Now Yakov stood before Elina, half his face hidden beneath a growth of unshaven beard, wearing an embarrassed smile.

  “Yakov Alexeyevich, correct?” Stephan asked.

  Elina nodded again and again. Tears overflowed, and no words came out.

  The handsome Tatar watched the scene silently. Stephan turned to Yakov.

  “The councilors of Novgorod will be arriving here shortly. Is there anyone among them who might pay your ransom?”

  “I may be able to negotiate with Alexei Sobolev, my counterpart in trade,” Yakov said. “But whether he will actually pay… I cannot say.”

  Stephan turned and relayed Yakov’s answer to Norjin.

  “You’d better take this a little more seriously,” Norjin said.

  When Stephan translated those words, Yakov’s face instantly turned pale and he began to tremble.

  Norjin looked at him with open exasperation.

  “You’re merchants, aren’t you? Your life and your family’s lives are the merchandise. So how do you make someone buy it?”

  Yakov could only stare back at Norjin in fear.

  Norjin sighed. He ordered his attendants to take the women to the tent he had provided for the captives. Then he took hold of the leather cords binding Yakov and the other men’s wrists to the horses’ reins and started to walk away.

  But Yakov did not move.

  “Please wait. Look at us. Do we look like a good product?”

  Norjin stopped and looked back at him.

  Yakov forced himself to speak calmly.

  “If you were in their place… would you pay the ransom?”

  Norjin studied him.

  “Well… the packaging may be a problem. But even if you changed the wrapping, I’m not sure the contents would be worth much.”

  “Look at us,” Yakov insisted. Stephan translated quickly.

  Behind Yakov lay the blackened ruins of the burned city. Covered in soot and mud, he stood there in silence.

  Norjin looked at him—and smiled faintly with his eyes.

  “I see. If Torzhok comes as a bonus, it might be worth paying for.”

  He called for a scribe.

  “Draft an oath of submission. Make him the representative of Torzhok. The terms… yes. A transit duty of ten percent on all goods passing through here each year.”

  When Stephan translated, Yakov answered immediately.

  “Tell Novgorod fifteen percent. Five percent will remain in Torzhok. The city must be rebuilt.”

  “Done.”

  As Stephan relayed the reply, Elina could not hold herself back any longer. She rushed forward and threw her arms around her husband.

  Three days after settling in Torzhok, Zaya had already grown bored.

  She glared at Norjin. But he sat calmly by the river, holding an improvised fishing rod made from a branch, staring at the water’s surface as if nothing concerned him.

  The captives, relieved that their fate had been decided, busied themselves clearing rubble and removing bodies. The soldiers, meanwhile, passed the time gambling with dice. But since Norjin had already taken all their spending money, their wagers lacked enthusiasm.

  At this rate, both she and the men would grow soft.

  Zaya stood up and called the soldiers together. If they could hunt something along the way, all the better. She invited Norjin as well, but he seemed content to sit by the freezing riverbank.

  The river, newly freed of ice, ran thick and muddy. It was doubtful there were any fish in it at all.

  Ten days later even mounted drills had grown tiresome.

  Zaya stripped off her armor and beckoned to one of the soldiers. When she took her stance, the soldier removed his armor as well and raised his fists.

  They circled slowly, closing the distance.

  Zaya suddenly stepped in and threw a punch. Pressing forward so he could not escape, she overwhelmed him with blows and dropped him.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Another soldier stepped forward.

  His stance was too high. Instead of striking, he hesitated and kept shifting his feet. His hesitation itself became an opening.

  “Stop dancing and come at me,” Zaya snapped.

  He swung wide. She staggered him with a low kick and finished him with a straight punch.

  Her body was finally warming.

  “Next! Keep them coming!”

  Moving, sweating—that was the best way.

  She glanced at Norjin. As always, he sat there watching the line drifting in the water.

  Zaya shook her head. She could not understand what he found so fascinating.

  By early afternoon a splashing sound rose from across the river.

  A group of horses emerged along the muddy road.

  At their head rode Mayor Luka Petrovich.

  The council of Novgorod had finally arrived.

  When Luka dismounted, the man fishing by the river cast him a brief glance.

  It was the same man who had come to Novgorod before. That perfectly shaped face was not one easily forgotten.

  Luka strode straight toward Norjin.

  “We submit to the Tatars. These are our terms.”

  He handed Norjin the bundle.

  Norjin set aside his fishing rod with mild disappointment, took the bundle, and pulled out a stack of parchments. He handed them to Stephan.

  While Stephan opened them, Norjin ordered his attendants to bring Yakov.

  Zaya approached, steam rising from her body after training, and stood behind Norjin with her arms folded.

  The councilors lined up behind Luka.

  Boris Semyonovich, commander of a thousand, wore armor today and carried his sword. Apparently he had no intention of losing face to Zaya again.

  Beside Luka stood Alexei Sobolev, the grain merchant who had previously negotiated with Norjin. The bishop wore a richly embroidered mantle far grander than when he had first been introduced in Novgorod, along with a black bishop’s hat adorned with gold thread.

  The councilors’ clothing in general had grown more elaborate as well—but having come along the muddy road, their hems were caked with mud, and some even had splashes reaching their faces.

  Yakov was brought forward. His hair and beard had been neatly trimmed, and he now wore a clean caftan with a fur cloak.

  “Yakov Vetrov! You survived!” Alexei cried.

  Yakov nodded stiffly.

  “It seems we are all here,” Norjin said. “Read it.”

  “…thirty red fox pelts, thirty chipmunk pelts…”

  Stephan read aloud, glancing nervously at Norjin’s expression.

  The conditions were exactly the same as those Alexei had previously offered Norjin in Torzhok.

  “…Tatar merchants or their agents may remain for up to three months…”

  Stephan continued.

  “…and regarding this matter, further careful negotiations may—”

  Norjin raised his hand and stopped him.

  “These appear to be the same terms this gentleman brought earlier.”

  He pointed at Alexei.

  “Yes, yes. You said they were worthy offerings to God, if I recall,” Norjin added with a faint smile.

  The bishop immediately protested.

  “Novgorod offers sufficient silver to God. We always have, and we always will.”

  “I see.”

  A wicked smile appeared on Norjin’s face.

  “What substitutes are acceptable if these tribute goods cannot be prepared? What penalties apply for delayed payment? Where is tribute to be delivered? When? By what method?”

  The questions came in rapid succession.

  Stephan could barely keep up, repeatedly asking Norjin to repeat himself before translating.

  Each time he spoke, the faces of the Novgorod councilors turned from pale to ashen.

  “Who was it that said we could fool them because they were barbarians?” muttered the moneychanger Fyodor Savich.

  “Are you saying this is my fault?” barked the fur merchant Ivan Mikulich.

  “Enough! Mind yourselves!” Luka snapped, warning Stephan not to translate that remark.

  Even if they did not understand the language, it was obvious what was happening.

  Norjin stared at Luka expressionlessly.

  Luka’s face flushed.

  “I apologize. Perhaps we should return and discuss this again another time—”

  “You have come all this way through the mud,” Norjin said calmly. “Let us finish today. Especially since the mayor himself is present.”

  Norjin had no intention of letting them leave.

  Forced into responsibility, Luka muttered a blasphemous curse under his breath. The bishop quickly touched the medallion hanging from his neck.

  “Um… if I may,” Yakov said timidly. “I have managed to put together something resembling a house. Perhaps we could continue our discussion there?”

  “That would be suitable,” Norjin replied immediately. “Standing here will only make us freeze.”

  He glanced at Yakov, who nodded. He too still needed to negotiate his ransom.

  “Then we shall accept your offer,” Luka said.

  The councilors followed Yakov toward the city.

  The negotiations continued late into the night without pause.

  At last, the oath document was completed.

  In broad terms, most of the conditions matched what Novgorod had demanded, and the councilors breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  Elina began distributing warm mead, and congratulations filled the room.

  Watching the scene, Norjin raised his cup and took a sip.

  “By the way,” he said casually, “goods passing through Torzhok will henceforth be subject to a fifteen-percent customs duty. Fees will also be charged as tolls for unloading cargo and using warehouses. These are the rights of a lord. I assume you understand that this is not something to be negotiated with you.”

  When Stephan translated, the councilors stared at Norjin in shock.

  Norjin quietly set down his cup, looked around at them, and smiled.

  “Спокойной ночи.”

  Such a face—beautiful as an angel. Yet the man was a devil. Yakov squeezed his eyes shut.

  Thanks for reading!

  This chapter concludes the Novgorod arc. The next arc will move south to the Don steppe.

  It may take a little time before the next chapter is ready.