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Isidor considered himself a patient man. He was a doctor, and a teacher, and (most importantly of all) a father, and these were all enterprises that required a healthy dollop of patience. This was, perhaps, why Saburov seemed so taken aback at the glare that was creasing his brow. That, or it was because Isidor was six foot three and twice as wide as Saburov in every direction, but Isidor preferred to think it was the former. Ordinarily, he would try and smooth over his expression; he valued his relationships with everyone in the town. But, these were extenuating circumstances.
“Saburov,” he said coolly.
Saburov stood, moving to greet him. “Burakh! You’re looking well, emshen. What can I do for you?”
Isidor narrowed his eyes. “Do not playing games with me. I hear you put one of my boys in cage, try to lock him away.”
The tension on Saburov’s face faded into flat confusion. “What, your Artemy? Why, I haven’t done anything of the sort, nor would I.”
“Not Tyoma. The little one, Grigory. Grief. You let him-” Isidor pursed his lips, forced himself to lower his voice. “Let him go. He is only a child.”
Saburov blinked, then let out a bark of laughter. “You must be joking! That little rat? What on earth do you want him out for? I can assure you, Burakh, all of us, including him, are better off with him in my prison instead of terrorizing people out on the streets.”
Isidor’s fists curled beside him. “I am not understanding you right, I think,” he said slowly. “You cannot possibly be saying you prefer to put innocent child in jail than to maybe deal with few outbursts. Certainly you are not saying this, and laughing, like joke. Russian not my first language, though, so you explain to me, yes, Saburov?”
Saburov paled slightly. “I didn’t mean- Well, look, he’s hardly innocent, is he? You know what he was brought in for, yes? It’s not as if it was littering, Burakh, the child stole an egg and attacked an officer! Assaulting an official is a very serious crime, you know.”
Isidor raised an eyebrow. “Officer was hurt?”
Saburov huffed. “Bruising, and a slash on his leg. Almost needed stitches.”
“Not very hurt, then. Your officers have trouble with little children? Maybe is their problem. Maybe let Grigory go, I have talk with him, and you have talk with officers, train them better.”
“He committed a crime, Burakh! He was carrying a knife, the little bastard, he-”
No sooner was the word ‘bastard’ out of Saburov’s mouth than Isidor was advancing on him, shoving him backwards into his desk. Saburov let out a squeak.
“Maybe I hear you wrong,” he said lowly, making it absolutely clear that he knew perfectly well he had not heard anything wrong. “You do not speak of Grigory like this. You do not speak of any child like this. You let boy out of your prison, I make sure he is not carrying knife anymore, you think about your behavior, and maybe I forget I hear that.”
Saburov looked for a split second as though he might fight back, but at the look on Isidor’s face, he seemed to think better of it.
“Right,” Saburov said, trying to sound composed and in control and not at all like he was being threatened into doing anything. “I concede, he’s still very young, and if you say you’ll keep him out of trouble... I’ll send someone over to let the guards know he can be released in the morning.”
“No. You do not send someone, you go yourself, and you release him right now.”
“I can’t just- it’s late, I-”
“Right now. I go with you, take him home after.”
Saburov appeared to have an intense internal debate, then sighed heavily.
“All right, Burakh. As you say.”
Isidor stepped back, and his whole demeanor relaxed. He smiled at Saburov, though a hint of a threat still hid behind his amicable eyes.
“Good. Thank you, Saburov. I hope I am not hearing anything like this again.”