She looked round, caught the amiable eye of Oleg’s bay. The mare, obligingly, reared, squealing. All the Russian horses did. Simultaneously, they went into a very ecstasy of fear, bucking, heaving wild-eyed on their pickets, thrashing against their hobbles. All around, Vasya heard men cursing. They streamed over to the horse-lines, even Vasya’s guard. No one was looking at her. A twist, and she had yanked her wrists free. The chaos in the camp was spreading, as though the horses’ panic was infecting their fellows.

She didn’t know where Mamai’s tent lay. She ducked into the confusion of milling men and horses, put a hand on the good bay’s neck. The mare was still saddled; there was even a long knife attached to the saddlebag. “Will you carry me?” she whispered.

The bay tossed her head good-naturedly, and Vasya vaulted to her back. Suddenly she could see over the confusion. She nudged the mare forward, glancing back over her shoulder.

She could have sworn she saw Oleg of Ryazan, watching her go and saying not a word.

28.

Pozhar

VASYA WHISPERED TO THEIR HORSES of fire and wolves and terrible things. Wherever she went, she left the encampment in chaos. Campfires flared, throwing out sparks. Dozens of horses—more—were panicking all at once. Some bolted outright, trampling men with their passage; others merely reared and bucked and thrashed against their ropes. Vasya rode the bay mare through a wave of maddened creatures. More than once she was glad of the horse’s steady feet and good sense. Danger was a fizz in her throat and stomach.

Darkness and chaos, she thought, were better allies even than magic.

Drawing nearer Mamai’s tent, Vasya slid from the mare’s back. “Wait for me,” she said to the horse. The mare put her nose down obligingly. The horses here were bucking too; there were men everywhere, cursing. She gathered her courage and slipped inside Mamai’s tent, praying under her breath.

Her brother was there, alone. His arms were wrenched up and bound to the pole that held the tent. He was bare to the waist, his back raw with whip-marks; he had bruises on his face. She ran to him.

Sasha raised exhausted eyes to her face. He was missing two fingernails on his right hand. “Vasya,” he said. “Get out.”

“I will. With you,” she said. She had the knife from Oleg’s saddle; now with a single slash, she cut his bonds. “Come on.”

But Sasha was shaking his head dazedly. “They know,” he said. “That you stirred up the horses. Chelubey—said something about a bay stallion, and a mare in Moscow. He knew it was you, as soon as the noise started. They—they planned for it.” Sweat had run down into his beard; it gleamed at his temples, on his bare tonsured head. She whipped round.

They were standing in the opening of the tent: Mamai and Chelubey, watching, with men crowding behind them. Chelubey said something in his own tongue and Mamai answered. There was something avid in their stares.