Beyond the walls of Saint Sophia, the iron semantron sounded.
Its dull summons passed through the stone, stirred the air in the book chamber, caught upon the iron of the knife, settled over the old charters, and died away.
Farther below, in Podil, another semantron answered. The sound rolled over the market stalls and rain-dark courtyards until it reached the Church of Saint Elijah and the low house beside it.
In the cell of Boris the Keykeeper, the striking iron sounded muffled, as though someone were beating metal somewhere beneath the earth. The wall trembled almost imperceptibly, and a wax tablet shifted upon the shelf.
Boris raised his head and listened for several moments, until the final stroke had faded into the wall. Then he lowered his eyes once more to the tablets spread before him. Short lines had been written on one of them in charcoal: wax, bread, grain, salt, oil.
Beside it lay a pouch of silver, far too light.
Boris passed a hand over his face. The silver left faster than it came.
Beyond the wall, in the courtyard, one of the boys gave a high, thin laugh, broke at once into a cough, and drew an angry shout.
"No running! The service will begin soon!"
Then feet began thudding across the wet boards: rough leather shoes slapped against the planks, floorboards creaked, and muffled snuffling sounded outside. The younger orphans were emerging from the annex and gathering near the church - sleepy, hungry, their hands reddened by the cold.
Boris knew those voices. The children he fed, and taught to make the sign of the cross before they learned to ask for bread, always woke before prayer.
The older tablets still bore occasional entries from the time of Grand Prince Yaroslav: flour, wax, silver, clothing from the princely household. The aid had not come every day then, but it had come reliably. After the grand prince's death, the entries grew fewer. Under Izyaslav, help still arrived, but in smaller amounts and at longer intervals.
Then it had almost ceased.
Boris looked at the tablet bearing the accounts.
Scrape at the figures all he might, no more bread would come of them.
He rose and went to the small window.
Its cloudy covering trembled faintly in the wind. Through it he could make out only a grey blur of courtyard, the indistinct shoulders of passing figures, and the dark side of an awning. Someone outside shouted at the children again. One of them answered with a quick laugh and fell silent at once.
Then a wooden bowl struck the threshold.
Boris closed his eyes.
Above the table, the lamp wick cracked and spat a spark.
Boris understood that the young prince had troubles enough of his own. Aid would not reach the orphan yard again for some time.
The door creaked softly. Simeon, the senior sacristan of Saint Elijah's, entered the cell quickly and almost without sound.
"Brother Boris," he said quietly. "A gift has come from the boyarina Irina: five sacks of grain, groats, a small barrel of honey, and silver."
Boris did not turn.
"How much silver?"
"Half a grivna. I weighed it myself."
"What is required in return?"
"Her husband and her parents are to be remembered in prayer for forty days. A lamp is to be kept burning before Saint Elijah. And when her bread is given to the orphans and travellers, the name of her family is to be spoken aloud."
"Before the people?"
Boris opened his eyes and looked at him. Simeon pulled the door more firmly shut.
"Before the people. So that all of Podil may hear whose bread feeds the orphans."
Boris gripped the cross at his breast until his knuckles whitened.
It was always the same. The wealthy purchased eternal remembrance for themselves, and he was made to smile and give thanks, because he could not refuse. The children needed bread.
"Write it down," he said wearily. "We will light the lamp today."
Simeon nodded but remained by the door.
"There is more. They refused us bread from the princely granaries again. The keeper says the same thing as before: the charter bears Grand Prince Yaroslav's authority, but there is no new seal. He will not open the storehouse until Alexander confirms the old charter or issues another."
Boris breathed out slowly and returned to the table without a word.
Simeon stood opposite him in silence while Boris took two narrow tablets from the chest, set them side by side, and ran his thumb over the old notches.
They still had provisions, but without renewed deliveries, they would not last long.
Beyond the door, the courtyard was gradually emptying. People were making their way towards the church, their voices receding. The door of the orphans' house slammed shut, and someone called after the younger children not to push.
Simeon remained silent. Boris traced the notches with one finger while the lamp crackled above the table. On one tablet the marks still ran close together.
On the other, they ended quickly.
Boris's finger stopped.
He studied the short row for several moments, then raised his eyes to Simeon.
"Did you go to the merchants?"
"I did. To the grain market, then to the flour sellers, and after that to those who once gave without making us beg for long. One offered firewood and oil. Another promised a sack of rye after the service. The rest are holding back their goods. They say they will give nothing before Easter."
Quick footsteps sounded beyond the wall. Someone was crossing the courtyard directly towards the cell without stopping at the church.
Simeon opened his mouth, then hesitated.
"We might still ask..."
The door creaked sharply.
Simeon turned at once towards the threshold. A young monk entered the cell thin, breathless, a lock of hair fallen loose from beneath his hood. Simeon's face darkened immediately.
"Ssava, were you never taught to ask a blessing before entering?"
The monk stopped at the threshold, his cheeks burning.
"Forgive me, Brother Simeon... I come from Father Ioann..."
"You have entered Boris's cell. Ask him."
Ssava faltered, as though only then remembering before whom he stood, and bowed awkwardly to Boris.
Boris raised one hand without looking at Simeon.
"Enough. Let him speak."
Simeon fell silent, though the displeasure did not leave his face.
Boris examined Ssava more closely. Mud darkened the hem of his robe, and sweat ran down his temples. The cell grew quiet until only the monk's uneven breathing could be heard.
"Speak," Boris repeated.
Ssava bowed lower, too abruptly, nearly striking his shoulder against the doorframe. He had run all the way from the book chamber and still had not decided how to begin. He had thought of nothing else as he ran, yet none of the words he had prepared seemed of any use now.
"Prince Alexander came to Father Ioann. Almost alone. His guards remained at the door. He asked about lands, districts, villages... what belonged to the prince, what to the boyars, what to the monasteries. I did not remember everything, brother. He asked so much, one thing after another."
Simeon stopped rubbing the edge of the table with his palm and looked up at him. For several moments he waited for more, but Ssava said nothing.
"And that is all? The prince has visited Ioann before. It is his duty to concern himself with the land. Why did you run to us?"
Ssava opened his mouth but did not answer at once. He glanced back towards the door, as though hoping Ioann might still be standing there and explain for himself why he had sent him.
"I do not know, brother. The prince asked, and Father Ioann listened. Then he told me to go to the chanters."
Simeon did not understand at once.
The phrase was ordinary, almost empty, the kind of thing said every day in a church. Men were sent to the chanters for a melody, a list, one of the boys, or something forgotten before the service.
But Ssava was not standing with the chanters. He was standing here.
The irritation remained on Simeon's face, but no longer held as firmly.
"He said that exactly? Go to the chanters?"
"Exactly."
"He..." Simeon broke off. "Did he name us?"
Ssava said nothing. He looked not at Simeon but at Boris, trying to judge from his face how dangerous the question had become.
"No. Not in my hearing."
Boris gave no answer. Only the finger resting on the notch shifted by the breadth of a hair, then stopped again. Simeon fell silent. The fingers working through his beard went still. Slowly, he turned his head towards Boris.
"Word for word. What happened?" Boris asked.
His voice was calm, but quieter than before.
Ssava swallowed.
"Father Ioann looked at me first. He said nothing. He only looked, and I understood that he wanted me to listen. Then he said quietly, 'Go to the chanters.'"
"Did the prince hear him?" Simeon asked.
"I do not know, brother. He was standing by the shelves. He did not turn at once, as though he had heard nothing. Afterwards he looked at Father Ioann... then at me. I could not tell whether it was because of those words."
Someone ran across the courtyard beyond the wall. The footsteps faded quickly near the church porch, and once more only the three of them remained in the cell, along with Simeon's heavy breathing. He passed a hand over his beard, then lowered it.
"Then this is more than a message," Simeon said. "He is warning us."
Boris raised his eyes.
"Warning us of what?"
"The prince has come close. If everything were as it was before, Ioann would have sent him to the service, not to us."
Boris did not agree. He only looked down at the tablet before him, at the short line of notches ending so abruptly, as though something he had failed to notice might still be hidden among them.
Ssava stood by the door with his elbows pressed against his sides, trying to breathe more quietly. He waited to be dismissed, but no one looked towards him, and leaving of his own accord seemed worse than remaining.
"Brother..." Simeon kept his eyes on Boris. "What if the prince already knows? He may have gone to test Ioann. To see whom he would name."
"He does not know," Boris cut in. "If he knew, he would not have gone to Ioann."
He fell silent. His eyes met Simeon's, then shifted to Ssava.
"But he is searching."
A shadow passed behind the cloudy hide stretched across the window. Simeon followed it without meaning to and only then replied.
"Ioann will not name us."
"He will not."
"Then he will have to give the prince other names."
Boris frowned slightly.
"Whose?"
Simeon moved away from the table and stopped beside the narrow window. The grey morning light fell across one cheek, whitening the edge of his beard.
"Boyars, stewards, toll collectors."
"One will tell him about his own land and district, another about collections, a third about the crossings. And then?"
Boris gave a slight shake of his head and looked back towards the table.
Simeon remained silent by the window, staring into the courtyard. His fingers found the edge of his sleeve and held fast to it.
"He will return to Ioann."
"He will," Boris repeated. "And ask who knows the rest."
The silence stretched so long that Simeon could hear the oil crackling in the lamp.
"Ioann may give him several more names."
Boris shook his head.
"That will only widen the trail leading back to him. If they cannot answer, the prince will decide Ioann sent him astray. If they answer only half, he will ask who knows the other half."
"Then he needs someone who has seen the whole of it."
"No one man has," Boris replied. "Several do."
Simeon did not ask who. He only rubbed the bridge of his nose slowly, as though the silence itself had already given him the answer.
"We do," Boris said.
"We do," Simeon repeated quietly. "And others Ioann will not wish to name."
Boris tightened his fingers around the edge of the table. There was no safe course. Had the prince been searching only for a book, he might have been led from shelf to shelf, from charter to charter, until his interest cooled, but he was not searching for a book.
He was searching for people.
As though completing the thought for him, Simeon slowly turned from the window.
"If Ioann refuses to name them, the prince will begin looking at those Ioann is protecting."
Boris remained silent.
"He will begin with those nearest to him."
"And our people stand near Ioann at every turn."
Boris said nothing for a while, slowly drawing one finger over the old notches in the tablet.
The cell grew so quiet that the singing of the orphans could barely be heard through the thick walls: thin, high voices, uneven from cold and hunger.
At last, Boris slid the upper tablet aside, revealing the one beneath it, and breathed out heavily.
"If we wait, the prince will choose for himself where to begin," He raised his eyes. "We must go first."
Simeon drew his brows together.
"Go to the prince ourselves?"
"Ourselves."
"With the books?"
"With what I choose to bring."
Simeon bit his lip. Ssava stood beside the door, pale as unbleached cloth.
"You mean to give him what he is seeking?"
"I mean for him to take it from my hand, not from my throat."
Simeon opened his mouth to object, but could not find where to begin.
Boris rose calmly, without haste. He gathered the tablets, aligned their edges, and only then looked at them both.
"If we go to him ourselves, we will be the men who helped the prince. If he finds us himself, we will be the men who hid from him."
"And if that does not satisfy him?"
"He will receive no more."
"How will you stop him?"
Boris turned towards the chest. For a time, he studied the closed lid as though already sorting through what lay within.
"With what I will not be carrying."