up north,” the captain said, “a county called Kosnick. My cousin Dónan’s the ruler there.”
“Why, I know the place!” Athanasios said. “It’s tucked between the crook of the upper Paltyrrh and the Kultúra Rivers, west of Tavársky. Very nice location. But I’d have thought that you would have marched straight south to Myláßgorod. It’s much shorter, isn’t it?”
“Well, as the crow flies, sure,” Maury said. “But the roads are just a mess these days, clogged with wagons and foot-deep mud, and Count Dónan thought we would do better by taking the barges down the Paltyrrh. We had an awful lot of rain up there this spring. It only took us a few weeks to get downstream.”
“I see.”
The priest’s clothes were beginning to dry, and even though he was sure to be sore from his fall, Afanásy was finally feeling more comfortable with his situation. A thought came to mind.
“You look as if you’ve seen quite a bit of military service,” the cleric said.
“’Bout twenty years, off and on,” the officer said, “in six-month or one-year stints. I’ve experienced a lot of action, from the barbarians to bandits to brigands.”
Athanasios nodded.
“I rather thought so,” he said. “I wonder if you could satisfy my curiosity. Part of my work involves copying documents for the king and his court. The other day I came across a military record that I couldn’t decipher. Now, you understand that I’m supposed to know these things, even when I don’t. It’s a little like handling this donkey: no one wants to hear excuses about why I can’t ride, even though I’ve had very minimal experience in recent years. So I couldn’t ask anyone there at court without looking the fool, and I put the pages aside. But a man of your great military experience just might be able to help me.”
“Anything I can do, Father Athy,” Maurin said.
“Why, thank you, Lord Maury.” The archpriest smiled. “Here’s my problem. I have an old service record that consists only of a name followed by a series of initials.” (He was referring to a document that he’d located earlier that year in the Official State Archives while investigating the mystery enveloping his own past history.)
The captain removed his hat and scratched his head. The sun was bright in the sky and beginning to heat the ground.
“Well, I have seen a few of these registers. Usually, they indicate an officer’s rank and assignment, in that order, followed by subsequent postings, if he’s been transferred to another unit.”
“Ah, so the letters ‘sl’ would be Sublieutenant?” Athanasios asked.
He had already worked that one out for himself.
“Of course,” Maury said, “and ‘fl’ is full Lieutenant, ‘cp’ Captain, ‘cm’ Commander, and so on.”
“Then what would ‘kg’ stand for?” the priest asked.
The soldier laughed. “That one’s easy,” he said, “King’s Guards! Very elite bunch, reconstituted during the wars with the northerners.”
“Of course,” Athy said, chuckling along with him, “and what about ‘dd’?”
“Hmm.” Maurin looked puzzled. “Hmm!” he rumbled again. “Well, I honestly can’t think of any unit having those initials. Now you’ve really got me interested. Just a moment,” he continued, “let me, uh, check with someone else who’s been around longer than I have. Back in a snap.”
The captain pounded further up the column, stopping to talk with an older officer leading another unit. They conversed together for a bit, and then Maurin came trotting back, smiling broadly.
“You almost had me fooled there, Athy,” he said, coming alongside the donkey. “I was right. There isn’t any troop with that designation. It means ‘Detached Duty.’ Very rare.
“Usually,” he continued, “they’re scouts or spies working directly for the king or one of the high councilors of state. They’re sometimes given passes that allow them to sequester anybody for questioning whom they wish, or to secure any goods they might need to complete their mission. Basically, they carry the authority of the king on their person.
“I’ve only knowingly met one or two in my entire career. They’re very quiet fellows, operating strictly behind the scenes. They wear no badges and have no units, and you won’t even know they exist most of the time, unless they’re forced to reveal themselves, and they really don’t like doing that. Trained killers, too, very nasty in a fight. Wouldn’t mind having a few of them with us for this ‘go,’ if you know what I mean.”
“Indeed I do,” Athanasios said absently, reeling from the impact of the information Maurin had given him. Because, if Arik Rufímovich, he who had later become Metropolitan Timotheos, had been on detached duty from the military during the period when he had delivered the child Athanasios to Saint Svyatosláv’s Monastery in May of 1166, just who was he working for then? When exactly had he joined the church? The answers to these questions, if he could find them, probably would tell him all that he needed to know about his origins.
He gradually shifted the conversation to other matters as they moved through the hazy afternoon light west of Paltyrrha. Around them the flies buzzed idly ’round and ’round, cruising in large circles about the horses and their riders and the marching infantry, knowing that they would feast that evening on horse and human dung and other assorted garbage. Life for them was very good indeed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“A MIGHTY CROP OF BASTARDS”
The column traveled about ten miles that first day, not halting until the pale orange sun was starting to set in the darkening sky.
They erected the king’s tent first, both for its symbolism as the monarch’s point of command, and even more importantly, because it contained their only reliable transit mirror. Establishing and maintaining a mobile viridaurum was notoriously difficult, even for an experienced group of Psairothi, but it was crucial to their operation to be able to communicate regularly with the capital and with the different troops now converging on Myláßgorod.
Prince Arkády was everywhere at once, frantically trying to keep the units together, and pausing for a word here and there with his officers. The experienced ones knew exactly what to do, but the rest had to be taught, step by painfully slow step. Even though they were still deep within their own kingdom, the lords had decided at the last meeting of the War Council to pretend from the very beginning that they were operating in hostile territory, as a training exercise.
Arkády kept an admiring eye on his father, as the king expertly organized the layout of the camp, based on the availability of water and the natural defenses of the place. King Kipriyán had settled down somewhat during the last few weeks, since the shock of Feognóst’s suicide. Thankfully, there had been no further incidents, although the prince was under no illusion on that score: more would follow, of that he was certain. They had all been watching each other constantly, looking for the tell-tale signs of hidden workings. Tension was high.
Soon the camp was established, with large, well-stocked tents for the officers, councilors, and major churchmen, and campfires and bedrolls for everyone else. Savory stews were already simmering over the open flames; he could
