Read Online The Ocean of Time by David Wingrove - Free Book Online Page A

on his return from the ‘Great Embassy’, his grand tour of the West. It’s pertinent – a story about beards – but it won’t happen for another four hundred and fifty years.
    ‘I’ll grow one,’ I say. ‘One of these days.’
    I can’t tell her why I don’t. That I couldn’t jump back, sporting a beard. Because that
would
make Hecht suspicious.
    ‘Otto?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Why didn’t you get married, back in Germany?’

171
    It’s quiet in those moments before it begins. Very quiet. The river, which, just north of Surazh, had been narrow and fast-flowing, is broader here and muddied, like a sheet of molten lead. In the heat of the early afternoon the boat moves sluggishly, the big, off-white sheet of the sail hauled down, the four oarsmen – Bakatin and his sons – heaving us at great effort through the water.
    There’s the faintest of breezes up on deck, but it’s against us, blowing from the north-east, and where Katerina and I sit in the bottom of the boat, our knees drawn up beneath us, the supporting struts of the body of the cart only inches above our heads, it’s still and stiflingly hot, like an oven.
    Bakatin and his sons are quiet, too. Oddly so, for they seem a merry bunch and prone to sing at the drop of a hat, but they’re like silent automata just now. Hung-over, maybe. For a brief moment there is nothing but the rustling of the trees on the banks to either side, the rhythmic pull of the oars through the water, which rushes and gurgles past us. The day is hot and still. And then it happens.
    There’s a massive, splintering crash up ahead, followed almost instantly by a series of huge splashes – three or four at least – that send a great wave of water back at us. At once Bakatin’s up and yelling to his sons, getting them to dig in the oars and backstroke, only as slow as we’re moving, we’re still moving too fast, the boat has too much momentum, and it crashes into the tangled barrier of fallen trees that now completely blocks the river.
    The shock throws Bakatin off his feet. He gets up, cursing, his face filled with a dark anger.
    Telling Katerina to stay where she is, I duck out from under the cart and quickly look about me. There are more than a dozen figures among the trees to our left, and a similar number to the right. Krylenko has got reinforcements.
    Things are going badly wrong. This isn’t the kind of ambush Bakatin was expecting, nor have we prepared for it. They’ve boats ready to launch on both banks, and as Krylenko’s boat pushes off from our left, I make a quick decision. Not the Kolbe, but something almost as good under the circumstances. The
staritskii.
    I’m breaking rules, I know, but sometimes it’s a question of expedience. Fists and feet won’t do right now, not with the numbers they’re throwing against us.
    I crawl back under the cart, slip the catch to the secret compartment, and reach inside. It takes me a moment to undo the strap and open the bundle, but then it tumbles out into my hand, long and smooth with its fine, needle-like nose and its thick handgrip. It doesn’t look very elegant, but it’s highly effective.
    ‘Stay where you are,’ I say to Katerina, kissing her forehead. ‘And don’t – for
any
reason – come out!’
    I turn back just in time. Krylenko’s boat is almost on us. They’re manoeuvring to place themselves directly alongside. One of his sons reaches out to grab hold of our gunwhales and secure the boat against his own, but even as he does, I aim the
staritskii
and blow his arm off from the elbow down.
    The noise out on the water is deafening and everyone turns to stare at me – Bakatin and his sons, as well as Krylenko and his men. They look to the thing in my hand, then to the screaming man’s missing arm, the severed elbow of which is spurting blood, and they don’t make the connection. They think I must have thrown something – an axe, maybe, or a very sharp knife – only there’s a strong burning smell