and used it to jerk her toward him, then savagely backhanded her across the face.

  One minute she watched his hand swing toward her, knowing she’d never get out of the way in time. The next, she lay on her back staring up at the darkening sky. She sat up on her elbows, unsure if she’d lost consciousness. He stood a few feet from her, chest heaving, holding one hand in front of his groin and glaring like she was an insect he wanted to squash.

  She backed away, crawling on her elbows before flipping onto her stomach and trying to get up. She felt him come up behind her. He seized a handful of her hair, swung her around, and slammed her into the palace wall. All the air left her lungs. She fought to breathe.

  “You will give me what I want,” he grated.

  Reaching out, she searched for anything to use as a weapon. Her fingers found a cold, solid object. She hefted its heavy weight into her palm. His hand on her shoulder immobilized her arm, so she used her other hand to distract him. His hand left her shoulder to deal with the other one, and she swung her free arm around, connecting solidly with the side of his face. The object turned out to be a brick.