‘I don’t know, Syth.’
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘It’s just that … after Raul’s death … the dog … it doesn’t seem right somehow.’
Syth handed the pendant back and looked down, a tear trembling on her lashes.
Caitlin pulled Wayland aside. ‘You really know how to make a maid happy, don’t you? Let her be a lady for one night. Isn’t she worth it?’
Wayland stared at her. He nodded and turned back to Syth. He took the pendant from the assistant. ‘I’ll pay for it myself.’ He coughed. ‘My first gift.’
Syth wiped her eyes, then leaned forward and gave him the lightest of kisses. ‘Not the first.’
He was at the door when he remembered the rider to Vallon’s message. Three dressers heaped with luxurious garments had homed in on Caitlin and others were waiting. ‘Vallon said …’
Caitlin gave him an imperious look. ‘Yes?’
Richard swung round, fired up by haggling. ‘We’re down to bargain prices.’
‘Don’t go mad,’ said Wayland, and fled to peals of laughter.
Watchmen were doing their rounds as Andrei escorted the guests in their finery to his master’s city mansion. An avenue of torches lit the way to the entrance of the house, where Lord Vasili stood in welcome — a spruce dark man of about fifty with a gold incisor and a trim beard flecked with grey. His clothes bespoke understated wealth — a grey caftan of shot silk with gold brocade cuffs, over it a dark-blue robe with a belt of gold and enamel. He greeted his guests in Norse, but when Hero was presented, he switched to Greek and Arabic, lamenting his inability to turn an elegant phrase in either language. After each introduction, each solicitous enquiry, Vasili’s steward directed the guest to his or her place at a banqueting table lit by a soft blaze of candles.
He seated Vallon and Hero at Vasili’s right and left respectively, with the other male guests opposite and the ladies grouped at one end of the table. Two retainers circulated with drinks and appetisers and the guests found that they could choose from beer, kvas and four different brews of mead. A train of servants entered with the main meal and the diners gasped. There was a roast sucking pig, platters of game, pies and pastries, jellied pike and salmon, pots of caviar and sour cream, half a dozen kinds of bread, including wheaten loaves made with grain from the south and a special bake flavoured with honey and poppy seed.
While the guests made their selection, Vasili engaged those around him in conversation. Looking into each man’s eyes by turn, he elicited their function and status while stating where their interests and experiences touched his own. He was a man of the world and therefore a friend of it. He’d built his fortune through trade with Kiev and Byzantium in the south; Germany, Poland and Sweden to the west; the Arab and Persian lands in the east. Twice he’d made the journey to Constantinople, and as a young man he’d traded with Arab caravans at Bolghar on the Volga bend.
While his guests ate, he listened to Hero’s account of their own journey and plans.
‘How many people will be travelling in your party?’
‘If the Vikings join us, about a dozen.’
Vasili laid be-ringed fingers on Vallon’s hand. ‘Honoured guest, I hate to dash your intentions. Early summer, when the Dnieper is swollen with snowmelt, is the only time it’s possible to travel the Road to the Greeks. At this season the rivers in the northern part are too low to navigate. Better wait until next year. Or, of course, you can sell your goods here.’ He glanced at Wayland before turning his attention back to Vallon. ‘I believe my steward mentioned that the falcons would find a ready sale with one of my Arab clients. He has a deep purse.’
Vallon watched Wayland chewing on a wodge of pork. Alone among the diners, he seemed immune to Vasili’s charm.
‘The falcons are the reason for the journey south. In a way, we’re not taking them; they’re leading us.’
‘Hero said that the ransom demanded four falcons. You have six. Sell me two of them, including the white haggard.’
‘No,’ Wayland said, not even looking up.
Vallon glared at him before smiling at Vasili. ‘We can’t afford to part with any of the falcons. We lost two of them on the White Sea coast and came close to seeing them all perish in the forest. If we leave here with six, I’ll count myself lucky if we reach Anatolia with four.’
Vasili withdrew his hand. ‘Then I’ll say no more on the subject.’ He dabbed his mouth with a napkin.
Vallon sensed a straining of the mood and eased it by changing the subject. ‘How do affairs stand in Rus?’
Vasili waved away a pastry offered to him by a retainer. He inclined his head towards Vallon and lowered his voice. ‘Not well. It grieves me to tell you that you’ve arrived in my beloved motherland to find her fortunes at a low ebb. Under Grand Prince Jaroslav — God keep his soul — the federation was united from the Baltic to the Black Sea. Jaroslav was called “the Wise”, but his wits must have fled him on his deathbed. Before he died he portioned out the realm among five sons. The three eldest formed a triumvirate — that most unstable of arrangements whether in love, war or affairs of state. Another poisonous element corrupted the realm. This was Prince Vseslav of Polotsk, an outsider from within, great-grandson of Vladimir the Saint. Vseslav is a sorcerer and werewolf. You smile, but I know the man and can vouch that he’s an adept of the magic arts.’
Vasili sipped from his beaker. ‘Five years ago the triumvirate imprisoned Vseslav in Kiev. Many people believe that his sorcery was responsible for our country’s woes. The following year the nomads of the southern steppes took advantage of the rivalry among the Rus princes and attacked in force. When they defeated our army, the citizens of Kiev rioted, released Vseslav and proclaimed him their prince. He was dethroned a year later and fled back to Polotsk, where he sits weaving his spells and planning his next move. The reason I dwell on this character is that you’ll have to pass through the wild country bordering his principality. A convoy as small as yours could disappear in the forests and no one would be any the wiser.’
Vasili sat up in concern. ‘Honoured friend, my glum tidings are putting you off your food. Let me help you to a piroschki. Here, have some spiced mead. It’s a great stimulus to the appetite.’
‘It’s not your warnings that blunt my appetite. Not many days ago a Viking laid my belly open. I still wear the stitches. My physician has ordered me to eat sparingly and avoid meat until I’m fully recovered.’
Vasili looked rather at a loss, as if he thought Vallon might be teasing him.
‘Tell us more about the journey south,’ said Vallon.
Vasili placed an amber spoon on the table. ‘Novgorod.’
Picking up a silver salt, he placed it halfway across the table. ‘Kiev.’
On the far side of the table he placed his gold beaker. ‘Constantinople.’
Dipping a finger into his drink, he traced a line from Novgorod. ‘From here you cross Lake Ilmen and travel up the Lovat. This part of the journey will cost you much effort. As I said, the river will be low and you can only navigate it in small boats. Even then, for every verst you sail or row, you’ll have to tow for two versts.’
Vasili tapped the table between Novgorod and Kiev. ‘Here you leave the river and make the great portage across the watershed. It takes about six days. The shortest route takes you to the Western Dvina and then to the upper reaches of the Dnieper below Smolensk. If I were you, I’d avoid that city. The merchants there are rogues.’
Vasili wetted his finger again and marked the course of the Dnieper to Kiev. ‘At first the river is narrow and flows through a forest. Soon other rivers join it, swelling its course to two versts or more. From Kiev the journey is easy — seventy versts a day — until you reach here.’ Vasili jabbed with his finger. ‘Here the river funnels through a gorge and plunges over nine cataracts. Sometimes you will have to wade and guide your boats around the rocks by hand. Every year many ships and lives are lost. In your case, the loss is certain because you won’t be able to find any pilots willing to guide you through the rapids.’
‘Why not?’
Vasili stabbed a finger. ‘Because even if the rapids spit you out alive, the greatest peril still lies ahead.’
‘The Pechenegs,’ said Hero.
Vasili smiled. ‘So the reputation of the steppe nomads has travelled outside Rus. Well, I have news for you. The good news is that the Pechenegs were driven off the southern steppe about ten years ago. The bad news is that the warriors who scattered them are barbarians of the same stamp, but even fiercer and more insatiable. They are the same savages who threatened Kiev four years ago. Cumans, they call themselves. They lie in wait at the end of the gorge, but they move so unpredictably that you could encounter them anywhere beyond Kievan territory.
