Page 4 of A War Apart

Yakov, finishing first, wiped sweat from his brow and reached for his water skin. “You owe me a drink.”

“Day’s not over yet,” I replied. “Most rows by the end of the day? I’ll throw in one of Marya Ivanovna’s apple pirozhki if you win.”

“Deal.”

By midday we were tied, a whole row ahead of the rest of the men. A loud, clanging bell rang, signaling the dinner break, and everyone dropped their sickles where they stood. I unbuckled the belt around my own sickle, rubbing where the leather had chafed my skin. I’d have to ask Mila for some of her salve later.

Yakov shot me a grin. “Tired yet?”

“Not really.” I was exhausted and sore, but I wouldn’t admit that to him, just as I knew he wouldn’t admit how much the red skin around his wrist pained him. “You?”

“Better than them.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the rest of the men.

Yegor Miloshovich, a tenant since my grandfather had owned the land, furrowed his brow and frowned at us. “Not all of us are as young as you two.”

“But you have twice as many hands as us,” Yakov said.

Pyotr Vasilievich snorted. “And what good is that, when the sickle only needs one hand? Or none, apparently,” he added, nodding at my arm. “No, this work was made for young people. It doesn’t cause you as much pain to be in the field all day.”

Kyril Kyrilovich, my steward, stood in the shade of the trees near the field as we approached. “Does it matter who works hardest, so long as the work gets done?”

“Yes,” Yakov and I said in unison.

The steward shook his head, smiling with fatherly affection. He’d been my father’s steward before mine, and he had known me from childhood. “The water bucket’s freshly filled. We’ll take a half hour.”

I took a seat in the shade and lifted the cloth on top of my dinner basket. Marya Ivanovna, our housekeeper, hadoverpacked it, as usual. Smoked fish, black bread, and enough apple pirozhki for everyone. I passed around the pirozhki, to a chorus of approbation.

“Mary Ivanovna’s making her apple pirog for the harvest feast next week, right?” Yakov spoke through a mouthful of food.

“She always does. You’ll have to fight Mila if you want to get any, though. She’s been craving apples, and you know how she feels about sweet things.” I grinned. Despite the fact that my wife was six months pregnant, I had no doubt that she could beat Yakov in a fight, especially if he came between her and her food.

Yakov turned to Yegor Miloshovich, who sat a few feet away, deep in discussion with Kyril Kyrilovich. “What’s your son’s wife making for the feast?”

Pyotr laughed. “Don’t you think of anything but food, boy?”

I frowned at Kyril and Yegor, who hadn’t looked up at Yakov’s question. “What has you two so serious?”

Yegor’s dark face was grim, the wrinkles streaked with dust. “The soldiers in Tsebol.”

“Ah.” The tsar had stationed a large portion of his new standing army in the nearby city, and they had been a source of constant trouble for the locals. “Any news?”

Kyril shook his head. “No, and I hear they’re getting restless.”

“Restless.” Yakov spat on the ground. “That’s just how these shits are. They think the world belongs to them just because they won the war.”

Yegor Miloshovish pursed his lips. He’d chosen not to fight—with the baron out of the country, our region hadn’t been called to arms—but he was a traditionalist, of the opinion that the oldest son should inherit, no matter how cruel or incompetent that son may be, or how close in age the next son was. I didn’t agree; Borislav, the tsar for whom I’d lost my hand, had been only a couple hours younger than his twin brother Miroslav, and both kinder and more competent. Their father obviously agreed.On his deathbed, the previous tsar had named Borislav his heir, leading to the war which had culminated in Borislav’s death on the field at Barbezht.

But the war was over now, and there was no need to cause tension over past battles. “Have the soldiers done something lately?” I asked, hoping to forestall an argument—or worse—between Yakov and Yegor. Yakov was quick to take offense and quicker to respond with his fist. Despite his age, Yegor could most likely hold his own in a fight, but I preferred not to have to deal with the consequences, no matter who won.

“They burned down a cooper’s shop over his head two days ago,” Kyril Kyrilovich said.

“Bastards!” Yakov swore. “What for?”

Kyril shrugged. “Rumors being what they are, it’s hard to say, but I heard he’d refused to let them use his daughters for entertainment.”

I shuddered. The soldiers were growing bolder. I said a silent prayer to Otets that they would leave soon.

“I’d have killed them with my bare hands for that,” Yakov said, clenching his fist. His light, freckled skin was red with anger.

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