Swords of the Steppes Read online

  "Strike a light, one of you. No harm, if you obey. Otherwise you will feel the fangs of the borzoi, the wolf chaser."

  A patter of whispers was followed by a scramble, and flint flashed against tinder. A candle flamed up, and the young Cossack saw that he was in an attic filled with old men, women, and children scattered among piles of goods. From the rafters hung legs of mutton, strings of onions, and mysterious articles of Jewish attire. Half a hundred dark eyes fastened instantly on the tall youth and—in spite of deadly fear—gauged to a nicety the worth of his ermine coat, his wide velvet trousers, gold embroidered boots and splendid girdle.

  An elder in a ragged shuba came forward, holding his head on one side, his long cap in his gaunt hands—an ancient being scarred with pockmarks, with one eye half closed and the other shrewd and brilliant as the eye of a fox.

  "Yusyski is my name, your honor. Only tell in what way my people can serve the noble knight."

  "If one of your brood leaves the loft, you will die, Yusyski. Come with me. Take the candle."

  Placing Karai at the end of the gallery, where the gray dog sniffed and growled alternately—relishing the human nest as little as his master— Kirdy made Yusyski overhaul piles of garments upon the shelves. Here were articles of miserable and costly attire taken from lords and Gypsies alike because the Jews dealt with all the world and no one escaped their clutches. So far, Kirdy saw, they were not aware that the Cossacks had abandoned the village.

  He made a selection of clothing with care, then overhauled a dozen outer coats, and Yusyski groaned when he chose a dark sable with voluminous sleeves and a lining of yellow satin. Sending the old Jew before him, he entered the gallery and went to the loft of the other building which was deserted. Here he stripped off his splendid ermine svitza, the gift of Boris Godunov, his boots, and in a moment stood utterly naked, his sword near his right hand.

  And as swiftly he began to dress while Yusyski watched in subdued amazement. First Kirdy slipped a white silk shirt over his long, muscular body, then wrapped himself from ankles to neck in lengths of the same stuff; after putting on a sleeveless black tunic that reached to his knees— over wide damask trousers—he donned a short quilted vest, heavily embroidered. Finally he drew on the sable outer coat and a round velvet hat with a long peacock feather rising from its crown.

  "I swear," cried Yusyski, "the noble Cossack has taken for himself some of the garments of the Cathayan prince who was frozen to death down on the Volga. It will cost the noble lord seventy gold ducats!"

  In fact Kirdy now stood arrayed as a Cathayan or Mongol youth of high rank. He had not been able to find the proper velvet footgear, but contented himself with a pair of Muscovite half-boots which were inconspicuous and much more serviceable.

  "A razor and warm water, Yusyski," he ordered.

  For the last moments the Jew had been using his ears to advantage. He heard horsemen in the streets—heard Muscovites shouting back and forth—the creaking of carts and the stamp and ring of armored squadrons. Lights were springing up, visible through the cracks in the loft. It was clear to Yusyski that the Cossacks were no longer in the village and the tsar's forces had entered.

  "Seventy ducats!" he repeated more boldly. He had heard Kirdy's wallet ring heavily when it was thrown on the floor, and he had guessed very closely at the contents. "Then we will talk of a razor."

  The Cossack was occupied in tearing up his costly girdle and rolling a strip into a short sling—an act that filled Yusyski with despair—and from the sling, thrown over his left shoulder, he hung his scabbard and sword, within the ample folds of the sable where it could not be seen.

  "Nay, Yusyski," he grinned, "the ermine svitza is worth more than all this. You are paid."

  But good-nature made the Jew more insistent.

  "Ei-ei, does not the Cossack know that his enemies are all around the house? If I send for them—"

  "I know, Yusyski. Send, if you will! Shout!"

  This compliance made the elder instantly suspicious. He gnawed his fingernails, glancing from the dog to Kirdy and at the row of heads that thrust out from the passage. Tongues clacked in the heads and Yusyski began to cluck back at his audience, his hands writhing to right and left and grasping at his earlocks. His people were giving him advice, to fetch the Muscovite soldiery and have the Cossack slain, and Yusyski was cursing them for putting him at the mercy of the Cossack's sword.

  "You have robbed me. I shall send for the Muscovites," he cried, glaring with his one eye at Kirdy.

  "Good! They will burn me, perhaps, but they will root out your hole."

  The wily elder had already come to that conclusion, and he saw now that Kirdy was not to be intimidated. Beyond everything Yusyski feared that the soldiers would find the way up to his lofts. Covertly he moved the ermine svitza out of sight of his brethren and piled saddlecloths on it, threatening his followers with untold misery if they disobeyed him.

  "Give me your purse, Cossack," he demanded, "and you can go unharmed. Slieb will show you a way."

  "First, the razor."

  Yusyski prepared to argue the point, but a glance at Kirdy made him scream an order at the individual who had brought the Cossack to the loft. Slieb fetched a knife with a sharp edge and a basin of water. Watched intently by eyes that were covetous and at the same time fearful, Kirdy shaved off his scalp lock and the middle of his mustache. He trimmed the ends carefully, and Yusyski, who had heard soldiers preparing to quarter themselves in the lower floors, was inspired to fetch wax. With this Kirdy coaxed his mustache into the thin drooping lines of a Mongol.

  His swarthy skin, black hair and eyes all fitted into the part. He passed his hand over the muscles of his face, let his eyelids droop, and, folding his arms in his sleeves, said with the quick inflection of a Mongol:

  "Mai machambi yarou! Take heed, merchant!"

  The Jews crowded nearer to stare and chatter, and even the redoubtable Yusyski blinked. A man of stratagems himself, he could appreciate a trick. Even the sword, as Kirdy happened to know, bore a Mongol inscription, and except for the pile of wet Cossack clothing on the floor and the word of the Jews—which was of doubtful value—a Mongol prince now stood in the attic of the elders. There was Karai, to be sure, who smelled over his master's new attire with interest. But more than one wolfhound was in the steppe, and Kirdy was quite willing to risk keeping him.

  "Ei-ei!" grunted Yusyski. "It is like magic. But now the noble prince will give the gold and we will swear to keep his secret."

  "Not now. Come to me tomorrow at high noon by the tavern gate, and I will give you ten pieces."

  "Ten!" Yusyski raised both arms over his head, and snatched back his dirty sleeves to argue.

  "Enough!" Kirdy's patience was at an end. Taking out, one after the other, ten gold ducats from the wallet Khlit had given him, he showed them to Yusyski in his palm, and a portentous silence fell upon the crowd. "They are yours if you keep silence. Follow me," he added on an afterthought, "or give me away to the soldiers, and how many gold pieces will you have? Not one. The Muscovites will pocket them."

  Yusyski's one eye blinked rapidly, and he clutched Kirdy's arm, leaping back in fright when Karai rose suddenly from the shadows and snarled silent menace.

  "O my God, illustrious sir; not a whisper will pass our lips. But how do we know the glorious knight will keep faith?"

  Kirdy kicked up Slieb.

  "You know well that a Cossack keeps faith, Jew. Here, animal, lead out of your warren."

  Recognizing checkmate, Yusyski abandoned Kirdy and rounded upon his tribe, spitting and loosing a flood of jargon as he made ready to justify himself and at the same time keep the ermine svitza hidden and claim a majority of the ten ducats—a task to which, judging by appearance, he was quite equal, in spite of heavy odds against him.

  The next morning a handsome young Mongol, obviously of rank, breakfasted quietly at the tavern, looking with well-bred curiosity at the pack of officers that filled every available seat.<
br />
  Here were Polish litzars in polished and gold-plated armor and feathered helmets—stalwart Muscovite boyars in mail covered with cloth-of-gold trimmed with fur—pale Lithuanians who kept well together and were more than ready to quarrel with anyone who got in their way.

  In fact, more than one quarrel flared up, and swords were grasped angrily. Servants, seeking their masters, elbowed and snarled for precedence. Heydukes in kaftans and Persian khalats galloped up to the tavern and drained the last liquor from the barrels that had been tapped by their superiors and rolled outside to make room. In the court, within great kettles roasted the quarters of the cows and steers Kirdy had seen in the cattle sheds. Carts blocked the streets; peasants, driven from their cottages, stood in frightened groups, while the smoke of campfires rose from the plain on every side.

  It was a large army, made up of many factions. Tartar patrols rode in from time to time but brought no word of the Cossacks. The snow of last night had covered the tracks of Khlit's squadrons and mystified the boyars. Complaints, arguments, and advice were plentiful, but no one seemed to be in command of this army.

  Certainly no one gave Kirdy more than a passing glance. A colonel of one of the regiments, noticing that the young Mongol's hands were strangely muscular and his face lean for an Eastern prince, took the trouble to question him.

  Smilingly Kirdy responded in fluent Manchu-Tartar that he had been journeying from the hordes of Central Asia to see the great emperor of the Muscovites in his imperial city. His followers and interpreter, he explained, had been lost.

  "Probably slain by dog-Cossacks," the colonel muttered and was passing on when Kirdy detained him courteously.

  "Is not the emperor of the Muscovites in this camp?"

  "Nay. Two days ago he rode north."

  "To his imperial city?"

  "Aye, to Moscow."

  "And are you, O orda khan, in command of these men?"

  Visibly flattered, the Polish colonel shook his head.

  "Not I. The prince Basmanof was left in command. I have heard that he is taking horse for the north. God only knows what is happening and who is in command."

  Kirdy could well believe this. On the highroad he found the baggage sleds of the nobles in a hopeless confusion and the drivers at a wordy war; in the fields only the veteran Polish hussars and the light cavalry of Tartars preserved good order. When he learned beyond doubt that Basmanof had left the army, taking his suite with him, Kirdy was satisfied that the Cossacks were in no danger of pursuit. Their quick march through the village, where the tsar's army had expected them to bivouac, had saved them.

  The Mongol was seen that morning, by certain Jews who had an interest in him, moving here and there among the regiments. A little before noon he bought a horse from a boyarin who had lost heavily at dice the night before—a shaggy mustang with a high Muscovite birch saddle. In this he appeared in due course at noon, as he had promised, by the tavern gate, and Yusyski, who had been weighing the relative chance of profit in betraying the Cossack, or waiting for the reward, greeted him with profound delight.

  "Okh, never for an instant did I doubt the noble lord would keep his promise."

  Kirdy, through narrow eyes, stared at him coldly.

  "Mantourami tsia," he responded. "I speak naught but Manchu." Little understanding, but guessing at his meaning, Yusyski wagged his head admiringly and counted the ten gold pieces from one hand to the other, hiding them swiftly in his wallet. Then Kirdy, as he had seen Khlit do the evening before, bent down to shorten still more the stirrup strap— because a Mongol rides almost squatting in the saddle.

  "Tell me, Jew," he whispered, "is this in truth the army of Dmitri— the tsar?"

  "Aye," said Yusyski, his eye on the wallet at Kirdy's girdle.

  "And this Basmanof, who is he—the commander?"

  "Aye," the elder said again, cautiously. "The prince Basmanof was the friend of Boris Godunov. When the boyars rebelled against him and the son Boris Godunov, the prince was swift to join the new tsar. Many hated him, but the tsar loves him because he is daring and can squeeze the last kopek out of us Jews. Now, my lord, give me another ten ducats!"

  Kirdy laughed.

  "I swore that you should have ten. No more."

  When he rode on, the one eye of Yusyski glared after him as if in some manner the elder of the tribe had been cheated, although in reality he had profited greatly.

  Kirdy, however, was thinking of anything but the Jew. He had seen Khlit accept the baton of a broken and driven army as the honor that it was; and now he had heard of the tsar and Basmanof leaving this great array, victorious, well fed and equipped—as if a plague had broken out in the village. If the false tsar was in Moscow he must go thither, but he decided that he would overtake the prince's suite and travel with it.

  It was the third day before he came up to the camp of the prince's party, and he was a little surprised to find it out in the open, although settlements were fairly thick hereabouts.

  He presented himself before Basmanof—a ruddy man with gray hair, who looked more than a little worried—and told the same story that he had improvised for the Polish colonel. Saying that his servants had been lost, he requested permission to buy a spare horse, rice and tea for himself, and fish for the dog. This was granted indifferently and he added to his stock a bearskin, spreading it beside one of the fires of the encampment.

  During that night, awakened by Karai's sudden growl, he heard a rider come in from the north and go to the prince.

  After breakfast the next morning he heard the Muscovites saying that Basmanof had ordered a horse saddled before dawn and had ridden off with only one servant to make haste to Moscow.

  And Kirdy thought there was dire need if the prince had left his suite with no more than one equerry to attend him. He was certain of it when he failed to overtake Basmanof on the road, although he kept the saddle for long hours—the prince changing horses at each post station, and sleeping, apparently, not at all.

  Yet the placid-appearing Mongol made such excellent time that he trotted through the river gate of Moscow at dusk of the afternoon that the erstwhile commander of the army had made his entry.

  Chapter IV The Whirlwind Casts No Shadow

  The whirlwind casts no shadow, and the lightning makes no sound; the viper strikes unseen and the flood sends no herald before it.

  Afghan proverb

  Not by chance did Kirdy arrive at the walls of the imperial city at the hour of evening prayer. He knew that men are prone to be more watchful in broad daylight or deepest darkness than at twilight. And it was vitally important that he should pass the sentries of the outer wall without attracting attention.

  A Cossack, attempting to ride into Moscow, would have been cut down or sent to the cells of Uglitch. A Cossack spy, if detected, would have been pulled apart by horses.

  Seemingly he did not notice the halberdiers of the watch but he was both surprised and thankful to observe that they were foreigners who paid no attention to him. For a while he rode through the Kitaigorod, or Chinese city, where he would be expected to go. He talked a bit with some Manchu silk merchants, then sought out a small inn where his lack of a retinue would not excite comment. He watched his ponies rubbed down and fed, and wandered forth with Karai at his heels.

  He cast only one glance at the crenellated wall of the Kremyl with its bulbed towers and gilded spires. To seek an audience of the false Dmitri was out of all consideration. It was impossible. He had come to slay with his sword the man who had deceived people into accepting him as tsar.

  Kirdy's only chance was to meet his enemy in the streets. He had heard that the pretended Dmitri rode recklessly from place to place, like a Cossack. So, with infinite patience he set about learning all he could of the new tsar's habits.

  Outwardly, he was a prince of Cathay, amused at the wonders of the imperial city. He stopped to watch the guard change at the palace, and he noticed that the half-company of archers and halberdiers that marched from
the barrack gate of the Kremyl was made up of Swedes and Poles— the bodyguard commanded by a French captain.

  This officer, brave in ribbons and gigantic boots, was called Jacques Margeret—as Kirdy in learned time by following the guardsmen and listening to the comments of passers-by. He thought, too, Margeret looked both irritable and feverish. At the barrack the archers and halberdiers were dismissed, and the French captain went hastily to a nearby tavern.

  Kirdy resumed his ramble, the richer by one more particular. The foreign soldiery was heartily disliked by the native Muscovites. Perhaps this was because the tsar allowed only foreigners in his bodyguard. It had been very different in the days of Boris Godunov, when the boyars thronged the palace.

  "He eats veal," grumbled a bearded giant, glaring after the handsome Margeret.

  "That is not the worst—the tsar dines, it is said, without sprinkling the table with holy water."

  Others of the group took up the tale:

  "He sets bears to chase the priests who would attend him."

  The first speaker shook his head sagely.

  "Ekh, that is sin. Beyond doubt there is a fiend in the tsar, because of evenings he walks the streets almost alone, going into the shops of Frankish jewelers and such places."

  The Mongol prince moved nearer the speakers, as if undecided whether or not to enter the tavern.

  "There is no knowing where he goes, Ivan Ilyushka," grumbled another. "He is everywhere, but who sees him? It was not so with his father."

  "A-ah! Ivan Grodznoi did not make a jest of holy things."

  The talk veered to the taxing of the monasteries, and the tall Mongol moved away, followed by the great wolfhound. In fact, the doors of the monasteries were closed; the very bells rang out somberly.

  If half of Moscow was penned up and moody another half was in festival. The night was clear and cold—a full moon soaring above the cloud wrack on the horizon. A company of buffoons and dwarfs passed noisily, bound for the Kremyl, shouting at the solemn, long-robed townspeople. They halted themselves at a fire. Here a Venetian mountebank had set up a marionette theater, and the familiar images of an old husband and a young wife and Mephistopheles were dancing about on strings, to the edification of the onlookers—until the Italian ducked out from his stall to hold forth his hat and cry the merits of his performance.