Tarkhan led them along the streets past a number of intersections, of which there were more than in Trebizond. They passed a kind of totem pole—Gontran didn’t know what else to call it—which rose from a pile of stones. The pole was topped by a Viking-looking wooden head and inscribed with red runes. The stones beneath were covered with multicolored flags which looked almost Tibetan to his old world eyes. Nearby, a structure resembling a Viking mead hall roared with laughter; the corners of this building’s roof were decorated with horse heads of carved wood and gold leaf. Similarly, an armored soldier who saluted Tarkhan wore a helmet decorated with metal boars’ heads. This soldier walked past a group of men dressed in black robes who donned peculiar conical yellow hats. They were arguing with one another in some kind of Roman language which was packed with Hebrew words.

Nearly every building was patterned with vibrant colors and topped with bulbous gold or silver cupolas. The people walking the streets were no less colorful, and often dressed in warm, heavy brocades with fur hats. They came from a more settled way of life, though others who dressed in the thick kaftans of the steppe—often with plainer colors—were also present. Cold salt wind blew their hair and flushed their cheeks.

There’s something about this place, Gontran thought. I’ve never been here, and I’ve never known anything like it, yet somehow it feels like I’m coming home.

Farther along the ship, blond-haired men with bowl cuts wearing white smocks and pants were throwing nets into the sea and drawing them back again full of silver writhing fish. As they worked, the fishermen sang an oddly moving song, one which stopped Diaresso in his tracks, though the words were in an unknown language. The song had a slow buildup, during which Gontran thought—despite himself, for he had little interest in music—that he saw the endless vistas of Skythia extending forever into the distance. In this chorus was the vast sea, the curving rivers almost as wide as the horizon, the grass hills atop which riders galloped, passing papery birches whose green leaves rushed in the gales. Then the song suddenly shattered into a kind of rebuke before returning once more to that long buildup, which grew until it could grow no more.

When they had finished, Diaresso wiped a tear from his cheek and clapped. The fishermen were startled from their reverie of work music, but soon enough they bowed to Diaresso. He tried speaking Roman to them, but Tarkhan told him that they spoke only Rus.

“Tell them I wish to make music in their company,” Diaresso said. “If there is any stringed instrument aboard this ship, I would be honored to play it with such fine musicians.”

“We possess gusli here,” Tarkhan said. “Thou wilt find such a goodly thing to thy liking.”

Before Diaresso could answer, Tarkhan spoke to the fishermen. When he had finished, they nodded to Diaresso, and kept saying da, da, da.

Diaresso waved and bid them farewell; Tarkhan then gestured for the travelers to continue exploring Kitezh. Samonas—who always had trouble keeping up with them—observed that he scented coal in the air, which was good news for Talia back on the Paralos. The scent of baking bread also lay everywhere, as did woodsmoke from the cozy homes. When a woman who looked like a babushka from the old world threw open a door to one of these buildings, Gontran saw an old Russian oven inside, the kind which people slept on. A hairy holy fool wearing bast shoes passed them, and Gontran noticed a number of bandaged lepers also.

A hundred bells suddenly clanged from the church at different rhythms. Some of the men who wore thick kaftans sang from deep in their throats—modulating the guttural sound with their teeth—and from the mosque’s minaret a muezzin sang the call to prayer. Samonas crossed himself while Diaresso walked to the mosque, removed his shoes at the gate, washed his hands and feet at a frigid fountain, and went inside to pray on the carpeted floor. Tarkhan, Gontran, and Samonas waited outside.

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“The trouble is that Diaresso keeps getting distracted,” Samonas said. “We’re simply never going to get anywhere.”

“Why dost thou worry thyself so?” Tarkhan said. “Takest thou thy time! Thou shouldst enjoy Veliky Kitezh!”

It’s all so…Russian, Gontran thought as he looked around.

It was like a Russian novel, where people called each other long names like “Lev Nikolaevich” and “Sofia Andreevna” and sipped cha from the samovar endlessly into the long cold dark winter nights, counting the grains of corn a rooster pecked to see who in the future would get married first, waiting for the mummers to burst inside their house and dance and sing around Christmas time. All the good aspects of nineteenth century Russia minus all the horrifying ones, and projected back in time hundreds of years.

Except no Russian novel ever took place on a ship like this, Gontran thought. The Russia of fairytales, the Russia of dreams…

When Diaresso emerged from the mosque looking fresh and rejuvenated, they continued walking Kitezh’s streets.

“You seem like you’re really into this place,” Gontran said.

“It has been a week since I have prayed in a masjid,” Diaresso said. “Nor have I been sure of the precise direction of Makkah since our flight from Trebizond.”

“Your soul was in danger of eternal damnation, was it not?” Samonas said.

“Not my soul, but certainly my heart,” Diaresso said. “For the souls of the true believers, and not the hypocrites, their place in paradise among the grape-eyed houri is assured. Yet my heart needs spiritual succor. I cannot dwell for long upon this earthly abode without seeing the crescent moon or hearing the music of the azan.”

“I can.” Gontran squeezed his eyes shut and clutched his head. “Hearing someone screaming ‘god is great’ before sunrise every day gets old fast.”

“Only for the damned,” Diaresso said.

Toward the ship’s prow was a large, ornate house constructed of wooden logs. Slanting, covered stairways led past several towers and balconies to a vast curved rooftop which resembled an unrolling carpet. It was patterned with alternating green and gold triangles, and topped by a pair of gold, double-headed eagles. This symbol Gontran had seen across Romanía—even carved into the occasional mountainside—and it seemed to be growing in popularity among Greeks, Turks, and all kinds of people.

Tarkhan led them up the stairs and inside this structure, which he called the Cremelena. Past a wide open hall which was supported by wooden pillars carved into wheels and ornate dragons, they walked along a corridor opening into many different rooms. In one, men were counting coins from sacks and dipping goose quills in ink before scribbling in an enormous book, the wood shelves behind them stuffed with scrolls and locked iron chests. Another much larger room was full of women of all ages working at creaking wooden looms, the old teaching the young, all of them talking with one another as their wooden machines rattled at a surprising speed, their shuttles flying through the warp. A third room was a council chamber with chairs lined against the walls facing two gilded thrones.

The entire building—every floor, wall, and ceiling—was constructed from wooden logs. Samonas paid particular attention to the happenings in these various chambers, and as he shuffled about he badgered Tarkhan with questions about looms and accounting techniques.

At the hallway’s end they found a large room with thick windows overlooking the prow and the sea. Silk pillows were laid out in even rows along either side of long carpets, as if in preparation for a feast, but only one man was here, and he stood by the windows near a hookah and a samovar. The heavy odor of marijuana hung in the air, and the man was loudly sipping cha. Spotting his guests, he stood and approached as Tarkhan bowed, said “Khagan Bek,” and left the room.

The man wore a long brocaded coat over a robe of the same material, both decked with pearls and patterned with gold, though the coat was crimson and lined with ermine while the inner robe was dark blue. It was hard to see the man beneath all these clothes—his head was sheltered on either side by an enormous stiff collar, his gray-black beard stretched down to his chest, and he wore a red cap—yet Gontran could tell that he was tall and stout. Once upon a time this man had adventured across the world in search of riches, and now, having found them, he was relaxing a little too much. He wore a serious, almost angry expression, and had tilted his head back as though to look down upon his new guests. Yet he narrowed his eyes at the sight of Gontran—and Gontran did the same at the sight of him.