Night fell.
Petrovich and two other officers were crammed into one room.
The fire in the hearth burned listlessly, giving off almost no heat. Even so, these were fairly good quarters by Chernihiv's standards. The city had only twelve thousand residents, and nearly three thousand soldiers had arrived at once.
A captain from the Ryazan Infantry Regiment, lying on a pallet on the floor, blew out the candle and whispered to Petrovich, "Do you think that story is true? You must have heard more than we have in Saint Petersburg."
Petrovich rolled over in the dark. "Which story?"
The captain lowered his voice further. "The... ah... curse. The one about Emperor Paul..."
In daylight, Petrovich would certainly have cut him off sharply. Now he merely said, half asleep, "Who knows? No one in Saint Petersburg dares talk about it. The police could take them away at any moment."
He paused, then added, "Still, I think the Revenge Faction must know something to have gathered so many people." The captain grew tense. "If it's true, what should we do? I mean, who should we be loyal to?"
"His Majesty the Emperor, of course," Petrovich said dismissively.
"Which emperor?"
Petrovich tugged at his blanket and turned toward the wall. "How would I know?
"Now go to sleep."
At noon three days later, Petrovich was directing the soldiers through their routine delousing when the regiment's orderly officer rode up and waved to him. "Captain Petrovich, the regiment commander wants you to take some men west of the city to move fodder."
Petrovich was surprised. "The city has our supplies ready already?"
"No," the orderly officer said irritably. "We're handing the fodder over to General Prozorovsky. He's going to Moldavia to put down the rebellion, but he hasn't found any fodder along the way.