starting to do what Sasha had said.
O my god, Pyetr thought, suddenly putting a cold, wet Mischa Misurov together with the convenience of a pile of horse blankets on the straw in the corner of the stall.
As the footsteps came up to him and his shelter vanished with a snatch of Mischa's hand and an unwelcome flood of lantern light.
Mischa yelled and leaped back, Pyetr gasped and lurched for his feet, grabbing his sword, and Mischa Misurov yelled for help and banged his way past the stall gate, out into the center aisle.
"Help!" he yelled, mostly naked, running and slipping barefoot in the straw. "It's him! It's him!"
Pyetr banged his own way out of the stall, sword in hand, overtook him with a pain that shortened his breath, tried to lay hands on him without running him through, but he missed both chances, bent double with the pain as he lost his grip. Mischa plunged out into the dark of the yard, yelling and howling that he was beset.
"Damn," Pyetr gasped, and ran for the door as Sasha came dashing in, no bucket, nothing in his hands, terror on his face. "Stop the fool!"
"I tried!" Sasha cried.
"I've got to get out of here," Pyetr said, and grabbed him. "Get me a horse!"
"There isn't time!" Sasha cried. "Come, come on!"
Sasha offered conviction and a direction. Pyetr had neither. He yielded to the pull on his arm and ran in the direction Sasha pulled him, out the west door toward the tangled area of the hay-shed and the garden.
"Fool!" he said, pulling back at the sight of the fence, hearing The Cockerel's thief-bell start to ring, hearing doors beyond the stable bang open and a score of men shouting for weapons and the watch. "This is a dead end!"
"No," Sasha said, and he committed himself to the boy and kept going, across the scattered skirt of the haystack, around behind it and up to a corner where The Cockerel's fence failed to meet that of its neighbor.
Sasha squeezed through.
"Easy for you!" Pyetr gasped, and tore his shirt doing it, left skin from his right arm on the boards, but the sounds of pursuit reaching the stable lent him strength. He ignored the pain and ran, half-doubled, the hand that held the sword pressed against the stitch in his side, while Sasha Misurov led him a fox's course through the neighbor's garden, out the neighbor's gate onto the lane that ran behind The Cockerel.
The bell was ringing, the shouts continued, and by now Pyetr was running blind, not knowing whether it was his eyes that were fading or only the shadows where they were.
"Where are we going?" he panted finally, slowing, because his sense of direction told him they were going across the hill, not down it.
Sasha gasped, waving his hands, got out: "Dmitri Venedi-kov."
"No!"
"
Who
, then? Where?"
Pyetr gulped a mouthful of air. "The gate," he said. "The town gate. That's all there is left. I've got to go away for a while—"
The haste ebbed out of Sasha. He drew two or three breaths before he said, "What are we going to do, then? Where are we going to go?"
"We" was the fact. He realized that suddenly. There was no way, considering how the blankets had been piled, that he could have gotten into that corner with the blankets atop by his own efforts. The thieftakers would know he had had someone at The Cockerel helping him, and Fedya Misurov was only fortunate it was a Misurov who had raised the alarm, or
all
the Misurovs would be involved.
"I don't know," he confessed to the boy. "Let's just get to the gate, do you mind? Then we'll see what to do."
There was a stickiness on his side. He felt his shirt clinging to his skin and hoped that it was sweat that did that. The pain was less. Or the thumping in his ears distracted him from it.
He wandered a bit as they started off. He found his sword sheath and put the weapon away, to make them a little less conspicuous. By now dogs had added their barking to the noise a
O my god, Pyetr thought, suddenly putting a cold, wet Mischa Misurov together with the convenience of a pile of horse blankets on the straw in the corner of the stall.
As the footsteps came up to him and his shelter vanished with a snatch of Mischa's hand and an unwelcome flood of lantern light.
Mischa yelled and leaped back, Pyetr gasped and lurched for his feet, grabbing his sword, and Mischa Misurov yelled for help and banged his way past the stall gate, out into the center aisle.
"Help!" he yelled, mostly naked, running and slipping barefoot in the straw. "It's him! It's him!"
Pyetr banged his own way out of the stall, sword in hand, overtook him with a pain that shortened his breath, tried to lay hands on him without running him through, but he missed both chances, bent double with the pain as he lost his grip. Mischa plunged out into the dark of the yard, yelling and howling that he was beset.
"Damn," Pyetr gasped, and ran for the door as Sasha came dashing in, no bucket, nothing in his hands, terror on his face. "Stop the fool!"
"I tried!" Sasha cried.
"I've got to get out of here," Pyetr said, and grabbed him. "Get me a horse!"
"There isn't time!" Sasha cried. "Come, come on!"
Sasha offered conviction and a direction. Pyetr had neither. He yielded to the pull on his arm and ran in the direction Sasha pulled him, out the west door toward the tangled area of the hay-shed and the garden.
"Fool!" he said, pulling back at the sight of the fence, hearing The Cockerel's thief-bell start to ring, hearing doors beyond the stable bang open and a score of men shouting for weapons and the watch. "This is a dead end!"
"No," Sasha said, and he committed himself to the boy and kept going, across the scattered skirt of the haystack, around behind it and up to a corner where The Cockerel's fence failed to meet that of its neighbor.
Sasha squeezed through.
"Easy for you!" Pyetr gasped, and tore his shirt doing it, left skin from his right arm on the boards, but the sounds of pursuit reaching the stable lent him strength. He ignored the pain and ran, half-doubled, the hand that held the sword pressed against the stitch in his side, while Sasha Misurov led him a fox's course through the neighbor's garden, out the neighbor's gate onto the lane that ran behind The Cockerel.
The bell was ringing, the shouts continued, and by now Pyetr was running blind, not knowing whether it was his eyes that were fading or only the shadows where they were.
"Where are we going?" he panted finally, slowing, because his sense of direction told him they were going across the hill, not down it.
Sasha gasped, waving his hands, got out: "Dmitri Venedi-kov."
"No!"
"
Who
, then? Where?"
Pyetr gulped a mouthful of air. "The gate," he said. "The town gate. That's all there is left. I've got to go away for a while—"
The haste ebbed out of Sasha. He drew two or three breaths before he said, "What are we going to do, then? Where are we going to go?"
"We" was the fact. He realized that suddenly. There was no way, considering how the blankets had been piled, that he could have gotten into that corner with the blankets atop by his own efforts. The thieftakers would know he had had someone at The Cockerel helping him, and Fedya Misurov was only fortunate it was a Misurov who had raised the alarm, or
all
the Misurovs would be involved.
"I don't know," he confessed to the boy. "Let's just get to the gate, do you mind? Then we'll see what to do."
There was a stickiness on his side. He felt his shirt clinging to his skin and hoped that it was sweat that did that. The pain was less. Or the thumping in his ears distracted him from it.
He wandered a bit as they started off. He found his sword sheath and put the weapon away, to make them a little less conspicuous. By now dogs had added their barking to the noise a
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