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the wall as possible. Drawn near the servants' entrance by a cacophony of clanging and banging, he noticed a solitary sleigh drawn by two impatiently waiting dray horses.
Creeping closer, Schmarya wrinkled his nose in disgust. This was no luxurious passenger sleigh, he realized. This was winter's version of a garbage truck being piled high with the day's refuse. The kitchen and house servants were dark shadows scurrying in and out to dump the contents of boxes and barrels into the back.
As the garbage was being loaded, Schmarya crept nearer. Soon he was but a few feet from the sleigh. He could see that it was roughly built, the boxlike utilitarian body formed by uneven slats of weathered, splintery wood atop a pair of thick, solid metal runners. He let out a breath of satisfaction. Since the boxlike construction towered above the drivers' seat, it would be child's play to climb up the back without being noticed.
He wrinkled his nose in disgust and pulled his shabby scarf higher above his nostrils. He couldn't believe that the smell was so powerful in weather this cold. Because of it, however, he didn't think he would have to worry about the guards at the gate poking in the garbage.
When the trash was finally loaded, he watched the two burly drivers climb heavily up onto their seats. One took a swig from a flask and passed it to his partner; afterwards only their eyes showed from under their low-pulled caps and above their upturned collars and tight-wound scarves. The servants' door banged shut. He could hear a bolt being thrown across it. It was much darker now.
The snow suddenly turned to fast-falling sleet. Schmarya cursed under his breath. As if the cold were not enough. But he had little time to consider this change in the weather. He tensed as a whip cracked mightily in the night. The horses whinnied their protests, and the sleigh immediately began to hiss swiftly away, its jingling bells warning anyone in its path of its hurried approach.
Now was the moment, Schmarya knew.
Crouching low, he ran after the receding sleigh and flung himself facedown as he made a grab for one of the runners. He allowed his prone body to be dragged through the snow for several yards. Then swiftly he pulled himself closer, clutch ing first one and then the other of the upright struts which rose from the runners to the sleigh bed, until his feet found purchase atop the runners. He glanced down. The white ground seemed to fly past in an ever-quickening blur. Without further ado he climbed up the towering body of the sleigh, using the wide cracks between the slats like the rungs of a ladder. At the top, he nimbly vaulted over into a heap of trash.
The hellish stench was worse than he had anticipated. He had to breathe through his mouth, but even so he nearly gagged and had to fight the impulse to retch. Silence was imperative. Even dry heaves might attract the drivers' atten tion.
Moments later, the garbage sleigh slid to a halt at the gates. Schmarya peeked out from between two slats. The guards, obviously well aware of the stench, kept their distance. They unlocked the double gates and quickly waved the sleigh through. It crossed the Neva on the bridge beside the Petropavlovsky Island Fortress, and then raced down a straight stretch to the Little Nevka before crossing yet another bridge to Kamenny Ostrov. Unfamiliar though he was with the city, Schmarya sensed it was time he got off this infernal convey ance.
He climbed to the top slat and braced himself for the leap. For long seconds he crouched there. Then he jumped. He seemed suspended in midair before he tumbled painfully onto a snowbank.
Testing his limbs, he rose slowly to his feet. No broken bones or sprains, thank God; the most he likely suffered from the leap was a few bruises.
He whistled to himself. At least he had found a way to escape the Danilov Palace. Why anyone chose to live there, he could not for the life of him imagine. However gilded it might be, it was a
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