He nodded. “I fled there, after the rebellion against Uzbeg-Khan was suppressed. He changed the religion of our ancestors to Islam, which I and a few other generals could not abide. How could we abandon the voices of the spirits, how could we betray the living steppe that whispered to us?"

Timur-Bey had three wives, but he loved the steppe better than any of them. He came out of his ger every morning and smiled at the golden waves that stretched from the camp to the horizon. He remained in the remote outpost even though his position among the Khan's foremost military advisors often required travel to Sarai Batu; he could not bear being away for long. He participated in enough military expeditions as it was. He was there to suppress the uprising of the Tver princes; he was there when the treaty with Muscovy was signed.

Uzbeg-Khan had done much to unite the warring tribes; the only trouble was, he wanted to abandon the religion Timur-Bey knew in his heart was true-not out of fervor or divine inspiration, but because the grass and the sky and his horse, a sturdy bay pony, spoke to him in many voices. He never set his dirty foot into a clean stream, afraid of offending the water spirits.

For several years he struggled with the new faith, but in the end he decided to leave.

"The trouble is,” he told Galina, “is that it was not easy to leave the Golden Horde. It was so big-how do you leave the world?” He smiled but his eyes remained sad. “The Muscovites were our allies, and they were a dependency, not a real part of us. So I went there."

"How long did you last?"

He shrugged. “Not long."

"I'm sorry."

"But can you blame the sheep if the wolf who stole their young in the night, who demanded the very fleece off their backs, if that wolf came among them and said, ‘I have changed, I now want to live among you as a brother'? Can you blame the sheep when the wolf said, ‘I will not eat your food or worship your God, but I want you to accept me'? Can you blame the sheep?"

"I can't,” Galina said. “Although I do not like the sheep comparison."

He bowed his head. “I sought not to offend. But you're right; judging by some of my friends, the metaphor is deficient. There were as many wolves among your own people, and the sheep were ready to riot."

"Who do you mean?"

"There is a man who used to be an Oprichnik,” Timur-Bey said.

Galina hugged her shoulders, fighting the chill this word-so old, almost meaningless now-brought with it. She thought of the Ivan the Terrible's army, the brooms and the dog heads with red tongues and milky dead eyes tied to their saddles. When they studied them in history class, she had screaming nightmares where they chased after her, the maws of the dead dogs slavering.

Timur-Bey watched her from under heavy eyelids. “It's a terrible thing,” he said. “The evil doesn't die, no matter how much you atone for it. The old evil is always fresh-four hundred years? Six? What does it matter?"

"People should be able to forget,” she answered. “Things that happened so long ago-it's meaningless. Where would we be if we forever hated those who did something wrong? Russians would still hate Tatars, Jews would hate Russians-"

"You mean they don't now?” Timur-Bey interrupted. “And you're still bothered to think about Oprichniks."

She nodded. “I'm just surprised,” she said. “I wouldn't think to find one here. I mean, why did they let him in?"

"Why did they let you in, whoever they may be?” Timur-Bey shook his head, his braid swishing across his back, back and forth. “Virtue has nothing to do with it. Only those who are damaged enough can find this place; I wish I could tell you that suffering makes people better."

"I know it doesn't,” Galina said. “It's just…"

"You wish it did."

"It would make sense, wouldn't it? Otherwise, there's no meaning."

"But there is a chance of redemption,” Timur-Bey said. “And that's all one can ask for, isn't it?"

Yakov had never seen a river like this. Black as soot, with a quiet matte surface, rippling slightly as if tremendous pressure had been building underneath. Thin wisps of fog floated over the dead river, moving with a will of their own, twisting like ribbons and then unwinding; they dipped closer to the surface and drifted up, coalesced into a massive formidable cloud and broke apart again in an endless hypnotic dance, and Yakov could not decide whether he was more disturbed by the apparent life of the fog or its mindless stereopathy.

The bank was devoid of any vegetation; not even the glowtrees dared to colonize the barren black basalt of the embankment, natural or artificial, Yakov wasn't sure. Even the pale grass recoiled from the black, slow water and the living mist roiling above it.

"How do we cross?” Yakov asked Zemun.

The cow looked at the river thoughtfully. “We wait for the boatman."

Yakov glanced at Galina over his shoulder. “Did you hear that?"

She nodded. “I told you there was a Styx down here somewhere. We should've taken Fyodor and his coin with us."

"How long until the boatman shows up?” Yakov said.

Koschey shrugged. “Whenever he damn well pleases. Takes his time, that boatman."

"David said Elena might send us a message,” Galina said. “With some rusalka or vodyanoy."

"And this will further our search how?” Koschey said.

"It won't hinder it either,” Zemun said.

Yakov watched the fog, hoping that a boat would appear out of it, gliding across the sooty surface, steered by a tall man on the stern, a long pole in his withered hands-he shook his head to dispel the vision. “Why did you think there would be a river?” he whispered to Galina. “How did you know?"

She shrugged. “There's always a river in the underworld. Or at least a bridge."

Yakov left her to talk to the Tatar-Mongol, and sat down on the bank, half-annoyed, half-relieved that he was left alone for a bit longer.

Yakov wasn't always like this, defeated in advance, dutiful out of habit. He once was a rose-cheeked youth fresh out of school who had wanted to be a policeman since he was a little kid, even though he didn't remember that the original inspiration and desire for the grey and light-blue uniform came from a rhymed illustrated children's book about a very tall policeman who had the ability to rescue cats from tall trees without any need for ladders or cherry-pickers.

He also was once a lover and a husband, an optimist; he looked to the future with his wife Tamara, a girl as pink and light-haired as he was, who worked at a textile factory and shared a small apartment with her alcoholic father and long-suffering mother, of whom Yakov only remembered that she had the most spectacular dark circles around her eyes that he had ever had the misfortune to observe.

They courted and married, and moved in with Yakov's mother, whom Tamara seemed to like more than her own, even if they did argue occasionally about insignificant things; Yakov had the feeling that both had a slight embarrassment about getting along so well, and engaged in perfunctory conflict (usually soup-related) superstitiously, to ward off the demons of serious fights.

Yakov did not like to think of that time; he both resented his wide-eyed idiocy and regretted losing it. He hated himself for changing, yet could not see how he could've avoided it. He still remembered Tamara's face, but only because his mother refused to take their wedding picture off the wall where it hung next to an icon of St Georgiy. He could never understand why his mother was so partial to the patron saint of this city, dragon or no dragon. Yakov was especially unimpressed because the dragon on the icon was puny, the size of a large dog, and wingless. His eyes usually lingered on the dragon, reluctant to move to the left and look at the glowing pink face of Tamara surrounded by the cloud of white veil. He always looked eventually.