‘To feed the falcons. You’re a natural. I’d only spoil your talent.’
Next morning they went hunting together at dawn. Mist rose in curls from the river and a rusty moon hung low over the far shore. Waterfowl cackled like maniacs in the reed beds. The hunters paddled softly, each stroke dimpling the surface. When they reached a headland they laid aside their paddles and knelt with their bows bent into arcs.
‘Ready?’
Hundreds of geese clattered into flight. Wayland snapped a shot as they rose and when the flock had cleared the water, one of the birds lay bobbing on the surface with an arrow through its body. He paddled up and reached out to claim it. Then he saw the fletching on the arrow. ‘It’s yours,’ he said.
‘She’s a Diana,’ Hero said that evening, goose fat glistening on his chin. And when he’d explained that Diana was the goddess of moonlight and a huntress, Wayland looked at Syth with such pride that she widened her lunar eyes in enquiry.
‘What?’
A wintry wind overtook them from the north, slashing the river into ribbons. With the sails up, the boats ran at a good clip, covering seventy miles for three days in a row. The forest thinned and river traffic increased. The left bank was flat, waterlogged and almost uninhabited. All the main settlements were built on the hilly right bank. It was on this side that late one morning they saw the gilded domes of St Sophia gleaming against a sky smogged with the smoke of ten thousand hearths.
They docked at a wharf beside Kiev’s northern merchant quarter. A fussy customs officer wearing the badge of the port-reeve questioned them at length until Vallon mentioned Lord Vasili’s name and produced his letters of introduction. For all Vallon knew, the birch bark documents instructed the official to arrest the travellers and seize their goods. He and Hero watched each other while the customs man shuffled through the papers. At last he looked up. Their eyes met. The officer drew himself up above his natural height, rocking on his toes and saluting. Lord Vasili was much respected in Kiev, he said. If there was anything he could do to make their stay a pleasant one. Accommodation for the voyagers and shelter for the horses and hawks? Of course. An airy click of his fingers brought a score of dockers running. The officer drove them up a street, wafting his hands before the voyagers as if to clear their passage. Under the city’s inner wall he unlocked a gate leading into a compound occupied by a crumbling clay-and-wood tenement and a Norse hall-house roofed with sagging thatch. It had been built by Varangian merchants, the customs man explained, and hadn’t been tenanted for years. If the travellers would prefer more luxurious quarters …
‘It will suit us fine,’ said Vallon. ‘We won’t be staying long.’
He installed his company in the tenement and allocated the hall to the other travellers. The customs man promised to find them a cook and housekeeper and asked if he could be of further service. Richard slipped him silver and told him they needed a river pilot for the journey to the Black Sea. The man threw out his hand in a gesture that encompassed any number of pilots, and marched out.
‘How long are we staying?’ Richard asked Vallon.
‘We’ll leave the day after tomorrow.’
Richard showed disappointment. ‘That doesn’t give us much time to explore Kiev.’
‘Make the most of it then. You’ve got the rest of the day.’
Vallon and Hero remained in the house waiting for the pilots and were still waiting when the sightseers returned after dark. They’d entered Kiev through a magnificent golden gate to find themselves in the most vibrant city any of them had ever seen. Forget Novgorod, said Richard. Forget London or Paris or even Rome. If art and commerce were the mirrors of civilisation, then Kiev must stand second to Constantinople. Wherever they looked, there were at least a dozen churches within eyeshot. Four hundred churches in all. They’d visited some of the city’s eight markets and been entertained by jongleurs and fire-eaters and musicians who charmed snakes with pipes. In the city’s squares and avenues they’d rubbed shoulders with Khazars and Greeks and Wends and Ossetians and Circassians and Armenians and people from places even Hero hadn’t heard of. A month wouldn’t be long enough to explore half of Kiev’s attractions.
Vallon listened to this eulogy sitting on a bench with his back against a wall and his legs stretched out. He gave a crooked smile. ‘Well, you might see a lot more of it before we’re out of here.’
‘Didn’t you find a pilot?’
‘None willing to take us to the Black Sea. Vasili spoke the truth, and that customs man was only after our silver. Nobody travels south at this time of year. Apart from the difficulty of negotiating the rapids, the pilots wouldn’t be able to return to Kiev before next summer. In a month or so the Dnieper will freeze over and stay frozen until March.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Hero and I will try again tomorrow. If we draw another blank, we’ll find our own way.’ Vallon drew in his legs and grinned. ‘We’ve sailed the icy oceans, trekked through the northern forests, navigated rivers with no names. Who needs a pilot?’
In the morning he and Hero worked their way along the docks, trying every hostel, tavern and eating-house. The response was always the same. A flat ‘no’ or a shake of the head. They spotted the customs officer at a distance but he scooted off before they could engage with him. By noon they were back at the house, sharing bread and wine in the dusty silence. A shout from the Russian housekeeper below announced the arrival of visitors.
Their caller was a slave boy who told them in Greek that his master, Fyodor Antonovich, was waiting downstairs and wished to address them on a matter of business.
‘Send him up,’ Vallon said when Hero had translated. ‘You do the talking.’
Soon they heard wheezing on the stairway and a short fat man oozing venality appeared. He gave the door a tentative tap even though it was open. His dark eyes and dangling flews gave him the look of an untrustworthy hound. His gaze wavered between them as if he were deciding which one to cheat.
‘
‘
Fyodor crept in. ‘I understand that you carry letters of recommendation from my dear friend Lord Vasili of Novgorod.’
‘It’s true that we’re travelling south with Lord Vasili’s blessings.’
Fyodor took Hero’s hands and kissed them. He did the same to Vallon, his jowls trembling. ‘Any friends of my great friend Lord Vasili are
Hero indicated the bench. ‘Please.’
Fyodor insinuated himself on to the seat. ‘I hear that you’re bound for Constantinople and can’t find a pilot.’
Hero shrugged. ‘It’s early days.’
Fyodor looked past him. Vallon stood at the window with his face in shadow. ‘How many soldiers do you have?’
‘A dozen.’
‘Seasoned warriors?’
‘Hardened killers to a man.’
Fyodor cast another glance at Vallon’s angular figure.
Hero leaned forward. ‘Perhaps you’d care to tell us where our interests coincide.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Fyodor dabbed at his brow. ‘I have a cargo of choice slaves destined for Constantinople. The slaves were brought from Pechora, far to the north-east, and they didn’t reach Kiev in time to sail with the summer convoy. They missed it by only three days.’
‘How galling.’
Fyodor turned a tragic gaze on Hero. ‘A disaster.’
‘Oh?’
It transpired that the wheels had come off a trading venture. The slaves were to be sold to a business partner in Constantinople in exchange for silks and icons that Fyodor planned to sell to Kiev’s nobility. He spread his hands. ‘You see my problem? Until I sell the slaves, I can’t buy the silks.’
‘Why don’t you sell the slaves in Kiev? They might not fetch such a high price as you’d get in Constantinople,
