Tales from Kalgachia - 17

The village of Uhzelgunka was located some 220 kilometres north of Schlepogora City, astride a small stream whose babbling modesty had nonetheless carved a deep gorge into the local hills over several million years. Inside this rut of exposed and weathered granite, the village's scattered buildings were nestled against the sheer face of the gorge and in many cases their interiors were tunnelled deep into it. Beneath the golden summer sun or blankets of fresh winter snow, the place overcame the Romanesque austerity of its unadorned grey dwellings and achieved an appearance which could be termed picturesque. The casual observer, without any great effort of imagination, might have effortlessly envisaged its inhabitants as a tight-knit and kindly bunch, simple in their ways and modest in their manner. The provincial bumpkins of quintessence, amiable to all and harmful to none.

Forgetting, of course, that Uhzelgunka lay deep in the heart of Laqi country. Many of its residents were indeed simple, but their reaction to visiting strangers tended to lie on a spectrum between curt civility and violent robbery. As a rule, the less power they held in the village's social hierarchy the more forgiving they would be, those toward the less fortunate end having cultivated a servile streak in themselves as a survival mechanism. These latter folk were the slow of wit, the cripples, and those fatalist depressives who had been dislodged from more jolly stations in life by finding themselves the subject of village gossip and social predation. More fortunate were those who kept their heads down and worked hard in their occupations, who had learned the art of avoiding or shedding the attentions of the village elite. More powerful than them were the cocky young men, the wild-eyed horsemen on the church partisan roll who policed the village by day and spent their nights drinking and fighting. Their prestige was bought at a price; shashka duels still happened in this part of the world as mere punch-ups did not always settle matters of honour arising from drunkenly perceived slights, and these bloody encounters tended to crimp the life expactancy of those who engaged in them. Then there was the village elite itself - the elders, partisan commanders and church laiety. By wit, strength or sheer longevity they had survived the hardships of life in Uhzelgunka, and in their safety had come to view their own arduous experiences as a necessary test of character, enabling them to perpetuate those hardships upon others without any great remorse.

But even the eyes of these privileged souls were cast at their own feet in the presence of a certain individual. Even one brother Oyatov, Credent of Uhzelgunka Parish and the village's most senior official, did not dare persist in his objections to the man whose personality, repellent as it was, had a weight greater than any law in these parts.

Burik was his name; just a word. If he had others, nobody had dared to ask. He had risen through the ranks of the local church partisans to become their commander - and technically he still was - but these days he luxuriated in his position as Credent Oyatov's Proctor, the head of the village administration. The more sycophantic of his partisan comrades had been promoted as his chief enforcers, and now they swept the parish for minor violators of increasingly impenetrable 'bylaws', imposing substantial 'fines' which, after thay had taken their cut, inevitably ended up in the possession of Proctor Burik himself. Credent Oyatov, the one man nominally capable of regulating his Proctor's excesses, had convinced himself that the Garden Physical, and its Ketheric muse, benefitted from Burik's maintenance of iron order over the fractious village rabble. In view of the simmering background of fear which had descended on the villagers' lives in varying degrees since Burik had attained office, the idea would have been an absurdity that failed to stand up to even the gentlest Ketherist theological enquiry, were it not propped up by generous financial allowances from Burik's treasury and the constant presence of the partisan goons who followed Burik everywhere and seemed to be keeping an eye on Oyatov, too. A part of Oyatov knew this all too well - indeed he had been warned of just such things at seminary - but as long as the Kalgarrand and luxury gifts kept coming, and as long as Burik's partisans kept strolling fully armed into Oyatov's church vestry without even having the decency to knock on the door, he could see no way out of the situation. The Garden would not stand to benefit if he rocked the boat, of that conclusion he was a little more sure.

For all of his intimidating presence, Burik had only made a direct threat to Oyatov once. It had happened when the first suspicious death occurred in the village, of a goat herder whom Oyatov knew to be of decent character but had suffered the misfortune of driving his goats up a narrow road while Burik's limousine was passing through, blocking its path. According to Burik, it was during the attempt to exact a 'fine' from the goat herder that the man tripped and fell from a high ledge, being killed instantly by impact with the rocks below. He had been taken directly from the site and cremated under duress by the village blacksmith, without the knowledge of the dead man's family and before the village doctor could examine the body. An old man living on the outskirts of the village near the incident site had confided to Credent Oyatov that he had heard a volley of gunshots only a few minutes after Burik's limousine had passed his cottage. After some meditation Oyatov had petitioned his superior, the Abbot of Sinegora March, to transfer Burik to another Parish - but unknown to Oyatov, the Abbot was benefitting from his own monetary relationship with Burik. The request was refused and word of it seemed to reach Burik within hours. What followed was an unpleasant visit to Oyatov in his own home by Burik, with almost all of his partisans in tow, inviting himself in through the unlocked door and firmly pressing Oyatov back into the armchair from which he had risen. With a veneer of politeness over a vodka-fume-laden breath, Burik had itemised all of his charitable favours and payments to Oyatov over the years, finally urging him to reflect on fate of his predecessor Credent, whose car has suffered an unexplained brake failure while negotiating a particularly precarious stretch of mountain road some years previously. Burik and his partisans had then left as quickly as he had arrived, the latter helping themselves to a few of Oyatov's possessions as they left the front door open and disappeared into the night. Afterwards not a word had been spoken by either party about the goat herder's death, nor the visit to Oyatov's home; indeed Burik seemed so unaffected by the occasion that Oyatov found himself wondering whether it had happened at all.

Such was the state of affairs in Uhzelgunka when Burik, a swarthy and obese man whose beady white eyes reviewed every detail of those he met, swaggered into Oyatov's vestry with three strangers in tow. A man, a woman and a girl of around eleven years old who, like most strangers in Burik's company, had taken on a faintly nervous appearance.

"Kredent Bratok," came his simmering growl, aged by years of smoking unfiltered papirosy. "May I introduce the Crossnotts. Berbert, his wife Dainty, and the pretty little girl Lyssaska. They wish to move into the village."

"Ah yes," said Oyatov, circling around his desk to shake the hands of his visitors. "I heard somebody was making enquiries."

"Heard from who?" snapped Burik, his crumpled face dropping its smug jollity instantly.

"Oh it was one of your boys," said Oyatov. "Shashuk, the fellow with the scar."

Burik emitted a grunt of acknowledgement at this answer, apparently satisfied.

"Well now," said Oyatov. "What brings you to reside in Uhzelgunka, Mister Crossnott? You're from Jollity or Katarsis, I take it?"

Berbert Crossnott nodded at the recognition of his origin in the Lywaller country further west. "Just a little outside Slavegate, brother Credent. I did work at-"

Burik cut in. "He worked at a reception camp for Froyalanish workers but since they were set free he's been out of a job. Wants a change of scenery and a quieter life so he's coming out here."

"I see," said Oyatov. "All very commendable, Mister Crossnott, but I would be remiss if I did not warn you that Uhzelgunka may not necessarily have more oppurtunities for gainful employment than Slavegate does. As far as I'm aware, all positions in the village are fil-"

"I arranged a job for him," said Burik. "He will be apprenticed to Shaytanov, the builder. Accomodation provided. He will not be a burden on the parish, I will make sure of that." The latter assurance was given in a voiceless hiss.

"Doesn't Shaytanov house his workers in old caravans behind his yard?" said Oyatov. "I'm sure Mister Crossnott wouldn't mind roughing it if he was on his own, but I don't know if such housing is... suitable for a family." He kept to himself the stories of regular fights and the occasional murder which took place behind Shaytanov's yard. "Perhaps they can lodge with a local family for a while. In the meantime Mister Crossnott and Shaytanov could build the family a proper hou-" Burik's spreading sneer stopped him short.

"I've asked around," said Burik. "Nobody's taking lodgers." It was a bare-faced lie, one of many that Oyatov had to swallow during his working day.

"Have you tried your luck in other villages, Mister Crossnott?" said Oyatov. "We'd welcome you in Uhzelgunka, of course, but we're not the easiest place for a young family to settle."

"Oh we'll manage, brother Credent," said Berbert, bouncing on his heels in an eruption of infectious jollity. "Won't we, eh?" He looked at his wife and daughter who appeared less than convinced. "Shacked up in a caravan, it'll be an adventure! I'm sure we'll find something better in time. How bad can it be?"

Oyatov bit his tongue to avoid explaining just how bad it could be.

"Anyway," said Burik to Berbert. "You will see Credent Oyatov at church but he does not like to be bothered about village affairs. For that, you come to me. With an appointment. You understand?"

"Oh yes, brother Proctor," said Berbert. "Wouldn't want to distract the Credent from his spiritual work." he flashed a smile. "I assure you we'll be in church every Byeday. I have my attendance record from Slavegate if you care to see-"

Burik waved his hand dismissively. "In Uhzelgunka we judge you by what we see. Obey the Parish bylaws and you'll be fine."

"Are there many Parish bylaws?" said Berbert. "I'd hate to find myself breaking one by accident. Perhaps you have a written copy I could see?"

"Eh, you'll pick them up," said Burik. "Now let us waste no more of the Credent's time. Gryazin!"

A young partisan, no older than a teenager, entered the vestry with a carbine slung over his shoulder. "Yes, brother Proctor!" he squeaked.

"New worker for Shaytanov, plus family. Take them to his yard. Tell him I sent them. Oh, and tell him if he doesn't cough up that fifty Millirand he owes me by the end of the week, I'll cut his son's throat."

"Yes, brother Proctor!" squeaked Gryazin, who attempted to slide his carbine off his shoulder but was stopped by Burik's hand and a shake of his head. "Ah," he adjusted his tenor as he flashed a gap-toothed grin at the Crossnotts. "If you'd like to follow me... it's not far."

Lyssaska Crossnott, as she was marched out of the vestry with her parents, felt the weight of Burik's bear-like hand descending onto her head and ruffling her hair with a disturbing sensuality, accompanied by a groan of pleasure. Mainly she was annoyed that her carefully-prepared hair was messed up, but at any rate she resolved to keep out of Burik's physical reach in future.

"Mama," she said as the family was led up a steep gravel road, "that man smells."

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Burik's house, perched atop the edge of the Uhzelgunka Gorge, was more akin to a castle in both dimensions and fortifications; a remnant of the years before Burik reigned supreme over the village below, back when he still had dangerous enemies. But even now his partisans remained on guard behind its embrasured walls, keeping a watchful eye on the slim track barely wide enough to accomodate a horse which constituted the house's only easy access. It was in the dead of night, up this track, that the partisans led Berbert Crossnott under the light of flaming torches. He saw for himself the thickness of the house's granite walls, the profusion of dubiously-acquired treasures which lined its entrance hall and many rooms. He had received the 'invitation' at short notice, and the stories of Uhzelgunka's villagers over recent days had informed him that Burik was a dangerous man to refuse. In any event, the trio of partisans who had showed up at his caravan to provide an 'escort' left him under no illusions. Like everyone else in the village, all he could do was play along.

Berbert found Burik in one of the house's many parlours, furnished with a sea of rugs and floor cushions around low tables in the Laqi style. He was hunched intently over one of the tables with two of Uhzelgunka's elder villagers. Each had a hand full of playing cards and a glass of Schlepogorskaya vodka, filled from a cluster of bottles in the middle. None of them noticed Berbert's arrival and the partisans had simply left him in the room, so he announced himself with a polite cough.

Burik's fat face instantly swivelled around like that of an owl, but his irritable expression creased into a grin in recognition of his visitor. "Mister Crossnott!" he cackled. "Very good of you to join us. Please, throw yourself down here. Help yourself to the drink, I insist..." The composure of the man, clad in a ornate silken smoking jacket and house stockings, could not have been any more different from the prowling hardball seen around the village, although his physical bulk remained faintly intimidating.

"Most kind of you to receive me, brother Proctor," said Berbert, as if he had sought the invitation. "To what do I owe the honour?"

"Eh, a new face in the village," said Burik, pouring a generous glug of vodka for himself and one for Berbert. "I like to keep a watchful eye around here. See that everyone gets along fine. It's not often that we get new folk coming in from outside Sinegora March, let alone as far as Katarsis. The people, you know, they make me out to be some kind of gangster. But he who comes to me with an honourable head about him has nothing to fear. On the contrary, he might even be rewarded! You give every indication of this, Bratok, but anyhow I would like to get to know you better. And your family."

"What a friendly welcome," said Berbert, taking the proffered glass of vodka from Burik. "Katarsis is a jolly enough place, but we didn't get anything like this. A fine house you have here, too."

"By the standards of Laqi hospitality, Bratok, this is nothing," said Burik. "We're just not as overt about it as you Lywallers. I don't know how you kept your jollity over in Slavegate, with all those degenerate Froyalaners stinking up the place."

"Oh, they know their place," said Berbert. "Even since they were emancipated. They've learned to be thankful for what little they have."

"Well at least we don't import them any more," said Burik. "All that Kalgarrand going to those lizard-eyed bandits in Shirekeep, that was the real crime. One day that maniac Zinkgraven will come for us, you know. I never understood why we should fund him and his gang. Make no mistake, by boys will be ready when his auxiliaries come rolling up the gorge."

"I suspect Zinkgraven will meet a sticky end long before he comes for us," said Berbert. "He's accumulated too many enemies in too short a time."

Burik's fat lips assumed a pensive pout. "Perhaps," he said, downing his vodka and eyeing Berbert's own glass. "Hah!" he cackled. "Look at you, sipping away at my Schlepogorskaya. We must teach you to drink like a Laqi if you want to fit in around here." He reached over and snatched Berbert's glass to refill it. "We'll try again, and this time I want to see it gone in one, eh?"

"Schlepogorskaya's not strictly my tipple," said Berbert, his face already flushing. "Not that I question your generosity in serving it to me."

"Plenty more where this came from, Bratok," said Burik, handing over the refilled glass and watching with a grin of satisfaction as Berbert succeeded in pouring all it down his neck. "Good. There will be more, but you need something to concentrate your mind. Gentlemen!" He turned to his card-playing companions. "Take your winnings and get out of here. I'll see you tomorrow night to win it all back, eh?"

Berbert's eyes widened as he noticed the old men scooping large denominations of Kalgarrand into their palms and slipping it into velvet purses before offering their pleasantries and rising to leave. Burik scooped up the table's scattered playing cards into one pack and subjected it to a half-hearted shuffle in his fat palms. "Now, you will play a little with me..." Suddenly his voice had regained some of its menace.

"Well I don't know if I can match the stakes of those gentlemen," said Berbert. "I'm not what you'd call a man of means, you see."

"Ekhh!" spat Burik. "This is no problem. You play with what you have, even if you came with empty pockets. You can write your stakes on a piece of paper."

"May we play without stakes for a while? I'm not entirely familiar with the game." Berbert shifted uncomfortably on his cushion.

"Pah! Where is your sense of adventure, eh? Your daring spirit? If you want to fit in with the Laqi, Bratok, you'll have to take the bull by the horns from the first second. Here, take another drink and find your courage..." A flash of malice crossed his eyes.

"...I insist".

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It was around the middle of the following day when a series of violent thumps on Berbert's caravan door woke him from his alcoholic blackout. With some difficulty he rose from the coarse woolen blankets, which had become coated in vomit at some point in the night, into the freezing stillness of the unheated caravan. Against the spinning, dehydrated pain in his head he steadied himself against the thin caravan walls and made his way to the door. The fresh coating of snow outside assailed his eyes with a wall of blinding white light as he creaked the door open, and for a moment all he could sense of his visitors was the sound of their laughter as the cold, grey daylight illuminated his dishevelled state. He squinted to make out their shapes against the snow - it was Burik and one of his senior partisans, the scar-faced Shashuk. Both of them bore an expression of unbridled mirth. Behind them, the scattering of labourers who usually milled around Shaytanov's building yard had disappeared. Aside from Berbert's visitors, the place was deserted.

"Mister Crossnott!" chuckled Burik. "Did we enjoy last night, eh?"

Berbert steadied himself against the caravan's slim door frame. "Most... most enjoyable," he slurred with his best attempt at a smile.

"Eh!" Burik nudged Shashuk with his elbow, "He's still drunk!" They both giggled.

"But I may need... to lay off your fine vodka for a while," said Berbert.

"Well I'm glad you had your fill, Bratok," said Burik. "Now it's time for me to have mine. My winnings, if you please."

"Ah, yes..." said Berbert. "Two hundred and fifty Millirand, was it not?"

"You remember!" chuckled Burik.

"Parts of the evening are coming back to me," said Berbert, turning to re-enter the caravan. "One moment, I'll fetch it for you."

"And the rest, eh?" said Burik.

Berbert stopped and looked back at Burik. "The rest?" he said.

"Do you not remember?"

"No. What else do I have but two hundred and fifty Millirand? You cleaned me out, until Mister Shaytanov pays me again."

"Then you do not recall signing over your pretty little daughter to me? Eh?"

"What!?" Berbert screwed up his eyes. "That's absurd... You really think I'd gamble away my own daughter?"

"Actually I didn't, until you did," grinned Burik. "But I knew you'd deny it afterwards. That is why I obtained your stake in writing." He held out the incriminating piece of paper. Berbert recognised the signature at the bottom - not his tidiest, doubtless due to the vodka, but it was his.

"Well we all do silly things on the drink..." said Berbert. "Besides, that's not legally enforceable!"

"That's where you're wrong, Bratok," said Burik. "This morning I showed it to Credent Oyatov, and he is quite content to recognise it as a legal instrument. After I... explained the situation... he was kind enough to sign a warrant transferring custody of your dear little Lyssaska to my household." He held out the warrant and watched with satisfaction as Berbert's drained face became even more pale. "I'm sure you'll agree it's a far better environment for a pretty young girl than this dirty little caravan, eh?"

As Burik spoke, Berbert felt a surge of adrenaline which did not quite cleanse his hangover, but at least put it aside. At the same time, in the corner of his vision, he noticed that the caravan's large bed which he shared with his family was, in fact, empty. Now the memory came back to him in faint fragments. As he had staggered back into the caraven the previous night, he remembered summoning his last thread of rational thought to wake them and warn them of something before he passed out. Now he knew what the warning was.

He shrugged at Burik. "Well she's not in," he said, almost falling over as the partisan Shashuk wrenched him aside to enter the caravan. Soon enough Shashuk came back to the door and shook his head at Burik.

"Very well," snarled Burik, his eyes whitening pointedly. "And now you will tell me where she can be found."

"She's probably gone for a walk with Dainty," said Berbert. "They never go far. If you wait around long enough, they'll be back."

"You're lying," muttered Shashuk. "As if you'd let the girl just come back to us. You told them to get out of the parish, didn't you?"

"But Proctor Burik saw me last night!" said Berbert. "I could barely say a single word, let alone put a sentence together. And do I look like I've been long out of bed? I don't know where they are!"

"Eh," said Burik, "it doesn't matter if you're lying. I've had my boys posted on the parish boundaries since last night, and they know this country like the backs of their own hands. They'll turn up your girl eventually."

Berbert glared at Burik. "So you planned this whole thing in advance!" he said. "Got me so drunk that I'd sign away Lyssaska, and stationed your goons around to stop her escaping!"

Burik marched up to the caravan door, wrenched Berbert bare-footed onto the snow and leaned into his face. "I resent that accusation," he growled softly, "I do not take kindly to my trained partisans being referred to as goons, and I advise you to reconsider the kind of faces you pull at me. You will have no more warnings. Understand?"

Berbert sighed, averting his eyes from Burik's bloodshot gaze which bored into him from mere centimetres away. "Very well, brother Proctor," he whispered.

Burik gently slapped Berbert's cheek with his fingertips. "That's more like it," he said. "I'll have your daughter before the day is out. Just accept it. And let's hope your wife doesn't put up a fight. For her own sake."

The distant shout of a young man came down the road. It was Gryazin, the teenage partisan. He was sprinting down the icy slush and gravel at full speed, barely keeping his footing. "Shashuk!" he shouted. "Brother Proctor!"

"What is it, boy?" said Burik.

"We found her!" wheezed Gryazin. "And her mother!"

At this, Berbert attempted to sneak back into the caravan while Burik's gaze was distracted but Shashuk saw him, brought his carbine off his shoulder, and after a moment he followed Berbert inside.

"Good," said Burik to the panting Gryazin. "Bring them both to my house."

"But..." said Gryazin as he laboured to catch his breath. "They..."

"But what, boy?" said Burik. "You'd better not be giving me bad news!"

"They..." said Gryazin, "they got away!"

Burik stomped up to Gryazin and swung a right hook straight into the side of his head, which would have knocked the lad off off his feet if he was not so accustomed to being beaten around. "Retard!" roared Burik. "What happened!?"

"She was armed, brother Proctor!" said Gryazin, clutching his head.

"Armed!?" said Burik.

"The girl's mother was armed! Submachine gun. She pretended to give herself up, then pulled it out of her coat and shot Shakalak. He's... he's dead..."

"I don't care how dead he is!" snapped Burik. "Why didn't you return fire!?"

"Karaguly returned fire, but the woman shot back and hit him. He's hurt bad. We've only just gotten him to the doctor."

"You should have left him!" said Burik. "You would have gotten back here quicker. Do you know how much time you've wasted!? Get up to Magatak's and have him get the horses ready! He has the key and the location of arms cache number six, it's on the way out. Tell him to tool his boys up with everything there! If they leave now they'll catch up with those two witches before sunset. Go as far as you need outside the parish, and remember I want the girl alive!"

"Yes, brother Proctor!" Gryazin turned and began running up the road whence he had come.

"Madam Crossnott isn't the only one who's packing," said Shashuk.

Burik turned back to the caravan. Berbert was stood outside it with his hands on his head, directed there by the insistent barrel of Shashuk's carbine. On the ground at his feet was a pistol.

"He tried to fetch that while you weren't looking," said Shashuk.

A grumble of contentment sounded from deep within Burik's chest. "Good work, Shashuk," he muttered. He surveyed Berbert's face; now devoid of the jolly naivety he had previously displayed and replaced with a cold, rock-steady gaze. "I'm beginning to think you're not an unemployed Katarsis bumpkin after all," said Burik. "And your quiet little wife can't have knocked out a three man partisan patrol on home ground without some special training. Let me guess now... Credent Verikh, my dear old nemesis from three parishes over, refuses to let bygones be bygones, so he's sent some of his more fancy operatives to settle the score. I must admit he had me fooled, using the ladies as cover and all. A dirty move that was. Still, it doesn't matter. He's about to be sorely disappointed."

"You'll wish it was Credent Verikh," said Berbert. His chirpy Lywaller accent was gone, replaced by the flat and rather severe tone spoken around Oktavyan in recent times, by the mixed-race Kalgachi.

"Ukhti..." muttered Burik with surprise, noticing the accent with a smirk. "Perhaps I missed one of the church seniors on my gift rounds in Oktavyan, then. Looks like they took it a little personally."

"Quite possibly," said Berbert. "It was the church who asked for our assistance. Don't get me wrong, they know Laqi culture as well as anyone. They'll tolerate a few despotic warlords here in Schlepogora, as long as they're enlightened despotic warlords. But by all the accounts we've heard, your depotism has been far from enlightened."

"How dare you... and who's this 'we'? Are you not part of the church?"

"We're the Prefects, Proctor Burik," said Berbert, "and we've been watching you for a long time. My arrival here was to gather the final evidence we needed to decide what to do about you... but I think I have all the evidence I need already. By the power vested in me by the Council of Perfecti, you and your partisans are hereby placed under arrest for the murder of innocents and the corruption of the Church."

Burik's beady white eyes betrayed the briefest moment of surprise, anxiety even, before he surveyed the surrounding ground. Reassured that Shashuk had failed to lower his weapon he began snorting, then howling with laughter. "You sound almost credible," he cackled. "But the Prefects don't operate like this, you idiot. And even if they do, I happen to be familiar with their representative in the March of Sinegora. We are good friends, in fact."

"Colonel Rummidge?" said Berbert. "Yes, he said it was easy to convince you he was under your thumb. He sends his thanks for that thirty Kalgarrand, by the way. It got him a new limousine."

Now Burik's face crumpled as if he were sucking on a lemon. "The ungrateful... little... SNAKE!" he roared. "We had an arrangement! He could have had so much more if he was..."

"Corruptible?" said Berbert, allowing a smile to crease his lips.

"I don't know what you're so happy about," snapped Burik. "You won't live to see your Prefect friends come after me. Nor will your fellow lady agent. You're isolated out here. As far as your bosses know, this is just an ongoing undercover job. By the time they realise you're missing I'll be out in the lawless Green, far enough away that you won't find me... and I'll have your pretty little girl in tow. Who knows where you got her from. She's obviously been your hostage, but now she can be mine."

"Hostage?," said Berbert. "The girl is one of our operatives, and a very good one she is too. Four confirmed kills and she's not even done her Urchagin yet. You think you can take her alive? She's as ready to die as I am. No... try catching her and at least one of you will end up dead."

"Eh, I'll take the chance," said Burik. "But, fortunately..." his voice became suddenly tuneful, "...I don't need to take any more chances with you."

With a casual flourish he reached inside his tunic, but the grey metal frame of his pistol had only just emerged from his lapel when a sharp, ear-splitting crack rent the air and Burik's head jerked violently forward, his eyes rolling back in their sockets. His fall revealed the back of his head, a gory maw blown wide open by the impact of the bullet that had killed him before he even hit the ground. Behind him was the crouched figure of Credent Oyatov, the smouldering barrel of his Fischer-Preiss carbine now swinging across to aim at the partisan Shashuk - but Shashuk was quicker to the draw, pacing forward and squeezing off four steady shots which threw divots of gore and tattered silk out of Oyatov's emerald robe and sent him reeling onto his back in the snow. Shashuk then whirled around to face Berbert, just in time to stare down the barrel of the pistol which Berbert had hurriedly picked up from his feet. Two shots to the torso threw off Shashuk's aim and the third punched neatly between his eyes, sending him to the ground like the proverbial sack of potatoes.

Berbert assessed the scene in a half-second and ran to the figure of Credent Oyatov, a heap of tattered green on a bed of stained, crimson red snow. The man was not quite dead, but certainly beyond saving as Berbert gathered him up in his arms. No words came, only a look of pure terror upon the Credent's face that would haunt Berbert until the end of his days - the unresolved angst of an errant cleric who had tried to redeem himself, but would never know if he had done enough. Before Berbert could find the words to reassure him, the man's eyes had glazed over and dilated, the last semblence of life escaping from them in an instant. Berbert gently laid the corpse back down, closed the eyelids and rose steadily to his feet.

"Mister Crossnott?"

Berbert reflexively brought up his pistol at the source of the call: the young partisan Gryazin. Something stopped Berbert from firing, and for a moment he did not know what it was. Then he realised Gryazin's weapon was still slung over his shoulder. The lad had no intention of killing him; in fact he had stiffened up like a deer in car headlights the moment Berbert's pistol was trained on him.

"P... please don't shoot, sir."

Berbert cautiously lowered his weapon. "I thought you were off calling reinforcements," he said.

"I was," said Gryazin, "But I heard the shooting so I came back..." he looked over at the three corpses. "Is... is he dead?"

Berbert instantly guessed which of the three bodies Gryazin meant. He nodded his head.

Gryazin stepped tentatively closer. "Are you sure?" he said.

"See for yourself," said Berbert.

This permission granted, Gryazin walked smartly over to the motionless, corpulent heap which until recently had been Proctor Burik. He could see the gaping hole in the back of the head well enough, and the spreading patch of blood on the snow around it. Still, he unslung his carbine and trained it on the corpse at point blank range. Berbert did nothing to stop the young partisan emptying his entire clip of ammunition into the body with one steady and deliberate shot after another, each one throwing up a misty haze of spattered blood which drifted with the breeze across the surrounding snow and turned it faintly pink as it settled. It was only when Gryazin reached into his pocket to load a second clip that Berbert spoke up:

"Don't you think you should leave something for the others to see?"

Gryazin nodded and put the rifle back on his shoulder. "Sorry," he muttered. "I had to be sure."

"Well the others need to be sure too."

Gryazin nodded again, unabel to take his eyes off what remained of Burik.

"Sorry about your comrades," said Berbert. "Operative Adrestia... I mean Dainty... would only have been protecting the girl."

"They deserved it," said Gryazin, seemingly slipping in and out of a trance. "They've bullied me since I was old enough to walk. And Shashuk over there... he was worse." His eyes found a moment of focus on those of Berbert. "Will you deal with Karaguly, if he gets better?"

Berbert nodded. "I'll make sure he doesn't get better at all... if you can help me find some of the other criminal elements in this village."

"Are you some kind of Church official?"

"I'm with the Prefects."

"Good... because I don't know if I trust the Church. Not since HE started protecting Burik." Gryazin indicated the body of Credent Oyatov.

"The Church remains sound, young man," said Berbert. "Your Credent here wasn't a bad man, just a little weak.... but I think he's paid for that deficiency, don't you?"

Gryazin said nothing. One by one, curious villagers were beginning to emerge from the cottages opposite Shaytanov's yard, some armed partisans among them. Nobody brandished their weapons, nor did they even speak - only looked upon the corpse of Proctor Burik as Gryazin had, and dared themselves to believe that the sight was real.

A fresh flurry of snow descended then. Strangely localised, it lay a thin shroud of snowflakes upon the fallen Credent Oyatov, as if bidden by a funereal hand.