“No, for myself. I can die by my own hand quicker than you can fire your pistol—and you must shoot quickly, or even the Ataman will defeat your purpose with me. But I would bargain with you, Gorekin.”
“To what end?” asked Peter, somewhat amused, and curious as to the old man’s intent. “What have you to sell, Michael?”
“I will sell you my life,” said Kirsakoff.
“I can have your life for the taking.”
“No. Look! I hold the tablet six inches from my mouth. I could be dead before your bullet would reach me.”
“I like to hear your voice, Michael—speaking of your own death. Well, have your say out.”
“You are a Russian, and you must have your blood amend, Gorekin. You shall have it—I shall not destroy myself—but I ask you to save Katerin from the Ataman. That is my bargain.”
“My father and I could not bargain, twenty years ago out there in the Sofistkaya.”
“True. But I offer you now a life for a life—and a clean slate between the two of us. My blood for your father’s blood—and go your way in peace.”
Michael leaned forward eagerly. Peter’s expression had changed so that the old man had hope, but Peter was merely astounded by Michael’s proposal. This was something he had not looked for in the old man—a calm willingness to take death as part of a trade, an exchange of favors.