Barshov glanced at Oleksei, abruptly, scanning him with oblique deference.

"What am I accused of?"

"What are you not accused of," replied Ilarion, tipping the man's jaw up and turning his head to the side, under the pretense of examining his contusion.

"Where did you get this mark?" he asked, tonelessly. "Overzealous friends, I imagine. I apologize."

"No," said Barshov, tautly, almost defiant in his compliance. "It was incurred accidentally, during a routine session of training. Khatachurian. The Dance of the Sabres. You would know it."

Ilarion felt his lips whiten like ice.

"I know that you're lying," he said, shoving Barshov's head back, almost carefully, with more gentleness than government work called for.

He indicated Barshov's wound with a gloved finger.

"That contusion is fresh," he said, coolly. "And it's a ring mark."

Lasha paused.

"...Trust me. I know how they look."

Barshov glanced at Oleksei's hand, fleetingly, then back at Isaev.

"So do I," he said, meaningfully.