The Tetrachromat (On HOLD)

Chapter 15. The English Guests

Since the fire, the Englishmen occupied a single hut whose robust build compensated for its meagerness. Boxes, bundles and barrels of furs, wax and hemp sat at its threshold. The Englishmen inspected and cataloged the goods before either carrying them inside or moving to a growing pile of refuse outside. Whenever one of them glanced at it, he frowned deeper than an owl.

Nikola didn't look cheerful either. "Which one of you is the interpreter?"

The Englishmen stopped their shuffling and lined up in front of the hut, arms crossed, lips pursed.

The youngest of the men—in his late twenties or thereabouts, stringy, bloodless, but with a carrot-top to compensate for his pallor—stepped around a bundle of hemp. "We demand—" he began in an accented Russian.

Nikola pushed him back with a stare. "Save the demands for Moscow, Sirs. I'm here for your names and the answers. Satisfy Prince Shuiskii—and you'll be free to carry your grievances to all the four corners of the Christian world."

The interpreter chewed his narrow lips, then sat onto the bundle. It squished under his weight, emitting an acrid smell of smoke. He sighed at this unwelcome reminder of the misfortune that befell him, but there was nothing for it.

"I'm Miles Prowe, a former apprentice of the famous astrologer Elusey Bomelius. Until a few days ago—the partner of Master Giovanni Banotti, an astrologer and a physician to the Nagoy family and Prince Dmitrii of Uglich."

"The late Prince Dmitrii." Nikola's eyes burrowed into Miles' forehead. It gave the guy a shiver, which seemed to be the effect Nikola was after, since he didn't do or say anything else.

While Nikola dominated, Besson scrambled to set up in the open-air conference room. Unfortunately, it was the best he got, since the hut didn't have windows. So, he pressed his papers onto a box and grabbed his quill.

Miles then introduced the merchants of the Russian Company by names and trades—which Besson recorded and Nikola summarily ignored. The astrologer consumed his attention, and I understood why. The rest of the merchants would pass unnoticed if dressed in Russian garb, same ruddy faces, same sturdy builds. Miles was the odd one out. He had an almost comically elongated face, with high cheekbones and a slightly hooked nose. His fingers fluttered in front of his chest as he spoke.

Dmitrii's nanny accused Maria Nagaya of consorting with Miles, and I don't know... maybe it was the eyes that drew her? They were a brighter shade of green than I'd ever seen before. To me, Besson with his rounder cheeks and only a hint of unusual about his coloring—honey-gold in his hair when the sunlight touched his hair, specks of hazelnut in his irises—was prettier. He had an open-faced look, but I don't know... I couldn't figure out girls' tastes in the twenty-first century; what hope did I have in the sixteenth?

"I have on the record that you were Giovanni's apprentice," Nikola barked as soon as Miles was done with his introductions. "Now you say you were his partner?"

"Ah! Apprenticeship implies unequal expertise." Miles' fingers did a fluttery thing in front of his face, as if he was trying to catch words out of the air. "Not to speak ill of the dead, but Giovanni knew two things, and only two things."

Miles paused, expecting a question. Not a muscle moved in Nikola's face.

The Englishman sighed—tough crowd, eh?

"These two things were whoring and poisons. I required instructions in neither of those, and contributed other knowledge required in our trade, so as you may see, calling me his apprentice would be a belittlement of my position. Why, if Tsar Ivan didn't boil Master Bromelius alive over a trivial misunderstanding in Moscow... mind you, it had nothing to do with his vast knowledge... I'd never have even considered—"