Balashov surveyed the boy before him. Slim, but not malnourished. That was a good sign, at least.
“St. Georgiy slew the dragon.”
The boy’s words brought Balashov back to from his observations to the moment at hand, and he responded.
“Do we pity the dragon, or St. Georgiy?”
The boy lowered his numoshka, and a hiss of air was heard as he voided the compression chamber.
“So, it is you.” He sighed and beckoned him inside.
The cottage was dark, and sparsely furnished. Books piled the shelves, and adorning the walls were various maps and diagrams. A fire burned hotly in the freestanding stove around which the boy now drew two chairs.
He straighted and looked at Balashov.
“You rode horses.”
“Yes. You are not surprised?”
The boy shook his head.
“No. An airship would be useless in this cold. Too icy, inconsistent thermal variances. And noticeable in towns such as these.” He ended the last sentence with a hard stare at the captain.
“Your name?”
“Matvey Balashov.”
“I am Konstantin Nikolaevich. Come, sit. Let us talk.”