Now that he had more leisure, Wayland began manning the falcons. Each day he fed them on his fist, and since the task was time-consuming, he enlisted Syth’s help, showing her how to balance the falcon with the jesses and food held between thumb and forefinger. Only Wayland handled the white haggard. His other favourite was a blocky tiercel with plumage that gleamed pewter and silver and steel all at once. Though tame, this bird wasn’t as well-mannered as the haggard. She ate with the poise of a queen, always one eye on Wayland, her stare as quick and wild as the day he’d caught her.
Every second morning, weather permitting, he blocked them out by the river so that they could bathe. They rarely did, but spent the time bating against their jesses. The white haggard seemed to know she couldn’t break her tethers and yet she yearned for freedom and would crouch, fanning half-furled wings before springing up into thwarted flight in a way that made Wayland wince.
He and Syth spent part of each day hunting game from the skiff and rarely returned empty-handed. At every bend and inlet waterfowl spluttered across the water or sprang quacking into flight. He made Syth a light bow from a bough of seasoned yew he’d bought in Novgorod, planing the wood with a spokeshave that had belonged to Raul. When finished, the bow was D-shaped in cross-section, pale sapwood at the front for tension, golden heartwood at the back to resist compression. Shaping it made him think of Raul — his cunning hand at work while he told improbable war stories and outlined even less plausible plans for the future. And Raul’s death made him think of the dog and his gaze would wander over the forest as though its ghost still ran through these woods. Not even Syth knew how deeply he grieved for it. When she’d wept at the news of its death, he’d assumed an offhand manner. Only a dog he’d told her, until she drummed her fists against his chest and ran away to bawl her eyes out in private.
Only a dog. Its loss made him feel like a part of him had been torn out. Sometimes he spoke to it before realising with a clutch of his heart that it was gone. Once, a distant barking made him jump up in the delusion that somehow the dog had survived and had tracked hundreds of miles through the forest to find him.
One night a doleful howling woke him from sleep and he rose and followed the sound until he saw the silhouette of a wolf standing on a knoll above the river. It was howling at a full moon fretted with clouds. There were no clouds elsewhere in the sky and when he looked again he saw that the pattern was formed by wisps of geese crossing the moon like a mesh of black lace. He began to weep and he couldn’t say for whom he shed his tears. For the dog and for Raul, but also for the solitary wolf and for the geese on their pilgrimage south and for some pain too deep to fathom.
In the morning he nocked the ends of the bow with horn and strung it with gut. He measured Syth’s arm and shortened some of his arrows to fit her draw. He cut a target from cloth, pinned it to a tree and led Syth thirty yards away. He showed her how to stand with her weight balanced on both feet. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Don’t grip the bow with your fingers. Use hand pressure and keep your arm straight. You’re too tense. Push with your whole arm as if you were reaching for the target. Cock your elbow sideways otherwise the bowstring will hit it. Grip the string with the first joint of your fingers. Draw and aim at the same time. See the target in your mind’s eye rather than concentrating on it. Relax your arm and shoulder muscles. Let your back muscles do most of the work.’
Syth stamped her foot. ‘I can’t remember all that. Let me do it my own way.’
Wayland stepped back. ‘We’ll break it down later.’
Syth brought the bow up, drew and loosed. The arrow struck a foot above the target. She grinned at Wayland. Beginner’s luck, he thought. ‘You’ve got a sweet action,’ he said, and handed her another arrow. This time she hit below the target, but not by much. Frowning, he passed her a third arrow. It lodged quivering almost in the middle of the target.
‘You’ve used a bow before.’
‘My brothers made me a little one and showed me how to draw it. Where are you going?’
‘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 avenue
s 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.
‘Chairete, o philoi.’
‘Kyrie, chaire,’ Hero replied. ‘Empros.’
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 my friends.’
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, but surely you’d make a profit.’
‘It’s complicated,’ said Fyodor. ‘Complicated.’ His gaze rested for a moment on the pitcher of wine. He sighed. ‘I purchased the slaves with money borrowed from my Byzantine partner. It was a short-term loan at high interest. I expected to pay it back within seven months, when the slaves reached Constantinople. With the profit from the Byzantine goods, I was certain to make a good return. But because of those three days, the seven months have stretched to twelve, and if I have to wait for next year’s convoy, I won’t see a penny for eighteen months. Imagine how much interest I’ll end up paying. And of course I have to pay for the slaves’ keep. Unless I can despatch them this month, I’m ruined.’
‘You want us to escort your cargo to Constantinople.’
‘It would be to our mutual benefit.’
‘How many slaves are we talking about?’
‘Thirty-one. Originally there were thirty-six. They keep dying. Every month that goes by, I’m losing money.’
‘How many ships?’
‘Two, each with a crew of eight.’
‘A dozen extra soldiers won’t count for much if we run into the nomads.’
‘You won’t. The Cumans will be in the steppes with their flocks. Since no convoys sail down the Dnieper in winter, there’s no point in them waiting by the river. A fox doesn’t sit by an empty burrow.’
‘Then what’s preventing you from sending your ships unescorted?’
‘Ah, yes. It’s the pilots. Without experienced pilots, I risk losing everything in the cataracts.’
‘So even you can’t hire pilots.’
‘Oh, I can find pilots if I’m prepared to pay their price. And do you know what price that is?’ He leaned close. ‘Three silver grivna apiece.’ He wriggled on his buttocks, one finger to his lips. ‘Three silver grivna each.’
‘How much are your slaves worth in Constantinople?’
‘Ten grivna apiece, but that’s not the point. There are my overheads to take into account, the interest to be deducted. Six grivna on top of those expenses will reduce my profit to less than nothing. But if you were to pay for the pilots …’
Hero’s brow furrowed. ‘Excuse me. Did I hear you say that we should pay for the pilots?’
‘You won’t find one without my help.’
Hero leaned back. ‘Fine. We’ll do without.’
‘Without an experienced man to guide you through the rapids, you’ll lose lives and cargo. Don’t take my word for it. Ask anyone who’s made the passage. Anyone. Even with pilots, ships and men are lost in the cataracts every year.’
Hero traced meaningless patterns on the table. ‘When you entered, I had the impression that you were asking for our help. Now it seems that you want us to pay for the privilege of escorting your ships. What’s in it for us?’
‘My ships. Your boats aren’t big enough to cross the Black Sea and you won’t find any ships to charter at the mouth of the Dnieper. They’ve all left and won’t be back until spring.’
Exactly what Vasili had told them. Hero stroked his chin. ‘So if we pay for the guides, your ships will carry us to Constantinople.’
Fyodor bared his teeth. ‘Precisely.’
‘I need to talk to the captain.’
Hero laid out the proposition before Vallon. ‘I’m sure he’s playing down the threat posed by the nomads,’ he concluded. ‘I suspect there are other things he’s keeping to himself.’
‘Do you think he’s after our cargo?’
‘No. He wants us to cover his costs and perhaps more than his costs. I’d lay odds the pilots won’t see a quarter of what he claims they’re demanding.’
‘How much silver do we have left?’
‘Little more than twenty pounds. Novgorod was expensive.’
Vallon drummed his fingers on the windowsill. ‘We need a pilot and we need a sea-going ship. Fyodor can supply both. If we turn him down, we’ll probably end up being fleeced twice over in circumstances even less to our advantage. I don’t want to stay in Kiev a day longer than we have to. Gleb’s men could send word and hav
e us detained on some pretext. The Vikings could slip their leashes and kill someone in a brawl. Every day that passes … ’ He broke off and stared over the rooftops at the Dnieper.
‘Sir?
Vallon turned. ‘It’s not as if it’s our own hard-earned money. Pay the rogue what he asks. Tell him I want to interview the pilots and that we must be back on the river without delay.’
Fyodor beamed when Hero announced their capitulation. He called out to his slave and the boy sprang away downstairs. ‘They won’t be long,’ Fyodor said. ‘I told them to be ready to present themselves.’ He seated himself on the bench and twiddled his thumbs.
Hero picked up the flagon of wine. ‘Perhaps you’d care to join us …’
‘Too kind,’ Fyodor said. He raised his cup. ‘To our mutual endeavours.’
Wayland and Syth stood under the central dome of St Sophia, holding hands like children and gazing up at a mosaic of Christ the Omnipotent surrounded by four archangels. They’d found their way into the cathedral after getting lost in Kiev’s teeming streets and now Wayland was too nervous to leave. Every aspect of the cathedral was designed to remind him that he was under the scrutiny of his maker. The saints portrayed in mosaics and frescoes on every surface followed him with their eyes. When he moved, his footsteps were amplified by earthenware sounding-chambers embedded in the walls.
A choir began to sing, the lead chant echoed by a polyphonic response.
Syth squeezed Wayland’s arm. ‘This is what heaven must be like.’
‘I’m not sure I want to spend eternity gazing at holy images and listening to a choir.’
‘What would your heaven be like?’
‘It wouldn’t be very different from life on earth, except that nobody would go hungry or suffer misery and oppression.’
Hawk Quest Page 57
