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Chapter Twenty-three

L59, Just Touched Down by the Ice-covered Lake

Great Lake Shishkarym

It’s very hard, thought Lieutenant Babin, to just wait for something, in the bitter cold, in the open, with no real expectation of the thing you’re waiting for ever showing up. Turgenev said they’d be here by between three and five, but . . . 

The lieutenant’s thoughts came to a sudden halt, as a bright star burst in the heavens, illuminating the underside of what could only be a gargantuan airship.

Germans, thought Babin, they overbuild everything.

“Corporal Koslov,” the lieutenant cried out.

“Here, sir.”

“Blow the charge in the ice.”

“Sir!”

“Novarikasha?”

“Here, sir.”

“Start lighting the northern signal fires. I’ll get the southern ones.”

“Sir!”

Babin trotted over to the southernmost of the beacons and picked up a can of kerosene waiting there. Taking the top off, he poured half the contents onto the wood piled four feet high, a mix of tinder, small sticks, and more substantial logs. Then he pulled from a container in his pocket a wooden match, one of perhaps a score. Bending his leg to lift a boot, Babin struck the match on the sole. Instead of tossing it, he knelt and gently moved the flaming lucifer to the kerosene-soaked tinder. He was quickly rewarded with a fireball, rushing upwards into the night, and then, shortly after, a good deal of tinder alight and moving to light fire to the small sticks.

There was a great boom roughly centered between the pyres. Shortly after the explosion, bits and pieces of ice, smaller and larger, began pelting down.

Immediately, Babin set off for the second southern bonfire. As he ran to it, he saw one of the northern pair spring to life. Within no more than five minutes, they had all four lit.

Looking up, he saw that the airship had lined itself up in the open space between the fires, and was gracefully descending.

I will tell my children about this sight. Assuming we live, of course.


Along the sides of the airship, the crew let down the leads that had been used to guide the ship out of its hangar at Jambol. Inside the passenger and cargo compartment, the ship’s exec issued a coil of rope each time as he let out one man at a time to meet with Mueller or Machinist Proll. These then led each debarked passenger to one of the leads used by the handlers on the ground, tied one end of the rope coil to the lead and, in broken, recently learned Russian, directed the former passenger to find a tree to tie the rope off to, “Tightly!”

They alternated the tying off, forward-rear-center-center-rear-forward.

It took a good deal of stumbling and no little amount of cursing before Mueller could go and stand under the control gondola to tell the skipper, “She’s tied off, sir.”

“Very good. Lieutenant Colonel Kostyshakov seems to be on the ground somewhere. Please find him and advise him that his men can unload the materiel.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Mueller?”

“Yes, sir?”

“After you find Kostyshakov, pack your bag in a hurry; you’ll be staying here with them. Next time we show up, I want them trained to tie us down in mere minutes. Work out useful signals with the exec. Also, make sure Kostyshakov understands we’ll need all his people to set us free once unloading is completed. And you are to make it happen.”

Mueller’s heart sank a bit. He tried to think of an objection but, No, he’s right that we need a more rapid and efficient tie down. And I’ve got everything I need, probably better than the Russians have, to be honest, to keep from freezing to death here. But . . . shit.

“Yes, sir.”

Tobolsk, Russia

Natalya walked along a section of rope laid out in the southeastern rented warehouse. She counted off, “. . . fourteen, fifteen, sixteen . . . window here . . . seventeen, eighteen, nineteen . . . stairs down to the basement here,” she stopped to point, “door leading to the kitchen over there.”

As she recited the latest findings from her spying in both the Governor’s House and the Kornilov House, Turgenev, Mokrenko, and Sarnof tied colored pieces of rope and cloth to the sections of rope already laid out, marking the windows in white, stairs in red, and other features in other colors. Furniture was outlined in black, but, since it tended to get moved around, was less precisely located than the walls, windows, stairs, and doors.

“Wonderful,” congratulated Lieutenant Turgenev, meaning it. The girl preened and then flushed pink. The others affected not to notice.

“There’s something else going on,” said Natalya, “but I’m not sure what to make of it.”

“Go on,” said Turgenev.

She hesitated, then began, “Two of the guards, Chekov and Dostovalov—Chekov’s the senior of the two—are involved with two of the Romanov girls, Tatiana and Olga, respectively. Anyone with eyes to see could see it. But that seems to rule out men, generally.” Because yours is a dumb sex, my very dearest. “The tsar does not see it. The tsarina is usually bed-bound, so has never had a chance to see it. But the other two girls, Maria and Anastasia, most definitely do see it. If they rolled their eyes any harder they could see the backs of their own skulls from the inside.

“It’s not a romantic connection with Tatiana, but it’s something complicated—and powerful. But for the other two . . . well . . . they’re in love. Obvious as the nose on my face. No, that’s not good enough; it’s as obvious as the hill leading to the Kremlin of Tobolsk. But . . .”

Again, Turgenev prodded, “Go on.”

“Something terrible happened to Olga, I think. Something like . . . what happened to me. And if guilt were heat, Dostavalov could heat the whole building on his own.”

Turgenev inclined his head to one side. “You don’t think that he . . . ?”

“No, I don’t. It was someone else. I overheard a couple of the guards talking about Chekov killing someone who, and I quote, ‘was in desperate need of a good dose of killing.’ But somehow it was Dostovalov’s fault, or he believes it was, even if he didn’t do it. I can’t tell you how I know, but I do know. It’s part of being a woman.” And stew on that “woman” word for a while, Maxim Sergeyevich.

Natalya glanced at Turgenev, eyebrow raised, but he didn’t challenge her self-designation.

“That’s going to complicate things, I suspect,” said Mokrenko.

“How’s that?” Turgenev asked.

“I’d be really surprised if Kostyshakov hasn’t given the word and been training the rest of the battalion to take no prisoners. It’s what I’d do in his place.”

“Sure, makes sense,” agreed the lieutenant.

“Now picture what happens when one of the rescue force is about to eliminate, say, this Chekov person, and Grand Duchess Tatiana tries to save him.”

It wasn’t hard to imagine. “Shit. Ugly.”

“She might or might not,” Natalya said. “The relationship between those two is complicated. But I have no doubt at all that Olga would stand between Dostavalov and a charging tiger, unless he overpowered her to stand between the tiger and her.”

Turgenev nodded slowly, then said, “And even if the rescue force can kill those two guards without harming the girls, what do the girls do at seeing their loves shot down? This is going to be tough enough for the rescue force without having to carry two of the Romanov girls . . .”

“They’re big girls, too,” Natalya interjected.

“. . . two of those big Romanov girls,” Mokrenko continued, without a pause, “while those girls are crying and screaming and kicking and biting, doing everything, in fact, except cooperating.”

“Where do these men sleep?” asked Turgenev.

“In the basement with the other guards,” she answered. “Of whom, by the way, there are about a hundred in each building. I couldn’t be more accurate than that, sorry.”

“Would they be missed?” Turgenev asked, adding, “No need to apologize; we haven’t been able to be any more accurate than you.”

“You’re not going to kill them, are you?” Natalya asked. “They’re really very nice men. War heroes, too, in fact. Also, there are two sailors there who care for and guard Tsarevich Alexei. They’ve done so since well before the revolution. Devoted to him, actually. Klementi Nagorny is one, Ivan Sednev the other. If you opened up a dictionary to the word ‘loyal’? There would be a little picture of Klementi Nagorny and right next to it one of Sednev. What about them?”

“Worse and worse,” Mokrenko muttered, then quickly added, “and no blame to you, Natalya. Without the information you’ve gotten . . . well . . . this thing would be a lot closer to impossible.”

Turgenev asked, “Is there anything else you can add to our rope and cloth diagram, Natalya?”

“I don’t think so,” she replied. “Not without getting out a tape measure and acting very suspiciously.”

“Fine. We’re kicking this up to higher. Rostislav Alexandrovich, let’s roll up our diagrams, put them on a sleigh, and go see the big boss.”

“There’s another problem, though,” Natalya said. “The tsarina. I don’t know if she’s actually that unwell or just playing for sympathy, but you’ve got to account for the possibility she’ll need to be carried.”

“Oh, great,” said the lieutenant, letting his forehead fall onto the fingers of his left hand. “I don’t think any of us considered that. And I suppose the tsar and their children would never leave without their mother?”

“Not a chance,” she replied.

Great Lake Shishkarym

When Turgenev and Mokrenko arrived on their sleigh at the forward assembly area, they were unsurprised to see a zeppelin there, disgorging men, equipment, and supplies, but shocked almost speechless at the size of the thing.

“You know, sir,” Mokrenko said to the lieutenant, as he pulled the reins to bring their pair of Yakut horses to a stop, “as much as anything I’ve ever seen, that airship tells me the Germans are just too dangerous to leave free. We’ve both seen how good they are, tactically, in the field, but that thing shouts that they think too big, dangerously too big.”

“First name and patronymic, Rostislav Alexandrovich, first name and patronymic.”

“Sir, we’re among our own. I won’t forget when we’re in Tobolsk, but it would be too hard to explain here.”

“All right, then, Sergeant Mokrenko. But we can’t, either of us, forget once we leave here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mokrenko stood up in the sleigh. He looked around and saw Panfil and the rest of the 37mm cannon section working with a couple of the stouter looking Yakut horses to move around their guns and limbers. Couple of days practice still needed, I think.

He was pleasantly surprised to see every man clad in white from head to foot. That makes fine sense.

Elsewhere, his own friend Kaledin seemed to be doing much the same with sleighs and pairs of the Yakuts. Not far from the lake’s edge, a very informal looking encampment was surrounded by a dozen burly guards. No one inside looked familiar. Indeed, they looked like a collection of random citizens, and none of them looked too happy about being there. I wonder . . . 

Turgenev caught sight of the commander, Kostyshakov, walking to their sleigh. “Bring the sleigh,” he said to Mokrenko.

With a shake of the reins, and a pull to one lead, the Yakuts padded off, turning themselves and the sleigh in the direction of Kostyshakov. When they were about ten or so arshini from the commander, Mokrenko pulled back, making the horses stop. Then the two of them stood and saluted, while Turgenev reported that he and Mokrenko wished “to speak to the commander.”

Kostyshakov made a come here motion with his fingertips, saying, too, “Come on, Maxim, I’m not all that formal.”

“Well, yes, sir; I know, sir,” replied the lieutenant. “But I’ve got a problem and I’m not sure how to deal with it.”

“Right, come on, let’s go to the tent. There’s hot tea there and . . .”

“Sir,” said Mokrenko, “if I may ask, who or what are those people over there being guarded?”

“Local civilians, hunters, that kind of thing, Sergeant. As soon as we landed the first group and got organized, I mounted up as many as knew how to ride and sent them out on a long sweep to drag in anyone who might have seen us or the zeppelin. Some of them are still out hunting, too, especially in the area between us and Tobolsk. But for about ten miles around here, there shouldn’t be anyone free but maybe for the odd ghost.”

“I see, sir. Thank you.”

“Sergeant Mokrenko,” said Turgenev, “I think you should come with us. You’ve got insights the commander should have.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed the sergeant, once again flicking the reins and causing the horses to walk sedately in the direction of the tent.

On the way, Turgenev related the problem with the four men, Chekov, Dostavalov, Sednev, and Nagorny. He thought he saw Kostyshakov’s face tighten a bit at the mention of the possibility Tatiana Nicholaevna might be emotionally involved with one of them. It was only a momentary dropping of the curtain, though, so the lieutenant couldn’t be sure.

Still interesting, if I really did see that.

In the tent, Daniil drew tea for the three of them. Lumps of sugar sat on a small tin plate. “So what are you suggesting?” he asked of Turgenev.

“Sir, the possibilities seem to me to be three: One, ignore the problem. This I cannot recommend. Two: Kill the four of them. Especially in the cases of Nagorny and Sednev, this I also cannot recommend. Three: We kidnap the lot and hold them.”

“Well, no,” Kostyshakov agreed, “we can’t ignore it. I’m inclined to say kidnap them if you can; kill them if you must.”

“Yes, sir, we’ll try that, then. The other thing is the Nemka.”

“What about the tsarina?” he asked. Few Russians really liked “the German woman.” “I’ve met her, you know. She’s not so bad, really, just very shy and fully aware she’s not much liked, without the first clue of what to do about it.”

“She’s going to have to be carried out of the house,” said Turgenev. “She’s alleged to be weak, sickly, and is generally bed ridden. She is usually in a wheelchair when she’s not in bed.”

“Crap,” said Daniil. “That means we can’t take her out one of the upper story windows, so we’re going to have to secure the main floor, as well. How many guard did you say were in the building?”

“We think about a hundred in each of the basements of the two buildings, sir. You would think we could be more accurate than that but we can’t. They’re not disciplined enough to be able to count those on duty and multiply for the number off duty. The town is full of discharged soldiers, half of them or more armed and still wearing uniforms and we can’t be sure which is which. They’re as poor on insignia as on discipline. We can’t count the number of squatting holes and multiply by eight because they have a little problem of shitting anywhere. Same with urinals. They tend to eat down in their basements, too, so we can’t count them at meals.”

“I’m beginning to think I should have listened to that soldier about poison gas,” Daniil muttered.

“What was that, sir?” asked Turgenev.

“Nothing important; never mind.”

“We did bring something that might be useful, sir,” Mokrenko said.

“What’s that?”

Turgenev smiled. “With the information from our little spy we were able to assemble floor plans, very accurate for the Governor’s House, maybe a little less so for the Kornilov House, for all the above ground floors. She was willing to go to the basements but I told her not to, too dangerous for a young lady and ours has already had problems enough.”

“Good,” said Daniil, “very good. We can use them to lay out a rehearsal . . .”

“No need, sir,” Turgenev said. “In the sleigh? All that rope and cord? Roll it out. Wherever there’s a loop drive in a stake and make it a ninety degree angle. That’s the layout of both floors of both houses. There is one important exception, accuracy-wise. The walls are about two arshini thick, to include the interior walls, except where there are windows and doors. Nobody will be shooting through those with anything smaller than a cannon.”

The lieutenant reached into his coat and extracted a small sheaf of papers and photographs. Handing them over, he said, “These are the codes for the cord diagrams, plus a layout of the town, and pictures of everything important in it. Also a scale of how long to get to what seemed to me the obvious target areas from the safe house and warehouses we’ve rented.”

Daniil immediately started thumbing through them. “You know, Maxim, I’d had my doubts about sending you, a mainly Military Intelligence type, to lead this mission. I was wrong.”

“Thank you, sir. The sergeant deserves as much or more credit. One other thing, sir?”

“Yes?”

“I think you and the company commanders, as well as the Fourth Company platoon leaders, ought look at the town, personally.”

“I don’t disagree. But we’d probably stand out a bit.”

“No, you won’t, sir,” said Mokrenko. “Wear army uniforms without insignia. Dirty them. Don’t bathe for a while or go roll in pig shit. Put some dirt on your faces. Address each other as comrade or first name and patronymic and no one will look twice. Like the lieutenant said, we have a safe house you can use, though I think the warehouse by the river docks would be better.”

“I can take Fourth Company’s officers with me now plus the commander of Second Company. Will the sleigh take us all?”

“Sure, sir,” Mokrenko replied. “These little Yakut horses are plenty strong enough for that.”

“Then let me round them up. We’ll leave within the hour.”

Tobolsk

It was brightly moonlit when Turgenev and Mokrenko returned to the safe house, with their five passengers, Kostyshakov, Dratvin, short, dark, and stocky, plus Cherimisov, Collan, and Molchalin, the latter of whom rarely spoke much. Back at the landing zone for the zeppelin, the rest of the force went through clearing drills under their senior noncoms.

For the five of them, Kostyshakov had decided, the safe house would invite less commentary from the neighbors than the five of them, alone, would, in an otherwise empty warehouse. With the passengers covered by a tarp, just before they entered the city proper, Mokrenko drove up Ulitsa Slesarnaya, then turned left on Yershova, and left again to enter the frozen way leading to the back yard of the safe house.

They found Natalya waiting for them. After bowing and curtseying for the presumptively august personage of their commander, she launched into what amounted to a panic-driven tirade, though the object of the tirade were the Bolsheviks.

“Since you’ve been gone,” she exclaimed, “another two hundred and fifty Bolsheviks have shown up from Omsk!” She pointed, frantically. “Right over there; across the intersection! Another group of fifty red fanatics has come from Tyumen! Supposedly another four hundred and fifty are coming from Yekaterinburg! And there’s rumor that another group is coming all the way from Moscow or, at least, at Moscow’s direction, to take the royal family elsewhere!”

Kostyshakov spoke, first taking the girl’s hand, “That’s fine. Natalya, isn’t it? The lieutenant and the sergeant have told me of your good work. We can deal with these, though it may be a little harder and bloodier than we hoped. Do you know where these new troops are staying? Do you know when the other four hundred and fifty are coming?”

“I don’t know about that four hundred and fifty,” she said. “As for the Omsk men, they’re at the Girls’ School.” Again, she pointed, “Right. Over. There. I don’t know about the other two groups. I do know that the Omsk men and the royal family’s guards are talking about cooperating to get rid of the Tyumen lot.”

“Where do rumors come from,” Kostyshakov asked, “in a place cut off by snow and ice?”

“Telegraph office,” was Turgenev’s immediate reply.

“Right. Now can we bribe or threaten them into revealing who is coming, when?”

“Bribe, I think,” said Sarnof. “Maybe a couple of hundred gold rubles to the head of the office to get the information. Although, it might, you know, be less suspicious if I took him to lunch again, one telegrapher to another.”

“Right,” agreed Daniil, again. “We’ll go with Option B. But bring enough gold with you if that doesn’t work.”

“Yes, sir. First thing in the morning . . . well, I’ll make the offer first thing in the morning. I trust the chief of the station, to a degree, but am far less sure of his underlings.”

“Now, the objectives. Tentatively, I want to send one company to take care of the Omsk detachment, less than one to secure a perimeter around both houses, one platoon to take care of the Tyumen lot, and one platoon from Fourth Company for each of the two houses.”

Turning to Turgenev, he asked, “Anything sound inherently unworkable to that?”

“No, sir, on the face of it it sounds workable.”

“Sir,” asked Shukhov, the engineer, “if there’s a small target I could conceivably rig a bomb to take the whole building out. Assuming, of course, you brought enough explosive in the zeppelin. For myself, all I’ve got left is enough to do a thorough job on the telegraph line.”

Mokrenko interjected, “Sir, while we’ve maybe enough to take on Omsk and Tyumen, plus rescue the family, we don’t have enough to take on the Yekaterinburg mob, too. What if they’re here tomorrow? What if they’re here tomorrow along with those sods sent by Moscow?”

“The short version, Sergeant, is we can’t dawdle much anymore, can we? We recon . . . get back . . . wait for the zeppelin . . . move here . . . let’s call it a week from tomorrow night. The last combat company won’t be here until just before then. And even then, we’ll have left a good deal of the reserve ammunition and the replacements detachment behind.”

“And if they get here sooner?” Mokrenko asked.

“Then we’ll have to figure something else out. Maybe hit them on the way to Tyumen, as they cart off the royal family. We have to hope, too, that their orders aren’t to murder the royal family immediately.”

“Maybe . . .” Turgenev began.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Maybe if we move now we could get in position to ambush the newcomers.”

Kostyshakov shook his head. “I like our odds of hitting them at night when they’re mostly asleep better than I like our odds of finding them as they approach, and fighting them in broad daylight.”

“Finding them won’t be such a problem,” said Turgenev. “They’ll follow the telegraph line. Defeating them . . . while being sure that none get away to warn the guards? That’s a lot tougher.”

“Oh,” Natalya interjected. “Finding them; that reminds me. Nagorny never leaves the tsarevich’s side, and Sednev rarely does. But whenever Chekov and Dostovalov are off duty and not asleep they’re usually in a little dive called ‘The Gilded Lark.’ I walked by it, earlier, to see. It’s a pretty pretentious name for what is not much more than a hole in the wall.”

“We’ll need you to take us by that, too,” said Turgenev. “In fact, while the commander and the others rest, why don’t you take myself and Rostislav Alexandrovich by it now?”


The tavern was only a few blocks to the north of the safe house, nestled in among some shacks no better than itself, with a crude, handpainted sign on the road indicating what it was. The noise coming from the tavern sounded like nothing so much as a brawl. Natalya was reasonably sure she heard the words, “Menshevik swine” and “Bolshevik filth” being bandied about, interspersed with the sounds of breaking bottles and chairs . . . and possibly heads.

“At those prices,” observed Turgenev, looking at the lettering under the sign, “even here in Tobolsk, one expects that the vodka will be of the very worst.”

“Maxim Sergeyevich,” said Mokrenko, “I think perhaps you should escort the young lady to the general vicinity of the Governor’s house before she is missed. Meanwhile, purely in the interests of reconnaissance, I am going in there. If we decide to kidnap the two who have grown close to the Romanovs, it would probably be a good thing if I didn’t seem a stranger to the wait staff.”

“Don’t shoot anyone, Rostislav Alexandrovich; it would raise too many questions.”

“Speaking as a good Menshevik or Bolshevik, myself, of course,” said the sergeant, as he ground his right fist into his left palm, expectantly, “whichever may prove most convenient in the near future, I would not dream of it.”

Telegraph Station, Tobolsk

The telegraph, itself, was silent. The chief telegrapher of the place, clad in a suit of old-fashioned cut, with a thin bow tie on, leaned back in his chair, reading a two months out of date newspaper. He immediately looked up, then, wearing a broad smile, stood up. The paper he left on the table.

Sarnof was a frequent caller at the station, enough to be on a first name and patronymic basis with the staff there. So far his cover for sending obviously coded messages had held, “We are a highly competitive business, Arkady Yevgenovich; furs, and our markets fluctuate daily. Any advantage that can be gained for our employer, any business secret we can keep to ourselves, pays large dividends.”

How long this would continue to work was the subject of difficulty sleeping compounded with not infrequent nightmares.

“Good morning!” exclaimed the chief of the station. “Good morning, Abraham Davidovich! What brings you here today?”

The best lies contain a good deal of truth, Sarnof reminded himself, before answering, “A deep curiosity about just how bad the situation in the town is about to become, and whether we can expect a full scale civil war between the guards on you-know-who and his family, and the newcomers from Omsk and Tyumen. My boss, Maxim Sergeyavich, says we may have to cut our losses and leave with what we’ve already gotten if it gets much worse.”

“Well, just between you and me,” said the civilian telegrapher, “I think it’s going to get a lot worse.”

“How could it?” asked Sarnof. “Fights in the streets? Fights in the taverns? Armed men being stood off from other armed men at the old governor’s mansion?”

“Four hundred and fifty more Bolsheviks coming,” answered the telegrapher.

“Oh, Jesus,” said Sarnof, “as if we need more of them. How long?”

“Not sooner than ten days from now, I think. I asked my counterpart in Yekaterinburg and he says they’re a disorganized rabble, still trying to commandeer enough food and drayage for the trip. But . . .”

“Yes?”

The telegrapher pointed with his chin. Turning around, through the paned window, Sarnof saw a cavalcade trotting down the frozen street toward the telegraph station. The leader wore a combination beard and mustache that reminded Sarnof of nothing so much as the hairy space between a woman’s legs, though it remained a matter of some doubt whether any human female had ever been so thickly matted. The signaler wondered if a smile had ever crossed that face. Could you even see it, one wonders, past that thick bush of a goatee.

“That lot have come to take the tsar and his family away.”

The cavalcade stopped at the telegraph office, with the leader dismounting, handing his reins to an underling, and striding confidently into the office. He made a look at Sarnof that as much as said, “Get out.”

I wonder if that block of ice has ever had a human feeling in his life?

“So, lunch at the hotel by the central square at one, Arkady? My treat, today, of course.”

“I’ll be there, Abraham Davidovich.”

And with that, Sarnof took his leave and, stopping only to get a quick count of the numbers of the newcomers, hurried back to the safe house, to report.

Safe House, Yershova Street, Tobolsk

When Sarnof arrived back, he saw Mokrenko sitting at the kitchen table, sporting an impressive shiner and individually checking each tooth in his upper jaw for firmness of fit.

“Where’s the lieutenant?” Sarnof asked. “Better, where’s Kostyshakov?”

Moving a front tooth that seemed a little looser than one might prefer, Mokrenko sighed, said, “Helluva fight, that was,” then answered, “They’re with Natalya, the captain and platoon leaders of Fourth Company, looking over the Governor’s and Kornilov’s houses. Kostyshakov and Dratkin are with the lieutenant, scouting out the Girls’ School.”

“Well, we’ve got a new target and problem. The Reds who are supposed to take the royal family away have arrived, on horseback, about one hundred and fifty of them and they look like they know what they’re about.”

“Shit,” said Mokrenko, standing and reaching for his coat, loose tooth forgotten. “Tell you what, you go by the Governor’s house and tell them what’s up and to come back. I’ll go find the lieutenant and bring that group back.”


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