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Day Four: Morning

 

Dawn came, too, to the Austrians encamped in the pine woods. Vathely had fallen into a shivering doze, curled up in his blanket, and the pickets moved like thin shadows among the tree trunks, their breaths leaving little wisps in the brittle air. Sergeant Deutscher looked over the area, taking in the sleeping and exhausted men, the uncombed mounts, and the weedy, straggling cover in the hard soil with a professional eye that compared, weighed, and noted deficiencies almost unthinkingly; and smiled to himself, a small one that he might have smiled were he a comitadji chief on the prowl.

But he knew, too, that the hour for an attack was past, and that even tired Austrians, mounted and with modern Mannlicher repeaters, could hold off any guerrilla attack that did not carry full surprise.

A low whistle alerted him, and in a moment he too heard a couple of horsemen in the bush, riding carefully. They were halted and a few words exchanged, and then they appeared among the trees, a pair of honveds riding steaming horses.

"Where's the OIC?" one of them asked him.

"He's asleep. I'll take it."

"We've been trying to track you down for two hours," said the other Hungarian, handing the sergeant a sealed note. "If you hadn't halted we might never have caught you. You're quite a bit out of the way."

Deutscher broke it open.

*Advance HQ

9th Lancers

Celebiči 21/02

To: Captain Vathely, Forward Reconnaissance

Return at once. Mission now out of our hands. Further instructions await.

Slavin*

The sergeant looked up from the laconic lines at the scouts, who had dismounted.

"What's the deal?"

"His Nibs is coming down," said the first scout. "Why, I don't know--the faster these Bosnian swine kill each other off the better, I say. Why stop them?"

"I don't know," said the NCO. "Maybe Sarajevo is leaning on him."

"Fine. Let the brass come down here and get their fat asses shot at. They'll either pull us out or let us win it."

"You forget," said the other, jerking his thumb. "What's a few kilometres up the road that way? Montenegro, that's what. Full of Italians. Pissed-off Italians at that."

"That's fine, too. We'll kick their ravioli asses any day."

"At ease, men." said Deutscher. "What are you supposed to do now?"

"Join you on the way back. The Colonel doesn't want too many men outriding."

"Good. We'll be ready to move in an hour."

"I don't know, Herr Unteroffizier. The Herr Oberst was most insistent."

"It wasn't your fault you couldn't find us, was it?"

"Very well," said the other scout.

"Take a break, eat some chow if you've got any, and we'll be on our merry way."

Kosta Savić was a little astonished to meet his wife and daughter breathless from a happy romp in the fields, but he decided not to say anything about it. He felt refreshed with the night's dreamless sleep; the morning was crisp and golden and he felt that a day's solid work would represent a small victory for light and life. He had fed and watered the team, laid out the harness and tack, and packed himself a lunch of cornbread, sheep's cheese, and fruit preserves; and if they came to get him he hoped it would at least be after he had eaten.

Slavica stumbled up to him, laughing, and threw her arms tightly around him. He swayed, wincing a little with the sudden pain as she cried to Stana, "I've got him!” laying her head on his chest, and even the old woolly dog let out a bark.

Stana included them both in a gentler embrace; still smiling she kissed them both and he too smiled to see them happy. "Well, my zephyrs," he said. "Been out dancing among the hedgerows?"

"Welcoming the early spring," replied Stana. "And it is welcome."

Kosta Savić ruffled Slavica's hair and unwrapped her arms. "It will be a good market-day. You can hitch the grey to the wagon and I'll take the mare to plough. I intend to get some work done while you two are out spending all my money."

"Indeed," said Stana mockingly. "I suppose it is I who surprise myself with gifts of copper pots, tortoiseshell combs, and English cutlery."

"It is, for you know my weak spot," said Kosta Savić slyly. "Come on, tell us what it is."

Stana chucked him on the chin, and Slavica said, "And don't forget who strews obols to blind Fedun the guslar."

"Very true," he admitted. "For my sake, do not forget him. Now off with you, for it's already late. Alija will be wondering where we all are, and mind to feed the chickens, my girl." Slavica tripped off around the house and Stana went a few steps too, before turning.

"Get her something nice," he said. "You'll leave the baby with Alija's wife?"

"I hate to, but you know what things are like . . ."

"Be careful, Stana."

"I will," she promised, and then she looked at the ground; and Kosta Savić knew what had crossed her mind.

She suddenly looked back at him. "It's a pity, isn't it? Why, husband? Why?"

He had no answer to give, and he knew that she knew it. "Stay together," he said, and she nodded. "I'll be alright. Go. But don't be past sunset."

She managed another smile for him, and turned.

"Wife," he said.

She stayed still.

"I love you."

He limped a little toward her and she met him in an embrace. Her eyes closed as his lips sought her out; and when she had run her fingers through his hair he said: "Everything will be alright. Never again will there be another yesterday, I swear it." She silenced him with a kiss and quickly turned again and ran off the way Slavica had gone.

It was an hour after sunrise that the thin column rode down into the village and through the square where some people already had their wares spread out in front of them on blankets, most carried on their backs down through the mountains. Here and there a gossiping villager would fall silent and watch the cavalrymen ride in; but others simply went about their business and turned away.

Vathely came to a quiet stop, and for a moment just sat in his saddle as if he were unaware that his mount had halted. Then he seemed to pull himself together and swung down from his horse in a single sweeping motion, Cossack-style.

"Schwetje!" he yelled.

The aide-de-camp's lean, slightly satanic face appeared in the doorway. "Come right in, sir," he said. "The Colonel's waiting on you. Sergeant Deutscher."

Vathely went in.

"Good, you're here," said Slavin, returning his salute. "Sit down."

Vathely sat down on one of the rough benches.

"The riders told you that Commissioner Stadelmeier is coming down?"

"Yes, sir."

"He will be here in a few hours--in fact, it was an advance scout that told me. It's my guess that he wants to use this as a springboard for some other operation."

"So?"

Slavin, irritated, let his voice rise. "I had to recall you for two reasons. First, although he's sure to have a strong escort, we have to take every possible precaution as long as he's here, and God alone knows how long that'll be. Secondly, if he wants to brief you on something, and I think he will, the sooner he does it the sooner he'll be on his way. And you may be going with him. You ought to know, Janos, that I have requested your return to garrison."

"As you like, sir. I won't question your judgment."

"It's nothing personal, Janos. But as a Hungarian here you're running an extra risk that I don't feel is justified as long as you aren't really needed. You understand, of course."

"I understand that you're trying to get rid of me."

"You have no justification for thinking that way. True, we have never got along well, for whatever reasons, and in civilian life we wouldn't be friendly. But you are officer enough to know that I always try to do what's right, regardless of my personal feelings, and I know that you know it. Is there a problem?"

"No. No problem."

Slavin gazed steadily at the hussar for a minute. "I think there is, if you'll pardon me. But I won't say anything more."

"Very well, sir."

Corporal Maurer put his head in the doorway. "Excuse me, sir. We have a local here we picked up acting suspiciously. He won't talk to us."

Vathely and Slavin exchanged glances.

"Maybe," drawled Slavin, "he can't. Govorite hrvatski?"

"Sir--"

"Never mind. Show him in."

Maurer and another soldier escorted in a dirty peasant, a tall, raw-boned man, craggy as Slavin himself, the trip followed by Sergeant von Essen. The peasant stood a moment, silent, his head weaving back and forth as he tried to adjust his eyes to the dimmer light.

"Why'd you pick him up, Herr Gefreiter?" asked Slavin.

"Acting suspiciously. He was riding--if you call it that--a horse that's not his. He might have stolen it. You can see the state he's in, stinking like a pig, and I thought proper to have him questioned, sir."

"You know, Corporal," said Slavin quietly, "I used to keep pigs. They are quite intelligent animals, and keep themselves clean when they're not penned up in muddy sties."

"I don't think that's--"

"Ask him, sir," urged Sergeant von Essen. "You speak the lingo."

Slavin stood up. "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" he asked carefully. "Verstehen Sie mich?"

The man fidgeted, but his face remained a blank.

He tried again in Serbian. "You speak Serbian, then?"

"Yes, your worship."

"You need not call me that. I am Colonel Slavin, the commander. May I know your name?"

"Kopitar. Ivo Lazarević Kopitar."

"A Slovene name. I am half Slovene by blood myself. You live in this area?"

The peasant remained silent. Corporal Maurer prodded him with a rifle, provoking a sudden angry gesture from Slavin but stirring the man to speech.

"Yes, I do, up in the valley and I don't care who knows it," he said, glowering over his shoulder. "I'm a tenant of the gospodar Kosta Savić, your worship. As good a man as any. Better than some,” he added, with a quick glance at the hussar.

"Is that your horse?" asked Slavin.

"No, your worship. It belongs to the gospodar. I borrowed it from him. You may ask him if you don't believe me. Would I steal from him? No. No one from Scutari to Sarajevo would, for he is a great man."

"What's he saying, sir?" asked Vathely.

"He says the gospodar Savić lent him the horse."

"Why?"

Slavin motioned for quiet. "You came down for market-day?"

"No, your worship. I’m a poor man—I’ve nothing to sell this time of year. I came down to get drunk. If I had come for market I would have washed and put on my market-day clothes."

"You seem sober enough."

"Alas, your worship, for the crime in this world! I am a poor man, and what few obols I had were soon lost."

"I remember him now," said Vathely. "His wife said he had gone to market."

"When did you leave home?" asked Slavin.

"Last night, your worship."

"The captain here visited your house. He says your wife said you'd gone to market."

"No doubt she lied to his worship to preserve my good name--vain effort!--for I have none. I will beat her soundly for it when I get back."

"And who did you go drinking with? Whom did you meet?"

"I bought some booze from Ilija Vuletić at his place, your worship--fine stuff!--and went to drink with my friends in the cemetery."

"Which friends?"

Ivo looked nonplussed. "The ones that are in the cemetery, your worship. Buried there."

"So no one alive saw you last night after you bought your rakija at Vuletić's?"

"Quite correct, your worship."

"What's he saying, sir?"

"He says he went out to get drunk, and his wife didn't want to tell you that was where he'd gone."

"Witnesses?"

"Not really." Then he went back to Ivo. "Can you tell me where you were the night before last?"

"Yes, your worship. I was at home, sleeping like an honest man."

"And the night before?"

"The same, your worship."

Slavin pulled a crumpled packet of gold foil out of his pocket, bent one corner back, and extracted a cigarette. He put it in his mouth and shook another one part-way out of the pack, extending it to Ivo, who took it. Then he fired a wax vesta with his thumbnail, lighting first Ivo's and then his own. He dragged deeply on it, burning it a quarter-way down; and let the smoke out gently, slowly, as if he would never smoke another. He looked tired, grey.

A murmur of noise drifted in from the square: the creak and rattle of harnesses, faint voices.

He drew on it again and said: "Arrest him."

Two sets of arms seized the peasant and hauled him, struggling, to his feet, crying out in a language that only Slavin could understand: "Please, Your Worship! Please! I have a wife and five children--don't do this to me!"

Slavin closed his eyes but the shouting continued as they pulled him down the hall and threw him into a back room. There were struggling sounds, a thump, and the noise died away.

Vathely sat for a moment and then said: "I've got things to do, sir." Slavin gave him the slightest of nods and the hussar got up, touched Schwetje as he went by, and both of them went out, leaving von Essen standing near the wall by the door. The NCO fingered his pistol a little self-consciously and looked down at the floor.

"Not that I followed the lingo, but I could see his face, sir.”

“And . . .?”

“With all due respect, sir, that was a pretty shitty thing to do. Sir," he said.

Slavin, looking at the floor himself, said, "I know . . . So what's new?"

The sergeant did not say anything.

"I'm not a bad man, Essen. I used to believe that life should be dedicated to pleasure and beauty. Even if the pleasure is that of doing your work well and waking refreshed in the morning, or the beauty is in your child's first tooth or the clear sky of a May sunset. But the world is not so simple, is it? Always there are people who have power over you, and power in human hands is a dark and ugly thing no matter what the motives of the wielder."

And there is a power in love, too, he thought, a beautiful and bright thing; but it too has a horribly twisting and destructive side, elemental in its force and fatal in its allure.

He had known it.

"Karasevdah," he murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing . . . You may go, Sergeant."

"Yes, sir." Von Essen turned to go and Slavin blurted out, "Wait a moment--"

"Sir?"

"Never mind. Carry on."

Von Essen left and Slavin was alone.

He noticed his neglected cigarette and picked it up, turning it once over in his bony fingers; then he took a last pull on it and stabbed the tiny butt out viciously, as if driving a spear into some blatant beast. And then he heard quick footsteps, and looked up, and saw Corporal Maurer coming to attention.

"Sir, I put Rakely to guarding the prisoner--"

"Herr Gefreiter, come here."

Maurer marched up to the desk.

Slavin folded his arms and stared up at the man for a minute and then said very quietly, "Maurer, if you ever report to me again without being ordered to, I will not only take your rank, I will take the whole goddamn collar. Secondly, if you ever again bring a man in on a vacuous charge like that, I will lock you up and put him to guarding you while I convene a summary court-martial. Do I make myself clear?"

"Jawohl!"

"You have no questions?"

"Nein, Herr Oberst."

"If you do find someone in the commission of a criminal act, you may bring him in. No matter who it is. But the evidence had better be damning. You understand what I am saying?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's all, Corporal."

The man hesitated for one moment and Slavin slammed himself off the chair and shouted, "Raus! Move out!"

He watched the man face about and walk quickly out the door. Then he sat down with his elbows on the desk and buried his face in his hands.

As Alija arranged the scarf about his neck, Sarai said, "I think it will be all right. The Austrian is quiet now and he seems to have come to his senses. And Demjan will be here while you are gone."

"Nevertheless, I will be back as soon as I can. I don't like the way the Schwabes are getting around, nor the matter of Knez Dabisav, nor the gospodar Kosta Savić permitting his step-son to board away from home. Something is seriously wrong over there, and I will find out what it is before it proves the end of us all."

"I pray it is nothing we cannot all work out between us," said Sarai sadly.

"I hope so," replied Alija, giving his jacket a yank.

"What if he doesn't come?" she asked. "After such a wound as that he's surely not up and about yet?"

"Remember who he has to look after him," said Alija. "Demjan tells me she has a healing hand beyond even his own."

Sarai adjusted Alija's green sash with plump, deft fingers. "I'll tell you this--it's her I feel sorry for. The poor gospodja has her healing hands full, even with Slavica to help out."

"She's changed," said Alija. "I had thought it was the baby but it's not."

"She's all right, old man. It's not easy for a woman expecting during the summer as she was. For a lady bred she's done very well for herself here, and I don't care what anyone says."

And she stopped, putting a hand to her eyes. "Oh, my," she said in a hushed voice. "Poor Marenka, dead too. I still can't believe it . . ."

Alija threw his arms about her as she shed a few tears quietly, deeply. "Don't worry, wife. We'll get to the bottom of it all soon."

Demjan appeared. "Excuse me, Alija--"

"Yes?" Sarai looked up, her sorrow folding inward.

"The wagon's coming."

"Then let us be down to meet it," said Alija, and took his hat in his hands as Demjan opened the door. They descended the steps and at the bottom Alija came to a stop, holding the handrail.

"Gospodja?"

"Yes, Alija, Demjan, it is I," said Stana with a smile, yanking back the wagon's brake as Slavica climbed down and ran to embrace her brother. "But Kosta Savić is well enough, don't worry."

Alija walked over to the wagon and looked up at her, still holding his hat. "Gospodja . . ."

"Yes, Alija?" She picked up the bundle that held the baby.

"Excuse me . . . I hadn't expected you, that's all." He put his hat on hastily as she handed down the infant. "There were one or two matters I needed to discuss with Kosta Savić."

On the ground again, she straightened her dress and received the child back. "I'm sure, Alija. But you know you may discuss anything with me."

Alija looked down at the tiny human being blinking in the sunlight. "I know, gospodja. Thank you."

"May I leave Anton with Sarai and Mara for the morning? I can't carry him and do everything else. Besides, Sarai loves children so much."

"Very well," sighed Alija. "It was always our sorrow that Mara never had brothers or sisters, but such is God's will. She will be happy to. They can tend to him with the Schwabe--"

"What Schwabe?"

Alija looked at her curiously as Demjan wrapped her and the baby in a gentle hug. "We are hosting a wounded Austrian. Demjan found him out in the field the other day, nearly dead. He may or may not live another day."

"Slavica!" came a voice from a window.

"Mara!"

Stana laid one hand on his arm. "Let me see him, please."

"Why? You don't--"

"Please, Alija."

"Very well. But he's in bad shape. It looks almost like wolves got him."

They walked toward the stairs. "Almost?" said Stana.

Alija gestured her along, then Demjan and the girl, and as they ascended Demjan said, "I'm glad to see you, Mother, and surprised as well."

She gave him a smile over her shoulder and as Sarai met them at the door she handed over the armful and turned to embrace Demjan again and he gave her a kiss on the cheek. "It seems a month since I saw you, Demjan. You look good."

"So do you, Mother." He patted her on the shoulder and then drew Slavica aside.

"Hello, gospodja," smiled Sarai, looking up from the child. "He seems wonderfully well again. I think he's even grown a little bit."

"Yes. He's still quiet, though, but a regular little fighter the way he got over that fever. Thank you for looking after him, Sarai."

"I'm honoured. Will Slavica--?"

"That'd be most pleasant, but I'm afraid she's to go to market today. I've all I can do to drive, and anyway she needs to get out and meet people. At her age, you know . . ."

"Say no more. Friends are everything at that age, I know. Bless me, I was the same."

"You're no different now, Sarai," said Stana, and then stopped. "Poor Marenka, and Knez Dabisav. You know, of course?"

"I've heard all about it. Terrible, isn't it? Who could possibly have done such a thing?"

"Whoever it was, the whole village will stand or fall by it," replied Stana. "But I think Kosta knows. He was practically on the spot--"

"I remember, his wound. Frightful--I couldn't stand to see it, really. Demjan and Alija patched him up like horse doctors. Is he all right?"

"He's moving about. In a month or so he'll be good as new. But he's not telling me a thing."

"No more for talk, then, than the gospodar Andrija Savić was--peace be upon him! In some ways they're so alike it almost frightens me."

Stana said nothing.

Sarai, sensing her reaction, went on: "But you're altogether very fortunate. He's a fine man. He cares for you very much. I daresay he loves you in his own right. Look at poor Marica Leskanić, how her husband's brother treats her like dirt."

"I know," said Stana. "It would serve him right if she took a carving knife to him. But Alija told me about your Austrian . . . he must know something about that business too. Maybe he was there."

"And if he was," said Sarai, "and it was Austrians who did it, after he got well I'd take a carving knife to him--goodness! But mightn't they, if both the gospodar and the knez were attacked? I mean, who else would possibly want to kill both of them?"

"Anyone who's interested in stirring up trouble, that's who," said Stana. "Keep your eyes open, dear."

"Have you seen anything of them?"

"There's a Hungarian captain who's second-in-command. He visited us last night. Absolutely broke the door down, and insisted on leaving it open, with Anton just getting over the fever. And he had two of his men haul Kosta Savić up the stairs, one dragging him by each arm."

Sarai's mouth popped open and she covered it with one hand. "Joj!"

"I would keep a watch out for him. He's already got trouble started."

"What is Kosta going to do?"

"I expect the funerals will be tomorrow. He'll be there, and, believe me, he'll serve up something for that Hungarian."

"I hope so. But don't let him . . . I mean, he's cooler-headed than poor Andrija Savić--peace be upon him! but, you know--"

"I know. I'll be with him. It'll stay a personal matter, which is what it is."

"But he is our gospodar, too . . . he stands for all of us. Oh, Stana, these things are all so tricky. I tell you, personally--with all respect--I wouldn't care to be in your shoes. I just wouldn't know the right thing to do."

"I don't always either, dear. I just put up a good front and smile a lot."

Sarai laughed at that, and Alija came out of a door toward the back; Stana turned toward him.

In reply to her unasked question he motioned to her and said, "Sarai, you and Slavica get the baby settled by the stove. Gospodja, you may come in with Demjan. Mara is here already."

Stana excused herself and turned about, almost unconsciously putting her hands on her hips and running them down in a smoothing motion. Then she went toward the door and Alija silently ushered her in.

The Austrian lay in a cot, apparently sleeping. Two heavy quilts covered him, and in the shaft of light from the single narrow window his face looked chalky, pitted, like an unfinished sculpture. Four deep lacerations ran down one cheek; a scar slashed across the bridge of his nose; and an area under his jaw was still thickly bandaged.

Stana knelt by him and very softly folded back one corner of the covers.

The man's heavy uniform had saved him from most of the puffing scratches on his head and hands, but three vicious puncture wounds nestled in one side of his rib cage. She replaced the covers.

"That was no wolf," she said. "He would have had teeth marks on his hands and arms where he defended himself. But wolves do go for the throat. What is under that?"

"A tear," said Mara. "Right through to the windpipe. You could see the cartilage when we cleaned it out. I think the fact that breath could come through there saved his life; otherwise he would have choked on his own blood."

"Teeth marks?"

Demjan said, "Yes. Big teeth, not too sharp, in a wide jaw. Like human teeth."

Stana closed her eyes and looked straight down. "There's poisoning. It might be in his blood, to see his colour. I could tell from his eyes, if they were open. If it's in the wound we can draw it. If it's in his bloodstream he's finished."

"What can you do?" asked Mara.

"Nothing you can't. Make up a thick plaster of flour or mud, with some elephant-ear plant. Change it every two hours. That should draw the infection."

"I will.”

"If he's any worse tomorrow morning, come and see me again," Stana told him. "But I'm afraid there won't be anything more but to make him comfortable." She bent down and softly stroked the Austrian's blond hair with her fingers.

"It's a terrible thing," she said, half to herself. "Such a handsome boy, like a little wayward angel."

Nothing was said for a moment, and she stole a glance at Mara, who was still looking down at the soldier; with perhaps a bit more than a nurse's concern betrayed in her eyes.

She wondered, for a moment, whether she should say a word or two in private, though she knew that the matter was Mara's alone to deal with. She was a smart girl, and would either do rightly or learn by her mistake.

"We ought to be getting on, gospodja," Alija reminded her.

"Very well. You're ready?"

"Yes."

They filed out of the room, all but Mara, and Alija closed the door after them.

"How is he?" asked Sarai quietly, as if he were already dead.

"At the crisis," said Stana. "If he gets any worse, notify Father Ante."

The woman said nothing in reply but looked up as Alija kissed her. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised.

She opened the outer door to let them out and Demjan went with them. As Alija helped Slavica on to the wagon's box, Stana turned to Demjan and asked him, "You will come home soon?"

"Yes. I'll meet you tomorrow and we'll go to the funeral together. Then I'll go back with you."

"Oh, Demjan--you'll be welcome." She hugged him to her and he responded, wrapping his arms tightly around her back, whispering, "Mother, there's so much I want to say to you, so many things I need to explain. But how?"

"Be strong," she said in his ear. "Trust me and be strong." Then Alija was holding her hand as she swung up onto the box and cracked the whip and the wagon rattled away with Slavica facing round to wave him goodbye.

Demjan went back up the stairs hardly knowing where he was. Both he and Alija had formed explicit questions for Kosta Savić and for Stana, and agreed on the answers they expected; but things, somehow, had not worked as they were supposed to. Stana had taken him off his guard, firstly, and secondly she seemed transformed, as if powered from another source.

The mother he remembered, the sad-eyed and slightly distant creature who had cooked meat pies and canned the best fruit to be had, was gone; and a vivacious, hard-edged stranger had taken her place.

Perhaps, going home was really the only thing to do.

The priest Rezać, opening the church for Matins should anyone come, was a little surprised to find a visitor already waiting for him.

"Brother Grgur, good morning," he said, kicking down the steel door stoppers and taking in a breath of the fresh air. "How are you?"

"Fine, Reverend Father, and good morning to you," replied the stocky white-bearded man. "How's business?"

"Same as always. What can I do for you?"

"I just dropped by for a bit of a chat," said the sacristan, leaning in the doorway; and his glance fell inside the sanctuary to the two coffins before the altar rail, and lingered there. "You know how it is."

"Ako, ako," said the priest in agreement. "It's a shame, isn't it?"

"It is that . . . There was an Austrian soldier died up there yesterday. He was a Roman, and I said I'd ask if you'd do the honours."

Rezać crossed himself three-fingered style. "By all means. God rest his soul."

"His body is at the han."

"Thank you. I'll see to it."

"They say God calls the good men home first," said Grgur reflectively. "It makes sense, I suppose."

"No doubt He intends the wicked extra time to reform. But it leads one to wonder about the walking damned."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"The killer, Grgur. There is a killer, and there is justice to be visited upon him, no matter what his station."

"You sound like you suspect someone."

"It's more than suspicion, Grgur. I know."

"You do? And you speak of one man? How do you know this?"

"His wife told me."

"In confidence?"

"Why does that matter? Nine people are murdered, and you're worried that I'm going to break a confidence by naming the killer? Really, Grgur!"

"I suppose you're right. If you tell anyone you ought to tell Dragan Vuković."

"No. I've decided not to. For too many years already I've been a silent bystander to feud violence, and my conscience just won't let me be a part of it anymore."

"What are you going to do, then?"

"I'm going to notify the Austrian authorities."

"The Schwabes? Think again, Reverend Father. They're not about to set up a court of law. You know they'll use what you tell them as an excuse to get rid of anybody who stands up to them: Jovan Ilić sahibija, the imam Hajji Osmanović, the gospodar Kosta Savić--maybe you and me."

"All those you have mentioned--including yourself--are well able to take care of themselves. I'm by no means handing a lamb over to the slaughter when I tell them that Kosta Savić is the killer."

The old sacristan said nothing, did not move; his eyes narrowed to wrinkled watery slits.

"It's true, Grgur."

"The gospodar? Reverend Father, have you lost your mind? The gospodar isn't just anybody. Whether he was arrested and shot, or if he managed to escape, you wouldn't live to see another sunrise. And betraying the gospodja’s confidence--doesn't that mean anything to you?"

The priest gazed at him very steadily, very coolly. "It doesn't matter to me, Grgur. Not a bit. I had a dream, a vision of the evil that is in this place, and he is part of it. My God, Grgur, can't you see? He simply took it into his head to kill all those people, and he did it. Just as Andrija Savić took it into his head to kill Petar Bicanić. How can you tell me such a man deserves to live and breathe this air for even one minute?"

"Listen to me, Reverend Father. We're talking about war, and what evidence have you got to back you up? A dream, a vision? And even if for a moment you convinced me that Kosta Savić did kill Knez Dabisav, even then he is still the gospodar. What man in the region is entitled to raise a hand against him, especially with foreign troops among us? What you're talking about now is treason. I'd be justified in killing you where you stand."

The priest said quietly, "Here I am, Grgur."

"I don't believe this. You really are insane."

"You want to talk about insanity? You want evidence? Very well, then. You can come with me the night after next and we will open the grave of Andrija Savić. I am as certain as of tonight's sunset that we will find a vulkodlak, an undead creature. If we do not, and his body is in a normal state of decomposition, I will take back all I have said about Kosta Savić and all his kindred, and I will never say another bad word. Are we on?"

The sacristan looked him straight in the eye. "Why the night after next? Why not tonight?"

The priest hesitated for one moment only. "All right, tonight then. Shall we say, eleven?"

"I'll be here," Grgur promised. "Will you give me your word not to say anything to the Schwabes until afterward?"

"It is understood, if you promise likewise not to say anything to Kosta Savić."

"Done," said Grgur. "At eleven, then."

"'Till then."

And Brother Grgur turned and stepped off down the dusty street.

He came away fully aware that neither he nor the priest had fully taken in the enormity of the issue. He felt just as if informed of a friend's death; conscious of a sudden void that as yet would not reconcile with reality.

Supposing Kosta Savić to be the killer, then: the same tradition that demanded vengeance of Dragan Vuković made it a crime against the land to kill a hereditary nobleman, and Dragan's own next of kin would be bound by unwritten law to hunt him down and kill him in turn.

It could not be allowed to happen.

And something, clearly, had happened to the priest Rezać, unhinging him to the point at which he was considering the possibility; the denial did not matter. True, if the Austrians got to Kosta Savić first the house of Jovan Ilić would be preserved; but an Austrian coup would result in either case.

Grgur wondered, again, what had happened to him.

Andrija Savić, it was true, had maintained unfriendly relations with Rezać for fifteen years, for reasons that no one cared very much to know. But for the priest, now, to use that against Kosta Savić who had no relations with him at all was inconceivable. In fact, as nearly as Grgur could judge, it was the legend of his brother's terrible end that set the edge on Kosta Savić's proverbial sang-froid. And if indeed the gospodar did seem a bit too cold-blooded at times, that was not altogether a bad trait in a man whose sole prerogative was instant obedience in times of war or crisis.

The only possible point of contact between the two men was Stana. What trouble that cool and remarkable woman could cause might easily be enough to provoke war in the valley; but in the twenty years he had known her she had been a caring, if remote, counsellor and healer and peacemaker. What she could have become involved in--with the priest of all people--that would set him off in such a way defied the imagination.

But there had to be something to it. Clearly, then, it was time for a talk with the gospodja.

Rezać walked through the church, out through the vestry, and into the rectory.

"Yusef!" he called.

His voice rolled, echoing, along the stony corridor floors and by the cracking plaster walls; but no answer took his eyes from the pencil-like rays of sunlight slanting from under the rafters.

Where had the big Turk gone?

He stopped where he was, in a small disused room, and looked around.

Light streamed in through the small-paned window, which no longer fit the hole that had been punched through for it early in the century. Around the cracking paint on its frame, bits of plaster were crumbling away, forming recesses where a few tiny spiders had built their webs. He could see the plaster crumbs on the plank floor and wondered how long it had been since he had had it cleaned.

This wing, with its wooden floors, was a rarity. Perhaps these rooms had been monk's cells in the monastery days, built with any and all timbers the Church could find. That would account for the mismatching of the hand-hewn boards, worn smooth by centuries of use in various ways; for lumber was precious in this barren land. Knots had long ago dropped out, and in several places painstaking splices and plugs had been installed, all now dark with the dirt that sheer passage of time grinds in. The walls, too, were peeling, starred here and there with square nailholes where damp had crept into the unpatched cracks, and dust lay thick on the room's single item, a terribly blackened and battered tin trunk.

He walked over to it and lifted the lid, letting it fall back off the broken leather hinges. Nothing was inside except a couple of rotten rags.

He let the lid lay and leaned in the doorway, trying not very hard to grasp what was slipping through his mind.

It seemed he had reached a point at which nothing made sense the way it used to. Even in the darkest times of his relationship with Stana, when death at Andrija's hands had been a very real possibility, he had always had some rational basis on which to deal with that possibility. But now some new kind of sense was developing around him, some new situation which required faculties that he had never used, if he had them.

He walked down the corridor.

He remembered talking to Grgur, his old friend, and saying horrible things, things which had shocked him even as he said them. Yet they needed to be said, and once said spelled a doom. Either for Kosta Savić, as their subject, or for him as their speaker; perhaps for both. Grgur had sensed this, and had reacted in the only way any reasonable man could be expected to.

But why, then, had his remonstrations sounded so absurd, so maddeningly childish? Was it possible that he still didn't see the real issue?

Finding himself in the sacristy doorway, he went through and into the church and sat down by the lectern. No one had come for Matins; the only sound to be heard was the twittering of birds outside the multicoloured windows.

He reached inside his cassock and slowly withdrew a locket on a silver chain. He did not open it. The catch often stuck, and anyway he knew the face inside as well as he knew his own.

Was it, as the half-effaced inscription said--as he had once believed--a portrait of old Svetozar Savić's wife, the ‘woman from Thessaly?’ On the face of things it was, since Ante had had this selfsame locket as a bequest from the old gospodar Nikola Savić.

Or could it be, not only that, but a seventy-five-year-old portrait of Stana Malević?

He turned the locket over in his fingers. Of course it was not; that was just a fancy, an idle dream that entertained him. There was a resemblance, but in the twenty years he had known Stana she had aged visibly: her features had become harder, a little sharper; her skin had roughened, and a few dark lines were taking shape around her eyes. When they had met he had been thirty-five, and she . . . older than Andrija, perhaps twenty-five. And she had just had a baby, at forty-five?

Unusual, especially out of a levirate marriage, but not unheard-of. The years were certainly treating her kindly, he thought wryly, recalling the silver thatch he saw when he shaved in the morning. But then she was an unusual woman in more than one respect.

He thought, too, of Kosta Savić, and how in some ways he was like her. He, too, seemed nowhere near his close to forty years. His step was as rapid and light as a boy's, and by all accounts his knife-hand was quicker than ever. Yet somehow he appeared to be--not aging, so much as . . . wearing out.

As much as that was, though, Rezać could not shake the feeling that the killing of Knez Dabisav was not the culmination of a process. How could it be, any more than a random act of violence? And if not, to what might it signal a beginning? Had none of this occurred to Grgur?

The priest put the locket away and mentally cursed Yusef, for he had probably gone to market on his own. He got to his feet and went out into the vestry, where he took off his cassock and hung it up.

For Stana the trickiest part of the drive down was crossing the floodbank above the village, made no easier by the fact that the horse had thrown a shoe which had disappeared somewhere in the muck. There was the steep descent down the eastern side, accomplished with one hand on the brake and the other reining in the horse; then the bone-rattling passage across the rocky bed, and then letting the reins out and urging the animal up and across the bank and hoping that an axle-tree wouldn't snap as the wagon came down with a crash.

Once across, the close-knit buildings of the village presented another obstacle, and as the wagon just cleared the widest lane several peasants had to press themselves into doorways or retreat into other lanes to make way.

But around a bend in the lane, the wagon was brought up short by a crowd all facing the square.

Something was happening.

Alija took over the reins from Stana and she climbed down and went forward to see what the matter was.

Over and between heads of the crowd she could see a commotion by the han, blue and green Austrian uniforms spilling out of the doorway in the swirling dust and the rattle of horses' hooves. She edged further on, excusing herself to surprised faces which nodded, bobbed, and turned back; and as she neared she saw a carriage-and-four roll up amid the glint of bayonets and the Austrian colonel step up to salute the man who climbed out.

He was a big man, not tall but barrel-chested, broad-faced, with a paunch that disguised a lot of muscle. His uniform did not quite fit him; no uniform ever would.

He returned the colonel's salute, exchanged a few words, and went with him into the old building while a groom took over the carriage's reins, and here, she felt at once, was a man who expected results from his subordinates, and wasn't getting them.

She smiled a little to herself, but whatever thought was behind it was interrupted by a touch at her shoulder.

"I couldn't see what it was," said Slavica.

"An Austrian arrived, a very high-ranking one. Perhaps the Kommissar himself."

"H'm. Things are going to get done now."

"That's just what I was thinking," said Stana.

"What are you and Papa going to do?" The Austrians had disappeared; they joined hands as the crowd began to break up.

"Much of that depends on what the raia decide," said Stana. "He was their leader."

"What if they decide that Papa should die?"

"Don't even speak of such a thing, Slavica. But I'm sure they won't."

"Do you have a plan?"

Stana looked at the younger woman. "If I do, it is none of your concern. Let's go back and give Alija a hand."

"Very well," said Slavica. She said nothing else but added smiles as Stana greeted those they met; and by the time the wagon had been manoeuvred round to its place Stana still had not been able to read what was going through her daughter's mind.

"All right, sit down," said Stadelmeier. "Where's Vathely?"

"Off patrol," said Slavin. "He had a pretty nasty one last night. I think he's ill."

"Ill? What do you mean?"

"All after he returned he kept talking about cold--being cold. But he didn't feel feverish."

"I don't care if he's dying," said the Commissioner. "Wake his ass up and get him in here."

Slavin gestured to the duty runner, who went out, and Stadelmeier pulled out an envelope and tossed it on the table between them.

"You recognize that?"

"Ja, Herr Kommissar. That's my latest dispatch to you."

"It is that. I was kind of hoping to hear you'd made some progress on this killing business. But what did I hear?"

Slavin did not respond at once. "I--"

"You wrote the damned thing, Herr Oberst. You ought to know what's in it. Tell me."

"I requested that Captain Vathely be returned to the rear, for--"

"For a lot of suppositions that don't amount to anything. So, he's in danger here? My heart bleeds for him. He's acting strangely, is he? You should have seen me when I realized that all you two've been doing down here is eating each other's asses out."

"You're not seeing the whole picture, sir--"

Stadelmeier put a hand to his head. "Mein Gott, there's more?"

"Sir, we've done a great deal of work weeding out groups and individuals who could not have been responsible," said Slavin with some heat, "and in fact we presently have a man in custody."

"And why wasn't that reported?"

"He was detained only a few hours ago. He--"

"Later. We'll talk about him later. What concerns me right now is the problem between Vathely and you. I really don't understand what it is, and the reason I don't say much in garrison is because personally I don't give a shit. You're an old hard-head who ought to know better, and he's a young hard-head who ought to respect you even if you don't, and I don't know which irritates me more. But let me tell you, as I'll tell him, that you two can't pull that comic-opera act down here. I told you in my dispatch that you were in a border area, right?"

"Right," said Slavin.

"Well, for obvious reasons I couldn't write this down, but according to some people's reckoning you are not only on the border but actually over it."

Slavin exhaled very very slowly and closed his eyes. “Christ, Claudius, I was on the Boundary Commission. I surveyed this place.”

“You did. But there are matters of holdings and tenancy that cross borders, as you well know. And language about that was included in the treaty.”

The lancer slowly bowed his head and banged it on the desk.

"Ja, ja, now you see. Prince Nicholas of Montenegro never renounced all his claims in this district from the 1877 war, and now if things heat up he's got friends in both Petersburg and Rome. He might decide to go ahead with matters. In which case the shit will fly straight past me, and past Baron Burian at Sarajevo, and hit the fan smack in Vienna. This part I'm not even telling Vathely, but if this one's political we're screwed no matter which way it goes. You see now where I'm coming from?"

"Yes. I do. God . . ." Slavin opened his eyes. "How could you let this happen, Claudius?"

"What? Send Vathely down? Despite my very impressive title, I’m little more than a glorified Bürgermeister with a detachment of troops. Damn it, Fedor, he's the only man I had. Your dispatches got to sounding so strange, I thought you'd gone off the deep end. Maybe you have. How in God's name can you talk about public floggings and mass punishment?"

"My men are being pushed too hard, sir. Discipline is becoming a problem, and there are desertions. Every few weeks I lose a couple to ambushes, and the killers just melt away into the countryside. I had to write something that'd make you sit up and take notice. Not to be overly modest, this unit is hanging together only because every man jack of them left is personally loyal to me. And I've given them my word that they'll be out of here in a week and that they'll all get some leave time." He shook his head.

"Well, I won't make a liar out of you, Fedor. But God damn it, we have to have some kind of action and then get out. Quick and clean."

"If I can count on you that's what you'll get. How long will you be here, sir?"

"Long enough to make sure you're both in line, and work out some standing orders that you'll both follow to the letter. You got that?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"I hope so. Where's Vathely?" he demanded of the runner, who had reappeared.

"He'll be here in a minute, sir. He's dressing now."

A soldier put his head in the doorway. "Excuse me, Excellency. Someone to see you, Herr Oberst."

"Does he have a name?" Stadelmeier shot back.

"Father Ante Rezatch, Excellency. The Catholic priest."

Slavin looked at Stadelmeier, who nodded.

"Alright, Barfeld. Send him in." The guard's head vanished and the runner faced about to admit the priest, who ducked through the doorway with his hat in his hand. Slavin rose.

"What can I do for you, Father?" he said in German. I am Colonel Slavin."

"Good morning, Herr Oberst; though it's not a happy errand that brings me, I'm afraid. Brother Grgur tells me that one of your men fell in the line of duty, and that you would like to have a Catholic burial."

"Yes, Father, by all means. Under the circumstances, I think it's going to have to be a quiet ceremony. I'd want to be present, and I'm sure Captain Vathely and his squad leader, as well as a few of his comrades, will wish to attend as well."

"And . . .?" The priest turned to Stadelmeier, who glanced briefly at the lancer.

"Excuse me, Father Ante. Herr Kommissar Claudius Stadelmeier, here for a day or so." Stadelmeier half-rose; the two men exchanged greetings.

"I think I could attend," said the bureaucrat. "Depending on--you know."

"When could you, er, perform the service?" enquired Slavin.

"I am already performing a double ceremony tomorrow," said Rezać. "I could do it then."

There was a moment of silent consideration.

"I like the idea," said the colonel.

"So do I," added Stadelmeier. "Give 'em the idea we're not the real enemy, eh?"

"That's what I was thinking," said the soldier.

"And it'll give us a chance to meet the local notables, like this gospodar fellow, on neutral ground."

"If that's what you're seeking," said the priest, "there could be no better opportunity."

"Excellent," said Stadelmeier.

"At noon, then?" asked Slavin.

"Yes."

"Right, we'll make the arrangements," said the lancer. "Barfeld!"

"Sir?"

"Find Sergeant Deutscher, tell him that Hird's funeral will be at noon tomorrow in the Roman Catholic church. He's to notify the sergeant-major and see that everything is lined up."

"Jawohl."

"Thank you, Father," said Slavin, and they shook hands. "I'm sorry we had to meet at such a time, but I'm sure we'll have occasion to work together again."

"I trust we will, Herr Oberst. Herr von Stadelmeier."

The Commissioner nodded. "Pleased to meet you. Good day, Father."

"Good day."

After the tall form had vanished, Stadelmeier said, "I'll bet he's the man who's got the dirt on everybody."

"Vathely's first interview with him didn't produce very much. Perhaps he's still sizing us up. Especially you. The von he attached to your name didn’t escape me."

"I’ll bet," grunted the politician. "Is he a local?"

"From here, sir?"

"That's what I asked."

"I believe he's from Croatia originally. I don't know what brought him down here, but I gather he's been here quite some time--thirty years or so."

"No advancement in all that time, he's got some dirt in his own past, then. We'll see. About time," he said, and Slavin, looking back, saw Vathely entering.

"Sorry, sir, I--"

"Never mind," said Stadelmeier. "I know you look like a sack of shit tied up in the middle, but I'll get after you about that later. Sit down, Vathely, sit down. We've got a lot to talk about."

The priest Rezać came out of the han into the full swing of the square's market-day activity; each household, more or less isolated for every two weeks, was dealing in its produce, passing along the gossip, and renewing contacts. Fuel carriers swapped for carded wool or flax brought from Vikoč by Mustafa the carter; seed grain and olive oil or homespuns were offered by some, cheeses, soap, or dried meats by others, while nearly every wife but the very poorest had her embroidery out. Slobodan Vuletić had hides, Nikifor Djurić dispensed kvas from a barrel, and Hasanović the tinker hawked needles, knives, and pans from his cart. Older men sat and smoked or talked while children dashed between them chasing hoops, and women's voices cut shrilly above the roar of Veljko Leskanić's forge as he hammered out an iron tire.

Only the spot where Dabisav Uglesić had held forth over his beans and beet-root sugar was vacant; but even here blind Fedun Dapko the guslar had set out his rug and was tuning his tiny fiddle.

And as the priest passed through all this, chatting here, giving greeting there, he stopped, noticing Stana and Alija Selimović deep in discussion by the potato-wagon. Whatever they were talking about, they were keeping quite calm; but it was obviously very important the way the gospodja's arms were close to her body, hands spread wide, while the farmer kept pulling his hands out of his pockets to chop the air when he spoke. And after a few moments Alija's head bowed, briefly, and he turned and walked away, while Stana wheeled about and looked down at the ground herself.

The priest set his course to intercept Alija half-way across the square.

"Friend Alija, good-day," Rezać greeted him. "How are you this market-day?"

"Well, Reverend Father, and yourself?"

"For myself, very well, but I can't say things are as they ought to be. A lot of people have had problems with these Austrians, and I have been doing what I can. It is not an easy situation."

"No, Father. The business of God is never easy, I daresay, but He undoubtedly has His reasons for sending them down among us. His will shall be revealed in time."

"As long as each of us does his duty . . ."

"Of course, Father; now, if you will kindly excuse me--"

"Not at all. But I only meant that I am available if you should need an impartial ear."

"Thank you, Reverend Father. Good day," said the farmer, and hurried away; and the priest's eyes followed him across the square and over to the door of the han.

He was surprised, but no shortage of explanations presented itself. It might be so simple as a few questions or a message; but he doubted it.

And where the devil had Yusef gone?

Surely not out for a woman again--at this time of day--unless he had been caught.

Reza? shouldered the floppy market-basket he had been carrying. It was getting time to use it.

"Tell him to get lost," Stadelmeier told the guard.

"Sir, he says he has a wounded soldier at his farmhouse."

"What?"

"That would be Vonhof," said Slavin.

"Get his ass in here," ordered Stadelmeier. "Now."

"If Vonhof survived the attack, he could probably point out our men," observed Vathely.

"The idea had occurred to me, Herr Rittmeister," said the politician testily.

The guard showed the peasant in, grave and dignified in his best clothes, and Slavin saw that he was an older man, his own age or better, reasonably well-off; a Muslim by his green sash, a community leader, perhaps an odbor member. He rose, addressing the man in Serbian, "I am Colonel Slavin, the commanding officer. May I be of service?"

The peasant bowed slightly. "I am Alija Selimović, and I have come to see you upon an errand of conscience. Yesterday a wounded Austrian soldier made his way to my house, and I feel it is the right thing to notify you."

"What's he saying?" asked Stadelmeier.

"He does have one of our men laid up at his house," replied Slavin. "Let me get his story." He then told Alija: "Excuse me. Please proceed."

"A labourer came upon him in my field. He is alive but in pain, badly scratched up and cut, from some wild beast's attack. He is feverish, and talks in his sleep. We cleaned him up and dressed his wounds, but it will take some time for him to heal and we feel that his continued presence in the house would only lead to misfortune and bad feeling."

"What's that?" demanded the Commissioner.

"One moment, sir." He went back to the peasant. "Do you know his name?"

"No, but he is a tall boy, slender, very blonde, blonde like a German though he speaks Croatian."

"Vonhof," said Slavin.

"What's the story?"

"He says a worker found him in a field, pretty badly torn up. No bullet wounds, apparently, but he's delirious, feverish. They patched him up as best they could but the fellow would like us to collect him; something about bad luck."

"Get him," said Stadelmeier. "If he's got any sense left at all he's our line to the killers. Get him now. And, Slavin, I want plenty of protection."

"Yes, sir."

"Beg pardon, voevoda," said Alija, "but what is to be done?"

"With your permission, we would like you to accompany us to retrieve him now."

"Well, I--"

"I should warn you that if I do not obtain your permission I must act without it."

"In that case," observed Alija tactfully, "you have my most kind regards."

"Thank you. Sergeant Deutscher! I want a formation in five minutes. Twenty men." He faced Alija. "Can you ride?"

"No."

"Then you will learn. You'll go double behind another man."

"Cannot I simply give you directions--?"

"No, thank you," said Slavin firmly. "We would prefer to do it our way."

"As you say."

"Thank you."

The stocky form of Sergeant Deutscher appeared in the doorway. "What's happening, sir?"

"Vonhof's been located. He's hurt but alive, that should make your day. You'll take this man with you as a guide. Usual procedures. And, Herr Unteroffizier, make it a clean operation. Be nice to people. No funny stuff and for God's sake no shooting. You're to get Vonhof and then get out, you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Move out."

The NCO snapped out a salute and vanished and the Commissioner said, "I want an officer who speaks the lingo to go along. You'll ride with them, Colonel."

"Sir--"

Stadelmeier did not blink. "Didn't you hear me? You. Will.--"

"Yes, sir." Slavin rattled off some orders to the runner and stood up.

"Good man. We shall see if your man in custody and Vonhof know anything about each other. If they do, you've been doing better work than I suspected. I'd hate to think you collared some wretch off the street just to have to show me."

And as he half-listened to the remonstrative assurances of both men, Stadelmeier thought indulgently about Vathely for a moment and how much he despised him. The hussar had already passed the peak of his career at the age of thirty and didn't know it yet.

He thought, too, about Slavin, and wondered vaguely why it was the lancer seemed to carry a cross for these people who hated him. He had thought Slavin a fool; but no man so conscientious could be called foolish. Yet what other word would serve for a man who was throwing away an honourable career?

Stadelmeier half-wished he could transfer Slavin away for his own good; but Slavin's commission came directly from Vienna through Sarajevo, making him an official of the same grade, though inferior in rank.

And he thought, not least, about himself. With thirty years in the civil service behind him he, too, had long since ceased to entertain any illusions about himself. He had done a lot of dirty, thankless work, taken his share of falls, and now held this remote Kommissariat only by courtesy, meant as a prelude to an obscure retirement. He was expected to maintain order in this lost district for a year or so, collect a few taxes, and keep everything quiet; but no one, apparently, even the former enemy who had appointed him, had any idea that even so little was simply an impossible task.

Among all the Austrians, only Slavin had been here more than six months; he had served under General Varešanin in 1903 and had stayed as the Habsburg liaison officer to the Turkish boundary commission. He had not wanted the mixed command of Imperial regulars and Croatian Borderers assigned to him; and the constant ethnic brawling between the Croatians and Hungarians had told Stadelmeier why, after it was too late to do anything about it.

And in addition to the intermittent sniping and ambushes that the patrols met, now came the murder of the knez of Tselebietchi. He had no way of knowing how far the news would percolate into Montenegro, nor what use Prince Nicholas' ministers or the Italian and Russian military legates would make of it if they learnt of the incident. But he did not relish the idea of reading about ‘Austrian provocations’ in some Italian propaganda sheet, and he certainly had no intention of standing in front of Baron Burian in Sarajevo trying to explain them away. Slavin apparently felt that the key to the situation lay with the land's half-savage peoples, and he wanted to believe that Slavin was right. But, again, Slavin had quite a few feelings that did not really befit an Austrian commander, and even if he were right his methods would look decidedly unorthodox to the upper levels. And at this point the last thing any of them needed was an investigation.

Stadelmeier cursed. What he did need was a good quick scapegoat and a clean cut-out, and he wasn't getting them.

But he was in a position to fix the chances; for that all he needed was forty-eight hours. After that all bets were off.

From what she was doing Stana looked up and across the square and saw Alija mounting a horse behind an Austrian. Her lips parted to cry out and as she raised her arm to wave the cavalry column started forward; a line of riders crossed the doorway to the han and were gone in the eddying dust.

"What was that?" Grgur asked of her.

"Alija was with them," she said. "They took Alija."

"Did they?"

"They're taking him to get the Schwabe at his house."

"There is a Schwabe at his house?"

"Yes!" she cried, exasperated. "A badly hurt Austrian crawled out of nowhere to his house, and he is taking them there to get the man."

"I didn't know that," said the sacristan. "But there is something that you should know, gospodja. I came to tell you."

"What is that?" she said, giving him a quick sparking look.

"I . . . I talked with the priest Rezać this morning, and what we talked about I promised not to tell Kosta Savić. But I did not promise not to tell you. The priest intends to exhume Andrija Savić's body tonight and perform the ritual of second burial upon it. I said I would be there."

She said softly, "That should have been done years ago, if at all. He has no more right to do that now than Hajji Osmanović the imam to sound the tahlil from Rezać's belltower."

"I am only informing you, gospodja. I make no judgment."

The sparks in her eyes burst into flame. "Judgment be damned. You know it's wrong."

The sacristan said sharply, "Do not be too quick, gospodja, to speak out about right and wrong. If I may speak frankly, your own public record in such matters is questionable."

"I am familiar with my reputation, and I wouldn't wish to alter it in the slightest."

"Even if it's bruited about that you set Kosta Savić on to kill Knez Dabisav?"

"How dare you--"

"I, nothing. I am warning you of what is, nothing more. If you choose to disbelieve me, or blame me, or whatever, it's nothing to me, gospodja."

She laid both her hands upon one of his. "I apologize, Grgur. Forgive my temper, but to hear anyone, even you, say such things bites me to the quick."

"Of course, gospodja, I know. And you know that I would never start such a tale, for the respect of the old gospodar Nikola Savić's memory. But more tales than that are abroad, and if word of that gets about will not Andrija come out of his grave in more ways than one? Will not the horrors of his death return to plague Kosta Savić to his own grave? What will you do then?"

"Good questions, Grgur. But I don't intend to just sit and wait for it to happen." His gaze shifted behind her for an instant and she knew Slavica was there.

"As I said, gospodja, it's nothing to me, and perhaps I'd be better off yet not knowing," he said. "A word in season, for the sake of olden times. That's all. I guess I'll be going now."

"God go with you, Grgur," she said. "And thanks."

He half turned, bowed slightly, and picked up his market basket.

Slavica watched Stana watch him go. "What was that all about?"

"There is a rumour abroad that Kosta killed Knez Dabisav, and it may get to the Austrians."

"If they did arrest him," said the girl, "that would be quite convenient for one or two people."

"Yes, it would," said Stana. "Our job is to make it inconvenient for them."

"What do you plan to do?"

"I think a talk with the Austrians is in order. I would like to find out what they think about the whole business."

"And who, if anyone, should be thrown to the wolves."

Stana eyed the girl carefully. "You ought to watch your mouth, young lady."

Slavica made no reply but leaned against the side of the wagon, poking into a bruised potato with her fingernail over and over again. And if Stana, who turned away to talk to a Djurić cousin, had turned again and looked closer, she would have seen in the girl's gaze a fire like her own, dimmer but stoked to a blue heat, such as burns in the hearts of stars.

"That was," said Stadelmeier, pushing back his mess plates, "possibly the shittiest breakfast I've ever eaten."

"Sir--"

"Are my troops eating like that?"

"That's what everybody's getting, sir, Colonel Slavin and me as well."

"Janos, it is market-day. Get some money together, go out and buy some decent food."

"Yes, sir. Schwetje!"

"Sir?"

"Oh, you're here. Take up a collection--here's the first mark--" he instructed, digging in his pocket, "--and have Sergeant Schaab make up a menu for seven days, using anything that can be bought at market. You and he do the shopping."

"I hear that, sir," said the aide-de-camp, bringing out a few pfennig with his small devilish smile.

"Fresh roast chicken tonight?" asked Stadelmeier.

"With potato salad and cheese rolls if I have anything to do with it, sir," he replied. "We'll fix you up, sir."

When Schwetje had gone out Stadelmeier said to Vathely, "A lesson, my friend. How to improve morale, step one. Start with the chow."

"Point taken, sir. I'm just a little surprised Colonel Slavin didn't think of that."

"Just between you and me, Vathely, I'm a little surprised at everything Slavin thinks when I can figure it out. I'd consider getting rid of him if I could, but it's not that he's a bad officer. He's just been out here too long and I think it's getting to him. In fact, I believe he'd think more of some of these mongrel Slavs than he would of an Austrian."

"You're not too far wrong, sir. He seemed pretty loath to book our prisoner, who's obviously a brigand, and you'll see, because the fellow claimed to be a man of the gospodar Kosta Savitch. Even though the man may have had a blood quarrel with Juglesitch."

"Really? You know, Vathely, the deeper I get into this business the more I hear about Savitch. I'd like to see him."

"He's quite the man to know around here, sir. Kind of like the Junker in Prussia, the landed nobleman whose word is the law. I daresay if you had him, you'd probably have a choke-hold on the whole peasantry this side of Popov Most."

"Yes," said Stadelmeier. "Is he out there at market?"

Vathely uncoiled his legs and rose from his seat, walking languidly over to look out the stone-arched doorway. "His wagon is over there, sir, but I don't see him. His wife the gospodja seems to be handling the business today."

"His wife?"

"He was wounded somehow a few days ago, sir. He hasn't been seen since. I wager he could tell you a thing or two."

Stadelmeier got up and came over. "Where is she?"

"Just over there, sir, on that side, by the wagon. See the kerchief with the black hair?"

The Commissioner squinted into the streaming sunlight. "Hard to tell with all those clothes. She good-looking?"

"I've met both of them, sir. A lot of these people have fine, handsome looks but she's enchanting."

"Really?"

"Yes, sir. They say that no man who has seen her has ever forgotten her."

"What's he like?"

"Darker, kind of thin and wasted, almost Arab-looking except for his blue eyes. But he’s accustomed to command, speaks good German; probably an ex-officer. And there's something hungry and cold and not quite right about him, sir, like he's got a screw loose somewhere."

"Predatory, do you mean?"

"That's it, sir. That's just it. He's got just the look of a starving wolf. Quite uncanny you should say that, for when I was talking to him he took offence at something and just went shaking crazy. If he hadn't had several armed men on him I believe he would have sprung at me and tried to tear my throat out. The look he had in his eye gives me shivers, sir, I won't deny it."

"It sounds like he has some kind of disease."

"Maybe so. These mountains are riddled with epilepsy and consumption, but the greatest scourge is goitre. The men wear these red scarves to hide it."

"God," muttered Stadelmeier. "What a place this is." He looked up again. "There's Father Rezatch talking to her. D'you know him? I mean, talked with him at any length?"

"Some, sir."

Stadelmeier turned away and walked into the room. "I gather he and the gospodar Savitch don't get along."

"Hard to say, sir. The gospodja is practically a parishioner of his."

Stadelmeier grunted. “If things go my way, the Emperor Franz Josef will soon be his God, and the Archduke Franz Ferdinand his Saviour. And if he won't bend, he'll break."

"Good luck, sir. By all accounts he's a tough customer."

For an answer the Commissioner drew his Luger pistol and pulled back the receiver, releasing it to slam forward and letting the hammer fall with a dry click.

He said, "No man's that tough . . . Right, let's look in on your peasant."

"Rakely! Is the prisoner fit to see yet?"

The reply came, "He's coming round, sir."

Stadelmeier fastened his holster and looked at the hussar. "’Coming round?’"

Vathely smiled queerly. "Our prisoner is quite clumsy. Constantly tripping and hitting his head, falling down and bruising himself in some regrettable and unusual ways."

The Commissioner turned. "You'd better watch it, Vathely. Killing a man if you have to is one thing, but just beating people up for fun is another matter entirely, and I won't tolerate it. If we have to kill him to keep him quiet you're going to be hurting, and that's a promise."

"I understand, sir."

"'Understand?'" he mimicked. "You're starting to annoy me, Herr Rittmeister. Don't say anything. Just don't you say a word to me. Rakely!"

"Excellency." The man stepped through the door.

"Let's see the man."

"This way, Excellency."

And the Commissioner, followed by a scowling Vathely, went to see Ivo.

"Good morning, gospodja. And a fine morning it is."

Stana looked up suddenly and saw the priest Rezać.

"'Morning, Father. You're well, I trust?"

"Very well, thank you." He picked up a potato. "Your stock survived the winter in excellent shape; no mildew or rot. I'll take a dozen."

"All right, Father, say ten pfennig for big ones?"

"Ako, ako. Little Anton is still recovering? How is Kosta Savić?"

"Anton is in health, thank you," she said, beginning to count. "Slavica, bring up some more, please--and Kosta Savić is ploughing today."

"Ploughing? Isn't that hard work, child, for a man in his condition?"

"The wound was not as bad as I'd thought. Just superficial. And he felt strong enough."

"Even so, surely he lost a lot of blood. Shouldn't he be resting?"

She straightened up. "I've never taken it upon myself to tell him what to do. Although I occasionally advise him on what he ought to do. Please keep that very clear in your mind, Father."

Slavica walked slowly up behind Stana, her face a perfectly composed blank.

"Excuse me, gospodja, but I don't quite understand."

"Does the Gospel of yours ever command you to understand? If you were in my place, Father, there would be no question of it. Only your God would be capable of it. But all the same you had better be prepared to accept the consequences of what you do. Not necessarily so much that they will come back to you after death as that they will revisit you while you live. Isn't that the doctrine of temporal punishment?"

"In practice, that spells a Christless life; but you are, I presume, speaking of Kosta Savić, rather than of theology. If so, your conscience must be your guide. But I am always ready to help you if you require it."

"Thank you, Father," she said coolly. "It's a pity, really, I came to you so late, and Andrija never benefited from your help."

Slavica said: "If I understand correctly what I'm hearing, Father is beyond even the help of God."

"Do not believe that, child," said Rezać. "No one is beyond God's help with the intercession of the saints and the Blessed Virgin."

"And the help of His ministers on earth, of course," said Stana.

"I am duty-bound to do what I can--in my best judgement, of course."

Stana eyed him up and down. "I am very glad to hear it, Father. May your duty ever coincide with people's needs."

The priest put down his sack and said: "All right, gospodja. What's it all about?"

"You want to know what it's all about? Very well, Father. I asked you once and I will ask you again; who do you think shot my husband?"

"And I said I don't know, gospodja, truly. But if you are concerned you may report the matter to the Austrian authorities. I'm sure they will deal with the matter."

"I see. So your duty ends when people start shooting at each other."

Rezać took out his purse and counted out ten pfennig. "You are upset, gospodja, and I can sympathize. But I am afraid we must continue this discussion later, as I see no possibility of an understanding between us now."

"It's not that at all, Father. It is doing out of love; for duty grows only out of love, and anything else is a lie."

"As you say, gospodja," said the priest, picking up his bag. "I bid you good-day."

"Good day, Father."

As she watched him walk away, Slavica asked: "How much do you think he knows?"

Stana turned to look at her. "With what he suspects, he could spin a plausible enough tale to harm us quite a lot."

"But why? Why would he want to do anything to us?"

A trace of frost crept into Stana's voice. "Nothing was said about what he wanted to do. I just said he could."

"Does he?"

"I don't know," she said flatly.

It was true enough, but the girl just looked at her as though she were lying about it.

Stana said evenly: "Whatever ideas you may have about the priest, drop them. Now. Whatever your father Andrija Savić had to do with him is dead and buried."

"And you?"

"Leave it alone, Slavica. Just leave it alone."

The girl looked at her in a very odd way, her eyelids deeply hooded, and brought her face up as if to gaze over Stana's head. "Leave it alone . . .? I will--if it leaves us alone."

Stana's hand shot out like a striking snake and took Slavica by a shoulder blade. And her thumb bore in under the clavicle as she brought her face to within an inch of the girl's and said: "All right, little bitch. You want to know all about the priest? He's your father, by me."

"You're lying."

Stana tightened her grip until her knuckles turned white and the girl's teeth locked together with pain.

"You think so? You would. You've been a difficult child ever since you same out feet first. Eleven hours I was in labour with you, and then I hear it's going to be a breech birth. It nearly killed me on the spot. Ask Sarai if you don't believe that. For ten years I reared you carefully, lovingly, knowing every moment what would happen if Andrija suspected."

"Why?"

Stana released her grip, and Slavica began to massage the spot. "I'm sorry if I hurt you . . . But in a woman's life there are times when she can no longer go on as she did before. She must evolve, grow, or else petrify. I came upon such a time once, and Andrija turned away from me. For help I turned to Ante Rezać; and for just a little while he became very special to me. But the time came when Andrija needed me, and I went back to him. He always believed you were his--which is why I am still alive--and in a way maybe you are his. But to me you have always been a memory of that time; and I have never regretted the fact that through me Ante left a child to the world."

"What kind of a man is he?"

"Lonely. Terribly lonely, the way an old spinster is lonely. I'm not sure he had ever made love to a woman before me, and I know he never has done since . . . I suppose to him I represented some remote and unapproachable ideal, something hardly to be touched."

"That sounds strange. Why on earth would he think something like that?"

"Men are that way. They get all kinds of crazy ideas."

"Does he know?"

"I never told him . . . I never told anyone 'til now."

"So why tell me?"

The woman looked off to one side. "Your suspicions told me it was past time for you to know about it--as is your right . . . I would have told you before if I'd thought you were ready."

Slavica looked at her very steadily. "And is it true?"

"True, I swear it."

The girl said nothing for a moment.

"What about Papa?"

"He loves you like a daughter, you know that. The news wouldn't make you any the less his stepchild. I couldn't stop you telling him if you wanted to, but no good would ever come of it."

"You're right. I guess it will be our secret."

"That's my girl. Come give me a kiss."

Slavica put a hand on Stana's shoulder and kissed her; and only after she drew away did Stana put two fingers to her eyelid and slowly draw them across and over her cheek.

Yusef stood and drew a deep breath, looking at the dark mass beyond the bushes that he knew to be Savić's farmhouse. He knew, too, many of the stories of the clan, as he know those of the Vuletić and the Djurić and the others; and he had always accepted those in just the same way as he had accepted the tales of Dulić Ibrahim and Kraljević Marko; simply as the way things were--or, at any rate, as they ought to be.

But here he was conscious of a churning feeling in his gut and a tingling in his knees, and it came to him--though he could not have said as much--that the stories about the gospodar Andrija Savić and the gospodja Stana Malević were not told in such a way. Neither, however, were they bad stories, such as of the dreaded vulkodlak or the atrocities of Omer-latas Pasha; they seemed rather to mirror a profound mystery, an unspeakable otherness deep within the human soul which distinguished those of their blood from other men. He himself, perhaps, raised an ethnic Turk in the clear-cut faith of Islam, felt less at home with unanswerable questions than his Christian neighbours, who revered their holy mysteries; but whatever the thing was, he felt it quite definitely now that he had come this far.

The decision to approach the house was probably the most difficult he had ever made. But his huge calloused fingers ran slowly along the haft of his eighteen-inch khindjal, dwelling for a moment on the great steel pommel at its handle's end. Then he slowly flexed his arms, listening to the bones creak as the muscles stood out under his shirt; and he told himself that so far at least he was proof against any menace yet known in the valley.

He came up on the house diagonally, where a stand of young trees approached one side. On the lower face he saw the stable doors on the ground floor, and looked around and down the cleared field toward the valley and saw a man behind a horse-drawn plough some distance away. Whether it was the gospodar himself, or Demjan, he could not tell.

One of them had surely gone to market.

He circled uphill and found that there was a back field, lying fallow with green grass, and the short stairway to the door.

The shutters over the few windows were closed.

He went in until he was against the house and then made quietly for the stairs, and as he neared them he heard a growl.

A big wolf-grey dog that he hadn't seen on the landing got up and began to bark, its shaggy tail revolving as it spoke.

"Quiet," he hissed, immediately realizing the idiocy of that and as the animal emitted bark after bark ventured up two steps.

The dog came down a step toward him and he lunged for it. He blocked its teeth with his left and as they crashed together down the steps he sank the khindjal into its midquarters and pulled; the knife lay back against one rib and cut cleanly along the one next to it; blood burst out, splattering his knife arm.

He got to his knees, withdrawing the blade and using its tip to pry the jaws apart and then he stood up, leaning back against the house, his pulse racing.

He wiped his knife in the grey fur and shoved the dead bloody animal off the steps with his foot and then quickly wrapped his handkerchief around his left forearm, stanching the wound.

The door did not open.

Yusef thought very quickly, decided and went up the stairs, opened the door, and went into the house. He crossed the main room silently, knife still in hand, and went into a side room where he put the door ajar behind him and waited, breathing through his mouth, trying to calm himself.

As he waited in the quiet room he was aware, dimly, of the feeling he had had before; a curious dissociation from reality, almost as if he had left his own life and was living someone else's in a nightmare of what might have been.

He watched, keyed to perfect concentration by the numbness of his mind.

Stadelmeier backhanded the soldier across the face. "Idiot!" he yelled. "You know the rule--no markings on the prisoners!"

The soldier stood rigidly to attention, fingering his truncheon as if he were trying to make it disappear; and the Commissioner glared at him, turning red, for a very long moment.

"What good," he demanded, prodding the moaning gazda with his boot, "is this thing?" He threw a furious glance at Vathely, who remained still.

"If it can't talk, and there's no one else to talk about it, what goddamn good is it?" Stadelmeier reiterated.

He wheeled to face Vathely again.

"So he borrowed a horse to sneak away from his wife and kids to get drunk? More luck to him, I say--you lot make me feel likewise sometimes. For this you haul him in and beat the shit out of him? Slavin is going to hurt over this, and you--" he jabbed with his finger--"my lad . . . I'd cashier you right goddamn now if I could think of anyplace worse to send you. This is disobeying a lawful order, you know that?"

His voice grew quieter and began to drip with acid. "I had some idea--just a little idea, you know--of securing the cooperation of this gospodar Savitch fellow; arranging to meet him on neutral ground for a friendly chat, so I could maybe get some kind of an idea of what the hell we're into here. Because neither of you has any idea at all.

"But these things have to be handled carefully, I thought. Maybe have you drop a word to that priest, have the priest drop a word to Savitch's wife out there . . . you know, discreet. But obviously you don't know, because you pull one of his men right in off the street, blacken both his eyes, split a lip, and beat him very nicely about the ribs and lower abdomen. For having a few drinks. Jesus Christ, I'd like to see what you'd do to him for a real crime, like pissing in the street."

Stadelmeier took a step toward the officer and his voice sank nearly to a whisper. "Have you got anything at all to say for yourself, Herr Rittmeister?"

"No, sir. But I'd like to explain--"

"Well, don't explain it in front of him," rejoined Stadelmeier, nodding toward the guard. "I'd hate to have him repeating your inanities too freely among the lower enlisted ranks. Let's take a walk." He turned around and held out a hand. "Give me that thing."

The soldier held out the truncheon to Stadelmeier, who snatched it away and smacked it against his thigh, then held it up. "If you touch him; if you or anyone else touches any other prisoners we may get; if I even suspect you won't pass this order along, I'm going to use this on you myself, in ways you've never dreamt of. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"'Sir' will be fine. And if you think I'm bluffing, just you let me see one more bruise on him."

"No, sir."

"All right, then." Stadelmeier tossed the weapon back. "If your fingers start itching, put some polish on it. Carry on."

With this the Commissioner motioned Vathely out of the room ahead of him, and together they went down the corridor.

With a flourish Stadelmeier waved his subordinate to a seat on the bench and sat himself comfortably in Slavin's chair, tipping it back so that the ancient woodwork creaked dangerously, crossing one foot over another on Slavin's makeshift desk.

Then he undid his pistol belt, drew it from him with one hand, and threw it beside his feet on the desk.

"All right, Janos," said the politician with a tiny smile, as if he expected to be entertained. "Explain."

"Well, sir, what I have to say is more about the gospodar Savitch than about the peasant. I'm not sure he is the sort of man one can deal with across a bargaining table. Besides being a violent and physically dangerous man, he is not rational. I believe I mentioned he shows some signs of a mental disease."

"You did that. I may be getting on, but my memory is still good for twenty minutes, Janos."

"Yes, sir. So--"

"So what?"

"Perhaps a little history would be in order, sir. The present gospodar inherited his title from an elder brother who died five years ago after having committed just such a crime as we are investigating."

"You've saying what?--that this fellow came back from the dead? That there's some sort of family curse?"

"Not in so many words, sir. But that and other facts indicate that there is a tendency to sudden homicide in the family."

"I know, Janos. It comes with the territory around here. And apart from any accusation you're building up to, let me ask you this: is the gospodar Savitch actually insane?"

"I wouldn't be--"

"No. I don't think so. A burning desire to throttle you, Janos, is an impulse I entirely sympathize with right now. And I would probably feel it quite intensely if you and your Katzenjammer Kids broke my door down in the middle of the night and screwed with me at gunpoint. I would probably continue to feel it if you went around beating up my people for no reason at all. Especially if I were a local boss with a lot of prestige at stake. I'd say, in fact, that the level of hostile action you've met in the two days you've been here so far demonstrates an extremely sane sense of restraint on his part. By the way, does he have prestige around here?"

"I'd have to admit he does, sir, although a good deal founded on his violent reputation. Which is far from being my invention."

"I don't give a fart where his prestige comes from. If he's got it to go with the title, fine and dandy. All the more reason to talk to him. The idea being that if there is any one man around here who knows who did it or why it was done, it is likely to be him. You see what I'm saying?"

"You have a point there, sir."

"Good and goddamn right I've got a point. Given the fact that we are practically on the Montenegrin border, with Russian and Italian agents a day's ride west of here, I'd say we want a working relationship with this bastard even if he did the killing himself; and I'd say that indiscriminate arrests and beatings are liable to start that relationship off on the wrong foot. You see what I'm saying?"

"Yes, sir."

"Deal, Janos, with reality. That's all I'm saying. This gospodar fellow seems to be the reality around here, so we have to deal with him."

"You should have your chance tomorrow, sir, when the funerals are held. I'm certain he'll be there."

Stadelmeier spread his arms wide. "Finally, some information I can use. Where's Schwetje and that lunch he promised? Hey!" he yelled, swinging his feet off the desk. "Runner!"

Barfeld appeared. "Sir?"

"Where's Schwetje at?"

"Still at market, sir."

"When you see his ass tell him to get hot with the cooks, and if I don't see hot chow by thirteen-thirty he's fired. Got that?" Stadelmeier grinned.

Barfeld smiled. "Got it, sir."

"Carry on."

"Demjan!"

Hearing a note of alarm in Sarai's voice, he dropped his armful of cuttings and ran.

She met him partway down the stairs. "Sarai, what's the matter?" And before she could answer he heard at least a dozen sets of hoofbeats.

"They're coming by the road. You can see them down the hill. I'm sure it's Schwabes."

"I guess it is."

"I had Mara hide. You never know. Do you think they found out about the poor wounded fellow?"

"We'll see," said Demjan as the riders swept into the yard, and he recognized Alija mounted behind one of them. The formation came to a halt and several men dismounted, tossing their reins to others; last of them was Alija himself, who needed a hand.

Colonel Slavin met him, and together they walked toward the steps where Demjan and Sarai watched them.

"Alija, what is it?" asked Demjan.

"Nothing to worry about," said the farmer, "other than my stiff backside."

"It'll be a bit sore in the morning," Slavin told him.

"Demjan, you remember Colonel Slavin." They traded greetings. "I told him about the soldier we found, and they have come to fetch him."

The young man shot a shrewd look at Alija, who nodded very slightly.

"Very good," said Demjan. "I'm afraid he's in bad shape, though."

"May I see him?" enquired Slavin.

"But of course," said the farmer. "Wife, open the door, please. It's all right." Demjan followed the woman up the stairs, preceding Slavin and Alija.

"I understand that you found him out in the brush," said Slavin, ducking under the low lintel, "and I have Alija’s word that you know nothing about how he got there. But you realize all the same that I must have something to tell my superiors."

"Indeed, sir," replied Alija, opening the door to the inner room. "He is here."

Slavin went to the man's bedside, looking down at his sleeping form for several seconds.

"Vonhof," he murmured at last.

He reached into one of his inner pockets, producing a small leather case, and snapping this open took out a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. Then he strode out of the room and shouted: "Oehring!"

Turning about he unfolded the glasses, holding them in one hand, and faced Demjan and Alija. "All right, tell me about it."

"I found him yesterday," said Demjan, "near the east field. I heard thrashing, irregular movement in the underbrush, and it was him, trying to walk, not doing too well. He knew me for a human being and cried out for help, so I picked him up and carried him here." Slavin held up a finger to the soldier who entered, and Demjan finished: "That's all."

"If you carried him, you're even stronger than you look," said the officer.

"It wasn't far."

Slavin motioned the medic into the sickroom with him. He put on his spectacles and peered over the man's shoulder, absolutely still. The medic checked the man’s pulse and temperature, listened to his chest with a stethoscope, and then beckoned to Alija in the doorway. The farmer took a step in, and Slavin and Oehring exchanged a few words in German. Then Slavin asked: "Who patched him up?"

"Him," said Alija, indicating Demjan. "He and my wife did."

"Let's talk to you, young man," said the colonel. "Come here."

Demjan moved up to the foot of the bed.

"What's under that?" asked Slavin, pointing to the bandage under the man's jaw.

"There's a deep gouge," said Demjan. "Right down to the cartilage. Something tried to bite his throat out."

Again the soft phrases in German.

"Is it septic?"

"Septic?"

"Infected--is it infected?"

"We don’t think so, but we've applied herbal plasters. You'll find a plaster on his side, too. If he's not feverish I'd guess he'll pull through."

Slavin translated this and the medic laid his hand on the man's forehead again; then he pulled the quilts back and studied the wounds there. There was more German, nearly a minute of it, and then Slavin said: "We're going to go ahead and move him. Oehring here is going to fix him up and we'll be off in half an hour."

"In the meantime, will you have a glass of wine?" offered Alija.

"No, thank you, but I won't mind stepping out of the way." Slavin went back to the doorway, rattled off a series of orders in German, then had a seat at the table with Demjan and Alija as several soldiers moved up the stairs. Finally he removed his spectacles, folded them up, and put them away in their case. For some time no one said anything; only the soldiers moved back and forth, conversing in German, while Slavin examined his ragged fingernails and the farmer and the young man did not look at anything.

Then, still looking at his nails, Slavin asked: "When you found him, friend, did he say nothing but to ask for help?"

"Not really. He mumbled some stuff I didn't understand--I guess it was German."

"Did he ask you for help in German, or Serbian?"

"I don't know--he was so obviously asking for help that I didn't really notice what language he was using."

"True, of course." After a moment, Slavin looked directly at Demjan and asked: "You think it was a wild animal did it, or a human attacker?"

"A wild animal. No doubt. What else could it be?"

"Nothing . . . except, perhaps, a wild man, or a vulkodlak."

"Do you, sir, believe in the vulkodlak legend?"

Slavin replied carefully: "I believe in what I see. Most men who say that use it to defend a scepticism which they would wish to appear rational, but is really based on a compelling fear of the irrational. I say it because my job forces me to deal with irrationalities that wouldn't go away if I chose not to believe in them. In five years I have ridden almost every road, trail, and pass from the Boca Kotorska to Sarajevo to Novi Bazar, and in that time I have seen more unbelievable things than you could shake a stick at. At the monastery of Prilep I witnessed a woman healed of a cataract. She completely recovered her eyesight as I stood and watched. Near Resana I saw a man kill a horse from a kilometre away using a twig, a rusted nail, and a bit of verbal gibberish. He assured me he could do the same to me. At Gračanica, with this right hand, I touched to very flesh and body of Knez Lazar Hrebeljanovic, preserved and recognizable, who fell at Kosovo over five hundred years ago. Utterly unbelievable things, but I saw them. Why not such a thing as a vulkodlak, then? Show me one, and as a responsible military commander I will have no choice but to believe in it, or act as though I did, which comes to the same thing."

Alija said: "Excuse me. But we know of no such . . . thing around here."

"Then what sort of an animal was it?" asked Slavin quietly.

Demjan scratched his head. "It doesn't look like a wolf. Wolves don't make a habit of attacking humans except in packs, or unless maddened. But wolves go for the throat."

"True," said Slavin. "So what do you think?"

There was a space of silence.

"I think, sir," said Alija, "that we all ought to be very careful, especially at night."

"Very wise," said the Austrian. "You will hear from me if there are developments."

"As you will hear from us," said Demjan, "if something turns up we can't handle.

"Good," said Slavin. "And what did you say your name was, young man?"

"I didn't. Demjan Savić."

Slavin lifted an eyebrow. "Related to--?"

"His stepson."

"I see," said the lancer. "A remarkable man, your stepfather."

"He is that, sir."

Slavin turned round; four soldiers were lifting the wounded man in a sling. He rose, excusing himself, and gave some directions in German as the men gingerly backed out the doorway with their burden. As they went out he turned again and said: "We must be going now, gentlemen. You are invited to return to the village with us if you like."

"Thank you, I will." The farmer got to his feet and took his hat in his hands. "My business is not yet finished."

"Don't be too long, Alija," Demjan admonished.

"I won't." With a wave the farmer was gone, and Demjan said: "All right, Sarai."

The woman emerged and went to one of the small windows, watching the men mount up. "I feel a little better, Demjan. I wish he'd stayed, though."

"Someone has to help my mother," aid the young man. "She'd be worried, too, if he went off with them and didn't return. Maybe I should have gone instead."

Sarai watched the column pass down the hillside. "And what was that about being careful?"

"If I really knew," replied Demjan, "we probably wouldn't have to worry."

Demjan did not find much solace in the thought that Sarai was a natural worrier. He was worried himself, and so he did not attempt to reassure her; better, he felt, to let her small imagination run free than to convey the horrible reality he had read in the soldier's crackling blue eyes.

And after eating some lunch Demjan went back to work, but not before he oiled his handžal and checked that it slipped easily in and out of its sheath.

Kosta Savić rounded the corner of the house slowly, his knife poised in his hand like a live thing.

The old sheepdog didn't work anymore, but he infallibly warned of anyone approaching the house; and that last piercing yelp meant that this visitor hadn't dropped by for coffee.

It wasn't Schwabes, or there'd have been horses and noise aplenty.

If it was Dragan Vuković, he was working very fast.

He rounded another corner and as he saw the dog's eviscerated remains by the stairs his face set like granite.

Whoever'd do that to a dog would cheerfully do it to him. Or to Stana and the children.

It was lucky they were gone.

That thought faded out of his mind, along with the pain in his side, as he took on the no-self, the assured and total awareness of everything about him.

He moved on, over the dog, using the edge of the bottom step to slip off his boots, and up he went, a few at a time, avoiding the creaky ones--and there were a couple, he had seen to that.

The door stood nearly shut, and after thinking for a fraction of a second he put the knife's tip under one of its timbers and lifted, letting the door swing a third open very slowly and without sound.

Then he waited for some time, about three whole minutes, knowing that if he were marked for a bullet his next move would buy him that bullet, right in the gut.

He cocked the knife and slipped quickly inside the doorway, flattening himself against the wall.

No bullet, yet.

Maybe he wasn't in here.

Kosta Savić made a careful and completely silent circuit of the main room.

No one.

He went on to the first of the two inner rooms--his and Stana’s bedroom.

Again, the door slightly ajar.

Again, he moved it back slowly.

He waited.

Once more he cocked the knife back and began to slip through.

The door leaped forward and crushed him against the frame.

He gasped with pain; he did not drop the knife, but as he sank down, trying to force the door back with a knee, a huge hand seized his left forearm--his knife hand, unluckily--and wrenched it, pulling him into the room.

That made him drop the knife, and he knew he was in serious trouble.

As he tumbled into the room he saw that his assailant was Yusef, the priest's porter, and Yusef was grinning.

Kosta Savić smiled back and drove his left foot into the man's stomach.

He might as well have tried to kick a locomotive engine.

Yusef whirled, bringing Kosta Savić around and slamming him into the wall against his back.

Kosta Savić, half-stunned, had to let his head clear a moment before his foot lashed out again, this time to kick Yusef's right knee from under him.

This he did, but as Yusef went down to a kneeling position he swung Kosta Savić again, and only a desperate twist kept the nobleman from impacting the wall with his face. His right arm, flung out wide, met the top of a dresser, scattering the toiletries atop it.

His fingers went over the edge, grasping, and he put everything he had into a convulsive yank upon his left arm; it slipped out of Yusef's grasp with a scorching pain at the shoulder as the dresser tipped over with a crash.

Kosta Savić staggered backwards, giddy with pain, right into the bed's footboard, and fell over. He tried to roll away but Yusef grabbed him by an arm and a leg, spun him about once in the air, and threw him against the wall over the bed, which cracked and broke as he landed on it.

He bounced and rolled once and hit the floor next to Stana's knitting-basket, blood beginning to show on his shirt.

"Come on, gospodar," taunted the young man, "are you going to let me tell them I beat you one-handed?”

Kosta Savić moaned and rolled over once more, and Yusef walked across the mattress. He stood over the nobleman a moment and then one of his great boots drew back and kicked him in the abdomen.

Kosta Savić's eyes opened and looking up at Yusef he saw the face of Andrija staring down at him like a death mask.

His stomach seized up in a cramp of shock; he doubled up.

Andrija reached down and hauled him to his feet by one arm, and Kosta Savić's other arm shot out and stabbed him with a knitting needle.

He let go in surprise, and Kosta ducked under his reach and got across the bed while Yusef drew his handžal and came after him, cursing. Kosta Savić made for his knife on the floor but as Yusef came at him had to sidestep; he slid the knife back with his foot and deflected Yusef's slash with one knitting needle, lunging inside with the other.

Yusef's goal had been the doorway, which he now stood back-to, kicking the door shut.

"All right, gospodar," he said, palming his big knife. "Come on and get me."

Kosta Savić said: "I'm a cripple armed with a pair of knitting needles. Why don't you just come and get me, big man?" He ran the back of one hand across his middle and saw red traces on it.

Then he fell onto one knee. Yusef closed in warily; Kosta Savić had to parry a knife thrust which drew blood on one hand but got a stab near a kidney with the other knitting-needle, and suddenly used his bent leg to catapult himself under Yusef's guard toward the door, snatching up his knife as he went. The young man turned but the nobleman was already through and away.

Yusef's impulse was to follow, but he hesitated for a moment, thrown off by unfamiliar tactics; and when he did come through a knife thudded into the doorframe next to him.

Kosta Savić had two more knives in his right hand and a large meat-cleaver in his left.

"Now, Yusef beg," he panted. "Let's talk a moment."

"Talk, then," said Yusef, still holding his own weapon.

"Toss that cake-slicer of yours out on the floor, if you believe I can hit you with this," he said, moving the cleaver. "Then we'll talk some more and I won't kill you. Otherwise, take your chance."

"All right," said Yusef and threw his knife, falling and rolling. Glass shattered and Yusef's ribs were seared by a blow; the cleaver had pinned his shirt to the floor.

He froze.

"You shouldn't have done that," said Kosta Savić, moving in. "You broke Stana's anniversary bowl."

"Well, I don't have a knife any more," said Yusef. "You'd stab me now?"

Kosta Savić squatted near Yusef's head. "Why shouldn't I?"

"I wasn't trying to kill you, I swear it. Father Ante said I was to come up and throw a scare into you, that's all. Why, I could have killed you easy when you came through the door."

"Oh?" said Kosta Savić, bringing one knife to Yusef's throat. "Supposing, for a start, that's true, did you stop and wonder what made scaring me, killing my dog, and breaking Stana's anniversary bowl any of Father Ante's goddamned business?"

"No."

"Think about it now," said Kosta Savić. "Think hard."

Yusef waited a second. "It isn't."

"What isn't what?"

"These things aren't any of Father Ante's business. Or mine."

"Ako, ako," commented Kosta Savić, and with a swift motion of his other knife hacked off Yusef's nose.

As blood began to trickle over his face, running into his eyes so he had to shut them, Kosta Savić said, "Don't even think of moving your hands."

Then Yusef began to feel pain, and still he felt the other knife at his throat.

"That one's for being honest," he heard Kosta Savić say through the roaring in his head. "Now, think some more. Is there any reason why I shouldn't go ahead and kill you, or at least cut your fat ugly prick off, which for you'd probably be worse?"

"No, gospodar."

"Gospodar now, am I? I'm beginning to feel honoured," said Kosta Savić, and sliced off both Yusef's ears. "That's for remembering your manners."

The nobleman stood up with a grunt and prodded Yusef in the stomach. "Get up."

Slowly, half-dazed, Yusef got swayingly to his feet. Kosta Savić tossed him a rag.

"You're bleeding on Stana's rug, Yusef beg," observed Kosta. "She won't like that at all. I hope she doesn't decide to put the evil eye on you."

Yusef said nothing, trying to stem three blood-flows at once.

"Yusef beg."

"What?"

"Get out of my house now," said Kosta Savić. "And here, take this with you. We've already got a cake-slicer." The knife fell near his feet; as Yusef bent to pick it up his legs failed him and he had to land on his knees.

The older man hefted another blade with his left. "You have ten seconds to get out. Nine. Eight . . . "

Yusef snatched up his handžal and came groggily upright.

"Five. Four . . . "

He staggered toward the door, hitting it as he went out, and Kosta Savić went and leaned on the rail outside, watching Yusef lurch down the stairs and toward the road, still mopping at his bleeding head.

Then the nobleman went in, shut and barred the door, and collapsed.

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