Dancing With Bears - Michael Swanwick [19]
He restored the man to the floor. “Now control yourself, and do not add blasphemy and filicide to the myriad sins which doubtless already blacken your soul.”
Gulagsky took ten ragged breaths. Then, somewhat unevenly, he said. “You are right. You are right. To my shame, I was going to promise something rash. Yet it must be said: If anyone in this village so much as touches one of the Pearls, he will be exiled—”
“For at least a year,” Surplus said, before his host could add “forever.”
Gulagsky’s face twisted, as if he had just swallowed something foul. But he managed to say, “For at least a year.”
He sat back down at the table.
Surplus felt a tension in himself ease. It was not good to allow absolutes to enter into one’s life. They had a habit of turning on one.
At that very instant, the door at the top of the stairs opened, and a Russian woman appeared in it. Gulagsky stood, chair toppling behind him, mouth open in astonishment. Then he recovered himself. “Lady Zoësophia. Forgive me. For a second, I thought you were…well, never mind.”
“In turn, you will, I hope, forgive me for borrowing these clothes, which I found in a trunk in the attic, and which I presume belonged to your late wife.” Zoësophia glanced down at her admittedly admirable figure. She wore a long and sturdy red skirt that brushed against the top of her oxblood boots, a russet-and-gold embroidered jacket over a white blouse, and kid gloves long enough that not a speck of wrist showed. An umber scarf was tied so artfully about her head that it took a second glance to realize that beneath it, a second, flesh-colored kerchief concealed her mouth and nose. “They fit me perfectly. She must have been a very beautiful lady.”
From an ordinary woman, such words would have sounded conceited. But not from a Pearl.
“Yes,” Gulagsky said, almost choking. “She was.”
“I thank you for their use. I must go out now, and I did not wish to draw undue attention to myself by wearing outlandish clothing.”
“Where, if I may ask, are you bound for, madam?” Darger politely queried.
“Monsieur de Plus Precieux and I are going to church.”
So saying, Zoësophia swept down the last few stairs, took the astonished Surplus’s arm, and led him away.
Though the town was small, there were enough people on the street— and they extremely curious about their exotic visitors—to discourage frank conversation. Children followed the couple, whooping. Adults openly gawked. So, although far more pertinent questions urged themselves upon him, Surplus merely said, “However did you manage to convince the Neanderthals to let you go out without a guard?”
“Oh! Whatever else they may be, the Neanderthals are still male—and it will be a sorry day when I cannot convince a man to let me have whatever I want from him. Also, with the prince indisposed, I am the embassy’s highest-ranking member.”
“Perhaps, then, you could arrange for our brawny friends to throw open the treasury-box. You and your Sisters in Delight have run up debts which—”
“Alas,” Zoësophia said negligently, “my authority has limits. Prince Achmed made very sure of that.”
The church (or cathedral as such were called here) was a handsome log building surmounted by an Orthodox cross. The interior was all a dazzle to Surplus. Partly this was due to the richness of its decoration, the extravagant number of lit candles and the pervasive smell of beeswax that made the air heavy and sultry, the unearthly beauty of the choir’s chanting, and the strangeness of a religious rite carried out entirely behind the iconostasis, so that it could not be seen by the faithful. But, chiefly, it was Zoësophia’s presence that distracted him.
It was a weekday and most of the congregants were black-clad crones who, being blessed with younger women in the house to be worked like serfs, could indulge their piety. Several women to the very front were being held up by solicitous