The Crown's Fate
Page 66
Ilya had turned out to be a lousy spy—he hadn’t overheard anything worthy to report—so now Pasha had to see for himself if it was true.
“Hey, you gonna make a wager? Bogdan or Grigory?” A soldier lurched toward the group of men beside Pasha.
“Nah,” one of them said. “Not stupid enough to bet on the bear with such pathetic odds, and not drunk enough to put money on the scrawny one.”
The soldier laughed and slapped him on the back. “Hear, hear.”
Bogdan was indeed a bear of a man, not only in size but also in the sheer amount of fur on his chest, and he’d beaten five straight soldiers in the last fifteen minutes. He took a swig from a bottle offered him from one of his friends and paced the snowless ground some more.
Grigory was smaller. He was slower, too, both in wit and actual speed. But he was far less drunk than Bogdan, which made him a contender. He bounced on the soles of his boots as Bogdan cracked his knuckles.
“I’ll wager Grigory wins this match,” Pasha said.
The soldier lifted a brow. Then he grinned. “Well, well, a patron for David in his battle against Goliath. How much?”
Pasha was tempted to toss in twice whatever the highest gamble had been. But right then, Bogdan slammed an elbow into Grigory’s nose and left his face a fountain of blood. Pasha heard Yuliana’s voice in his head, reprimanding him for being too impetuous, and so he reluctantly said, “The minimum.”
The soldier snorted. “Not actually much of a patron, are you?”
“Just not comfortable with too much risk,” Pasha said. Which wasn’t true at all. Yuliana was the rule follower. Pasha was the one always getting scolded for taking risks. But he passed a rumpled bill and a few coins to the soldier anyway.
As soon as the money exchanged hands, Bogdan smashed his fist into Grigory’s chest, and Grigory collapsed onto the cold ground. Bogdan hovered. The ring of soldiers went silent as they waited. Grigory didn’t move.
Bogdan dropped his defensive stance and stepped closer to Grigory. Someone shouted from the crowd, “You better not have killed him!”
Grigory groaned and rolled onto his back. The soldier who was acting as judge shouted, “Bogdan wins again!” Bogdan flexed his biceps and grunted.
The man next to Pasha slapped him on the back. He reeked of vodka, and he slurred as he asked, “Who are you, stranger? Anyone here would know that wagering against Bogdan is always a losing bet.”
Pasha gave the man beside him a practiced look of dismay. “I’m on leave from my company outside Saint Petersburg, just here visiting family. I ought to refrain from betting at all, for I enjoy it when the dark horse wins, and I bet on them more often than not. But they’re ‘dark horses’ for a reason.”
The soldier offered Pasha a half-drunk bottle of vodka. “Drown the loss?”
Pasha grabbed the bottle by its neck and took a long swig, wiping his mouth afterward with his sleeve (and being careful not to disturb his temporary mustache). He handed the bottle back to the soldier. “Thank you, er . . . ?”
“Name’s Yuri.”
“Just Yuri? No patronymic?” It was odd to introduce oneself without the middle name that honored one’s father. Then again, Yuri wasn’t exactly steady on his feet at the moment. It was perhaps a feat for him to remember any part of his name at all.
Yuri took another drink. “My mother was rather, shall we say, popular in her youth. You know, like the late tsarina.” Yuri laughed, spitting sloppily as he did so.
Pasha drew back a fist. “How dare you insult Her Imperial Majesty!”
“My apologies. Were you one of her lovers?” Yuri grinned.
Pasha was about to swing at Yuri when someone behind him caught his arm.
“Hey,” Bogdan growled, spinning Pasha around to face him. “No punching the drunkards. It’s not fair. I’ll fight you instead, Pretty Boy.”
Pasha looked up at Bogdan. The fur on his chest was matted with sweat. His muscles flexed. He was a real-life Goliath.
But Pasha seethed with indignation, and he wasn’t about to back down. Besides, it would be embarrassing and dishonorable to back down. “Fine,” he said. “If you want to pay for Yuri’s insult, I’ll fight you. But since you talk of fairness, let’s account for the obvious—size. I propose we use swords rather than fists to make it an even fight.” Pasha was the best fencer in Saint Petersburg. He stood a chance with swords.
“Whatever you want. Doesn’t matter, ’cause I don’t lose.” Bogdan cracked his knuckles.
The drunk soldiers around them looked from Bogdan to Pasha for a moment. Then a cheer swept the crowd. “Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”
The soldier who’d been serving as judge of the wrestling matches appeared with two swords. He gave Pasha first choice.
Pasha picked up both blades and weighed them in his hands. He chose the lighter one. Not as strong, but easier to maneuver. Agility was often underestimated in the face of strength.
Bogdan grabbed his sword with one hand, and his crotch with the other. The gesture that followed was the opposite of polite.
All right. This wouldn’t be anything like the gentlemanly fencing matches to which Pasha was accustomed. But he’d adjust. It couldn’t be that different, could it?
Bogdan swung his sword in a broad arc, viciously enough to sever Pasha’s head. Pasha yelped and leaped backward.
Never mind. It was very different.
“Pretty Boy is quick on his feet,” Bogdan said. The crowd jeered.
Pasha advanced and attacked.
Bogdan parried and lunged at Pasha.
Pasha deflected and attacked again. Their swords moved quickly, like flashes of violently choreographed silver. Once in the rhythm of the fight, it was not so different from the beat of fencing. Parry-riposte, parry-riposte, parry-riposte. Deflect-attack, deflect-attack, deflect-attack.
Bogdan lunged again, but Pasha suspected it was a feint. He didn’t parry. Bogdan quickly recovered and changed tactics.
Pasha dodged. But then he stumbled as a muscle in his abdomen cramped, exactly where Vika had extracted Nikolai’s poisoned gear.
Luckily, Bogdan was slow, at least in comparison to Pasha. Pasha inhaled sharply, forcing himself to ignore the cramp, and advanced to execute his own feint.
Bogdan moved to parry. Not fast enough, though. Pasha circled his sword under Bogdan’s and pressed the point of his blade against Bogdan’s hairy chest, right in the center above his heart.
“Hey, you gonna make a wager? Bogdan or Grigory?” A soldier lurched toward the group of men beside Pasha.
“Nah,” one of them said. “Not stupid enough to bet on the bear with such pathetic odds, and not drunk enough to put money on the scrawny one.”
The soldier laughed and slapped him on the back. “Hear, hear.”
Bogdan was indeed a bear of a man, not only in size but also in the sheer amount of fur on his chest, and he’d beaten five straight soldiers in the last fifteen minutes. He took a swig from a bottle offered him from one of his friends and paced the snowless ground some more.
Grigory was smaller. He was slower, too, both in wit and actual speed. But he was far less drunk than Bogdan, which made him a contender. He bounced on the soles of his boots as Bogdan cracked his knuckles.
“I’ll wager Grigory wins this match,” Pasha said.
The soldier lifted a brow. Then he grinned. “Well, well, a patron for David in his battle against Goliath. How much?”
Pasha was tempted to toss in twice whatever the highest gamble had been. But right then, Bogdan slammed an elbow into Grigory’s nose and left his face a fountain of blood. Pasha heard Yuliana’s voice in his head, reprimanding him for being too impetuous, and so he reluctantly said, “The minimum.”
The soldier snorted. “Not actually much of a patron, are you?”
“Just not comfortable with too much risk,” Pasha said. Which wasn’t true at all. Yuliana was the rule follower. Pasha was the one always getting scolded for taking risks. But he passed a rumpled bill and a few coins to the soldier anyway.
As soon as the money exchanged hands, Bogdan smashed his fist into Grigory’s chest, and Grigory collapsed onto the cold ground. Bogdan hovered. The ring of soldiers went silent as they waited. Grigory didn’t move.
Bogdan dropped his defensive stance and stepped closer to Grigory. Someone shouted from the crowd, “You better not have killed him!”
Grigory groaned and rolled onto his back. The soldier who was acting as judge shouted, “Bogdan wins again!” Bogdan flexed his biceps and grunted.
The man next to Pasha slapped him on the back. He reeked of vodka, and he slurred as he asked, “Who are you, stranger? Anyone here would know that wagering against Bogdan is always a losing bet.”
Pasha gave the man beside him a practiced look of dismay. “I’m on leave from my company outside Saint Petersburg, just here visiting family. I ought to refrain from betting at all, for I enjoy it when the dark horse wins, and I bet on them more often than not. But they’re ‘dark horses’ for a reason.”
The soldier offered Pasha a half-drunk bottle of vodka. “Drown the loss?”
Pasha grabbed the bottle by its neck and took a long swig, wiping his mouth afterward with his sleeve (and being careful not to disturb his temporary mustache). He handed the bottle back to the soldier. “Thank you, er . . . ?”
“Name’s Yuri.”
“Just Yuri? No patronymic?” It was odd to introduce oneself without the middle name that honored one’s father. Then again, Yuri wasn’t exactly steady on his feet at the moment. It was perhaps a feat for him to remember any part of his name at all.
Yuri took another drink. “My mother was rather, shall we say, popular in her youth. You know, like the late tsarina.” Yuri laughed, spitting sloppily as he did so.
Pasha drew back a fist. “How dare you insult Her Imperial Majesty!”
“My apologies. Were you one of her lovers?” Yuri grinned.
Pasha was about to swing at Yuri when someone behind him caught his arm.
“Hey,” Bogdan growled, spinning Pasha around to face him. “No punching the drunkards. It’s not fair. I’ll fight you instead, Pretty Boy.”
Pasha looked up at Bogdan. The fur on his chest was matted with sweat. His muscles flexed. He was a real-life Goliath.
But Pasha seethed with indignation, and he wasn’t about to back down. Besides, it would be embarrassing and dishonorable to back down. “Fine,” he said. “If you want to pay for Yuri’s insult, I’ll fight you. But since you talk of fairness, let’s account for the obvious—size. I propose we use swords rather than fists to make it an even fight.” Pasha was the best fencer in Saint Petersburg. He stood a chance with swords.
“Whatever you want. Doesn’t matter, ’cause I don’t lose.” Bogdan cracked his knuckles.
The drunk soldiers around them looked from Bogdan to Pasha for a moment. Then a cheer swept the crowd. “Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”
The soldier who’d been serving as judge of the wrestling matches appeared with two swords. He gave Pasha first choice.
Pasha picked up both blades and weighed them in his hands. He chose the lighter one. Not as strong, but easier to maneuver. Agility was often underestimated in the face of strength.
Bogdan grabbed his sword with one hand, and his crotch with the other. The gesture that followed was the opposite of polite.
All right. This wouldn’t be anything like the gentlemanly fencing matches to which Pasha was accustomed. But he’d adjust. It couldn’t be that different, could it?
Bogdan swung his sword in a broad arc, viciously enough to sever Pasha’s head. Pasha yelped and leaped backward.
Never mind. It was very different.
“Pretty Boy is quick on his feet,” Bogdan said. The crowd jeered.
Pasha advanced and attacked.
Bogdan parried and lunged at Pasha.
Pasha deflected and attacked again. Their swords moved quickly, like flashes of violently choreographed silver. Once in the rhythm of the fight, it was not so different from the beat of fencing. Parry-riposte, parry-riposte, parry-riposte. Deflect-attack, deflect-attack, deflect-attack.
Bogdan lunged again, but Pasha suspected it was a feint. He didn’t parry. Bogdan quickly recovered and changed tactics.
Pasha dodged. But then he stumbled as a muscle in his abdomen cramped, exactly where Vika had extracted Nikolai’s poisoned gear.
Luckily, Bogdan was slow, at least in comparison to Pasha. Pasha inhaled sharply, forcing himself to ignore the cramp, and advanced to execute his own feint.
Bogdan moved to parry. Not fast enough, though. Pasha circled his sword under Bogdan’s and pressed the point of his blade against Bogdan’s hairy chest, right in the center above his heart.
