Echoes from the Wombs of Tartaria — 4

Yarosvet and the girls remained still, observing him. There was nothing immediately threatening in his bearing — no drawn weapon — but the very precision of his movements suggested a man accustomed to authority, to rules, and to making others follow them. Yet beneath that formality, one sensed a careful avoidance of direct confrontation: a man who would execute unpleasant orders but preferred them carried out quietly, through paper, signature, and protocol rather than force.

He lifted a gloved hand slightly and inclined his head with precise stiffness. “Good morning,” he said, his voice flat, formal, almost clipped. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Yarosvet returned the nod with equal calm, his tone measured, matching the stranger’s formality. “We are your neighbors from Lipovka,” he replied. “We merely happened to be passing through the area, exploring the surroundings we have not yet familiarized ourselves with.”

The stranger’s thin lips pressed briefly into a line, then relaxed into the faintest semblance of a smile. “A pleasure, of course,” he said, glancing over the courtyard with a professional detachment. “You are fortunate with the weather today.” His eyes flicked from the manor to the overgrown grounds, and then back to them, the unspoken implication hanging in the air: your visit is noted, and your departure is expected promptly.

Taissia and Lena exchanged a subtle glance, sensing the underlying edge beneath the formal politeness, while Yarosvet’s gaze remained steady, noting the meticulousness of the man’s stance, the calculated distance he kept, and the hint of impatience behind his carefully neutral words.

Yarosvet lifted his fingers to the brim of his hat and gave a slight, measured bow, meeting the stranger’s gaze steadily. “I am Yarosvet Alexeyevich Zorich, Collegiate Assessor.”

The man on the porch regarded him, eyes flicking over Yarosvet and the girls, as if weighing something carefully. A faint crease formed between his brows, and he pursed his thin lips. Finally he spoke, voice precise and deliberate: “Grigoriy Pavlovich Mosolov,” he said. “I am not the owner of this estate. It belongs to the bank I represent, and at present I am otherwise engaged and cannot afford you the usual courtesies.”

Before anyone could speak further, heavy, rhythmic thuds echoed again from somewhere behind the house, accompanied by a distant whinny of a horse.

Taissia glanced toward Yarosvet, a faint smile on her lips. “Seems the bank has taken to demolishing its own property,” she quipped lightly, trying to mask the tension.

Mosolov’s thin lips pressed into a line, and his eyes flicked toward the noise. His voice, flat and sharp, cut through the moment. “The bank manages its estate as it sees fit,” he said, the words carrying an unmistakable edge. “And now I wish you all a safe journey onward.”

The dull thuds from somewhere behind the house repeated.

Taissia glanced toward Yarosvet, a faint smile on her lips. “Seems the bank has taken to demolishing its own property,” she quipped lightly, trying to mask the tension.

Mosolov’s thin lips pressed into a line, and his eyes flicked toward the noise. His voice, flat and sharp, cut through the moment. “The bank manages its estate as it sees fit,” he said, the words carrying an unmistakable edge. “And now I wish you all a safe journey onward.”

Before they could respond, a woman’s cry rang out clearly from somewhere behind the house, sharp and urgent, carrying over the courtyard and cutting through the morning air.

Yarosvet’s gaze immediately snapped toward the sound, his posture tightening. Taissia’s playful smirk vanished, replaced by a tense frown. “That didn’t sound like anything friendly,” she murmured, her brow furrowing. “Hardly the sort of noise a bank estate would make.”

Mosolov’s eyes sharpened, and his tone became even firmer. “I suggest you keep to your own path and refrain from interfering in matters that do not concern you,” he said, the words carrying unmistakable finality.

“As a neighbor, I might well have done the same,” Yarosvet said evenly, his gaze steady on Mosolov. “But as a Collegiate Assessor, I am bound to investigate what is happening here.”

The effect was immediate. Mosolov’s rigid posture faltered just slightly, a flicker of unease passing over his precise composure, though he quickly masked it with a faint tightening of his lips.

Mosolov’s eyes narrowed, his voice clipped. “There are… unforeseen circumstances. A trespass upon the property — an unwelcome presence, so to speak.”

Yarosvet gave a subtle tilt of his head, his gaze unwavering, and spoke with measured authority, “Then I suggest you take the trouble to explain what is happening here.”

The repeated cries and thuds from behind the house drew their attention once more.

From the doorway stepped a second man. He was a tall, imposing figure, likely around forty, with the bearing of someone who had long been accustomed to command and to being obeyed. His clothes were well-cut, though worn with a casual elegance, as if style mattered less than presence; a polished cane rested lightly in one hand, catching the morning light with a subtle gleam. His features were sharp, his movements precise and unhurried, betraying a confidence born of experience, a certainty that obstacles could be moved aside with either persuasion or force. Even in his composed appearance, there was an undercurrent of readiness, a quiet assurance that he could enforce his will if the situation demanded it.

“Grisha, what’s the matter — still dawdling on the job?” he said, his tone sharp beneath the veneer of civility.

Mosolov’s thin lips pressed together, a visible flush of embarrassment crossing his features. “A Collegiate Assessor has arrived…” he murmured, barely audible.

Without breaking his stance, the newcomer drew a new Nagant revolver from beneath his coat, the polished steel glinting in the morning light, and leveled it calmly at Yarosvet. His expression remained composed, almost polite, yet a chilling edge ran through his words.

“Too many Collegiate Assessors wandering about,” he said smoothly, cold irony in his voice. “One fewer wouldn’t be noticed.”

Yarosvet’s gaze remained steady, almost casual, as if the revolver aimed at his chest were merely an inconvenient accessory. “Forgive my curiosity,” he said evenly, tilting his head slightly, “but I wonder — are you, by any chance, the Governor himself, since you have taken it upon yourself to manage the fates of those placed under your charge?”

The words, calm yet pointed, carried a weight that belied their measured delivery. The man’s hand wavered slightly on the grip of the revolver, a shadow of surprise passing over his composed features, while the faintest tightening around his mouth betrayed that Yarosvet’s implication had landed precisely where intended. Without lowering the Nagant, he spoke, voice smooth, carrying a subtle chill beneath the civility.

“Not the Governor, if that is your thought, not yet,” he said, letting a faint trace of irony touch his words. “A former officer, now a dealer in estates and properties. And, naturally, acting in concert with the bank that holds this place. That is all you need to know.”

Even as he spoke, his revolver remained leveled, steady in his hand. Yet in the careful precision of his posture, in the almost imperceptible tension along his shoulders, there was the unmistakable air of a man accustomed to taking what he wanted — by word, by deal, or, if necessary, by force.

Mosolov’s eyebrows shot up, a quick flicker of panic crossing his otherwise composed face. “Arkadiy Mikhailovich, put the revolver down,” he urged, voice tight, betraying his unease. “Mr. Zorich and his companions were about to leave anyway.”

Before the man could respond, another voice cut sharply through the tension. “Yes, Arkadiy Mikhailovich, put the gun down — or the former officer will remain a former dealer sooner than you think.”

From the side of the tarantas, Andrey appeared, previously unnoticed. He held a stout side-by-side hunting shotgun, barrels leveled with calm precision at the man, stock braced firmly against his shoulder. His posture radiated controlled authority, the implied threat unmistakable.

The man’s eyes darted to Andrey and the gun, then back to Mosolov. The Nagant in his hand remained raised, but the careful steadiness of Andrey’s aim forced a flicker of doubt into his stance.

Yarosvet’s gaze held firm on the man before him, his voice calm but tinged with a quiet authority that brooked no challenge. “If you mean to claim this estate,” he said, inclining his head with measured grace, “it would serve you better to avoid beginning your dealings with the neighbours in outright hostility.”

His words lingered in the air, deliberate and weighty, each syllable heavy with the power held by his office as a collegiate assessor. For a fleeting moment, even the steady aim of the Nagant seemed to waver, the charged tension trembling like a current beneath the stillness of the morning.

After a long beat, Arkadiy Mikhailovich’s fingers unclenched. With a sharp, almost abrupt motion, he lowered the Nagant, letting it rest loosely in his hand. A forced smile flickered across his lips, thin and controlled, betraying a hint of irritation.

“Very well,” he said smoothly, voice even, though the edge of tension lingered. “What is it that you unbidden guests desire here?”

Mosolov shifted uneasily behind him, glancing at Andrey and the poised shotgun, while Yarosvet and the girls held their ground, calm but watchful.

“Am I mistaken,” he asked, inclining his head just enough to emphasize observation, “or did a woman’s cry just reach us? Perhaps you could see fit to explain what is happening here.”

Arkadiy Mikhailovich’s forced smile faltered for a fraction. He glanced toward Mosolov, then at the direction of the distant commotion, the morning light glinting off the Nagant in his hand. For a moment, the carefully maintained composure wavered, the polite facade slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of unease.

Arkadiy Mikhailovich’s smile tightened, more a grimace now than politeness. “Ah, that girl,” he said, waving a hand toward the distant doorway. “Seems a local — once a lodger, I gather. Refuses to leave. She’s holed herself up in the ice cellar beneath the house, barricaded the door, and shows no inclination to come out willingly.”

Mosolov shifted uneasily beside him, glancing toward the sound of muffled thuds from the house. Even the faintest breeze seemed to carry the echo of the girl’s defiance, a stubborn note that hung in the overgrown courtyard.

“I see,” Yarosvet said, “and indeed, by all notarial rules, this presents a difficulty. One cannot, in good faith, sell an estate pledged to the bank as ‘vacant’ if it is in fact occupied — even by a single member of the household staff or lodger. The law treats any resident, however minor, as a living claim upon the property.”

He paused, letting the weight of the statement settle. “So the estate cannot simply be considered empty, and any transaction purporting to treat it as such would be, at best, invalid.”

Mosolov shifted uneasily, ears twitching at the faint, muffled cries carrying through the air. Even Arkadiy Mikhailovich’s forced composure showed the slightest strain, a flicker of tension betraying how Yarosvet’s words had unsettled the careful posture of authority he tried to maintain.

Yarosvet’s gaze swept over the two men, voice calm but edged with quiet authority. “Perhaps I can be of assistance,” he said, “if you allow me to ascertain what is taking place here, and cease brandishing firearms so carelessly. I would far prefer that any cries we hear be those of women rejoicing, of delight and happiness, rather than of fear or pain.”

He made a subtle gesture toward Andrey. Reluctantly, the coachman lowered his shotgun, the stock settling against the ground with a muted thud, while the tension in the courtyard shifted slightly, giving the first breath of space for words instead of threats.

“Perhaps your companions,” Mosolov muttered, his voice low, “might manage to persuade this… wild girl to leave her cellar.”

His words carried a hint of reluctant hope, as though he believed that the presence of the women could coax the girl into compliance. Arkadiy Mikhailovich’s stance remained rigid, revolver still in hand, though the tension around his shoulders had eased slightly under Yarosvet’s calm scrutiny.

“Follow me,” Mosolov said curtly and stepped down from the porch, his boots grinding the gravel. He moved stiffly, like a man forcing his own determination to hold against unease.

Yarosvet gave a brief nod and gestured for the others to come after him. They skirted the side of the house where the ground fell into shadow — a damp, neglected strip littered with last year’s leaves and the brittle stems of dead nettles. The air grew colder there, heavy with the smell of wet earth and moulding wood, as though sunlight itself seldom reached that side.

They were nearing the northern side of the house when the sounds grew clearer — a dull, rhythmic pounding, muffled by the earth but relentless, echoing through the damp air like the heartbeat of something trapped beneath the ground. Between the blows came faint cries, indistinct yet unmistakably human.

“Over there,” Mosolov said curtly, his tone tight. He strode ahead, coat flapping, the others following in silence. The path sloped downward, skirting the damp side of the house where moss and nettles thrived in the perpetual shade. The air grew colder with every step, thick with the smell of wet clay and mould. Ahead, half-buried in the earth, stood the cellar — squat and sullen, its plaster streaked with moisture, the whitewash long turned to grey. An oak door, bound in iron, shuddered faintly under the repeated blows that struck it.

A broad-shouldered man stood before the entrance, his back turned to them. He wielded a short, heavy log like a hammer, driving it against the door with a dull, punishing rhythm. Each blow sent a tremor through the ground and a low echo through the slope. His coarse linen shirt clung to his back, dark with sweat and earth, the collar open on a thick neck. A worn leather belt held a holster, the revolver within catching a pale gleam of light as he shifted his stance.

Mosolov stopped a few paces behind him. “That will do, Frol,” he said sharply. “We have company.”

The man lowered the log, turning his square face toward them. His eyes, small and pale beneath the ridge of his brow, flicked briefly from Mosolov to Yarosvet and then to the women, measuring, uncurious, as if they were yet another task to endure. He gave no greeting — merely wiped a sleeve across his mouth and waited.

“Frol,” Mosolov continued, his tone clipped and official, “our guests wish to see what your… tenant refuses to yield. Perhaps their presence will persuade her to act with more reason.”

Frol grunted — a sound more of effort than agreement — and stepped aside, leaving the door half-spattered with mud, the iron hinges groaning faintly in the cold air. From beyond the thick wood came a muffled, desperate sound — not loud, but distinctly human.

Yarosvet’s gaze lingered on the door, then on Mosolov. “So this,” he said quietly, “is the cause of all your commotion.”

For a moment, only the echo of the last blow hung in the air — dull, uncertain, like the tremor of a plucked string. Then, from behind the thick oak, came a voice. At first it was only a hoarse cry, muffled by the wood and the damp, but soon words began to form — harsh, tangled, unmistakably human.

“Go away! — you hear me? Go! This my house! Mine! You no touch!”

The voice broke, then rose again, half sob, half fury.

“I live here! You leave me — you leave me be! I go nowhere, nowhere!”

Each phrase struck the air with raw, uneven rhythm, the words slurring under a foreign accent — something southern, perhaps Balkan or steppe-born — yet clear enough to sting the ear.

Mosolov flinched slightly, as if the woman’s rage had reached through the door and found him. Frol stood motionless, his massive shoulders gleaming with sweat, while Yarosvet’s expression tightened; he listened not merely to the words, but to what trembled behind them — fear, defiance, a loneliness that clung to the sound like frost to metal.

Yarosvet stood for a moment, listening to the echoes fade against the damp wood. Then, quietly, almost as if not to disturb the stillness, he turned to Mosolov.

“What’s her name?”

Mosolov scowled and gave a curt shrug. “How should I know?”

Yarosvet nodded once and stepped forward. The air near the door was colder, seeping up from the stones. He rested his palm lightly against the rough oak and spoke through it, his voice calm and even.

“No one means you harm,” he said. “My name is Yarosvet. We’ve come from the neighbouring estate — Lipovka. I only wish to speak with you.”

A harsh, frightened cry broke from within:

“Go! I say go! You lie — all of you lie!”

He didn’t move back, didn’t raise his tone. “We live not far from here. You must have seen the smoke from our chimneys. “There are three of us — travellers, not officials. My companions are Taissia and Lena; we have only recently settled at Lipovka. I promise, we mean no harm. Tell me, please… what is your name?”

For a few heartbeats, only the whisper of wind through the awning answered him. Then, from the shadowed hollow behind the door, came a hesitant, tremulous sound — the same voice, but stripped of its fury:

“…Aisha.”

A pause. Then, hurriedly, as if correcting herself —

“Asya. I am Asya.”

He let his hand linger on the rough oak, pressing lightly, almost as if to offer reassurance, and whispered her name — “Asya” — letting it settle between them like something fragile yet real.

Behind him, Mosolov shifted his weight with a snort of impatience, but Yarosvet’s gaze remained on the door — on the breath of warmth that seemed, at last, to answer from within the chill of the earth.

Taissia stepped closer, her voice soft yet carrying across the chill of the slope. “Asya… are you cold in there?”

The words, gentle and concerned, contrasted sharply with the rough timber and the lingering echoes of anger from within. For a moment, silence answered her, save for the faint tremor of the door under Yarosvet’s resting hand. Then Asya’s voice came again, quieter this time, less defiant, tinged with uncertainty.

“Cold… yes… but I stay… my house…”

Taissia’s tone softened further, almost coaxing. “We won’t hurt you. We just want to know you’re safe.”

Asya’s voice trembled through the thick oak, low and wary. “No… no safe… if I come out… they… they kill me… take… my house…”

Yarosvet’s hand rested lightly on the rough door, grounding the moment with calm authority. “Who are you, then? Are you the mistress of this house?”

The girl’s reply came ragged, breathless, halting:

“No… no… not mistress… they… they gone. All gone… died or leave… I… I live with them… few years… then… then I leave too. But… I… I come back… nowhere else…”

Yarosvet’s gaze softened slightly, still measured, as if weighing each syllable. “So you belong here, at least by right of shelter?”

“Yes… I… I stay… my house…”

He pressed his palm lightly against the rough oak, letting the warmth of touch bridge the distance. “Do not cry out any longer, Asya,” he said gently, his voice low, carrying both calm authority and reassurance. “I will speak with them now and all will be well. You have nothing to fear while I am here.”

From within, her voice wavered, halting and clipped:

“W-well… you… promise? They… they not hurt me?”

“I promise,” he replied softly, deliberately, letting the words linger in the narrow space between them. “Remain where you are. You are safe. I will take care of this. Nothing will happen to you.”

A pause followed, a quiet settling of the raw edge of fear. The tremor in her tone eased slightly, replaced by a wary attentiveness, the alertness of someone long forced to guard herself, listening but no longer screaming.

Yarosvet straightened, his gaze sweeping over the courtyard, resting briefly on Andrey with the shotgun, then returning to the two men. His voice carried easily across the gravel and the slope, calm yet carrying a weight that could not be ignored.

“Mister Mosolov,” he began, “and you, Mister — » He paused, letting his eyes meet the taller man’s, precise and unwavering.

“Rudnev,” the man replied, his voice even, though the faintest tremor betrayed his caution.

“Mister Rudnev, listen to me carefully,” Yarosvet continued, his tone carrying across the gravel and the slope, calm yet imbued with quiet strength. “You have before you a choice — exactly two courses of action for what happens next. The first…” He let the pause stretch, letting the tension thrum in the air. “The first will bring nothing but gunfire, uproar, and inevitable corpses. I do not advise it.”

A subtle flicker of unease passed over both men’s faces. Yarosvet’s gaze, calm but piercing, held them there.

“The second,” he said, his tone now carrying a faint warmth of counsel, “is the one I recommend. It is simple: the bank wishes to sell this abandoned estate, this house and land, and you, Mister Rudnev, have just discovered the very buyer you hoped for.”

He let the words settle, then inclined his head slightly, a faint, measured smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Congratulations — you have just found a purchaser. Proceed wisely. You may consider yourselves fortunate: you have before you exactly what you sought, without unnecessary bloodshed.”

The weight of the statement, delivered with quiet command and visible calm, seemed to still the morning air itself. Even the persistent tension in Andrey’s posture eased fractionally, the shotguns’ barrels lowering just enough that the sharpness of threat softened into cautious observation.

Yarosvet’s gaze swept over the estate, taking in the leaning stables, the scattered debris of carts and troughs, and the gnarled, half-wild orchard. His voice carried across the courtyard, calm yet precise, each word chosen with care, as if the very figures he spoke were etched in the air before him.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “let us speak plainly. This house — two stories, wooden, built with care for its time — I would value at eight thousand rubles originally. The stables and barn, simple yet sturdy, add roughly three thousand more. The land itself — fertile, with orchard and meadows — another two thousand.”

He let a brief pause give weight to the numbers, then allowed a faint smile. “But let us not ignore the state of affairs. The wood has aged, paint peeled, shutters crooked, roofs sagging — all told, a reduction is warranted. In its present condition, I would assess the estate’s value at twelve thousand rubles. A prudent bank, I imagine, would ask no more from a buyer.”

He shifted his gaze from Mosolov to Rudnev, voice sharpening with a touch of practical cunning. “And here, Mister Rudnev, is where your interest comes in. The bank wishes to sell quickly, and you, as intermediary, will see the opportunity. I would expect a fair purchase price, reflecting both the estate’s diminished condition and the potential for profit. Tell me, what do you propose?”

Mosolov’s thin lips pressed together, a faint crease deepening between his brows. His eyes flicked rapidly from the gnarled orchard to the scattered debris, and back to Yarosvet, as though calculating margins and liabilities on the spot. The formal stiffness of his posture remained, but a subtle tightening in his fingers betrayed an unease he could not entirely hide. Even in his neat frock coat and yellow gloves, he looked small against the raw expanse of the estate — the dust and decay conspiring against the polished order he preferred.