The smile that had contorted his master’s features had been more disturbing to Wulf than any glimmer of bestial eyes in the forest gloom, any inexplicable shadow in the moonlight.  Despite his unease he was impressed even more by Albrecht von Schwarz - if the knight was frightening to his servant, how much more terrifying would he be to their foes!  He ducked his head in response to the vampire’s words, but any further conversation was interrupted by the distant, muffled jangle of the bells in the monastery off to the west.  The hour was later than he had thought, and they must move on.  He kicked his mount into a slightly faster pace, the rest of the party following suit.<br/><br/>An increasing stink warned the squire they were nearing Vistina; a blend of brine, fish, pitch, smoke, and the stench of human ordure in quantity.  It must be torture to one with the keen senses of the undead, but as always his master appeared unmoved by any external nuisance.  Soon after the glow of the huge torches which allowed the town’s docks to keep working all night shot the night sky with stuttering orange, and then they were in sight of the place itself.  The curving walls of Vistina were made of pale grey stone that shone white under the moon.  The battlements resembled any European stronghold, but the round towers that punctuated the walls were topped with curious pointed roofs painted a brilliant red.  The two that flanked the northern gate were topped with the banners of Prince Mikhail Denisovich, his device a Byzantine image of St Michael brandishing a sword.  As they drew closer other towers could be seen above the wall, marking the position of the Prince’s Kremlin fortress, as well as the onion domes of churches.  They could also see figures on the wall, some of them aiming bows and crossbows at the approaching group.  A guard in the left gate tower yelled out a challenge in Rus, and Wulf signalled to his party to halt.  ‘Albrecht, lord of Ulyevna, comes to guest with his Highness Prince Mikhail.’ he called out, a phrase he had practised with Kyrill till he could deliver it without embarrassing his lord.  A moment of murmured debate above, and then the gates opened to admit them.<br/><br/>A half dozen footsoldiers with spears, with scale-mail corselets and pointed helms like saracens,  watched them pass into the town and then closed and barred the huge gates behind them.  The street within was far different to those back home, with fences and palisades running along most of its length.  Some of them were low structures like those that surrounded a farmer’s field; others more sturdy constructions of tall pointed wooden stakes; and some were substantial indeed, topped with curious thickets of pointed spikes of wood or even metal.  These, Wulf softly informed his master, marked off the private estates of merchants and lesser nobles - the richer and more powerful lived closer to the Kremlin.  Here and there the line of pickets was broken, by other streets or by places open to all, taverns and shops, smithies and banyas.  Wulf led the way  down to a wide road crossing theirs and turned to the left, towards the docks and the warehouses of the traders.  Torsten owned a large building very close to the waterfront, with a great door for the admission and exit of goods.  The squire left the men at arms to guard the horses and led his master up a wooden stairway to a smaller door,  and through it into the office chamber of Torsten Gundarsson.<br/><br/>The Swede’s office was little more than a platform built above the storage area, from which he could survey his stock and workers.  The place was silent now, the only person present the burly blond trader himself.  He sat on a stool smoking a pipe, a collection of wooden tallies spread on the table beside him.  At their entry he rose and bowed, gesturing towards a large chair with a somewhat faded cushion on it.  ‘Welcome, Master Wulf, and thrice welcome, Ritter Albrecht, to my - or perhaps I should say, our - place of business.’<br/>