The Tetrachromat (On HOLD)

Chapter 6. Last Name on the List

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.