Here, they’re dismounting.
“Misiur, help!”
Hanging on his companions’ hands, Jendrich hobbled to the tavern. He was broad-shouldered, stout, and his blood brothers only grunted, overstrained under their leader’s weight. Every time Dry Storm would step on his right foot he would groan and swear like a devil. Had he broken it, or what? Or was it an arrow?
“Misiur! I need a hideout! We won’t escape...”
A hideout for him! The taverner imagined the hideout where there would be hiding Lukerda, his own blood, the apple of his eye, – and this robber. Face to face, odd-even. And then she’ll deliver a little chieftain... So what that Jas himself not once had hidden smuggled goods brought by Jendrich, so what that he had his part in the booty, helping to sell it off in Rahovez or in Wrozlav?! Lukerda, the silly girl, is mad about Dry Storm – sighs about him, calls him Robin Hood. Now there’ll be Robin for her, there’ll be Hood, too – in a quiet place...
“Not enough horses, Misiur! They’ll catch us! Hide me, I won’t forget it!”
It’s good he isn’t threatening at least. That is – or else we’ll burn your tavern down. Jas glanced again at smoking Pshesek, then turned his eyes to the chieftain. Young, handsome. The twirled moustaches stick out. He’s in funds. Got his nickname for the wild temper and for the dislike of unnecessary blood. The first is bad, while the second’s good. Yet all the same – this is not the husband his daughter needs.
Well, a man must pay his debts.
“I’ll hide you, Jendrich! Hey, drag your chieftain into the cellar!”
He turned to his wife: “Run for Lukerda. Let her go to the hideout, too.”
The wife twisted her finger at her temple significantly. O yes, women understand shameful affairs quickly.
“Go, go. Let Lukerda take with her this... dependant. He’s old, doesn’t care about no wenches. He’ll look after her. Tell him: you, Giacomo, are our only hope. Guard and protect. If, odd-even, they take us...”
It was true – Giacomo Seingalt was not interested in wenches. He was worn out, the old hook. Though it was seen he had had a good time in his youth. When Lukerda got crazy and started demanding teachers, to be noble-like – dance-mance-reverence – Jas thanked God that this old reveller was found. He knew dances, and languages, and was trained in the etiquette too. He was more than sixty, yet only last year he began stooping. A noble bearing he had. People said he’d been a famous cavalier before: shining on tournaments, fighting the Moors under the standard of Fernando Castilian himself. Fought the Ottomans at the sea. Lies, most likely. For people to lie – as for a dog to raise its tail. Yet that the cavalier was totally broke – that could be believed. He wandered and roamed, and in the past several years he had been a librarian at Jeremy Lovich’s. Jeremy favoured him a lot. Told his servants not to mock the old man, and wouldn’t let his guests make fun of him. He himself would often sit with him, talking. But when the baron died, Giacomo fell out with young Lovich completely.
And left.
Now for a piece of bread, for a roof over his head he teaches the girl all sorts of nonsense.
“Me! Hide me too!”
The devil take this boy! He’d quite forgotten... The taverner turned heavily, with his entire body, to yesterday’s boy. Came here, the imp, asked to stay for a night. Gave a piece of silver for a supper and a bed. Where’d he get it? Stole, probably. You can’t say if the lad is sixteen or twenty. A sparrow of a boy: skinny, dishevelled, only the eyes – like live coals.
“Clear out! Good riddance, odd-even!”
“Me! Me too! If you don’t – I’ll tell the Maintz men everything! Everything!”
Jendrich the chieftain squinted inquiringly first at the taverner, then at his daredevils: to shut the chap up? Dry Storm’s face, red with pain, twisted: no, he didn’t like blood for nothing. However, the boy hadn’t even understood he was within a hairbreadth of death. He lowered his head, swept stealthily a shameful tear. “Sorry... I’m a fool. I can’t – into their hands...” Suddenly he beamed: “I have! This! Here!!!” The dirty hand dived behind his shirt. A moment – and on his palm there sparkled a ray of light: a medallion. A golden one – here the taverner couldn’t be mistaken, be it by eye or by teeth.
“I’ll pay! It’s magical!”
“Gold?” inquired Jas Misiur, just in case.
The boy lowered his eyes. “I d-don’t know. I think so. It’s really magical. This is Byarn the Pensive’s, the mage from Holne.”
Jendrich whistled, squinting. If the boy isn’t lying... The name of Byarn, the mage from Holne, was worth a lot. Jas would hide the vagabond, for such a thing he would hide him in a privy and would sit himself atop for him not to be found.
“What sort of an amulet? For luck? For love?”
“No... It’s against cockroaches. If you put it behind a shutter, there’ll never be cockroaches in your house...”
The taverner hushed at the robbers that started laughing. An expensive thing. Maybe the chap is a chatterbox. Babbled here on and on – cockroaches, Byarn... A thief. All right, one more watcher in the hideout won’t harm. There’s another thing, odd-even: two fellows, an old dependant teacher – and Lukerda alone?!
“Hey, Skwozhina!”
At the threshold there appeared a serving woman – solid, stocky, more alike a man. Her closely set eyes looked shyly and unfriendly. A little girl, about five years old, cuddled up to the woman’s skirt.
“Be ready. You’re going to the hideout. I know you: someone pokes his hand under your skirt – you’ll hit him on the ear! Or blurt something out...”
Skwozhina spat through her teeth, but didn’t say a word.
Dusty darkness. Exciting odours of smoked food, beer, onions and dried fish. Out of the crack there flows a scarcely felt string of wine’s scent. It can be heard how Jas Misiur outside, wheezing, blocks the secret door with various lumber. Even if the Maintz men poke their noses into the cellar, they won’t like rummaging in such rubbish.
“It would be extremely useful to light a candle,” rasps the displeased voice of Giacomo Seingalt. Then the old man coughs for a long time before he continues. “I have been late to examine the interior of this... hmm... apartment, so that now I’m afraid to sit on something improper.”
“With your ass on a pitchfork,” specifies Skwozhina venomously, sneezing.
“Or would you prefer to stand waiting till the Maintz men move further along, towards Wrozlav?” finishes the old teacher calmly, ignoring the serving woman’s acidity. It’s clear that the old man has long ago got used to the woman’s bad temper, paying no heed to her grumbling.
“It’s better to stand. What if they see the light?” the question is asked by the young vagabond.
“Hell they’ll see. I’m sitting in this hole not for the first time. It’ll be better for us to see one another. Especially some of us. I have a flint and tinder. Somebody’s got a candle?”
“Take it please, Jendrich. Although I don’t see anything.”
“Hold it in your hand. Now you’ll see.”
“A-ha. Let him hold it in his hand. And with this hand jerk here and there. Then the candle will grow up to the sky! Blaze without fire, it will...”
“Shut up, you fool!”
“I utterly agree with you, Jendrich. Such ugly things... when there’s a young maiden here...”
“Mommy, I want a candel! It’s vely-vely da-ak! Let uncle Zakomtzik make light...”
“Uncle’ll make, he will... Hell he’ll make, your uncle, and devil too...”
There click the strokes of flint. Sparks. More sparks. There comes the smell of smoke. A fire begins to kindle slowly in Dry Storm’s hands – at first it is dark crimson, dim, then brighter and brighter. Or rather, later on one can see that it is in the hands. At first it seemed as if an ominous red eye appeared in the dark.
“Do you see now? Give me the candle.”
The stooped figure covers the glowing “eye”. Cracking of a wick, flashes rush about the walls.
Light! Alive, ochre coloured.
“I’m grateful. Lukerda, please sit down. It’ll be better here, on the barrel. One moment, I’ll just brush off the dust. There are no stools here, as you may understand. Not to mention chairs and armchairs.”
“What about carpets?” Jendrich makes a grimace. It’s still a question what irritates him more: the pain in his leg or the old man’s primness. “Here it stands in the corner, rolled up. A good carpet, from Shemachan. Bring it here, it’s just for me to lie down. What am I – to lie on the floor?..”
“Where has daddy got a Shemachan carpet from? And... all this?!”
Lukerda was looking around, surprised. Tight logs of carpets, packs of textile, skillfully wrought coffers and carved chests, barrels, bulging sacks. Here and there from the heaps and piles stick out hilts of swords, the shaft of a pole-axe, the polished stock of an arbalest, the crest of a helm...
While making himself comfortable, the chieftain grinned with fake gaiety: “Where from? There from! Doing valiant business – from faraway countries brought, from bad folks taken...”
“Young man, would you be so kind as to name things with their own names? You ought to be ashamed misleading the naïve maiden. Smuggling and robbery, that is how it’s called.”
“Giacomo, stop it! Shame on you! Jendrich, he... he’s a real hero! He attacked today the vanguard of the margrave Siegfried! Like Roland the Furious on the Moors!”
“Yes, of course,” Giacomo smiles bitterly with the edge of his lips, sitting down on the nearest chest. “Roncevaux Pass, the faithful Durendal... Troubadours are standing in line to praise him in their songs. So how do you do, sir hero, terror of the usurpers? The foe is beaten hollow and has fled with shame? Or maybe you and your worthiest knights of luck have just decided to rob somebody’s train? Only that the guard proved to be too tough for our Rolands? And now the margrave’s soldiers vent their anger on peaceful villagers – the heroes have gone, after all! The heroes are sitting in a hideout, saving their strength for new feats!”
Jendrich Dry Storm kept gloomily silent. The old dependant had put his finger on it. That was exactly how it had happened. They crossed the border easily, because after the free city of Holne had been occupied there was no border any more. Close to the evening they discovered the train. The wagons with provision and fodder lagged behind the main troops that had already reached the frontier of the Opolie principality, and seemed to be easy prey. However, they couldn’t make it without noise. The hefty fellows in the train fought off with halberds, furious with despair: jingle, clank, cries... Two of their gang were badly wounded, and brave Zbyshek remained in the field – they hadn’t even time to carry out his body. When it was all over and they only needed to get away the wagons with the goods, out of the forest there rushed out a cavalry squadron. There was five times more of the margrave’s riders than the chaps in the gang, so they couldn’t even think about the loot any more – they would’ve been lucky enough to get away themselves.
They were running away all night. At dawn, near Pshesek, the riders caught them. They were lucky that their pursuers had stretched out after the night. If they struck with all their forth – the robbers would be rotting in the hot sun. After the first skirmish, leaving one third of their gang as prey for ravens, the survivors scattered: into the ravines, to the river Veselka, to the Kichora road. Two were unlucky – they were caught and cut down. As for Jendrich himself, his horse was killed with an arrow. He hadn’t the time to jump off it, and the body of the fallen mare pressed his leg. Thanks to his friends – ran over to him, helped him out. And so now he, Jendrich Dry Storm, had to sit in a cellar with women! With that acrimonious old sponger! With that milksop boy who had probably wet his trousers from fear! This pup even threatened to sell out everyone... Who needs him, I ask you? Or maybe somebody does? All right, we are to sit here for a long time, we’ll shake the truth out of him. There’s time for that.
“What, you hawk – broke his leg in a haycock! Lost your tongue? When it comes to robbing and rolling with other people’s wives in the hay – you are a hero! And when it comes to answer for what you did – stuck your tongue in your behind? Jacom’s saying right...”
“Skwozhina! I’ll show you!..” Jendrich eyed the insolent woman from head to toe. This bitch doesn’t care a damn about who is in front of her: a street drunkard, a city merchant, an honest chieftain – be it the prince Razimir himself! If he’s not to her taste – she’ll fling mud on him without batting an eyelid. To get involved with the fool? It would cost dear. Still he couldn’t remain silent. “With you I haven’t roll in the hay, that’s for sure. Probably that’s why you’re angry. Who would have eyes for such muck? Except for our daring cavalier, maybe. Eh, Giacomo? Is it from you that Skwozhina developed a daughter?”
“I would kindly ask you, sir robber, to restrain from statements of such sort. At least in the presence of the young maiden here. Do you hear me?”
The eagle-like profile of Giacomo Seingalt was radiating cold that usually preceded a challenge to a duel. Lukerda, scared, moved away from her teacher – it was for the first time that she saw him like this. It seemed that the flame of the candle, reflected in the black, deeply sunken eyes of the old man, became in a sudden sharp, frightening.
Not a flame – but a blade, crawling out of its sheath like a snake.
“Of course, highway robbers have no notion of good manners, but I have hoped... In vain, as I see. This concerns you too, Skwozhina! If Jas finds out, he’ll thrash you with a stick. For you not to speak too freely.” The dependant’s face softened, the cold melted. “And on the whole, let’s stop quarreling. If I have insulted someone unwittingly, I make my apologies. It’s because of the nervousness.”
“All right, old man. It’s everyone’s fault. We’ve dished the dirt here – enough.”
The youth who had settled right on the floor nodded, jerking his cheek in a funny manner. As if he was waiting for a slap. But then again, what had he to be afraid of? He hadn’t hurt anyone, sat there quiet as a mouse. Five year old Karolinka, the daughter of glib Skwozhina, didn’t pay attention to the squabble at all: the girl got to the chest where there were kept multicoloured strings of beads, shining buttons and other baubles. Now the child was fingering these treasures, enchanted, forgetting everything. As for Skwozhina herself, she kept gloomily silent. She didn’t know how to apologize, but at least the fact that she had stopped swearing and talking bawdily was a good omen. No one could demand more.
Skwozhina’s father gave up his ghost when his daughter was scarcely sixteen. Just as Lukerda is now. Her own brother Stanek, a niggard and a rascal, soon drove his stupid and unsightly sister out of home, giving her nothing of their father’s inheritance. “You won’t get married all the same – what the hell do you need a dowry for?” As a farewell gift Skwozhina presented her brother with a billet that turned to be close at hand – presented strongly, from all her heart; and he returned the favour, too: Stanek’s fist was a real one, that of a man. After roaming for some time, the orphan girl settled down in Jas’ tavern – washing floors, bringing water. Bring-take, you fool! Her temper, quarrelsome and difficult to get on with since childhood, became a dozen times worse over the years. A girl of many values she was: a pockmarked face, the build of a horse, the temper of a bitch. Only health God had given her: in sharp frost she would run to the well dressed only in a shabby jacket, would carry bags weighing a hundred pounds, would chop firewood – God yield to anyone! People remembered how a cooper Zych when in his cups had pinched her at the haunch – after that he would hold at his back till winter and would walk lopsided.