C. J. Cherryh - Rusalka

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CJ Cherryh - [ Rusalka 0l ] Rusalka
RUSALKA
Caroline J. Cherryh
The Rusalka Series Vol. 1
EBook Design Group digital back-up edition v1 HTML
December 03, 2002
Contents
^
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
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CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
POPULAR LIBRARY EDITION
Copyright © 1989 by C.J. Cherryh. All Rights Reserved.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living
or dead is strictly coincidental.
If you enjoyed this EBook, why not consider supporting the author by purchasing a
copy?
CHAPTER 1
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« ^ »
The winter dwindled in amber evenings and daytime haze: snow melted, puddles
multiplied. Icicles dripped and crashed daily into the last snow-banks, with alarming
sounds of breakage.
A particularly large one lingered where water ran off The Cockerel's west porch, but it
was not ice that shattered, it was aunt Ilenka's butter-churn, when Pyetr Kochevikov
rode his horse up onto the porch to reach it.
Sasha Misurov, his hands encumbered with buckets, watched in astonishment as the
icicle fell, the horse thundered off the boards, skidded onto the split-log walk and off
onto the mud, all four legs miraculously whole—and aunt Ilenka came flying out of the
kitchen waving her spoon and calling on the Sun, the tsar, and all his magistrates.
"Pyetr Kochevikov! Look at my porch! Look at my walk! Oh, god—" Aunt Ilenka saw
the churn with the milk dripping off the porch, and grabbed up her broom from the
corner.
"Look out!" one of the young men cried. "Look out, Pyetr! You're in trouble now!"
The broom swung, Pyetr took his horse out of the way, doffed his cap and bowed, and
the young ruffians—the second and third sons of rich families in Vojvoda, such were
Pyetr Kochevikov's familiars—howled with laughter, pulling their horses back to afford
the battle room.
Aunt Ilenka cornered Pyetr between the stable, the courtyard wall, and the bathhouse.
Pyetr jumped his horse over the bathhouse bench and thumped back across the split-log
walk, throwing up mud that spattered her from head to foot.
Eyes flew wide, aunt Ilenka grasped her broom for a renewed assault, but the hooligans
were fleeing the yard now with a spatter of mud, a small shower of coin—"For the
churn!" Dmitri cried, to the riders' laughter; and with a second flourish of the cap: "For
the drink!" Pyetr cried, flinging more coin—and missed riding into The Cockerel's sign
by the stableyard gate only by lying back flat in his saddle, whooping with laughter.
A last spatter of mud hit the fence as the ruffians rode away.
Sasha set down his buckets, ran and picked the silver out of the mud of the gateway and
took it to aunt Ilenka, who was no more pleased than one could expect.
"Hooligans!" aunt Ilenka cried. And with a swipe of her broom at Sasha's legs: "Clean
this up!"
As if it was his fault. But most things were. He was unlucky, was Sasha Misurov; and if
aunt Ilenka's grandmother's churn was broken and the butter was gone and Pyetr
Kochevikov and his rowdy, well-born friends made a shambles of the tavern yard, why,
look to Sasha's luck, the more so since he was standing there like a fool. Thank the god
for Dmitri Venedikov's patching things up or aunt Denka would have taken the broom
to him in earnest.
And uncle Fedya…
Uncle Fedya might have said, finally, after ten years' patience, "Why do we keep the
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boy?"
Pyetr himself had no concerns. He had a belly full of drink, a fine horse he had won
yesterday at dice, he had friends with connections close to tsar Mikula himself, and
girls and women doted on Pyetr Kochevikov for his looks and his wit, all of which
fortune was so accustomed he only scarcely remembered the times he had been hungry,
and almost never remembered he had relatives in the town, since none of them had
spoken to him for years except to borrow money.
He had not been, so to say, born to wealth. But he looked to gain it.
He had not been born to manners, but he had a ready wit and a rare ability to imitate,
and the second sons and the third and seventh born, who had no prospects and less
responsibility in many a noble family of Vojvoda, found, Pyetr Kochevikov an
antidote, that was what he called himself: an antidote to ennui and a cure for too much
seriousness.
As, this evening, riding away from The Cockerel, Vasya said, "Join us at the inn," and
Pyetr winked and said, grinning, "I have other business."
Vasya understood, Vasya gave him a wink back, but foolish Ivan said, "What
business?" so Vasya and Andrei took off their caps and hit him.
"Only," said 'Mitri, "the rascal won't name the lady.—Who is this, that our Pyetr prefers
to dice?"
Pyetr said, archly, "A gentleman doesn't tell," and rode off at a brisk pace through
Vojvoda's High Market Street, to stable the newly acquired horse at The Flower, where
he lodged, and to buy a handful of sweetmeats—
Since, the weather warming, old Yurishev was off gambling with his elderly cronies,
the fair and entirely delightful Irina was, her maid had sworn, entirely unoccupied.
So Pyetr took himself around to the lady's garden gate, and climbed by the bathhouse
roof up to the lady's stairs, and so up to the upstairs balcony and the door, which the
same maid swore would be, by moonrise, unlocked.
A scant few moments later Pyetr Kochevikov was leaving the front of the house, by a
second floor window not till then unshuttered, and old Yurishev himself, sword in
hand, was pelting down his garden path and around the side of his house, shouting,
"Help, the watch! The watch!"
Pyetr fell as he landed on the muddy street, scrambled up and attempted the stables at
The Flower, but old Yurishev's retainers came around the west side of the house and
herded him back toward the east.
As their master came panting around the east corner with his sword leveled.
"Oh, damn!" Pyetr cried, slid to a scrabbling halt, writhing aside from the point, and,
putting his foot on one of lady Irina's herb pots, Pyetr fell, yelled, and rolled wildly to
rescue himself from Yurishev's frenzied thrusts.
"I have you!" Yurishev cried, stabbed again and a third time as Pyetr rolled and
scrambled for his feet, and shutters flew wide up and down the street. "Villain!"
Pyetr staggered among the remnants of the herb pots, felt something hit his side, looked
down at the improbable sight of old Yurishev's sword hilt against his waist, and looked
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Yurishev in the face, the two of them locked in a dreadful moment of shock. He yelled
aloud as Yurishev jerked the blade back through.
Perhaps the shock of the moment lingered on Yurishev. Pyetr staggered and clutched
his side, spun about and ran before the retainers could stop him, across the street and
into The Flower's stable court—bound for the back gate and the lane.
He caught his breath in the dark, leaning against the other side of The Flower's gate,
and heard the search rampaging through the stableyard, a hunt which had the stable and
his room in the upstairs of the inn yet to search.
So he started off, no brisker in his walk than any other homeward stroller, his heart
thumping from the fright and the running. He felt no pain yet from his wound, felt no
great amount of bleeding against his fingers, which encouraged him to hope that the
wound had only caught the flesh above his belt and gone straight through—it would
hurt in the morning, but it was of no great consequence, and surely would not even
hamper him three days hence.
Damn the old man! he thought. Damn Irina, who had not even had the grace to call out
a warning of ambush, who had not had the spine to advise him through her maid that
her husband was forewarned. Probably Yurishev had confronted her and Irina's
resistance had collapsed entirely. Irina might tell her husband everything, Irina might
claim the god knew what—
He saw riders pass at the end of the road, the search spread now to the streets and lanes.
"He's gone out by the back way!" he heard one rider say to another group. Then the
thief-bell started, a pealing that brought other shutters open all along the lane where he
was.
He kept to the shadows, then took a shortcut through a garden, which set a dog to
barking. He began to run, terror lending him the strength to sprint the three more blocks
to The Doe, and finally collected himself to stroll into The Doe's lantern-lit stableyard
with a calm face and pay the stableboy there to take a message to 'Mitri in the common
room—"Because I have to talk to him," he said, and added, lest the boy fear he meant
some harm to 'Mitri: "A message from his sister—" hoping that no word had come
there yet, and that the boy would take no alarm at his shortness of breath and his
shaking hands. "Hurry, boy!"
The boy went in; 'Mitri came out with him, and as the boy pointed to the shadows
where Pyetr waited, Pyetr walked forward, feeling a weakness in his knees now that he
was within reach of help, feeling the first pangs from the wound, front and back.
"You're bleeding," 'Mitri exclaimed.
"Old Yurishev's men," Pyetr said. Out of shame, he skirted around saying it had been
Yurishev himself. "The lady was under compulsion, I'm sure—"
He came close to fainting then, quite of a sudden. He caught at 'Mitri.
'Mitri shoved his hands off, stepped clear of him, unwilling, perhaps, to be taken in.
"It's not a joke, 'Mitri!"
"Is that the commotion in the streets? Yurishev's guards? They saw you?"
The thief-bell was still ringing. One could hear it all over Vojvoda.
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"They saw me, they've clipped me in the side, for the god's love, 'Mitri, don't be a prig,
I need a place to stay till this settles…"
"Not with me! Go find some place, stay away from me! I can't afford trouble like this!"
Pyetr stared at 'Mitri in shock. "Then Vasya will—"
"Not Vasya either!" 'Mitri said. "That's the thief-bell, do you hear it? Get out of here!"
"I'll ask him myself," Pyetr said, about to go straight into the inn, but 'Mitri caught his
shoulder and pulled him about so hard the pain of his side caught him and almost bent
him double.
"No," 'Mitri hissed, his face stark and terrified in the lantern light. "No! We have
nothing to do with you in anything like this! Yurishev's wife, my god! Dueling with
Yurishev's guards, man—His cousin is in the court!"
"Your sister is the tsarevna's—"
"Leave my sister out of this! Mention me, mention her name, mention my father's name
to the watch and I'll have your heart, Pyetr Kochevikov! Get away from me! Get out of
here!"
'Mitri fled back for the light of The Doe's stableyard porch, and Pyetr stood staring after
him in the same shocked bewilderment in which he had looked Yurishev in the face.
His knees began to shake beneath him. Perhaps it was the diminution of his confidence
that began to take his strength, perhaps it was that he had taken blow after blow tonight,
and he had measured his strength only to get to the inn and his friends and now he had
no idea where to go.
Only he must go somewhere. The stableboy had seen him.
The boy knew that he had had business with 'Mitri, and if he brought trouble down on
'Mitri and 'Mitri's father took a hand then he had no hope at all.
He went out the stable gate, ducked down the lane, and heard the thief-bell stop. Good,
he thought, breathless and dizzy, good, maybe the furor is dying down.
Or the thieftakers had come, and a wider hunt had begun.
He walked, felt new blood leaking through his fingers, and from time to time heard no
sound but the pounding in his ears. The pain in his back and his side made it hard to
think at all.
But his eyes made out the street—and knew the doorway and the gate farther on, that it
offered at least a hope of refuge.
He walked as far as the public well and then into the gate and inside, down the log
walk, reeled off to stand in the mud of The Cockerel's stableyard, hearing laughter
behind the light-seamed shutters of the tavern, singing and dancing and the voice of
Fedya Misurov himself calling out for another jug from the cellar.
His legs carried him away from that. Fedya Misurov would side with Yurishev,
Yurishev would have the magistrates in his pocket; and he thought, seeking the dark of
the stable, Only let me sit down a while…
… because he was not thinking clearly, and he thought that if he could lie down a while
in the dark, on the straw, he could regain his breath and his wits and think what to do or
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where he could go, or perhaps—
—perhaps make free of the horses stabled here, and absent himself from Vojvoda a
while. He had been born in Vojvoda, he had grown up in its streets, and other places
were only stories he had heard from 'Mitri and Vasya and his friends; but he was sure
there were places to go, he had his winning ways and his cleverness and he was
sanguine about his chances—
If only the pain would stop, if only he were not bleeding his life out.
He lay down mostly on his face in the straw, heard the horses moving and snorting their
alarm at his presence and the smell of blood in the dark, but the singing in the tavern
would drown that, and he lay there resting, kept telling himself that the blood was not
coming so hard now that he was lying still, that it hurt a little less.
But he was mortally afraid, because he knew he was lying to himself: blood was still
coming and he was close to fainting when the horses moved suddenly and a voice said,
"Whoa, Missy, what's the matter?"
He thought there was a light near him. He thought that he heard someone walking in
the straw, and that it was Yurishev's men and they would kill him.
But it was a boy who held a lantern over him, it was young Sasha Misurov, who stood
there with a shocked, frozen stare, and asked him, foolish question, what he was doing
there.
"I'm dying," Pyetr snapped, and tried to move, but that was a mistake. He fell down on
his face in the straw, and screamed when the boy tried to pull him over.
"I'll get my uncle," Sasha said.
"No!" Pyetr was able to say, with the straw moving against his face, with his heart
beating hard and his breath scant. His whole body was exploring the new limits of the
pain and trying to discover whether lying like that was better or worse. "No—just let
me rest here a while. Don't call your uncle. I've got some trouble. You don't want him
involved. I'll just rest, I'll be on my way in an hour or so…"
"You're bleeding," the boy said.
"I know that," Pyetr said between his teeth. "Have you any bandages?"
"For horses."
"Get them!"
The boy went away. Pyetr lay on his face in the straw trying to gather the strength to
get up again, perhaps to walk up the street and find a place to sit awhile. Perhaps he
could get the boy to collect his horse at The Flower-No. They were searching the
streets. They would have told everyone, searched his room at the inn—
The boy came back to him, the boy knelt down with a rustle of straw and said, "I've
brought some water, and some salve—"
Pyetr bit his lip, worked at the knot of his belt as he was lying, face-down and panting
in the straw. Finally, when he had the knot loose: "Do what you can, boy. I'll owe you
for this."
The boy was careful, pulled the belt free, pushed up Pyetr's shirt and took in his breath.
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"Don't gawk!" Pyetr said. "Bandage it!"
The horses snorted and moved, riders thumped into the muddy yard outside with a great
blowing of horses and a ringing of the stableyard bell.
"Ho," someone yelled. "Watch!"
"Wait!" Pyetr said. But the boy sprang up and left him, running, and Pyetr got up on his
knees and his elbows, lost his breath to the pain, and rested bent over with his head on
his arms for two or three deep breaths while he heard the boy and the riders exchange
salutations, and heard the riders say,
"Have you seen Pyetr Kochevikov?"
He despaired until the boy said, faintly and distantly, "No, sir."
"Do you know him?"
"Yes, sir, he was here today."
"Has anyone come around here?"
"No, sir, not except they went inside…"
"Check it out."
Pyetr drew deep breaths and told himself he had to take the pain and get up and hide
himself in the shadows, that even if Sasha Misurov held to his story, they might well
search the stable. He gave a heave of his arms and his back and got himself upright,
stood up, reeled sidelong and fell, thinking, Fool!—before he landed on his side.
He held back the outcry. He let his breath go. He could not get another for a moment,
or see anything past the haze, except he heard deeper voices in the yard, Fedya
Misurov's voice saying, "What did he do?"
"Murder," came the answer. "By sorcery."
"Who?"
"The boyar Yurishev himself. Master Yurishev caught him in his upstairs hall, at his
wife's door, and chased the wretch into the street before he fell dead—"
No! Pyetr thought to himself. They're lying!
"If you see him," the man said, "take no chances. There was no mark on the victim."
Men die, Pyetr thought. The fools! He was an old man!
And he waited in bitter anticipation for Sasha Misurov to speak up and say, I know
where to find him—because there was no reason Sasha should not. The stakes had risen
much too high for a stranger to risk for anyone.
But the riders took their leave and rode away.
God, he thought, is the boy still out there?
Perhaps Sasha was inside the tavern, perhaps it would still happen, the boy would hear
and tell Fedya and Fedya would say Run after them—
But he heard the elder Misurov say, "Lock the gate tonight." and young Sasha say, not
so far from the stable wall, "Yes, uncle. I will."
Pyetr let go the straw he clenched in his fists and felt his last strength leave him, so that
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tears leaked from his eyes. Every breath was edged with the pain in his back and his
side.
He saw the boy come back into the stable, saw him break into a ran to reach him. The
boy said it had been the town watch looking for him, asked him to keep still, said he
would bandage the wound and take care of him—
Pyetr had no idea why.
CHAPTER 2
« ^ »
Pyetr waked with the scent of hay and horses in his nostrils, and felt the pain that
came whenever he waked, but the night was past, dusty sunlight shafted through the
chinks of logs and the pain, thank the god, was finally bearable. He was afraid to move
and start it again. He lay there thinking about moving, he listened to sounds: the horses
doing bored, horsely things, the tavern waking up, distant shouts from mistress
Ilenka—Sasha, she was calling, take both pails, you lazy lout! A cock crowed
somewhere in the neighborhood.
Then he began to remember why he was lying here on his face in the straw, and
remembered that the tsar's law was looking for him, that old Yurishev was irrevocably
and truly dead, gone from Vojvoda where he had lived all Pyetr's life, and Yurishev's
fool retainers were claiming witchcraft—It was all too absurd: he remembered
Yurishev's shocked face in that moment that they had scared each other, and thought it
likely old Yurishev had never used a sword in his life. Probably the shock had
frightened the old man into his grave, on the spot—and as for witchcraft, good god,
Pyetr Illitch Kochevikov could hardly afford a two-kopek charm to ill-wish the old
miser, let alone hire some foreign sorcerer powerful enough to strike a man dead on the
spot—because certainly no wizard who had ever set up shop in Vojvoda could do a
thing like that.
Not at least any of the local ilk, who held forth in cramped little shops and collected
and dispensed the town's gossip for coin. If there were genuine wizards, Pyetr thought,
there were certainly none in Vojvoda. What had happened was an old man dying, and
Yurishev's guards protecting their reputations. Probably one man had offered that
inspired excuse to the inquiring magistrates, and the rest had immediately taken up on
it, that was the truth of what had happened last night. Pyetr Kochevikov believed in
human weakness far more than he believed in wizards, human weakness being
everywhere evident and sorcery being a matter, like the Little Old Man who should
ward the stables, of people's absolute will to believe in other people's responsibility.
He had profited from it. Now that same human frailty bid fair to hang him—or give
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him shorter shrift than that. The watch would run him through without a beg-your-
pardon, Pyetr Illitch… for fear of themselves dropping dead like old Yurishev.
He had to get out of Vojvoda, that was the only safety he could count on now, and to
do that he had to pass the town gates—
—where, one supposed, the drowsing gate watch occasionally did their jobs and paid
attention to who came and went. With a supposed murder in town, they might very well
be looking for him to leave, and there was certainly no chance of getting out in broad
daylight, as it was beginning to be. So there was nothing for him to do but hide in The
Cockerel's stable until dark and take his chances then—providing that he could walk,
which, he discovered as he tried to sit up, was by no means certain.
And his wound hurt, god, it hurt, although nothing—nothing so bad as it had done last
night.
"Are you all right?"
Pyetr grabbed the nearest stall rail to pull himself up. But it was only Sasha Misurov
silhouetted in the doorway, buckets in hand, and he let go and sank down against the
post.
"I brought you an apple," Sasha said. "And a bit of bread." He lifted one of the buckets
he carried. "The water's clean. It only goes into the troughs."
"Thanks," Pyetr said, not cheerfully, regretting the breakfast table at The Flower, and
his own bed and his belongings and his horse in the stables—as good as in the rnoon,
all he owned. And none of his friends wanted anything to do with him—which left only
The Cockerel's boy, who was, the whole town knew, odd—cursed with ill-luck from
his birth, the tongue-clackers said, rumors Pyetr Illitch had afforded the same credulity
as he afforded wizards, wise women, or tea leaves. The boy's parents died in a fire, the
culmination of a series of disasters which everyone recalled had begun the day the boy
was born—
Look out, people would say in The Cockerel nowadays, bumping each other's elbows, if
young Sasha put his nose into the tavern proper, spill a drop for the House-thing,
there's the neighborhood jinx with us—
He had done it in jest himself, he and his friends.
And if he was tempted on that sudden thought to reflect that his own affairs had
certainly gone wrong in young Sasha's presence-Call him a fool, but if he had had luck
anywhere in Vojvoda last night, it had been here, in Sasha Misurov's company.
"How are you this morning?" Sasha asked, squatting in front of him. Sasha fished the
bread and the apple from inside his coat and gave them to him.
"Better," Pyetr said, remembering snatches of the night, Sasha bandaging his wound
and sitting with him whenever he waked. Or maybe Sasha regularly slept in the stable.
It was possible, given the relatives' stinginess with the boy.
"They're saying," Sasha said, "that you broke into the boyar Yurishev's house last
night."
He blinked, stopped with the apple on the way to his mouth. "Visiting a friend," he
said. "I'm not a thief."
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CJCherryh-[Rusalka0l]RusalkaRUSALKACarolineJ.CherryhTheRusalkaSeriesVol.1EBookDesignGroupdigitalback-upeditionv1HTMLDecember03,2002Contents^CHAPTER1CHAPTER2CHAPTER3CHAPTER4CHAPTER5CHAPTER6CHAPTER7CHAPTER8CHAPTER9CHAPTER10CHAPTER11CHAPTER12CHAPTER13CHAPTER14CHAPTER15file:///F|/rah/C.%20J.%20Cherryh/C...

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