Dancing With Bears - Michael Swanwick [96]
Set fire to the room behind you.
“Fuck that. We gotta get outta here,” Kyril said, thrusting Darger out into the corridor.
Behind them, the surgeon said, “Heh.”
But when they burst into the corridor, it was not filled with smoke. Nor were any of the rooms ablaze.
Instead, there were eight or nine bear-men standing calmly about, each a good two feet taller than a tall man, in the imposing white uniforms with gold trim of the Duke of Muscovy’s own Royal Guard. Several of them were efficiently arranging a coffle of happy idiots, tying each one by a single wrist to a long rope.
Kyril froze in astonishment.
“Well, lo and behold!” said one of the bear-guards. “Captain Inuka, we’ve got a last couple of stragglers.”
“Well done, Sergeant Wojtek,” said the bear-man with officer’s insignia. He took the stub of a cigar out of his mouth and flicked it away, not looking to see where it went. “You know what to do with them.”
Another guard went into the room Kyril had just left and yanked out the surgeon. “Make that three.”
Set fire to the room behind you.
For the briefest instant, Kyril stood with his mouth open. Then he plucked the marble from his ear and threw it as hard as he could against the wall.
Sergeant Wojtek grinned, revealing more teeth than Kyril would have thought could possibly fit in a single mouth. “Yes. We tricked you. Quel dommage, hein, mon petit canaille?” He nodded at a scattering of leather masks by the feet of the other captives. “I imagine that, like everybody else, you thought you were the only one clever enough to come up with that particular ruse. Didn’t you?” He stretched out a paw. “Now, let’s get that thing off you.”
“Wait!” Darger shouted. “I have something important to say.” All present turned to him. There was an expectant silence. He cleared his throat and began, “A Phoenician wine merchant, a freedman, and an aristocrat all went to a brothel—”
Sergeant Wojtek looked bored. “Heard it already.”
“Oh?” Darger’s eyes glittered with mad humor. “Then how about the one about how Kyril the Bold escaped in a snowstorm?”
It was all the hint Kyril needed. Screwing up his face hard, he thrust a hand into his pocket and drew out his wad of rubles. With one all-toopracticed gesture, he snapped the thread and threw all the wealth he had in the world up into the air.
Banknotes snowed down.
“Money!” one of the guards shouted. For which small favor, Kyril was genuinely grateful. He hardly had the heart to shout the word himself. Instead, he proceeded to run as fast and hard as he could.
Behind him, the bear-guards were snatching bills from the air, falling down on all fours to scrabble for those on the floor, and fighting each other for stray banknotes.
Kyril ran. Even knowing that it was the man’s own idea, he couldn’t help feeling a little guilty at having to abandon Darger. But he was also, he had to admit, genuinely relieved to be rid of him.
Surely there was no dwelling place or domicile anywhere in all of Russia, from its richest palaces to its smallest and snuggest hovels, so cozy and pleasant as the sitting room in Koschei’s suite, which he now shared with Svarožič and Chernobog. A fire burned in the hearth and parchment-shaded copper lanterns cast the warmest of glows over them all. A lump of frankincense on a saucer atop one of the lanterns sweetened the air. The three stranniks had been sipping hot tea through lumps of sugar and discussing theology for hours and were prepared to go on doing so until the sun came up. Reasons to praise God had no end, nor did they lessen in delight with repetition.
“To say that the mercy of the Almighty is boundless is to put limits upon His power,” Koschei said, “for it implies that His righteous wrath can be less than universal. No, God is both all-merciful and all-pitiless, and therefore it is heretical to call upon Him for forgiveness of one’s sins. For forgiveness is forgetfulness, and thus alien to the Omniscient One. Logic and devotion alike tell us that He can neither forget nor forgive.