Here and Now
Шрифт:
“What’s on, Jas?”
“A holiday, wife. A holiday it is. Soon we’ll be dancing kozeryika.”
His wife began crying, sweeping her tears with the apron. Never mind, let her. Better now than later on. By midday they’ll get to the tavern, the villains. Then they need to be received, pleased, doused with beer. Maybe they won’t burn it down. But first – to take Lukerda to the hideout: they’ll spoil the girl, these devil’s spawns, and who’ll need her, spoiled? And, save God, carrying a bastard, too...
Honour can’t be cleaned by a dowry.
“Jas, they’re riding!”
The taverner peered, blinking. Riding they are. The horses worn out, barely moving. Five riders on three horses. Who the hell they are? Not alike Maintz men, those have well-fed horses, and riders too...
“Jas, ‘tis Jendrich!”
What a sand-blind. Only now did Jas Misiur recognize the man sitting sideways on a chestnut mare to be Jendrich, nicknamed Dry Storm, the chieftain of a gang renown throughout Opolie. So this is the one who attacked the Maintz men! Probably he’d thought to intercept a train but ran into something else. Handsome Jendrich, known for his proud seat, now looked like a wet chicken. Had it not been for the second rider who’d helped him, he would’ve fallen from his horse. With his moustache into the dust. And his face all bloody.
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.