“They are more dangerous than you think.”
“I have outlived two wives-I know exactly how dangerous women can be.” Gulagsky clucked his tongue knowingly. “Yet, as I am your friend, I must tell you. They are not the sort of present that is well calculated to make the duke feel indebted to you. Bringing beautiful women to Russia is like carrying leaves to the forest or salt to the sea. They are not likely to make much of an impression on the great man.”
“The Pearls of Byzantium are far more dangerous than ordinary women,” Surplus assured him, “and their beauty is such as to astound even a Russian. The Caliph’s geneticists have made sure of that.”
“Geneticists? You mean they were…?”
“Created to be perfect courtesans. Beautiful, intelligent, strong, passionate, and so designed as to have a natural talent for the erotic arts.”
“I fail to see why you look so glum. They may not be…romantically available to you, but still such women sound like they would be delightful company, as conversationalists if nothing else.”
“Sir, they are virgins,” Darger said, “and they do not wish to be.”
“Ahhhhhh.” Gulagsky chewed his beard silently for a moment. Then, almost reluctantly, he said, “My friends. In my experience, once a woman no longer wishes… When she tires of…Well, the battle is over, you see. The deed is as good as done. She will do what pleases her, and nothing can prevent it. Not locks, not guards, not sermons. If there is a one of your Pearls who is still a virgin, well, the night is yet young.”
“Ordinarily, yes, that would be the case. But-”
Arkady had paid only the slightest of attention to the conversation as the women began to float down from the wagons and pass into his father’s house. Now he stopped listening altogether. Three of the Pearls had emerged from the first caravan and two each from the other two, for a total of seven. Their walk was like music, and no two had the exact same rhythm. The last of them lifted the hem of her garment as she descended the wooden steps, revealing three brief flashes of ankle and calf. Arkady was far from a sexual innocent, and yet each glimpse was a hammer-blow to his heart. He made a small, involuntary noise in the back of his throat.
The woman turned her head. All her face was hidden, save for her eyes, which were green as jungles within which tigers lurked. The skin about those eyes crinkled up adorably, as if she smiled in amusement. Then the sorceress raised a graceful hand to her veiled mouth and mimed blowing a kiss.
With a saucy wink, she was gone into the house. Arkady clutched himself with both arms.
He was deeply, madly, hopelessly in love.
As soon as the young ladies and their luggage had been settled into the upper stories of the house, Gulagsky took over the management of the ground floor, thundering through all its rooms giving orders to the housekeeper, Anya Levkova, and her two daughters (each of whom, Arkady recalled with rue, had at one time or another reason to believe he felt something for her) and the neighbors who dropped in to assist and the workers from his factories-the lore distillery, the poetry works, the furniture workshop, and the various cloneries where lumber was grown to length, and sausage by the link-with equal high-handedness. He issued directions and then contradicted them, assigning a task to one man and then giving it to another before sending in Anya Levkova to take it away from both, and in general created such an excess of confusion that nobody but he understood what anybody was supposed to be doing.
“Your father is an extraordinary man,” Surplus commented when Gulagsky was out of earshot.
“He has often said so himself. I have lost track of how many times he has said, ‘I have taken a town and made of it a kremlin,’” Arkady said carelessly. “But it is true that without his leadership, there would likely be nothing here but ruins.”
“Nevertheless, he seems intent on creating anarchy.”
“Oh, that is entirely intentional. By reducing an enterprise to chaos my father places himself solely in charge of it, and that means more to him than anything he might possibly accomplish.”
“Yes, but surely this is a roundabout way of-”
“This is Russia-you mustn’t apply foreign standards of logic to it. Be patient, and things will turn out well enough.”
And indeed, in short order the pantry was cleared and made into a sickroom. Into it were brought first a featherbed, then the ailing Prince Achmed, and finally two long-bearded doctors.
(“They are the best doctors in town,” Gulagsky remarked to Darger under his breath, “but only because there are no others.”)
The doctors had scarcely closed the sickroom door behind them when two Neanderthals lumbered down from their post at the top of the stairs. “Only those who belong here can stay,” one announced.“Anyone who tries to go upstairs will be killed.” With a hulking menace that was perilously close to grace, they cleared the ground floor of all but Arkady and his father, the doctors, and his father’s two new friends.
Finally, when this chore was accomplished and all was still, a third Neanderthal descended the stairs, followed closely by a dark panther of a maiden-tall, slim yet strongly built, with flashing gray eyes, ebony hair, and an imperious manner. Hers was a beauty so rare as to be encountered only once or luckily twice in a human lifetime. Being indoors and in a house, moreover, requisitioned specifically for her and the other Pearls-which made it, for the nonce, an honorary palace-she had discarded her chaste and concealing chador for the immodest and diaphanous silks of Byzantium.
“Zoesophia,” Darger said warmly, though not, Arkady suspected, with total sincerity. “Your beauty dazzles our eyes and ennobles our drab and humdrum lives.”
Zoesophia’s face was like finely chiseled stone. One of the Neanderthals grinned and cracked his knuckles threateningly. Unfolding a sheet of paper, the Pearl said,“I have compiled a list of a few small things we require. To begin, a basket of kittens, several packs of playing cards, balls of yarn in every color and seven pairs of knitting needles, preferably ivory, six dozen long-stem roses without thorns-”
“Roses without thorns?” Darger asked bemusedly.
“Nymphodora always manages to prick herself.” Zoesophia scowled as Surplus turned away, hiding his mouth with a hastily drawn handkerchief. “So there must be absolutely no thorns.”
“I know where roses are to be found,” Arkady said. “Dark red, rich-scented, and in full bloom. I shall be happy to remove the thorns myself.”
As if no one had spoken, Zoesophia continued, “We also require scented soaps, clothing such as fashionable Russian women wear, in a variety of sizes, at least three seamstresses to make adjustments, a cobbler-female, of course-to make us all new shoes, a balalaika, sheet music in both popular and traditional styles, and enough books to fill several shelves, on a variety of topics both frivolous and intellectual.”
Gulagsky cleared his throat. “The only books we have are in Russian.”
Zoesophia’s stare would have stunned a basilisk. “We all read Russian perfectly, thank you.”
“That will require rather a lot of money,” Surplus observed.
“I have no doubt of that. See that it is spent.” Zoesophia handed the list to the first Neanderthal, who handed it to the second, who handed it to Darger. Then she turned, revealing a back that was both wholly admirable and almost entirely naked, and ascended the stairs again, to the intense interest of all four men.
Somebody sighed as the door closed on her perfect if thinly covered backside. There was a long moment of silence.
“Well,” said Darger, when all had recovered themselves. “That leaves us with a problem. Our money is in a lock-box controlled by the Neanderthals, whose programming is such that they will not open it, however great the need, without explicit permission of the ambassador. Who is, I fear, in no condition to grant it.”
“Whatever shall we-” Surplus began to say, when suddenly there came a great booming knock at the front door. It sounded like somebody was trying to knock it down with a sledgehammer.
Arkady was closest. A little fearful, but determined not to show it, he unlatched the door.
It swung open, flinging Arkady aside.
Into the house, like a beast from the desert, strode Koschei, a leather pouch slung over his shoulder. When Magog, the Neanderthal standing guard in the vestibule, stepped into his path, he shoved the brute to the side. Leaning his staff against the wall so forcefully that it left a mark on the wallpaper, the strannik turned his dark glare on Gulagsky. “You have impaled the machine-beast on a sharpened pole by the city gate and left it there to rot,” he said.“Remove that ungodly abomination and throw its body into the fields outside the city to be eaten by ravens and crows.”
Surplus gestured to Magog not to interfere. Gulagsky pushed out his chest. “I meant that to serve as a
