A logfire of common bloodwood and rarer motherpine roared in the room-sized hearth of the Great Hall of the Holdings. It cast but scant additional light upon a colorful and crowded scene already well-lit by great curve-topped windows which had constituted Eugene the Sorokin's---rather his late wife Gabdrakhimovishin,'s----first and only major alteration to the building.

At the opposite side of the gigantic, high-beamed chamber, across what seemed like margins of parqueted and mirror-polished floor, broad trestle tables creaked beneath a glittering load of wedding presents with which they had been heaped.  Gold Zakh saw, and silver, plates and goblets, services and samovars, contributed by less wealthy (or less pretentious) well-wishers. Richer gifts were here as well, of gleaming platinum, rhodium, and osmium, beaten, spun, turned, cast, carven into a myriad of artifacts of varying beauty and utility. All bore, somewhere upon their eleborated forms, the modified arms of the family Sorokin.

The tables were not big enough.  Clustered about them were gifts too big to place upon them with the others, in several instances too big for anyone to lift.  Among these, Zakh eyed an idle, hovering pair of personal purge-field riders, similar in operating principle to the droilodka, but more resembling legless mechanical versions of the riding-beasts Terrible Yvan----presently supervising preparations in the kitchens---had spoken of.  The upswept airshield and sensor-pod might well be an animal's head.  The wirewoven fuselage behind was, like an animal's body, contorted for the benefit and comfort of whomever sat astride the thing.

Left of the great fireplace, sweating even in expensive finery containing its own temperature-regulating devices, awaited His Manifold Eminence, the Archmastermind of Romanova, whose dignifying presence upon Genrich was itself a kind of gift, one of many from the Cosmopolitan Premier Murad IIXI to the eldest son and daughter-in-law-to-be of one of the imperium-conglomerate's greatest (and more important, publicly best-remembered heroes.

Servitors, family servants Zakh had known all his life and thought of as his friends, passed around and through the Great Hall with trays of drinks and flavorsome morsels. Acting with exaggerated formality---many were dressed, if not in better clothing, then at least with greater care and exercise of taste---they refused him personal acknowledgment.  Zakh was unsure he like this.  It made him feel lonely.  He wished Terrible Yvan were here beside him, rather than busying himself with maintaining some kind of order amidst all this festivity.  Even Zero might have helped, but Terrible Yvan and Mistress Maria had both insisted, and Zakh conceded they were right, that this was no place for a glob.

Nonetheless, Zach felt special pride in himself this day.  Not only was he well enough to attend this wedding, unlike his father's, but, in addition to his finest tunic, matching knee-stockings, platinum-buckled slippers spreighformed for the occasion, he wore an adult's loose-fitting trousers of a colorful pattern which, except when he took a deep stride, had been fashioned to resemble the safaran of ancient tradition or the kafftan of an even more ancient tradition. About his waist was a special rope, the gashnik, to hold up the safaran.

 A small pocket was attached to the gashnik, fashioned from a hard-surfaced class of kefflar, which Terrible Yvan said could hold combs, wallets, and other personal effects.  This had been sewn by had that Zakh might carry the tokarev weapons, butt reversed in venerable military fashion, and afterward present it with a ceremonial flourish to his brother's bride.  It was, as weapons should be, clean and lubricated, fully loaded with eleven tiny lead-tipped charges manufactured for it.  Under Terrible Yvan's supervision, the weapon had been restored, rust-pits filled with fresh, untarnishable metal, its substance infused with ions which prevented more corrosion, and finished in such a manner that its deep and liquid-looking blue-black exterior would never again scratch, wear, or fade to gray.

Owing to the importance of Eugene the Sorokin, father of the groom, no less to that of his principal and honored guest the wheelchair-bound Aidos Zaytseva, father of the groom's stepmother, hundreds of visitors to the planet Genrich had by this time arrived in splendor from the Romanovan Droom.  Each small group had descended in its turn to the landing pentagram, making the voyage hence aboard a droilodka hastily repaired.  Military honors were supplied by Aidos's dread imposing household Cossacks which had followed their master down from orbit on the next trip of the lubberlift, too late to assist in dealing with the roadcut bandits.  The Sorokin, naturally enough, had intended that it be so, never wishing it asserted of him that he could not defend his Holdings without help.

Each Coassack stood two and a half measures tall, with close-cropped hair and ashy, waxen complexion, Zakh had heard his father say that no Cossack feared death, for he was already dead.  What the boy saw in the unreflective eyes of the warrior-slaves confirmed his father's words.  He wondered how it must feel to be a Cossack.  Something sympathetic within him strove to see the world from the perspective afforded by those metallic-looking eyes.  Something even stronger deep inside him made him shy from the effort.

It was rumored---this was a thing he had never asked his father nor expected him to answer---that in the field, Cossacks were never provisioned, but were expected to feed upon fallen foemen as a grisly incentive to uncompromising victory.  That they owned other appetites, which they satisfied with equal savagery at the expense of women, children, and other men, was, even to one as young and uninformed as Zakh, rather more than rumor.  It had become, by shrewd design, no less than an abomination of legendary scale.  Little expense was spared by the crafty Premier of Romanova in assisting potential enemies within and without the Cosmopolity to appreciate what horror they faced did they oppose their will to that of the imperium-conglomerate.

Zakh shook hie head, cleared his mind of unsubstantiated surmise, continuing the surreptitious inspection of these dread warriors which his sense of objectivity preferred.  Each was as broad at the shoulder as two ordinary men.  Each wore a tough, tight-fitting uniform which, upon command, changed color and pattern to blend with any environment.  At present, what they wore was as bright as Romanovan colors ever were, light gray trimmed in silver.  Silver, as well, were the outsized quickblades strapped to each arm of every Cossack.  Ordinary men would want a hand free to do other things than fighting.  Cossacks, it was said, had a free hand wherever they wanted one. He knew the troops did not. Cossacks were not equipped by their nature (if, in origin and character, they could be regarded as natural) for regretting anything.

With effort, he tore his terrified attention from the deadly beings, turning instead towards a host that appeared anything but deadly.  Mistress Petrovka, soon to be his sister and therefore "Maria," had told the truth (he never expected otherwise): each of the guests from the capital, dazzling enough in costumes they brought with them, affected a mask. No two were alike.  Much clever maneuver and an elaborate protocol were assured this was always the case.  It seemed no two were even of the same color.  From his studies, Zakh recognize an alyupnik, a moses, xander, czar, klepatrov, all from the mists of half history:  tsiolkovsky, tchaikovsky, lenin, stalin, gorbachev, einstein and kruschev from a better-known era.  A scowling nevsky argued with an even-fiercer-looking hitler.  Brezhnev jested with andropov.  A cordial kerensky rolled among them on pneumoplastic wheels.

The boy was suddenly grateful he had thought (with some help from his mentors) to confine Zero to the tower bedroom.  In this confusing press, the glob could be trampled underfoot.  Zakh hoped in earnest that the animal would stay confined.  He craved companionship and hated being locked up, abandoned and alone.  Upon occasion, locks or no locks, he was altogether too clever, getting in and out of places where he didn't belong.

With disappointment, Zakh searched in vain among the horde of Cosmopolitans for one of the fabulous intelligences who visited the Romanovan Droom upon occasion, having arrived from out-of-the-way places and strange, alien civilizations located beyond the barriers of the imperium-conglomerate in the black reaches of the unexplored Deep.

His Eminence raised jewel-bedecked arms, capturing the attention of all within the Holding Hall amidst a flourish of enfiled drums, pipes and claxons--more, Zakh thought as hair prickled at the back of his neck, like wailing battle calls than wedding marches---provided by Terrible Yvan at an ancient, battered file player which had always, in Zakh's memory, stood against that wall.  The old man caught Zakh's eye and winked.  They might have had an orchestra today, Zakh thought.  His father could with ease have brought symphonia entire from Romanova.   Yet something about this music felt warm and goodly to him, traditional in the Sorokin family as it was and issuing from a well-traveled heirloom.

Young Eugene followed behind the Archmastermind, though the door by which the elderly dignitary had earlier entered.  Next came Eugene's father and a heartbeat later the other of his brothers, both of whom, just moments ago, had been circulating among the guests as Zakh was in theory doing now.

In accordance with tradition, and as if in echo to their own, earlier ceremony, the Lady Veronica awaited her husband beside the Archmastermind, her friends the Oligarch and Lady Malinovsyn-Korochuvak nearby.   To Zakh, it was cold courtesy that moved Veronica Zaytseva---Sorokin, he reminded himself, although he had known of her by her earlier name---to avoid, in her calculated manner, taking attention from the bride.  By any standard, she was the more beautiful of the two young women.  Had this consideration, mechanical as it seemed, not been exercised, Maria Petrovka (also soon to become "Sorokin" which in Zakh's mind served as a kind of compensation) would have stood in peril of taking second place upon that day, of all days, when, by rights and every maidenly expectation, she ought to have stood first.

In any case, this nuptial diplomacy had met with only limited success.  The Lady Maria had dressed herself in a plain gown of so pale a gray it might have been called silver had the fabric betrayed the slightest metallic sheen.  The absence upon her person of any jewelry, save a bracelet indicative of her status as a married woman, lent, whatever her intention to the contrary---such stark severity to her attire that it accentuated her flawless beauty.  Zakh caught her eye upon him and felt a chill run through his body.  It was like being examined by some dark, lithe, sharp-fanged predator.  He wondered what his father felt in similar circumstances.

Realizing with a start that Terrible Yvan's wink had constituted something of a summons, Zakh hurried to catch them up and join the family party.  The room---rather, those within it-reoriented itself from chaos towards the Hall's great hearth as the Archmastermind and the Sorokins took their places.  A hush descended upon the crowd, along with a feeling of impatient expectation, rewarded before too many more moments had passed by the entrance of the bride.

To most of those invited to this place, what she wore would be----already had been---a subject of some interest.  Even Zakh could see why this was so. Although he'd always appreciated his tutor's pretty face and figure, he'd never looked upon quite so beautiful a woman as Mistress Maria had become.  She had arrayed herself, from the tiara upon her brow to her hidden toes, in traditional pale green (it was claimed that for some perverse reason, Zaytsevan brides preferred white, the ancient color of mourning), symbolizing purity, fertility, that eager willingness which was the quality most prized in a new wife among all the imperia-conglomerate. The skirting of her dress was more voluminous than any Zakh had ever seen, while the bodice, tight to an impossibly cruel degree, conforming to her precise contours as if it had been painted on her, cut so low in the back, and in particular at the front, that it vanished into the waistline of her skirt, exposed more of Mistress Maria's pale flesh than he had ever before seen.

He experienced an uncomfortable tightness in his throat which swallowing did nothing to improve.  To make matters worse, he was compelled to concentrate on his breathing which had become hard and unnatural.

This color and cut was not a scheme with suited every woman.  It tended to make blondes sallow, while a redhead's complexion borrowed the hue of her attire so that she seemed ill.  Upon Mistress Maria, it accentuated her eyes in a charming manner, was kind to her fair, freckled skin, and highlighted her otherwise undistinguished tresses ("mousey," she was wont to say in self-deprication) in a manner ordinary clothing never did.

For this occasion, Maria affected no mask, though Zakh understood they were sometimes worn at weddings upon the capital world, elaborate sculptures with wide, dark, artificial eyes and sullen, swollen, parted lips, attempting to convey both innocence and its opposite at the same time.  With a warm thrill chasing through his body---the sensation was not new to him, manifesting itself, as it did, with increasing and embarrassing frequency---he wondered whether such a combination were possible in real, unmasked life.  It was certain Maria's own eyes were wide enough, whether with innocence or something else, Zakh was in no position to guess.  her lips---that feeling came upon him again, and although it was pleasant enough to experience by himself in his own room, this was neither the place nor the time.  He found himself speculating about what his brother---a deep breath, a hard swallow, and again he focused upon the ceremony.

One stately, unhurried step at a time, Maria came forward, concentration upon her face, holding the folds of her enormous skirt so as not to tread upon them.  She had chosen, as a Romanovan bride will, to underline her bridal willingness with a pair of wide silver bracelets, joined at purchase with a fine chain so as to comprise fetters.  By tradition, the chain was broken in a laughing ceremony among the bride and her maids so that a short, glittering length now hung from each of the bands encircling her wrists.  About her throat, and, it would seem this was Maria's innovation, at her temples, she wore matching silver bands, each disjoined in its middle, ends pinked in a zigzag pattern, also representing broken bonds.  Beneath her long, full skirts, Maria would be barefoot---bushes of petals had been strewn in her path to preserve her delicate soles from the chilled floor---as a token of wifely humility.

Angry with himself, and attempting to regain control, Zakh rehearsed (mentally) the ceremony about to take place.  His brother and Maria would meet (he had seen many weddings take place in dramafiles) just before the spot where the fat old Archmastermind stood before the great fireplace.  The music would come to a halt, for preference just as the bride did.  After one moment of awkward, anticipatory silence, the Archmastermind would start asking of the couple questions older in their origin than any antiquarian could calculate.  In due course and in turn, Eugene and Maria would offer their responses.

He would announce that what they told him suited him, whether it did or not.  Struggling with self-consciousness and her awkward garments, they would embrace, kiss as Eugene had never seen them do when they thought themselves in the presence of others, turn to face the gathering, and begin their future as man and wife.  They would be married.  The boring part would be done with.

Now would come the moment which Zakh, suspended between enthusiastic boyhood and dawning manhood, had in fact looked forward to most.  Arrayed along the aisle-space where bride and groom would soon pass were two imposing rows of Cossacks, mighty weapons at the ready, set, Terrible Yvan had told him yesterday, upon the 12th-charge.  At a signal from their officers, they would raise their quickblades and thumb the yokes.  Overhead, kinergic beam would meet kinergic beam in a fiery salute of annihilation.

Maria reached the Archmastermind where Eugene stood waiting in a state of nervous impatience.  Zakh tensed.  The music stopped.  Eugene and Maria stepped forward amidst beaming expressions and welcoming gestures offered them by the family Sorokin, even including the Lady Veronica who smiled and, with a certain shyness it seemed to Zakh, ventured to touch Maria's hand.  Silence fell as Zakh had known it would.  The Archmastermind opened his froglike mouth.  Eugene and Maria martialed their responses.

Of a sudden, out of sequence, a shouted order cracked, shattering the silence.  The giant Cossacks raised their mighty, weapon-bearing arms.   Half of them, every other warrior in each row, turned in the same instant upon his armored heel. All brought their weapons to the level, so that every person in the Great Hall was threatened.