The man who dunked Besson into the Volga now held him aloft to—I dunno—drip-dry? Besson writhed to fill in his burning chest with air. "Nikola! What? Why?"

"To soak off the swoon." Nikola gave Besson a shake for good measure.

So, the new guy on the scene was Nikola the Telega, Shuiskii's weapon master. Besson didn't exaggerate his size and strength. He was so enormous, that he had no trouble squeezing the throat of Besson's hired boatman in his other hand.

The unfortunate boatman bleated and clawed at the fingers that restricted his windpipe. "Nikola, Sire, l-let go! I'm innocent!"

I couldn't fault the boatman for pissing his breeches. I'd be pissing, clawing and kicking too, with the same result: no effect on Nikola.

"I swear, I didn't harm the lad! Tell him, my golden-one... Tell him, my diamond-one... Tell him I only took you across the river... as you've bid me. Tell him, precious prince, I beg you!" the boatman wailed.

Besson spat out silty river water. "The boatman speaks the truth. Nikola, please, unhand him. He's telling the truth!"

Nikola tossed the boatman out of the way, where the shocked man cowered, piling gratitude and titles on Besson. Even in his sorry state, Besson flinched. This mortification seemed weird to me.

You're a prince, aren't you? Prince Shuiskii. So, chin up. Own it!

He whimpered in response. Embarrassment and shame trickled along the bond. It's... complicated.

Alrighty then, the change of subject. Looks like your uncle's weapon master isn't sleeping off his drink. Your task is that much easier!

Nikola is twice meaner when he has a hangover.

Unaware of our inner dialogue, Nikola set Besson to his feet almost gently and brushed the front of his damp shirt, to straighten out crimps his grip put into it. He seemed alright to me, but six musketeers—brawny lads in red coats with black collars, matching hats and knee-tall boots—stood a little distance away on the docks. Perhaps they knew the particularities of their boss' mood swings?

Shuiskii armed these musketeers with actual muskets, in keeping with their name and purpose, and also—with long-handed axes. Sun reflected off the sharp edges of these practical weapons. Even though they looked less elegant than the rapiers of Duma's fame, I didn't doubt the squad was just as deadly.

One more man dallied on the dock, positioned between Nikola and the six musketeers. He was unarmed and wore a coat that belonged in a museum. Silk embroidery covered its front and high collar, as lustrous and in the same shades as the man's bald spot.

While I gawked at the coat in fascination, Besson said, "Prince Vasilii Ivanovich sends for you, Nikola."

The sharp-dresser responded instead of the weapon master. "We shouldn't keep Prince Shuiskii waiting."

His features were rat-like, down to wispy mustaches and darting eyes, but when he spoke things got done. Nikola let Besson out of his grasp, then yelled at his musketeers to uproot themselves and go on patrol.

"Make sure not to miss any mischief, but be polite about putting it down!" The entire City of Uglich on this side of the river must have heard his booming voice. Maybe it was his intent, to put the citizens on notice.

An offer of a generous payment consoled the shaking boatman. He agreed to take three men back to the monastery: Besson, Nikola and the rat-face, who introduced himself as the senior clerk of the Tsar's Clerk's Office, Matvei Koltunov.

As the boat glided across the Volga, Matvei studied Besson. "So, you are our famous lad, Besson."

Besson glanced at his feet, blushing fiercely.

Matvei went on blithely. "There was no end of confusion whether you were alive or dead. Prince Vasilii was mighty displeased with such uncertainty!"

"I'm alive by God's grace."

"Not for long though, if you don't eat something. Here, drink this at least." Matvei produced a flask from the breast of his coat and tossed it to Besson with a wink. Hopefully, this was a sign that he was glad Besson had survived the riots in Uglich.

"The liquor will finish the lad off," Nikola said. A frown cut in between the forest of his black brows like a canyon. He spat into the river to emphasize his displeasure. "Wasn't the sturdiest back home, and seems to me the Harlot-Tsarina's court was thrifty. Look at him! Lord only knows what his soul's threaded to."

Besson grabbed the flask from the grinning clerk and drank from it, despite a bucket of river water still sloshing in his gut.

"It's kvas, Nikola," Matvei said at the same moment as the sour summer brew fizzed on Besson's tongue. "Won't make a sparrow tipsy."

"Why, a sparrow? Then Besson is done for." Nikola's jibe lacked venom.

Besson studied the weapon master's face while pushing kvas around his mouth to kill the taste of the river water.

I also could have sworn there was a good-natured aspect to Nikola's smirk. Maybe Satan isn't as scary as they paint him on the church walls? The clerk handled your scary Nikola pretty well.

Nikola did not tutor him in shooting a musket, riding and fisticuffs. Besson glared at the scrawny, jolly Matvei. I didn't have the time to make nice, owing to the necessity to dodge grave bodily harm every moment in Nikola's company.

You're just envious.

Matvei squinted at Besson, either alerted by his gaze or sensing our discussion through some preternatural means. "Drink more, Besson. You're so pale, it's like you've seen a ghost."

Besson nearly choked. "I didn't!" Technically, he was correct. The man with the Greek cross was too real to be a ghost. Unfortunately, Besson turned even more ashen after his denial. You didn't have to be in his head like me to see that he was scared.

"There is this world we trot, and there's the world beyond, that of angels, devils and the dead," Matvei said. His pensive look would have sent a chill down my spine if I had one. "'Tis said a pious man can glimpse it, if he puts his soul's needs far above his body's and abstains from his daily bread. Were you fasting?"

Besson's mouth moved. Matvei leaned in, but Besson's lips produced no coherent sounds.

The clerk shrugged. "It doesn't take a holy man either. Take our Nikola. He is a sinner to the core, but when in his cups, he sees devils, shameless wenches with fishtails, and... what was it yesterday, Nikola? A two-headed serpent with bat wings?"

"Aye. Blacker than coal it was, with scales all over and teeth longer than my arm. Such a parasite, enough to turn any good Christian's stomach."

Nikola puffed out his chest and scratched it, making a show of remembering more details. Intrigued despite himself, Besson listened in. So did Matvei. Even the boatman's head turned to Nikola like a puppet's after its master pulled a string.

"The wyrm spouted mighty fire out of its snouts." Nikola belched to illustrate the fire-breathing, then splayed his tree-trunk legs. A grin split his face. The bastard enjoyed making us wait for the story. What can I say? He had a gift.

Maybe Nikola dreamed of being a bard in his childhood? Bashing skulls came after, as an outlet for creating frustrations.

Men are strange creatures. Besson sighed inwardly, philosophically.

I don't know how many new facets to the weapon master's character we'd have discovered, if the Volga stretched out to its full width at Uglich. Alas, it didn't. The boat's prow bumped into the dock by the Resurrection Monastery.

Nikola straightened to his full height and cracked his knuckles. "Wish I could have beaten the heathen serpent scum into pulp with my fists!" he roared.

Matvei's eyes twinkled. "What stopped you, brave Nikola?"

"Some bastard woke me up!"

The malicious glint in Nikola's eyes told the fate of the musketeers who shook him out of his stupor. Put into a foul mood by this memory, he barked at Besson. "What are you waiting for? The angels' trumpets? Hop on, Besson, Prince Shuiskii is waiting. Or have you forgotten all I've taught you among the wenches, nannies and their coddled babies?"

He would have cuffed Besson on the back of his head, if the latter didn't duck the blow, lunged out of the rocking boat and rolled across the boards of the dock. He got a nose full of stink and arms full of splinters for his troubles.

Nikola cackled. "You ain't gonna dodge Tatars' steel like this! You'll shame me when Tsar Fedor calls you to ride!"

Besson scrambled to his feet, biting back a curse. Since Dmitrii's death, he hadn't reflected on his future, only on salvation of his soul. However, with Dmitrii dead, there was no further need for the exiled court of Ivan's Harlot-Tsarina in Uglich. With it gone, Besson's position as a playmate to the prince and Shuiskii's spy evaporated.

A spy? Wow!

Not a very good one or even that big of a secret. Besson chuckled. I'm a Shuiskii, completely or not.

Before I could ask more, his thoughts ventured in the direction that made my heart ache. I recognized his concerns intimately. As a prince of the Shuiskii line, Besson had to serve the Tsar of All Russia as a man-in-arms. Had to go back to standing guard in the Moscow Kremlin, and... merciful Lord! Were we at war with Livonia still? Or some other place? That was an irrelevant detail. Livonia or Crimea, East or West, Muscovy was always at war, so they'll find one for Besson, like they found one for me.

Besson nearly retched Matvei's kvas as our combined opinion on being hitched into the military glory chariot. The man with the Greek cross—if he was our assassin—didn't do him any favors by slitting Dmitrii's throat.

The Lord... Lord only giveth us the burdens we can shoulder. Besson tried to reason, slipping away from me, toward shame he was so susceptible to. Men of lower breeding envy my lot whilst eking out a living from the meager soil.

In response to his self-effacing thoughts, the bells peeled at the monastery making the conversation impossible. Listless, bent by shame, Besson guided Matvei and Nikola to the monastery's gates, then the guesthouse.

Inside, Prince Vasilii sat at a low table, devouring earth-colored bread and smoked fish dressed with the blazing-green onions. At his elbow sat a cup of mead and Besson's drawing of Dmitrii's body.

See, maybe it's not all bad. I coaxed the sliver of hope that stirred in Besson to grow. If your Uncle installed you as a spy in Uglich, instead of keeping you in Moscow, maybe he doesn't mean to pack you off to war?

Besson glanced between Nikola's scowl, and Matvei's bristling whiskers. The two men appeared to him as allegories of his fate.

Perhaps, the die was already cast, and there was a place for him at court in Moscow? Surely, it had improved in the reign of gentle Tsar Fedor and enlightened Godunov over Ivan's cesspool of corruption? He needed only to prove himself indispensable to his uncle—but did the court change? And... Wouldn't I rather dodge dumb bullets than devious men?

Keep faith. A bout of camaraderie spirit overtook me. Have hope!

Then my gut sank. We were both Russians, so what hope did we have for better things? My ripped textbook emphatically said, none, though I couldn't share this revelation with Besson. I didn't even remember that Fedor was once a Tsar of Russia, let alone a gentle ruler. And Godunov—I remembered Boris Godunov, alright—but to me he was a monster, not someone recorded in the history books as enlightened.

The sight of food on uncle Vasilii's table pushed all other thoughts out of Besson's pounding head. His mouth filled up with drool, wanting to call out. Bread, for pity's sake, give me some bread! I'm starving.

"Nikola," uncle Vasilii said, pushing the plate aside and wiping his hands on bread Besson so desperately craved. "You are to go back to town and find a group of merchants from Albion. They will whine. Listen to them. Ask after their grievances. Determine what they lost during the riots and whatnot."

"Prince, my merciful Prince," Nikola said, going to his knees and crossing himself, "don't order my death, but hearken me! I'm not good for this task, for our Lord didn't equip me with much patience."

Uncle Vasilii waved his objection away. "Your great stature will instill confidence in them regarding our ability to keep order. And while they complain, don't listen. You're there to check their possessions for a Greek cross."

Nikola's great jaw opened and snapped back like a bear trap.

"Go swiftly now."

Nikola barely rushed out before Besson blurted out, "So the monks didn't find the Greek cross on Dmitrii's body?"

Matvei raised a questioning brow, but Uncle Vasilii ignored his underling's query as immaterial.

"No, no, they didn't. Instead, the holy Fathers assured me that the murdered boy was prince Dmitrii beyond doubt. That he had died of the deep cut to his throat. That his skin was otherwise white as marble and clean of bruises. That he had angelic looks and smelled sweeter than clovers instead of putrescence."

I could feel frustration build up in uncle Vasilii's voice as he listed all the things he was told. Red splotches showed in his cheeks.

"But, no, they didn't find your Greek cross in the courtyard!"

He hit the table with his fist so hard that the bowls and his wooden spoon jumped up an inch.

Besson bit his lip in consternation: the last thing he needed was to sound like a liar.

Luckily, Matvei cleared his throat, diverting Prince Vasilii's attention from the riddle of the Greek cross. "What do you have for me, Matvei?"

Matvei stopped staring at Besson with small, penetrating eyes and bowed easily. "Sire, I have a list of people to interview in the matter."

He unrolled a scroll and began reading names from it—way more names I would have imagined. His voice flowed like the Volga—pleasantly and urgently, but not too urgent.

First, came all of Dmitrii's nannies and most particularly the mother of the unfortunate Osip, Besson's friend.

Then, the entire Bityagovskis' family, also accused of Dmitrii's murder, mainly because of their love for Moscow. Their son, another one of Dmitrii's playmates, another friend of Besson's, was killed while seeking sanctuary at holy church.

Maria Nagaya, the Harlot-Tsarina and the murdered prince's mother. Her brothers, Dmitrii's uncles, Mikhail and Grigorii. Apart from being the dead boy's uncles, they also instigated riots in a drunken rage.

More names came after this, names of lesser importance and with the weaker connections to Dmitrii. They were nobles, merchants and servants. Names, names and more names. Too many to memorize, too many for Besson to put faces to, well over a hundred.

Merciful lord, Matvei must have knocked on the doors all night to weasel out a list this long!

Yeah. My mood turned more bleak the longer the list went. Yeah, they do that.

Teachers knocked on the doors of their pupils to deliver the draft notices in the dead of night and make absolutely sure nobody escaped being a patriot. This was another dangerous habit we didn't break in five hundred years.

Matvei finally paused, waiting for uncle Vasilii to absorb the list. Prince drummed his fingers on the tabletop, deep in thought.

"Last but not least," Matvei said, when he was sure this name would register. "We need to call to question Aleksei Shuiskii, commonly known as Besson."

The clerk's beady eyes tarried on Besson's face.

"Besson Shuiskii had disappeared into thin air after the prince's demise. His whereabouts remained unknown at the time of compiling this list. Hence, he's the only surviving playmate of the deceased Dmitrii."