“How’s that?”
“They weren’t able to plant the goods on him last night.”
“What’s going on with all of you?! Why didn’t you say anything, you chicken ass?”
“We waited till the very end, but his security is top-notch, three caps.”
“Batya knows?”
“Nunh-unh. Komiaga, please tell Batya, will you? He’s still mad at me because of the tradesmen. I’m scared. I’ll make it up to you, don’t worry.”
I call Batya. His wide, red-bearded face appears to the right of the steering wheel.
“Hello, Batya.”
“Greetings, Komiaga. Ready?”
“I’m always ready, Batya, but our guys put their foot in it. They couldn’t plant any treasonous literature on the nobleman.”
“Oh, we don’t need to anymore.” Batya yawns, showing his strong, healthy teeth. “He can be toppled without that. He’s naked. Only here’s the thing: don’t mutilate the family, got it?”
“Got it.” I nod, turning off Batya and turning on Posokha. “You hear that?”
“I heard!” He grins with relief. “Thank the Lord…”
“The Lord has nothing to do with it. Thank His Majesty.”
“Work and Word!”
“And don’t be late, you bum.”
“I’m already here.”
I turn onto First Uspensky highway. Here the trees are even higher than ours: ancient, centuries-old firs. They have seen much in their time. They remember: they remember the Red Troubles, they remember the White Troubles, they remember the Gray Troubles, they remember the Rebirth of Rus. They remember the Transformation as well. We’ll be ash and fly off to other worlds, but the glorious firs of the Moscow region will stand straight, their dignified branches swaying…
Hmmm…so that’s how things shook out with the nobleman! No need to charge him with mutiny now. The same thing happened with Prozorovsky last week; now with this one…His Majesty is tough with the nobility. All right and proper. When you’ve lost your head, you don’t fret about your hair. In for a penny, in for a pound. If you raise the axe, let it fall!
I see two of our fellows ahead in red Mercedovs. I catch up and slow down. We drive in procession. We turn. We drive a bit farther and arrive at the gates of hereditary nobleman Ivan Ivanovich Kunitsyn’s estate. Eight of our cars are already there. Posokha is here, Khrul, Sivolai, Pogoda, Okhlop, Ziabel, Nagul, and Kreplo. Batya sent the heavies for this affair. That’s right, Batya. Kunitsyn’s a hard nut. To crack him you need the knack.
I park, get out of the car, open the trunk, and retrieve my wooden cudgel. The others are standing around, waiting for the command. Batya’s not here, so I’m in charge. We greet one another professionally. I look at the fence: the Streltsy from the Secret Department, sent as backup, are stationed all along the perimeter, in the forest. The estate has been surrounded since last night by His Majesty’s order. Not even a malicious mouse could scurry in, nor a wily mosquito escape.
But the nobleman’s gates are strong. Poyarok, who arrived when I did, rings the belclass="underline"
“Ivan Ivanych, open up. Open up while you’re still in one piece!”
“Without Duma officials you’ll not enter, murderers!” comes a voice out of the speaker.
“It’ll only be worse, Ivan Ivanych!”
“It won’t get any worse for me, you curs!”
What’s true is true. It can only get worse in the Secret Department. But Ivan Ivanovich doesn’t need to go there anymore. We’ll deal with him on our own. Our people are waiting. It’s time!
I walk up to the gates. The oprichniks stand still. I pound on the gates with my cudgel the first time:
“Woe to this home!”
I pound the second time:
“Woe to this home!”
I pound the third time:
“Woe to this home!”
And the oprichnina stirs:
“Work and Word! We Live to Serve!”
“Hail! Work and Word!!”
“Work and Word!!”
“Hail! Hail! Hail!”
I slap Poyarok on the shoulder:
“Go to it!”
Poyarok and Sivolai bustle about, setting a firecracker between the gates. Everyone moves back and plugs his ears.
There’s an explosion and the oak gates turn to kindling. We break in with our cudgels. Now we face the nobleman’s guards with their staves. Firearms are not allowed for defense; otherwise the Streltsy would cut the lot of them down with their cold-firing ray guns. And according to the law of the Duma, whatever servant raises a staff in defense against a raid, he shall not fall into disgrace.
We rush in. Ivan Ivanovich has a wealthy estate, the courtyard is spacious. There’s room to move around. A bunch of guards and servants awaits us. They have three dogs on chains, raring to get at us. Fighting with a horde like this is grave business. We’ll have to negotiate. A sly approach is needed to run state affairs. I raise my hand:
“Listen here! Your master won’t leave here alive anyway!”
“We know!” the guards shout. “We’ll still have to defend ourselves against you!”
“Just wait a minute! Let’s each choose one of our own for single combat! If you win, you leave without injury, with your belongings! If we win—we get everything you have!”
The guards begin to think. And Sivolai says:
“Come on, say yes while we’re still friendly. We’ll kick you out when our backup arrives! No one can hold out against the oprichnina!”
They talk among themselves, then shout:
“All right. What’re our weapons?”
“Fists!” I answer.
Their combatant comes forward: an enormous stable hand with a mug like a pumpkin. He throws off his sheepskin coat, pulls on his leather sleeves, and wipes the snot dripping from his nose. But we’re prepared—Pogoda throws his black caftan to Sivolai, shakes his weasel-trimmed hat, tosses off his brocade jacket, rolls his valiant shoulders covered in crimson silk, winks at me, and steps forward. Even our Maslo is a kid when it comes to fist-fighting. Pogoda is short, but wide in the shoulders, strong-boned, firm of grip, shifty. Hard to land one on his smooth kisser. For him it’s easy as pie to pulverize someone to chopped meat.
Pogoda looks at his opponent with mischief in his eyes, squinting, playing with his silken belt.
“So then, you clumsy oaf, ready for a trouncing?”
“Don’t brag when you go into battle, oprichnik!”
Pogoda and the stable hand circle, sizing each other up. They’re dressed differently, come from different stations, serve different masters, but if you look close—they’re made of the same Russian dough. Tough Russian people.
We’re in a circle, right up close to the servants. This is the usual in a fist-fighting arena. Here everyone’s equal—the serf and the nobleman, the oprichnik and the scribe. The fist is its own lord and master.
Pogoda chuckles and winks at the stable hand. He loosens his valiant shoulders, rolling them up and down. The lout can’t take it; he rushes him with a swing of his hefty fist. Pogoda crouches and the stable hand takes a short jab in the gut. The guy gasps, but steadies himself. Pogoda dances around, mincing like a tart. He rocks back and forth, sticks out his pink tongue. The stable hand doesn’t care for dancing, he grunts and swings again. But Pogoda’s ready for him—left punch to the jaw, right punch to the ribs. Crack! Crack! The ribs fracture. And Pogoda again dodges the meaty fist. The stable hand roars like a bear and waves his enormous arms, losing his gloves. And all for naught: once more he takes it in the gut and on the nose. Crack! The husky fellow steps back, staggering like a bear that doesn’t hibernate. He locks his hands together, roars, and cleaves the frosty air. Again all for naught! Bam! Bam! Bam! Pogoda’s fists are swift: the stable hand’s mug is already bloody, he’s got a black eye, and his nose is running red. Crimson drops fly, sparkling like rubies in the winter sun as they fall on the trampled snow.
The servants look grim. Our guys wink back and forth. The stable hand sways, his broken nose drips, and he spits out a bunch of teeth. Another blow, and another. The husky fellow stumbles backward, waves Pogoda away like a bear cub shooing bees. But Pogoda doesn’t stop: again! again! The oprichnik hits hard and strong. We whistle and hoot. The last punch, another tooth breaker. The stable hand falls flat on his back. Pogoda steps on his chest with his fashionable boot, draws a knife out of its sheath, and snick! Right across his face with a flourish! For the art of it. That’s the way it always goes nowadays. It’s like slicing through butter.