The child squealed when the horse took off: one galloping stride, two, three, and then with a tremendous thrust the horse was up and over the fence, light as a leaf.
When they landed, Marya was laughing. “Again!” she cried. “Again!”
“When we return,” Vasya promised. “We have a city to see.”
Leaving was surprisingly simple. Vasya concealed Marya in her cloak, staying a little in the shadows, and the gate-guard leaped to draw the bar. Their business was keeping people out, after all.
Outside the prince of Serpukhov’s gates, the city was just stirring. The sound and smell of frying cakes laced the morning silence. A group of small boys were playing on a snow-slide in the violet dawn, before the bigger boys came to sweep them aside.
Marya watched them as they rode past. “Gleb and Slava were making a snow-slide in our dooryard yesterday,” she said. “Nurse says I am too old for sliding. But Mother says perhaps.” The child sounded wistful. “Can’t we play on this slide here?”
“I don’t think your mother would like it,” Vasya said, with regret.
Above them, the rim of sun, like a ring of copper, showed its edge above the kremlin-wall. It coaxed color from all the brilliant churches, so that the gray light fled and the world glowed green and scarlet and blue.
A glow kindled also in Marya’s face, lit by the new sun. Not the savage exuberance of the child racing around inside her mother’s tower, but a quieter, more joyful thing. The sun set diamonds in her dark eyes, and she drank in all they saw.
Solovey walked and trotted and loped through the waking city. Down they went, past bakers and brewers and inns and sledges. They passed an outdoor oven, where a woman was frying butter-cakes. Obeying hungry impulse, Vasya slid to the ground. Solovey approved of cakes; he followed her hopefully.
The cook, without taking her eyes from the fire, poked her spoon at the stallion’s questing nose. Solovey jerked back indignantly and only just remembered that rearing would unseat his small passenger.
“None of that,” the cook told the stallion. She shook her spoon for emphasis. The top of his withers was well over her head. “I’ll wager you’d eat the whole pile if you could, a great thing like you.”
Vasya hid a smile, said, “Forgive him; your cakes smell so good,” and proceeded to buy an enormous, greasy stack.
Mollified, the cook pressed a few more on them—“You could use fattening, young lord. Don’t let that child eat too many”—and, with an air of great condescension, even fed Solovey a cake out of her own hand.
Solovey held no grudges; he lipped it up gently and nosed over her kerchief until the cook laughed and shoved him away.
Vasya mounted again and the two girls ate as they rode, smearing themselves with grease. Every now and again Solovey would put his head around, hopefully, and Marya would feed him a piece. They went along slowly, watching the city come awake.
When the walls of the kremlin heaved up before them, Marya craned forward, openmouthed, bracing her two buttery hands on Solovey’s neck. “I’ve only seen them from far away,” she said. “I didn’t know how big they are.”
“I didn’t either,” Vasya admitted. “Until yesterday. Let’s go closer.”
The girls passed through the gate, and now it was Vasya’s turn to draw a wondering breath. On the great open square outside the kremlin gates, they were putting up a market. Merchants set up their stalls while men bellowed greetings and blew on their hands. Their brats ran about, calling like starlings.
“Oh,” said Marya, her glance darting here and there. “Oh, look, there are combs there! And cloth! Bone needles, and saddles!”
All that and more. They passed sellers of cakes and wine, of precious wood and vessels of silver, of wax, wool, taffeta, and preserved lemons. Vasya bought one of the lemons, smelled it with delight, bit into it, gasped, and handed the thing hurriedly to Marya.
“You don’t eat it; you put a bit into the soup,” said Marya, smelling the thing cheerfully. “They must travel for a year and a day to get here. Uncle Sasha told me.”
The child was peering about her with a squirrel’s eager interest. “The green cloth!” she would call. Or—“Look, that comb is made like a sleeping cat!”
Vasya, still regretting the lemon, caught sight of a herd of horses penned on the south side of the square. She nudged Solovey over for a look.
A mare bugled at the stallion. Solovey arched his neck and looked pleased. “So now you want a harem, do you?” Vasya asked under her breath.
The horse-drover, staring, said, “Young lord, you cannot bring that stud so close; he will have my beasts in an uproar.”
“My horse is standing quiet,” said Vasya, trying to approximate a rich boyar’s arrogance. “What yours do is not my concern.” But his horses were certainly getting restive, and she backed Solovey off, considering the mares. They were all much alike, save the one who had called to Solovey. She was a chestnut, jauntily stockinged and taller than the others.
“I like that one,” said Marya, pointing at the chestnut.
Vasya did, too. A swift, mad thought had come to her—buy a horse? Until she’d left home, she had never bought anything in her life. But she had a handful of silver in her pocket and a newborn confidence warming her blood. “I wish to see that filly there,” Vasya said.
The horse-drover’s eye rested with doubt on the slender boy.
Vasya sat haughtily, waiting.
“As you say, Gospodin,” muttered the man. “At once.”
The chestnut mare was led forth, fretting at the end of a rope. The horse-drover trotted her back and forth through the snow. “Sound,” he said. “Just rising three year, a war-horse to make a hero of any man.”
The mare lifted first one foot, then the next. Vasya wanted to go to her, touch her, consider her legs, her teeth, but she did not want to leave Marya alone and exposed on Solovey’s back.
Hello, said Vasya to the mare instead.
The mare put her feet down; her ears went forward. Frightened, then, but not without common sense. Hello? she said tentatively. She put out a questing nose.
The sound of new hoofbeats echoed from the arch of the kremlin-gate. The mare jerked back, half-rearing. The horse-drover drew her down with a curse and sent her curvetting back into the pen.
Vasya, said Solovey.
Vasya turned. Three men came thudding into the square, riding broad-chested horses. They moved in a wedge; their leader wore a round hat, and an air of elegant authority. Chelubey, Vasya thought. Leader of bandits, so-called ambassador of the Khan.
Chelubey turned his head; his horse checked a stride. Then all three riders changed direction and made straight for the horse-pen. Chelubey shouted apologies in terrible Russian as they bulled through the crowd. Awed and angry faces turned to follow the Tatar’s progress.
The sun had risen higher. Cool white flames kindled in the ice of the river, and lights darted from the riders’ jewels.
Vasya pulled her cloak forward to conceal the child. “Be quiet,” she whispered. “We have to go.” She nudged Solovey into a casual walk toward the kremlin-gate. Masha sat still, though Vasya could feel her heart beating fast.
They should have moved quicker. The three riders fanned out with perfect skill, and suddenly Solovey was boxed in. The stallion reared, angrily. Vasya brought him down, holding tight to her niece. The riders reined their horses with skill that brought a murmur from the onlookers.
Chelubey rode his stocky mare with elegant composure, smiling. Something in his easy-seeming authority reminded her of Dmitrii; in that moment Chelubey was so unlike the furious swordsman from the darkness that she thought she’d been mistaken.
“In haste?” Chelubey said to Vasya, with a most graceful bow. His glance went to Marya, half hidden and squirming in Vasya’s cloak. He looked amused. “I would not dream of detaining you. But I believe I have seen your horse before.”
“I am Vasilii Petrovich,” Vasya replied, inclining her head stiffly in turn. “I cannot imagine where you could have seen my horse. I must be going.”