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—"

"Did Giovanni employ these talents on Maria Nagaya's bidding?"

Miles rubbed his sweating forehead. The merchants straightened and scanned Nikola's build and size. Either they understood Russian better than they let on, or they picked up on the tension in Miles' neck. None spared a glance to Besson, but he was swelling with pride for Nikola. Pride, that I found hard to account for.

"No," Miles said after he had mulled over the dangerous inquiry. "No, never. He just peddled the medicines I prepared. After Master Bromelius' demise, I kept a lower profile, so this arrangement suited us both."

Nikola ignored the answer, but seemed to be interested in the Englishman's bobbing Adam's apple. "Did Tsarina Maria or her brothers, Grigorii and Mikhail, request poisons to be sent to Tsar Fedor, Tsarina Irina or the Regent Godunov?"

"What? No! That... that would be madness!" Miles fanned himself. "There is a unicorn's horn at the palace, from Tsar Ivan's treasure. It detects and draws the malign substances from food or drink. So, no, no, Giovanni made no poisons."

"Is that so..." Nikola said. "Record that, Besson."

Besson needed the prodding, because his thoughts bounced to Tsar Ivan's magic horn. Moscow's grapevine had it that the Tatar sorcerers avenged the fall of their two great khanates by corrupting this maverick; and someone poisoned Tsar Ivan because of this malfunction.

Because it worked in the first place. I sniggered.

Ants died when it was into their midst, a sure sign of magic. Besson sounded dead serious about this proof, so I let it go. Five hundred centuries gaped between us. Plus, Besson had to work, since Miles talked fast.

"The Tsarina family's concern was only for the well-being of Prince Dmitrii. His shaking disease and... ah.. protection against evil. I mixed his pills myself without fail, every ingredient as bequeathed to me by Master Bromelius. The boy's condition improved, you could ask anyone!"

Besson stifled a giggle. Apart from vomiting, the gilded pills didn't seem to have any positive effect on Dmitrii.

The pills are a hoax, but the unicorn is the real thing?

I told you, the ants—

I should have enjoyed his moment of healthy skepticism and kept my thoughts to myself.

Nikola, meanwhile, was barreling ahead. "What of the evil spells? Did Maria Nagaya ask for evil spells against Tsar Fedor, Tsarina Irina or Regent Godunov?" He must have memorized the questionnaire, because he didn't refer to his papers at all.

Miles licked his lips, temptation clear on his face: accuse Giovanni and be done with it. To his credit, his porcelain skin flushed red. "Giovanni didn't make such magic spells for Maria Nagaya."

"Did Mikhail or Grigoriy Nagoy ask for evil spells against Tsar Fedor, Tsarina Irina or Regent Godunov?"

Miles shifted, folded his arms across his chest, refolded them. His red hair dangled into his eyes. He pushed them back. "No!"

The exclamation held more pathos than defiance. He didn't look like a man who would hold out under torture, but when it came down to the wire... or the rack... every man was a surprise. In Besson's experience, not mine, thank goodness.

"Does any of your company own a Greek cross?"

Miles started to say, no, out of stubbornness, but Nikola grabbed his shoulder and twisted him to face the merchants. He snarled for a good measure. "Translate, you gangrenous fluke!"

With a whimper, Miles jerked away, but Nikola's fingers maintained a vise-like grip. Even before Miles finished a long, stuttering sentence in English, confusion flitted over the merchants' faces. Besson used this break to start on an elaborate letter N, and he was spot on.

No, the Englishmen didn't own a Greek cross. No, they hadn't purchased it in their travels. Their country had their own Church, the Church of England. None of them was close enough to Giovanni to know if he had a Greek cross. The unfortunate Giovanni seemed to have led a lonely life in Russia, shunned by everyone. Except, of course, Maria Nagaya, if we believed the nanny's testimony.

Do we?

Besson's thoughts continued without interruption. He dictated the things Miles had just interpreted, and scribbled, scribbled, scribbled, till his fingers cramped. The tip of his tongue peeked out of the corner of his mouth to help his concentration.

I sighed. Apparently, an incorporeal entity can envy hard work and aches, since it's a part of having a body.

"What can you tell us about Giovanni's death?" Nikola asked.

Miles expelled a ragged breath before turning his back on Nikola and joining the circle of the merchants. While they spoke among themselves in agitated voices, Nikola gazed out at the river.

Besson tried to rub an ink stain from his index finger, relieved they came to the end of the badgering sorcery questions. He didn't bother talking to me. Maybe he did the right thing, because it didn't take all that long for the Englishmen to confer. The merchants nodded in unison, cleared their throats and patted Miles on the back. This wasn't a 'great job!', rather a 'let's get it over with' patting.

Miles straightened from the huddle, turned to face Nikola and winced a little, as if he had forgotten how large the man was.

"When the troubles started, most of us fled the docks, to hide in a friend's house. Giovanni came too. It was quiet at first, but the riot grew and the shouting approached. They broke the door down, shouting for sorcerers and the heathens to come forward." Miles shuddered and stopped for a second to collect his thoughts.

"Giovanni secreted himself into a clothes chest, under a fur coat. It seemed as safe as any of our hiding places, but the mob had a boy with them..."

"What boy?" Nikola barked.

"A boy. This boy pointed right at Giovanni's hiding place, like he could see through the walls and cried, 'He's there! He's in there! Get him!'"

Miles shuddered again. "They dragged Giovanni into the street, so we couldn't see what happened, but merciful Lord, the screaming... It was horrid."

His gaze scanned past Nikola, immersed into the traumatic memory.

The rest of the merchants who were chatting quietly in English fell silent as well. Their faces turned somber.

Besson stirred from his writing. I sensed that his stomach was sinking with dread of a half-formed guess.

Go for it!

It's nonsense... Besson tried to argue. But he wasn't arguing with me, but with his own hunch, and he lost the battle. "Could... could the person who pointed at Giovanni have been a girl rather than a boy?"

"In this unruly crowd? All women hid that day for their own safety," Nikola said.

Besson and I stared at Miles' furrowed brow. The Englishman was considering the possibility.

"I couldn't see clearly from my hiding spot. It was a slight figure, dirty and swarthy. The voice was young, so I thought it was a street urchin," he said at last. "A boy."

Nikola harrumphed, like he was trying to remind the gathering he was the one asking questions here. His next question was a good one, though, so I forgave him.

"Are there any poisons in your possession capable of giving fever, red face, sweats and runs?" Nikola asked.

Besson leaned forward without interrupting his writing. I would do the same, if I could, since this described Dmitrii's servants' affliction on the day of the murder and Miles paled even more, though I didn't think it was possible.