“We’ll take the insult,” whispered Turgenev to Mokrenko, who looked about ready to contest matters. “Rostislav Alexandrovich, we’ll take it; for now there is no choice.”
“One other thing,” said the proprietor, “there is a shortage of firewood in the town, mostly because of a shortage of labor. Even the tsar—excuse me; the former tsar—and his family, I have heard, cut their own. A very modest amount, enough to keep water from freezing, comes with your room. Beyond that, if you want to be comfortable, you can either sit in the dining room or go cut your own. If you cut extra, I’ll take the value of it off the price of your room.”
“This seems very fair, sir,” said Turgenev. “Perhaps we’ll be able to cut some extra. Is there, perchance, a place to find uncut wood or should we trek to the forest? And, on the subject of trekking, is there a good stable nearby for our horses?”
The proprietor looked right and left, carefully, then leaned close and whispered, “Were I you, I’d take your horses out of town. There’s a stable not too far east of the edge of town. But if the Bolsheviks see your horses, they’re likely to commandeer them, ‘for the revolution,’ which you may take to mean for their own convenience and profit.”
“Thank you, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Rostislav Alexandrovich, would you…”
“Be happy to, s… err… l… err… Comrade.”
Shit, I never told them my first name and patronymic.
“As my name is Maxim Sergeyevich Turgenev, I’ll make sure a dinner is saved for you. Hmmm, for the two of you; I think you should take someone else with you. Timashuk, you should be the one to go with Rostislav Alexandrovich.”
Half an hour later, the horses had been taken away, all the gear, including the ridiculous amount of gold and currency, had been moved up to the party’s rooms. These were three, plus a bath and a sort of living room. There was no proper Russian stove, such as stood at the confluence of lobby and dining room. At about two tons even the stout logs with which the hotel had been built would have given way under it. Instead, there were some smaller and less efficient heaters in the corners of the rooms.
“What do you want me to say to headquarters, s… err… Maxim Sergeyevich?” asked Sarnof. “I’ve already encoded one saying we’re here and safe.”
Turgenev dropped his voice to a whisper. “That won’t do anymore, Abraham Davidovich. For now… let me think… Line One: We’re here. Two: One man lost. Three: Royal family here. Four: We have over forty horses and five good sleighs. Five: Question: Should we try to buy rations? Six: Question: How much? Seven: There are about two hundred and two guards. Eight: Political leanings unknown. Nine: Cannot judge their competence yet. Ten: Target building is two stories and a basement. Eleven: Building area, per floor, about a fifteenth of a deyatina. Twelve: As many as two thousand and two disorganized rabble, under no command, in the town. Nothing but trouble. Encode that—don’t use the line numbers at all—and then go find the telegraph and send it off to Sweden.”
“That’s going to require consulting the novels we brought, s—comrade. We didn’t think of all this with this much specificity before we left. I may not be able to get it encoded until too late. Moreover, I think we need to follow the telegraph lines out of town, to find a place where I can tap in and send messages unseen.”
“Also, why two hundred and two guards, specifically, Maxim Sergeyevich? We don’t know to that level of accuracy. Same for two thousand and two.”
“The guards because no matter which way they read it, it will be about right. As for finding a place to tap the telegraph lines—also, come to think of it, a place to cut them—we’ll do it in good time,” agreed Turgenev. “Which is to say, we’ll look tomorrow, first thing.”
As it turned out, by the time Turgenev and Sarnof got to the telegraph station, it was closed. That meant a long, disappointed trudge back to their hotel, to an uninspired meal, which was at least hot, in a warm room, and then to cold rooms with cold beds. Mokrenko and Timashuk, the medic, made it back before dinner was over.
“Maxim Sergeyevich,” said the sergeant, sitting down at the rough table, “we are in the wrong line of work.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, yes, based on what that pirate of a stable master is charging us for the keeping of our horses. When the war is finally over, I propose we forget furs and form a company to import hay to Tobolsk. We’ll need some stout wagons, mind, as well as strong teams of horses, since hay, between Tyumen and here, seems to acquire the weight of solid gold…”
“That expensive, was it?” Money was, honestly, the least problem the team had. Even at Tobolsk prices, they were well set.
“Near enough to, yes,” answered Mokrenko. “To be fair, though, the horses already there were well cared for and, one supposes, it probably is expensive to bring hay in or even to cut it locally. I told him that our horses could forage for themselves. ‘Then let them go forage and stop wasting my time,’ the bastard answered.”
“That wouldn’t have had them at our beck and call when we need them,” Turgenev said.
“I know, which is why I agreed to the son of a bitch’s price.”
“Nothing to be done for it,” Turgenev said. “Eat up, though, you and Timashuk. The food’s… well… we’re in Tobolsk. It will do.”
“There was one bright spot,” Mokrenko said. “Pirate or not, where his business is concerned, the stable master is pretty free with information.”
Turgenev was about to kick the sergeant under the table when Mokrenko added, “Apparently, the best—well, at least the most convenient—fur wholesaler to deal with is the Stroganov concern.”
As Mokrenko and Timashuk finished their meal, the proprietor came over to their table. “You can stay here as long as you like,” he said, “but within the hour that great stove in the corner will start getting cold. As goes the stove, so goes the room. I advise buying a bottle and going to your rooms to drink yourself to sleep. Nothing else much helps with the cold.”
“I shudder to ask,” said Mokrenko, “but how much is a bottle of vodka in this place?”
“A chetvert, which is the minimum I would recommend, will cost you one hundred and thirty-five rubles.”
“Dear God,” said Timashuk.
“Everything,” said the proprietor, “costs more in Tobolsk.”
“We’ll take it,” said Turgenev. “Can we borrow half a dozen glasses, while we’re at it?”
“Surely. Those are already paid for and, unless you break one, I won’t have to pay more for them.”
Once arrived at the central sitting room of their suite, and after a quick check for chinks in the walls through which they might be heard, the lieutenant said, “We’ve never worked out where we’re going to sleep. There are only three beds, all doubles.”
“The men can share beds,” said Mokrenko. “The problem is with the girl.”
“I am sure,” she said, “that Maxim Sergeyevich is too much the gentleman to lay a finger on me. I’ll dress warmly before bed, so I do not impose on his modesty nor he on mine, and he can share a bed with me.”
Imagine my disappointment, she fumed, a few hours later, laying cold and shivering, despite her clothing, the blankets, and another body for heat, when it turned out that he is, in fact, too much of a gentleman to lay a finger on me.