By Chelsea Quinn Yarbro from Tom Doherty Associates

Ariosto

Better in the Dark

Blood Games

Blood Roses

Borne in Blood

A Candle for D'Artagnan

Come Twilight

Communion Blood

Crusader's Torch

A Dangerous Climate

Dark of the Sun

Darker Jewels

A Feast in Exile

A Flame in Byzantium

Hotel Transylvania

Mansions of Darkness

Out of the House of Life

The Palace

Path of the Eclipse

Roman Dusk

States of Grace

Writ in Blood

A

DANGEROUS

CLIMATE

A NOVEL OF THE COUNT SAINT-GERMAIN

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

NEW YORK

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

A DANGEROUS CLIMATE

Copyright (c) 2008 by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

All rights reserved.

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010

[http://www.tor-forge.com] www.tor-forge.com

Tor(r) is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn, 1942--

A dangerous climate : a novel of the Count Saint-Germain/ Chelsea Quinn Yarbro.--1st ed.

p. cm.

"A Tom Doherty Associates Book."

ISBN-13: 978-0-7653-1981-4

ISBN-10: 0-7653-1981-0

1. Saint-Germain, comte de, d. 1784--Fiction. 2. Peter I, Emperor of Russia, 1672--1725--Fiction. 3. Vampires--Fiction. I. Title.

PS3575.A7 D34 2008

813?.54--dc22

2008030997

First Edition: October 2008

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For

Gaye Raymond

The Czar has chosen to build his new city in a dire place, for it is at the mouth of a river surrounded by broad, flat marshes that are icebound half the year and pestilential the other half ... all in all, a dangerous climate.

General George Ogilvie, 1704,

in the service of Peter the Great

Author's Notes

Piotyr Alexeievich Romanov, known as the Great, ruled from 1689, when, at seventeen, he wrested power from his regent and half-sister Sophia, until his death in 1725, during which time he did his utmost to transform Russia from an Asian to European country, and to drag his empire out of the Dark Ages into the modern world of the eighteenth century. That he largely succeeded in accomplishing his goals not only marks him as a most atypical Czar, it also shows that he used all the power that being an autocrat bestowed upon him; this juxtaposition probably accounts for some of the startling contradictions in his character, which mixed grandiosity with modesty and courage with failure of nerve. Today he would probably be diagnosed as hyperactive, for he was always restless, his protuberant eyes moving constantly. Even as a child in the removed and indolent world of the terem, the women's quarters where children were raised, he was active; he much preferred his time in the country, where he organized his friends into a kind of semi-military, semi-courtly group, which later not only formed the heart of the Russian army, it also provided many of his closest advisors. Known as the poteshnye (meaning roughly those with whom one is entertained/has adventures), they were as crucial to Piotyr's achievements as any single factor in his life.

Unlike most Czars, once his reign began, he traveled outside of Russia extensively, and throughout his adult life rarely remained in one location for more than four months at a time. He disliked Moscow and its endless ceremony, a dislike he emphasized by founding a new capital on the Gulf of Finland at the mouth of the Neva River in May of 1703. He called it Sankt Piterburkh, using the Dutch name to emphasize his determination to Europeanize Russia. The initial conscription of 20,000 men from every part of Russia, Finland, Lithuania, Sweden--mostly prisoners-of-war--Poland, and Armenia provided the labor force for the first year of city-making, a number that in time increased to 150,000, or as high a number as 200,000 by some estimates. Criminals were sent by the thousands to do the grueling work of draining the marshes and building first wooden and then stone embankments to shore up the banks of the Neva River, as well as to sink piles into the boggy soil to provide a foundation for the buildings to come. The first year, 1703--04, deaths among laborers were high: living in the open with bad water and poor food, occasional outbreaks of Swamp Fever (probably caused by giardia) as well as typhus, two epidemics of influenza, and a persistent form of what seemed to have been ringworm, to say nothing of accidents on the job and raids by outlaw gangs, soon reduced the number of laborers by as much as 15 percent. Yet the work went on, and more workers arrived to augment the forces already there. Within two years, more conscripted laborers were put to the task of planting trees and turning the wooden walkways into stone sidewalks and paved streets. Piotyr was determined to create a Baltic Amsterdam, another symbol of Russia's becoming part of Europe. During these first five years, Piotyr summoned many European diplomats as well as engineers and architects to Sankt Piterburkh; many interested governments sent residents and envoys to the new city in order to keep an eye on what was going on. As workers strove to put up houses and barracks to the Czar's order for accommodation of the newcomers, foreign residents came in ever-increasing numbers to the newly founded city. In conditions that resembled a survival camp in a construction zone, these foreigners were expected to carry on as if they were at court at Versailles or Berlin, making for difficult social conditions for everyone, though Piotyr saw it as a validation of his European ambitions for Russia.

As part of that Europeanization, he founded the Russian navy, reorganized the army, compelled Russian men to cut off their beards and wear European clothing, reformed marriage arrangements--he himself had had an unhappy first marriage to the very traditional, clingy stupid, but beautiful Evdoxia Lopukhina--and imposed January 1st rather than September 1st as the start of the year in order to be in closer accord with the European calendar, most of which would have been impossible had he not been an absolute monarch. But that didn't mean he was all affability and progress; from time to time he succumbed to severe panic attacks, during which he would flee any perceived danger. In addition to these occasional outbursts of cowardice, he had a fearsome temper and in his rages was known to wreck whole houses. While in the throes of these episodes only his second wife, Ekaterina, could deal with him--everyone else was too terrified to approach him. She had been his mistress for many years before they married, a Livonian orphan named Martha or Marfa Skavronskaya, who took the name Ekaterina at her wedding and official conversion to the Russian Orthodox faith. Eventually Martha/Marfa/Ekaterina and Piotyr had twelve children, only two of whom--both daughters--survived beyond childhood.

Piotyr's life-long fascination with mechanics served him well, along with his thirst for learning all he could about what today would be called engineering. He earned certificates as a shipwright, a carpenter, and a gunnery officer, and not simply because he was Emperor Czar of Russia, but because he actually did the work, mostly in Holland and England during his European tour of 1697--98, at which time he often traveled incognito--or as incognito as a man standing six-foot-eight could manage. All his studying proved to be useful: at the founding of Sankt Piterburkh, he, with a small crew of woodcutters, built himself a four-room house in which he lived until his own, fairly modest permanent residence was built, reflecting his personal, unusually restrained taste in surroundings. He was generally impatient with ostentatious demonstration unless it was of his own devising; he was particularly fond of staging displays of fireworks, and he went in for days-long eating and drinking bouts with his friends, among whom he often contrived elaborate and blasphemous celebrations, which contributed to the belief held by the most religiously conservative Russians that he was in actuality the Anti-Christ, and the End of the World was near.

Dreary and inhospitable as Sankt Piterburkh was, the Foreign Quarter was one of the fastest-growing parts of the city for the first five years of its existence. After the first four years of predominantly diplomatic and harbor-building arrivals, Piotyr himself significantly expanded the number of foreigners in his new city by hiring additional architects from Italy; teachers from Holland, Switzerland, and Austria; artists from France and Italy; anatomists from Holland, Switzerland, and Italy; city designers (civil engineers) from Scotland and Ireland; structural engineers from Scotland, Ireland, and Holland; shipbuilders from Holland, Denmark, and England; and musicians from all over. He also encouraged the foreign diplomats to bring accomplished men with them--at their own expense, of course--to help in creating Sankt Piterburkh. The rest of the city gained much of its Russian population from Piotyr's orders personally issued to merchants, artists, writers, artisans of all sorts, bankers, mercers, horticulturalists, builders, and others he deemed necessary to create the new city, compelling them to move to Sankt Piterburkh and to remain there until such time as he would release them. To refuse was tantamount to treason, and leaving the city could only be done by securing the written permission of the Czar.

During this time, the war between Russia and Sweden, known as the Great Northern War, continued, as well as periodic skirmishes with the Ottoman Empire and the southern territories of Russia. As a result, Piotyr spent a great deal of time with his troops on campaign, often staying only a month at a time in Sankt Piterburkh before heading off to another siege or battle. With so peripatetic a Czar, I have taken the liberty of placing him in his new city at times when he was not actually there; the same goes for his closest lieutenant, Alexander Menshikov, who served as a kind of coordinator for the various projects that were crucial to the development of Sankt Piterburkh. Martha/Marfa/Ekaterina spent much more time there in the early stage of the city's development than the Czar did, serving as a kind of pledge of Piotyr's continuing dedication to the city that bore his name--in Dutch.

Piotyr's turn toward Europe created new concerns for the Europeans: Piotyr's war with Sweden--the marshes on which Sankt Piterburkh was built had been Swedish territory until Piotyr took it from them in 1698--was diplomatically challenging for other Scandinavian powers, and for Baltic states from Prussia to Livonia. By establishing a Baltic port in the Gulf of Finland, Russia gained access to all of northern Europe, and that had the potential to upset the very carefully balanced mix of politics and trade within the region. In many ways, it was fortunate for the Russians that Augustus II, Elector of Saxony, then co-King of Poland, personally liked Piotyr and got along well with him, for had Poland aligned with Sweden, it is highly unlikely that Piotyr could have managed to establish Sankt Piterburkh as a city at all, let alone have it boasting the Admiralty, the first true university in Russia, the first center for medical training, a major center for musical training, and an architectural school, as well as two royal palaces and a dozen noble ones, and some 35,000 buildings, all within a decade of its founding: by comparison, the palace at Versailles took forty-seven years to complete. In many ways, the alliance with Poland was the most crucial to the success of the Czar's city and his European ambitions.

Among the various historical persons mentioned or appearing in this novel, II Ferenc Rakoczi, the Hungarian opponent to the Hapsburgs, and therefore an adjunct to the War of the Spanish Succession, figures prominently, although off-stage, for given that Ferenz Ragoczy, Grofok (Count) Saint-Germain, undertakes a false identity for the mission to Russia as a favor to Poland, his willingness to participate is directly predicated on the strong resemblance of his name to that of the historical rebel. The reservations about his possible support of the Hungarian nationalistic movement expressed by the Poles--a movement which included much of modern-day Romania--come from the strong similarities between their names; such a resemblance would have been very much a concern at that time in history. Some biographers have suggested that the historical Saint-Germain was the son or nephew of II Ferenc and have proposed that Saint-Germain functioned as a Hungarian spy throughout his long career in Europe. While I don't agree, it does add piquancy to the story.

As is always the case with these books, there are some thanks due to those who provided information in its preparation, so in no particular order, I express my gratitude to Jack Dormeier for access to his epidemiological study of the first decade of Saint Petersburg; to Lina Goresky for background on the reign of Peter the Great; to George and Catherine Hazeltine for access to their library on the Europeanization of Russia and the European presence in Saint Petersburg; to Emily Immermann for information on titles and precedence in royal courts of the early eighteenth century; to Philip Lupu for information on the unrest in Hungary and Austria, the War of the Spanish Succession, and II Ferenc Rakoczi; to Jacob Nelson for explaining the history of the Great Northern War; to Maryanne Talliafero for information on the social impact of Peter's conscriptions to build his new city, including the ethnic make-up of the work-gangs; and to Daniel Wilmont for technical information on the problems of draining the marshes and dredging the silt of the Neva River. Many thanks to all of you for your insights and your willingness to answer myriad questions over lunch; any errors in events or facts are my own, and dictated by the exigencies of storytelling.

Thanks are also due to my agent, Irene Kraas; to my long-time editor at Tor, Melissa Singer, and to Tor Books; to my on-line publicist, Wiley Saichek; to Paula Guran, Webmaster for ChelseaQuinn Yarbro.net; to the Yahoo chat group; to Lindig Harris for Yclept Yarbro, available at [mailto:lindig17@gmail.com] lindig17@gmail.com; to Robin Dubner, my attorney, who protects Saint-Germain; to Dale Cathcart, William Fowler, and Tiffany Ransom, who read the manuscript for clarity; to Libba Campbell, who read it for grammar and syntax; to Brandon Pace, who read it for continuity; to Sharon Russell, Stephanie Moss, and Elizabeth Miller, for their encyclopedic knowledge of vampire literature; to the World Horror Guild for making me a Living Legend; to Alice, Maureen, Megan, Peggy and Charlie, Brian, Marc, Lori, and Steve, just because. Special thanks to my readers and to the bookstores who continue to support this cycle of books, almost thirty years since Saint-Germain made his first appearance in Hotel Transylvania--it's reassuring to know that he, in the manner of vampires, has proven, through your continued support, to be so long-unlived.

CHELSEA QUINN YARBRO

Berkeley, California

29 June, 2007

PART I

ARPAD ARCO-TOLVAY,

HERCEGEK GYOR

Text of a letter from Klaus Demetrius Krems, confidential secretary to Augustus II, Elector of Saxony and co-King of Poland, to Ferenz Ragoczy, Grofok Saint-Germain, presently residing at Ciemny Zamek near Kutno in Poland at the King's pleasure; written in code and delivered from Warsaw by Royal Courier in three days.

To the most noble Ferenz Ragoczy, Grofok Saint-Germain, the greetings of Klaus Demetrius Krems on behalf of Augustus II, in his capacity as King of Poland,

My most dear Grofok,

This is to confirm your agreement made with Royal Augustus these two weeks ago, and to detail what the terms of that agreement are:

To wit:

Item the first: at the behest of King Jozef Habsburg of Hungary, you are to assume the identity of Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor (who, as you have surmised, is missing under most troubling circumstances), and travel with Arco-Tolvay's wife, Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, in his stead to join the embassy to the Czar Piotyr Alexeievich at his new city currently being built on the delta of the Neva River at the place where the Swedes had their fortress. Your compliance is guaranteed by King Jozef, who has extended the revenues of the estate and the rank of your distant relative in exchange for your participation in this venture to Czar Piotyr's new city, which he has named Sankt Piterburkh, in the Dutch tongue, as a recognition of his fondness for the Dutch and all he has learned from them in regard to seafaring. Due to this admiration, he prefers that his intimates call him Piter rather than Piotyr. Until he invites you to use the Dutch name, continue to use the Russian.

Item the second: you will there establish as much of a household as is practicable in that place, and you will observe the building of the city, its state and progress as well as any actions the Swedes may take upon the Czar's efforts there, and will report your observations to me for the benefit of the most Royal Augustus. If the war with Sweden is to spread, it will be most useful for Poland to know of it, and to prepare for many demands to be made on our troops and our people. Such information obtained from you as would be useful to King Jozef, I engage to provide him as a show of good faith.

Item the third: for all that Russia and Poland are allies, and stand against the Swedes, it is still a matter of some moment that a Russian port on the Baltic could prove dangerous to Poland, and to that end, you are to inform me of any alteration in the Russian posture regarding Poland and Polish interests. Czar Piotyr Alexeievich is a man of impulse and ambition, and if he is frustrated by Sweden, he may turn his westward attentions in other directions. Should that occur, it would be essential for Royal Augustus to know of it with all dispatch.

Item the fourth: you will endeavor to aid the Czar to construct such engines as may be used to drain the marshes on which Sankt Piterburkh is being built, and to extend any other skills you may possess to the building project. Arpad, Hercegek Gyor, has done much to improve his lands, which are in a river valley, often subject to flooding; he is known to have developed several devices to move water about, to construct levees, and to drain low-lying bogs. The more you can make yourself valuable to the Czar, the more useful you will be to Royal Augustus.

You are granted the right to take your manservant Hroger with you, and such coachmen, carriages, and outriders as may be needed for your journey, provided that Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, approves of the arrangements. That she has consented in this deception is not to be taken as an invitation to you to compromise her marriage. You have pledged not to lure her into adultery, and it is not only her honor and yours that are at stake, but the honor of Royal Augustus. Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, will maintain the fiction in public, but will not extend anything untoward to you simply because you are pretending to be her husband, for she will not compromise her husband with an unexplainable child with claims to support from Hungary. As is often the case for women of such high rank, Ksiezna Nisko will indulge her right to be entertained in any way that does not compromise her mission. She also requires that she not know your identity beyond your rank and that you, like her husband, are Hungarian. If you decide to tell her more than your title and origin, she will immediately order your departure. She believes the necessary deception will be less hazardous for both of you with this precaution.

Travel will require the same conduct from you as being at Sankt Piterburkh. Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, herself will have three carriages, two sleighs, four coachmen, six postilions, four maids, a footman, a steward for your household in the new city, and an escort of nine guards. She has also said she will want to engage only trained servants once you arrive there. You will be provided two couriers to carry your messages to me, both of whom will reside with Royal Augustus' Envoy, not as part of your household, so as not to be a charge on you.

Given that you will have to wait until the roads are clear before you depart, Augustus II asks that you not travel far from your current retreat at Ciemny Zamek, for if your dissembling is to be successful, the less you are seen as yourself, the less likely it is that you will be unmasked. Arpad, Hercegek Gyor, is known to be reclusive and studious, so it would be well for you to adopt his habits before you assume his identity. Most Royal Augustus has recommended that you depart no earlier than the beginning of April, at which time you will travel from Warsaw to Grodno, and from there to Pskov, and then on to the Neva and Sankt Piterburkh, which should put you there in mid-May. The escort from Royal Augustus' household cavalry that will accompany you will return by ship at the first opportunity, leaving their horses and any remaining supplies with you, so that you will not have to wait on the pleasure of the Czar for the necessities of life.

With the Neva free of ice for summer, you should be able to send your reports on Polish ships rather than with couriers, which I most stringently recommend. Once the snows come, neither ship nor messenger will be able to leave safely, and any notification you will have for Royal Augustus will be delayed until the weather allows the use of the roads again. If the Neva River did not carry all the ice from Lake Ladoga, it would be a much more convenient port, which I fear the Czar will learn for himself. He may also discover that the islands often flood, for the Swedes complained that their fortress was more a lake than a haven.

Through our friends already at Sankt Piterburkh, Royal Augustus has let it be known that Hercegek Gyor does not eat or drink in company, which may protect you from some of the more onerous demands of Russian hospitality. On most grand occasions, guests are urged to excesses in drink and food that have sent many a guest home ill with over-indulgence, yet to refuse such surfeit can give inexcusable offense. It would behoove you to leave such lenience to the Ksiezna, who has participated in Russian entertainments in the past. In regard to your abstemious practices, you may claim a religious reason for your reticence; it may be respected, but as high officials of the Russian Church are expected to sate themselves on many occasions, the ploy may not succeed. You may need to come up with some other explanation for your unwillingness to participate in the required gorging, or you will offend the Czar, which will be against the wishes of Royal Augustus as well as King Jozef. Bear in mind that once you gain the Czar's enmity, your usefulness to the Ksiezna and Royal Augustus are at an end.

In addition, you have sworn to Royal Augustus that you are not in any way involved in the uprising in Hungary against the Hapsburgs led by Rakoczi II Ferenc, as you have informed me that the Hungarians style their order of their rulers, with the number before the personal name; do not expect many of the foreigners in Sankt Piterburkh to observe this practice. You have stated that II Ferenc is of a separate branch of your family and no direct connection to you, nor of so-close blood that there is any obligation existing between you; further, you pledge that no part of your mission shall be used to advance that uprising, either in direct benefits or in the capacity as intermediary. Any lapse in this commitment to the benefit of II Ferenc will be grounds to dismiss you, which will not benefit an exile such as you. Let the Austrians, Dutch, Prussians, and English sort the Spanish Succession out with Spain and France: do not yourself participate in any aspect of it. On this point, Royal Augustus is adamant, and if you feel you cannot abide by these restrictions, then it will be best to refuse this mission and remain in Poland or return to Hungary: Royal Augustus must be able to repose absolute trust in your loyalty for this mission.

If this is in accord with your understanding, please sign at the bottom and give it into the hands of the courier who carries it to bring it back to me. If it does not, I ask you to frame a letter of your understanding, and give that to the courier instead. We have a little time to make adjustments in our terms, if that seems necessary to you. On your one previous request, I fear it will not be possible for you to meet with Royal Augustus before you leave, a decision that is as much for your protection as for the King's; we wish to keep your risk of discovery to as small as is possible, and for that reason, Royal Augustus has ordered that all your contact from now until your return from Russia be confined to letters, in the cypher we have already agreed upon for our communication. I apologize for this, and assure you that the gratitude of Royal Augustus will take your understanding of this precaution into consideration when he expresses his thanks to you at the conclusion of your mission.

I pray God to give His protection for your endeavor.

Your most devoted servant to command,

Klaus Demetrius Krems

private and confidential secretary to

Augustus II, the Strong, King of Poland

and Elector of Saxony

on the 27th day of February, 1704

1

He came to slowly, his face pressed into cold, noxious mud, his body lying half on and half off a wooden walkway, his clothes in disarray, his sword gone, his wig missing entirely, and a collection of bruises and small wounds on his shoulders and head that he knew would take weeks to mend. He was just beginning to feel other hurts; through swollen eyes he tried to see where he was, but the night was dark, and although there was a broad smudge of opalescent luminosity on the horizon, it was not bright enough to diminish the night. His usual ability to see in dimness was itself faded: he could barely make out his ruined lace cuff dangling a hand's-breadth from his face; he could not see, but he felt the rawness of his knuckles, and his attempt to flex his fingers in his right hand failed in a flare of renewed pain. How had he come to this? Involuntarily he groaned, and less than a minute later, he heard approaching footsteps, and hoped this did not mean his attackers were returning to finish what they had begun. After a brief hesitation, he took a breath, and then another.

"It's not a body," said a voice in Finnish. "He's breathing."

"Looks like the Lithuanians have been at him; they go for the head with their cudgels," said a second voice in the same language. He nudged at the prone figure with a walking staff. "You alive?" he asked in Russian as he held up a bull's-eye lantern.

Saint-Germain did his best to blink, and said through swollen lips, in Finnish, "What happened?" It was the first question that came to mind; his voice was rough and almost inaudible, and this simple effort brought new pain as a cold wind slid over him, bearing the odor of decaying vegetation from the exposed mud of the marsh. It's all of a piece, he thought.

"You've been damned foolish, coming out here." The second voice went silent for more than a minute, then added, "There're gangs and worse out here once the sun goes down, summer light or no summer light. No one from the fortress or the town leaves its protection at night. Even a foreigner like you should know that." There was another silence. "Don't try to move. You may have broken bones. We'll get a pallet to carry you."

"There are criminals in this part of the island," said the first. "No one comes here after dark, not alone."

"Ehi! Tapio! Get a pallet." The second voice was raised enough to carry, and he was answered by a third voice some distance away.

"All right," the third man called, and his footsteps on the wooden walkway receded.

"Don't try to talk," the first man recommended to Saint-Germain. "You'll make it worse."

"At least there isn't a lot of blood," said the second, inspecting the wooden walkway and the ground around Saint-Germain. "He's got a chance to recover."

"But it will take time, or he might not heal completely. That's a mess," said the first, pointing to Saint-Germain's right hand.

Saint-Germain was able to wheeze out a word. "Time?"

"Oh, an hour or so until dawn," said the first. "The Russians are still drinking in their log houses, but most of the rest are asleep. At least we have tents this spring. Last year most of us slept in the open."

"Work starts an hour after dawn at this time of year," said the second.

How long had he lain here? Saint-Germain wondered, and why had he been so far from the stout, three-room log house in the Foreign Quarter the Czar had allocated for his and Zozia's use? What had brought him out into the marsh at night? How long had he lain here? His thoughts were as murky as the night around him; he had a vague recollection of being summoned to one of the huge treadmills driving a draining screw, but after that, there was only a flash of faces and rough commands in a dialect of Russian he barely understood. He tried to push himself upright, only to be held down.

"You don't want to do that," said the second voice. "If you have broken bones they could burst out--"

"Lie still," the first said. "Tapio will be back soon enough."

Saint-Germain did his best to relax, taking stock of the damage he had sustained. He could feel at least two cracked ribs and possibly broken bones in his right hand. One leg--his left--was swollen in its high boot, and his back ached. The blow to his forehead continued to hurt, and he was fairly certain he had been struck on the throat or someone had attempted to strangle him. There was a knife-cut to his side and one at the top of his thigh. His rings and a gold brooch were missing.

"Can we take him to Ludmilla Svarinskaya at this hour?" The second man sounded worried. "Everyone's asleep at the care-house."

"Where else? She can arrange to get him home once he's been treated," said the second. He sighed. "At least it's not raining."

"And there's no fog--we wouldn't have found him if there were fog."

"True enough," said the second, beginning to pace nervously.

"Paavo, calm down; it's safe," said the first. "The gangs aren't out now--nothing to prey on."

"I hate being on Watch." Paavo stamped his foot and held up the lantern again. "They really pounded him, didn't they?"

"So they did," said the first. "Lucky they didn't strip him of everything, including clothes. He'd be much worse off if they'd done that."

"But, Yrjo, why would they leave him his clothes?" It was a reasonable question, clothes like everything else being in short supply.

"Too foreign. They're bound to be identified. And what working man wants a satin coat?" He laughed. "Not that it isn't ruined, in any case."

Jogging footsteps thudded on the wooden walkway as Tapio returned with the wooden pallet. He was panting a little as he stopped. "Do we lift him or roll him?"

Saint-Germain listened distantly, aware that whichever they did, it would be painful. He steeled himself against it, reminding himself that as bad as this would be, he took ironic consolation in the certainty it would not be as hideous as the pain he had suffered from being crucified in Mexico more than fifty years ago.

"Best try to lift him," said Yrjo after considering the situation. "But turn him on his back first, and get his head and shoulders onto the walkway." He stared down at Saint-Germain. "We'll make this as easy as we can." With that, he bent, got his hands under his arms, and lugged him onto the wooden path; Saint-Germain moaned once, but otherwise endured the brief agony in silence. "Good. Now, Tapio, you take his legs, and Paavo, help me with his trunk, and get him onto the pallet. Get a good hold. We don't want to drop him."

"We'll be careful," said Tapio, preparing to grab Saint-Germain around the knees.

Paavo and Yrjo positioned themselves and, on Yrjo's count, raised Saint-Germain and set him on the pallet; Ragoczy set his teeth against the varieties of agony that went through him, and remembered to breathe as he was set down, the air hissing in and out.

"Good enough," said Yrjo. "Come. Hoist the pallet, and keep to the walkway. Not too fast. We don't want to end up dropping him."

The three men set off at a steady, sober pace, their boots sounding loudly on the wooden walkway; around them there were the various murmurs and soughings of the marsh, the slap of water against the newly built wooden embankment, the call of night-birds. The sound of the Dutch clock in the wooden church dedicated to Sankt Piter and Sankt Paultje chimed the half-hour. One-thirty? Saint-Germain wondered. Two-thirty? He longed for the deep, restorative night, but this far north, he would not find it until July was gone. The regular thudding of the lantern against the handle of the pallet was almost soothing, helping him to think. It came back to him that he had set out around nine o'clock while the brilliant glow of sunset was still hanging above the horizon. He had passed the first levee and gone along the embankment past a large tavern that welcomed all seafarers. Not far from it, a Russian tavern echoed to laughter and drunken song. Try as he did--distracting himself from the affliction of his injuries--he could recall nothing more until the Finnish Watchmen came upon him.

"After the second levee, take the path toward Ludmilla Svarinskaya's street. You know the way."

"That I will," said Tapio. "I don't like to wake her up in the middle of the night, though; a well-born woman like her."

"She should be used to it." Yrjo was beginning to breathe harder; the other two men slowed their pace to accommodate him.

"Who ...?" Saint-Germain managed to ask.

"Ludmilla Borisevna Svarinskaya," said Paavo. "Some kind of boyar's daughter. Runs a care-house. There's a foreign physician who helps her during the day, and he studies at night. The Czar insists on it."

Saint-Germain tried to conceal the alarm he felt, but something of his emotion must have been revealed, for Yrjo said, "Don't worry about her: she's not going to cut off your legs or give you foul potions to drink. She's good with bandages and poultices, splints and purgatives; she knows what to do to take care of those who are injured. She'll wrap up your cuts and set your bones, just as she does for anyone on the island. Two days ago she took care of those two woodcutters who--" He stopped.

The three men went on in silence for several minutes, entering a muddy street flanked by wooden sidewalks and wooden houses, some of which had been painted to resemble bricks instead of logs, after Czar Piotyr's own house. This was the newest part of the city, no house more than four months old. "Third on the left," said Tapio. There was the sound of an argument in one of the houses across the road, and the three Finns stopped, then went on to the third house, which was somewhat larger than the others along the street. They set the pallet down and Yrjo went to pound on the door, calling for Ludmilla Borisevna. Three minutes later a sleepy voice asked in Russian, "Who's there?"

"Yrjo Saari, Tapio Pyhajoki, and Paavo Lyly," he announced. "We're on Watch. We have an injured foreigner. Looks like he was set upon by robbers."

There was the sound of the bolt being lifted, and then the door swung open, revealing a sleepy servant with a lamp in his hand. "Bring him in." Behind them to the southeast, the sky was brightening.

The three men did as they were told, carrying the pallet to the side of the main room where a row of ten beds stood, all but two occupied. "Where do you want him?" Paavo asked; the smell of wood-fires, illness, and astringents engulfed them.

The man in the bed at the end of the row was whimpering in his sleep.

The servant pointed to the nearest empty bed, the second from the end. "There. I'll go and get Ludmilla Borisevna." He ducked his head, set down his lamp, then went into the adjoining room.

Saint-Germain endured being transferred to the eighth bed, did his best to thank the three men in as few words as he could, then closed his swollen eyes, not opening them again until he heard a woman's voice above him.

"Saints aid us!" exclaimed Ludmilla Borisevna Svarinskaya, crossing herself in the Orthodox manner--right to left. She bent down, holding her candle near her patient, doing her best to inspect his battered flesh. "This is dreadful. Where did you find him?"

"Out on one of the walkways, not far from the new treadmill," said Yrjo.

"We have to patrol out there, to stop any mischief against the engines," Tapio explained.

"I know about that," said Ludmilla, stroking Saint-Germain's arm. "What was he doing out there?" Seeing his eyes open, she spoke more softly still. "Can you hear me? Are you in pain?"

Behind her, her servant tried to dismiss the three Finns, assuring them that the man would be cared for, and handing each of them a small silver coin for their services as he ushered them out the door and then put the bolt back in place. "Shall I bring water?"

"And rags, and bandages; I need to clean him up before anything more is done," said Ludmilla, making a first perusal of the damage done to Saint-Germain. She sat on the edge of his bed, taking care to disrupt him as little as possible. "Both of your eyes will be black, and you'll have a lump on your forehead. Let's have a look at your hands." Her touch was practiced and gentle as she peeled back his blood-soaked ruffled cuff. She shook her head. "We'll have to give him a thorough washing, Kyril. By the look of him, he's been battered about."

Through his swollen eyes, Saint-Germain could not make out her features clearly, though he could see she had bronze-colored hair done in a simple knot at the back of her neck, and a substantial, opulent body; she wore a robe-de-chambre of ecru silk with the cuffs turned back, revealing soft, long-fingered hands. He took a deep breath before saying, "Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor. In the Foreign Quarter." It was more of a croak than speech, but she stopped working on his clothes and stared down at him.

"The Hungarian with the Polish wife, who arrived four days ago?" She was at once resigned and shocked.

"I am," he said, not surprised that she should know such things: the residents of the island lived in a sea of gossip. Any new-comer was the subject of immediate speculation, something that Zozia encouraged.

"Don't try to talk, Hercegek Gyor. It could be bad for you."

"Cracked ribs," he said.

"And other injuries, no doubt." She saw Kyril returning with a basin and a collection of rags. "I hope you don't mind, but I'll have to cut your clothes off you. I don't want to have to turn you any more than necessary, and the clothes can't be saved in any case."

"My manservant."

She paid little heed to this. "Yes, yes. Kyril will go along to your house to fetch him and whatever you may need as soon as the Quarter is awake. He'll carry a message from you, if you like, so your wife won't be worried for you, and you can tell your manservant what you need." She took the basin and rags, then ordered Kyril to bring scissors. As soon as he was gone, she began to bathe Saint-Germain's hand, taking care to inspect his knuckles closely. "You may have a damaged bone here. I'll put your hand in a splint and have Heer van Hoek examine it in the morning. He's a physician-anatomist, very skilled."

"So ... I hear." It was becoming more difficult to speak, and he tried to gesture to his throat; she contained his hand.

"Keep quiet. You have a very nasty bruise forming on your throat. I don't want it to swell any more than it has." She continued to wash his hand off. "There are a number of small cuts other than the blows to the knuckles." Satisfied for the moment, she dried his hand gently, and moved around the bed to work on his other hand. "This one isn't so bad. Many little cuts and bruises on two fingers--they must have pulled off your rings--but you should be able to use your hands in a day or two." While she washed it free of mud, she went on, "How unfortunate. Here only four days and this happens. I hope you won't hold it against Sankt Piterburkh."

"No," he said breathlessly, thinking back to the long months following the Year of Yellow Snow, more than a millennium ago, when he had recovered from a slashed throat. This was surely no worse than what he had already survived.

"I'll have to cut your boots off, as well. I hope you have another pair, for if not, getting new ones will take months, unless you're willing to wear workmen's boots." She wiped his hand and began on his face, working deliberately and delicately. "There are nine bruises, two quite severe. Your eyes will be swollen for a while, and black, as I warned you. You won't like what you see in the mirror. It's more than bruises. Your left ear has a cut, and there's another along your jaw. I haven't seen all your injuries yet, but what I have seen indicate that those who attacked you meant to kill you, I believe."

He nodded his agreement, and pondered who would want to do that. Was it happenstance or had he been singled out?

Kyril returned with the scissors and stood by to collect Saint-Germain's clothes as they were cut away from his body. He was impassive enough until the chemise was pulled away, revealing the broad swath of ancient scars that ran from just below his ribs to the base of his abdomen. Then he crossed himself and stared.

Ludmilla strove to remain composed. "An extensive injury, long ago."

Saint-Germain nodded.

"It must be bad for your digestion," she observed, and continued to cut away his clothes, reaching for a sheet as she began on his black-satin britches.

"It is," he mouthed.

"Then I won't give you any tea just now. We'll see how you feel by mid-day." She looked at the knife-thrust in the heavy muscle of his right thigh. "A little more to the left and you would have bled to death."

Were it not for his pain, Saint-Germain would have laughed; it had been thirty-seven hundred years since he had been disemboweled; bleeding might enervate him, but it could not kill him.

"Your leg--very swollen in the boot. If your leg is broken, Kyril will help me to set it, or you can wait for Heer van Hoek to do it. In either case, the setting will be painful. We may have to wait until the swelling diminishes before attempting it." It took her almost five minutes to cut through the leather from his knee to his ankle, and as she worked his foot out of the boot, she made a thorough inspection of his calf and shin. "I think this is a bruise, a very bad one. Had you not been wearing such a fine boot, your leg probably would have broken. As it is, the bruise is a deep one. You would be wise to be on crutches until it is no longer tender. If you try to use it, you could delay its healing." She tossed the boot to Kyril. "Bring a blanket. I don't want him getting cold. You know what that can do."

Kyril nodded and left the room, bearing all Saint-Germain's clothes and one boot away, holding them as if they were noxious.

Saint-Germain studied Ludmilla as best he could, but the puffiness of his eyelids limited his range of vision. He coughed once, wincing at the hurt in his throat, a realization he found almost amusing.

"How many men were set on you?" She was trying to gain a better assessment of his injuries.

"Can't remember," he said in the same croaking wheeze as before.

She nodded slowly. "Blows to the head will do that, sometimes. It may come back to you in time." With a sigh, she got up from the edge of his bed and took up the basin. "I'll be back in a moment, with bindings for your ribs and a splint for your hand. I am so sorry that you've been so badly hurt."

He nodded to show he understood, then let his eyes close. For a brief period he slept, then wakened abruptly when he heard her voice again, cutting through the gnawing ache in his head. He attempted to get an elbow into position to lever himself up, but was stopped by a jolt of pain.

"I'll help you to sit up, Hercegek. You'll need to move the sheet down to your waist, and I'll wrap your chest." She held out her hand to assist him; he took it, and was relieved to be able to move without moaning. She helped him adjust the sheet around his waist. "I know I've seen you almost naked, but it's fitting to preserve modesty." Raising her voice, she called out, "Kyril Yureivich. The splint."

"I'll bring it," he called out.

The man on the fourth bed shivered and thrashed in his blankets; his face was ruddy with fever as he struggled with some unseen foe.

"Kyril, Yvgeny Sergeievich needs to be taken to the latrine. Hurry, or he'll dirty his sheets. The splint can wait." She gave her attention back to Saint-Germain. "He has an injury to the bowels, and it makes his body--"

Again Saint-Germain nodded. He wanted to tell her he knew how to deal with such injuries, and what preparation could calm the intestines, but his throat was too swollen and sore for a long explanation. He watched while Kyril came in, roused the thrashing man, and half-carried him out of the room.

"He has been worse than you see him now. It's the marsh-water that makes him recover so slowly. They say it is unhealthy and that it brings infections to wounds." Trying for a smile, she leaned toward him and looped a broad band of heavy cotton around his waist and began to wind it upward, her head brushing his chest each time she passed the cotton band around his chest. While she did this, she said nothing, all her concentration on making sure the bindings were tight enough. When she at last passed the cotton over his left shoulder and tied the end, she said, "Don't take this off unless you have help and can have your ribs rebound. For a month or two, you'll have to be careful."

Again he nodded to show his understanding.

"Now I'll splint your hand." She brought the narrower bands of linen and the Y-shaped wooden splint, which she wrapped in a layer of cotton-shavings before pressing against his palm and wrist. She worked quickly to secure his hand to it, immobilizing all but the ends of his fingers. "This will need to be changed in a day or two."

"Yes," he squawked.

She gave him a long, sympathetic look, then said, "It will be light soon. We keep our shutters closed so that the men here can sleep, but the streets will be noisy within the hour." She stood back from him. "You'd better rest. Kyril won't be able to fetch your manservant for a while, and you look exhausted. Lie back slowly."

"My manservant ... will know," Saint-Germain muttered. "He knows."

"I will hope so," she said with an encouraging smile. "Rest now."

Saint-Germain did as he was told, wishing he was lying on his mattress filled with his native earth. That would be for later, after Hroger would come for him. He tried again to speak. "Thank you."

"Thank the Finnish Watch who found you. Without them, I could do nothing." She moved away from him, and after checking the other patients, waited for Kyril to bring Yvgeny Sergeievich back to his bed.

Remembering that he had to breathe, Saint-Germain did his best to find a comfortable position on the hard mattress, then closed his eyes, wanting to be sure that he would not arouse any more curiosity from Ludmilla Borisevna Svarinskaya. Gradually sleep overcame him, engulfing him in a deep torpor that banished time, so that when he opened his eyes, he was surprised to find Hroger at the foot of his bed, a valise in his hand, his faded-blue eyes crimped in worry. One pair of shutters was open and a band of cool northern light spilled in. There seemed to be more sun now, as well, but whether that was true, or it was only that his eyes were less swollen, he could not tell. He raised his left hand.

"My master," said Hroger, glad that Saint-Germain had wakened.

Sudden, unexpected relief washed through Saint-Germain and he started to speak, wanting to assure him that he would recover. His throat was more swollen than it had been, and all that came out was a sound like ill-played reeds on an oboe. He lifted his unsplinted hand to his bandaged neck, saying only, "Bruised. And robbed." He realized three of the men in the other beds were awake and paying attention, so he made an obvious gesture to indicate that he could not continue to speak.

"I was told by the serving-man who brought me that you had been set upon and badly injured out near the new treadmill, and that you had been brought here. I informed your wife of your condition, and came with the serving-man as soon as I had packed this case." He spoke in Hungarian, his accent as old-fashioned as Saint-Germain's. "I have clothes for you, and the light carriage waiting, Gronigen holding the reins."

Saint-Germain made a gesture of approval.

"I was told to warn you that if you make an accusation against a Russian worker in regard to your attack, you will be tortured as a discouragement to lying." He looked around as Ludmilla came in from the adjoining room, her European-style skirts rustling as she hurried toward Saint-Germain.

"Ah." She offered a smile as she approached the side of his bed. "You're awake, Hercegek. As you see, your manservant has arrived--a half-hour ago. He's been sitting here, waiting for you to wake up."

With the shuttered room still in twilight, Saint-Germain could see her better than when he had arrived: she was a handsome woman, too forceful to be pretty, though her features were attractively angular; she had flawless skin, a pert nose; her eyes were gold-shot hazel, her lips full. He tried to smile, but the cuts and bruises on his face twisted it into a grimace.

"There, Hercegek. Don't force yourself ..." She went to assist him, easing him into a sitting position. "Very good."

"Tell me, Madame, if you would," said Hroger with deference, "when was he brought here?"

"It was an hour or so before sunrise. The Watchmen found him and brought him here. I have their names if you need them." She patted his unsplinted hand in encouragement.

Saint-Germain nodded again, stopping the dizziness this created by an act of will. He made a sign to Hroger indicating he would like to stand up, and made a second sign that he wanted something on which he could write.

"I'll get crutches for you, Hercegek. Don't try to rise until you have them. I don't want you falling now. Kyril!" She hurried out of the room only to return in a few minutes with a pair of sturdy crutches. "It will take you a little while to learn to use them, the more so because of your splinted hand."

Taking the crutches from her, Hroger said, "I think it's best if I assist him, Madame."

Ludmilla nodded at once, agreeing with Hroger. "Just as well." She got out of the way to allow Hroger to help Saint-Germain to get onto his one good leg. "Be careful how you use the crutches as long as his hand is in a splint."

"I realize that," said Hroger, apparently unperturbed. He handed a single crutch to Saint-Germain, but kept the second in his hand. "I'll support him on the right to get him to the carriage. If you'll come with me, I'll tend to your payment."

"That isn't necessary. I have no doubt the Hercegek will pay me what is fair." She went to open the front door. "I'll want him to return in two or three days, to have his bindings changed and to put new bandages around his splint. Heer van Hoek will see him then, and decide what is to be done with his leg."

"Very good," said Hroger as Saint-Germain seconded all this with a nod.

Moving awkwardly, they went out to the street where Saint-Germain's coachman, Adolphus Gronigen, was waiting, holding the carriage door open; he tisked as he watched the slow progress made by Saint-Germain and Hroger, and tapped his toe as Hroger handed Ludmilla a small pouch that clinked its promise.

"Spasiba," said Ludmilla, surprised at the weight of the pouch.

"Oh, no, Madame," said Hroger as he worked to settle Saint-Germain back on the squabs. "Thank you."

Text of a report from Isidor Illyich Pukinov dictated to Wolfrid Theophilius Lothar Schaft, secretary to the Prussian Envoy, at Sankt Piterburkh.

In accordance with the Envoy's instructions, here is my report concerning the attack on the Hungarian Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, that took place four nights ago.

By all accounts, the Hungarian had been summoned from his house to inspect the new, large treadmill out at the edge of the third levee. His servants are agreed upon that point, and that the man who asked him to come was one who supervises work in that part of the island, a Vladimir Pavlovich Timchenkov. Arpad, Hercegek Gyor, left the house in the man's company, and walked out in the direction of the third levee, where it seems both men were set upon by a gang of robbers who had been waiting for them, or so it is assumed.

Of Timchenkov there has been no trace, neither the man nor his body. He may have been part of the plan to waylay the Hercegek, or he may have been a victim of the assault, or he may have fled and will not return. All inquiries have led to nothing. Not even the fishermen who live in the mean hovels at the far end of the island have any information to offer. They saw no one, or so they claim.

It is possible that the attack was one of opportunity, for the Hercegek had rings and a brooch taken, but it is strange that the supervisor would ask anyone to go out to the treadmill at that hour, and I do not know the reason for the summons, which may be significant, given what happened. Had the Hercegek been here longer, he would perhaps have suspected some sort of misadventure could befall him, but since he had himself worked on improving the treadmill the day before, it appears that he was inclined to see that it was not damaged or functioning incorrectly, and thus undertook to see to its condition, which suggests that he may have been a target selected by his attackers for more than his money and possessions. I have spoken to the Finnish Watchmen who found the Hercegek and they confirm that they rescued only the one man, that there were signs of a brutal fight, and that there have been gangs operating in that part of the island. They also said that they were of the opinion that the Hercegek was lured into a trap of one kind or another.

If that is the case, then it may be that there is someone already in Sankt Piterburkh who has ill-will toward this man, his family, his wife, or the Poles, in whose name he is here. All my inquiries thus far indicate that he is largely unknown to the people of the Foreign Quarter, as well as to the associates of the Czar, so it is unlikely that he has cultivated enemies of his own in the eight days since he set foot on this island. Therefore speculation is that if the attack was deliberate, its purpose was political, not personal. Most of the servants suspect the Lithuanians or the Swedes, but have no proof to support their claims.

According to Timofei Grigoreivich Kharkov, who was a patient in Ludmilla Borisevna Svarinskaya's care-house when the Hercegek was treated there, the man has a vast swath of scars on his torso, which indicates serious injury in the past, and may indicate that he has enemies who have followed him here. Yvgeny Sergeievich Donskoy also said he had seen scars, but the man is so riddled with fever, his account may not be reliable.

The severity of the scarring was confirmed by Ludmilla Borisevna Svarinskaya herself, who said that whatever had caused the scars, it was a miracle that he had not been killed when he received the injuries. She also said that the beating he had received was severe, but he should recover in time.

This is the sum of my knowledge regarding the assault on Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, to which I set my sign on this,

Isidor Illyich Pukinov

his mark

May 25th, 1704

2

"Are you sure you don't need my help dressing today? You let me help you yesterday, and the day before. The Prussian Envoy is calling in an hour, isn't he? Will you be ready to receive him?" Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, asked in Polish as she slipped around the end of the partition that divided the room in which they slept into two separate compartments, Zozia occupying the larger, brighter one, Saint-Germain the smaller, darker one, which suited both of them. "If you keep him waiting, who knows what he might think? You don't want him speaking against us, do you? The Foreign Quarter is rife with pettiness, and if you keep him waiting, he could hold it against us." She was turned out in a fashionable ensemble of green-and-white-striped taffeta with a long stomacher and a modified sacque-back, her sunny-blond hair dressed in a froth of loose curls known as the rustic style. A little too imperious in her bearing to be properly feminine and too lean in her figure to be pretty, she had a fomenting kind of beauty that hinted at her capricious and abrupt turn of mind.

"Hroger will assist me, thank you," said Saint-Germain, feeling a bit more himself, but still encumbered by splints on his hand and leg. His throat remained sore, but over the last eight days, the swelling had gone down so that he could speak without additional pain and nearly in his normal voice; the rest of his face and back felt stiff, but he endured it stoically, knowing the bruises would eventually fade.

"Then I'll go out with the English ladies. I don't know how long we'll be gone." She pouted prettily in the doorway, tossed her head, and went away, calling out, "Hroger. Your master needs you."

Saint-Germain sat up on his narrow, hard bed that was made of a thin mattress and sheets laid over a chest of his native earth; there was a light blanket at the foot of the bed, but he had not used it. He took stock of the state of his healing, then sighed; it would be more than a month before his hand would be able to work, and equally as long for the bruise on his tibia to dissipate. He touched his face, satisfied that the cut on his jaw was finally closed: by August, he knew, it would vanish completely, leaving no scar behind.

"Hercegek?" Hroger asked as he came around the end of the partition.

"Come in, old friend," said Saint-Germain in the dialect of western China. "And welcome. Though I'm in a nettlesome mood."

"Which means you continue to improve," Hroger remarked, his austere features showing a hint of approval.

"That I do. I'm sufficiently better that I find my limitations frustrating." He shook his head to show his dissatisfaction. "Never mind. If you'll take out my embroidered coat, the white silk chemise, and the ruby studs for the knee-britches, one silver-buckled shoe, and one black leg-hose."

"For the right side, of course," said Hroger, going to the armoire against the wall. "Which waistcoat? The dark-red one, perhaps?"

"I wish I could leave off the waistcoat," said Saint-Germain, "but I can't appear slovenly or invalidish, or impervious to chill, for that matter. The dark-red will do."

Hroger's next question was more problematic. "Do you need me to help you stand?"

"I think I can manage." He cracked a rueful laugh. "Lying abed as I have done of late, I've been considering again that this is the second time that a non-Polish King of Poland has sent me to Russia, and I ended up with a wife. A strange mirroring of events, don't you think?" The memory of his time at the court of Ivan Grosny on behalf of Istvan Bathory, the Transylvanian King of Poland, and his ordered marriage to Xenya Evegeneivna Koshkina still had the capacity to distress Saint-Germain, and the brave, hideous death of Xenya during their escape from the treachery in Moscow had not lost its capacity to discompose him.

"You haven't a wife this time," Hroger reminded him at his most neutral. "Just the pretense of one."

"True," Saint-Germain allowed, directing his attention away from that grueling time, just over two centuries ago. "I was Hrabia Saint-Germain for Ivan--though it meant little to him--not Arpad, Hercegek Gyor. And we are at Sankt Piterburkh now, not Moscow." He paused. "Also, there is a difference between Piotyr Alexeievich and Ivan Grosny, and between Xenya and Zozia."

"Luckily," said Hroger as he brought out the splendid red-embroidered black-satin coat, the dark-red waistcoat, and the matching knee-britches. He laid these on the bed, then went back to the armoire, removing one of the white-silk chemises that hung there. "Black jabot, or white lace?" He posed the question in Russian.

"The black, I think," said Saint-Germain in the same tongue. "I'll have to wear the colored clothes at some point, but since I'm recuperating, it's likely that sober dress won't be taken as anything but a recognition of my injuries."

Hroger set out the shoe and leg-hose, taking care to make sure they were within easy reach for Saint-Germain. "If you'll give me your night-robe?"

Saint-Germain opened the garment and slipped it off his shoulders, the habitual movement still a bit jerky from stiff muscles. He handed it wordlessly to Hroger and took the linen under-drawers Hroger held out to him. Donning these was awkward, and he nearly fell as he did his best to step into the under-garment and pull it up to his waist.

"The chemise next?" Hroger asked.

"Yes. Then the leg-hose, and afterward, the knee-britches. Then waistcoat and coat." He steadied himself against his bed as he took the chemise and worked it over his head, teetering as he strove to remain upright. Little as he wanted to admit it, he was still feeling the impact of his beating. "Do not fret: I can manage."

"Which wig do you want to wear today?" Hroger offered the single leg-hose to him, prepared to help Saint-Germain.

"The plainest, and no hat. The Graf is my first visitor since the assault, if you do not count Ludmilla Borisevna. This visit from Graf von Altenburg is an honor, of course, but hardly one deserving of full court dress. Elegant simplicity will be the fashion. I will not wear jewelry beyond my signet-ring." He touched his brow. "How dark are my eyes?"

Long experience had taught Hroger that Ragoczy tended to be embarrassed by injuries and the necessity to accommodate them. "You still have severe bruises, and they are dull-purple in color, the smaller ones fading to green." Hroger went to the single chest-of-drawers on this side of the cubicle, examining the three wigs on their stands: all were the same near-black as Saint-Germain's hair, but none had the faint trace of white at the temples that showed on the stubble of his close-cropped scalp. "This German one?" He chose the one with the least elaborate curls of moderate length. "Or the English-style one?" Of the three, Hroger preferred the English wig.

"The German wig will do; the Graf will prefer it," said Saint-Germain as he sat down long enough to pull on his leg-hose; this concession annoyed him, but he remained determined to do as much of his dressing as he could on his own. "I'll need a slipper for my left foot."

"I have one for you," said Hroger. "The black-silk one from Turkey. It should do well enough for your visitor."

"So I hope." He managed to work the single leg-hose up his leg and over his knee; he was too shaky to pull on the knee-britches without help, so said, "If you will?"

"I will," said Hroger, coming to assist him into the knee-britches. "I'll help you on with the coat when you're ready." His long association with Saint-Germain made him aware that his master's brusque-ness was more from exasperation with his slow-healing body than anything against his man's service. As he buttoned the knee-britches, he said, "In a week or so you'll be able to do this yourself."

Saint-Germain gave a self-deprecating smile. "You know me too well, old friend. I apologize for imposing my ill-humor on you; you deserve better of me. I should not abuse you for my own lack." He looked toward the small, high, double-glazed window. "I am out of all patience with myself, and you have taken the brunt of it. I should have realized that we might be set upon. At my age, I have no excuse for such a lapse."

"How could you have known?" Hroger asked levelly. "You answered an urgent summons from one of your supervisors to inspect a malfunctioning treadmill, which is what supervisors are charged to do. Vladimir Pavlovich Timchenkov was not unknown to you, and his reason for summoning you was not unreasonable, certainly not sufficient to alarm you. You might have incurred the displeasure of the Czar if you had ignored the request to inspect the treadmill; earning Piotyr Alexeievich's disapprobation so early in your mission would vex Augustus." He reached for the handsome waistcoat and eased it over Saint-Germain's arms. "You did the prudent thing."

"I should have been more cautions," said Saint-Germain.

"Perhaps you would have been, had you been here longer." Picking up the coat, he slipped it onto his employer, smoothing it before he came around to Ragoczy's front to button the waistcoat and adjust the hang of the coat. "I'll get the neck-cloth."

"Thank you," said Saint-Germain in chastened accents.

"You needn't continue to upbraid yourself, my master," said Hroger, taking a length of ruffled black-silk cloth and inspecting it before returning to Saint-Germain and putting it in place around his neck. As he tied the complicated bow, he added, "I've been told that there have been other attacks by large gangs."

"I have not yet been able to recall the attack beyond a few moments of it." This admission was as painful as the others had been.

"It's only eight days since it happened. Think of how long it took you to recall what Srau did to you."

Saint-Germain stared up at the ceiling. "It would be useless to say that was a different situation, would it not."

"It would," Hroger assured him as he completed the tying of the neck-cloth. "There. The Prussian Envoy should be satisfied with your appearance. Shall I serve him wine or vodka?"

"Wine, I think--from my stores; Zozia would not like me to use any of hers." He managed a brief smile and turned toward the partition. "It is awkward, this deception."

"You aren't surprised, are you?" Hroger held out his arm for Saint-Germain to lean on. "Shoe and slipper. Both have your native earth in the soles."

"Very good," said Saint-Germain, and accepted Hroger's support that enabled him to don his footwear without the risk of falling. Then, reluctantly, he retrieved his crutches from the side of his bed and slid them under his arms. "I'll pass the time until Graf von Altenburg arrives with reading. After spending the last six days lying in torpor, I feel stale."

"That torpor will hasten your recovery," Hroger pointed out. "Lying on your native earth can restore you better than any remedy, save one, particularly since the nights are so short."

"That has been a problem," Saint-Germain conceded.

"It's fortunate the attack didn't happen a month from now, at midsummer, when the sky doesn't darken all night long. At least there is twilight." Hroger regarded Saint-Germain with a mixture of concern and exasperation. "If you had someone who could--"

"But I haven't; not yet," said Saint-Germain.

"Then I trust you will make an effort to rectify this soon," Hroger said, his anxiety concealed in a kind of gruffness.

"So I hope. For now, I need to enliven my mind."

"Which book would you like?" Hroger asked as he followed Saint-Germain through Zozia's side of the room and into the central chamber of the house where the Prussian Envoy would be received and entertained. The room was the largest of the three, with a main door that opened onto the small covered porch. Five large chests stood against the walls; a long table was set up along the west wall, with benches long enough to accommodate the entire household at a meal. In the southeast part of the room there were three upholstered chairs, a low serving table, and a settee. A large candelabra depended from the beam in the middle of the room--at the moment it was without candles. The house, being in the Foreign Quarter, had two more windows than the Czar had allocated to three-room houses, and it boasted three dormers and a rear door, for Sankt Piterburkh, a very grand establishment--even the Czar's house had only four rooms.

"You choose what you think would suit me best," said Saint-Germain, and made for the Polish settee beneath two double-glazed windows in the south wall; against the north wall there stood a simple stove, which not only provided heat for the house, it served as a simple kitchen. He lowered himself onto the settee and raised his splinted leg while Hroger went to look through Saint-Germain's trunks for a suitable book, returning in a short while with a copy of Nicolaas Heinsius' Den Vermakelyken Avanturier.

"I thought something Dutch would be advisable," said Hroger.

"Very clever," Saint-Germain approved, taking the novel from him and holding it in the light. Before he started to read, he said, "I suppose Zozia has gone out?"

"She has, in the light carriage. Adolphus Gronigen is driving her; I didn't think you'd mind."

"Why should I. Which horses?" Saint-Germain asked.

"Your pair of chestnuts. You know the Ksiezna favors them for their matched paces. Her maids are sewing in the servants' room. Most of her staff is out until Vespers." He nodded in the direction of the third room, which was divided as Saint-Germain's and Zozia's bedchamber was, men in bunks on one side, women in bunks on the other.

"Do we have bread and salt to offer our guest when he arrives?" Saint-Germain looked toward the large cabinet behind the stove where most of the household foodstuffs were kept.

"I'll attend to that now." Hroger crossed the room, his demeanor unflustered. He removed a basket of bread and took a small loaf from it and set it on a tray, then filled a saucer with salt and set it next to the bread on the tray. "It's ready for Graf von Altenburg's arrival."

"Excellent," said Saint-Germain. "Impeccable as always, old friend."

"I'll fetch the wine," Hroger said, and left the room for the rear of the house where a formidably locked storage closet was attached to the structure, returning some five minutes later with a dusty bottle in his hands. "The wind is picking up, my master. Shall I light the fire in the stove?"

"Not yet, I think," said Saint-Germain, looking up from his book. "After the Graf arrives, then start the fire."

"So that it will be on his account," approved Hroger. "He will be complimented by the warming room."

Saint-Germain's smile was swiftly gone, but his eyes remained amused. "It is the nature of diplomacy to flatter, is it not."

Hroger went about opening the wine. "He should be here shortly."

"So he should." With that, Saint-Germain closed his book and set it down. "Which wine did you select?"

"A Tokay. A Hungarian wine seems appropriate." He indicated the bottle. "Sweet, but not cloying."

"Excellent," said Saint-Germain, shifting on his settee. "We will need to apply for space for the Polish escort aboard one of the westbound ships, and soon. Augustus will want his men back before midsummer."

"Once I have served the Graf, I'll see what I can find out on that account." Hroger studied Saint-Germain. "Are you in pain, my master?"

"Less than I was a day ago," Saint-Germain answered obliquely. "I'll manage."

"Good enough," said Hroger, knowing it was fruitless to press him.

In less than ten minutes there was the sound of a light carriage drawing up in front of the house, and a quick exchange in German. Hroger went to the door, preparing to open it as soon as there was a knock. He glanced over at Saint-Germain. "In German?"

"If you would," said Saint-Germain, patting the book at his side on the settee as the sound of footsteps came from outside. Almost at once there was a sharp rap on the door.

Hroger opened the door and bowed. "Graf von Altenburg, welcome to the home of Hercegek Gyor."

The Prussian Envoy handed his walking-stick to Hroger, and looked around the room. Johannes Walther Oertel Stiffelmund, Graf von Altenburg, was a man of middle-age and middle height, portly of body and florid of face. He wore clothes much like Saint-Germain's, but in a shade of muted peach, and his neck-cloth was made of lace; his wig was a masterful tumble of chestnut curls. He held an elaborate handkerchief in one hand and a snuff-box in the other. Catching sight of Saint-Germain on the settee, he offered his bow with a flourish of his handkerchief, and was answered by Saint-Germain inclining his head. "Herzog Gyor," he said, using the German title, and speaking courtly German. "I am pleased that you're willing to receive me. I can see that you still have a long way to go before you're entirely recovered."

"Graf von Altenburg," said Saint-Germain in the same language and style, but with a faint accent that the Graf could not identify. "You are most welcome. Thank you for your concern on my behalf."

"We in the Foreign Quarter are all agog about your mishap," von Altenburg continued. "Not a day passes but one of us is worried that a similar misfortune will befall him. Many of our people will not walk abroad after Vespers without at least one bodyguard." He saw Saint-Germain indicate the nearest chair. "Most kind, most kind." He stuffed his handkerchief and snuff-box away in the recesses of his coat, and sat down. "I saw your wife in your carriage with two of the English ladies as I came here. If you'll permit me to say it, she is a most attractive woman. Not just in the usual fashion, which serves to enhance her charms."

"That she is, on all points," said Saint-Germain, and signaled to Hroger. "I hope you will take the traditional tokens of hospitality, and then something from Hungary."

"Much appreciated," said von Altenburg, and coughed delicately. "I hope I will not offend you by being too precipitous, but I must ask if you are part of the rebellion against the Hapsburgs before we continue our discussion? I don't mean to impugn your motives for being here, nor those of your wife. I realize that this is unmannerly of me to ... I'm sure you can understand the grounds for my concern."

"I can, and as to the war going on, I have sympathy for the Transylvanians, my blood having come from that region centuries ago." The centuries since he had left his homeland now numbered thirty-seven, but he kept that to himself. "In my opinion, Rakoczi II Ferenc has undertaken a dangerous venture, and who knows where it will lead? He has conviction and the desire of most of the Hungarian people on his side; the Hapsburgs have wealth, soldiers, and weapons." He paused, for once glad of having Arpad Arco-Tolvay to act as concealment. "I have no direct connection with either the Hapsburgs or the opposing Hungarians."

"I'm relieved to hear that," said von Altenburg. "I know such matters can become difficult when one is abroad."

"As you say," Saint-Germain said, giving another incline of his head to show his agreement.

Carrying a tray with the bread, salt, wine, and wineglass upon it, Hroger came to von Altenburg's side. "Graf? If you would honor this house?"

Startled, von Altenburg turned and stared at the tray. "Oh, yes. Very nice. Very nice." He took a pinch of bread, dipped it in the salt, and popped it into his mouth, chewing emphatically. Then he poured himself a glass of the Tokay, and held it up toward the window. "Like sunlight, isn't it?" He saluted Saint-Germain with it. "Won't you join me, Herzog?"

"No, thank you; I do not drink wine."

"Humph," said von Altenburg. "Well, to your recovery, then." He drank and smiled his approval. "An amazing vintage. Are you sure you won't have some?"

"Quite sure, thank you," said Saint-Germain.

"It is regrettable that you have had to keep to your bed this past week."

"Regrettable in what way?" Saint-Germain asked, knowing it was expected of him. "Beyond the inconvenience, of course."

"It has been a most exciting week; we actually held a small ball in the house of the English Resident. I'm sorry you missed it," von Altenburg continued, all affability.

"No more so than I," Saint-Germain assured him.

"What?" He stared at his host, then chuckled. "Oh, I see. Yes, undoubtedly you are more sorry than I for the cause." He glanced at Hroger. "You may remove the bread and salt. I'll keep the wine."

"Then I'll light the fire in the stove," said Hroger, picking up the basket and saucer, and retreating to the end of the room, where he busied himself with stoking and lighting the stove.

"I'm glad you find the wine to your taste," said Saint-Germain.

"It is most satisfying." After taking another generous sip, he went on, "Undoubtedly, you are behind on the news of the town. You will want to know that a ship has arrived from England--hence the occasion for the ball--with a number of engineers from Scotland, and two English shipwrights among the passengers aboard. They're assigned to housing on the edge of the Foreign Quarter, out where the working-men's supervisors' houses are. I was very much surprised to learn that the ship encountered little ice on its journey, and has been able to anchor out in the mouth of the Neva."

"Most interesting. But then, English ships are famous for their sturdiness, accustomed as the English are to building for hard weather." He studied von Altenburg with what seemed nothing more than mild curiosity. "What do you make of their coming?"

"Nothing much. The Czar is going to put them to work, of course; everyone is put to work here, one way or another. They say his deputy will arrive in the next few days, to see that the work continues to progress while the Czar is away. Most of the new arrivals will remain here, but some will go to the army to fight the Swedes." He shook his head ponderously. "Damnable business, this war between Russia and Sweden. Not going too well for the Czar."

"I doubt Piotyr Alexeievich would agree. So far he has gained more than he has lost, or so I understand." Saint-Germain waved his hand toward the window. "This place, for example, was in Swedish hands until recently."

"True, true, and the Swedes failed to reclaim it last summer," said von Altenburg. "Yet it is far from over. The day may yet come when the Czar will lose this miserable marsh once again."

"I doubt that. Piotyr Alexeievich has too many plans for his city to give it up."

"That might not be entirely his choice," said von Altenburg. "If there should be a turn in the war, who knows what he might have to concede."

"I would not wager on that," said Saint-Germain. "Piotyr Alexeievich isn't like other Czars, and it would be unwise to judge him by his forefathers. He has willed this place to be a city, and unless he dies soon, it will be one." He thought back again to Ivan Grosny, once more reminding himself that Ivan Vasillyevich had been a man of energy as well, but whose attention was turned eastward, not west; Ivan had been so absolute in his power that he had been the next to the last of his dynasty.

"What you say is true," said von Altenburg, nodding judiciously. "But Karl of Sweden isn't one to give up what has been his." He took another sip of wine. "I am not as confident as the Czar is that Russia will emerge from this war as a Baltic power. I realize that is what Piotyr wants, but Russia hasn't yet made the formidable army that Sweden commands."

"When you consider how far the army has come in a dozen years, I'm not at all convinced that Karl will be able to sustain his advances against Piotyr Alexeievich." He weighed his next remarks carefully. "I would like to think that the war will not be a long one, but I fear it shows every sign of lasting several more years."

"That is a very real concern to all of us," said von Altenburg, his frown portentous. "You have struck the heart of the matter." Again he paused to drink, swallowing nervously. "You see, I've come not only to ascertain for myself that you are improving, I am hoping that you and I might find some way to pool our missions to our mutual advantage, in two applications."

"What do you mean?" Saint-Germain asked, feeling wary.

"It seems to me that as foreigners in this place, we share many common ... issues." Von Altenburg cleared his throat. "I can think of a number of situations when it would be advantageous for us to share any information we may possess. In addition, it seems to me that if we form a kind of committee of residents of the Foreign Quarter, to greet newcomers and acquaint them with the conditions prevailing here. Who knows, had some of us warned you of the dangers beyond the second levee, you might have been spared your injuries. Your situation informs the rest of us to be more willing to look after all our foreign neighbors."

Ragoczy made a show of pondering these possibilities, and finally said, "I cannot do anything against the mandate of Augustus, no matter how helpful it may be."

"No, no. Of course not. But consider the advantages if we pool our information, and help those coming here to avoid the pitfalls they may encounter." He waved his hand to emphasize that he had no intention to undermine Ragoczy's mission. "But insofar as we must deal with this place, and the whims of the Czar, don't you think that whenever it is practicable, that we agree to provide each other whatever information we may have for the purpose of protecting ourselves and our delegacies from any untoward development."

Saint-Germain responded carefully. "You must have instances in mind."

"Actually, the attack you sustained was the incident that made me aware of the advantage of sharing intelligence as I have mentioned already. Had you been told that there were gangs out in the marshes, you might have been better prepared for such an eventuality as your ambush. And it struck me that there were other aspects of intelligence that could be shared, as well."

"Oh. Were we ambushed?" Saint-Germain asked.

"Don't you know?" Von Altenburg was shocked to learn this.

"No. I recall leaving the house with Vladimir Pavlovich, and I have a few incoherent impressions of being struck with a club, but once we reached the second levee, I have no clear recollection of anything else until the Finnish Watch found me. They were the ones who brought me to the care-house." He saw something flicker in von Altenburg's eyes. "Why: have you heard something?"

"No, nothing. Nothing." He wiped his lips with his handkerchief. "I assumed, as did everyone, that there had to have been an ambush. How else could you and the supervisor have been overpowered? Those gangs lie in wait for the reckless, and had you been warned, you might have had a better outcome."

"No doubt," said Saint-Germain, wondering what was behind this offer. "It is an interesting proposition, Graf; one that, as you say, has advantages. I would like a day or two to think it over."

For the first time, von Altenburg became huffy. "I'd think the advantages of such an arrangement would be obvious."

"Oh, they are," said Saint-Germain smoothly. "But, do you know, I have learned over the years that sometimes a tempting offer conceals difficulties that come to light only after the offer has been accepted." He gave a self-deprecating smile. "I do not say that is your intention to lure me into an agreement that would redound to my disadvantage, but before we pledge our mutual support, we may both want to understand where the limits of the agreement lie," he went on, forestalling van Altenburg's protests. "I believe it would be prudent to anticipate possible problems before they arise. Such matters are more easily set aside than undone."

"Understandable, understandable," von Altenburg grumbled. "I do take your point, Herzog. Given your reception in Sankt Piterburkh, a little reserve may be wise." He poured more wine and took a long sip. "How long are you assigned here?"

This abrupt change of subject bemused Saint-Germain, who nonetheless answered the question. "It depends on my usefulness. Augustus of Poland did not set a limit on my mission. Either the King, or my wife, may call a halt to our assignment."

"Not you?" Von Altenburg was surprised by this news.

"No, not I. Keep in mind that my wife is Polish--I am Hungarian, which is why you inquired about the current uprising." He inclined his head.

"That you are," said von Altenburg. "That you are."

The room was warming steadily; Hroger left the stove, bowed to the two men near the windows, and went off to the third room of the house.

"He seems an attentive servant," von Altenburg remarked.

"He is; he has been with me half my life." Saint-Germain had a swift recollection of a day in Imperial Rome when he had come upon a badly beaten man in the shadow of the unfinished Flavian Circus, when Rogerian had been dying from a beating; Saint-Germain had restored him to life and gained a loyal companion. "I trust him implicitly."

"A rare encomium," said von Altenburg, and in three large swallows finished the wine. "Well, Herzog, I don't want to tire you, nor do I want to keep my horses standing on such a windy day, so I'll take my leave." He got to his feet, and offered a bow with a flourish. "Thank you for receiving me. And thank you for hearing me out."

"You are most welcome, Graf." He nodded his head to answer the bow. "I anticipate our next meeting with pleasure."

Hroger appeared again, and went to hold the door for Graf von Altenburg.

"It will be in a day or two, Graf," Saint-Germain assured him.

"Good. Good." He bowed again, and stepped through the door, signaling to his coachman.

"What was he after?" Hroger asked in English once the door was closed.

Saint-Germain shook his head slowly. "I wish I knew."

Text of a letter from Mungo Laurie, Scottish engineer, to his wife in Edinburgh; carried by ship and delivered two months after it was written.

To my most-dear spouse, and light of my life, the affectionate greetings of your husband.

My dear Hepzibah, my mouselet,

Thanks be to God, we arrived safely in this new city of Russia. We made good time, for even with three ports-of-call along the way, we were here in five weeks. The Royal Standard has come through two storms and fields of icebergs without harm, and the Captain, Kenneth Montgomery, is confident of a swift return. This should be in your hands in good time.

Five of us have been set the task of making a plan for dredging a proper harbor, for at present ships must anchor off-shore for fear of raking their underbellies on the shoals of sand and silt nearer the islands where the first buildings have been erected. We have been given a crew of three hundred men, some Swedes, but most of them from the southern reaches of Russia. This is a daunting task, for there is little equipment in place for such a project, no matter how many men we're allotted, although we have been assured that the Czar will have such �gines sent from Amsterdam in the next few weeks. It appears he ordered them at the end of last summer and expects delivery by the middle of June. Barges are already under construction for our use.

This city is filled with industry. Everywhere one sees men working in their hundreds at draining the marshes, sinking piles into the earth, building up embankments and securing them with logs against the day when the logs will be replaced with quarried stone. On the land, carts arrive frequently with loads of logs, to be met by sawyers, who cut the lengths before the wood is ferried across. The sound of hammers and the clunk and groan of the treadmills create a din that is worse than a brawl on market-day. When you think that just over a year ago, there was nothing here but marshes and a few fishermen's huts, the buildings already here are remarkable in their number. The Swedish fortress is a small place, yet the Czar's village has expanded beyond its limits, and this island, called the Island of Hares, where the construction is centered, is supposed to be filled with houses and official palaces in a matter of four or five years.

I have not yet seen the Czar, although there is constant talk about him. If the reports are to be believed, the man is a giant: they say he is more than six and a half feet tall! One of the English shipwrights, a good-natured fellow named Tarquin Humphries, saw him when he was in England a few years since, and says that the man was taller than that.

Our housing is in the Foreign Quarter, which is to be expected. It is where all the foreigners who are not in work-gangs are housed, from servants to titled masters. There are strict rules for the houses in the city, but in the Foreign Quarter, there is some leeway in how the houses are built. We have a two-room house that fourteen of us share, the others being assigned similar quarters, and there is a Russian bath-house but a short walk from the door. This house is composed of a room filled with bunks and a room in which we eat and amuse ourselves. We have been allowed two extra windows. The houses are all of wood, but we're told that one day they will all be of masonry. The Czar has ordered that there be palaces in stone by the end of this decade, and a viable port as well. One cannot say this Peter lacks ambitions, but how he can prosecute this Swedish war and complete his city, I can't fathom.

Forgive me, my mouselet, for not writing longer, but Captain Montgomery has sent his ensign for any letters we may have, so I must close, but I promise I will write again soon, and as often as I may. Even such things as paper are in short supply here, so if you have the opportunity to acquire a supply, please dispatch it with my fur-lined cloak and my elk-hide boots: we're told the winters here are fierce.

Until I see you again, do not doubt that my love is with you from sunrise to sunrise every day of my life.

Your husband,

Mungo Laurie

on the 6th day of June, 1704

3

Heer Lodewick Kerstan van Hoek stood in the window of the care-house using a magnifying lens to study the state of Saint-Germain's knuckles, shaking his head, ruminating on the damage he saw; when he spoke, it was in Dutch, so that their discussion would be private. "I don't know that I'd recommend removing the splint from your hand quite yet, Hercegek. I know you expected to be able to go to bandages by now, but I can't recommend it. Hands are tricky, and if they heal badly, well--it hasn't been quite four weeks since your injuries. Your ribs will have to remain wrapped for another month at least, and you'd be doing yourself a favor if you continued to avoid strain." He was somewhat taller than Saint-Germain, thin as a stork, longheaded, and scholarly of manner; his clothes were well-made, of Dutch cut in a deep-brown shade of fine wool, his chemise simple white linen with only bands to serve as a neck-cloth. His only ornament was silver buckles on his shoes. Nearly forty and showing his age, he regarded his patient narrowly. "Yet you seem a robust fellow; you've a good, deep chest and sturdy musculature. In spite of the beating you took, you're a strapping figure of a man, a good indication that you're recovering."

"A fortunate accident of birth," said Saint-Germain, inclining his head. His Dutch was a bit old-fashioned but not so much that he and van Hoek had any trouble understanding each other. Today he had donned a coat and knee-britches of cerulean-blue velvet; his waistcoat was dove-gray satin heavily embroidered in silver, and the leg-hose on his right leg was the same dove-gray. More for fashion than necessity, he carried a cane topped with a large, polished black sapphire, and, at Hroger's recommendation, he wore the English wig.

"As is so much of life--we see it every day," said van Hoek with a sigh. "I am going to bandage your leg again, but not splint it. The bruise on the bone has subsided and you have no inflammation of the ankle or the knee that I can observe, which shows that your circulation is not impeded. That's what I worry about--impediments to circulation." He nodded toward the most recent addition among those needing treatment. "Not like that poor devil. I don't think his hand can be saved. It was caught between rolling logs and was crushed in the palm. I can only hope that the hand doesn't putrefy, for if it does, he'll lose most of his arm. As it is, I fear he'll lose the hand, and soon. The bones can't be set, and the fingers will be useless."

"Can you do that procedure?" Saint-Germain asked.

"Remove a hand? Oh, yes. I don't like having to, however," said van Hoek, his eyes turning sad. "Such a loss is so final."

"A bad situation," said Saint-Germain, who paused thoughtfully before saying, "I have a remedy that may be of use to you. It aids in reducing the severity of putrescence in a wound, or from an illness. If you would permit me, I would like to bring some to you, for you and Ludmilla Borisevna to use. It would be small enough recompense for what you have done for me." Lacking a laboratory in Sankt Piterburkh, and with little likelihood of being allowed to build one, Saint-Germain had brought a generous supply of the sovereign remedy with him from Poland in hermetically sealed jars.

Van Hoek looked mildly troubled. "Not one of those compounds the peasants make, is it? Rancid fat and boiled nettles and who-knows-what in it?"

"I learned its ingredients a long time ago, and it has served me well through my travels," said Saint-Germain. "I had it from a physician of great reputation, but if you would prefer I not--"

"If Ludmilla Borisevna approves, I'm willing to try it out, and to thank you for caring about this injured man. So many of those in the Foreign Quarter are unwilling to extend their help to us that sometimes I despair. This is the only place where they can come if they're hurt; you'd think they would want us to--" He cleared his throat. "That is the trouble with this work. So many men are injured. We see only the supervisors, you know. The regular workmen are sent to the Russian priests, who give them pages of Scripture and bathe the hurt in Holy Water. Then they're left to their own devices. A great many of them die. Just three days ago, five men died working on the Naval Headquarters, where the Czar plans to have his Admiralty. A beam fell, crushing them. They were blessed and sent off to the other side of the river. There's a grave-pit over there."

Saint-Germain had heard about the incident, but said only, "How heavy are the losses among the common laborers?"

"Oh, quite heavy. With the long days, they're worked sixteen hours a day. They have poor food and bad water, and they sleep in tents on damp ground. The summer will be worse: Swamp Fever is everywhere in the summer, and not just the workers die from it." Van Hoek went back across the room, calling out in Russian as he went, "Kyril, if you would, bring me some bandages, the wide ones, if you please."

"I'll get them," came the answer from the other room, but in Ludmilla Borisevna's voice. "Kyril Yureivich is out buying pork for the evening meal."

The man lying in the sixth bed moaned and turned over, watching the two men with mild interest now that he could understand what they were saying.

"In that case, you may find this useful," said Saint-Germain, also in Russian, pulling out nine golden guineas from his purse hanging on his hip.

"Oh, Hercegek, this is too much," van Hoek exclaimed.

"It seems to me you have need of it," said Saint-Germain, looking at the men in the beds. "It would be my honor to help with the expenses of this care-house."

Ludmilla came into the main room, her poppy-colored European clothes protected by an engulfing apron. She carried a tray of supplies, which she set down on the table near the stove. "Hercegek," she said with a slight curtsy.

"Ludmilla Borisevna," he answered with a bow.

Van Hoek took a pair of scissors from the tray. "If you will put your heel on this stool, Hercegek, knee straight?"

Saint-Germain did as he was told; he no longer had trouble keeping his balance, but he was careful to remain still as the point of the scissors slid along his shin, cutting the splint away. He watched as the bandages were unwound, and the skin revealed. "Some bruising still, but otherwise nothing alarming." He had seen far worse on his body, but he still felt a sense of self-condemnation for allowing the assault to happen at all.

"What would you expect, given the severity of your injuries?" Van Hoek inspected the exposed flesh with meticulous attention. "There is very little puffiness remaining and the texture is good. I believe you are making an acceptable recovery. In a few days--shall we say three or four?--you may wear high boots if you like, but not quite yet."

"I look forward to that," said Saint-Germain with feeling.

Van Hoek achieved a smile. "If only all our patients recovered as well as you're doing, Hercegek, we would have no need of your guineas."

"All the more reason you should accept them," said Saint-Germain.

"Guineas? What do you mean, guineas?" Ludmilla asked, staring from van Hoek to Saint-Germain and back.

"The Hercegek has made the very generous offer of covering some of our expenses." He cocked his head. "I haven't accepted: this is your house."

Ludmilla regarded Saint-Germain intently. "Why do you wish to help us?" She was more curious than challenging, but there was a light in her eyes that showed she was alert to interference in her tasks.

"Because your care-house is much needed and no one else appears to be willing to help you. You are short on supplies--as is almost everyone in Sankt Piterburkh, and that is more than an inconvenience: it hampers your effectiveness. You need another dozen beds and additional staff, but you have not got either, and it is all you can do to deal with what you have, let alone any more patients; you work to exhaustion, which benefits no one. If you could afford these expansions, you would do more good, not only for the city, but for yourself. Since the Czar has not settled funds on your care-house, you're left to your own monies and the donations of others, which will suffice only so long; when you have no funds, you cannot give care to anyone. Under the circumstances, I thought you would find a few extra guineas useful. The ones I provided today will be equaled every month that I remain here." He inclined his head to her, aware that she was vexed with him for saying so much. "Heer van Hoek has not mentioned it, but I also offered to provide a sovereign remedy I possess against infection of all kinds. I would be pleased if you would accept both the money and the remedy."

"What do you know of remedies?" Ludmilla asked sharply.

Saint-Germain answered with unflustered calm, "I have traveled extensively, and during my travels, I have taken the time to learn as much as I can. I have studied medical techniques in Egypt, in Greece, in Italy, and in my native land." He had also studied them in China, in India, and in the Audiencia de Peru, but he did not mention this. "This remedy has been helpful in many cases where infection and putrefaction were present."

"Are you a physician?" van Hoek asked, startled.

"I have some capability in medicinal arts, although most of what I have done is in the realm of discovering treatments; I do not fill my days seeing patients, as you do," said Saint-Germain, telling himself that this was not entirely inaccurate. "I have made the remedy available to others, from time to time. I believe that many of them have found it satisfactory." He did not mention that the sovereign remedy he spoke of was made from moldy bread, or that he had treated the sick throughout most of his long life.

"More chemist than physician, then," said van Hoek, satisfied with this answer.

"It is where my interests lie," said Saint-Germain, who had practiced alchemy for more than two thousand years. He turned back to Ludmilla. "Well? Would you be willing to try the remedy? I have syrup of poppies, as well, and pansy-and-willow-bark ointment, and tincture of wolfsbane for spasmodic coughing. You may think syrup of poppies a bit old-fashioned, but I have found it to be quite reliable in the way that some of the current soporifics are not."

She thought about his offer, and finally said, "If you would like to bring what you have and instruct me on the uses of the remedy, I'll see what we can do with it. You can supervise its distribution, if you think it's necessary. If it proves effective, we'll want more. If it doesn't, then you needn't provide us with it any longer."

Van Hoek nodded in concurrence. "An excellent decision." He reached for the roll of linen and set about rewrapping Saint-Germain's leg. "This will be much more comfortable, Hercegek. I'll want to examine it again in a week, to be sure there are no secondary problems, but by the look of it, you'll be almost recovered by then."

"That is my hope," said Saint-Germain. He looked down at his splinted right hand. "But this, you say, will take longer to improve."

"The damage was worse, as is the case with your ribs," said van Hoek as if he had forgotten how badly the hand had been injured. "Ludmilla was right to splint it from the first." He paused in his wrapping. "There has been no infection. Is that on account of your sovereign remedy?"

"It has that effect," said Saint-Germain obliquely; no medicaments of any kind had ever had impact on him, although he had been given poison a few times in forms that had left him vitiated and suffering.

"Ah. Very good," said van Hoek.

"What do you want in exchange for it?" Ludmilla asked, keeping her tone neutral.

"Nothing. I've already received more from you than money can repay; the remedy is more a payment in kind," Saint-Germain said.

"But you've given us gold," she said reasonably. "Why so much more?"

Saint-Germain considered his answer. "Because you are needed and no one else seems willing to do your work." He inclined his head to her.

She heard him out, and waited as if expecting a longer, grander explanation. When he did not go on, she said, "Very to the point. Well, then, I imagine we'd be fools, Heer van Hoek and I, if we refused either offer."

"Then we understand one another," said Saint-Germain, and held his right hand out to be treated, splinted, and wrapped. He could sense the attentive eyes of most of the men in the beds on him, and he wondered what the rumors would be by the end of the following day, for surely the patients would report on what they witnessed, and their reports would be repeated and improved, until he would be unable to recognize his own simple act; only yesterday he had heard that his attack had been carried out by a gang of fifty ruffians who had slaughtered four of his companions and kidnapped another two. He waited patiently while van Hoek continued his ministrations.

"I saw your wife yesterday," Ludmilla remarked suddenly. "She was walking along the levee with a German noblewoman and her escort. It is still a bit surprising to see women of quality out on the streets in that way, but since the Czar abolished the terem, even Russian women take the air." She paused. "She is a very attractive woman, your wife, with a grand bearing. You must be very proud."

"Proud?" The observation took him aback; he disguised this with a wry smile. "I suppose I am, at that."

Ludmilla seemed puzzled by his response. "I've been told all European men of rank seek to wed women of whom they can be proud. Is this incorrect? Have I misunderstood?"

Keeping in mind the man he was supposed to be, Saint-Germain said, "No, you have the gist of it, Ludmilla Borisevna, although many are content to be proud of a wife's connections and fortunes; it is the hope of all that they will be well-matched in every aspect," he allowed. "When great Houses unite, it is a good thing for everyone if both spouses are inclined to think well of the bargain."

One of the listening patients laughed, and another swore quietly.

"Sadly, that is much the state of marriage, isn't it, Hercegek?" van Hoek asked as he finished securing the wrapping; he had left his wife in Antwerp with her brother's family and the promise that he would send for her and their three children as soon as the city was livable. "But it sounds as if you've made the most of your situation in that regard. There. That's done." He found Saint-Germain's fashionable cane and handed it to him. "Come back in four days so I can make sure the splint is properly aligned. And wear a high boot on your leg. I want to see if you have any secondary swelling from it."

"That I will," said Saint-Germain with an elegant bow in preparation for taking his leave.

Ludmilla offered a curtsy. "I thank you, Hercegek, for all you've offered us." There was a slight emphasis on offered, as if she had reservations about his willingness to live up to his self-imposed obligation.

"Then I will see you in four days," Saint-Germain told them as he went to the door. "Oh," he added as an afterthought, "if I can be of any further service, I would be honored to know what that might be." Ludmilla and van Hoek raised their hands as he stepped out into the warm afternoon sunlight.

Adolphus Gronigen leaned down from the driving-box of the light carriage. "Where shall I take you now, Hercegek?"

"Take me out toward the second levee, as far as you can go, then wait for my return. I want to have a look at that treadmill." He got into the carriage and settled back onto the upholstered squabs, then tapped the ceiling with his cane as a signal to be off. As the carriage threaded its way along the rutted streets, the signs of industry were everywhere: a road-crew was adding coarse sand to the street to provide a better surface for the wheels of carts and wagons; more houses were going up, as well as more barracks, and at the walls of the fortress, another gang of builders was reinforcing the stockade with split logs; another four administrative buildings were being erected; a load of lumber was being pulled along on a sledge by a team of stout Dutch draft horses the color of buttercups--they leaned into their collars and sweated as they went. In the river beyond, a dredging barge was aswarm with activity, while half a dozen boats tacked inexpertly across the water. The Dutch bell in the fortress' church chimed two.

Some ten minutes later, Adolphus reined in the matched grays and called down to Saint-Germain, "I don't think we can go any farther, Hercegek."

"Then I'll walk the rest of the way," said Saint-Germain, opening the carriage door and letting down the steps; he descended with care. "Wait here. I shouldn't be long." He blinked in the pale sunlight and shaded his eyes with his hand as he picked his way out toward the wooden walkway that led out along the levee.

"Ah!" shouted the supervisor of the huge treadmill as he caught sight of Saint-Germain. "Hercegek! A pleasure to see you up and well."

"Thank you, Mikhail Valentinovich," said Saint-Germain to the man who had been Vladimir Pavlovich Timchenkov's assistant and who had now taken his place. "It is good to be out." He pointed to the treadmill with his cane. "How is it running? Are you having any trouble with it?"

"One of the gears was damaged, but it's been replaced." Mikhail Valentinovich Tverin rubbed at his chin; he was a bit nonplussed to see the Hercegek so soon after his attack, but did his best to appear composed, offering a full report. "All four hoses are functioning well now that the filters you made are in place, and they no longer clog twice a day; the pumping is proceeding well. As you can see, we have five men on the treadmill, and we alternate them every two hours or so, as you recommended. No man has to do more than four shifts on the treadmill in any day. They don't collapse as often that way."

"A sensible change in methods, then," said Saint-Germain, watching as the men in the huge open wheel kept up their steady pacing. From a short distance away came the steady sound of axes and saws as logs were made into more planks to extend the wooden walkway beyond the treadmill. "Any other trouble?"

"You mean with gangs?" Tverin asked, a bit too quickly.

"If there has been more trouble with them, yes, otherwise, no. What other trouble do you have?" Saint-Germain asked urbanely.

"We're plagued with flying insects and with lice, but that's the way of summer," said Tverin, waving aside these nuisances with a chuckle. "Last week, we were given bad meat and half the men were sick for a day. No better and no worse than any other work-gang. You can see that Feodor Lavrentovich has his men making preparations for sinking piles. By the end of summer, we should have a dozen houses here."

Feodor Lavrentovich Odevsky lifted his head, batted away at the midges that teemed up from the marsh, and inclined his head. "God is good!" he shouted as a kind of welcome before using his heavy walking-stick to drub the shoulders of a man who was teetering with fatigue. "You! Keep working!"

"Leave him be," said Saint-Germain, leaving his dry place on the wooden walkway, and wading out into the mire; soft mud rose up over his shoes, darkening his leg-hose and bandages. "I think he may be ill."

"If he isn't, he will be," vowed Odevsky ominously.

"No, Feodor Lavrentovich. Let me look at him." He went squishily up to the laborer, a scrawny man no more than twenty-five but with the look of twice as many years. His skin was red, but it was not entirely from sunburn. "This man has a fever," Saint-Germain said.

Those around the stricken worker drew back; most crossed themselves, a few looked frightened.

"May lizards consume his entrails!" Odevsky burst out, raising his stick again as if to add more blows to the ones he had given already.

Saint-Germain stepped between Odevsky and the worker. "This man must go back to his tent. He needs fresh water and willow-bark tea."

"Oh?" Odevsky demanded, forgetting that he was addressing a nobleman. "And what example does that set the rest? They're all slackers. Give one an excuse to lie about and all the rest will do the same."

Saint-Germain bent down and picked up the workman, slinging him over his shoulder with an ease that commanded the attention of all the workers in that part of the drainage area; he did his best to ignore the surge of pain beneath the wrappings around his chest. "If he continues to work, he will die. I am taking him to the tents. You will accompany me and show me which is his. Then you will appoint someone to nurse him." He had not raised his voice or made a threatening gesture, but there was something about his self-possessed stillness that unnerved Odevsky.

"Yes. As you say, Hercegek." He did his best to abase himself as Saint-Germain trod off through the marsh, then followed after him, afraid to do anything that might inspire Saint-Germain to turn on him.

The stand of tents was near a scrubby clump of trees on what passed for high ground, a haphazard collection of what at first appeared to be canvas mushrooms set out around a fire-pit. Odevsky pointed to one of the round tents. "That's his, as I recall."

Saint-Germain bore the man to the flimsy structure, bent down to get himself and the man he carried through the opening, then looked at the cluster of open bed-rolls. "Which is his?"

"I don't know," said Odevsky. "Does it matter?"

"It may, if what he has is catching," said Saint-Germain as he lowered the man from his shoulder to the nearest bed-roll; his fine blue coat was smirched with greenish-brown mud; the worker was pale and his breathing whistled. "Well, do something useful, Odevsky--go get water for him."

Odevsky ducked his head again. "Yes, Hercegek," he said as he backed out of the tent.

Saint-Germain called after him, "What is his name?"

From beyond the tent Odevsky answered, "How should I know?" before he tramped off to the iron trough for water.

Shaking his head, Saint-Germain went down on one knee next to the supine workman, bending over him and trying not to wince at the pain from his ribs. Loosening the man's long, mud-caked smock, he laid his unsplinted hand on the man's chest and tried to discern the degree of fever in his lungs. The sensation under his fingers was like touching bubbles through a thin film; this was troubling. He bent and smelled the man's breath, which stank of onions and half-rotten meat. The man's livid color worried Saint-Germain, who realized that the laborer had become seriously ill and was nearing a crisis. If only there were a care-house where the man could be taken, he thought. Carefully he put his hand against the man's neck, and found the pulse thin and rapid--another bad sign. The man shivered as he tried to breathe.

Odevsky returned and held out a dirty cup with cloudy water in it. "Here, Hercegek. I must get back to my men or they will do no work." In spite of his emphatic tone, he waited to be dismissed.

"This man needs nursing. Choose one of your group--someone who is tired or hurt, whom you can spare--and send him back here to attend to this fellow." Saint-Germain put the cup to the sick man's lips, tipping a little water onto his lips and watching him attempt to drink it.

"As soon as I can, Hercegek." He bowed and left the tent.

More than half an hour had passed before another workman trudged up to the tent and another of the laborers stuck his head in. "Odevsky said I should come watch over Sviati," he said in the accents of the Moscow streets.

"Is that his name?" Saint-Germain asked.

"Who knows?" the other answered. "It's what we called him."

"He's still alive," Saint-Germain said, an edge in his voice.

"It's what we called him at the Two Knives tavern, in Moscow," the new-comer explained. "He and I and a good number of our comrades were taken up in one of Romodanovsky's collections of criminals. This was the third such sweep--we were sent here in October, when the snow was already falling and the marsh was frozen. We worked on buildings all through the winter, and now we drain the swamp." His laughter was harsh. "So I'm to tend him, am I?"

"If you would. He's quite ill," said Saint-Germain, getting carefully to his feet. He did not want to leave the stricken worker with this self-confessed criminal, but he sensed that if he refused to leave there would be dangerous repercussions, so he said, "I will return tomorrow with medicaments and to see if any others among you have taken this ague. Illness can spread rapidly if it is allowed to go untreated."

"As you say, Hercegek," the other man agreed insolently.

Saint-Germain pointed to the half-full cup. "He needs water, and he should be wrapped in a blanket. He may have a fever, but he is so cold that he shakes with it." Unaccountable unease was growing in him; he tried in vain to convince himself that this was the result of the assault he had sustained, and the ache in his ribs. He wished now that his right hand had healed. He knew he had to leave the tent.

"Poor old Sviati," said the putative nurse. "Don't worry. I'll take care of him."

Disliking himself for leaving the sick man with the man Odevsky had sent, Saint-Germain stepped outside of the tent and stood, undecided, for a long minute. He could go back in and confront the man from Moscow, which could lead to more trouble for all of them. Then he saw four men approaching, each one carrying a cudgel, and he understood that he could not walk away from this place with impunity.

The tallest of the four men raised his weapon and motioned to the others, and they began to run toward the cluster of tents; they gave a collective snarl, fanning out as they neared their target.

Saint-Germain moved swiftly to the largest clump of scrub and stood in front of it, his cane braced across his body; he tested his left leg and was satisfied that it would hold him up. As the men came closer to him, he saw that each of them carried a knife thrust through his belt, and all four had bared their teeth in a ferocious smile. He spun the cane in his right hand so that it hummed, and as soon as the nearest of the four was in reach, he slid his hand to the foot of the cane and slammed the black-sapphire head into the side of the man's neck.

The man howled, faltering, his eyes wide with alarm. He tried to reach for his knife, but Saint-Germain struck him again, this time in the abdomen, and the man bent double as he fell, the breath having gone out of him. His three companions moved farther apart as they closed in. "Timofei," one yelled. "Get the cane!"

The youngest of the three on their feet lunged at Saint-Germain and was met with the upswing of the jeweled knob; it smashed into his jaw and left him staggering, a trickle of blood spreading down his chin. Ragoczy shifted his stance to take on the remaining two.

"Kunrat, on three," muttered the most grizzled of the men, a whipcord-thin creature with a nasty scar on his cheek. "One. Two."

He never got to three: Saint-Germain's cane struck just above his ear and he went down soundlessly. Kunrat stopped, stared in disbelief, and as Saint-Germain took a step toward him, broke and ran.

Taking the better part of a minute to recover himself, Saint-Germain went to each of the fallen men and took their knives, concealing them in the small of his back under the waist-band of his knee-britches. Satisfied that he would not be attacked again, and curious that there had been no sound from the tent, he waited a little longer, then slipped back through the flap and found the man from Moscow bending over the sick man, a folded blanket pressed over the sick man's face. Saint-Germain used his cane again to prod the attacker in the side. "You have made a very bad mistake," he said in a voice that was almost cordial, and before the man could turn on him, Saint-Germain swung the cane so that the black sapphire in its head slapped down on the man's shoulder; there was a sharp smack as his clavicle broke.

The man from Moscow bellowed and charged Saint-Germain, only to be struck again on the top of his hip; he stumbled and fell heavily, hurling invectives and spitting with rage while he tried to get to his feet.

"Remain still," Saint-Germain recommended, going to his patient's side, and bending down; he saw that the whites of the man's eyes were pink and his chest no longer rose and fell.

"He was sick!" his murderer shouted. "What did you expect! He was going to die anyway."

"Hence the little diversion you arranged for me?" Saint-Germain asked gently. "One of your boys is dead, one will probably die, one will be sore for a week, and one had the good sense to run away: which leaves you." He studied the man for a short while, then said, "Pick up the body."

"What ...?"

"I said pick up the body," Saint-Germain repeated patiently. "Pick it up and carry it to wherever they collect corpses to take across the river. Do it."

The man hesitated, then bent to lift the dead man; he cried out as his broken clavicle shifted. "I can't," he panted, pulling his left arm protectively across his chest.

Saint-Germain sighed. "Then you and I will walk back to the work-crew and you will select someone to do it for you." He nudged the man with the black sapphire. "Now."

The man stumbled toward the door, his face sagging with pain. As he stepped outside, he looked about; the first man Saint-Germain had stopped was sitting up, his knees drawn up to his chest, breathing gustily; his color was bad and he looked dazed. The other two men lay still. "Cunt of the Virgin!" Saint-Germain's captive swore.

"You can deal with them after you take care of the body in the tent," Saint-Germain said, tapping the man lightly on the shoulder with his cane, just firmly enough to remind the man of what could happen to him if he resisted. "Keep going." He wanted to get away from this place before more men came to find out what had happened; under their bindings, his ribs were aching, and he knew he could not undertake another fight that day, or for several days to come. "Keep going," he repeated as the man faltered.

The man did as he was told.

Text of a note from Hroger to Ferenz Ragoczy, Grofok Saint-Germain, written in Persian and delivered by one of Saint-Germain's Polish couriers.

My master,

The work-gang under Odevsky has been shifted to another part of the marsh, and I haven't yet tracked them down. The other work-gangs claim that this transfer is a punishment for pilfering food. As to what has become of the surviving men who attacked you at the tents, no one knows what happened to any of them. Some say that they ran away from their crew and joined one of the robber-gangs out in the marshes, others say they were drowned on orders from Tverin, or someone above him. I doubt anyone knows for certain, so we are left with rumors.

As you expected it would, fever has broken out in the camp, and the supervisors have finally decided to separate the sick from the healthy. I imagine that this won't be sufficient to contain the disease, and the precaution may be too late to stop the spread, but it will slow the epidemic. It would be well to warn the residents of the Foreign Quarter to guard against infection, as well as those living within the fortress. Everyone lives so close together, the risk of infection is very high. You might call upon von Altenburg in the morning to inform him as a first gesture in your proposed agreement of sharing information.

I am handing this to Vogel to carry it to you now; there is no reason to send him back to me tonight. I will continue to watch the walkway until the work-gangs arrive. I should return before six in the morning.

By my own hand at the eleventh hour,

Hroger

June 19th

4

Although it was nearing midnight, the midsummer sky was softly luminous overhead; the more than two dozen guests of the English Resident stood out on the wooden terrace he had ordered constructed behind his house where they were regaled with Champagne, Riesling, caviar, hard-boiled eggs, slivered onions, broiled lamb, broiled goose, a ragout of beets, assorted pickles, small English breads, and sweet Russian pastries while a consort of eight musicians played dances and airs by Henry Purcell and Francois Couperin. Among the foreigners at the English Resident's house there were five Russians, the most illustrious being the Czar's powerful deputy, Alexander Menshikov, newly arrived in Sankt Piterburkh. Lean, fastidious, resplendent in a jacket and knee-britches of dull-gold, impeccably white silk ruffles at his throat and wrists, and a superb wig of ordered dark-blond curls, with intelligent eyes and a manner that combined affability with arrogance, he made his way through the throng, accepting compliments and good wishes as he went, the English Resident keeping close behind him.

Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, one of seven women guests, was beautifully gowned in watered silk the color of aquamarines and set off with a spectacular necklace of diamonds and pearls with ear-drops of blue moonstones; she leaned against the balustrade and smiled winningly at Saint-Germain while she said quietly in Polish, her eyes irate, "So the Czar has sent his pie-man to tend to us. I suppose we should be flattered."

"It may be nothing more than a story--that Menshikov sold pies in the streets of Moscow: the sort of things jealous nobles say about royal companions," said Saint-Germain, elegantly arrayed in a coat and knee-britches of deep-rose silken twill, with a waistcoat of needlepoint tapestry in burgundy, ivy, and mauve. His leg-hose were the same shade of mauve, and his shoes were buckled with elaborate silver set with garnets; inwardly he longed for his customary black, white, and red, but knew that Augustus was right and that he needed to dress as Hercegek Gyor was known to dress. He turned the unfamiliar gold signet-ring on the little finger of his partially bandaged right hand, finding its alien presence disquieting.

"They say it's true. They also say he was born in a brothel: he has no patronymic; I heard someone call him Nyetovich--no father--and almost everyone laughed. Whatever the case, he is hardly a worthy deputy for the Czar, who should choose his court from among his nobles--the boyars," Zozia insisted, smiling at the Prussian Envoy's confidential secretary, a handsome man of twenty-nine years named Hugo Weissenkraft. She lifted her near-empty glass in his direction.

"Piotyr may not trust the boyars," Saint-Germain suggested.

Zozia laughed, and at the same time did her utmost to keep Weis-senkraft's gaze locked on her. "He is making plans, I think." There was quiet satisfaction in her whisper. "Now that he has this future city under way, the Czar is turning his eyes westward, and wants the world to take notice."

"He has done that already, and this project of his is the result," said Saint-Germain carefully. "As we've discussed."

"That was weeks ago. You ought to know that I've decided we've underestimated the seriousness of his building this city." She glanced at him, continuing more urgently, "Piotyr says now that he has no serious interest in European conquests beyond Sweden, but if he's going to turn this into an important port city, what can we do? We must consider that Sweden's isn't the only empire he may covet, and Poland is near at hand."

"Not here, Ksiezna. We will talk later, when there is less chance of being overheard. Think of your mission, which includes saying nothing against the Czar," Saint-Germain recommended in an under-voice.

Zozia frowned. "What does it matter to you?"

"To me, very little. But to your husband it could mean a great deal: it is your husband you will compromise, not me. If we're to keep up the imposture, we must suit our conduct to the roles we play." He took her small plate and bowed gallantly. "In that capacity, allow me to secure you something more to eat. I will return directly." With that he strolled away to a well-laden buffet table and selected more hard-boiled eggs and caviar, along with two soft rolls and leg of broiled goose. He then retrieved another glass of Champagne, as well as a linen serviette. Selecting food was a service he was glad to perform, not only because it pleased Zozia to be waited on, but it helped to maintain the illusion that he had eaten something, which spared him having to make awkward explanations. The choices he had made he carried back to Zozia, and found her deep in conversation--carried on in German--with a Danish nobleman who had arrived in Sankt Piterburkh only three days ago; he was an attractive man of about thirty-five, with a handsome dark wig and blue eyes. Trim, well-turned-out in mallard-blue satin and lace-edged silk, he carried on his part of their exchange in an animated manner that wakened all the coyness Zozia possessed. Saint-Germain gave a small sigh and went to present her with more food.

Zozia looked up, smiling. "Arco-Tolvay, here you are," she said to Saint-Germain. "This is Axel ... Graf, you said?"

"Roughly Graf. It's what I use here, since Danish and Swedish sound too much alike, and Swedish is unwelcome here in Sankt Piterburkh. Axel Joren Evert Reynard Harald Nyland." He returned her smile. "Of Horsens; a pleasure, Herzog," he said to Saint-Germain with a casual bow. "Your wife has been most affable, telling me about the month you have been in Sankt Piterburkh and your harrowing adventures. Not what I would call a happy beginning in this place. You've had a most difficult introduction to the Czar's new city, or so I gather." He touched the rim of his glass to the one Saint-Germain carried. "Your good health. By the sound of it, you need it."

Saint-Germain handed the glass and plate to Zozia as he said to Nyland, "You're most gracious, Graf."

"To be set upon twice in a month--quite alarming, even in such a place as this is," Nyland continued, looking at Zozia rather than Saint-Germain. "And for no apparent reason. How very distressing for you--for both of you."

"It is that," agreed Saint-Germain. "I trust that my portion of ill-luck is now used up for the rest of the year, and that I will enjoy good health and safety through the winter." He joined Zozia, leaning a little against the balustrade. "Otherwise I must suppose that someone has a reason to single me out, and that is a far more perturbing notion than unpleasant happenstance, which I believe the two attacks to be: I cannot imagine that anyone would have developed so much hostility toward me in the four days I had been here, that I would become a deliberate target for attack. What would be the reason?"

"Yes; exactly: who in this place would want to attack you?" Zozia asked, an edge in her playful tone. She was examining the food on the plate Saint-Germain had handed her, and finally took a nibble of one of the rolls and washed it down with Champagne.

"I have no idea, which is why it is so perturbing," he responded, offering Zozia a slight, ironic smile; he looked at Nyland. "I hope your stay here will have no similar mishaps, for it would make foreigners less likely to come here once the pattern is known."

"Amen to that," Nyland said with a bit of a chuckle, then shifted their discussion to a safer topic. "Little as I may want to remain in this bleak village--for it is hardly more than that, in spite of all the workmen--I have been summoned to advise the Czar on the layout of his harbor."

"And why you? Have you a particular skill the Czar seeks?" Saint-Germain asked at his most gracious.

Nyland gave his attention to Zozia again as he answered. "Our harbor at Horsens has recently been expanded, and it seems that Piotyr Alexeievich wants the benefit of my experience contributed to his improvements here. Sankt Piterburkh is more of a challenge than Horsens, of course. I've brought four engineers with me, all of whom worked on the new harbor at home. Two of them are Germans, the other two are Danes."

"Did the Czar actually send for you, then? Or was it one of his many engineers who issued the invitation on the Czar's behalf--Graf? Do you know?" Zozia asked, taking a provocative bite out of her egg.

"The Czar extended the solicitation of my help; he wrote to the King and asked if Denmark could spare me and my advisors--and, of course, pay the cost of our presence here--for two years." He made a mock sigh. "The balance we Danes must strike between Sweden and Russia is a precarious one, one that is constantly shifting; my engineers and I are part of the balance." Then he grinned at Zozia, making the most out of her flirtatiousness. "I imagine Poland must feel some of the same strain as we do."

Zozia bristled. "Augustus is on good terms with the Czar; the two have a fondness for each other. It's well-known," she declared staunchly. "What I do here is a service to my King, just as Arco-Tolvay has his work to do on Augustus' behalf, for the benefit of both Poland and Hungary." Color mounted in her cheeks and she moved as if she might storm away; Saint-Germain laid his hand on hers.

Nyland realized he had over-stepped. "I didn't mean anything against Augustus," he assured her, glancing at Saint-Germain for some hint as to how he should go on.

Saint-Germain inclined his head, remarking urbanely, "As a loyal Pole, my wife feels the burden of our mission here. She has a highcouraged temperament, and because of that she is most diligent in her delegacy."

"Commendable," Nyland said.

Aware that she needed to provide something useful to their colloquy at this juncture, Zozia had a little more Champagne and said, "My husband was asked to come here to aid in the draining of the swamps, as he has done in his own lands. I am to make note of the state of the houses, the provisions, the rate of building, and similar information."

"The Czar has been getting many to help him make this city," said Nyland dubiously, trying to anticipate her intent.

"And how did he come to know about your harbor improvements?" Zozia finished her egg and reached for the glass of Champagne with calculated seductiveness.

"Through the recommendation of a Dutch seaman, who described what we had done to the Czar during his time in Holland in some detail, or so I've been informed. You know how fond the Czar is of the Dutch, and his penchant for the company of seamen," said Nyland, lifting his brows to show his opinion of such low company. "We came on a Dutch ship, in fact. The Goud Marie: she's anchored with the others in deep water."

"Did you have a safe passage?" Saint-Germain inquired politely.

"Safe enough. One day of squalls but otherwise a fairly uneventful voyage. Now this." He gestured to include the expanse of marsh that spread away from the two streets of houses and barracks that made up the Foreign Quarter. "You know this better than I do, Ksiezna: it will never prosper, this place, even with the river-mouth dredged free of silt."

"Are you certain of that?" Zozia cocked her head and caught her lower lip between her teeth.

"Yes, I am, although I would like to be wrong, in fact," Nyland answered. "I happen to be one who likes the idea of a Russian port giving access to the Baltic a great deal. We need to have more trade with Russia, if only to off-set what the French and English and Spanish are doing in the Americas; this--um--city seems the only possible place to accomplish that in any way that Russia can exploit, but this is the end of the earth, as desolate as anything I've ever seen: flat, damp, miserable, and isolated. Once the Czar tires of his project, or is defeated in battle, this will become swampland again, and all the men and treasure he has devoted to securing the port will be gone. It will be a sad day for the Baltic trade, but it will come."

"Do you really suppose it will, or is this just distress at seeing what the Czar has to work with here? Why would the Czar abandon a place he has done so much to build up?" Zozia asked, her face mocking and coquettish at once. "Don't you think the Russians will see the advantage of this place more than anyone else, and bring it to fruition?"

"The Russians?" Nyland laughed aloud. "They still kill themselves and one another over whether they should cross themselves with two fingers or three--or is it one or two? No matter: it goes to show how they are--the same adherence to old rites, to outworn traditions. No wonder the Czar and the Orthodox Church are at loggerheads. It's the way of the Russians; they're the slaves to custom, to stability. So long as they are told it will not bring change, they'll endorse almost any abuse, for the sake of maintaining their way of life."

"Do you think so?" Saint-Germain asked. "Might it not be their long history of invasions and hard conditions that makes them reluctant to embrace the new?"

Nyland shrugged. "Perhaps. But whatever the cause, the effect is the same." He rounded on Zozia. "How does it seem to you Poles?"

She drank the last of her Champagne. "It would depend on which context you ask," she said, and laid her hand on his arm. "I want another glass of Champagne. Surely you can find me one, Graf?" With a languid glance at the Dane, she said to Saint-Germain, "I'll return shortly, my husband--have no fear."

"An interesting woman," said Nyland with a ghost of a smile when Zozia had moved away into the gathering.

"That she is," Saint-Germain said levelly, watching her take another glass of Champagne and engage Drury Carruther, the English Resident's secretary, in a lively exchange; studying her face, Saint-Germain decided they were speaking French.

"How long have you been married, Herzog?" asked Nyland.

Remembering what he had been told, Saint-Germain answered, "Eight years and seven months."

"No children?" It was an impertinent question, and asked brashly.

"Not yet," said Saint-Germain with almost no inflection. "Our positions in life require that we spend a fair amount of time apart, she at Nisko, I at Gyor." He began to wonder why Nyland was keeping near to him.

Nyland looked directly at him. "So tell me, Hercegek--that is the Hungarian title, isn't it?--what is it the Czar wants of you--really?"

Saint-Germain went through his standard explanation of a more efficient treadmill-pump to drain the marshes. He could see that Nyland wanted a broader explanation. "Gyor, being in a valley, is much subjected to floods, and I have done all I can to make sure flooded land is quickly reclaimed; the treadmill-pumps have made it possible to clear the fields of water in relatively short time. That way my tenants need not face famine every time the river overflows its banks."

"A most useful tool. Yet--you'll pardon my saying--you don't have the appearance of a man who works much with his hands. I would have thought you are more theoretical in your approach to things."

"I do not, in general, spend much time in laboring"--he recalled long, exhausting hours in Aleppo, in Tunis, in Stara Zagora, in the marshlands of Krozn--"although I have done so from time to time. But I have traveled widely and studied all I've seen, which has been useful to me, for I have been able to adapt what I have discovered in other parts of the world to my own purposes, such as draining marshes." He supposed that Nyland was continuing his tests, and did his best to remain affable. "And before you ask, I have no additional information as to how the Czar learned about the treadmill than what my wife has already imparted; Augustus only told me that he needed me to come here and show the work-crews how to make the pumps, and to supervise their installation and use."

"So you dropped everything and came," said Nyland, the hint of a question in his statement. "How accommodating."

"That was the way of it," Saint-Germain said, reminding himself of the clandestine meeting to which Augustus summoned him, and his first introduction to Zozia, seven months earlier. In spite of Augustus' conviction that this imposture would be successful, Saint-Germain had reservations, and they were still with him.

"You just came to Sankt Piterburkh, no questions, no problems?"

"Well, I had to find a capable steward and a manager for my estates, and fortunately I have a man I can truly rely on to handle them for me," said Saint-Germain, faintly amused because this much was true, but his estates were not at Gyor, but farther to the east, in the Carpathians, in the region of Hungary called Transylvania.

"Then Augustus has much to be grateful for in you and your wife," said Nyland, now making no attempt to conceal his dubiety.

"If it falls out that way, well and good," said Saint-Germain, ceasing to lean against the balustrade. "I have just seen Colonel Sir Peregrine Broughton; I need to have a word with him, and this may be my best opportunity. If you will excuse me?" It was true enough that he wanted to talk with Broughton, but the matter was not so urgent that he had to attend to it this instant--still, it gave him an excuse to leave Nyland to his own devices, and at present, that was the major advantage for him.

"More English!" the Dane deplored, waving Saint-Germain away.

"And Scots and Irish," Saint-Germain added as he made his way toward the terrace door, speaking politely to any guest who signaled for his attention. He reached the doorway and bowed to Colonel Broughton. "Colonel Broughton."

"Duke Gyor," Colonel Broughton said, returning the bow; his dress regimentals were slightly mussed, and his wig a bit askew; his square jaw was set at a more pugnacious angle than usual and his speech was overly crisp. "I had hoped I would find you here." He squinted up at the pale sky. "Doesn't this long twilight bother you? I know I find it most disorienting. It should have been dark two hours ago."

"It is inconvenient," Saint-Germain agreed, matching his English to Colonel Broughton's. "I, too, prefer nights to be dark."

"Better than north of here, where the sun stays up all night long." He shook his head in disapproval.

"And stays below the horizon in the middle of winter."

"True--another hindrance. Still, I would imagine one becomes accustomed." Colonel Broughton, who was drinking Riesling, and had been doing so for a while, stopped himself from emptying his glass. "I don't want to stagger about the way these Russians do; makes one a trifle obvious to thieves, to say nothing of the--" He stopped and went on more measuredly. "I'm a foreigner here, like you, and your recent mishaps are a reminder that one needs to remain vigilant. Someone gone in drink could easily be lured into a trap, and worse." He paused, clearly organizing his thoughts. "After our conversation three days ago, I've given the matter some consideration, and it seems to me that if you want to discover if your treadmill-pump can be adapted to our uses on the barges, the one you should speak to is Mungo Laurie--he's the chief engineer on the dredging project--obviously a Scot. Good man--steady, hard-working, not one to be put off by dealing with foreigners. I can send him along to you one of these mornings, if that's to your liking. Just tell me which days will suit you best and I'll find out which he can most readily accommodate." He finished his wine and signaled one of the two English servants for another. "Slovenly fellows, Russian servants. At least the Resident has a few English with him."

"It is a practical solution, I suppose, on all fronts." Saint-Germain wondered how much of what he was saying Broughton would recall in the morning.

"Well, yes--from what you told me, you have your manservant with you, and your wife has three maids and you both have coachmen, which ensures your comfort and the advantages of habit, for all that some of the servants may complain of service in this place." Colonel Sir James Peregrine Ambrose Mordecai Broughton accepted another large glass of the German white wine, tasting it carefully, then nodding his acceptance. "Still, even with complaints, it saves having to hire and train Russians, so I can understand why the Czar allows it. His purpose is building, not catering to outlanders. They want as many of their men in the work-crews as possible, and this way, he gets what he wants."

"It also means that the treasury doesn't have to pay servants' wages," Saint-Germain remarked. "That will surely please the Czar."

"They're mean that way, you know, small and niggardly." He realized he had been overheard by one of Menshikov's companions, and so made an effort to undo any offense he might give. "I will say this for the Russians--they have lavish hospitality. There is so much food and drink at their feasts that it's all quite Lucullan." Satisfied that this would restore him to Russian good graces, he went on more quietly, "Sometimes I think their hospitality is almost too lavish. They want one to eat to bursting, and the other night I drank so much of their vodka--amazing stuff!--that I almost had to go home in a wheelbarrow. I don't know how they manage to sluice it down night after night as they do. I would be overwhelmed completely on such a regimen as they keep."

"They say it fortifies them," Saint-Germain pointed out.

"In winter, they probably need it." The Colonel studied Saint-Germain. "I've heard that since your attacks, you've been abstemious. You don't look like you're starving, but you'll have to be willing to gorge yourself if you're to be a guest of any of the Russians."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Have you had any recent requests from the Czar?" He asked this a bit too casually.

"When I arrived there was a missive from him waiting: the Czar is interested in adding some Hungarian broodmares to his breeding stock. I have sent an answer to him saying that in spring, I will see he has a dozen of the best from my estates. Other than that, nothing." He had already dispatched one of his messengers with this request, hoping that the mares could reach Kiev before winter closed in.

"I, like you, have a request from Piotyr to send home to England--he wants trees now, a great many trees. He barely has any streets, only a few houses are up and finished, and he has decided to plant trees." He made an exasperated gesture. "He wants them hardy and handsome. When the Duke of Gloucester returns, she's supposed to bring forty tubs of trees, and she's not the only ship to receive such orders. The Duke of Gloucester sailed today and should be back before the ice forms. If not, the Czar will have to wait until spring for his trees." Broughton stared up at the pale night sky. "It's quite eerie, isn't it? That color that says night is coming, but it never actually arrives."

"It will not last forever," Saint-Germain told him. "In another month the light will be fading again, and we'll have a proper night, albeit a short one until autumn comes."

"And in winter, we'll be grateful for four hours of half-light. That's the way it is this far north." Taking a quick drink of his wine, Broughton listened to the consort play, their music making little headway against the polyglot conversation on the terrace. "That is a most pleasing air, the Purcell they're doing now. Pity there aren't more women here, so we could dance. I think your wife would enjoy an Allemande."

"You are right: this is a pleasant piece, and I am sure the Ksiezna would be glad to dance," Saint-Germain agreed. "But the other ladies here might not."

"No. You're right there," said Broughton, peering through the crowd to make out three other women at the party: one was a German matron heavily pregnant; another was the young wife of the Irish shipbuilder Brian Lucius O'Meaghar; the third was the wife of the Swiss fortification architect, a sober, straight-laced stick of a woman who made no effort to hide her disapproval of the evening's entertainments. The other four were out of immediate sight. "Next year, if we're all still here, we'll all be allowed to have our wives with us. Damned inconvenient without wives or whores."

Saint-Germain was keenly aware of the shortage of women--he had only once visited a woman in her sleep since he had arrived in Sankt Piterburkh, and with all that had happened, he was feeling the lack of sustenance; in so small a group, such visits were far more risky than in a larger population. "Indeed."

He regarded Saint-Germain suddenly. "Not a loquacious sort, are you."

"Upon occasion, but not tonight; this is a time for listening, so many tongues are loosening that much can be learned if you are willing to listen," said Saint-Germain; he wondered idly how many glasses of wine the Colonel had drunk this evening, for he was showing signs of early inebriation--someone who could be counted upon to blurt out things before his mind could engage to stop him. He began to understand Zozia's insistence on not knowing his name.

"Why? Do you find the company suspect?" There was a belligerence about Broughton that had been missing before. He drank down half the glass of wine and scowled at Saint-Germain.

"I find the servants are listening, Colonel, as are some of the guests," Saint-Germain said gently. "In this assembly, you and I are not the only ones who know English."

Colonel Broughton went still; after a long pause he nodded slowly. "I take your point. You're right, of course. Very prudent of you, Duke. I should mind my tongue, as well. No one should think they can speak recklessly without consequences. You're right." He finished his wine and stared at Saint-Germain. "Are you always so circumspect?"

"No, not always," he said, and added, "If you will arrange for Mungo Laurie to speak with me, I would be most grateful."

Broughton choked in his efforts not to laugh; he ended up sputtering and coughing. "Around here," he said slyly, "gratitude comes in gold."

"If you need a guinea to sweeten your memory, you may have it," said Saint-Germain, finding himself growing weary of what was happening; he realized Broughton was more drunk than he appeared. "I will present you with five of them when you send me word that the meeting with Laurie is arranged."

Broughton still had the capacity to be abashed. "Fine," he mumbled. "It's just that not everyone is aware of the way of things."

"If you do not notify me, there will be no guineas," Saint-Germain said with as much firmness as was appropriate to the occasion; he did not want to give the guests more reasons to speculate about him.

"I'm not that drunk," Broughton countered, turning sullen.

"I hope not," said Saint-Germain, bowing courteously to Broughton before searching out Zozia. He found her with Graf von Altenburg at the end of the buffet table where the Champagne and wine were being poured. With a bow to von Altenburg, he said to Zozia in German, "Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?"

"Oh, yes," Zozia said. "The Graf is most engaging. He's been telling me about the tavern that's opened now for sailors. Apparently it is a most ... lively place."

"Hardly where a woman of breeding would ever go," said von Altenburg hastily. "Ask Menshikov, if you doubt me."

"I may," said Zozia with a wink. "Or I may wait until Piotyr Alexeievich returns, and broach him about it." She swung around to look at Saint-Germain. "I will have a dreadful headache in the morning, but for now, I am having the most delightful time." Her laughter was as light and free as the sound of a running stream. "I hope there will be more parties for us foreigners."

"I should think there will be, for none of us want to expire from boredom," said von Altenburg. "What else is there to do, but make notes, take care of our duties here, and keep company with one another? If we are so constrained, it is up to us to make the most of it." He looked at Saint-Germain, and amended his words. "For people like you, Herzog, of course you must dedicate some portion of every day to the Czar's demands and your mission, but you will agree that our society is limited, and that we're all dependent on other foreigners for entertainment."

Zozia wagged her finger at him. "You're a most adroit fellow, Graf. No wonder you're so useful to your King." She drank down the Champagne in her glass, then held it out to be refilled. "If you have run out, I'll be very disappointed."

The English servant manning the wine-pouring shook his head. "There are a good number of cases still waiting," he told her in stilted German. "And more coming in the next ship."

"Just as well that there're no Russians pouring, or everyone would be under the table by now--they drink whole bottles at a time," von Altenburg declared, and stifled a giggle. "Except for you, Herzog, or so I must suppose."

Saint-Germain acknowledged this with a nod. "Heer van Hoek has not yet rescinded his ban on drink."

Von Altenburg pulled at his lower lip with his free hand. "The Russians won't like that, and they may insist that you do justice to their food and their drink before much more time goes by. I'm surprised that they haven't compelled you to excess before now, injuries be damned. You won't be allowed to remain aloof forever, you know."

"I have managed so far, but I appreciate the warning." Saint-Germain held out his hand to Zozia. "If you would like to thank the Resident and depart? It is past the hour you told me we ought to leave."

"But I've changed my mind--I don't want to go. I have a fresh glass to drink, and I haven't had the pastries stuffed with honied almonds yet." She frowned at him. "The night is young. And even if it isn't, it doesn't matter." Defiantly she lifted her glass and drank.

"If you wish to remain, I am at your service," Saint-Germain said with a bow, telling himself that it was incumbent upon him to guard Zozia in whatever extravagance commanded her attention. "You have only to tell me when you wish to depart."

"If you are so willing, you won't linger at my side, keeping me from making friends," she said bluntly in Polish.

Saint-Germain bowed a second time. "As you wish," he said, and went to listen to the musicians, taking care to find a place to stand where he could watch Zozia without being obvious about it; for the sake of her reputation in this city, it was the least he could do.

Text of a letter from Lovre Pisek to Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, written in code and delivered by private messenger on July 1st, 1704.

To the most exalted Ksiezna, the devoted greetings of your servant Lovre Pisek.

Ksiezna,

I am saddened to report that in spite of all my efforts, I can find no trace of your missing husband. The rumor that he had gone over to the Sultan in Constantinople has turned out to be false. I have begun to wonder if the suggestion that he has taken ship for the New World, or the Far East, may be accurate after all.

I do not wish to be discouraging, but I am running out of places to look, and information to pursue. I can remain on the hunt, if you like, but I would be remiss if I did not tell you that at this point I think it highly unlikely that I will find the Hercegek. I realize this is not what you want to hear, most gracious Ksiezna, and I apologize for the distress you must feel. Let me extend to you the sympathy that I, and those in my employ, feel for your unfortunate predicament.

Your brother continues to insist that your husband is fighting with II Ferenc Rakoczi against the Austrians, but the contacts I have made with those forces indicate that your husband is not one of Rakoczi's supporters. If you wish, I will send in my agent again, to try to find out more, but I believe we have the truth of the situation already.

There is one letter we have found that suggests he might have joined a company going to South America, and I am about to see if there is any truth in the rumor. After I return to Brno, I am planning to go to Spain in two months--to Barcelona, Valencia, and Cadiz, then on to Madrid--to find out if your husband was seen at any of the travelers' taverns, or if his name appears on any record of passengers that might reveal his whereabouts. If you like I will press on to Bilbao and Lisboa in Portugal as well, for the same purpose.

I assure you, Ksiezna, that I remain

Yours to command,

Lovre Pisek

May 10th, 1704, at Vienna

5

"Oh, look!" Zozia said, standing on tip-toe to peek out Saint-Germain's small bedroom window. "A doe and her fawn. Right by the trees. Aren't they pretty?" The brief dusk of night was giving way to the first flush of dawn, and Zozia was up in her elegant flounced wrapper, her butter-colored hair as yet in a long, loose braid down her back. She turned so Saint-Germain could see the rise of her breasts and offered him a provocative smile.

"Keep your voice down; the others are still sleeping," Saint-Germain recommended from his single chair, where he busied himself writing his account of the last week for Augustus' confidential secretary, Klaus Krems, on his portable desk. "And you do not want to alert the deer, unless you want to eat venison tonight." Although he no longer wore a splint, he was still writing with his left hand while his right regained its flexibility. This was his third day without strapping for his ribs.

"That's horrid," she said, making a face.

"But reasonable," he assured her. "There are hundreds of working men who would be pleased to have a decent meal of fresh meat, as would most of this household."

"You're being cruel," she complained, thrusting her lower lip forward.

"Not I," he responded. "I would just as soon the deer live."

She was silent for almost a minute, then exclaimed, "Oh, but do come and look." She held out her hand to him. "Please. For me."

He set the portable desk on his bed and rose to his feet, the hem of his comfortable black-silk chamber-robe just brushing the floor as he went to the window. "Out by the trees, you said?" He kept a little distance between them as he glanced toward the stand of birches at the corner of the house; while he watched, the doe minced through the pale trunks toward the stable, her fawn following her by bounds and starts. "Clever creature--she wants the hay and grain. The horses may protest the raid."

"If we feed her, we could tame her," Zozia suggested, laying her hand on his arm. "We have tame deer at home."

"That would not be kind. They would be venison all the sooner if they came to trust people; this isn't a private estate," Saint-Germain reminded her, aware of her gaze on him, and the nearness of her body. "Leave them to their occasional thefts, and hope no one sees their tracks." He started to turn away but was stopped as she pressed against him, her lips open and a hair's-breadth from his. He went utterly still.

"Don't you want me, Grofok?" she whispered, using his actual title, then brushed his mouth with hers. "My good, faithful, anonymous Grofok?"

"I cannot, Ksiezna," he said with a tranquility he did not feel.

"What do you mean, cannot? Aren't you a man?" She nudged her hip into his, as much of a challenge as an invitation. "Don't you long to possess me? Don't you lie awake and yearn for me? Isn't your blood singing with desire?"

As awkward as it was, she was right; her passion had stirred his own, and his many weeks of survival on the blood of his horses was taking a toll on him. "Zozia."

"Tell me, Grofok: isn't every fiber of your being urging you to ravish me?" She ran her finger down his chest to the cross-over of his chamber-robe.

He took a moment to answer. "Even if all that is true, it means nothing."

"How can it mean nothing?" Her pout turned taunting. "If you burn for me, surely you'll want to do all you can to ease your torment?"

"Our agreement made before we left Poland says that I will not compromise your marriage," he said quietly. "I gave my Word."

"I know," she said, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue.

"You have a right to expect me to keep it." There was no rebuke in his voice, only a slight world-weariness.

She made a breathless little laugh. "But you needn't break your Word in order to enjoy me. Surely there are ways you can ... can pleasure us both and not ... You know. You can keep your Word and revel in me, can't you?" Her sigh was languorous. "Flirting is amusing, but it's not the same."

He looked into her shining eyes, thinking back to Pentacoste and Estasia, to Avasa Dani and Heugenet, and to Nicoris. "It would be a reckless act, one that you might regret."

Her hands slid down the revers of his chamber-robe and stole under the silk to rest on his skin. "I would only regret it if you couldn't give me the gratification I lack. That would be insulting, and I wouldn't be inclined to approach you again. I'd have to find what I want elsewhere. There are many men without women in Sankt Piterburkh." She fingered his nipples. "It's been so long. My husband has been missing for almost a year--a year." Her neck smelled of attar-of-roses.

"All the more reason to be circumspect. You are being scrutinized both here and in Poland, and all you do will have implications for him." He wished he had found a woman to visit in her dreams, someone who would enjoy the delight of his presence and would not notice what little he had had from her, for then he would not have such a keen response to the Ksiezna's ministrations. Zozia was too tempestuous and too masterful to accept a dream; if only he were able to find other sustenance. But women were in short supply, and he would never be so foolish as to seek out a dreaming woman among the household servants: that would lead to precisely the kind of exposure he could not afford.

She pinched his nipples; when she spoke, she sounded like a child with a new toy. "You do want me. I can feel it."

He stopped her before she explored his broad swath of scars, taking her hands and pulling them up to kiss them. "You are most tempting; I will not deny it." His voice was deep and musical, and she smiled receptively. "I would have to be well and truly dead not to want you," he told her, an ironic light in his dark eyes.

"Well then, why not? If you don't have to spend your seed in me ..." She kissed him again, this time with something approaching passion. "I need to be loved, Grofok. This is most difficult. You shouldn't make me have to tell you." When he said nothing, she went on. "It's been over a year I've been chaste, and ..." Her voice had dropped to less than a whisper. She took his head in her hands, and this time there was no doubt that her ardor had awakened fully; her tongue brushed his, then she pulled his lower lip into her mouth and held it gently with her teeth, only letting go when she felt Saint-Germain return her kiss. Then she gazed into his eyes, a triumphant smile showing her confidence. "My bed is nicer than yours, Grofok." She took his hand and led him around the partition. "Just keep in mind, that if you decide to tup me, I will scream and my servants will come and restrain you."

"You needn't worry," he said, feeling her arousal as if it were a spark within him.

Her bed was broad and the mattress deep, soft, and luxurious. Zozia pulled back the comforter and upper sheet, and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Come. You'll like this," she said, patting the place beside her. "The servants won't mind. They suppose we must lie together, since they know us as man and wife." She giggled and reached out to pull at his chamber-robe. "Hurry. Hurry."

Again he hesitated. "I fear I may not give you the fulfillment you seek, and you have said this is of paramount importance to you," he said to account for his faltering as he thought of the risk he was taking. "You have imposed necessary conditions on me, and they may limit the degree of satisfaction you will experience."

"How can you say this?" she asked sharply. "You're so ... so heedful of strictures."

"As you required of me," he said.

She kicked out negligently to show her annoyance at this delay. "Don't think to put me off, Grofok. I don't like being fobbed off like a servant."

"I don't want you screaming for help," he told her as he reached out and lifted the ruffle at the neck of her wrapper, letting it slide through his fingers. "So I will have to be sure you are content with what I offer you, and you will have no wish to scream." It was just the kind of thing she might do, he realized, if she thought she had a good reason for it; he touched the line of her clavicle, feeling her concupiscence welling, and felt his own need answer it.

"Go on," she prompted him.

"I am a fool," he said softly in Persian, but he loosened the four ties that held her wrapper closed, taking his time, drawing out the act so that she could increase her lascivity.

"You're making me wait," she chided him as the third tie was undone, but with a thrill in her words. "I don't want to wait."

"Do you want it to be over quickly?" he asked her as he bent down to kiss her bared shoulder, his kisses feather-light and tantalizing.

She wriggled in anticipation. "I want to have it last for hours and hou--"

"S-s-s-s-s-sh," he admonished her, then kissed her thoroughly, taking his time while he opened her wrapper, revealing her soft, vibrant, pampered skin, the color of new cream. Her face was rosy, her lips reddened from stimulation.

Saint-Germain laid his hand between her generous breasts, thinking that hers was the kind of figure Rubens liked to paint, eighty years ago. Not knowing how adventuresome she was, he chose a safe beginning; he caressed her opulent body, stroking her shoulders, her breasts, her waist, never hurrying, summoning sensations she had never allowed herself to experience before. Where she sighed, he lingered, until every touch brought an indication of pleasure. With this to embolden him, he expanded his attentions and the variety of his touches, sometimes light and supple, sometimes eager and provoking. She made quiet murmurs as he continued, moving to follow the path of his hands; her breathing deepened and her eyes took on a brilliance that he had never seen before. Gradually a quiet rapture took hold of her and she gave herself over to what he was doing to her; her eyes were half-closed while she gave herself up to a growing frenzy of sensation. Feeling her excitement increasing, he interspersed his fondling with a variety of kisses, some teasing and evocative, some intensely exciting. When he finally began to explore the sea-scented folds at the top of her thighs, she quivered.

"And here ... I thought you ... were ... a monk," she gasped as he continued his gentle, adept seeking. She reached up to draw him down to her, her thighs flexing.

"Monks are said to be a randy lot." He stretched out beside her so that he in no way impeded her reaction to his skillful excitation. Gradually he felt her fervency center in the swollen nubbin between her legs, and he gave more concentration to its titillation.

Zozia made a little moan of disappointment. "Not yet ... not yet."

He felt her release begin deep within her, and he bent his head to her neck, and as the first spasms swept through her, he took what was essential to him while her frenzied ecstasy engulfed her. As her culmination faded, he resumed his caresses, this time to soothe her.

Residual shivers surged through her, and she smiled with a gratification that was almost feline. "You did that ... very well," she said at last.

"Thank you," he said, troubled by the vividness of her gratification; he could feel a lingering mania in her, a heat that would not be easily cooled.

"If I had known you were so experienced, I would have approached you sooner." She tugged on his arm. "I would like to think that you are as pleased as I am that this has occurred."

"I am," he said, starting to rise.

She held him where he was. "You don't want to spoil the aftermath, Grofok." It was more than a warning.

He gently removed her hand. "The servants are stirring. Your maids will be with you shortly."

"I could tell them to leave us alone," she suggested. "Surely you would be willing to do this again?"

"Yes, I would," he said, and sat up. "But then what?"

She reached to close her wrapper, a moue of discontent on her lovely mouth. "I take your meaning. Very well." She smoothed the sheet next to her as he got to his feet. "If only the Czar provided proper palaces for us, not this little box. Then we could have real privacy, and our servants wouldn't be forced to sleep in bunks like sailors on a ship. Our kitchen wouldn't be in the reception room, either."

"He has said it is his plan, and these houses will give way to grander accommodations," Saint-Germain said, adjusting the front of his chamber-robe. "In ten years this is to be a city of palaces."

"That's all very well, but a three-room house is barbaric. I'm not a peasant." She patted one of her pillows and moved it to the head of the bed; she cast about for something they could discuss without rekindling the excitation they had shared. "You know about herbs and such: I will need a sachet to keep the bugs away. Now that summer is here, the whole marsh is alive with them."

There was the sound of sectioned logs being loaded into the stove, and the clang of pots.

"It is that. The marshes breed them, and all the work-gangs out sleeping in tents provide fodder for them." He had seen the first outbreaks of Swamp Fever already and knew worse was coming.

"At least the supervisors have barracks to sleep in, or will have by the end of summer," said Zozia, making an effort to keep from approaching Saint-Germain. She fiddled with the flounces on her wrapper as if suddenly taken with modesty.

"That is the plan, and more work-gangs are arriving to increase the building. I have been told that there are also gangs of woodmen working in the forest, to provide sufficient lumber for all this building. Most of what is wood is supposed to be replaced by stone in three years, but for now, timber is of top priority."

"So Menshikov has said." Zozia motioned to him to get back, and when she did, she went to her dressing-table. "But who has money enough to bribe him to allocate more men to do what's wanted?"

One of the servants called out for dishes and eggs.

"We paid the carpenters to give us more windows, and the stable," Saint-Germain pointed out; he had given the carpenters sixteen guineas and the work-gang administrator twenty for allowing them to add these identified luxuries to the house.

"So we did," she agreed, although none of the money had come from her. "And the English paid a large bribe to get their terrace and their coach-house. The Prussians are paying a great deal for the extension on their main room for receptions, and the Dutch have given enormous amounts for their two storehouses." She recited these complaints as if the money came from her purse. "I'm not a woman of unlimited means."

"No, you are not, nor is Augustus," Saint-Germain agreed. "But at least the Czar has allowed certain modifications for houses in the Foreign Quarter, or you would find the house even more unsatisfactory. There would be no bribe sufficient to allow for modifications." He bent to pull the comforter upward. "Remember: the Czar's house has only four rooms."

"And he built it himself--yes, I know, and claims he is satisfied with such a dwelling. His mistress is supposed to arrive shortly, and remain in residence here as long as he orders her to stay." She frowned portentously. "But how is it that he can expect highborn people to live like this?"

"He is Czar," Saint-Germain said patiently. "It is his right to make such requirements."

A muted buzz of conversation came from the next room, along with the aroma of baking eggs and grilling fish.

"And his mistress began life as a chambermaid, so I'm told, some kind of orphan who worked in the household of a Livonian Protestant. She hasn't been with him long; perhaps he'll tire of her, and send her to a convent, as he did his wife. He surely will see the disadvantage of such a connection as this woman. They say Menshikov bought her and gave her to the Czar." She sniffed in disapproval. "They say she's pregnant by the Czar, and he wants his child born here, in his city. Martha is her name, I've heard, or Marfa."

"If she is as sensible as she's reputed to be, it might be worthwhile to have her here." Saint-Germain took a step backward toward the partition between their quarters.

Zozia got off the bed and finished smoothing it. "I don't know what to make of this place. Nothing of it makes sense."

"It is uncomfortable and isolated," said Saint-Germain. "A difficult combination at the best of times. With the Swedes about, Karl XII may decide to put pressure on Russia by reclaiming this place, although it would be a costly effort, and one that would gain him little. If he wants to make an impact on Piotyr, he should wait until the harbor is dredged, the docks are built, and the fortress is improved. Then he would gain something useful. As it is now--" His gesture finished his thought.

"Yes, yes. All that is clear to me. It's Piotyr's view that eludes me." She sighed. "I wish we had spoken more of these matters before. Not that I anticipated the need for it."

"Do you think you may want to discuss these issues further?" He was aware of her carefully banked volatility; she would need time alone today, he knew, and the evening could prove difficult.

"I think you and I ought to talk." She caught the end of her long braid and unfastened the bow securing it, then carefully pulled the hair apart, shaking her head as the thick, yellow tresses fell loosely about her shoulders. "We both have to make our reports to Augustus, but we may benefit from sharing our information."

"You said originally that this was of no interest to you," he reminded her. "You wanted no part of what I reported."

"So I did. That was a mistake. I hadn't realized how useful you can be." She smiled at him, holding up her mirror to inspect her face; he took another backward step, out of range of the mirror. "I assumed you were only here as a substitute for my husband, not as an experienced diplomat. I begin to think that I've underestimated you."

One of the maids appeared in the doorway, still looking a bit sleepy. "I'm preparing your tray, Ksiezna. There are eggs, fish, and bread. We'll have tea ready shortly. Do you want anything more?"

It was the same breakfast that Zozia had been given every morning since their arrival. She sighed. "No. But this evening, I would like fruit preserves with the meat. There are some in the stores we brought. See they're served."

The maid bobbed a curtsy. "Yes, Ksiezna." She went away.

"I wonder why you insist on dining alone," Zozia said slyly to Saint-Germain. "Have you special foods you are saving for your own use?"

"Something of the sort. I have restrictive dietary requirements. It is easier if I tend to them myself." He bowed slightly to her and slipped away to his side of the partition.

"Perhaps I'll dine with you, privately, one night?" she called after him.

"Perhaps," he replied, suppressing an ironic chuckle. He busied himself laying out clothes for the day, aware that Hroger would come shortly to shave him and clip his hair. He chose a deep-grape-colored ensemble of superfine wool with a waistcoat of salmon-colored damask-silk in a pattern of twining vines, a silken chemise of peach-colored silk, and a neck-cloth of ruffled silk to match the chemise. For leg-hose he selected a pair to match the coat and knee-britches.

"Are you going out this morning?" Zozia asked.

"I am--for two or three hours. I will have Gronigen drive me, if you don't mind. Vincenty Adzynski is available to you, and Stepan Tarkiv. I'll order the grays; you can have the chestnuts."

There was a rich laugh from her side of the partition. "How generous. This morning seems to have put you in a generous mood." There was a brief silence, then she said, "Bring the tray over here, Salomea. I'll eat here."

"Shall I bring you tea, Ksiezna?"

"In a moment. For now, brush my hair. I'll want a fetching style when I go out later." There was enough of a taunt in this for Saint-Germain to realize it was aimed at him, that she was trying to engage him. "I suppose I must don my stays now."

Saint-Germain had removed his chamber-robe and was pulling on his drawers when he heard a footfall behind him. He remained still. "Zozia, go have your breakfast."

"I have eaten, my master," said Hroger. "I had rabbit."

With unconcealed relief, Saint-Germain turned toward him. "A good morning to you, old friend. I see you have your basin and razor."

"Yes," he said, removing the small ewer of hot water from the basin and pouring half its contents into it. "It seems I am almost late. You'll want all this done before you dress." They both spoke in the Vulgate Latin of a thousand years ago.

"So I will," said Saint-Germain, pulling on his chamber-robe again.

Hroger set the basin down on top of the single standing chest in the room, and set out his brush and razor for use. "If you will sit down?"

Saint-Germain sat where he was ordered and waited while Hroger unrolled a towel that contained a brush and a square of soap; he put the towel around Saint-Germain's shoulders. "I've selected my clothes for the day," he remarked as Hroger took a cake of soap and moistened it with a soft brush.

"So I observed," said Hroger as he lathered Saint-Germain's face, humming as he worked. "You'll want boots, I believe." He opened the razor and started to work, taking assiduous care to do a thorough job.

"Umm," Saint-Germain agreed.

Wiping the razor on the towel as he worked, Hroger completed the shave in short order, then turned his attention to Saint-Germain's hair. "Close-clipped, as before?"

"If I am to keep wearing wigs," said Saint-Germain. "Do you have the shears?"

Hroger took them from his pocket. "A good thing your hair grows so slowly."

"It is certainly convenient." He remained still while Hroger made expert passes over his scalp, the shears snicking. "English-style," Hroger announced in that language. "Half an inch long."

Saint-Germain ran one hand over the neat stubble. "Very good."

"The Ksiezna has said she'll be going out in an hour. She plans to be gone well into the afternoon. She and four other ladies are examining new fabrics that arrived two days ago on the Saint-Michel from Calais." He kept up his steady work as he spoke. "She hopes to find fabric for another two grande toilettes."

"I hope she enjoys herself. I gather she and her maid have left the other side of the partition. I have heard no conversation from them."

"Yes. The Ksiezna has donned her stays and her petticoat and has gone into the main room to finish dressing. The male servants will have to wait for their breakfasts." Hroger wiped Saint-Germain's face and head, then whisked the towel away. "When do you want to go out?"

"In half an hour, I think."

"Then I'll have Gronigen ready the carriage. Do you want my help in dressing?"

"Just with the neck-cloth, thank you. If you will inform Gronigen now, I will be ready for your finishing touch in ten minutes." He glanced at the wigs. "You can decide which of the three is best with these clothes."

"I would think the English wig would look better. When I return, I'll help you place it." He bowed slightly and withdrew. By the time he came back, Saint-Germain was fully dressed and pulling on his boots. "Gronigen will be at the front of the house in twenty minutes."

"I will be ready," said Saint-Germain. "Now, about the neckcloth?"

"The neck-cloth ..." He reached for the one Saint-Germain had set out. "A double pair of loops would be best."

"I bow to your superior eye," said Saint-Germain with a quick, amused smile.

"Most kind of you, my master," Hroger said as he worked the complicated knot in the neck-cloth.

Saint-Germain touched the results of Hroger's work. "As always, most expert, as far as I can tell."

"That is the trouble with having no reflection." He went to take the wig from its stand. "No hat, I assume."

"No hat," Saint-Germain agreed.

"You are going to the care-house again, I gather," said Hroger, his statement almost a question.

"Before I go out to where they are building a second treadmillpump. One of the Finnish Watchmen was attacked late yesterday. I thought it would be wise to talk to him." He said it levelly enough, but Hroger knew him well enough to know Saint-Germain was troubled.

"One of the men who found you, I surmise?"

"Yes. His name is Yrjo Saari; he is more or less the leader of their Watch."

"And he's been attacked."

"That is what Kyril Yureivich told me when he came here last night: they think it was one of the robber-gangs who did it. You were out when he called." Saint-Germain pondered the matter for about a minute. "I will take more of my sovereign remedy with me. Kyril also said they wanted another four vials of it."

"Then it must be working for them," said Hroger. "Do you want your small case?"

"If you would: the four vials they asked for, and the willow-bark-with-pansy infusion. And some of the ointment for rashes and bites. The flies and midges are getting worse every day, and the bed-bugs." He went to the chest and removed a pair of gloves in pale-ivory Florentine leather.

"I'll ready your case."

"I appreciate it, old friend," he said, and went out into the main room, where he found Zozia, fully dressed in a lovely morning gown of extravagantly embroidered linen with frothy petticoats of sprigged muslin. Salomea, her maid, was brushing her hair and pinning it into tossed curls. A lace-edged hat stood on the sideboard, ready to be placed atop her coiffure. "I will be departing shortly, Ksiezna, so I will wish you a pleasant day."

"I will have one, after so fine a beginning," she responded; Salomea simpered. Zozia picked up her hand-mirror and looked at the way her hair was turning out. "It is really a pity that Minka had to be sent home. She has a real gift for dressing hair, and sewing." She sighed and lowered the mirror. "Still, I suppose this will do."

Salomea turned bright red but continued to work on fixing long hair-pins in place.

Saint-Germain felt a stab of sympathy for the young woman, but said nothing, not wanting to give Zozia any reason to reprimand her servant again. He bowed to Zozia, then went to the bench under the window, where he sat, waiting for Hroger to bring his case and for Gronigen to drive up to the door.

Text of a letter from Heer van Hoek to Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, written in Dutch and delivered by messenger.

To the most respected Hungarian resident of Sankt Piterburkh, Arpad, Hercegek Gyor, the greetings and gratitude of Heer van Hoek of the care-house.

My dear Hercegek,

I have some good news to impart; this morning, for the first time since he was brought here, Yrjo Saari has been able to stand on his own, a vast improvement from when you saw him. His comrades, Paavo Lyly and Tapio Pyhajoki, have come daily to tend him, to see he is fed, and to minister to his needs, which has been of great benefit to him as well as to several of our other patients. Saari's fever is almost gone after only four days, and I am certain we have your sovereign remedy to thank for that. He continues to have pain, for which we have given syrup of poppies diluted in cognac, and that seems to be sufficient to calm the worst of his hurt. I am confident that in a few days he will be able to impart much more useful information than was the case when you tried to question him five days ago.

On the other hand, I am not convinced that he will be able to return to work anytime in the near future, and I am reluctant to inform the Czar's lieutenant of that. The deliberate dislocation of his shoulder has created some problems, as has the injury to his head. I doubt he will regain his full vigor, and I am afraid that the motion of his arm will be restricted and its strength reduced. It may be that I am being pessimistic, and I very much hope that this is the case, but I would be less than forthright if I failed to mention these possibilities to you.

Kyril Yureivich Bolkov has told me that there have been men watching the care-house, We do not know who they are, or why they are watching us, but we thought that since you have been so kind as to visit us and contribute so generously to our work, you should be made aware of this observation, so that you may make any changes in your habits that may seem prudent to you. Given the two assaults you have endured, you may wish to keep your calls here to a minimum. Neither Ludmilla Borisevna Svarinskaya nor I would like to see your charity repaid with greater injury.

If I learn anything of use regarding these watchers, I will speedily inform you of all intelligence I have gleaned. In the meantime, I encourage you to be on guard, not only in your visits to this place, but in all your activities, for it is apparent to me that you stand at high risk for more violence, which is Saari's opinion, as well. If you will not engage a body-guard, then at least arm your coachman, and yourself I look forward to seeing you again at the banquet to be given by Alexander Menshikov on the twenty-first, when all of the Foreign Quarter will gather to honor the arrival of the Czar's mistress. Such a grand occasion must be a rare delight for us all.

With sincerest respect and the most profound appreciation,

I remain

Your most obedient,

Lodewick Kerstan van Hoek

anatomist and physician

July 18th, 1704, at Sankt Piterburkh

6

For once Saint-Germain was dressed in his habitual black; his coat and knee-britches were of heavy black velvet, his chemise of perfectly white silk, his leg-hose of black silk. His one concession to color was his waistcoat, which was a magnificent ruby shade of silver-shot satin. His jabot was fixed with a ruby stick-pin. His formal wig, done in the Roman fashion, was ornamented with two discreet combs studded with diamonds, as were the buckles of his thick-soled shoes.

Next to him in the carriage, Zozia was a dream in lavender satin, the corsage of her splendid gown studded with amethysts and mother-of-pearl; she had sprayed her favorite attar-of-roses on her exposed bosom, and augmented it with a handsome necklace of amethysts and diamonds. Her hair was done up in a complicated style that brought cascades of ordered curls down her back and ringlets to frame her face; there were a number of jeweled pins sparking in this confection, which she hoped would be the envy of all the ladies attending the reception. She had a cloak of dark-blue velvet draped over her arm, and she carried an ivory fan.

The afternoon was warm and sultry, the air close and still. Overhead clouds were gathering like a vast tent across the world, and turning dark; the Neva looked leaden and glassy beneath them; the sails of ships on the river hung limply on the oppressive air. The only sounds besides the roll of the wheels and the clop of the horses' hooves was the on-going bang of hammers and the scratch of saws. At the far end of the street, a work-gang was busy putting down coarse sand in preparation for extending the roadway; all the men were drooping at their labors and sweating profusely. Saint-Germain sighed. "Ominous weather," he declared.

"But there's almost no wind," Zozia said, extending her hand out of the open window of the carriage. "That's all to the good, this stillness."

"There will be wind, and before much longer," said Saint-Germain with certainty; he could smell it, mixed with the pervasive stench of decaying vegetable matter.

As they drew up at Alexander Menshikov's house, Adolphus Gronigen pulled in the grays and shouted, "Ksiezna Nisko and Hercegek Gyor have arrived!" In answer to his summons, three footmen rushed out of the house, opened the carriage door, and let down the steps, then helped the elegant passengers to alight. "I'll return at ten o'clock sharp," said Gronigen as Saint-Germain tapped on the closed door to signal him to depart.

"Very good. We'll be ready," he said.

Zozia laid her hand on Saint-Germain's arm. "I hope this won't be too dreadful. I dislike commanded appearances when nothing of value is accomplished."

"I hope it will not be dreadful at all," he said, going up the two steps into the reception room of Menshikov's four-room house. He gave their names to the steward, then handed Zozia's cloak to a maid who waited to collect the women's wraps.

"Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, and his wife, Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko," the steward intoned.

Almost fifty guests were already gathered in the reception room--most of the invited guests--all dressed as if they were in one of the grand palaces of Prussia or the Court of Saint James' instead of this four-room wooden house at the edge of a vast marsh. Living cheek by jowl with one another in the Foreign Quarter, they had all met, but the formalities were being properly observed here, and so each new arrival was announced with due ceremony, and Alexander Menshikov, resplendent in pale-blue-and-green brocade, waited to greet each guest, reciting the usual pleasantries that Piotyr Alexeievich had learned during his stay in Europe. As was expected of them, Saint-Germain made a slight bow and Zozia dropped a curtsy before moving into the magnificently dressed company.

Colonel Broughton was one of the first to approach them, wearing Court dress instead of his dress regimentals, offering a bow to Zozia, and saying, "Among all these beauties, Duchess, you are the prize."

Zozia gave a lilting laugh and said in German, "You flatter me, Sir Peregrine," and playfully slapped his wrist with her closed fan.

"No such thing, Madame," he insisted, this time speaking German. "Allow me to bring you a glass of wine. I fear all they have to offer is German whites, but the Gewurztraminer is tolerable."

"I'll let you choose which you think I'll like," she said, laying her hand on his arm. She turned to Saint-Germain. "If you will permit?"

"Of course," said Saint-Germain, inclining his head, and stepped back.

With a swish of her skirts, Zozia moved away, but paused to say, "I will join you at dinner."

Colonel Broughton added, "The table is laid in the next room, where the stove is."

"A better choice than here," said Saint-Germain, and made his way into the buzzing throng. He had made his way to the window at the far end of the room when he caught sight of Mungo Laurie, who was sipping wine and staring out at the wall of the fortress. Laurie was decked out in his tartan kilt, with sporran, a lace-edged blouse, velvet jacket, and tartan bonnet. Amid the satins and brocades, he looked the most exotic. "Good afternoon to you, Mungo Laurie."

"And to you, Arco-Tolvay," he responded, relieved to be able to speak English; the two exchanged bows.

"The fortress is commanding your attention?" Saint-Germain inquired.

Laurie shook his head. "It's badly designed for defense, although given its location, I don't see how it could be improved."

"You mean because it lacks stellations?"

"That, and the stockade, although reinforced, is still mostly wooden, and any cannon-fire will surely knock it to flinders." He regarded Saint-Germain narrowly. "Do you think the Czar will change the form of the walls when he replaces the logs with stones?"

Saint-Germain shrugged. "I suppose that will depend on how many piles he is willing to drive down into the mud, or if you and your dredging-crew find enough bedrock for him to anchor stellated walls."

"Who knows what we will come upon, burrowing down into the mud? I hope he will improve the fortifications, or he will risk losing his entire island during an artillery barrage." He gazed out the window again. "Those heavy clouds--do you think we'll have rain?"

"Probably," said Saint-Germain. "Once the wind rises." He glanced toward the window and saw that the nearest trees were beginning to bend, wind-strummed. "By morning, if not tonight."

"Just what we need: more water," Laurie muttered sarcastically, and drank down his wine. "I'm going to get more of this, since they haven't any whiskey."

"There will probably be vodka at dinner, and still more wine," said Saint-Germain, reminded of the Russian fondness for excess.

"I don't doubt that. Great drinkers these Russians are, and given the water hereabouts, it may be the wiser course," he said, and shook his head. "Not that there's much else to do here but work and drink."

"True enough," said Saint-Germain, remaining by the window as Laurie went away to have his glass refilled. Standing by the window, he took the time to watch the departure of another three carriages after depositing passengers at the door to the house; he paid little attention as the new arrivals were announced, preferring to make himself as inconspicuous as possible so that he could scrutinize the guests without being obvious about it. Over the next half-hour, while the gathering clouds brought an artificial dusk to the islands in the Neva, he kept at his self-appointed post, taking care to stand where his lack of reflection would not be noticed against the darkness; he spent the time watching Zozia move among the guests, talking, flirting, encouraging conversation. He was observing her in bantering discussion with Hugo Weissenkraft when he heard someone speak his name. Turning, he found himself facing Ludmilla Borisevna Svarinskaya, dressed beautifully in the Viennese style, in an adriene gown of embroidered faille the color of Asian poppies; she had a lace fichu around her shoulders, and her bronze hair was simply dressed in a coronet with twisted gold ribbons. He bowed to her. "Ludmilla Borisevna."

"Hercegek Gyor," she said with a curtsy. "I'm delighted to see someone I know. All these elegant people, and so many languages."

"But surely you know everyone in the room," Saint-Germain said, not simply for good manners.

"As faces with names and titles, yes. You I know as a colleague of sorts, and a patron." Her eyes were somber.

"Nothing so grand as a patron," he assured her. "But I am honored to be considered your colleague."

She smiled more genuinely than she had at first. "Very gallant speech, Hercegek."

"Hardly gallant," he said, so directly that she believed him. "You are doing your best to provide care, medicaments, and treatment for those who need it."

"And what we provide is little enough," she said.

"That cannot be your fault, Ludmilla Borisevna, nor should you think it is; you haven't the building, the equipment, the staff, or the physicians you would need to improve upon what you have done so far. Without any of these ameliorations, you may not be able to offer more than you do now." He gave her a moment to add something; when she remained silent, he asked, "How does Yrjo Saari go on? Does he continue to improve?"

"He is getting better, but his recovery is slow, and his speech is still disordered when he is tired. He is weaker than I would like."

"I have a tonic that might help, if you would accept a bottle of it from me. It is made from rose hips and hawthorn, among other ingredients." Again he waited for her to speak, maintaining a listening silence in spite of the soughing of the wind.

"We can try it," she said with her customary caution. "As it would come from you, I'm willing to use it, if you will give me instructions."

Saint-Germain gave a small bow. "Thank you, Ludmilla Borisevna. It is a shame that the Czar has not seen fit to establish and staff a hospital for all the workers, but given your resources, you have much to be proud of."

"Proud of?" At this she gave a spurt of laughter. "My father would not agree, nor would my husband."

Saint-Germain stared at her. "I did not know you are married. Heer van Hoek has not mentioned it."

"He knows very little about it," said Ludmilla. "Though he knows I have a husband."

His curiosity piqued, Saint-Germain asked, "Is your husband on campaign with the army? Or is he at Court in Moscow?"

"No. Nothing like that. Neither war nor politics interest him, except when they touch him directly. He is a boyar, like my father, and he likes to stay on his land."

Saint-Germain found it challenging to form a question that would not offend her, so finally he said, "It must be difficult for you to be here, away from him."

"Daniela Grigoreivich and I have lived apart for nine years. He remains in Simbirsk, on his estate. He has two mistresses with him, I'm told by my cousin." She looked away from Saint-Germain. "I don't know why I'm telling you this--except that you are listening without judgment." She frowned her mystification, then decided to go on. "The Czar may have changed the rules of marriage, but my father is a man of tradition, as are most of the boyars. He and Daniela's father arranged the marriage, and Daniela Grigoreivich and I met at the altar, in the old way."

"That does not always turn out for the best," Saint-Germain said.

For over a minute Ludmilla stared out the window. "It is starting to blow," she remarked, then continued, "Unfortunately, Daniela and I took each other in immediate dislike, and we had no more dealings with each other after two months under the same roof. He gave me my portion back and sent me away. My father was too proud to take me back, so I cast about for something I could do other than enter a convent."

"Does either your father or your husband know what you are doing?" Saint-Germain met her eyes, compassion in his gaze.

"I doubt it. I haven't informed them, if you're wondering about it. They would not approve." She took a deep breath, then spoke in what was barely more than a whisper. "All they know is I have put myself in service to Piotyr Alexeievich. They probably think I am one of his mistresses."

"I am sorry they do not know you," said Saint-Germain, keeping his voice low so that they would not be easily overheard.

"Thank you." She stared at him in astonishment. "How kind of you."

"Kindness is little enough, under the circumstances," he told her, and kissed her hand.

Her stare turned to bemusement. "Why would you do that, Hercegek?"

He considered his answer. "You deserve some tribute, and a sign of admiration is a small enough recognition."

"Then thank you again," she said, and turned away. "I am going to get some wine. Do you want any?"

"No, thank you. Heer van Hoek has advised me to abstain for a while longer, so that my recuperation is complete." He had noticed some minutes before that they were being watched by one of Menshikov's assistants; he went toward the man, his manner gracious and forthcoming. "Good afternoon to you--I do not believe I know your name."

The young man blushed at being directly addressed; he was lanky and pale, as if he had been out of the sun for most of his life. He was dressed in European fashion: a coat, waistcoat, chemise, and knee-britches with leg-hose, all in an unflattering shade of rose. "I am Ioakim Avtamonovich Miloslavsky; I am Alexander Menshikov's aide."

"A plearure, Ioakim Avtamonovich," Saint-Germain said at his most urbane. His bow was refined and practiced.

"Most ... genial," the young man made himself say; the nearness of this foreigner flustered him, as if he had been discovered at a secret sin.

"I hope I might ask our host a moment of his time before we sit down to dine," said Saint-Germain.

Arranging such things was something that Ioakim understood. "What is your concern, Hercegek?"

Saint-Germain managed not to smile at this tacit admission that Ioakim had been watching him deliberately. "About the care-house Ludmilla Borisevna and Heer van Hoek run. They could do so much more with a larger building and a better staff. With so many workmen, a better care-house may be essential, now that Swamp Fever is on the rise." As if to lend emphasis to this observation, the wind made a sudden, moaning gust.

Ioakim nodded as if satisfied in regard to the exchange between Ludmilla and Saint-Germain he had witnessed. "I will mention it to him, and arrange a time for you to have a proper conference with him. This is not the time and not the place for such a discussion."

Bowing slightly, Saint-Germain said, "That is very good of you, Ioakim Avtamonovich. I thank you for any attention you may bring to the difficulties the care-house is confronting, and my concerns for the future of its usefulness. Ludmilla Borisevna and Heer van Hoek gave me as much care as they could provide shortly after I arrived, and I feel beholden to them."

"I will speak to Menshikov on your behalf tomorrow." He did his best to look reliable.

"What more could I ask?" Saint-Germain said, and left the young man to his task of observing the guests.

A half-hour later, as the wind was beginning to ululate around the houses like winter wolves accompanied by the drub of distant thunder, Menshikov left his place by the door and strode to the center of the room, a large glass of wine in his hand. He called for the attention of his guests, then spoke out in a strong voice used to addressing large gatherings, "To all of you from the Foreign Quarter, welcome to my home. Tonight we gather to honor Marfa Skavronskaya, who has gained the love of our Little Father, Czar Piotyr Alexeievich, and is come to live here in the Czar's city, as a sign of her devotion to him." He nodded to the door into the second room. "If you will drink to her, to make her welcome?" With that, he downed half the glass of wine, and watched while his guests did what they could to copy him. "Ah!" He bowed in the woman's direction, and again watched while the guests did the same.

Marfa, in a saque-back gown of puce damask, was clearly pregnant; she was a blocky woman with a pleasant, plain face with a ripe mouth and mischievous eyes, so young that Saint-Germain doubted she was more than twenty. She bobbed a curtsy and lifted her own glass to welcome the guests. "We have bread and salt at table," she said loudly. When she spoke, there was a strong trace of Livonian accent in her Russian. "I am sure I will be happy here, with so many well-disposed neighbors to protect me from those who are not so well-disposed." This was clearly intended as a joke, and Menshikov led the expected laughter.

"May the Swedes not continue as neighbors much longer," cried one of the guests in clumsy Russian.

There was a general roar of approval. Marfa gave an enthusiastic whoop of approval and led the company in drinking. When she had finished with the wine, she held out her glass for more, her expression one of great satisfaction. "Let everyone eat and drink his fill tonight, and be merry. Let us all rejoice in our new acquaintance."

"What do you make of her?" Graf von Altenburg asked; he had come up beside Saint-Germain, two glasses in hand. "You need to drink the toasts, or at least pretend to. Menshikov won't like it if you refuse."

Saint-Germain took the proffered glass. "You may be right," he said, and hefted it as another toast was roared out. When he lifted the glass to his lips, he used a lace handkerchief to wipe the rim of the glass when he was through, and was able to soak some of the wine into the handkerchief in lieu of drinking; he had learned the trick almost sixteen hundred years ago, and although he disliked having to use it, he knew it would be useful this evening.

Von Altenburg watched him, a glint in his prominent eyes. "Very adroit, Hercegek," he approved. "It will spare you an unpleasant time later tonight, when there will be vodka in addition to the wine." He came a step closer to Saint-Germain. "What do you think of the Czar's mistress? A little back-stairs for my taste."

"Hush," Saint-Germain warned, and went on in French, "There are at least five men watching this gathering, and they will no doubt report to Menshikov on what they have overheard, as is their duty. At least three of them speak German, and two speak Dutch. I do not know if any of them understand French."

"How do you know this?" von Altenburg asked.

"Because I have been watching them, and I've seen how they listen, and to whom." He lowered his voice still more. "Make a toast: that will please Menshikov, and he will not pay as much attention to anything reported against you."

Nodding repeatedly, von Altenburg raised his glass and his voice. "To the Czar's chosen companion: may she safely deliver him a son, and may she and her child set an example in Sankt Piterburkh for all the generations to follow." He drank copiously while Saint-Germain repeated his sleight-of-hand.

There was a cry of approval, and waiters were dispatched to refill empty glasses. The guests were milling now, and the aroma of roast pork filled the room. The noise of their mingled voices had grown louder, and the room rang with it.

"What do you make of this, Hercegek?" von Altenburg asked as quietly as he could and still make himself heard.

"I have not made up my mind," said Saint-Germain. "This is either a skirmish before a battle, done up to look like a party, or it is a celebration of more change; it has elements of both, I agree, but I doubt either of us will know what it truly is for some days, depending on how Marfa Skavronskaya settles in."

Von Altenburg ducked his head. "If the Czar continues to favor her, I will be surprised. He can have any woman he sets his sights on."

"Yet he has set his sights on her," Saint-Germain said. "That is something to consider."

"As a gift from Menshikov," von Altenburg scoffed, then looked up uneasily as the wind wailed. "The storm is almost upon us. Who would have thought it would rise so quickly." With a suggestion of a bow, he drifted away toward the center of the room, joining those thronging about their host.

Menshilkov stamped on the floor to command the attention of the guests, then hollered to be heard. "Dinner is ready. Let each of you find a place at table, and sate your hunger." He waded through the gathering to the door into the adjoining room, where he took Marfa by the arm and guided her ahead of the rest of the company to the head of the long dining table laid with dishes, glasses, and utensils for sixty guests. He made a show of seating her in a high-backed chair, then took his place beside her. He then struck a small gong to summon the waiters, and all the while the guests jostled for places at the table.

"Would you prefer me to sit near you, or not?" Saint-Germain whispered to Zozia as they shuffled forward in the midst of the guests.

"If you can contrive to sit across from me, I would be most grateful. There is a Hessian engineer who has been pestering me tonight." She smiled as she said this. "I don't want to give him false hope."

"Certainly not," Saint-Germain agreed. "I will do my utmost to guard you unobtrusively."

"You are beginning to understand me," she said, patting his arm. "This evening promises to be a long one."

He started to reply, but the sudden salvo of thunder drowned out all conversations; the windows rattled and the roof shuddered. The guests went silent, and one of the waiters began to pray aloud in Russian.

Menshikov had turned pale, but he managed to maintain his composure. "The lightning is still far off. We can eat, confident that Russian guns guard us in the heavens." It was not a very clever remark, but it gave the assembly an excuse to start talking again. What laughter there was, was jittery and high.

"Tell me where you want to sit," Saint-Germain said to Zozia.

"Toward the end of the table. It will make leaving easier," she responded. "If you take the fourth seat from the end on the near side, I'll take the sixth from the end on the far side." She giggled. "Look at the scramble to get near the front."

Lightning flickered in the single window at the far end of the room; a number of the guests crossed themselves and tried to pay no attention to it.

"It is to be expected at such a gathering," said Saint-Germain. "No one wants to be ignored."

"They are being--"

Thunder roared over the rest of her remark, and this time, the very walls of the house thrummed. A half-dozen of the servants shouted, and Marfa looked about in distress, casting a nervous glance at Menshikov, who was clinging to the back of his chair.

Another flash, a loud pop, and almost immediately on top of it, the crash of thunder. This was followed by the sound of the bell in Sankt Piter and Sankt Paultje ringing not the hour, but the alarm.

"God and the Saints!" shouted Menshikov. "Urvan Jeronimovich, go out and see what is the matter!" One of his aides hurried out of the second room.

The guests wavered in their seating now, some hanging back from the table, some rushing it as if to find safety. One of the women was weeping, and half a dozen of the men fretted, not knowing if they should pretend nothing had happened or if they should withdraw from the festivities entirely.

More lightning and thunder, and with it now copious rain that sounded like a giant's drum-roll as the wind shrieked. In the street, shouts of alarm and dismay, and then a tumultuous knocking on the door and the scream of "Fire!" while the bell continued to sound.

Menshikov rose and went into the main room to the door; his guests whispered among one another, their speculation enhanced by the storm. In three minutes Menshikov was back in his dining room, calling out, "Ludmilla Borisevna! Heer van Hoek! You are needed! At once! There is a fire in the main barracks of the fortress. There are burned men, and others with injuries from the falling building. If you would be willing to--"

Before he finished, both Ludmilla and van Hoek were on their feet, moving their chairs out so they could leave. From his place at the table, Saint-Germain signaled a kind of apology to Zozia, then stood up, prepared to join them. "If I may be of assistance?"

"Saints Boris and Gleb be thanked," said Ludmilla. "We will have need of your skills and potions before the night is over," she said as she started toward the door, van Hoek behind her.

"Hercegek," Zozia said in a warning tone. "I need you here."

"And ordinarily, I would comply with your wishes," said Saint-Germain, "but not when so many are in danger." He went around the table to kiss her hand. "No doubt Graf von Altenburg will see you are handed safely into the carriage."

"I will," said von Altenburg from farther down the table.

"Thank you," Saint-Germain said, then bowed to Marfa and Menshikov and the guests before he resigned himself to ruined clothes; he dropped his wig on the table; he hurried out of the room and rushed for the door as more lightning flared and thunder pealed over the sodden city in the marsh.

Text of a letter from Moricz Losi in Transylvania, Hungary, estate manager for Ferenz Ragoczy, Grofok Saint-Germain, in care of Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, at Sankt Piterburkh, Russia; written in code carried by private courier and delivered on August 1st, 1704.

To Ferenz Ragoczy, Grofok Saint-Germain, currently in the new city of Sankt Piterburkh in Russia, the greetings of Moricz Losi at the Grofok's estates in Transylvania.

My most esteemed Grofok,

It is my pleasant duty to inform you that your lands are in good heart, and that the weather has been kind to us all. The orchards bloomed in good time and most kept their buds long enough to make fruit. The vineyards are much the same, but for the eastern-most plantation of Bull's Blood where grapes have been slow to fruit. Your cattle, sheep, and hogs are thriving, and the first lambs and piglets have arrived, most doing well, although the brindled sow ate three of hers before we could take them from her. There are nine mares in foal, and the first of this year's get are expected to drop in the next week. The tenant peasants have planted three fields in wheat and oats, and will shortly start on the squashes and melons, lettuces, and long-beans in the nearer fields. We look toward a fine season of growth. I have already arranged for a large number of tenants to help us through the harvest, and I have ordered ten more barrels for wine. The cook recommends smoking as much pork and ham as we can, in case the Austrians return and take sheep and calves for their men. The shepherds have plans to move the flocks higher into the mountains as soon as all the lambs are a month old, to keep them from the soldiers. We are going to have a larger amount of wool this year, unless the rebels, or the Austrians, raid the estate, which is not impossible.

As you instructed me, I have sent your invitation to Roma to the man Niklos Aulirios, and he has replied, saying he is most grateful for your offer of hospitality; he will arrive after the harvest at Senza Pari and Villa Ragoczy. I will inform you as soon as he is here. I understand that he is to be treated in the same way that your manservant Hroger is treated, as he served in a similar capacity to one of your blood.

In regard to blood, I will admit that when you answered the King of Poland's summons to his country, I was startled to see you comply so readily, but now I understand better why you did: in the last three months, Austrian soldiers have come here to demand you accompany them. In spite of all your assurances that you are in no way associated with II Ferenc Rakoczi, the Austrians continue to believe that you are part of those who privately support the rebels. Since March they have become more demanding; they have carried off a chest of gold coins--for which I am abashed. I told them you had no dealings with those opposing the Hapsburgs, but, as you feared, your name is sufficient for the Austrians to hold you in some way responsible for all that has happened in this part of the country. The things I said when you left last summer I now regret, for you would most certainly have been taken to prison. There has been a great deal of uproar about the rebels; until the matter is settled, I think it would be wise for you to remain away, reluctant as I am to say so.

News has come from your press at Venezia that your printer has taken a second shop for the business now that the new presses have arrived from Amsterdam. He informs me that you have authorized this expansion, and that he has added three apprentices to his staff, and would like to double that number next year. If this is satisfactory to you, you may want to send him word yourself, for he is a careful man, and will only proceed with your knowledge and approval. I have not told him where you are beyond that you were in Poland from July through March. I can impart more, if it is your wish, but until you authorize me to do so, I will only tell him you are away.

Trusting that this finds you in good health and good fortune, and the hope that you are enjoying the hospitality of Arpad, Hercegek Gyor, another Hungarian among the Russians, I promise you my continued devotion,

Your servant to command,

Moricz Losi

estate manager

on April 19th, 1704, in Transylvania, Hungary

7

Yrjo Saari stood on the step of Zozia's house, staring at Hroger in grim determination, his presence seeming to cool the glorious morning sunshine, for although he showed proper deference he also determined to do everything he intended. It was not quite 6:00 A.M. and the household had only been up for an hour; Saari appeared willing to wait until sunset and longer, if he had to. "He said I should be allowed to talk to him, your master. I am determined to see him." His voice was flat, and his Russian had the first-syllable accents of Finnish. "I will not be deterred."

"Then I suppose you had best come in," said Hroger, standing aside to admit the former Watchman, curiosity increasing. He pointed to a bench near the stove. "If you would like a cup of tea, there is a pot of it on the hook," by which he meant the warming-hook attached to the metal chimney.

"I want to see Hercegek Gyor," he said as he made for the stove. "But I would like a cup of tea. Will the Hercegek join us shortly?"

"The Hercegek is occupied with the Ksiezna. It isn't my place to disturb him," Hroger said. "I will pour you some tea, and inform the Hercegek that you are waiting to talk to him as soon as it's acceptable to do so."

"I'll wait as long as I must." He sat down.

Hroger reached into the cupboard for a tea-dish, then took the pot from the hook and poured the dark, fragrant liquid into it. "Would you like butter or sugar?"

"A little butter," Saari said as if it were a major concession.

"Butter then," Hroger said, taking the tub down from its place on the top of the cupboard; he opened it and used the paddle to make a small curl. "Will this suffice?"

"It will." Saari nodded approval and relaxed enough to say, "Thank you."

"You'll want to let it cool a short while," Hroger recommended, sliding the butter onto the tea, where it quickly melted and formed a shiny puddle on the surface.

"I've seen the Ksiezna out in her carriage. She is Polish."

"Yes, she is," said Hroger, wondering what Saari was seeking.

"The Hercegek is Hungarian, I'm told. Not many Hungarians in Sankt Piterburkh," Saari remarked as he blew on the surface of his tea.

"Only one other that I'm aware of," said Hroger.

"Who might that be?" Saari asked.

"One of the embankment designers is from Buda. His name is Janos Czobor, I believe. He has constructed embankments along the Drina and the Drave, among other rivers. He has worked in Austria and Bohemia, as well."

"Then he's the sort of man the Czar wants here," Saari stated.

"So it would seem." Hroger wrapped his hands in sooty cloths, looked into the fire-box, then poked at the glowing embers.

Saari studied Hroger for the better part of a minute. "You are not Hungarian."

"No. I come from Spain." He did not add that when he had lived there, it had been a Roman province. "The Hercegek and I met in Roma, many years ago."

"He is widely traveled, then, your master?"

"Quite widely," said Hroger, volunteering nothing more on the extent of Saint-Germain's wanderings. He straightened up, put the poker back in its holder, and unwrapped his hands.

"The Czar is also widely traveled," said Saari. "He has been to Germany and Holland and England and France and Austria and Poland. Perhaps he has gone other places as well."

"Yes, he is well-traveled," Hroger agreed.

The silence that fell between them this time lasted until Salomea came into the main room, a bundle of freshly dried clothes in her hand. She regarded Saari in surprise, and waited for Hroger to explain.

"This is Yrjo Saari, one of the Finnish Watchmen."

"Former Watchman," he corrected.

"You're the one who's been in the care-house, aren't you?" Salomea asked, coming over to the stove.

"I have," said Saari, a bit embarrassed to admit it.

"The care-house helped the Hercegek after he was waylaid and beaten," said Salomea.

"I know. It was I and my men who found him and carried him to the care-house." He tried not to sound too proud of this accomplishment, but there was a kind of satisfaction in his voice that he could not conceal.

Salomea looked at him with increased interest. "No wonder the Hercegek was concerned for your recovery."

"He is an attentive man, most careful about his obligations," Saari approved. "He's been a great help to the care-house."

Watching the two of them, Hroger realized that they were attracted to each other; he sat back on the kitchen stool, regarding them with awakened interest.

"He is a most generous man," said Salomea. "He often extends charity when he can. Not many rich men do that."

"He has done that in my case," said Saari, and drank a little of the tea although it was still quite hot.

"It has been his habit for many years," said Hroger, thinking that Saint-Germain would not say so himself.

"A good man to have for a master," said Saari, a bit wistfully. "All men seek good masters, if they are honora--"

They were interrupted by Zozia calling from the other room. "Salomea! Go to the bath-house and tell them I will be there shortly!"

Salomea was immediately on her feet, her manner transformed into quiet submissiveness. "Yes, Ksiezna," she said, and went into the servants' room in order to leave by the back door; the two men heard it open and close.

Saari continued to drink his tea, but there was a thoughtful shine in his eyes and he looked carefully at Hroger, a measuring expression coming over his face. After a few minutes had passed, he said, "A very interesting woman."

"Would you like me to tell her you said so?" Hroger asked, amusement lurking at the back of his faded-blue eyes.

"No. Not yet, anyway." He went on with his tea, content to be quiet.

In less than ten minutes, Zozia emerged from her room, an Ottoman robe wrapped around her, her braided hair in some disarray, and wooden shoes on her feet that clapped noisily as she walked. "Is Salomea here?" she demanded, then stopped still as she realized that Saari was looking at her. Gathering her dignity, she said, "If she hasn't come back from the bath-house--"

"I am back, Ksiezna," Salomea answered from the servants' room. "I am ready to escort you to the bath-house."

"We'll leave by the back door," said Zozia; there was a hectic flush to her cheeks and she moved carefully as if she were not fully awake.

"Yes, Ksiezna," Salomea said, appearing in the door to the main room; she curtsied to Zozia and did not so much as glance at Saari.

"Bring my towels," Zozia ordered as she crossed the room.

"Of course, Ksiezna. I have them ready." She fell in slightly behind Zozia as they hurried from the room.

"My master should join us shortly," said Hroger once the back door slammed. "Unless he decides to dress for the day first."

"Does he need your help?" Saari sounded wary, as if his keeping Hroger from attending Saint-Germain could well lead to trouble between master and manservant. "Do you need to go in to him?"

"Not yet." He could see Saari was not convinced. "He will summon me if he needs me."

"You must know best."

Again the two waited in silence, and then Saint-Germain appeared in the bedroom doorway, still in his chamber-robe and wig-less. He nodded to the two men. "Good morning. I trust I see both of you well."

Saari got to his feet and ducked his head. "Yes, as well as is possible." He was a hand's-breadth shorter than Saint-Germain, who was slightly less than average height, but built like the trunk of a tree, so that even his respectful bow seemed a kind of concession. "As you see, I have answered your invitation."

With a slow return nod, Saint-Germain regarded Saari. "Heer van Hoek told me you still have some trouble to contend with."

"I have lost some of the coordination on my left side, which has left me leaning a bit," he explained uncomfortably. "And in spite of all Ludmilla Borisevna and Heer van Hoek could do, part of my hand is numb, and from time to time, I get dizzy headaches."

"I'm sorry to hear it." He came across the room to the stove. "I've been told you are not permitted to continue as a Watchman."

He took a last sip of tea and set the dish aside. "That's right, because I can't run very fast and sometimes my headaches limit my work--not often, but enough to bring doubt on my ability to do what must be done," he admitted, making an attempt to conceal his distress. "I wish I didn't have to give up that work. I have liked being a Watchman."

"What will you do?" Hroger inquired.

Summoning all his courage, Saari addressed Saint-Germain directly, reciting what was obviously a prepared request. "I would like to be your body-guard, Hercegek--you need one. Not the sort some of the foreigners have--strong men who keep others at bay--but as someone who can watch for trouble, identify those who may have reason to harm you, and make note of any untoward persons paying too much attention to you." When Saint-Germain said nothing, he added, "I know most of the thieves and robbers in Piter, and I can deter them from preying upon you, all without fuss."

"I do not like to think of myself as a man with enemies," said Saint-Germain, "but I am sure I must have them."

"And they are all the worse if you don't know who they are," said Saari.

"I will not argue that," said Saint-Germain, his voice dropping. "But I have no wish to offend anyone, which would only compound the problem."

"I'm discreet--Watchmen learn to be, because we see things that are best kept silent." Saari put his hand on his puukko, tucked into a rawhide scabbard on his belt--the skinning-knife was the traditional weapon carried by Finns, and Yrjo Saari was no exception to the custom. "I can also be silent and deadly, if that's called for. I may not be able to run as swiftly as I used to, but I know how to follow a trail and I can wait in ambush when ambush is called for."

"I hope I will have no need of such skills," Saint-Germain said with feeling.

"It may come to that, however," Saari said, "depending upon the enemy."

Saint-Germain considered this. "Shall we say we will try for a month, and at that time discuss what you have seen? I want no invented foes, or exaggerated dangers, presented to me as a way to ensure longer employment, simply an accurate report. Your candor will be more valuable to me than any fabrication."

Saari straightened himself as much as his body would allow. "I am a Finn, and I would disgrace myself if I were to offer false intelligence to you, Hercegek. Fables are for recitations around the evening fire, not for misleading those who do us good."

"An excellent distinction," said Hroger with a quick glance at Saint-Germain. "Think of how useful Natalis was," he said in Imperial Latin.

"Those were different circumstances; this man is not a thief," said Saint-Germain in the same language, but with a note of wariness in his voice. He thought for a bit, his memories casting back to Delhi, to the Jou'an-Jou'an camps, to Aachen, to Cuzco, to Moscow, and he said suddenly, speaking once more in Russian, "But what would be the harm? At the worst I will be alerted to danger, at best I will learn there is no danger and the alert is unnecessary." He held out his hand to Saari. "In a month, then. You may eat with the servants. I'll give you some Turkish sequins against your wages so you'll have coins in your pocket. Hroger, if you will bring me half a dozen? And two louis d'or, in case there are some here who will not take Turkish coins." It was a generous amount and all three of them knew it.

"I will be back directly," said Hroger, and went off toward Zozia's and Saint-Germain's bedchamber.

"You won't regret this, Hercegek," said Saari with feeling.

"I trust not," said Saint-Germain, taking a turn about the room. "I gather from this that you want more than employment; you actually do suspect something or someone of intending to do me harm."

Saari nodded. "When I was injured, one of the men who found me said it had to have been the same men following the Hungarian."

"They might have meant Janos Czobor," Saint-Germain suggested.

"They might have, but they didn't. No gangs have bothered him that I have heard of," Saari declared. "Everything points to you, Hercegek, and to a plan to cripple or kill you; I expect they will try again."

"Then you and I have much to think about, and we will need to prepare," said Saint-Germain. He stopped by the single bookcase in the house, with its one hundred thirty-four volumes in eight languages. "Can you read?"

"A little, Hercegek, mostly Finn, some Russian, and a bit of Swedish, if the words aren't too hard; I know German when I see it, but I don't know the words. A Lutheran priest ran a school in Pieksamaki, and my father sent me there for three years. I can do simple sums, too. That's one of the reasons they made me a supervisor."

In spite of all he had learned about this northern part of the world, Saint-Germain was still amazed by the high illiteracy he encountered: not only did most of the people not read or write, but a vast majority of the Russian clergy and nobles were also unlettered. "That is useful--and rare."

"I've found it so: both useful and rare." He paused. "Will you want me to write reports?" His uncertainty was obvious.

"Only if necessary, if there is some kind of official inquiry; other wise I would prefer not to commit much to paper," said Saint-Germain. He turned toward Hroger, who had returned with a small leather pouch in his hand. "Very good, Hroger. Thank you." He took the pouch and opened it, counting out the eight coins. "As agreed, Saari. If you accept these, you are in my employ."

Saari took the money with an expression of misgiving, as if he expected to see the coins vanish. "Kiitos," he said as he put the coins into the leather wallet attached to his belt.

Saint-Germain dismissed his thanks with a wave. "I am sure you will earn." He paced the width of the room. "If you will return tomorrow morning, at eight o'clock, we can arrange a schedule for you, and decide how best to employ your skills. Then you may accompany me out to the second treadmill-pump, and afterward tell me what you observe."

Saari nodded emphatically. "Do you want me in livery? I don't think it would be wise, but I know some of the nobles here insist upon it."

"I will see you are provided a badge for your sleeve, but otherwise, a degree of anonymity will stand you in good stead." Saint-Germain hoped he had a few of the Arco-Tolvay badges with him: three golden-billed storks rising in flight against a field of blue. Such a badge had been provided for Adolphus Gronigen and Hroger, but the other servants wore the five silver caltrops against three dented bands, brown, red, and brown, the arms of Nisko.

"As you say, Hercegek," Saari said, and prepared to leave. "Until tomorrow morning, then. I'll have a look around your stables, to see if anyone has been stealing tack or feed. It will be a first step, to assure you of my abilities." He ducked his head and made for the door, Hroger close behind him to see him out.

When Saari was gone, Saint-Germain turned to Hroger, speaking the Saxon dialect of seven centuries ago. "Well, old friend, what do you think? Am I being a too-suspicious dupe, seeing foes in every shadow?"

"I wouldn't have thought so, my master: Yrjo Saari is sincere in his purpose, and I doubt he would believe that there are foes in the shadows if there were no cause for consternation." Hroger went to pick up the plate Saari had used.

"But what would be the purpose of maintaining surveillance on me?" As he asked it, he reminded himself that he was a stranger here, with more than one thing to hide.

Hroger thought about it. "It may be more a matter of watching this household, not just you," he said at last.

"You mean that Zozia is the focus of their efforts?" Saint-Germain mulled this over. "Poland is supposed to be an ally of Russia. Why would a Pole be regarded with suspicion?"

"You assume it is the Russians who are watching you, or watching Zozia," said Hroger. "As you reminded me when we were in Roma to assist Niklos Aulirios in keeping his legacy, it was not only the Romans who were acting against you, and against Niklos."

Saint-Germain studied Hroger closely. "You have been thinking about this for some time, have you not."

"I have--since you were first attacked. The Watchmen said it appeared your attackers were Lithuanians, but that may be only a useful fiction. There are a number of Lithuanian gangs, and they are so easily suspected that no one will accuse them formally due to the risk of torture to the accuser. Many of the Lithuanians support the Swedes, some for the advantage they gain, some out of traditional alliances. You as an impostor can expect no support from Augustus if your masquerade is revealed, and the Russians will torture you, no matter what the situation, if you are denounced. Half the murders in this city go unreported, and there is as much gossip as information in the denouncements made, which torture only compounds." He put the dish in a European washtub behind the stove. "The first attack might have been an accident, of course. The second wasn't."

"No; it was deliberate," Saint-Germain agreed. "As I suppose the first was, as well, for similar reasons."

"Then it's a worthwhile precaution to have Saari guard you," said Hroger, and went on in Russian, "Is there anything more you require of me, or shall I go to the market now?"

"Come help me make myself presentable, and we can discuss this further," said Saint-Germain, also in Russian.

"What time does the English Resident expect to arrive?"

"Eleven o'clock. We have plenty of time." Saint-Germain headed for the bedchamber. "That iris-colored damask and ecru linen should do for a visit from the English Resident."

"With the English wig," said Hroger. "I have cleaned it for you, perfumed it so you cannot smell the charring, and reset the pigeon's-wings curls. You are lucky that the English wigs are so distinctive--they're not so likely to be stolen."

"All right--with the English wig; it's not as bulky as the German," said Saint-Germain. "Also the turquoise waistcoat."

He had been dressed for little more than twenty minutes when Zozia returned from the bath-house, her wooden shoes clumping as she hurried to her portion of the bedchamber, Salomea hastening after her. He rose from the chair where he had been reading and bowed to Zozia, who glared at him, then rushed on.

"Narkiss," Zozia shouted to their cook from her portion of the bedroom, "sausage and onions. In fifteen minutes!"

From the depths of the servants' room, Narkiss muttered his intention to do so. "I have to go out to the stable for eggs," he called.

"Then do it!" Zozia shouted back.

Hroger, who had been washing the dishes in the washtub, looked up. "My master?"

"We will learn in time," said Saint-Germain. He resumed his reading, his concentration fully on the account by a French Jesuit of his three years in Japan.

Hroger finished his chores and left to procure meat for the evening meal, some of which he would consume in private. Narkiss came in from the stable carrying a small basket containing four eggs and a large brown onion. He stopped in front of the stove, opened the firebox and thrust in a split log, then reached for the pan, and then for the tub of butter; as the stove heated once again, Narkiss chopped the onion, then put butter into the pan to sizzle.

Saint-Germain had covered almost fifty pages when Zozia emerged from the bedchamber, now resplendent in an amber gown with a Viennese farthingale and a long stomacher; her petticoats were revealed in the front, a multi-tiered profusion of straw-colored point-lace, which also cascaded from her elbows to her wrists. He closed his book and stood. "Magnificent, Ksiezna," he said with a slight bow.

"Where is my breakfast?" she asked, paying almost no attention to him.

Narkiss indicated the pan. "The onions are nearly ready. I have only to whip the eggs."

"Then do it," she said, and rounded on Saint-Germain. "I'm told you're taking on a body-guard."

"I am," he said. "Do you object?"

"Of course I object," she snapped, and stamped her foot. "How do you think it looks for you to have someone protecting you?"

"Given that I've been attacked twice, I think it will appear that I am being prudent," he said, unperturbed.

"Report the attacks to the Czar's officers and--"

"And be taken by the soldiers and tortured to determine if my accusations are valid? I would prefer not."

"Oh, very good," she jeered. "Everyone will say that." Her laughter was filled with fury.

"Very probably," he said.

"The Czar doesn't go about with body-guards," she accused him.

"No; the Czar goes about with his poteshnyes--far better protection than body-guards," said Saint-Germain.

Zozia stood still, her gaze fulminating. "It reflects badly on Augustus that one of his representatives must be guarded in the Czar's city."

"It would reflect poorly on the Czar if his ally's representative should be attacked again, or if you should be attacked," Saint-Germain said calmly, anticipating a vehement denial that never came.

"No one would attack me!"

Behind Saint-Germain, Narkiss broke eggs into a bowl and began to whip them with a slotted spoon. "Have your breakfast, Ksiezna. We can talk when you have eaten."

"You will not deter me so easily," she warned him. "We have to discuss your decision. I won't let you frighten me into agreeing to this foolishness."

"Why is it foolishness?" Saint-Germain asked her.

"It makes you seem epicene, and that makes all Poland look poltroonish."

"But I am Hungarian," he reminded her.

She glowered at him. "It is a slight to Polish honor, no matter what you are, because you're here on the order of Augustus. You would lack my rank even if you were Polish, so you should be willing to obey me. But I'm not going to tell the King that you have shown yourself to be a coward unless you force me."

"How does having a body-guard make me a coward? I mean to protect you as well as myself--is that not one of my obligations to Augustus? To see that you come to no harm?" he inquired as she pushed by him and went up to the stove.

"Don't wrap your cowardice in your duty to me: it's offensive." She watched Narkiss work the eggs and onions in the pan, her face shining from her exchange with Saint-Germain; she did not turn to look at him again, and so he left her to her breakfast while he went back to his book.

Text of a letter from Benedykt Rozmowaslad, Ksiaze Radom, at Gdynia, to his sister, Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, at Sankt Piterburkh, carried by Royal Messenger and delivered on August 16th, 1704.

To the most exalted Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, the greeting of Benedykt, Ksiaze Radom, her most loving brother.

Zozia,

As you may have already been informed, I will shortly take ship for Sankt Piterburkh, leaving from the harbor here at Gdynia for the mouth of the Neva. This journey will make four ports of call before arriving in Russia, and that means you will have this in hand at least three weeks before I reach you, since Augustus has given permission for me to send it via his own courier. You will have time enough to arrange for some kind of housing for me--the Polish Resident has already informed the King that he has no place within his allocated house to put me. You may experience the same difficulty, for from what I hear, you will not have much room to spare. I rely upon you and your fraud of a husband to arrange something suitable. I promise I will not interfere with your spying, which will please our King, little as your sham of a spouse may like it.

I have spent most of the spring at Sarna Potok overseeing the planting for the year and arranging for another four large fields to be cleared in anticipation of a goodly number of calves and foals by the start of summer. You may not believe it, but I think we can double our herds in the next three years if all goes well and neither the Swedes nor the Russians sack the estate.

Uncle Bartek has attempted once again to find me a wife, and once again he has failed. I have seen the woman--a Bohemian Graf-fen, and I am not inclined to accept the terms proposed. I may need to have sons before I'm old, but not with a woman with a squint and four black teeth. Uncle Bartek is very disappointed in me, or so he says; I have asked him to look further for a woman whose rank is nearly equal to my own, and whose lands and substance will complement what I have. So far, Uncle Bartek has not achieved such a proposed match. I have advised him to use you as his model, and find me a woman as much like you as is possible, in appearance, in position, and in wealth. He has said he may have to go as far as France to find what I seek, and I have told him to pack his bags. He may be the senior relative, but he cannot force me into an untenable marriage.

And speaking of untenable marriages, I understand your husband remains among the missing. We can but hope that he doesn't arrive in Russia to denounce your companion for trading upon his reputation and good name. Arco-Tolvay, as I recall him, is not the sort of man to swallow such an insult as your pretender represents; he would be inclined to make a denouncement at the very least. I must admit, I'm curious to meet his stand-in, for I believe he must have bravery to undertake this mission with you. From what Augustus has told me, it requires a man of daring to make your imposture a success. No doubt I'll be jealous of him, but you know best how to end that. And I am willing to admire his dedication to our Polish cause.

They say that Frederick IV is being careful regarding the Swedish advances, and has avoided throwing in the lot of Denmark with that of Sweden. Given that the Czar is besieging whatever the name of that accursed Baltic port may be, the Danes are holding back, awaiting the results of the campaign, and Frederick IV is a most clever King when it comes to alliances. Imagine having to base your fortunes on the whims of the Russians. You can surely tell me what you have learned for Augustus while I'm visiting that latest piece of Czar Piotyr's attempt to be European, or Scandinavian, or whatever he seeks to be this month.

The Apollo will sail in three days, and I should arrive by the end of August at the latest, bringing you cases of wine and barrels of food, for I am told that Sankt Piterburkh is in short supply of both, and such a gift should guarantee my welcome in your household. So until that time, my dearest sister,

I am your most faithful brother,

Benedykt

July 5th, 1704

8

"We are being followed," Yrjo Saari told Saint-Germain as he descended from his carriage onto the levee road; Saari rode next to Gronigen in the driving-box, apparently acting as a kind of guide, but actually keeping a close eye on the men and women in the street. It was a blustery summer day, the rollicking wind tagging about among the small, fluffy clouds. The mid-day light was clear and pale, showing the broad stretch of shiny, bronze-colored exposed mud in the expanse of marsh at the foot of the first treadmill; the tide being out, there was a strong odor of decaying vegetation on the air. Sankt Piterburkh had been warm for the last week, alive with insects and other pests, but now the wind had driven away the heat and stirred up another outbreak of Swamp Fever that was taking its greatest toll among the work-gangs and their guards. "There is a man in European dress, long dull-blue coat, broad-pleated knee-britches with banded garters, black leg-hose, having the look of perhaps a merchant or a merchant's clerk, between thirty and forty, with a broad-brimmed hat on."

"I know," said Saint-Germain. "I've been aware of him since we took the turning for the third dyke. Until then he was fairly inconspicuous, but no longer. There are few merchants out on this part of the island." He looked toward the second treadmill-pump and said, "At least they've built the road out this far."

"The embankment builders need it, and the men starting to build the fourth dyke. The wooden walkways aren't enough for moving supporting sledges loaded with logs, and too uneven for men with laden wheelbarrows." Saari prepared to get down, but Saint-Germain waved him back.

"You can watch better from where you are, and you will be less obtrusive here. I do not want to alert the one following us; I would prefer to let him remain unaware of our observation." He said this in Finn, and added in Russian, "You know how uncertain the wooden walkways can be when they're crowded."

"All sorts of mischief can happen," said Saari.

"Exactly," said Saint-Germain. "It would be unwise to attract too much notice, as your presence would do."

Saari relented. "Just be careful. They've brought in two more work-gangs from Kazan. You can't trust Tartars. They're dangerous men. They'd kill you for a roast potato." He looked sharply at Gronigen. "You'll help me watch."

"Of course," said Gronigen, but with a hint of reserve.

Saint-Germain closed the coach-door and took a step away from the vehicle onto the wooden walkway. "I shouldn't be much more than an hour--probably less than that."

"Keep in mind that you have been summoned to a treadmillpump before, on a so-called emergency," Saari said.

"I have not forgotten," said Saint-Germain; the memory of the attack he had endured in May had caused him a slight qualm when the workman had come to his house to summon him out to the treadmill.

"We'll be here," said Gronigen. "I hope we won't have to keep the horses standing much longer than that."

"And we'll keep watch," Saari assured him.

"I have no doubt," said Saint-Germain as he left the coach behind and went along toward the second treadmill-pump; all around him work-gangs struggled to improve the footing in the mud in preparation for building; to bring logs to set in the riverbank, to pile up the silt brought by the dredging barges to add to the drained marsh-bottom, to build up the fourth levee, to remove the ooze of rotting vegetable matter from the exposed mud, to mix sand with the boggy earth where the roads would go, to bring in loads of rocks to shore up the dykes and levees, to provide access to the new dyke being built. The noise was constant and confusing. By the time Saint-Germain made it out to the second treadmill-pump, he wondered what he--or anyone--could do to lessen the chaos of this intense industry.

The new supervisor was waiting for him, a big man with black hair tied back, Asiatic features, and clan-mark on the side of his neck; he was dressed in the long canvas smock and short linen trousers that most of the workmen wore, all of it grimy from the task they had been assigned. He made an eastern bow to Saint-Germain. "Thank you for coming today, Exalted One. This is not something that can be ignored." His Tartar accent was strong, but his Russian was good enough for him to be understood.

"It is my duty to do so, Udek," Saint-Germain said, returning the bow. "What is the trouble?"

"There is something we must show you. We found it under the mat of water-weed, over there." He pointed down into the knee-deep water where his work-gang was busy using knives and hatchets to cut away the tough water-weed.

"Show me," said Saint-Germain, although the thought of going into water under the noon sunlight made him uncomfortable. "I should remove my shoes and leg-hose."

"Yes. The swamp will ruin them, most surely." He pointed to one of the low supports of the treadmill. "If you sit there, you will be able to take off your shoes and leg-hose without any interference from the work-gang." He held up his whip for emphasis.

Saint-Germain went and removed his shoes and leg-hose, putting them on the plank-brace that supported the axle of the huge double wheel. "Now I am ready. Tell me what you have found and how you found it."

Udek bowed again. "I don't know where to report this, but we cannot ignore it. If you would tell me who is to be informed, and how, or, better yet, do it yourself, none of us will be blamed for what seems to have happened. They won't torture us for information." He started down the rough steps in the damp bank.

"Tell me what this discovery is, and I will do my part in reporting it, so long as there is nothing that I, as a foreigner, am forbidden to report." He knew that workers who came upon unusual things were often punished rather than rewarded for making their discoveries known; he would spare them that if he could. "What have you found?"

But Udek was not yet ready to tell him. "The men were working early--less than an hour after sunrise. I saw them stop their labor, a few of them getting out of the marsh and refusing to go back into it. I asked what had happened." He paused. "There was an arm, one that has been under the weeds for at least a month, probably more. Most of the flesh is gone, and what remains is rotten."

"An arm? You have found nothing more?" He had seen workmen injured severely from their labors, and wondered if he should ask Ludmilla if any of her patients had lost an arm.

"Just the arm. It was cleanly severed, like a joint of meat. It made me think of a long knife or an axe-blade." He stepped into the water and waded toward a knot of Tartars standing silently around a mound of water-weed, some of them keeping as much of a distance as they dared, a few others staying close to one of the workmen to get a better look. "You men!" Udek shouted in the language of Kazan. "Out of the way! Make room! Bezmat!" The man bowed. "Show the Exalted One what you've uncovered."

One of the men reluctantly used the blade of his hatchet to lift the water-weed, revealing a human arm, most of it little more than bones and ligaments. A few of the finger-bones were gone altogether, but the three long bones were intact. It added to the general marsh odor--metallic, disgusting, and sweet all at once.

Saint-Germain stepped forward, bending over to look at the work-gang's find. "You have found nothing more?" he asked in their dialect.

Udek blinked, startled. "They told me they had not."

"Well?" Saint-Germain asked, addressing Bezmat.

"There may be more down there, but we haven't found anything," he said, uncomfortable with the question.

"Have you looked closely?" Saint-Germain inquired softly, purposefully.

"No," said Bezmat. He fretted, then added, "The arm was wedged into the weed-mat. I think it was hidden on purpose."

"I would agree," said Saint-Germain.

Bezmat was surprised. "Then you don't think this was an accident."

"With a clean cut? It is possible, but unlikely," Saint-Germain said, and watched as three of the workmen crossed themselves.

"Then hiding the arm could mean a crime has been concealed," said Udek.

Saint-Germain nodded. "That would appear to be the case: then why not take some time to make a search? The more I can find out now, the better for all of us." As he moved aside to allow the workmen to search for any more bones, he could not keep from wondering if this might be the remains of Vladimir Pavlovich Timchenkov, who had disappeared on the night he had first been attacked: the man had never been found, and there was no record of him leaving Sankt Piterburkh. This was near the place where the attack had occurred, although in May the water-level in this sector had been much higher. He told himself not to speculate and resigned himself to waiting.

Four men joined Bezmat and began to cut away more water-weed; they proceeded gingerly, afraid of what they might find, but worked quickly as well, since they wanted the search to be over. After fifteen minutes of effort, they came upon three ribs and male hip bones. The men piled these wordlessly with the arm. "It's thick mud beyond this. Anything in that is gone."

Saint-Germain went to look over the bones and found the straight cuts that revealed the man had been hacked with a long-bladed weapon, as Udek surmised, but there was nothing more to be learned from such an incomplete corpse. He pointed to the bones. "Put these in a sack and keep them near the treadmill until I come to claim them. Tell no one about them; you do not want to alert the culprits, or the guards." Even as he said this, he knew word of this discovery would be all through the work-camp before nightfall. "I will make a report and find out what the officials would like to have done with these. We cannot identify them, which may be troublesome in terms of burial." He was unsure to whom he should report, or what he should say in making such a report, but he was fairly certain that anything he remarked upon would eventually make its way to Alexander Menshikov and the demand for bribes would begin.

"We are not responsible for them," Bezmat insisted. "We don't want to keep them here."

"You will need to have them kept safe in case there is an inquiry," said Saint-Germain carefully. "If you dispose of them, you will be regarded more suspiciously than if you keep them." As he said this, he decided that he should make his first report to the Orthodox Metropolitan, who had arrived in Sankt Piterburkh three weeks ago. Czar Piotyr Alexeievich might have weakened the Orthodox Church by weakening the office of Patriarch and replacing it with a council made up of Metropolitans, but in matters of burial, the Church still had precedence over everyone but the Czar; the Metropolitan would have the final say regarding the bones: by seeking out the Metropolitan, he could avoid the scrutiny of the Provost Marshal and Menshikov.

The workmen exchanged uneasy glances, but finally Udek said, "We will keep them, and see they are safe unless we have to move the treadmill. If that happens, you will have to take charge of them."

"I will do it," said Saint-Germain, "if it proves to be necessary."

Udek shrugged. "Then we'll do as you require." He clapped his hands. "Mehat, go fetch a sack. The rest of you, make a heap of the bones. I'll collect them later today."

Saint-Germain started back toward the muddy steps. "Thank you, Udek."

"I didn't know what to do, Exalted One, so I sent for you." He seemed uneasy about his decision, but his manner was respectful. "Will you tell me what the Czar's poteshnyes decide? They will surely make the decision while Piotyr Alexeievich is away at his siege."

"If they tell me, I will tell you," said Saint-Germain, disliking the squish under his bare feet; he could feel his strength leaching out of him. "Water and sunlight," he muttered in his native language as he struggled up to the top of the stairs. He went to reclaim his shoes and leg-hose, but did not bother to put them on. Carrying them in his one clean hand, he picked his way back to the carriage and got into it, taking relief from the lining of his native earth under the upholstered seat.

"Take me to the men's bath-house," he said, and, as Gronigen started the pair moving, he added, "They found part of a body."

"Only part?" Gronigen asked.

"Perkele!" Saari exclaimed.

"I doubt the devil had anything to do with it," said Saint-Germain. "This looks much more like the work of men: the arm was deliberately concealed." For the rest of the ride to the bath-house, he said nothing more.

"Do you want us to wait for you?" Saari asked as Saint-Germain once again descended from the carriage.

"No. If you will ask Hroger to come here with a change of clothes and shoes, and one of my Turkish bath-sheets, I would be most grateful." Saint-Germain achieved a quick smile. "It has been an interesting day thus far, has it not."

Neither Gronigen nor Saari knew how to respond to this; Gronigen touched his forehead in a kind of salute. "We'll send Hroger. I'll attend to the horses and finish installing the small stove in the barn. The cold weather is coming and we must be ready."

"A fine idea," Saint-Germain approved, and went, still barefoot and queasy without the protection of his native earth, into the bath-house. He consigned his clothes to one of the bath-house servants, then took a cotton smock from a line of them on pegs along the wall and pulled it on before walking into the main steam-room and the hot fog that rose from a large iron stove covered in rocks onto which a steady trickle of water dropped from an overhead pipe, creating a constant billow of hissing steam. Four clerestory windows let in just enough light to make it possible to see. Saint-Germain, for whom darkness was no impediment to sight, made out six other men in the steam-room as he found his way easily to a stand of benches against the far wall. Taking a seat about half-way up the stand, he opened the smock and sat down in the sodden heat. He had long since lost the ability to sweat, as he had lost the capacity to weep, but the warm steam was soothing, the darkness was comforting, and he felt some of his depleted vigor begin to return; for the time being, he found these things sufficient.

Somewhat later, he got up and went into the room filled with huge barrels of hot water. Choosing the darkest of the barrels, he went to it, removed his smock, and sank down into the water up to his chin. The water was not entirely comfortable since the tub was not set atop his native earth, but it washed away the last of the mud and gave him a little more time to think; in half an hour, he had a workable plan. By the time he emerged from the steam-room, he found Hroger waiting for him in the doorway to the dressing-room, bath-sheet and clothes in hand; a small leather case stood open on the bench behind him.

"I understand you need these, my master," he said by way of greeting. "Gronigen told me you were muddy to your knees."

"So I was, and the coat and knee-britches were spattered, as well," Saint-Germain agreed, turning away as he took the bath-sheet and wrapped it around himself.

"They also said that the work-crew found a body."

"Part of one," Saint-Germain corrected. "An arm, male hips, and three ribs, all showing signs of being cut by something sharp-edged."

"Like that body on the road to Baghdad," Hroger suggested.

"Very similar--enough to convince me that the man whose remains were found was killed in much the same way--hacked with swords and pole-axes." Saint-Germain's face clouded at the memory. "That was hard to watch."

"You were buried in sand to your neck at the time," Hroger reminded him. "Even you couldn't do much under those circumstances."

"I realize that, but it still rankles; that whole journey does." He was almost finished drying himself.

"Shall I leave you to dress and go collect your muddied clothes from the bath-servant?" Hroger asked.

"If you would." He glanced at the clothes Hroger had brought: a sensible twill coat and britches in dove-gray, a dark-blue waistcoat, a white chemise, and simple leg-hose for under his riding boots. "You must be prescient; I am planning to ride this afternoon."

"I thought you might," said Hroger. "I've told Gronigen to turn the gray Andalusian out before saddling him. A quarter-hour of kicking up his heels and he'll mind his manners."

"Thank you. I would rather he not practice his airs above ground on the street." He glanced around. "I will plan on visiting the care-house and the residence of the Metropolitan. I should probably plan to see him after Vespers." He considered the time of day. "Do we have anything I can take along to the care-house for the patients? As I recall, they have five sick children to treat."

"I'm sure we can find something. Narkiss has been smoking fowl again, and I think there will be some he can spare." He handed Saint-Germain his under-drawers, then went to collect his clothes from the bath-servant.

While Hroger was gone, Saint-Germain dressed quickly, so that by the time Hroger returned, he was pulling on his leg-hose. His waistcoat was still unbuttoned and his coat lay on the bench next to him. "Thank you for taking such good care of me, old friend. We have so much to contend with beyond our mission, I know you are doubly valuable to me."

"I didn't bring a neck-cloth for you. Tell me which one you want and I'll tie it for you back at the house." He put the muddied clothes into the leather case. "I'll see they're washed by tomorrow morning."

"Thank you again," said Saint-Germain, then paused thoughtfully. "Tell me: is Zozia at the house?"

"No; she's gone to wait on the Czar's Marfa, to see how she is doing, and to introduce Missus Carruther to Marfa; Missus Carruther arrived two days ago."

"I remember--Abigail is her Christian name, as I recall," said Saint-Germain as he pulled on his boot; his native earth in the thick sole was revitalizing. "She seemed a timorous woman when we were introduced."

"She doesn't speak Russian, or Dutch, or German, just French as a foreign tongue," Hroger said. "And Sankt Piterburkh is a long way from Devon. The Ksiezna said she would assist her with learning the ways of this new city."

"By the sound of it, Zozia is willing to extend herself on behalf of Missus Carruther," said Saint-Germain, a puzzled frown drawing down his brows.

"All the more reason for Missus Carruther to rely on the Ksiezna," said Hroger. "It suits them both."

"It may be because both women speak French, or they would have a difficult time of it. As it is, Zozia can serve as Abigail Carruther's Virgil in this netherworld, which should make both wife and husband beholden to her," said Saint-Germain, pulling on his other boot. "Let us be under way. It may be a busy afternoon."

Hroger ducked his head in acquiescence. "Saari and I discussed the man following you; he was out near the treadmill earlier today. I saw him in the street near the house. I had Saari confirm that this was the same man he had seen earlier. When we return to the house, I'll have Saari see where he has gone."

"Tell him not to be obvious," Saint-Germain said as he went to the outer door of the bath-house. "I would prefer the spy not know that he has been seen. It might put Saari in danger if the spy discovers he has been noticed."

"Both Saari and I are in accord about that," Hroger said, following Saint-Germain out into the daylight. "We've planned to watch him by turns, so that he won't be too aware of our notice. It should work, at least for a while."

"Fortunately the nights are longer," said Saint-Germain.

"You will find the winter less strenuous than the summer. There will be only four or five hours of faint daylight as the Solstice nears."

"So I hope," said Saint-Germain. "Even now, I should think that the spy will not watch the house through the night; that would be too obvious."

"He might not, but there may be others who will, men who will not be as obvious as he is," Hroger said. "Until we come upon the identity of the person in charge of this man ..." He coughed a warning and nodded to the half-finished house down the street from the men's bath-house. "There. At the far end--the man smoking the pipe."

"I see him," said Saint-Germain. "It is the same man I saw earlier today. He would do well to exchange that hat for one of the Russian caps."

"Be pleased that he doesn't," Hroger remarked.

Saint-Germain said nothing more until they entered the house. "If you will order the food donation for the care-house first--then, I think the dark-gray neck-cloth will do, since I will visit the Metropolitan. Matvei Nikitich Golrugy expects restraint in dress to show respect for the Orthodox Church."

"I'll get it for you," Hroger said, going first into the servants' room, where he gave Saint-Germain's order to Narkiss. That done, he crossed the main room into the bedchamber to get the neck-cloth from Saint-Germain's chest-of-drawers. He was back quickly, and took a little less than a minute to fashion a subdued knot in the wide, bias-cut band of silk. "That should do. I will arrange for your gift for the care-house and you can decide which wig will suit you." And again he left the main room.

For the next ten minutes, Saint-Germain paced around the room, forming in his mind the manner in which he would approach the Metropolitan Matvei. He wished he knew more about the man, for he would have a better notion as to how he could explain the discovery of the partial remains. When Hroger returned, Saint-Germain asked him, "Am I being a fool to wonder if the dead man is Vladimir Timchenkov? I know men are often attacked out in the marshes--Timchenkov and I are not the only ones. Yet try as I will, I cannot rid myself of the impression that it must be he."

"I would be astounded if you hadn't thought that," said Hroger, settling the German wig on his head.

"Ah," Saint-Germain agreed.

"You may want to inform the Metropolitan of the two attacks you have sustained, and to include Timchenkov's disappearance as part of the mystery. That way your involvement will be more readily understood, and your motives would not be questioned." Hroger stepped back to inspect Saint-Germain. "You look a picture of dignity."

"That should please the Metropolitan," said Saint-Germain. "I will try to return within the hour, but if I am gone longer, do not worry unless I am still missing by sunset." He paused, then called out, "Narkiss. My donation for the care-house."

"I'm putting it in the sack," the cook called to him. "Two smoked geese, four loaves of black bread, a string of onions, and a tub of new butter."

"A fine choice," Saint-Germain approved.

Narkiss came out of the servants' room, a large sack in his hands. "Here you are," he said with an appropriate nod to Saint-Germain. "They should be grateful."

Saint-Germain took the sack. "Thank you, Narkiss: I am sure they will be."

"This, from a man who never eats," said Narkiss as he withdrew from the main room, muttering to himself.

"So he has noticed--this could prove awkward," said Saint-Germain.

"It isn't the sort of report that you would want being generally known," said Hroger in Visigothic Spanish. "I've said that you have a very restrictive diet, and for that reason you dine in private. I assumed the servants accepted that."

"Much the same explanation as usual," said Saint-Germain.

"Should I enlarge my account of your limitations?"

"Indeed not," Saint-Germain said, and went toward the door. "I hope that I can avoid any suspicions about my true nature, and revealing more could lead to a wider inquiry. I have no wish to be scrutinized."

"Too late, at least in this household." He went to the door to watch as Gronigen led the Andalusian up to the step. "I'll do what I can to laugh at such an assumption."

"Very good," said Saint-Germain as he swung up into the saddle, the sack of food still in his right hand. He secured the sack to the saddle-ring, then gathered up the reins and nodded to Gronigen to step back; he tapped his heels to the horse's sides and moved him out into the road for the short ride to the care-house.

Heer van Hoek was busy with a patient who had crushed his hand on the dredging-barge, but Ludmilla welcomed him enthusiastically, exclaiming how much his donations of all kinds had done to improve the care-house. "I know I've said it before, but it continues to be true."

"I am pleased to be able to help you: you did so much for me," Saint-Germain responded, his bow graceful. He looked at the beds--now numbering twenty--and saw that all but one were occupied. "You are busier than usual."

"Swamp Fever has struck again." Ludmilla moved away from the beds, her face somber. "We have lost six supervisors to it in the last ten days." She crossed herself.

"Ten days," Saint-Germain shook his head. "If so many supervisors have died, how many of the workmen have contracted it?"

"One of the men who brought the most recent patient said that more than twenty men in his work-gang have been ill, and some are expected to die." She made a gesture of helplessness. "I have no room for the men even if we were allowed to treat them."

"I will see if I can persuade the Metropolitan to speak to Menshikov on your behalf. With more laborers arriving, better facilities for caring for the injured and ill will be needed." He thought a minute. "Would you find more help useful? Kyril may be a good man, but you may need more than your three assistants if the disease spreads."

"You mean you would lend us one of your servants?" She stared in surprise. "What would the Ksiezna say?"

"I was thinking I would help you, if you would permit me to do it. The Ksiezna doesn't mind that I do this, for it adds to her reputation for magnanimity." His quick smile was self-effacing. "I have some experience in these matters, as you know."

"But you're a nobleman," she said quietly. "Would the Polish King allow you to take such risks?"

"You are the daughter and wife of boyars," he pointed out. "Neither your father nor your husband have required you to stop tending the sick."

"But I'm Russian," she said as an explanation.

"Does my being Hungarian make it impossible for me to assist you?"

"No, but--"

"Then accept my help. Who knows: it may help in persuading Menshikov to authorize your new care-house before autumn." He knew that would convince her if anything would.

Ludmilla mused for a short while, then said, "I shouldn't accept your offer, no matter how kind it may be, but we are desperate here, and without someone to speak for us, we will be overwhelmed in this house. What we need is a barrack, and a dozen assistants."

"I know," he said, "which is why I want to help you. There is no other place here that can offer what you do. If you are to continue to provide succor to those who need it, you will need all those things, and more. I am determined to be of what use I can be."

"You do so much already," she said, knowing it was the proper thing to say. "Why do you want to do more?"

Saint-Germain looked directly into her eyes, the full force of his compelling gaze upon her. "Someone must," he said.

Text of a letter from Alexander Menshikov dictated to Nikolai Dmitreivich Urusov, to Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, delivered by personal courier.

To the respected Hungarian, Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, presently living in the Foreign Quarter of Sankt Piterburkh, the greetings of Alexander Menshikov.

Hercegek Gyor,

I have given your request my consideration, and have decided to allocate the two-story barrack near the fortress wall for the use of Heer van Hoek and Ludmilla Borisevna Svarinskaya, with the provision that their care be extended to soldiers as well as work supervisors, and such merchants and foreign residents as may require it. As you warned me last week, the Swamp Fever is indeed worsening and the number of men requiring medical attention is on the rise, and unless a better care-house is constructed, the deaths from the malady will slow the rate of building demanded by Piotyr Alexeievich. So that the care-house may be put into service, I will require one of the staff of the care-house to take up residence in the unfinished barrack in order to instruct the workers in how the construction must be done to provide the staff of the care-house the best realization of their facilities. The sum you offered to defray the building expenses has been deemed acceptable, and should ensure the full cooperation of the workmen and carpenters assigned to the new care-house.

You are also authorized to build sleeping quarters in your stable, so that your horses, tack, carriages, and feed may be protected through the winter. Your coachmen and your messenger will be permitted to sleep there, so that they may execute their duties even in winter. Again, your munificent gift for the workmen should ensure a rapid completion of your new rooms to be prepared in the loft. It is most useful to realize that foreigners can comprehend the way in which projects in Sankt Piterburkh are accomplished.

I have spoken with the Metropolitan, and I agree that the remains of the unknown man found in the partially drained portion of the marsh near the treadmill-pump should receive proper burial, and to that end, I have arranged for the graves work-gang to inter what little has been found of the unknown man in the cemetery being established across the river from the fortress. None of the work-gang who found the bones will be held responsible for the death of the man, for, as you pointed out, the man died before the current work-gang was moved to this part of the marsh.

It is my intention to hold a banquet in ten days, and I hope you and your lovely wife will be able to attend. The Czar's Marfa Skavronskaya has expressed a desire for Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko's company on this occasion, and for your many charitable acts on behalf of this city, you will be most welcome as well. We will dine in as much magnificence as we can achieve here at this time. It is my hope that Czar Piotyr Alexeievich may be able to leave the siege at Narva and join these festivities.

The recent scandal of the replacement of the King of Poland, which was rife with bribery and corruption, may have impact upon you and the Ksiezna, but rest assured, no one in this city will oblige you to depart unless Stanislas Leszczynski should decide to recall you. That would be a foolish decision, for all the good-will you and the Ksiezna have achieved here. If it would be to your advantage, I would be willing to recommend to Stanislas that you and the Ksiezna be left in place here. I am planning to point out the benefits to both Russia and Poland that would result in having the two of you, and your household, remain at least through the winter. I will dispatch a courier to Poland by the middle of September, so that the message will be delivered before winter stops all ships in the Baltic.

In appreciation for your generosity and excellent conduct, I remain

Most sincerely,

Alexander Menshikov

at Sankt Piterburkh, August 30th, 1704

all but the signature by the hand of Nikolai Dmitreivich Urusov

9

With a melting sigh Zozia beckoned to Saint-Germain, offering with it a tantalizing smile. "You've been wonderful, Grofok, watching after me as you do. You might be born to the manner, you do it so well. Before you move to the new care-house tomorrow, let me thank you properly for your service." She purred a laugh at her jest as she loosened her pale-pink taffeta wrapper and lay back on the bolster at the top of her bed. "It's almost midnight. We might as well have the house to ourselves; everyone else is asleep. No one will pay any attention to what we do."

Saint-Germain was still in his mallard-blue satin knee-britches, silver leg-hose, and silver-buckled shoes, but his mallard-blue embroidered coat and honey-colored damask waistcoat were set aside in his portion of the bedchamber, and he wore only his ecru-silk chemise above his waist. "What is the reason for thanks, that you choose to express it this way?" The room was stuffy, the result of a warm and humid day, but neither he nor she paid any attention.

"Surely you know," she said provocatively.

"I cannot guess," he told her, keenly aware that she wanted him to succumb to her blandishments, and that thanks was just an excuse to lure him.

"Why, for your giving up your part of the bedchamber for my brother's use during his stay," she said, trying to maintain her seductive display. "That was quite a sacrifice to make for me. I want to show you I know how much you've done for me." Behind this gentility there was the suggestion of imperativeness that reminded Saint-Germain that Zozia saw herself as the master of their mission, and entitled to require compliance from him.

"That is hardly a sacrifice, since I have already agreed to occupy the new care-house while it is being finished; you and I do not share a bed in any case."

"No, we don't."

He could see the scowl that flittered across her features, to be replaced with a smile. "You have nothing to thank me for, Zozia."

She stretched sinuously, trying to show him the richness of her body. "Then why not enjoy our chance for passion? Can't that be reason enough?"

"This one last time," he suggested. "Before I go to the new care-house."

"Until my brother leaves. Yes. We will not be able to share our bodies while Benedykt is here, for he would believe that Arpad is being dishonored if he suspected that anything was passing between us. He's a stickler for appearances."

"By the terms you have set down for our enjoyment of each other, nothing is passing between us." He did not mention the small amount of blood he took from her when she was at the culmination of her passion; it was the emotion that nurtured him more than the blood itself, and he valued the fleeting intimacy she provided in those rare moments. He was aware he would have to tell her about his true nature and its requirements, but not now--there would be a better time for that, to explain that this fifth time together would be the last time their desires would be safe for her. He only said, "Yet you can take advantage of this night, if you decide you want to--"

She moved quickly, seizing his arm and pulling him down beside her. "Of course I want to," she murmured before she pressed her open lips on his and squeezed the luxurious sumptuousness of her body to his, turning her amplectance to an emphatic demand, with all her physicality set afire by the anticipation of what he could do to pleasure her. When he tried to pull back from her, she became more forceful in her pursuit, renewing her kiss and holding his arms more tightly so that he could not break away from her. "It will be at least two months that we won't be able to act on our appetites, perhaps not until spring, if Benedykt remains longer than the middle of autumn. The last ships should be gone by the end of October, if not sooner."

"That is what the sailors say," Saint-Germain conceded. "Once the ice starts to form, it will be safer for the ships to moor out in the river, and to remain there until the ice from Lake Ladoga has broken up and come down to the sea."

"Yes, everyone says that," she said, reaching for one of his hands and sliding it into her wrapper and onto her breast. "Then let's make the most of our opportunity. This is a good place to start."

He knew that much of her ardor came from taking command of his love-making, so he complied with her requirement, caressing and gently kneading her pliant flesh until he could feel her nipple rise. He untied the wrapper and let it fall open, and extended his attentions to her other breast as he stretched out beside her, close enough to feel the whole range of her response, but not so close that she would need to resist his nearness.

"You know the very thing I want," she whispered to him. "You do everything I like and nothing I don't like, and that is more delicious than what most men are willing to do. I wish my husband had your sensitivities. He only wants to spend himself as abruptly as he can."

"Not all men have an inclination for pleasing women, and for such men I apologize," said Saint-Germain, bending to kiss her shoulder, the voluptuous rise of her breasts; as her breathing deepened, he flicked her nipples with his tongue and followed that with kisses delivered slowly and luxuriously to her breasts, sensing the deepening arousal that ignited the sensuality banked within her so that she gave herself over to the exaltation of abandon that coursed through her. She tried to tell him how much pleasure she felt, but no words seemed adequate.

Caught in the thrilling excitement that he drew from her, Zozia wriggled to open all her body to him, urging him in an under-voice, "Don't take so long. I want to plunge into the carnal spasm as soon as I can. I must have my satisfaction. You don't have that release, so you can tune yourself to my melody."

"There is no reason to rush. You will have greater fulfillment if you are willing to take time arriving at your apogee of satisfaction. You will have a greater liberation of your senses if you let your body arrive at the point without urging." To demonstrate his assertion, he slowed his fondling and gave her a long, evocative embrace that stimulated her flesh from her neck to her knees, leaving her breathless and wild-eyed. Again he stroked her body, starting at her face, then down her neck, over her breasts and abdomen, employing a wide range of touching in order to provide the most awakening possible.

"You never did that before," she murmured, her body thrumming with the enhanced pleasure. "Why did it take you so long to--"

"You did not seek it until now," he told her gently as he at last eased her thighs apart.

"Tell me how you know these things." Her order was unsteady, and she shivered in anticipation of more rapture to come.

He wondered if he should tell her the truth: that he had learned her from tasting her blood, and decided that she would not believe him. "Your body is like a fine instrument, one I am learning to play. You teach me how you like to be sounded."

"You are willing to learn of me," she said, her eyes luminous.

"How else am I to bring forth your sweetest harmonies?" He kissed his way down her body until she took two or three sharp breaths.

"Not yet," she protested.

"No, not yet," he agreed. "This is just the start of your fulfillment." He slowed down his munificent caresses. "You need not be precipitate in your gratification."

"If you can discern that, you are a most accomplished musician." She trembled as he touched the little kernel at the top of her nether-lips; it jumped in answer to his feather-light stroking. "What instrument responds to such playing?"

He smiled. "The viola d'amore," he told her, and felt her hushed chuckle. "It makes such sweet music, and is so melic for those who play it."

"If the musician is talen--" She inhaled sharply as he slid two fingers into her, still taking his time, seeking out the sites of her greatest transports. He kissed her face, her breasts, then her throat, never hurrying, matching the intensity of his love-making to her rising need. This was better than anything he had done before, and she wanted to hurry to her completion of this joyous delirium even as she wanted to prolong the ecstasy that was building within her. Suddenly she jolted as the first moment of unloosened sensuality began, to be followed by another, and another, the intensity of which diminished slowly, leaving her replete, all passion spent. Gradually she released him, aware that she had been straining to hold him tightly to her, one of his hands caught between them until she moved far enough to allow him to extract it and to lift his head from her neck. She floated on the last vestiges of her delectation, then whispered, "That was wonderful. I'm going to miss having you here."

"You do not want to have any trouble with your brother, do you, Zozia," he said, thinking that Zozia had it in her to flout convention and dare her brother to accuse her of bad conduct. "You have your mission to consider."

"And so do you," said Zozia. "We'll have to remain in close contact, Grofok, but not as close as we have been, more's the pity."

Saint-Germain moved a little farther away from Zozia. "Do you want to disappoint the King?"

"Of course not. We both have our work to do." She reached for the closing sash on her wrapper and pulled it across her body. "It's just that I'm sorry to have to give up your company." She lowered her gaze. "When my husband returns, I know I'll feel the loss of your ... understanding."

Zozia's avowal made Saint-Germain uneasy. He prepared to rise, his attention fully on her. "I will have my belongings moved by mid-day tomorrow. You will not have to endure any confusion on my account."

"Having you gone will be inconvenient, but it is necessary to--Not that I don't love my brother, but he believes it is his right and duty to direct me in everything I do." Petulance had crept into her tone, and she frowned in spite of the ragged laughter that punctuated her statement. "He doesn't think that I can find my way in life without him, or Arpad, to guide me. He prides himself on his position within the family. Furthermore, he expects to have his efforts and opinions respected."

"That must vex you," said Saint-Germain as he got to his feet. "If it would not put you in an unfavorable light with your brother, I would remain. But you have already said you would be held in his contempt."

"He knows about your pose, of course," said Zozia, "but you may find him trying to seek out as much information as he can in regard to my work here."

"He will hear nothing to your discredit, at least not from me," Saint-Germain assured her. "As for the servants, you have an impersonation to maintain; their gossip is part of your ruse."

"I'll try to convince Benedykt of that." She clicked her tongue. "I hope he'll understand."

"If he has any comprehension of your task, he will." Saint-Germain bent and kissed her lightly on the mouth. "Get some rest. You have a very busy day ahead."

She caught his hand in hers. "Do you have to go?"

"Tonight?" he asked.

"Tomorrow. You have many items to move, but can't you leave Hroger to attend to it? Benedykt isn't here yet."

"I could," Saint-Germain allowed. "But it would not be considerate. To have me leave upon his arrival will have a very suspicious appearance--rumors would fly that your brother has arrived to protect you, and that we have separated as a result of your family's disapproval."

She considered this, then sighed. "Of course. This way you are being of service to me and my brother, and the gossip will reflect that."

"Especially if you say how grateful you are that I have been willing to make my move to the care-house at so provident a time." He slid his fingers lightly along her shoulder. "You can turn this to good account."

She nodded slowly, ruminating; the cathedral clock struck one, which brought her out of her contemplation. "And what about Saari? Do you plan for him to remain in the stable with Gronigen?"

"Would you prefer he left? I can put him to work in the care-house if you find his presence unacceptable. But you may want to have him here, so he can be your messenger and guard." He lifted his brow speculatively. "Why not think it over and tell me in the morning what you have decided."

She looked away from him. "I'll do that," she told him, and pulled the summer-weight comforter over her, paying no more attention to him.

Saint-Germain went into his part of the bedchamber, trying to make up his mind about Zozia's expectations. While he reflected on her character, her marked tendency to believe in her own scenarios that anticipated events in her life, and her great disappointment when her prospects were unmet, he went about packing his smaller belongings into cases. He undressed and slipped into his chamber-robe, securing the three frogs down the right side of the garment of Hungarian cut in deep-red silk twill. As he took off his shoes, he could feel the power of the night sink into his ancient veins. Finally he sat down on his bed, deciding to rest for an hour or two. Stretching out, he was soon in the stupor that passed for sleep among those of his blood.

Shortly after dawn Saint-Germain was up again and dressed in his most practical clothing--a long leather coat the color of autumn leaves over chestnut knee-britches in heavy linen with an ecru chemise and high riding boots. By the time Hroger came to shave him, he was busy finishing the last of his packing.

"I've told Gronigen to use your carriage to carry your belongings to the new care-house," said Hroger in Imperial Latin. "The rest of the house is just starting to stir. In half an hour, breakfast will begin."

"Gronigen will have to bring the carriage and horses back to the stable here," said Saint-Germain in the same language. "There's no provision for keeping a pair and a coach at the care-house."

"It's all arranged, my master." Hroger put down his basin, prepared his brush and razor, then draped a towel over Saint-Germain's shoulders and under his chin.

Saint-Germain gave a faint, abashed smile. "I need not have wondered. I meant nothing to your discredit."

"I'm aware of that." He worked a froth on the bar of soap, then spread it on Saint-Germain's face; he reached for the razor and began working up Saint-Germain's neck, then along his jaw and his cheeks, his upper lip and chin. "This should do for another week. You're fortunate that your hair grows so slowly."

"Yes, and that you can see what you are doing; my lack of reflection is a nuisance."

"Dangerous as well," said Hroger. "It's the sort of thing that servants are likely to notice."

Saint-Germain went very still. "Has there been something--"

"Last night Salomea remarked that she had noticed that she couldn't see you in the Ksiezna's mirror when you walked behind her." Hroger paused. "I said it was probably an angle of the light. She said that it might be possible, but she hadn't seen such an alteration before. She's put the whole staff on alert."

"Then it is just as well that we are moving to help finish the care-house." He rubbed his face. "Do you think anything more is needed?"

"I think that the least said, the better; let the servants speculate." said Hroger, and changed from Latin to Russian. "The Ksiezna is still asleep, so perhaps we should wait until she's awake to move your things out of this part of the room. I will have Gronigen and Saari load up the trunks from the stable and take them to the care-house as a first load. They will be back here by ten o'clock if they start in the next hour."

"Take my red-lacquer chest in the first load; make sure it stays upright in the carriage. It has my medicaments and supplies; if the chest falls over, many vials and jars will break." Saint-Germain paused. "And the second chest, with my preparatory equipment--that should go in the rear compartment on the second floor." It contained all his alchemical apparatuses except an athanor; the alchemical oven was too cumbersome to put in a chest and carry. "I will have to discover whom to bribe to get the bricks I need to make my--"

"I know," said Hroger, cutting him off in case they were being overheard. "You will want one for your work with medicaments."

"That I will," said Saint-Germain, listening to the sound of Narkiss firing up the stove.

"Then I'll be going out to the stable shortly." Hroger gathered up his shaving equipment and left quickly and quietly, leaving Saint-Germain to look into the chest-of-drawers in order to select clothing for the next two days, until all his goods could be moved.

By four in the afternoon, the carriage had made three trips to and from the care-house, leaving Saint-Germain's side of the partition in the bedchamber empty of everything but a wash-stand and a bedstand on which an oil-lamp was placed. Saint-Germain looked around the room, then went to Zozia's side of the partition. "I think everything has been moved out of my side," he said to her as she sat in front of her dressing-table, contemplating her reflection in the glass while Salomea brushed her hair; he was careful to stand in such a position that he could not readily be seen in the mirror.

"Good. Then I assume you will spend the night at the care-house?"

"I will, since my bed is there, and so will Hroger. Gronigen and Saari will bring the coach and horses back shortly," he said with a bow.

"They will be welcome to their bunks in the stable, and their place at the table for meals." Zozia said this as much for Salomea's benefit as for any misunderstanding Saint-Germain might have. "You have much work to do, I gather, before the care-house can be fully moved."

"That we do. Tomorrow morning, joiners are coming to install cabinets, shelves, counters, and drawers, and I am expected to tell them where they are to be placed."

"All part of finishing the place." She kept up a manner of determined optimism, but Saint-Germain was aware of her dissatisfaction.

"There are double-pane windows to install, and an interior antechamber off the front door, so that no infection can easily get out." He bowed again. "I plan to be back when your brother arrives. You will have word from the harbor when the Apollo is approaching. You need only send for me, and I will be glad to join you here, or at any place you stipulate."

"You are most accommodating, as always," said Zozia. "I thank you for taking the time to settle our housing arrangements before he arrives. As you say, it makes things less awkward."

He could see that Salomea was listening, so he said more than he had at first intended to, assuming she would pass on whatever she heard. "Your brother has a delicate mission here, as you do, so it is fitting that the two of you should spend your private time together, going over the goals of your missions, as they are now redefined. You are in a unique position to guide him through the Foreign Quarter, and to make him known to the Residents and Embassies here."

She smiled enough to show that she appreciated his extra information. "It is what Poland expects." Her face became expressionless. "I am still shocked that Augustus II has been set aside in favor of Stanislas Leszczynski."

"Well, Stanislas is a Pole, and Augustus a Saxon," Saint-Germain remarked.

"True enough, although Stanislas is more corrupt than Menshikov," she said. "Still, Stanislas has extended my mission here, although his goals are somewhat different than Augustus' have been. I hope Benedykt will be able to tell me how I am to proceed." She pouted, but not as prettily as usual.

"Tell me what I am to do, since I have received no orders from Stanislas," said Saint-Germain. "I remain at your service, you know."

She flashed him a brilliant, insincere smile. "Always so well-mannered," she approved, flipping her hand. "Still, you have no new assignment that I know of. You might as well get to your new house. The household here will be dining in an hour, and by then, you will want to have a fire in the stove at the care-house."

"No doubt you are right," he said, coming to the side of her dressing-table and bowing to her; he could see Salomea glance in the mirror to try to find his reflection. He stepped back. "I will call on you tomorrow, and hope you will have news of your brother's arrival." He kissed her hand, which she had extended to him.

"You will be pleased to know him, Hercegek."

"It is my hope," he concurred politely. "In any case, let me know what you require of me then, as I suspect there may be some things I can do for you that have not yet occurred to you. Send me word when you have use of me."

She lilted a laugh at him. "How gallant you are."

He put his hand on his breast just under the elaborate knot of his neck-cloth. "It is because of you, Ksiezna." Then he turned and left, going out of the house and walking back toward the care-house, a freshening wind serving as a reminder that autumn was coming. He took note of the traffic on the street, surprised at how much it had increased since May. Taking care to look for the man who had been following him, Saint-Germain was unable to make him out in the confusion of sailors, workmen, servants, and foreigners; he walked a little faster, taking comfort in the busyness of the streets, for surely no one would risk attacking him with so many others about. He patted the skirt-pockets on his coat, feeling the francizca tucked into each; these small, expertly balanced throwing axes had proved valuable many times in the past. He lengthened his stride and kept on toward the care-house, trying not to watch around him too obviously.

The incomplete care-house was at the edge of the Foreign Quarter, a large rectangular box of a building, with six windows facing the street and six facing the rear of the house. All had the outer window-panes in place, but only three of the windows had their interior panes. The building was eerily silent, for the work-gangs had gone off for their evening meal. In the declining sunlight, the windows glowed as bright as lava, and the newly cut thick boards showed the marks of saws and hammers. Saint-Germain tapped on the door, waited, and tapped again, and heard the sound of Hroger's approach. Taking a last look around the street, he caught a glimpse of a man in a wide-brimmed Dutch hat and a simple coat half a block away, but a heavily laden wagon loaded with cut logs came down the street toward the newest buildings, and he lost sight of the fellow.

"My master," said Hroger as he held the door open. He carried an oil-lantern in his hand and placed it in the alcove above the door. "Come in. We have the place to ourselves tonight."

"Very good," said Saint-Germain, closing the door behind him as he entered the main room.

"Your chests and trunks are on the second floor, and they're in the rear room you selected." He pointed to the thick tiles on the far side of the room. "The stove will be brought in two days, I'm told. Until then, there is no heat."

"An inconvenience, not a real problem," said Saint-Germain, looking about to see the way the rooms were being framed. "This work-gang isn't Russian, by the way the walls have been set up."

"Livonian, or so their supervisor tells me," said Hroger. "They built barracks for the Swedes and that's why they've been put to work doing the same thing here. They've almost finished the stairs--there are no bannisters or railings yet, but the risers and treads are in place." He nodded toward the staircase half-way down the room. "It's well-supported, and should be enough to allow heavy loads to be carried up."

"In a care-house, that is almost necessary." Saint-Germain sniffed, smelling the sharp, distinctive odor of pine. "When do they panel the walls, did they tell you?"

"No later than five days," said Hroger. "There are sixty of them, and they know what they're doing." He continued on to the stairs and led the way up them. "The room we have reserved for your use? I have set up your bed and installed a trestle-table for you. Your chest-of-drawers is in place, and your wardrobe--fortunately it is a small one--and the other chests are stacked against the outer wall, under the window. The door will be in place in a few days, and the paneling."

"All to the good. What of Ludmilla Borisevna and Heer van Hoek?"

"They are packing their supplies now and by day after tomorrow they will bring all their things that they can here, and as soon as the two care-rooms are finished, they will transfer their patients. That should take about a week." He looked around the main room of the second floor. "The carpenters are making two rooms on the opposite side of this floor for them--Ludmilla Borisevna and van Hoek. This main room should be reserved for surgery and setting bones, or such is my understanding."

"A good idea," Saint-Germain approved. "Van Hoek will be relieved. He was afraid he would have to remove limbs where patients could see him do it, which would distress them all, and could lead to all manner of disruptions. Such things are more upsetting to watch than to do, and they are unpleasant necessities."

"As is true of so many things," said Hroger. He found an oil-lantern hanging on a hook near the top of the stairs, and used flint-and-steel to light it. "This should be a reminder that this place is occupied."

"Assuming we want to do that," said Saint-Germain wryly.

Hroger shook his head. "Well, those who have been watching you know you're here; it's the street-gangs we want to warn. They like empty buildings, not inhabited ones."

"And you, old friend--where is your place?"

"In your medicaments room, of course. I will have a bed and a closet, which will suffice. It will also keep the curious from exploring your laboratory." He very nearly chuckled. "Do you remember that impetuous footman in Bohemia, not quite a hundred fifty years ago? The poor boy almost collapsed when he saw your laboratory there."

"Things might not go so well here," said Saint-Germain. "You are right, as always, to take precautions."

"It is also convenient," said Hroger. "This way I can eat in private and not have to answer questions as to why I take only uncooked meat."

"That is a good plan," said Saint-Germain. "How many house-servants has Menshikov allocated to our use here?"

"I haven't found out yet. Kyril Yureivich brought a note from Ludmilla Borisevna today saying that she has been told that her request is being evaluated."

"Whatever that means," said Saint-Germain. "She's asked for twelve--I suppose you know," Hroger remarked. "Since you'll be paying their upkeep."

"It is probably the best we can hope for," said Saint-Germain. "We will have thirty beds to start with, and even with Kyril and van Hoek's man, twelve is barely an adequate number."

"Do you think you'll be granted the twelve?" Hroger asked, starting back down the stairs.

"I hope so," said Saint-Germain. "I paid a high enough bribe for them."

Text of a letter from Klaus Demetrius Krems, in Dresden, to Ferenz Ragoczy, Grofok Saint-Germain, in Sankt Piterburkh, in care of Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, written in code and delivered on September 13th, 1704.

To the most respected Ferenz Ragoczy, Grofok Saint-Germain, the greetings of Klaus Demetrius Krems, on behalf of Augustus II, former King of Poland.

My dear Grofok,

As you are most certainly aware, the imposture you have undertaken with Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, has been extended by order of Stanislas, recently elected King of Poland. Orders have been dispatched to the Ksiezna enjoining her to continue her work, and to include you in her mission, an arrangement that is simple enough for her, but difficult for you, in that your risk is greater than hers; she is a spy, you are an impostor. It is with that in mind that Augustus wishes me to ask you if you would continue your reports to me--the last two have been most valuable--on much the same terms as before. My one reluctance, and the reluctance is genuine, is that the aims of Poland and the aims of Augustus may not be always in accord now that Augustus no longer rules there, and the resultant cross-purposes may increase the risk to you for continuing your efforts on his behalf.

Send word as soon as you can as to your decision; I sincerely hope you will be inclined to continue on as you have been, and for the rest of the year: I will assume for now that you are willing to do this, for if you decide to leave Sankt Piterburkh, you will want the license of Augustus to accomplish it. In case we cannot have direct contact again until spring, I am instructed to send you the thanks and high regard of Augustus, and his assurance that his gratitude will not be lacking when next you meet.

May God guard and keep you.

Your servant to command,

Klaus Demetrius Krems

confidential secretary to Augustus II, formerly King of Poland

August 6th, 1704

10

The first floor of the new care-house was almost finished, and all but five of the beds were in place; most of those beds were already occupied by men in the grip of illness, and by nightfall, there would be three more patients to care for, according to the Watchmen who patrolled the levees and dykes where the work-gangs labored, and where the supervisors struggled to keep up with the demands of the Czar. Already there were isolated groups of tents in the drained part of the marshes where members of the work-gangs were sent when they became too ill to function--the stricken supervisors were brought to the care-house.

Little though anyone said so aloud, the whole of the populace of the new city was terrified of epidemic disease breaking out among the gangs, for surely once that happened no one would be safe. Dread hung over the Neva as surely as mosquitoes did, and stung as pertinaciously. The weather did not encourage hope for improvement: the last heat of summer lay over Sankt Piterburkh; the brassy sky reflected in the river and the standing water in the marsh; the air itself seemed enervated by the dreadful humidity. Activity lagged on this day, as it had for a week: validating the deepest fears of the populace, Swamp Fever was slowly spreading from the work-gangs to the other residents of the city even as the insistence for more and faster building was emphasized by the supervisors, who strove to get as much done as possible before the cold closed in.

"The Watchmen are coming shortly," said van Hoek to the five male nurses he and Ludmilla had received thus far: two were monks; the other three had served aboard ships as their crews' medical officers. All five men maintained stoic demeanors as the number of their patients increased. "The messenger said he has collapsed from his injuries, including a ragged puncture in his side." They were in the largest of the care-rooms, which just now was darkened by closed shutters and oppressively hot.

"More Swamp Fever, and a fall while sick, like Szymon Victrovich?" she said, sounding tired. "That is twenty-six we have seen and treated, and it's only mid-September." She turned toward the rear window. "I wish they would finish the out-buildings. We need a real mortuary, not just a rear porch, especially in this weather."

"Of those twenty-six, we've lost four, with two more failing," van Hoek said as if reciting a necessary but unpleasant fact. "So far."

"Will this be another?" Ludmilla asked. "How badly is he affected?"

"No; you misunderstood me, Ludmilla Borisevna. This one isn't Swamp Fever, for a change, or so the Watchmen's messenger reported. This one was injured when the dredging-barge was rammed this morning by the Danish ship while the fog was low," said van Hoek. "They say he's badly hurt."

"Broken bones, or worse," Ludmilla thought aloud.

"Worse, I fear. The messenger said the man had frothy blood coming from a tear in his side."

"That's dangerous, then. He shouldn't be around Swamp Fever, that may settle in his wounds and cause putrefaction." Ludmilla sighed, her face showing her worry. "Still, we must be ready to help him. The Hercegek is upstairs working on more medicaments. Shall I tell him we will need the surgery this afternoon, finished or not? I need to get some more of that tincture of willow-bark and pansy in any case."

It was a chore for Kyril Yureivich, but neither of them mentioned it. Van Hoek looked around the room. "Go ahead. Jascha and Klavdye will do your work for a short while."

To confirm this assurance, Jascha and Klavdye both said, "Da," and went on offering small cups of lemon-flavored water to the men in the beds.

"There--you see?" Van Hoek motioned her out of the room. "Go up to the Hercegek and tell him what is coming. Tell him I'll join him as soon as the patient arrives."

"I will," she said, wiping her hands on the apron she wore over her European clothes. She hurried up the stairs, taking care not to risk getting splinters in her hands from the unsanded railing. As she reached the top of the flight, she saw four carpenters working on the surgery area, their iron-cored leather mallets hammering out a regular rhythm tap-POUND, tap-POUND, tap-POUND, like the steady beating of hearts. Ludmilla averted her face as she went into the side-room where Saint-Germain had set up his laboratory, and found him with Hroger filling up a book-case.

"Ludmilla Borisevna," said Saint-Germain, turning at the sound of her footsteps. He wiped his hands on a length of cotton that was draped over the end of a small trestle-table. "What may I do for you?"

"We have an injured man being brought in. He's probably going to need to have bones set and may need some kind of surgery, as well. Heer van Hoek can tell you more; he received the report from the messenger." She spoke quickly, but with the kind of certainty that kept her from sounding too hasty. "From the messenger's report, his lung may be damaged."

"That's unfortunate," said Saint-Germain. "How soon will he be here?"

"As soon as he can be brought here," she answered. "My guess would be in less than an hour."

"Then we should make ready now." He motioned to Hroger. "If you will ask the carpenters to come in here and work on filling the space between the outer walls and the paneling with packed sawdust? That way van Hoek can attend to the man without distraction, and the carpenters need not witness what the injured man requires to have done."

Hroger put down the stack of books he carried. "I'll attend to the mattress," he said at his unflustered best. With a nod he left the room.

"All right," said Saint-Germain. "I will go in as soon as the carpenters are out of the place and put a thin mattress on the surgery-bed, and set out the tray for Heer van Hoek's use."

"Thank you for attending to it so quickly." She stared at him. "You know how to treat these sorts of injuries, don't you? You've treated them before, not just studied them."

"I have some experience along such lines, yes," he said, curious to know what was on her mind. "I learned most of what I know in Egypt, some time ago." He had learned many things during his centuries at the Temple of Imhotep: treating injuries was among them.

"So you've mentioned," she said, still concentrating on him as the carpenters filed into the room, their supervisor bringing a wheelbarrow filled with packed sawdust. "Should we leave this to them?"

"It is probably for the best." He bowed her through the door, saying as he did, "Have you had your mid-day meal yet, Ludmilla Borisevna?"

"There hasn't been time," she said, noticing that Hroger was already putting the surgery room into as much order as he could achieve.

"You would be wise to make time. You must protect your health if you are to care for the sick. Have a bowl of strong broth with marrow within the hour, and take a dish of tea with it." He picked up a stiff-bristled broom and began to sweep away the chips and shavings that remained on the floor. "We do not want a bad footing."

She made a gesture of agreement. "A good precaution." She saw that Hroger had slipped away. "He has other work you require?"

"He is getting a mattress for the surgery-table," said Saint-Germain. "An injured man needs something softer than bare boards to lie upon." He patted the surgery-table, not wanting to add that the mattress would soak up more blood than planks could do. "This will be ready in ten minutes."

"I'll inform Heer van Hoek, and then I'll go heat some strong broth with marrow. I haven't much of an appetite, but I'll eat." She remembered to curtsy before she hurried back down the stairs.

"She's wearing herself out with work," said Hroger as he pulled in one of the rolled surgery-mattresses. "You can see it in her face."

"I know," said Saint-Germain, taking the mattress from Hroger and spreading it on the surgery-table.

"She values what you tell her," Hroger went on in his indirect manner.

Saint-Germain said nothing in response to that. "We'll need the silk twine, the curved needles, the magnifying lens, the irrigation syringe, the Blue Lotus ointment for numbing the skin, and two vials of syrup of poppies, to stop the man's pain."

"Very good," said Hroger, and went off to fetch them.

Fifteen minutes later, Heer van Hoek came up the stairs, pulling on his long smock as he climbed. "Hercegek, thank you for doing this." He removed his wig and hung it on a wooden peg near the stairs.

"It is part of my duties here, I believe." Saint-Germain had already donned his smock and handed his wig to Hroger; he finished tucking up the ruffles at his cuffs, and said, "If you would like my assistance, it is yours to command."

"You appear prepared," said van Hoek. "You might as well remain, in case the injuries are severe. If there is a bad break in a bone, both of us will be needed to set it."

Saint-Germain pointed to his tools. "Would you want to use any of these?"

"I have my own, thank you," said van Hoek, indicating a rolled leather case lying at the end of the surgery-table; he was showing more signs of nervousness as he studied what he had brought with him. "Not that you don't have an excellent collection. Where did you get them? Padova?"

Although he had been at the Universita there in the past, most recently before his voyage to the Audiencia de Peru about sixty years ago, he had acquired the surgical tools over a number of centuries and in a number of places including Padova. "As well as Bologna, Praha, and Alexandria," he answered.

"That's right--you're widely traveled, aren't you?" Van Hoek was beginning to look nervous; he cracked his knuckles and started to pace.

"I have been about a fair part of the world," Saint-Germain answered. "I hope I am sufficiently prepared," said Saint-Germain, hearing the door open below, and a hurried conversation before the footsteps of at least three persons indicated that the Livonian Watchmen were bringing the injured man up to the surgery-room; their efforts were accompanied by slow, persistent moaning.

The lead Watchman was showing his teeth, his breath coming heavily, a look in his eyes that hinted at his distress about the man he and his two comrades carried on the pallet. The man they bore had a sheet thrown over him, much of it stained red; blood dripped off the ends of the sheet, leaving a trail of droplets, and the metallic odor of blood surrounded the man. The Watchman looked around the surgery-room. "Where--?"

"Here. On the table," said van Hoek. "Lift him up and roll him off."

"I don't think that's a good idea," said one of the Watchmen in Swedish. "He's in pretty bad shape."

"I'll help you," Saint-Germain volunteered in the same language. "If you raise the pallet, then I'll do what I can to shift him without rolling." He had learned that trick almost three thousand years ago, during his centuries in Egypt.

The three Watchmen grunted as they strove to lift the pallet, trying to keep it level. At last they had it as high as their waists, and that was about all they were able to do. The Watchmen were sweating, muscles straining, one of them pale with fright. "No higher," said the lead Watchman.

Saint-Germain stepped in next to the pallet, and in a quick, powerful move, slipped his arms under the injured man and, as if swinging an armload of grain-sacks, shifted him onto the surgery-table. As he withdrew his arms, the sleeves of his smock, and its front, came away red. "All right. You may put the pallet down."

The lead Watchman stared at Saint-Germain. "The man's no lightweight, but you--"

"It depends on rapid, steady movement. It is not as hard to do as it looks." For living men, it was harder, but he kept this observation to himself.

The Watchmen regarded him uneasily, but their leader only said, "Foreign tricks, that's what it is."

"Of course." Saint-Germain paid no attention to the blood on his clothes as he leaned over the man and pulled back the sheet. He froze, seeing the color of the man's face and the lacerations that began just below his shoulder and ran down his left side to the middle of his thigh; the deepest wounds were in the side of his torso, where the blood that welled was frothy and pink, a sure sign that the lung was damaged. There was nothing he or Heer van Hoek could do to save him: the physical damage was too catastrophic. He stepped back from the surgery-table and looked directly at van Hoek. "I have syrup of poppies--that will ease the pain."

"He's been shivering as if he were cold--in this weather," said the leader of the Watchmen, looking a bit pale himself.

The youngest of the Watchmen retched as he caught sight of the dreadful wounds. "I ... I must ... leave ..." With that he bolted down the stairs. His footsteps crossed the main room beneath and took him out of the care-house.

The remaining Watchmen looked sheepish. The leader cleared his throat, then said, "Do you need our services any longer? We have more men to remove from the ..." He made a vague motion of his hand to imply some service he anticipated providing.

"You mean there are more injuries?" van Hoek asked.

"None as bad as this one. Four men have drowned that we know of, but there may be more. The rest are nothing like this." He pointed to the man on the surgery-table.

"Will you need beds for anyone else downstairs? Should we alert the nurses?" Van Hoek tried to concentrate on the patient, taking up bandages and trying to deploy them about the body in an attempt to lessen his bleeding.

The Watchmen stood as far from the injured man as they could; they winced whenever the patient groaned or shuddered. Finally the leader said, "The others are work-gang men. They're not our concern. Their supervisors will have them removed to their camps."

Saint-Germain had filled a small cup with a cloudy amber liquid. "If he can get this down, it will ease him." He moistened a bandage and put it on the man's mouth, then poured a little of the syrup of poppies on it, and was relieved to see the man swallow. He added more to the bandage. "He will take this anodyne; that is to the good."

Van Hoek started wrapping the huge tear in the patient's side, working with determined haste. "I think the bleeding is slowing down."

"It seems that way," said Saint-Germain, and there was no hint of satisfaction in his tone. He gave the man more syrup of poppies.

The leader of the Watchmen bowed slightly. "Well, then, we'll leave. He's in your hands now."

The other Watchman muttered something about God, and left quickly, his leader not far behind him. Their pace increased down the stairs until they all but ran out the door.

They had been speaking in Russian, but now van Hoek changed to Dutch. "How much longer, do you think?" It was as if the departure of the Watchmen freed him to address the reality of the injured man's dying; his question was accompanied by an uncanny wail as their patient began to tremble from a seizure.

"Not long: fifteen, twenty minutes at most." Saint-Germain gently pressed the patient to keep him from falling off the surgery-table. Satisfied that the spasm had passed, he offered more syrup of poppies, making sure the man swallowed the thick liquid before offering more.

"Won't that hasten his death?" Van Hoek frowned his disapproval.

"By a few minutes, perhaps, but that changes nothing," said Saint-Germain. "At least he will not have to be in such agony as he has been."

Van Hoek nodded once. "You're probably right. With the greatest anatomists in Europe, this man could not have been saved. A punctured lung, and the hip looks shattered."

"He probably raised his arm to fend off the ramming ship, a useless gesture, but an understandable one," said Saint-Germain, as he looked over the wounds. "If he were not so torn up, I would recommend putting a blanket over him, to help him regain a little warmth, but he would not be able to stand the pain it would cause."

"I see that," said van Hoek. "Is he conscious enough for a confessor?"

"I doubt it; his eyes are glazed and he hears almost nothing," said Saint-Germain. "A priest would not be here in time, in any case. Do we know what faith he follows?"

"On a dredging-barge, he'll probably be Dutch, or English," said van Hoek. "Protestant, in any case."

"Or Scottish or Irish, and Catholic," said Saint-Germain.

Van Hoek shrugged. "As you say, there isn't enough time." He put his hands together and began the Lord's Prayer.

Saint-Germain provided another bit of syrup of poppies, and noticed that the patient hardly swallowed anything. He stepped away from the surgery-table, and poured the remaining syrup back into the vial from which he had taken it. This done, he wiped out the small cup and put it back with his other supplies. When van Hoek ended his prayer, Saint-Germain joined in the "Amen."

"Whom should we notify?" Van Hoek touched the man's neck, trying to determine if he still had a pulse.

"The supervisor on the dredging-barge, I would suppose," said Saint-Germain, his own, keen senses telling him that the man was slipping away into death.

There was a long, awkward pause, and then van Hoek drew the sheet back over the man. "Would you be willing to do that for me? I find such notifications distressing."

Saint-Germain took a moment to consider. "I will," he said, "providing I can find his supervisor." He glanced at the covered body. "Shall I also ask Jascha and Klavdye to come and move this?"

Van Hoek swallowed hard. "It would probably be best. Then this room can be cleaned, and the surgery-table mattress taken away. And the blood needs to be washed off the stairs." He heard someone coming up those stairs, and fell silent.

Ludmilla appeared in the stairwell. "Is it over?" she asked, crossing herself.

"Yes," said Saint-Germain. "I will go shortly to speak to this man's supervisor. I will find out who he was and what manner of burial he may require."

"In the meantime, he should be removed from this room and taken down to the rear porch to be washed and laid out," Ludmilla reminded them. "It isn't wise to keep bodies within doors when there is sickness in the air."

"True," said van Hoek. "Very well, then. As soon as the Hercegek returns from making the required notifications, we'll send Kyril to the burial work-gang and have him inform them to which cemetery he's to be taken." He leaned against his standing tray of surgical supplies, distress in every aspect of his being. "And there will be more--many more."

"Not like this one," said Saint-Germain.

"No--the Swamp Fever doesn't leave bodies so ravaged. But their numbers will rise before they fall." Van Hoek tightened his hands and closed his eyes. "We must prepare. We must prepare," he said, more to himself than to Ludmilla or Saint-Germain.

"So we must," said Saint-Germain, and raised his voice to summon Hroger. As soon as he arrived, Saint-Germain said, "Do we still have any of that solution that removes bloodstains?"

"Yes," said Hroger.

"Would you be good enough to make it available to Jascha and Klavdye?" He could see the concern in Hroger's eyes, and he added, "We will need a fire outside to burn the surgery-table mattress and the sheet. Bring another drape from my store of them, so the body need not lie under all that gore."

"It will stiffen, and stink," said Hroger, unwilling to present an optimistic view on the death. "For the sake of the other patients, the sooner he is moved, the better. At least a new drape will keep it fairly neat and make preparation for burial less unpleasant." Without waiting for dismissal, he went back into the room that would be Saint-Germain's laboratory to open the large wooden chest which contained all the medical equipment and supplies.

Ludmilla crossed herself again. "Your manservant spoke in kindness, of a sort, but it's still upsetting." Her steady gaze was directed on Saint-Germain and there were unshed tears in her eyes.

"We must become more accustomed to dealing with the dead," said van Hoek with a resigned apathy that he wanted to serve as a shield against what lay ahead. "Swamp Fever is going to keep providing bodies until the cold sets in, and then cough and ague will come, and we will have more men in our beds." He was doing his best to match Hroger's pragmatic tone, but his voice broke on his last words.

"I am aware of that," said Ludmilla.

"We will need to steady ourselves, not only to take care of the patients, but to keep ourselves from succumbing to despair." Van Hoek straightened up. "Despair can be as deadly as fever."

Saint-Germain had a sudden, intense memory of Nicoris and her suffering in her attempts to live as those of his blood must--how she had fallen into dejection and hopelessness, "Despair is a great killer," he agreed quietly.

"I have had the broth you recommended, and the marrow," Ludmilla said, aware that something more than their immediate conversation was bothering him, and wanting him to know that his skills were valued. "You are right--I have let myself become over-tired."

"Which is what we must avoid," Saint-Germain concurred. "If there is anything that will compromise the care we provide, it is exhaustion. I have seen it happen before." Every time those giving care lapsed into exhaustion, their ability to look after those stricken diminished and their own risk of becoming ill increased sharply. From Egypt to Siberia, from China to Mexico he had seen the pattern repeated, and he had come to understand how dangerous debilitation could be.

There was a long moment of quiet among the three, when the sound of the carpenters came through the walls, and the noise from the road outside penetrated the double-paned windows. Then, just as Hroger returned, Ludmilla said, "Then we must make a schedule for resting as well as work, not just for us, but for the nurses and the servants. If we all collapse, the Hercegek is once again right: we will lose our ability to give any care at all."

Hroger took the bloody sheet off the body and wrapped it in a long linen drape, working steadily and without any outward signs of repugnance. When the man was swathed, he said, "I'll go summon Kyril Yureivich to assist me; we'll carry him to the porch."

"No," said Ludmilla. "I'll go get him."

"You needn't," said Hroger.

"But I do need," Ludmilla countered. "This is my obligation, and it's my duty to act." She nodded to Hroger. "You're most helpful, but Kyril will want to receive his orders from me, especially when it comes to a body that isn't Russian."

Saint-Germain signaled to Hroger. "Why not go with her, so that you and Kyril may work out the best way to transport the dead man to the porch? Leave Jascha and Klavdye to tend the ailing in the main care-room."

The smile that Ludmilla offered was so genuine that Saint-Germain was surprised by it. "If you're willing to accompany me, Hroger, I would thank you for your help."

Hroger bowed. "I am at your service, Madame."

Ludmilla shook her head in polite disbelief. "To find a manservant who is also a gentleman." She started down the stairs. "I'll warn our monks that the body is coming. They'll want to make sure the lower floor is cleansed before another patient is admitted, so that death does not blight them all." As she descended, Hroger followed her down.

"Whatever they think best," said van Hoek as the two disappeared from view. "Much as I have reservations about the Orthodox faith, it is necessary that we accommodate the monks: we need their help and their good-will."

Thinking back to his discussion with the Metropolitan Matvei, Saint-Germain said, "The Orthodox Church has the final authority regarding the dead of Sankt Piterburkh. Not even the army can contravene an interment order from the Metropolitan. Once I establish the man's identity, I will file a report with the Metropolitan's office about the dead man, so that they may decide what the Church will accept."

"Russian Orthodoxy!--it is laden with traditions and rituals that are worse than the Catholics," said van Hoek with Protestant austerity. "But as we are guests here, we must comply with the customs of the country." He closed up his instrument case and unfastened the front of his smock and began to pull it off. "This should be burned. Yours as well."

"I'll see it's done," said Saint-Germain as he began to remove his smock, taking care not to brush his clothes with the drying blood that soaked into the smock.

"Before you notify the Metropolitan, let me know what you plan to tell him." Van Hoek dropped his smock on the floor. "I don't want this man to be neglected because he wasn't one of the Orthodox Christians, as has happened to others. And I don't want the care-house to come under his disapproval for mistreatment of the dead."

"I will," said Saint-Germain, thinking as he spoke that van Hoek's unease was more reasonable than he wanted to admit. He pulled his cuff-ruffles out of his sleeves and shook them, then he inspected the front of his clothes. "There seems to be a spot of blood on my neckcloth," he remarked.

"And no doubt on your leg-hose and shoes," said van Hoek. "I always find blood on my shoes after treating so much bleeding."

"Hroger will attend to it," said Saint-Germain, knowing he would be unable to clean the spot himself, lacking a reflection to guide him.

"How long do you anticipate being gone?"

"An hour, perhaps two," said Saint-Germain. "I will be as quick as possible." He decided to order Saari to fetch one of his horses, saddled and bridled, to lend him a little speed; earlier he had seen Saari patrolling the other side of the street.

"Keep your own advice in mind, Hercegek," van Hoek recommended. "Don't wear yourself out. You, too, need to be rested."

"I would like to be more ... restored," Saint-Germain admitted, and wished again there were women he could visit, unknown, in dreams. He went to get his wig, saying to van Hoek as he went, "I will send word if I am delayed more than two hours."

"Thank you," said van Hoek with an odd catch in his throat. "I confess I find such errands difficult."

"As do we all," said Saint-Germain, tugging his wig into place before setting out down the stairs to inform Ludmilla and Hroger of his plan, and then to summon Saari, to explain what the afternoon required.

Text of a letter from Mungo Laurie in Sankt Piterburkh to his wife, Hepzibah, in Edinburgh.

To my most sorely missed mouselet, my dear wife,

Beloved Hepzibah,

As much as I long to see you again, I can be grateful that you are not here just at present. Three days ago, the Danish ship Redeemer, lost in the fog, rammed into our dredging-barge, drowning nine men and injuring twenty-three. One of the men, Hamish Andrews, died as a result of his injuries. I have been occupied these last two days with making arrangements for his burial. There is a small Protestant cemetery at the far end of this island, and I am almost finished with the arrangements for his funeral, which of necessity will be simple; for the Russian Church limits the formalities approved for those not of their congregations, and there are only three Protestant clergymen in the city. I am informed that Andrews' coffin must be laden with stones, or there is a risk that it will pop out of the earth when the tide is high. Such things have happened before. The rising water is why so few buildings in this place have cellars of any kind: they flood.

I have been dealing with Harald Nyland, Graf Horsens, one of the Danes helping to create the harbor here. He has promised to negotiate with the Captain of the Redeemer regarding the level of repair the ship will need, and I will supply Nyland with information on the degree of repairs our dredging-barge needs. Between us, we should arrive at a settlement that will be fair to us all, and permit the dredging to continue until winter comes, as the Czar has demanded.

Speaking of the Czar, he and his associates are expected here within ten days. He has ordered a grand banquet and has invited more than a hundred guests--almost the entire Foreign Quarter. All the households in the city are scrambling to make sure there is sufficient food and drink for him and his Court. They say his capacity for eating and drinking is prodigious, and therefore his celebration may well exhaust the pantries of Sankt Piterburkh, not a comforting thought with winter coming.

The weather has broken at last, and instead of still, hot, damp days, there is now a sharp wind out of the northwest, and although the sun is warm during the day, it is becoming cold at night. Some of the sailors say there is a storm brewing, but they say that every time the weather changes. I mention this because I may not be able to send you letters for much longer this year. I should have at least one more chance to put a note in the hands of a Captain bound for Edinburgh before the ice comes, but if the autumn is stormy, I may have to wait until spring, or risk not getting it to you at all.

I have read your letter of May 10th, my mouselet, until it is almost in tatters. I see your writing, and I am overcome with missing you. I have already asked the Czar's deputy, the man Alexander Menshikov, if he could designate a house for me next spring, so I might bring you to this place and we will not have to be so long apart. I will be glad to have your nephew accompany you, for young as he is, he should not once again be cast upon the rest of your family as the orphan he is. Six may be young for a long voyage, but it is better to travel than to be abandoned.

If this is the last I can send to you this year, remember that you are in my thoughts every day, that I keep you in my prayers every night, that I long to embrace you, that I am yours to the end of the world.

Your devoted husband,

Mungo Laurie

September 21st, 1704

entrusted to Captain Arcangelo Montesque of The Star of Genova

11

Three new dock-side taverns and part of a warehouse had been turned into a reception hall and banqueting room for the Czar on this grand occasion of his return to his own city. It was two in the afternoon, and the day was bright enough, the sun's glare penetrating the thin veil of high clouds and turning the Neva into molten silver. Work on the harbor and the embankment went on in front of the guests, and laborers passed within an arm's-length of Piotyr Alexeievich's grand fete; the sounds of their labors carried into the celebration, at odds with the playing of the small orchestra. There were long tables set out in front of the warehouse, where the banquet was to take place, each manned by a staff of waiters, where a great number of fine viands ordered by the Czar from most of the household larders in the city were displayed: baskets of breads, tubs of apples and pears, stuffed hard-boiled eggs with shaved onions, tureens of pea-soup and fish-stew, platters of pickled beets on pickled beef, sliced cucumbers in vinegar and yogurt, cabbage-rolls stuffed with spiced lamb, oat cakes with pats of butter melting on them, roast boar on a standing spit, and on smaller spits broiled geese were ready for carving as soon as the Czar gave the order for his guests to eat. From the odors on the afternoon breeze, more foods were being cooked on the stoves of the taverns.

Marfa stood with the Czar and Alexander Menshikov at the entrance to the dock to welcome the new arrivals, Marfa in a grand toilette of embroidered faille in a soft, dark-rose shade, boned and corseted in the European fashion, with lavish skirts in matching taffeta, and covering petticoats of Belgian lace that matched the ruff at her open neckline and the cascades at her cuffs. The Czar, by far the tallest man in the gathering, was arrayed in blue-green satin coat and knee-britches; his waistcoat was buff damask and edged in gold piping. His chemise was ivory silk, as was his neck-cloth. By the way he was looking restlessly about the gathering, he was already bored. Menshikov had donned an ensemble of blue-gray satin with a waistcoat of silver embroidered with pearls, worn over a black-silk chemise with a neck-cloth of black lace. He had on an impressive English wig of ordered bright-chestnut curls. Unlike the Czar, he wore a profusion of rings over his fine, black kid-skin gloves.

Colonel Broughton waited in the reception line beside Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, and her brother, Benedykt Rozmowaslad, Ksiaze Radom; immediately behind him, Saint-Germain stood with Heer van Hoek and Ludmilla Borisevna. The whole line moved slowly as each guest sought to offer the Czar a compliment of some kind on the progress of his city, or to try to impart a kernel of information with the hope of securing a private audience while Piotyr Alexeievich remained here.

"What should I say to His Majesty?" Zozia asked coquettishly. She was in her most elaborate afternoon ensemble--a silk dress the color of lavender with knotted berry-colored ribbons around the corsage and a profuse skirt over a modified hoop. She wore a necklace of amethysts set in gold with earrings to match. Her satin shoes had delicate heels and buckles made of gold.

"Tell him as little as possible, nothing beyond what is courteous," her brother recommended. He was turned out in puce peau-de-soie knee-britches and coat, with a long waistcoat of rose velvet and a chemise of pale-blue linen. "Marfa will thank you for it later; she wants no competition for Piotyr's attentions."

"You're being cynical," said Zozia, adding, "I wish I had brought a parasol. The day is so shiny." She squinted along the line and made a gesture of irritation. "What does Theophilius Schaft have to say that takes so long?"

"Not that the Czar is listening, in any case," said Broughton. "Look at him. He's busy watching the men working on the embankment."

As if he had heard this complaint, Theophilius Schaft bowed and finally moved beyond the Czar and his two companions, and the line moved two steps forward.

"It's Nyland next," said Zozia. "He'll take his time."

"He has information to impart to Piotyr," said van Hoek, who had been listening to their conversation. "Since the dredging-barge was rammed, the work has gone more slowly, and he wants to set up buoys in the river, to avoid another collision: the Czar has to approve the buoys, and soon, or they will have to wait until spring to do it."

"This is hardly the place for making a report," said Benedykt. "You wouldn't do such a foolish thing, would you, min Heer?"

Behind Zozia and Heer van Hoek in line, Ludmilla turned to Saint-Germain. "Hercegek, there is something I have been meaning to ask you these last several days."

"What is it?" Saint-Germain asked, keeping his voice as low as hers. He was arrayed in blue-gray velvet with a waistcoat and leg-hose of black silk. His chemise was white and his neck-cloth edged in lace.

"You're a learned man, are you not?" She wore a handsome, European-style sacque-back dress in wheat-colored taffeta with a standing embroidered collar and full-length sleeves with a row of mother-of-pearl buttons from elbow to wrist.

"Reasonably so," he answered, his curiosity rising at her inquiry.

"You know many languages."

"A good number," he told her; over his long life he had learned more than a hundred of them.

"Are you willing to have me as a pupil?" she asked at a rush.

"Of what, Ludmilla Borisevna? What would you like me to do for you?"

She took a long moment to gather up her courage. "I would like you to teach me to read and write, not just in Russian, but in Dutch as well."

He was startled, but he held his surprise in check. "If that is what you want"--the line moved forward again--"then I would be honored."

She gave him an amazed look. "You will?"

"Of course," he answered. "We may have difficulty setting aside the time for lessons, but I will be delighted to teach you as much as you wish to learn for as long as I am in Sankt Piterburkh. With the work you do, reading and writing can be essential to preserving life. I think you are wise to learn Dutch, and the Roman alphabet."

"Spasiba," she whispered.

"No thanks are necessary," he assured her. "Only tell me when you want lessons, and I will accommodate you."

"As soon as the Swamp Fever is over," she said quickly, drawing on every consideration she had brought to making this request. "I won't have time to study until then."

Saint-Germain shook his head. "No, Ludmilla, you must not wait for opportunities. If you make lessons determined by work, you will not begin studying until the end of winter, if then, and you will have to adjust your education to the impositions of the day, and all continuity will be lost. No, Madame: choose a time and instruct the nurses and Kyril not to disturb you except in a true emergency." He glanced behind him, and gave a little bow to Graf von Altenburg, saying to Ludmilla as he did, "Tomorrow morning, let us agree on the time to be set aside."

"As you wish," said Ludmilla, knowing he was right in his caveats.

"It will suit your desires more satisfactorily," Saint-Germain said with a quick, encouraging smile, and turned to answer the greeting of the man in line behind him.

"I hope I see you well, Hercegek," von Altenburg exclaimed. "Half the world seems to be laid up in bed, thanks to this Swamp Fever."

"True enough, Graf. Fortunately, I have not succumbed to the disease." Nor would he; no disease had touched him since his death thirty-seven centuries ago.

"May you continue as fortunately," said von Altenburg. "It is most lamentable that the disease should be so pervasive while the Czar is here."

"Or at any time," said Saint-Germain. "Fever is never a good companion."

"How much longer do you anticipate it will continue?" von Altenburg asked, doing his best to conceal his worry.

"Another three weeks, perhaps four," said Saint-Germain. "I doubt it will continue once the weather turns." He moved ahead, keeping an eye on Zozia and Benedykt.

"I hope you're right. My cook and my driver are both suffering, and the work-gang putting in the new street has been decimated by the fever. The work has slowed down. I fear the rest of my household will not be safe from it."

"Would you like me to prepare a tincture for them? For those who have not become infected by the disease, to help them to resist contracting it? I will have our messenger carry it round to you." He saw Colonel Broughton bow to their hosts, very grand in his dress-regimentals, and begin to offer his effusive compliments in German.

"Would you? I'd be most grateful. I don't trust the remedies our houseman provides, and there is no one else in the household who has knowledge of herbs and medicines." Von Altenburg made a point of not eavesdropping on the conversation Colonel Broughton was having with the Czar; he glanced around as if to be sure he himself was not overheard. "You're most kind to do this."

"I am glad to be of service," said Saint-Germain, and saw that Zozia was about to make her curtsy; he turned his attention to her as he prepared to be presented, smoothing his coat and tweaking his neck-cloth.

"The Ksiezna Nisko, Majesty," said Menshikov. "Zozia is her name."

Zozia dropped a deep Court curtsy, her eyes lowered as she sank down. "Majesty," she said, not moving.

"Polish. Hungarian husband," said Piotyr abruptly. "Is this he?" He stared at Benedykt.

"Alas, Majesty, I am only her brother. The gentleman behind me is her husband." Benedykt offered a graceful flourish with his bow. "I am Benedykt, Ksiaze Radom, if it please the Czar. My credentials were presented to your comrade a week ago in anticipation of this happy occasion. It is my honor to serve Stanislas as his Resident, along with my sister. In that capacity, I extend the greetings of the King to you, and look forward to serving both Poland and Russia in days to come." He held out his hand to help his sister rise.

Zozia dared to look at Marfa. "It is most gracious of you to include me in your celebration, Madame."

Marfa's smile was wide and welcoming. "I am delighted to see you here, Ksiezna." She put her hand on Piotyr's arm. "This is the Polish lady of whom I've told you, Majesty."

Piotyr had been watching a work-gang sliding logs down the embankment to provide reinforcement to the retaining wall. "What did you say?"

"This is Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, O Joy of my Life. I have told you of her many kindnesses to me since I've come here. She has been unstinting in her attentions." She continued to smile. "You said you were grateful that such a generous woman was here to bear me company."

The Czar turned his prominent brown eyes on Zozia. "A pleasure, Ksiezna. And the same to your ...?"

"Brother," said Zozia patiently, reminding him, "My husband is behind me, Majesty, with the founders of the care-house where he presently resides, the better to aid the sick and injured."

Menshikov motioned Saint-Germain, van Hoek, and Ludmilla forward. "This is the Ksiezna's husband, Majesty. This is Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor and husband of Zozia."

Saint-Germain made a most respectful bow. "My felicitations to you on the progress of this city that bears your name."

Piotyr stared at Saint-Germain, then blinked slowly, like a satisfied cat. He touched his upturned mustache and spoke. "You are in a most disconcerting situation, aren't you, Hercegek?"

"In what way do you mean, Majesty?" Saint-Germain asked, sounding unperturbed.

"With Stanislas ruling in Poland and not my old friend Augustus, your position is very ill-defined. If you were Polish, it would be different, but you are Hungarian. You have no true position now beyond husband." He laughed abruptly. "No, I am wrong. You are the one who has built the three treadmill-pumps to speed the draining, aren't you?"

"I have provided plans and advice," Saint-Germain answered. "And aided in the construction when it was necessary."

"Very good," the Czar approved. "You will be useful for some time to come."

"And he has done much to assist at the care-house," said Menshikov.

Piotyr nodded. "A man of many parts." He looked past Saint-Germain. "And this is--?" He scowled directly at van Hoek.

Van Hoek bowed. "Physician-anatomist van Hoek."

The Czar slapped his head. "Of course! Yes, of course! I remember you. It is a pleasure to welcome you to Sankt Piterburkh. We met while I was in Holland. You agreed then to answer my summons when it came. And here you are!" He looked at Menshikov. "You allocated a barrack to him for his care-house, didn't you? That's the one you meant when you spoke of Arco-Tolvay, isn't it?"

"Yes, Majesty," said Menshikov. "It is the only care-house we have."

"A good thing, then, to move it to a barrack instead of a house. A prudent thing to have done, with the Swamp Fever everywhere. Next year, we must provide a second care-house for our people. I am told you're already over-crowded. I'll be sure you have relief by next summer." Piotyr put his big, lean hand on van Hoek's shoulder. "I applaud your efforts. We need more men of your quality here in Piter." He watched Ludmilla curtsy. "This is your assistant, then? The boyar's wife? I've heard much good about her."

Ludmilla listened to him with both satisfaction and dismay. "If you have heard things to my credit, I am flattered that you remember them." This had not come out as she had intended, and she tried to think of a better way to acknowledge his compliment. "Not that I expect that such minor service should be--"

"Rise, rise," said Piotyr. "You have a difficult task, haven't you?-- attending to the sick is a very demanding occupation."

"And a worthy task," she dared to correct him.

"Certainly," said the Czar. "But still a most exacting kind of work." He sighed. "We will speak of this later." He motioned the three to pass on and smiled at Graf von Altenburg. "And how is my Prussian friend?"

Ludmilla put her hand to her face as she moved away toward the far end of the dock. "How can I have made such a mull of speaking to him?" She could not bring herself to look at Saint-Germain or van Hoek.

"I doubt the Czar was offended," said van Hoek.

"I would wager he has heard others say similar things, so much so that he probably listens very little to what he hears during receptions like this one," Saint-Germain remarked as Zozia and Benedykt came up to them. "Van Hoek, you know my wife, do you not? And Zozia, you remember Ludmilla Borisevna?" He took Zozia's hand and kissed it. "How is your visit with your brother going, my dear?"

Zozia's laugh had a brittle edge to it. "Oh, it is always a joy to see my brother, even when he turns my life upside down."

Benedykt's frown came and went rapidly. "It is not surprising that she misses you, Arco-Tolvay. She reminds me daily of your virtues."

"As she has done for me with yours," said Saint-Germain, and earned a little chuckle for his efforts.

Behind him, van Hoek said, "Ludmilla Borisevna and I are going to get some lemonade. We'll return shortly."

Saint-Germain nodded. "Just as well to get out of the sun," he said, wishing he could do the same; even with his native earth lining the soles of his shoes, the combination of sunlight and the force of running water was enervating for him.

"You may think I am unreasonable," Zozia said archly, "but men, being what they are, are often more prized in their absence, when their daily failings aren't everywhere apparent." She looked around and saw Drury and Abigail Carruther going toward the open door to the tavern where wine, beer, and Russian spirits were being poured. "If you will excuse me, I must have a word with Missus Carruther." Without waiting for any formalities, she hurried away toward the English couple.

"How are things at the care-house?" Benedykt asked in Polish once Zozia was out of earshot. "We keep hearing about Swamp Fever. Is it getting worse, or are those dire tales only rumors?"

"It is increasing," said Saint-Germain.

"A good reason for you to remain at the care-house, then: that, and there's no room in my sister's house while I'm here." Benedykt folded his arms. "The Czar is right: with Stanislas King in Poland, you are in a difficult position. Just as well that you keep your distance from Zozia."

"And why do my difficulties please you so?" Saint-Germain asked in an even voice.

"They don't please me," said Benedykt, looking affronted. "Why would you say that?"

"Because you were smiling," said Saint-Germain.

"I am a diplomat--I am expected to smile." Benedykt continued to frown at him. "You don't understand our position here."

"How can I, when I have been told only to do as Zozia instructs me, and she tells me nothing? If Stanislas expects me to continue to assist your sister, he must suppose that we will have regular contact, and that I am well-informed on what the King desires." He noticed Hugo Weissenkraft headed toward them. "We can talk later. For now, we had best mingle among the guests."

Benedykt sighed. "It isn't as if we don't see one another every day, as part of being in this place. The city is more a small village, especially for the Foreign Quarter. Everyone lives in everyone else's pockets."

"But we do not see the Czar every day, nor do we have banquets like this one," Saint-Germain pointed out. "When Piotyr Alexeievich is here, this village is a world capital, and has been told to behave as such." He moved away from Benedykt and soon found himself near the entrance to one of the open taverns: inside perhaps thirty of the Czar's guests were drinking various liquids and trading bits of scandal and speculation to bruit about. He noticed a saturnine man in dark-brown silken twill cut dolman-style over full britches, with a fine wig from Vienna--Saint-Germain decided this must be the new Hungarian arrival he had been told about two days since. He wondered if he should introduce himself to the stranger, but remained where he was as Piotyr Alexeievich strode into the tavern, calling for beer.

"Best drink deep now. We're about to sit down at table. You can take your plates and fill them as soon as I have my beer and my first plate is readied." He clapped his hands and stood, arms akimbo, waiting for beer.

Half a dozen men surged toward the bar to get a tankard of beer for him, two of the men colliding and scuffling in their efforts to be the one to procure what the Czar wanted. They exchanged a few blows and discovered that Tarquin Humphries, the English shipwright, had beaten them to the prize and was now handing a large tankard to Piotyr.

Lifting his tankard, the Czar called out, "Let us drink to Sankt Piterburkh and its glory!" He took a long draft of beer, looking around to see that everyone had joined in the salute. "You!" he shouted, pointing at Saint-Germain. "You do not drink to this city?"

"I endorse the pledge with all my heart, Majesty," Saint-Germain said, feeling intensely uncomfortable. He wanted to find an excuse to leave before the Czar became angry. "But sadly, I am unable to join in the toast. Pardon me, and permit me to depart."

Piotyr's face darkened. "You will drink!"

"If I could, I--" Saint-Germain began, and felt the Czar's free hand come down on the back of his neck.

"You will drink!" Piotyr insisted.

Saint-Germain had the strength to break the Czar's hold, but knew it would be unwise to do so; he took a long breath. "If I am made to drink, I fear I will disgrace myself and this noble company."

"You do that by not drinking," Piotyr said in a tone that brooked no opposition. "Oleg! Beer for my guest. Now!"

The crowd had drawn back from Piotyr and his captive, a few of them trying to laugh to dispel the sense of fright that had gone through them all, for Piotyr's temper was well-known throughout Russia and northern Europe; no one wanted to be in his way when he was in the full grip of his fury. The second tap-man behind the bar hurried out with a tankard of dark ale, holding it out to the Czar, who thrust his own drink into the bar-man's free hand, took the second tankard, and forced Saint-Germain's head back.

"Majesty, I cannot--" he tried to protest as the ale poured into his mouth. He sputtered, swallowed, sputtered more, feeling the ale splash and soak into his clothes.

"No man insults me, Hercegek. No man." The Czar emptied the tankard, and reached for his own, adding the lighter beer to the cascade. "Drink!" he ordered, and tossed aside the second tankard. "Oleg! More ale for the Hungarian Hercegek. Let him swim in it."

Oleg scuttled away to do as Piotyr commanded.

Saint-Germain felt a sharp pain at the base of his ribs where his scars could not stretch; his stomach--what little remained of it--had not been stretched this way for more than two thousand years, and it left him nauseated and miserable. "Majesty--" he muttered. "No more."

"If the Czar drinks, you will drink," Piotyr said grimly, and reached out for the next tankard.

With a sudden, powerful movement, Saint-Germain wrenched away from Piotyr, stumbled toward the wall, braced one arm against it, and abruptly vomited all that had been poured down his throat. He panted, retched, and brought up the last; certain he had got it all out, he coughed and reached for his handkerchief to wipe his mouth and the front of his clothes. Then he sagged against the wall, shivering from shock. "I ask your pardon, Majesty. I have no desire to offend you, or to slight your honor." He took a deep breath. "I ... received injuries that make it impossible for me to take more than a palmful of nourishment at any time. It is nothing to your discredit that I do not drink."

Heer van Hoek, who had been standing, aghast, with Ludmilla, in the corner, now came forward and bowed. "He speaks the truth, Majesty," he said. "When he was first here, he was set upon by robbers and badly beaten. I saw his scars while treating him, and I must tell you that his injuries are severe."

"Scars, you say?" Piotyr inquired, and came to take hold of Saint-Germain again. "Show me, min Heer."

Van Hoek looked abashed. "Here? Your Majesty cannot mean--"

The Czar flung open Saint-Germain's coat and tugged up his waistcoat, then pulled his chemise from his knee-britches: a broad swath of scars was revealed, the token of his execution by disemboweling. The scars continued below the waist of his britches, but their extent above it was sufficient to earn a hard stare from the Czar. "Yes. Severe wounds." He released his hold on Saint-Germain's clothes and patted his arm. "Well, you've convinced me, Hercegek. You are unable to join us in the delights of the table. I will hold you excused." He held out his hand for another tankard. "So long as you will not mind if I drink your share!" His bellow of laughter was quickly echoed throughout the tap-room.

Trying to restore some order to his appearance, Saint-Germain said to van Hoek, "Thank you, min Heer. You spared me a dreadful afternoon."

"You have no reason to thank me," said van Hoek. "The Czar goes beyond the conduct of royals."

"He may do," said Saint-Germain, reaching for his handkerchief and patting the remaining drips of ale from his wig. "But it is the privilege of the Czar to be exempt from restrictions."

"It's all very well for you to take such a stance," said van Hoek stiffly, "but it is not good conduct on Piotyr's part." He paused awkwardly. "I assume you'll return to the care-house to change clothes."

"And bathe." He sniffed at his sleeve and shook his head. "Everything needs washing. I cannot tell if any of these garments can be saved; the chemise, perhaps, but I fear the coat and britches are stained beyond remedy." He shrugged. "I will depart when the rest of you go in to dine."

"I doubt I'll want more than a bite," said van Hoek, continuing unhappily, "After this, my appetite is quite gone."

"Eat anyway. The Czar demands excess of his guests." He heard Piotyr's voice and looked up to see the Czar approaching, the stranger in Hungarian dress beside him. "Majesty," he said neutrally.

"I didn't understand your condition, Hercegek. I own my mistake." He tugged the new-comer nearer. "I thought the introduction of a countryman would help restore you to good-humor. It is always pleasant to find compatriots in distant lands, and I am told you have never met." He beamed at this solution he had hit upon, and announced, "Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, this is Lajos Rakoczi, Grofok Saint-Germain, from Transylvania."

As Saint-Germain stared, the other man bowed, saying in heavily accented Russian, "Hercegek Gyor, a pleasure."

Text of a letter from Ferenz Ragoczy, Grofok Saint-Germain, in Sankt Piterburkh, to Niklos Aulirios at Saint-Germain in Transylvania, written in Latin code and carried by private courier; delivered forty-nine days after it was written.

To Niklos Aulirios at my estate in Transylvania, the greetings of your beleaguered friend from the Czar's new city.

My dear Niklos,

A problem has arisen here that makes it necessary to impose upon you to a far greater extent than I would like to do, but out of my urgent need, I must: as you doubtless have been informed, the mission I have undertaken here has been in the person of Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Herecegek Gyor, an imposture I must continue for the sake of Arco-Tolvay's wife, who is an agent for the Polish Throne, and who must be in the company of her husband if she is to remain in Sankt Piterburkh. That, in and of itself, is strenuous enough, but there is now a second factor that compounds the problems: there has come to Sankt Piterburkh a man claiming to be my heir, one Lajos Rakoczi--spelled with the i the way the Hungarian patriot spells his name--who claims he has recently succeeded to my title and lands--meaning those of Grofok Saint-Germain, not Hercegek Gyor--and is present here to arrange some sort of entente cordiale for the Czar and Rakoczi II Ferenc, or so he claims. He purports to be my cousin, and the cousin of II Ferenc as well. He has sought to have me, as Arco-Tolvay, support his assertions of rank.

As you are aware, there are many reasons I cannot reveal him as a fraud without risking my own undoing, and the exposure of Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, to royal censure, which would compromise all of us, and spark such inquiries as I could not readily sustain. It is one thing to be a stand-in for a married woman's missing husband, it is quite another to have my true nature revealed. Spies are common enough in Sankt Piterburkh--vampires are not, and little though Piotyr Alexeievich may observe the strictures of Orthodoxy, he would draw the line at those of my blood.

Therefore, Niklos, I am asking you to undertake a mission to this city, in winter, for the purpose of routing this so-called Grofok Saint-Germain by assuming my identity yourself. I realize that this is a great infliction of hardship, and for that I ask your pardon. Were there anyone else I could rely on in this most complicated situation, I would not ask this of you, but I fear my situation is such that you are the only one I can charge with this task. Bring as much with you that will demonstrate that you are Grofok Saint-Germain--Moricz Losi can provide all you need, and I will give you my sigil when you arrive--and confront this man with the purpose of discrediting him. If it is possible to determine whom he serves, then that would be a most welcome addition to disclosing his imposture. Better to have the light of inquiry shine in other directions.

I apologize for asking you to travel in winter, and I will authorize you as much money as you may need to make the journey possible. I anticipate the messenger who brings this will be able to advise you on what you will need for your travels, and how long it will take. Keep in mind that the days will shorten until the Solstice, and only then will there be increasing light for your travels; also the farther north you go, the longer the nights are. I advise you to travel on horseback, since the roads are deep in snow and a carriage would be hard-put to get far before spring. There are sheep-skin saddle-pads and bear-skin riding cloaks that will cover your horse as well as you, and there are sheep-skin splint-boots for the horses, as well. Take at least two remounts apiece and carry enough grain to last the horses fifteen days. I am sorry that you will have such arduous travel, but the longer a challenge is delayed, the less likely it is to be heeded.

The man who brings this is Boguslav Miesienkevic, a private courier by trade, and a most dependable man, so long as he is well-paid. Be sure he is given three gold Polish Angels every week that you travel. Keep up this special pay and he will deal with you honestly and will do his utmost to bring you here safely. I have pledged to buy him passage on a ship to France before you reach Sankt Piterburkh, with money enough to keep him away for two years. I have explained to the Prussian Envoy that I know beyond all doubt that Ferenz Ragoczy is still alive, and that this man had not the right to claim his lands and his title. I have addressed the matter to Alexander Menshikov in private, with a generous donation for his attention and time, and been assured that if I can provide proof that Ferenz Ragoczy still lives, this Lajos Rakoczi will be returned to Hungary for the judgment of the Hapsburgs.

There are instructions to Moricz Losi included with this, which I ask you to give to him as soon as you have read this.

In the name of Atta Olivia Clemens, whom we both cherish in our memories, I thank you for undertaking this. You must miss her even more than I do.

Gratefully,

Ferenz Ragoczy (Sanct' Germain Franciscus)

(his sigil, the eclipse)

October 2nd, 1704

PART II

FERENZ RAGOCZY, GROFOK SAINT-GERMAIN

Text of a report from Thomas Bethune, Presbyterian lay-preacher and clerk to the English Resident, to Colonel Sir Peregrine Broughton at Sankt Piterburkh, delivered by household messenger.

To the most esteemed Colonel Sir Peregrine Broughton, diplomatic courier in service to the English Crown at the Residence in Sankt Piterburkh, Russia.

My dear Colonel,

I have this morning attended a meeting at the Naval Building called by Alexander Menshikov for residents of the Foreign Quarter of this city regarding the disposition of bodies once the ground freezes, which we are told it should do within the next four weeks, and continue in that state until the end of April. After the ground is solid, it will be impossible to inter coffins or corpses in the earth, and because we have no Protestant churches here that would permit burial under the floor, there are plans that must be quickly put in place to cope with providing Christian care to those who die before spring. I made a transcript of what he said, and I will append those shorthand notes to this longhand account for your records.

First we were informed that many of the ferrymen will not be operating their ferries once the ice forms, given that the river will be frozen, and many drayers will not carry the dead across the ice, since it is considered most unlucky to do so, even if there were some place they might be buried once they were transported. Those pagan fishermen who live at the far end of this island burn their dead in winter, but no one was willing to consign bodies to pagans for disposal.

Menshikov has announced that he can allocate a small warehouse for the storage of corpses in coffins, awaiting the time when they can be taken to the Protestant cemetery for proper obsequies and burial. He has also offered the possibility of boiling the bodies so that their bones may be returned to their homelands when the ships are able to sail. The religious consequences would be similar to the collection of bones of those killed in battle, according to the Russian Orthodox Metropolitan.

For those wishing to store bodies in coffins in the warehouse, Menshikov has said that a watch would be put on the warehouse so that no man or animal can desecrate any bodies stored there. He has charged all of the residents of the Foreign Quarter to decide how they want their dead secured for the winter, and to provide him with a formal notification of what each household has decided, along with a list of the household members who are to be included in these plans, so that if any should die, there will be no misunderstanding of how they are to be disposed. Any dead not listed with foreign households or acknowledged Orthodox Christians will be shrouded and put through the ice after anointing by a priest of the Russian Orthodox faith.

By my reckoning, the Resident has nine Protestants on his staff, and four Catholics. Two of the Protestants have their wives with them, and they must be numbered among those of the household. I have already made a list of these persons and will present it to Alexander Menshikov as soon as the Resident approves it. I believe it would be wise to prepare a copy of the list for the care-house, in case any of our staff should die while there. I have volunteered to arrange a kind of service for the winter-dead of this household that will offer the consolation of prayer at the time of death rather than postpone any rites until the ice has melted. Whether we return bones or save the bodies in coffins, I will strive to supply every hope of Heaven for those who are lost to us here.

It is my understanding that the Czar favors keeping the bodies in coffins, but he has also said that the households must supply the coffins, which means purchasing lumber at outrageous prices, since all the lumber here in the city is allocated for building, and coffins are not numbered among the structures covered in their allotment. This would require that woodsmen be paid to bring extra lumber to the Residence, and all such lumber would have to be stored indoors, for otherwise it would be damaged by cold and wet, or stolen. If this is our choice, we must act quickly, for once the Neva is covered in ice, the woodsmen will require twice as much money to bring lumber to us.

Since in your capacity of courier, you also maintain the Residence staff rolls, I ask you to inform me at once of any decision you and the Resident reach in this regard. We are under some insistency to reach a decision, and to that end, I have it on the authority of the Prussian secretary, Theophilius Schaft, that they have decided on securing coffins for their dead, and would be willing to share the lumber storage if we would off-set the expense and provide additional storage for the cut boards.

We were informed that counted deaths from Swamp Fever now stand at more than three hundred. Deaths from it among the work-gangs can only be guessed at, for no records are kept of those fatalities, and the bodies are consigned to the Neva with minimal ceremony. With this in mind, I believe it would be better to prepare for more deaths than for fewer. Among the Russian servants of this Residence we have had fourteen contract the fever and two have died, although seven are recovered and five are on the mend. Of those who have died, the Russian Church has taken them and given them burial after their customs. We must not be less attentive to those who have come to this place for the sake of England; we owe them at the least a decent burial.

These are my thoughts on the matter: I have spent part of this day praying for guidance, and I have decided that while I want to lie in the good Northumberland earth, if I die here, I would want to remain here, for it would be the place where God called me, and my death on this shore would be His Will. To that end, I ask to be numbered among those to be encoffined and buried in the Protestant cemetery when the weather permits. To me, it is fitting to mark a passing where it happened. Heaven is not dependent on earthly geography, nor is Hell. At the Last Trumpet, we will all rise to Judgment, and where we fell will mean nothing. I do not think my bones would console my family sufficiently to justify boiling my flesh away.

Submitted with respect,

Yours to command,

Thomas Bethune

recording clerk

October 9th, 1704

1

After sundown the drizzle turned to sleet and then to fine hail; the wind picked up, so that by the time the clock in the cathedral tower sounded the eighth hour, the night was wailing; the first storm of winter had arrived, and throughout Sankt Piterburkh, all the buildings battened down their shutters and bolted their doors as the wind rose and the streets turned from graveled ways to bogs. The Czar sent messengers throughout the Foreign Quarter, announcing his fireworks display would be delayed until the storm had passed.

In the care-house, Kyril Yureivich and Hroger spent over an hour hanging old blankets along the walls to stop the drafts that whistled through the unfinished paneling. The stove on the main floor had been kept hot, and the one on the floor above had been cleared of ash and stoked again; it was just beginning to lessen the chill in the surgery-room and the care-room beyond. Jascha and Klavdye were putting the large pots on the downstairs stove, pots filled with cabbage soup with bits of pork and onions in it, the supper that, with black bread, would feed the patients and the staff as well; the open kitchen shelves were beginning to fill up.

"What do you make of this?" Hroger asked Saint-Germain as he lit the oil-lamps in Saint-Germain's quarters in the care-house. He was speaking in the tongue of Visigothic Spain.

"The storm? From what I've been told, it has come early this year. According to Saari, hard weather usually waits until the third week in October, not the second." He got up from the floor where he had finished laying a large rectangle of Dutch tiles, establishing a base for the athanor he was planning to build during the long winter months, when he could replenish his supply of his sovereign remedy and jewels. "It could be that the weather will turn fair again, once this passes, and we will have mild days until the end of the month. That has happened occasionally."

Hroger considered for a moment, then said, "I don't think the city is ready for such a storm. There's too much unfinished for winter, such as this house."

"Nor do I think they are prepared," Saint-Germain agreed. "They were gambling on the weather, and this time, the weather has won the hand." He dusted off his hands and pulled off his smock. "Brother Vasili took ill today." He reached for his coat that he had tossed over the back of the best chair in the room and drew it on; it was made of leather and edged in fur, one of three winter coats he had brought with him.

At this mention of one of the nursing monks, Hroger nodded. "So Kyril told me," and waited for what Saint-Germain would say next.

"He has an inflammation of the intestines, not Swamp Fever--or not only Swamp Fever." He went to his red-lacquer chest. "I have given him some of my sovereign remedy, and will provide more later this evening."

"Do you think it will help?" Hroger asked.

"I hope so, if the putrescence has not yet spread too far," Saint-Germain answered, going to his plank trestle-table and reaching for the flask of willow-bark tincture he had prepared a few days before. "If you will see that the patients with Swamp Fever get some of this in their tea this evening?"

"Haven't I done so every evening for almost a month?" Hroger asked, and added, "You're worried about the messenger, aren't you? You worry that this storm will delay him."

"It has crossed my mind," Saint-Germain admitted.

"Boguslav Miesienkevic has been gone ten days, and should be a good distance away from the Baltic by now." Hroger could see a slight tightening around Saint-Germain's dark eyes. "He should be nearing Grodno tomorrow, if he has kept to his schedule of remounts."

"If this storm is wide-spread, it will slow him down," said Saint-Germain.

"It may, but it isn't likely to stop him," said Hroger. "The roads should be open for a while longer, and he can be expected to use the opportunity to advantage. It isn't as if he hasn't experience of winter travel."

Saint-Germain gave a short, hard sigh, then spoke in Russian. "You are right, of course, and my fretting will do nothing but enhance my fears." He stretched as if he had been bent over books all day, and rubbed one hand over his close-cropped head. "We have only two empty beds left on the floor below, and three on this one."

"And they may well be filled by the time the storm passes," said Hroger.

"It may happen," Saint-Germain agreed, holding up his hand so he could hear the pounding on the main door. "With the weather so inclement, accidents are apt to increase."

"Are you expecting more patients?" Hroger kept his voice neutral, but his faded-blue eyes had a resignation in them that revealed his centuries of experience in such matters.

"I probably should," said Saint-Germain.

"Do you want to go down to the main floor?" Hroger asked as they heard the door open and excited voices mix with the ululation of the wind.

"I suppose I ought to go," said Saint-Germain, and reached for the fox-fur hat he had taken out of his trunk two days ago. "I may need this."

"Do you mean to go out in this weather?" Hroger asked, already opening the door of the wardrobe to remove his traveling-cloak.

"I believe I may have to." He took the cloak over his arm. "At the least, I need to have a word with Saari, and he will be at the stable at Zozia's house. He and I need to alter our ... arrangements with the storm upon us."

"I could attend to that for you," Hroger suggested.

"You are more needed here at present, but thank you, old friend," said Saint-Germain, going out of his quarters and toward the stairs. "And I need a word alone with Zozia, or so her note informs me. The sooner I find out what she wants, the better." As he descended, he saw two Karelian Watchmen urgently engaged in conversation with Heer van Hoek, and a third standing in the doorway, showing signs of wanting to hurry off. "May I be of assistance?" he inquired as he walked up to them.

"Are you the Hungarian foreigner? The one who built the treadmills?" one of the Karelians asked in poor Russian. "They told us you were here."

Saint-Germain found the question somewhat puzzling. "You are looking for Hercegek Gyor? I am he." He felt a jolt of apprehension. "What do you want of me?"

"The fourth levee has broken. They hadn't finished shoring it up, you know, and with the storm coming, and the tide high--" said the tallest of the three, lifting one hand to show helplessness.

"How bad is it?" Saint-Germain asked, privately relieved to have something useful to do; still, he wondered why they had come to him. What the Watchman said next explained their presence.

"The new treadmill is falling with the levee bank, and the men in that drained portion of the marsh may drown as the water rises in the marsh. They are trying to move the camps out of the lowest parts of the basin even now, before the water gets too deep to save anything. We hope to preserve the treadmill if we can, but to do that, we need to have your advice." The Watchman dared to take Saint-Germain's sleeve. "Come with us. You can help us."

"And bring some of your care-house servants, to carry back the injured supervisors," said the man standing next to him, the one who had addressed him first. "If they lie out in this storm, they'll be dead or worse by morning."

"How many supervisors are you speaking about?" Saint-Germain asked, aware that the Watchmen would know that, but not the number of workmen.

"There are nine work-gangs at the fourth levee, some completing the levee, some setting up the pump in the marsh to drain it. There are also two treadmill-gangs, but they've been moved out of danger."

"So eleven supervisors." Saint-Germain privately calculated the number of workmen in danger at between three hundred and five hundred fifty--far too many to rescue; he hoped that most would be able to get out of the marsh on their own. "We must hope that not all of the supervisors are injured, but it would be more lamentable still if the treadmill were lost, and the work-gang as well." He looked from the tallest Karelian to the man lingering in the door. "We need to assess the damage as soon as possible. Once we find out how much of the levee has failed, we will find out how the work-gangs and supervisors fare." Saint-Germain looked at van Hoek. "Can you spare Jascha and Klavdye? I know you need Kyril here, but perhaps--?"

"I suppose so," van Hoek allowed, looking profoundly uncomfortable. "I know you must bring the supervisors here for care, if they need it, but keep in mind that we are near capacity now. It could be difficult to accommodate many more." He cleared his throat. "I will inform Ludmilla Borisevna of what has happened when she wakes for her night-duty."

"Thank you. And if you will, have Klavdye and Jascha put on their heavy cloaks and hats and join the Watchmen here as soon as they may. I and this fellow"--he nodded to the man who had taken his arm--"will go on ahead to assess the damage. If we can simplify the treatment of any supervisor in need of it, so much the better. I'll need a shielded lantern." Saying this, he shrugged into his cloak and then put on his fur hat.

"Take the one in the vestibule." Van Hoek nodded slowly. "We'll make what preparations we can. I reckon we can bring in a few pallets if we must. I don't want to put two into a single bed unless we have no other choice."

"Let us hope that will not be necessary," said Saint-Germain, nodding to the Watchman. "When you are ready?"

The man nodded to his companion in the doorway. "Let us out, Tonu," he said. "You and Jaakko follow as soon as you can."

"I will," said Tonu, handing one of two shielded lanterns to Saint-Germain as they stepped out into the icy, blasting night.

"Do we go toward the fourth levee?" Saint-Germain hunched against the stinging wind; he had to raise his voice to be heard.

"On the dyke road," the Karelian said, almost shouting.

"Stay close behind me," Saint-Germain recommended, then started out along the raised walkway, taking care not to slip where ice had formed. He carried the lantern low so that its light would shine at their feet, revealing the walkway; his night-seeing eyes could pierce the darkness well enough in spite of the storm, and he did not require the beam of the lantern to find his way. Hail the size of grains of wheat lashed at them, and the wind had invisible fangs that sank cold into their bones as they made their way through the treacherous streets out toward the fourth levee.

As they passed the third levee, the Watchman tugged at Saint-Germain's cloak and called out, "You'll need to be careful, Hercegek. The storm has been very fierce out here. Part of the wooden walkway ahead has fallen into the river, and the footing on the path is uneven. You must not be hasty or you risk falling."

"Thank you," said Saint-Germain. "I will bear that in mind." He continued on a short distance until the raised walkway was replaced by a wooden one; he turned to the Watchman. "How far beyond this, can you tell me?"

"Not far--a dozen paces or a bit more." The man pointed to where part of a work-gang was struggling frantically to cover the second treadmill with tarpaulins; two supervisors shouted incoherent orders at them as the wind tore at the canvas, flailing up into the hail, the cloth snapping as the wind took hold of it. "Not far beyond that."

For an instant, Saint-Germain had an uncomfortable memory of his attack in May, but he quickly banished it; on a night like this, robber-gangs would not venture out. He could feel the disorientation of running water all around him, and he reminded himself to be careful of vertigo. Something else occurred to him, and he turned back to the Watchman. "What is your name? If I have to call for you, I should know."

"I am Aijus Kainula."

"A good Karelian name," Saint-Germain said, and prepared to go on. He skirted the work-gang as widely as possible, and continued on, paying attention to their footing and the state of the walkway ahead of them. When the wooden path stopped abruptly, Saint-Germain raised his lantern enough to show the extent of the damage to the top of the dyke. "We can walk along this if we are careful."

"Keep the beam low, so we don't misstep. With so much hail in the wind, the air is shiny, and things are not easily seen." Kainula sounded nervous; that increased the uncertainty that had gripped Saint-Germain since he had left the care-house.

"I will," said Saint-Germain, and paused as he heard shouting ahead. He motioned Kainula off to the side of the path, and in less than a minute was glad he had done so: a group of men from one of the work-gangs came running heedlessly along the dyke, parcels clutched to their chests, panic in their eyes as they fled. As soon as the first group had passed, Saint-Germain motioned to Kainula. "There will be more. We should stay off to the side as far as we can without risking sliding into the river."

"Some of the bank is unstable," said Kainula.

"Everything wet is unstable," countered Saint-Germain. "So we must be doubly alert."

Another twenty men or so hurried by them, most of them soaking wet, with their packs of their few belongings held over their heads for protection. Then from farther along the path came the moaning sound of wood about to crack, and Saint-Germain lifted the lantern, hoping its small beam would penetrate the hail and darkness.

"There!" shouted Kainula, pointing ahead and slightly to the right. The huge open wheel of the treadmill was canted at an angle, the strong triangular supports that held the axle had sagged into the muddy ground, and the pump had shifted off its housing.

"It's going to fall," said Saint-Germain. As he spoke, one of the supports snapped, its breaking as loud as thunder; the huge wheel tipped and ponderously slid down the broken levee into the marsh, crushing the rest of the pump mechanism as it went.

"The men could be crushed," said Kainula, yet he remained where he was. "How do we get down?"

"If we could get across the breach in the levee, there might be a way," said Saint-Germain. He aimed the lantern's beam at the broken section of levee and saw that it was too broad to jump; at both edges of the break, more of the wall was crumbling into the stream of muddy water that poured down the packed earthen wall.

A group of a dozen men came running along the path, all wide-eyed and distraught as they rushed away from the fallen treadmillpump. As they fled, a man with a nasty gash across his forehead trudged after them, cursing them, his heavy supervisor's whip raised in threat. He called the men worse than cowards, deserving of nothing but death. He took no notice of Saint-Germain and Kainula as he followed his work-gang, still berating them.

"That man is a fool," said Saint-Germain, more to himself than to Kainula.

"He is a supervisor. He must do the work he is ordered to do, or face the consequences of his laxness. He can't let his men desert their gangs." He lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the hail. "His life could be forfeit if he did."

Saint-Germain turned to look at the Karelian. "Men who rule by threat can never rely on those they threaten," he said before walking on toward the ruined treadmill. "It will need to be repaired. The pump-housing will have to be replaced, and the wheel rebuilt." He shone the light down into the marsh, where he could see a dozen men struggling in water that was as high as their waists. "Are there any ladders we can use to reach down to them?"

"I don't know," said Kainula. "I'd guess they were kept in the camp, with the men. They usually are, so they don't get stolen."

"A good precaution, but not useful just now," said Saint-Germain, noticing that the hail was getting worse as the wind sliced across the river and the island. He was a bit surprised that it did not turn to snow, but remained hardened ice pellets that struck with the impact of bird-shot. "Do you Watchmen have no deputies to help work-gangs?"

"There are some, but not out here." He pointed to a pair of workers who were struggling to climb the bank, but kept falling back into the water as the bank collapsed. "Think, Hercegek--many of them have got out. Those remaining are weak already."

"Is there any rope we could throw to them?" Saint-Germain looked about, using the lantern to identify covered stacks of supplies. "What about those?"

"We aren't allowed to touch them," said Kainula.

"Men are going to drown, or freeze," said Saint-Germain.

"Watchmen can have their hands struck off for taking supplies," Kainula told him bluntly. "At the least, I would be knouted."

Saint-Germain knew the knout from his time in Moscow, just over a century ago, and he shuddered at the memory. "Then I will look, and the Czar may order me to leave Sankt Piterburkh if he wishes. I cannot stand here and watch men die and do nothing." He picked his way along the dyke to the first covered heap. He pulled up two of the stakes holding the tarpaulin in place, flung the canvas back, and discovered a cone of shovels and rakes. He secured the tarpaulin and went to the next covered heap. Here he found three lengths of heavy rope and four work-stools. He pulled out two lengths of rope, fastened the tarpaulin down, and carried the rope back to Kainula. "If we stand on the dyke, we should be able to help these men climb up."

"If they pay any attention to your help." Kainula took the rope and tested its weight. "This is very strong."

"That it is," said Saint-Germain; he could feel the hemp fibers press into his palms. "You will need something to help anchor you," he went on. "The foot-stone on the treadmill should be strong enough."

"What about you?" Kainula asked. "We cannot both straddle the foot-stone."

"I will find something," Saint-Germain assured him, knowing that in spite of the running water all around him, his strength would suffice to pull men out of the muddy water. "Hurry. The water is getting deeper."

Kainula made his way to the edge of the fallen treadmill and began to wrap one end of the rope he had been given around the foot-stone. "What now?"

"Call down to the men and have those who can climb up. I will shine the lantern on you, and then I will secure my rope." Saint-Germain turned the lantern, and heard Kainula begin shouting.

"Over here! Workmen, climb up the rope! Come up!"

Saint-Germain wrapped his rope bandolier-style across his chest, then tossed the end down the side of the levee. "Come up! There are two ropes!"

For the next quarter-hour they continued to shout, and during that time fifteen men managed to clamber up the ropes to the path. That left twice that number in the water, a few of them still floundering, but most of them already numbed by cold and terror and unable to help themselves, succumbing to exhaustion and pervasive cold. As the last man who could clawed his way to the foot-stone, Saint-Germain tried to find some way to descend to bring up those men still alive.

"Hercegek!" Kainula shouted, pointing down the path toward the second treadmill.

"What is it?" Saint-Germain shouted back.

"There are men coming. I can see lanterns." He motioned to the men huddled on the ground around them. "They'll have their hands full. I hope they brought blankets."

"Kainula! Can you see who they are?" Saint-Germain turned the direction the Karelian had pointed; there were undoubtedly men coming bearing lanterns.

"They must be my comrades and the men from the care-house." His voice was getting harsh and ragged from shouting and cold.

"Are you sure?" Saint-Germain called back. He busied himself with winding up the rope in preparation for restoring it to its place. His cloak had grown sodden and his fox-fur hat was soaked and clinging to his head. The cold was keen, but it bothered him very little, though he knew the men huddled on the ground around him and Kainula were suffering from it, and unless they were soon out of the storm, it would endanger their lives.

"It must be," Kainula responded. "Who else would be out here on such a night?"

"The army might be patrolling, or the new Guard," Saint-Germain ventured, then saw both Jascha and a man in a Guard's cloak come into the small circle of light the lantern provided. Behind the two were the other two Karelian Watchmen. They all carried oiled-wool packages, and the Guard at their head held two lanterns as well as an ominous halberd. As they came to a halt, it was clear that the Guard had taken command of the others.

"Hercegek," the Guardsman said, taking in the gathering; he was uncertain how to proceed and compensated for his inexperience by taking an obdurate stance. "The Dutchman told us you had come out to inspect the damage here, it being your �gin. This is a great loss. There will have to be an inquiry as to why it fell." His breath smelled of garlic and beer; he had probably been half-drunk when he started on his way here, but cold and wet had rapidly sobered him so that now he spoke crisply, determined to show his purpose. "How many men do you have here?"

"Not nearly enough," said Saint-Germain, pointing down into the marsh. "Look there. Not all of those men are lost."

"We have fifteen men, Guard," said Kainula. "They're all soaked and shivering. They need to be moved, and quickly."

"If you would help me, I can go down one of the ropes and bring up a few more," Saint-Germain persisted.

Kainula paid no attention. "Jaakko, Tonu, start handing out blankets. Those that can't walk put on pallets, but start them all back toward the care-house."

The Guard held up his weapon. "Not yet, not yet." He rounded on Kainula. "The work-gangs: where did they go?'

"The far bank, I would guess," said Kainula. "It is the easier to climb."

"And the farthest from authority, so they might flee the island," the Guard said, making it an accusation.

"On a night like this?" Kainula asked incredulously. "If they find no shelter, they will die by morning. Why would they become fugitives when there is no place for them to go?"

The Guard leveled the point of his halberd at Kainula. "Those who desert will be counted against you, Watchman. You will answer for their absence." He swung his arm to signal the others to begin handing out blankets. "As soon as possible, get them off to the care-house. See that each man gives an account of himself as soon as he is indoors. Where are the supervisors?"

"I don't know," said Kainula. "When we went to fetch the Hercegek, some were still here. One had gone for the Guard--and since you are here, he must have reached you--a few of the others were trying to secure the treadmill, to keep it from falling. When I returned with the Hercegek, we found only the men still in the water. On the order of the Hercegek, we put ourselves to the work of helping the last men climb out."

The Guard glowered at Saint-Germain. "Is this true?"

"I cannot say what the Watchmen saw before they sought me out, but Kainula's account of what happened after we arrived is accurate." He came up to the Guard and held out the coiled rope. "This may be put back with the supplies. If it has been damaged, I will pay for its replacement. The same for the rope the Watchman used."

"At the least you will replace it." The Guard gave him a hard stare. "You had no authority to take the rope."

"I would have used it to hold up the treadmill-pump that is my design, had there been men to man the ropes," Saint-Germain responded more calmly than he expected. "In that capacity, I am expected to use whatever supplies may be needed to save the �gin. Had there been more men to aid us, I believe the ropes would have helped keep the treadmill from falling. But in order to do that, we had to have more of the work-gang to help us, which necessitated taking as many men as we could out of the flooding marsh." He nodded to Kainula. "You can see that his rope is around the foot-stone of the treadmill."

Now the Guard was nonplussed. "It may be so; I will have to consult my superiors," he said while Tonu and Jaakko went among the fifteen men, putting heavy blankets around their shoulders and asking what gang they were from.

"The men need to be warmed, Aijus," said Jaakko. "The blankets aren't enough to warm them."

"Take them back to the care-house," said Saint-Germain. "And Klavdye, go back now and you and Kyril warm the bath-house. Tell Ludmilla to prepare a drink of broth-and-brandy for them; the same we have given Adolphus Gronigen after a day on the driving-box. Be sure you look at their hands and feet for blackening." He turned his attention to the Guard. "You need information from these men, but you will not get much now. Let them get warmed and dressed in dry clothes, and they will be able to tell you much more. If you are willing to wait until morning, most of them should be improved."

Jascha came to Saint-Germain's side. "But, Hercegek, we're only supposed to take in supervisors. These are simple laborers. We have no accommodations for them."

"These men can tell us how the treadmill came to fall, and that will help us to rebuild it safely. That should be cause enough to admit them to the care-house." He thrust his hands into the fur-lined pockets of his cloak. "Explain matters to van Hoek, and tell him I will absorb the cost of their care while they are being treated. Take the Watchmen with you. They can help carry the pallets."

"Wait. Wait!" the Guard yelled. "I haven't given permission for any of you to depart."

Kainula made an impatient sound, and issued sharp orders in the Karelian dialect. It was similar enough to Finnish that Saint-Germain realized that Kainula had told the other two not to rile the Guard, but to get the men to the care-house as quickly as possible. Tonu and Jaakko took three rolled pallets and began to unroll them. "We Watchmen will take care of these men," he said in Russian. "That is part of our duties."

"But you must give me a report. That is part of my duties." He held his halberd very upright.

"Then come to the Watchmen's Barracks tomorrow morning. You will find us there." Kainula handed one of the lanterns to Klavdye. "Go. Tell the Dutchman we are coming, and what the Hercegek said." He pointed at the pathway. "Be careful where you step. The ground is soaked."

"I will," said Klavdye, and bowed slightly to Saint-Germain before treading cautiously along the narrow path, bound for the care-house.

"This is unacceptable," the Guard blustered. "We Guardsmen may be new to Sankt Piterburkh, but we know why we are here, and all of you must come to know it."

Saint-Germain went to help Jascha lift a semi-conscious workman onto the nearest pallet, taking time to wrap him well in the blanket and to make sure his face was protected from the storm. As he stood up, he said to the Guard, "Tomorrow morning, you will be able to discharge your duty in regard to these men. We will expect you at the care-house an hour after sunrise."

The Guard was about to protest more vigorously, but something in Saint-Germain's eye held his attention and he relented. "Tomorrow morning. I will have one of my superiors with me."

"Excellent," said Saint-Germain, taking the lead position on the pallet. "Ready, Jascha?"

"Da, Hercegek," he said; he picked up one of the lanterns and counted to three to lift the pallet.

"Go back to your barrack, Guard, and with my thanks. I would not like you to take a chill from tonight's work." Saint-Germain glanced over at Kainula. "Try to keep us in sight as we go, in case of problems."

"We will," said Kainula, who was helping the men who could walk to get to their feet. "We will go fairly slowly, so the men won't sweat and turn colder than they are now."

"We will bear that in mind," said Saint-Germain, and set off, thinking as he did that he would have to postpone his visit to Saari and Zozia. He would ask Hroger to carry a message around to them both, and would call upon them tomorrow once the Guards had left the care-house.

The Guard stared at Saint-Germain as he went off, Jascha behind him, the somnolent workman between them. Shaking his head in disbelief, he said to Kainula, "I've never seen a nobleman carry a workman--have you?"

Kainula had not, and was as surprised as the Guard, but only said, "Well, he's Hungarian. What do you expect?"

Text of an invitation from Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, and Missus Drury Carruther delivered to all foreign diplomats in the Foreign Quarter of Sankt Piterburkh.

To the most distinguished residents of the Foreign Quarter of Sankt Piterburkh, Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, and Missus Drury Carruther extend this invitation for the evening of October 25th at the English Residence, where a salon will be held, commencing an hour before sundown and lasting until the clock strikes nine.

His Majesty the Czar will attend with Marfa Skavronskaya, and urges all his foreign residents to join in this occasion, which will help to provide a model for future salons. He has declared that attendance will be seen as a personal favor to him, and respected in that light by him and those serving him most closely.

Seventeen musicians and three singers will perform in the ballroom, and a number of couples may dance while the music plays; two rooms will be prepared for diverse discussions. There will be a room for cards, for those inclined to play them.

The present mild weather cannot be expected to continue, and the English Resident has offered the use of his three carriages to bring guests to and from the salon if there should be snow or rain. Those seeking to avail themselves of this kind offer are asked to send word to the English Residence within the next five days.

October 16th, 1704

2

"I have been studying the lesson you gave me two days ago," said Ludmilla, her exercise book clutched in her hands. She was looking a bit tired, as if the long nights were taking a greater toll on her now that the care-house had every bed and a dozen extra pallets occupied; she had changed from her working smock and for this evening she had donned one of her many European-style dresses, this one of bitter-green wool with a high neck and long sleeves, for the evenings had turned clammily cold as the low fog insinuated itself through Sankt Piterburkh. "I have copied the alphabets you have shown me, and I have memorized them both."

Saint-Germain motioned to the stool at the trestle-table where he had laid out the tools for her lesson. "A very good beginning. We will make more progress this evening." He reached to adjust the flame on the oil-lamps hanging over the table; Ludmilla came toward him, her expression eager, and climbed onto the stool. "Would you like a shawl to put around your shoulders? In spite of Hroger's and my best efforts, this room is still drafty."

Mildly surprised at his question, she gazed at him for nearly a minute before saying, "Yes, please. If you have one." The lamplight made the gold in her eyes shine.

He had anticipated her need; he had placed a long, broad Hungarian muffler of dark-red wool on the back of his reading-chair which he brought to her, unfolding it and slipping it around her shoulders. "It may not be elegant, but I assure you that it is warm."

"Warm is what I want." She eased it down her arms and let it drape at her elbows. "I have an hour for our lesson this evening," she said, "barring surprises."

On the lower floor, the first bowls of fish-stew were being served and the oil-lamps had been lit, dispelling the gloom at day's end. In the next room, Hroger worked to prepare food for those injured men in the room beyond, two of whom were workmen who had been rescued from another part of the flooded marsh; one had had half his foot removed when his toes had turned black four days ago, and one was still suffering from a badly sprained shoulder. The other injuries ranged from a deep cut on the chest to multiple broken bones from being thrown out of a wagon where the road gave way to a ragged laceration in the gut, the result of a dockside brawl.

Saint-Germain went to close the door so that they would not be distracted. "Then we must make the most of it. We will review what you learned in our first lesson." He opened a small notebook, spread it out on the table in front of her, and said, "Begin with the Russian: name all the letters."

She recited the alphabet carefully but without hesitation, taking the time to speak clearly. When she was finished, she smiled. "I told you I memorized them." She pointed to the Dutch alphabet and began to pronounce the letters as she ran her finger under them. "It's confusing to have letters that look like our Russian ones but are pronounced differently."

"I realize that," said Saint-Germain, spreading out a sheet of English foolscap for her to use, "but it is helpful to keep the pronunciation in mind when you encounter a word you don't know, because this kind of alphabet makes it possible to sound out the word you want to say. There are many other languages in the world that do not do this." He thought of Chinese, and the angular patterns of the Hittites.

"Assuming you see words written down, you mean; simply hearing them is different," she said, and smiled over at him. "Shall I write them down, both these alphabets?"

"If you would, please," he told her as he handed her a trimmed goose-quill pen and a standish of ink along with a saucer of fine sand. "And name the letters as you write them."

Ludmilla turned back her unfashionably simple cuffs and tipped a little of the sand onto the paper, rubbed it over the sheet with her hand, then wiped it away with the small square of linen Saint-Germain provided. Next she dipped the pen into the standish and tapped the pen gently to keep it from holding too much ink, so that there would be no blots on the page. Finally, she squared the paper to the edge of the table and began to write the Cyrillic alphabet, adding ink to her pen every two letters. When she was done, she wrote the Dutch alphabet directly under the Russian one. "There."

"You have been practicing," Saint-Germain approved.

"I want to learn," she said, then went on in a rush, "Will you show me how to write my name? In Dutch as well as Russian." This time her smile was more tentative. "If you don't mind?"

"Why should I mind? It is good to know how to write your own name--why would I refuse to show you how?" he asked as he pointed out the Cyrillic letters. "That is your personal name." Dutifully she wrote it out. "Now show me what letters would spell Borisevna. Remember how they sound."

She tried to pick out the right letters, whispering them as she pointed to them. "Is that right?"

"Almost," he said, and showed her what she had missed.

"It is so complicated," she said as she watched him.

"Until you get used to it, yes, it is." He waited while she studied the two minor corrections he had made. "Now pick out Svarinskaya."

She went to work selecting the letters, sounding them out carefully before making her final choice. "Should I write it?"

"If you would," he said, keeping close to her shoulder, in the pool of light from the oil-lamps overhead. When she was done he said, "Very good. The letters are well-formed. Now in Roman letters." It took her a bit longer to decide on which letters would do, but she finally wrote her name and waited for Saint-Germain to speak. "You've done very well, but you will need to work on the placing of the letters so that the spacing is more even."

She sighed as if she had been holding her breath. "Thank you. I want to do well."

After a long moment, he said, "Then most certainly you shall: intent is the very heart of achievement."

"As Piotyr Alexeievich shows us every day," she said dutifully.

His dark eyes rested on hers. "And as you do, as well," he told her, then went on more briskly, "We will begin with some simple words. I will write them in Russian and Dutch, and you may copy them as I do." He had a second trimmed pen prepared, and took a second sheet of English foolscap, putting it next to hers. "Let us begin with house," he said, writing the word first in Cyrillic, then in Roman letters.

She copied the words, saying them aloud to fix them in her mind. "What next?"

"You choose," he said.

"Man, and then woman," she answered at once, wiping the nib of her pen so that it would not become clogged with dried ink.

He wrote the two words side by side, both in Russian and in Dutch. "Copy them onto your paper." As she did, he said, "Let us try food next."

She copied his writing again. "Can we do medicine next instead? I have more call to learn them."

"Certainly." He wrote the word in both languages. By the end of the hour, they had gone over more than forty words.

"But I can learn some more," Ludmilla protested.

"You will want to memorize these before adding more," he said. "If you try for too many words at once, they may become confused. It is easier to delay learning than to have to unlearn, as I learned to my grief when I was much younger." He had a series of memories flash through his mind: Egypt, Persia, Spain, Delhi ... He shifted his attention back to Ludmilla.

"You have taught others before now, haven't you?"

"Yes, over the years, I have," he answered, watching her.

She faltered, then asked, "Then, am I a good pupil, in your judgment?"

"You are a good pupil, which is why I would not want to damage your learning by forcing too much upon you too quickly. Take what you have done tonight and memorize it. If you want to practice writing, I will provide you with pens and a new exercise-book when the one you have is full." Handing her the two foolscap sheets, he said, "These will provide you a guide."

Ludmilla took them, and started to hand back the muffler. "I truly am grateful, Hercegek, but I can't help but want to learn as fast as I can. Every day I feel the lack my ignorance imposes, and it chafes at me. Heer van Hoek keeps records of our patients, but I cannot read them, and for that, the patients may suffer. If I could keep records of my own, then it would be even better." She looked directly at him, the muffler in her hand. "Who knows how much longer the King of Poland will allow you and your wife to remain here."

This had worried Saint-Germain more than once; he said, "Whatever the King wants must wait until spring." He took the muffler. "The seas will not be safe until then, and the ice is already forming on the Neva. I will be here until spring, most assuredly."

She nodded. "Yes. But that may be all the time we have, and I know I have to make the most of it." Her eyes grew troubled. "Can you understand?"

"Yes, Ludmilla Borisevna, I can," he told her gently.

"Then day after tomorrow, in the evening, you will teach me more?" There was an element of command in her question.

"If that is what you want, it is what I will do, but two nights after that I must attend the salon the Ksiezna is sponsoring with Abigail Carruther; you have declined the invitation, I know, but I have little option: not only is my wife a hostess, but I have been asked to play the clavichord for the guests. If you would be willing to postpone that lesson until the night after, I would be honored to continue our instruction," he promised her, and went to open the door for her, bowing slightly. "I have a few books in Dutch that in time you will want to read. I will set them aside for you."

"Not until I'm able to read them," she said. "They would only vex me if I had them selected for me and couldn't read them." She laid her hand on his. "But you give me something to hope for." With a quick nod in his direction, she went out of his quarters and into the surgery-room, her exercise-book and the two sheets of foolscap carried as if they were fragile treasures.

Saint-Germain went back toward the trestle-table and began to put away the writing supplies, all the while thinking how best to continue with Ludmilla's lessons. The experience of learning had sparked something in her that she was deeply pleased with; he could hear it in her voice as she spoke, and see it in the animation that possessed her as she strove to learn. He rubbed his forehead where his attackers had left a bad bruise in May and stared at the hanging oil-lamps contemplatively.

"My master?" Hroger called from beyond the door.

"Come in," Saint-Germain called out, abandoning his rumination for the time being. "What is it, old friend?"

Hroger made a complicated gesture. "Gavril Valentinovich is having trouble again. The remaining part of his foot is swelling and he is feverish. I couldn't get him to eat just now."

"Is he delirious?" Saint-Germain asked, hoping the man was not.

"Not completely so, but not wholly in his right mind, either; I would call it drifting--you know, the way the centurion was at Diva Nis?"

"That was a long time ago," said Saint-Germain. "Yet you remember."

"I remember." Hroger stared at the far wall. "He is failing, isn't he?"

"I fear so," said Saint-Germain; the pleasant sense of satisfaction that had filled him only ten minutes ago had now vanished, to be replaced by keen assessment and a kind of sorrow that had been with him for over three thousand years. "If you would inform Heer van Hoek for me when I have finished my evaluation of Gavril Valentinovich, I will go and see him now. If only we had better access to more medicaments." This last revealed to Hroger how truly helpless Saint-Germain felt.

"I will report to van Hoek. But I think you should consider moving the patient," said Hroger.

"For what reason?"

"We may need to get him out of the opposite room because he is beginning to bother the other patients. He frets and sometimes he curses for no reason, except that he feels his end approaching. That troubles the rest of the patients in the room." Hroger looked toward the second chamber of their quarters. "We could put a pallet in there, couldn't we? On the opposite side of the room from my bunk."

"I suppose so," said Saint-Germain.

"Then I'll arrange it," said Hroger. "I can keep watch on him for as long as necessary."

"That is very good of you," said Saint-Germain.

"And when you're done with the patient, Saari would like to see you. He'll wait at the rear of this building for another three hours for you." He added this last as if it were a minor consideration.

"About what?" Saint-Germain paused in the act of reaching for his smock.

"He has been watching Lajos Rakoczi--"

"Whoever he may be," Saint-Germain interjected.

"Just so. And he may have found out something of interest," said Hroger as he picked up Saint-Germain's small leather case of medical equipment. "I told him to come around after nine tonight."

"A good hour. Thank you." Saint-Germain donned his smock and went out the door and across to the far side of the surgery-room where the injured were kept, separated from the ill on the first floor. He went along to the ninth bed, where Gavril Valentinovich Pretishkin lay, his blankets wadded into a lump behind his knees, his hair matted, his breathing noisy and strained, and his skin unhealthfully mottled; Saint-Germain bent over him, touching his neck to evaluate his pulse; he felt the movement of blood through its vessels. "Fast and weak," he said to Hroger in a low voice. "He has most certainly developed a secondary poison within him."

"Is there anything to be done?" Hroger asked, anticipating the answer.

"We could amputate again, possibly as high as the knee, depending on how far the heat has spread, but if the poison has traveled throughout the body, it would only increase his suffering to subject him to more cutting." He stood up. "He will want syrup of poppies at the least."

"How large a dose, my master?" Hroger asked.

"Half a vial, and mixed with a double dose of the sovereign remedy." He said this almost without emotion. "It will be anodyne, at least."

"I'll do it as soon as I've spoken to Heer van Hoek." He held out the leather case of tools to Saint-Germain. "If you don't need them, shall I put them back?"

"If you would, please," said Saint-Germain and, as Hroger left the room, he went to draw up one of the four stools in the room to the bed of Gavril Valentinovich, in order to study his condition more closely. He could find no ominous lines running up the man's damaged leg, and he could detect no odor of rottenness, but clearly something had gone wrong, and there was poison in him. Had there been atomies in the water that had carried a venom of their own, or had the man already taken ill when his toes blackened, and he would have reached this point no matter what had been done? He could not decide.

Gavril Valentinovich coughed, the sound deep and ropy. He moaned and moved as if trying to find a comfortable place on the bed. His eyes were open but unfocused; he pulled at his nightshirt as if plucking it of feathers.

There were footsteps behind Saint-Germain and he turned to see Heer van Hoek standing a short distance away. He asked in Dutch, "Hroger spoke with you?"

"He did." He regarded their patient. "He is deteriorating."

"Quite rapidly," Saint-Germain agreed. "I think we may have done all that is possible for the man."

Van Hoek took a minute to respond. "If he survives, he won't be able to be a supervisor here, and he is a long way from his district. With all that has happened to him, would he be able to return to his people?"

"And when he got there, would they care for him?" Saint-Germain asked, expecting no answer.

"Kyril says that many injured men are abandoned to be beggars. There is no provision for them here, and no other city has offered a haven to them. Not even the monks want them." He pulled at the edges of his mustache. "Is there a good reason to remove the whole foot? And a part of the leg?"

"Not that I can think of," said Saint-Germain. "It is unlikely to spare him, and it would mean he would have to endure more pain."

"Then we are agreed," said van Hoek heavily. "Your man will move him into your quarters and he will be carefully tended; you will provide anodynes to ease his misery." He cleared his throat. "We can move the fellow over there"--he pointed to a pallet at the end of the row of beds--"into this bed."

"How is he doing?" Saint-Germain asked, for he had not taken the time to examine their newest patient since his initial assessment, two days ago.

"His work-gang who turned on him broke his shoulder, and it's difficult to get a clean healing in the shoulder. He worries at his bindings, and that doesn't help." He paused. "The Czar ordered that gang out to the fourth levee to help in the rebuilding. With the nights freezing, their tents will do little to keep them from chilblains."

"And the supervisors will not fare much better. The barracks most of them are assigned to are unfinished."

"Winter is going to be hard," said van Hoek.

Saint-Germain nodded as he rose from the stool, and said to Gavril Valentinovich in Russian, "Be of good heart. We are going to make you more comfortable."

Gavril mumbled something that sounded like a curse, then drifted off into a kind of sleep.

Van Hoek motioned to Saint-Germain to come out into the surgery-room. "Three or four days, do you think?"

"Possibly. I have seen men more stricken than he last longer than that, and some less so go out like a blown candle." He tried not to recall all the ways in which he had seen men and women die, or all the differences he had seen in their determination not to die.

"Do you think he has a family somewhere?"

"He may. We will have to notify the Guards. They are in charge of such lists now." Saint-Germain lowered his head. "Hroger and Kyril will attend to moving him later this evening, and I will see he is relieved of pain."

"Dream himself into eternity, as the Orientals have it?" van Hoek proposed distantly.

"So I hope." Saint-Germain looked about the room.

"Incidentally," said van Hoek as if it had just occurred to him, "I'm indebted to you for trying to introduce Ludmilla Borisevna to the Dutch language--let alone the Russian one. Reading and writing is such a trial for women."

"Especially since most of them are not permitted to learn either," said Saint-Germain with an ironic tinge to his observation. "This way, in a few months, you and she can exchange notes. Would you like me to teach you Russian?"

"I can speak it, and that's sufficient," said van Hoek with a wave of dismissal.

Realizing there was nothing more to say on that topic, Saint-Germain asked, "Do you anticipate needing this chamber for a few hours? It will take a little while for Hroger to ready a bunk for him, and if you have surgery to do, you will not want to have the other going on."

"Nothing tonight. I am planning to go out for a while." He shrugged in a complex way. "I need a few hours away from here."

"Then we will proceed," said Saint-Germain. "May your evening be a pleasant one."

Van Hoek shrugged again. "Just an opportunity to meet with a few of the Dutch in this city, and to make up a hand or two of cards and enjoy a pipe or two. I miss hearing my own language." He gave Saint-Germain a consoling look. "You have a worse situation than I, with so few speakers of your tongue in Sankt Piterburkh."

Saint-Germain's native language had vanished from all speakers but him more than three thousand years ago; even its descendant tongue had been gone for more than two millennia. "I understand," he said with feeling.

"Then you will not begrudge me the evening."

"Why should I?" Saint-Germain asked. "I am here on your sufferance, not the other way around."

"You're right," said van Hoek as if he had forgotten it. "Well, I will check in on Gavril Valentinovich when I return, which should be about midnight."

"Do you want an escort home? There are still gangs on the streets these nights."

"You would think of that," said van Hoek. "Who can blame you, after all? But from what I've seen, the Guards have driven most of the gangs into hiding, or across the river."

Saint-Germain held up his hand. "You cannot assume that the Guards, useful though they may be, have completely swept all outlaws from the city."

"Between here and the house of Barendt van Zwolle, what risk do I run? There are a few lights over the street, and I will stay on Spasky Street and Tsariana Natalya Street. If the Savior and the Czar's mother can't protect me, what can the Guards do?" Van Hoek chuckled and gave Saint-Germain a negligent wave. "The worst that will happen to me is a hangover."

Although he felt uneasy, Saint-Germain offered no more objections, but gave van Hoek an affable smile and went on to his private quarters to collect his cloak, then went down the stairs to the first floor and out the rear door, stepping out into the gelid fog. He looked about, seeing the heavy mists but nothing more, not even the trunks of trees growing three paces away. "Saari?"

"I am here," he said in Finnish, just above a whisper.

"Would you like to step into the care-house? It is warmer inside."

Saari peered into the hazy dark. "Better out here, I think, where we won't be seen, or heard."

"As you wish." Saint-Germain moved a few steps nearer to him. "What have you found out?"

"I'm not sure. But I thought you should know that your wife's brother has twice been gambling with this Rakoczi at the house of the Prussian Envoy."

"Graf von Altenburg?" Saint-Germain was somewhat startled.

"There are a dozen men who gather there regularly to play games of chance," said Saari. "I thought you must know."

"I knew von Altenburg often entertains, but I was unaware that Rakoczi went there." He frowned, then the frown vanished. "This has happened twice, you said?"

"Yes; twice." He hesitated. "I wouldn't have noticed, but your wife asked her brother whom he had seen at the Prussian Envoy's, and he mentioned that Rakoczi was new to their group."

"And when did they have this exchange?" Saint-Germain asked.

"When they were getting into the larger carriage five days ago; they were going to the English Residence, making plans for the salon. They have done that most nights of late." He stared into the night. "The Ksiezna is preoccupied with the salon."

"I realize that," said Saint-Germain. "Do you know if the Ksiaze Radom has met with this Rakoczi at any other time, beyond diplomatic occasions?"

"He hasn't said anything that makes me think so, but I don't often hear him talk." Saari lowered his eyes. "But they are acquainted, and you wanted to know if they had any contact."

Saint-Germain smiled slightly. "Perhaps one evening, I will join von Altenburg's gaming tables. He has invited me to do so, upon occasion."

"Will you speak to Ksiaze Radom?"

"I doubt it would be wise; at least, not yet." Saint-Germain took three gold coins from the small purse that hung inside his cloak and handed them to Yrjo. "Thank you for this information. I think it is likely to prove useful in time. If you notice that the two men have met again, send me word of it."

"I will be at the corner most of tomorrow, seeing who comes to the care-house, and I'll report to you by evening if I've found anyone suspicious watching," he said with fixed determination.

But Saint-Germain shook his head. "For the time being, I would prefer you watch the Ksiezna and the Ksiaze, to keep them safe."

"Why? You are the one who has employed me, not they."

"Just at present," said Saint-Germain, "my fortunes here are tied to theirs. I have to know what befalls them, and I must rely upon you to keep me informed, since I am living here, not at the Ksiezna's house." There was something in his eyes that commanded Saari's acquiescence.

"All right," said Saari uncertainly. "I'll watch them."

"Thank you," Saint-Germain said again. "If you have something to report, tell Hroger when he comes to speak with Gronigen for his daily report on the horses. You two occupy the room in the stable, and you may talk with him and not attract undue attention."

"I will. But if what I learn is urgent, I'll come here directly." He folded his arms to demonstrate his commitment.

"Do not worry," said Saint-Germain. "For now I am protected. The care-house is watched by the Guard. The Czar has ordered it."

"The Guard may have such orders, but they don't know how to perform the work they're assigned. They drink too much, and they don't bother to patrol the side-streets, especially if they think there could be danger." Saari's indignation caused him to raise his voice; as soon as he realized what he had done, he went quiet.

Saint-Germain regarded him steadily. "For now, we must depend upon the Guard, and hope for the best from them. As long as the Czar is here in Sankt Piterburkh, we must live as he wills. The Guard may be lax, but they will attend to their duties until Piotyr Alexeievich returns to his Swedish war."

Saari ducked his head. "As you wish." With that, he took two steps backward and was lost in the thickening mists that rose from the half-frozen marsh.

Text of a letter from Klaus Demetrius Krems, confidential secretary to the former King Augustus II of Poland, to Ferenz Ragoczy, Grofok Saint-Germain, in his capacity as the substitute for Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, at Sankt Piterburkh, written in code at Madeburg, sent by courier, and delivered nine weeks after it was written.

To the noble Ferenz Ragoczy, Grofok Saint-Germain, the greetings of Klaus Demetrius Krems on the order of Frederick Augustus, formerly Augustus II of Poland.

My dear Grofok,

As you have probably discovered for yourself, matters in Poland and among the German States have changed in the last few months, circumstances that have brought your particular mission to a difficult pass. You have been a most valuable source of information during your stay in the Czar's new city, and it is Royal Augustus' wish that I commend you for all you have done to serve what had been our interests there. But you are doubtless aware that with new developments must come new solutions, and it is for that reason that I am charged with asking one last effort from you: that you will mark the progress of dredging and building so that we will have an estimate when the Russians will be able to deal with a full-sized fleet of merchant vessels, and the degree of naval presence the Czar is planning for Sankt Piterburkh. There are rumors that he will have an Admiralty there in two years, but no one here is inclined to give such an ambitious plan much credence. Your information will be essential in the decisions we make here for the next five years.

Difficult as it may be, I must ask you to discuss nothing of this with Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, for her continued loyalty to Poland could prove to be at cross-purposes to our own. Your alliances are not nearly as clearly defined as hers must be, so I must tell you that your services will be subject to scrutiny that they have not received in the past. For that reason, I request that you provide as much secondary information that can be used to support your observations as is practicable. This imposition is being made in order to ensure that all those making evaluations may be given the kind of weight their intelligence deserves.

We are also interested in ascertaining the number of foreigners presently residing in the Foreign Quarter, and their various stations and degrees. We know the Czar has encouraged more diplomatic interchanges with Europe, England, and Scandinavia, but we have little information on who has been posted there, in what numbers, and in what capacity, and if these numbers have been reduced for the winter, or kept in place.

Royal Augustus wishes me to assure you that he will extend his thanks to you when you have ended your mission, and that you will find him most appreciative of your service. He also wishes me to inform you that your imposture has remained intact as far as this Court is concerned. We have no information from the Poles regarding anything the Ksiezna may have revealed. You are urged to remain on your guard, especially now that the War of the Spanish Succession appears to be lasting longer than was first thought to be likely. The name Ferenc II Rakoczi has become better-known throughout Europe in the last six months, in ways that would not all be advantageous to you. Therefore, let me urge you to keep up your masquerade as Arpad Arco-Tolvay as long as you are able to, for your own safety and the safety of the Ksiezna.

The courier who brings this will carry back the messages you entrust to him, and will move them as rapidly as the weather permits. He will, of course, contribute his own observations to his account of his journey. You are asked to house and feed him for as long as he remains in Sankt Piterburkh, and to stable his horses. May God guard and keep you.

Your faithful servant,

Klaus Demetrius Krems

private and confidential secretary to

Frederick Augustus, formerly Augustus II, King of Poland

October 23rd, 1704

3

"If only we had a little time to be alone, so that you could ... ah... amuse me," Zozia exclaimed with an arch look at Saint-Germain as she touched the soft line of her collar-bone. "My brother can be most inconvenient at times; never more so than now." She tossed her head provocatively. "It's been much too long since you and I had time to ourselves. I've missed all the delightful things you know how to do to me."

"Since Benedykt is aware of my dissimulation, you need to be careful not to compromise yourself in that regard with him." Saint-Germain made a gesture of commiseration. "Not that it would not be very pleasant to pass time together, you and I."

"He is forever telling me that Arpad will arrive here in the spring and denounce me as an adulteress--not that he ever did before," she said, turning sulky. "You would think that my brother wants to ruin my work here, the way he behaves, as well as all you and I have done for Poland--he's worse than a jealous suitor with his interfering."

"What has he done now?" Saint-Germain asked.

"Invited that Ragoczi person to the salon."

Saint-Germain thought this over. "It need not go badly because of that."

Her eyes brightened. "No, it won't. I will not allow it."

"But you think he did it deliberately, to slight you."

"Yes. It is all of a piece with him. He doesn't like to be eclipsed by anyone, least of all his sister, so he seeks ways to sabotage and undermine my efforts, in particular, this salon." She sighed, and straightened herself. "I try to keep in mind that the salon is only a part of what I have achieved, and, in spite of Benedykt, it has the approval of the Czar."

"And with your salon this afternoon, I should imagine you have little time for anything beyond your preparations," Saint-Germain said with a gallant bow. It was approaching mid-day and he noticed that half of the household staff had already left for the English Residence.

"All the more reason to dally when there's opportunity," she said, studying his dark clothing. "You aren't going to wear black to the salon, are you? You look like a Court priest."

"If it would displease you, of course not," he said.

"It would displease the Czar, and that could redound to my discredit," she said, pursing her lips in distaste. "Wear something elegant--the dull-blue velvet with the silver waistcoat would be a good choice, or the spruce-blue satin with the damask waistcoat and the new wig you had sent from Prague, with the clusters of curls around the face--and when you're there, don't go on and on about the care-house. This is the wrong occasion for that kind of conversation, and I know you have the manners to make yourself good company. We must build up our goodwill with Piotyr and the Europeans, which demands we tread a fine line."

"You have a mission, and I will do what I can to aid you to fulfill it," said Saint-Germain with a touch of sympathy, for it was apparent that this salon had taken on significance that was more than Zozia had anticipated at the start.

"Thank you," she said, a bit more curtly than she intended. "You're right--time is short. I should prepare to receive my guests, not you."

"Alas," he said.

"Still, if we had time ..." She had put on her stays and her petticoats, and stood, half-dressed, on her side of the divided bedroom, the pallid sunlight from the single window touching her pale hair and the froth of ruched lace on her petticoats with a soft glow, suffusing her skin, pale as a wax candle, with the same lambency as her lace. "But I would have to get out of my under-clothes, and that would mean bathing and dressing again afterwards. Besides, Salomea is probably listening. I know Benedykt would be if he were about; he has gone to supervise bringing in the wine for the salon."

"Then all the more reason for us to be discreet," he said.

"Can't we be alone?" she asked wistfully.

"Hardly anyone is ever truly alone in Sankt Piterburkh, no matter where they go; everyone watches everyone else, and the servants watch the whole. All the city is filled with spies of one sort or another. And since that is the case ..." In concession to that, he held the music he had brought with him in his left hand. "You asked to review what I have on hand for clavichord. This is my current collection of airs, anthems, and dances."

She took the sheets and flipped through them. "English--good. Italian--good, especially the Venetian. French--fashionable. Prussian--good. Bohemian--good. Hessian--good. Luxembourgois--unexceptional. Spanish--I think not. Austrian--awkward, considering the situation there. Swiss--good enough. Dutch--very good." She raised her eyes to his. "Why have you nothing Polish in these sheets?"

"I assumed you would have made choices of your own." He saw his remark had stung her in a way he had not anticipated. "Had you told me you would rather I select--"

"Very well, find a polonaise and a czardas: Poland and Hungary will be represented," she said, cutting him off. "Is there anything you can do along those lines?"

"I know some dances, but I would have to play them from memory," he said, trying to read her intentions in her choices. "If that would please you, I would be glad to do it."

"Would the music sound ... less artistic than what you have here? If you play a piece poorly from memory, it would be better that you not play at all." She pressed her lips together, revealing her nervousness.

"No, Zozia, it would not," he said quietly.

"It will have to do," she said, her eyes narrowing. "The consort we have engaged will have some Polish works to perform, and one of the singers has a Polish song in his repertoire. Were it not that you and I have a shared purpose, I wouldn't be concerned about what you play, but I trust you understand?"

"Yes, I do, Zozia," he said, knowing her masterly airs were borne of the demands she felt were being made of her. "And I will play a czardas as part of my contribution to the evening. As I am Hungarian, many would think it odd if I did not include at least one piece from home, especially if Lajos Rakoczi is going to attend. He will expect a Hungarian song or two, and will remark on their absence. The assembly would expect me to play that kind of piece from memory."

She heard him out and shrugged dismissively. "Oh, all right. Abigail Carruther won't object, and who knows what the Czar may decide?"

"I will speak with him in advance, if you like," Saint-Germain offered. "When I come to tune the clavichord, I can discuss my choices with Colonel Broughton, to discover if he can find anything wrong with my repertoire."

"Broughton listens to you more than he does to most of us," said Zozia, a note of resignation in her observation. "All right. I'll arrange it. Keep in mind that the Resident has decided to take a secondary role in all this, to keep from any potential cross-purposes being served--they will be, of course, but he is officially not to know of it--so that he and England will not be embarrassed. He will not take kindly to someone deliberately affronting any of the guests. He's warned both Missus Carruther and me of his views."

"That is very kind of him," said Saint-Germain, a tinge of irony in his voice.

"It is, since the salon is happening under his roof and his indulgence." She shot him a hard look, as if to satisfy herself that he was sincere; she took a step back, saying, "There will be thirteen more women with us tonight than there were at the reception last summer. Everyone will be pleased."

"How many are attending tonight?" Saint-Germain asked.

"Our totals, without counting the consort of musicians or the Bohemian poet, are fifty-nine men and twenty-two women attending. We have engaged nine extra servants for the evening, beyond the Residence staff. Your colleague, van Hoek, will attend, as I'm sure you know." She smiled as she saw a look of curiosity cross Saint-Germain's attractive, irregular features. "And the Czar and his Marfa, of course. We don't count them with the rest."

"So over eighty guests. A very respectable number, given the size of the Foreign Quarter," he said, and bowed to her again. "I look forward to seeing you at the second hour before sunset, at the English Residence on Nevsky Street. I will bring my wrenches for tuning the instrument at that time."

"Nevsky Prospekt," she corrected him. "The Czar has ordered that the embankments be stone-covered by this time next year, and a proper promenade be made in stone at the top of them. He has declared that it will be renamed to suit his plan for it, and we are to start giving it its new name at once. Just as well that you have wrenches for the clavichord--I doubt the Czar has a set."

Saint-Germain kept his opinion to himself; he withdrew to the door and paused long enough to say, "I wish you every degree of good fortune possible this evening, Ksiezna."

She dipped a curtsy to him. "Thank you, Hercegek. I know I may depend upon you to do your part." Her wave of dismissal was abrupt.

Leaving Zozia's house, Saint-Germain stepped out into the glistening sunshine of an early autumn afternoon. The air was clear, the sky an improbable blue, the streets busy as the people of the Foreign Quarter hurried to make the most of this pleasant day; servants hastened to the market-squares to secure meat and poultry for the coming months, when both would be in short supply; merchants bustled through the markets as well, making themselves aware of the goods on display, and seeing that their own products were available and attractive. It appeared that most of the people could feel the last warmth of autumn slipping away. Taking his time along the street, Saint-Germain seemed to be enjoying his short walk; all the while he was covertly scanning the crowd, searching for any man whose presence troubled him, anyone who seemed too interested in him. The fellow in the hat might be in the crowd, but Saint-Germain could not see him; with all the care he could muster, he could detect no one who might be following him, but he could not rid himself of the sensation of being watched; long experience had taught him to lend credence to such impressions, and he bore that lesson in mind as he arrived at the care-house, for he lingered in the small vestibule long enough to have a thorough look at the street before he entered the main room, where he found Heer van Hoek deep in conversation with Brother Gilarye.

"Oh, Hercegek," he said, cutting into his exchange with the monk. "May I have a word with you?" Since he spoke in Dutch, it was apparent he did not want their conversation understood by the patients.

"If you like," said Saint-Germain, almost certain he knew what van Hoek wanted to discuss.

"I have been using that sovereign remedy you provided me, and I am pleased to say that two of the most stubborn cases of Swamp Fever are finally showing signs of improvement. I hope to have encouraging news on the new patients, as well." He stopped abruptly, and took a moment before continuing.

When the silence grew, Saint-Germain said, "But--?"

Van Hoek locked his hands together. "But we have another condition developing among our patients; Brother Gilarye has been telling me of its distinctions, so that I and Madame Svarinskaya may be more alert to its presence." He rubbed his hands together as if to rid them of something unpleasant. "From what Brother Gilarye and I have been able to determine, it is a kind of rash on the skin, circular in appearance, about as large as the palm of my hand, and I fear it may be contagious, for it has spread among them."

"A rash on the skin?" Saint-Germain asked, giving van Hoek his full attention. "Have the bed-linens been boiled weekly?"

"When I can persuade Klavdye and Jascha to do it, yes. But with the weather turning so damp and wet, they aren't as willing to boil the washing as they were in the summer. They claim it chaps their hands and damages the sheets to boil them."

"It probably does lead to chapping, but it is still important. Have the sheets checked for bed-bugs and boil any that have them; it may not be much, but it could decrease the problem. Also, have the horses and dogs examined for signs of the rash; sometimes such conditions are shared by men and beasts alike," said Saint-Germain, feeling more alarmed than he allowed himself to reveal; he moved toward the stairs. "You will attend the salon, as I understand. You finally made up your mind to go."

"Either Madame Svarinskaya or I must, according to the Czar, and since Ludmilla has night-duty here ..."

"And a woman by herself at such a function might attract unwelcome attention," said Saint-Germain, voicing a worry that had beset Ludmilla from the time the invitation arrived. "None of us wants that."

"She would have to speak only to other women, as well, if she went alone," said van Hoek. "Do you think I should offer to escort her? For an hour or two?"

"Why not ask her? But keep in mind that you would be ill-advised to depart the salon before the Czar and Madame Skavronskaya do, and that could run into very late hours." Saint-Germain started up the stairs. "Would you like me to make an ointment for Klavdye and Jascha to lessen the chapping?"

"If you would, it may help. I would also appreciate your opinion on the rashes the patients are suffering. I know bed-bug rashes, but this hasn't the look of them. You've seen a great many diseases in your travels, and you may be able to advise me." It was obvious he disliked asking for such help.

"Of course." He stopped on the fourth step up. "Would you like me to attend to them now, or tomorrow? Whatever treatment I may have to offer, you are welcome to it."

"If you can spare the time to prepare the concoction this afternoon, we may take steps to halt the spread tonight." He flung up one hand in exasperation. "It is always something, isn't it? I suppose we should be grateful that matters are no worse."

"So it would seem." He resumed his climb and found Hroger waiting for him, prepared to lay out his clothing for the salon.

"You've heard about the rash?" he asked as Saint-Germain came into his quarters. "Kyril says it is becoming prevalent among the work-gangs."

"Van Hoek just told me," he answered. "Have you seen it?"

"I have. It is like that condition you saw in Poland before you were summoned to the Court of Karl-lo-Magne."

Saint-Germain swung around to look at Hroger. "You mean those eruptions called skin mushrooms?" He frowned. "I hope you are wrong, old friend."

"So do I," said Hroger with more emotion than he usually revealed. "But it has that kind of appearance. You should look for yourself."

"Yes; I told van Hoek I would," Saint-Germain said to him. "So I suppose I should don a smock and go downstairs." He went to take a clean smock from its peg. "I assume Madame Svarinskaya is resting for her night duties."

"Actually, no, she has gone to the butcher to order smoked pork and pickled beef while both can be had. She says she'll rest later today." He paused. "She holds you in high regard."

"As I do her," said Saint-Germain.

"I'm aware of that," said Hroger with almost no inflection.

"For some reason, you have reservations," said Saint-Germain, perplexed by this uncharacteristic stance.

"Not about Madame Svarinskaya, but about the Ksiezna, who seems to be a woman most reluctant to share anything she deems to be hers."

"Such as myself?" Saint-Germain shook his head, his dark eyes distant. "It is unlikely to come to that."

"But if it does, you will need to be extremely careful, for Ludmilla's sake as well as your own; the Ksiezna would not use half-measures in such circumstances; she expects you to obey her commands." Abruptly he changed the subject. "Would you like to see the men with the rashes now?"

"Yes. Then I will need to dress, since I must go to tune the clavichord in a while." He held up his hand. "Zozia has requested I wear the spruce-blue satin. I leave you to choose waistcoat, chemise, neckcloth, and leg-hose; you know which shoes I will wear."

"I will," said Hroger.

"Do any of our patients on this floor have the rash you spoke of?" Saint-Germain asked. "I am assuming you've checked."

"I have, and none show signs of it yet. One or two have developed a cough, but at this time of year with the weather turning cold--" He shrugged his conclusion.

"Then I'll go down and have van Hoek show me." He turned, ready to descend. "Is there anything else I should be aware of?"

"Heer van Hoek has asked to borrow your microscope, since it is more powerful than his."

Saint-Germain considered his answer. "So long as he uses it in my quarters, I have no objection."

"Because of the monks," Hroger said.

"Precisely," said Saint-Germain. "They persist in believing that the atomies the microscope shows are devils, not instruments of disease. I will not be long." He was as good as his word, returning in less than half an hour, his face somber. "You were right: it is skin mushrooms. All the bedding will need to be boiled with urine, and the men with the rash will have to be separated from the others." He went to his trestle-table and took out a sheet of foolscap from its case, and reached for his writing materials. "I'll write this out for van Hoek." He set actions to words, sanding and clearing the sheet as he tucked up his cuff-ruffles. "If you will see he has this?"

"Of course," said Hroger. "I will set out your clothing while you finish your report."

"Thank you, old friend." He wrote two more lines, then added, "If you would, tell Ludmilla what we have discovered about the rash."

"I will do so, when she is awake." He left Saint-Germain to finish writing his report to van Hoek.

It was not quite two hours later when Saint-Germain left the care-house, bound for the English Residence. He was magnificently dressed in the spruce-blue satin coat and knee-britches; his waistcoat was of pinkish-tan faille with an edging of seed-pearls, his chemise was pale blue-gray, his neck-cloth edged in Belgian lace, as were his cuffs. Leg-hose of spruce-blue silk and black Florentine leather shoes with ruby-studded silver buckles completed his ensemble; he wore his best wig and carried a handkerchief in one hand, along with a fashionable tall cane, and his case of sheet music in the other. Traffic on the street had lessened from what it had been at mid-day, and now he reached his destination in about five minutes without undue haste.

"Welcome, Hercegek," said Drury Carruther as he opened the door of the Residence to him. "You come in good time."

"Better than to rush at the last moment," said Saint-Germain, stepping into the small entry-porch. "How are our wives?" The whole of the Residence smelled of roasting venison and beef, and there were servants hurrying to finish setting out glasses and the buffet that would be offered. Four large tubs filled with ice had been well-stocked with bottles and jars of beer, and a two-colored fountain offered red and white wine to the thirsty. There was even a large pitcher of lavender ratafia for the ladies.

"Busy. Perhaps a bit overwhelmed, what with the Resident laid down on his bed."

"His gout is still bothering him," said Saint-Germain with certainty.

"More than you know," said Carruther. "Perhaps you will call on him tomorrow, to administer some of that decoction of yours."

"Of course," said Saint-Germain.

"Your efforts will be much appreciated." He led Saint-Germain through the main room to one of the side-rooms where a group of musicians were setting up their chairs and stands. "The clavichord is in the corner. I'll have the servants bring a tree of candles for you."

"Thank you," said Saint-Germain, nodding to the other musicians. "I will try not to interpose my tuning with theirs."

"They'll appreciate that, I'm sure," said Carruther. "Shall I ask a servant to bring you anything to drink?"

"No, thank you," said Saint-Germain, a bit distantly.

"Oh, that's right. The scars--I remember. You don't drink wine, do you? Or eat." He smiled. "The better to tune on pitch, I suppose. Would you like anything else from me, other than silence?"

"Silence is helpful for tuning," said Saint-Germain; he bowed to Carruther. "I thank you for your kind offer."

"I'll leave you to it, then," said Carruther, and took a few steps backward, nearly tripping over the Italian tuning his viola da gamba; he muttered something as he escaped from the room.

Saint-Germain laid out his wrenches on the instrument's music stand and began the long process of bringing all the strings into tune, starting at the base A and making his way upward. He was so engrossed by what he was doing that he hardly noticed when one of the Resident's English servants brought a tree of wax candles and stood it next to the instrument, then lit the candles and went away. Undistracted, Saint-Germain worked calmly and steadily, sounding nuances of pitch as he created octaves, then fifths, then thirds in true harmony with one another; it was a keyboard of three octaves and a fifth, so the tuning could not be done rapidly.

"You've a good ear," said one of the three violinists; he spoke in French. Like the other musicians, he was dressed in dark-gray with the simplest of waistcoats and neck-cloths, and a wig with a single pigeon's wing over each ear. "Clavichords are the very devil to tune, aren't they?"

"They can be. We will see how well this one holds pitch." Saint-Germain played a chromatic run up the keyboard, wincing at a few of the notes. "More work to do yet."

"We'll be practicing three of our pieces in a little while. Will that disturb you?" It was intended as a polite inquiry but nothing more. "We have more musicians coming, and soon we'll be fairly noisy."

"I doubt it will," said Saint-Germain. "But will my tuning be a distraction to you?"

"I wouldn't think so," said the French violinist.

"If we discover there are problems, then we can deal with them when they arise," said Saint-Germain, picking up one of his wrenches again.

"Good of you, Hercegek," the violinist said, revealing by the use of his title that the other musicians had been instructed by one of the hostesses to defer to him. Over the next half-hour, the rest of the consort drifted in, the oboe da caccia player complaining of a sore throat and occasional cough, to whom the violinist recommended hot brandy and orange peel before they began playing. They set about arranging their chairs and stands to their liking and settled down to tune.

"Whose note?" The lyra da braccia player asked.

"Hercegek," the violinist called out as Saint-Germain was trying out one of the Italian airs he had brought to play.

"Yes?" Saint-Germain replied as he stopped I Fiori de' Lagrime in mid-run.

"Would you give us your middle A?" He lifted his violin to his chin and prepared to align its sound with the clavichord.

"Gladly," said Saint-Germain, and struck the note with some authority.

From the doorway, a handsome young woman with glorious red-brown hair, dressed in a grande toilette of rosy taffeta and ecru lace, exclaimed, "Oh, I wish I'd known you'd be here. We could have done songs together, Hercegek."

The violinist lowered his instrument. "My wife, Irina," he said, making room for her in the horse-shoe center of musicians. "And where is Natalia, and Julij?"

"They are coming. We have been warming up, as you're about to do," she said, kissing him on the cheek. She curtsied to Saint-Germain. "Hercegek."

"Madame," Saint-Germain responded with an acknowledging nod, all the while remembering his time in Roma with Giorgianna Ferrugia, fifteen years earlier.

"My wife is a contralto of rare range and richness of tone," the violinist boasted. "Natalia is her student, a soprano, and Julij used to sing at the Court of Augustus II of Poland." He escorted Irina to a chair, then returned to his place among the instrumentalists. "Hercegek, if you would be kind enough to sound the A once again."

Saint-Germain provided the note, and listened to the swarm of sounds that greeted it; he enjoyed the amiable chaos that began so many musical occasions, finding it a familiar observance throughout much of the world. The six string-players settled on their A, and the violinist nodded to Saint-Germain. As he struck the A again for the brass and woodwinds, he noticed that the fellow with the lyra da braccia was staring at Irina as if he were parched and she were spring water; Irina was smiling slyly, her attractive features carefully controlled.

"Shall we try the middle portion of the Gesualdo?" the violinist asked, and waited while everyone found his place in the music. "On the up-beat. One and." He motioned with his bow and the consort picked up the rocking beat of the plaintive threnody. They were halfway through the piece when the two remaining singers arrived, and for a short time the rehearsal stopped again while the specific order of playing was decided upon.

Just before the salon began, Julij Redzynski approached Saint-Germain and held out an envelope to him. "I have been asked to give this to you by a countryman of yours." He spoke so punctiliously that his bow was superfluous.

Saint-Germain reached up for the envelope, concealing his intense curiosity. "That is kind of you," he said calmly; he saw there was only his name on the envelope, and that confirmed his misgiving about its source.

Julij seemed disappointed at this cool reception; he prompted Saint-Germain with his observation, "He said you'd understand what it's about."

"I have some notion, but this is not the time or the place to address Lajos Rakoczi's concerns." He slipped the envelope inside his coat and into the pocket concealed there, then he brought out a silver Angel and handed it to the singer. "For your service."

"Thank you," said Julij, biting his lower lip. "You know that the Grofok will be here this evening."

"I do," said Saint-Germain without displaying a trace of discomfort.

Nonplussed, Julij turned away. "Oh."

Carruther looked in at the door. "The Czar is arriving," he said. "The salon is about to begin."

"We're ready," said the violinist, the flurry of shifting pages belying his statement. "The Entrata. On my signal."

There was a flurry of activity around the front door, and one of the staff pulled the side-room door wide so that the music could be heard. Since he was not playing with the consort, as the Entrata began, Saint-Germain rose and, with the rest of the household and staff, bowed to Piotyr Alexeievich and Marfa Skavronskaya as they came into the Residence, the Czar ducking to keep his head from striking the door-frame.

Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, and Abigail Carruther were the first to rise from their curtsies in order to welcome the first guests of the evening.

Text of a letter from Lajos Rakoczi, Grofok Saint-Germain, to Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, written in Viennese German.

To the most distinguished Hungarian, Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, and husband to Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, Polish Royal observer at Sankt Piterburkh, the greetings of Lajos Ragoczi, Grofok Saint-Germain.

My dear Hercegek,

Before his departure to Moscow, the Czar's deputy, his poteshnye Alexander Menshikov, informed me that you had told him that you knew of your own knowledge to a certainty that my uncle, Ferenz Rakoczi, is alive, or was so when you say you saw him no more than nine months ago. While I do not question your motives for advancing such a claim--for it is understood that if you have evidence that my uncle is still alive, it is your duty to declare it officially--yet you must understand that I would like very much to see what proof, beyond your assertion, you have to support this. As you may imagine, I am most interested in all you have to tell on this point, for it seems strange to me that I would have been granted his title were there any doubt as to his survival. To support my own position I have with me, here in Sankt Piterburkh, the official decision from Buda, with the seals of the court upholding my inheritance; I would not like it thought by anyone that because I have no body to bury, that I have come to my position by fraud.

I do not say that you have made such a claim, of course. I have been told that you most specifically avoided making such a charge: Menshikov told me himself that you were most insistent that you only wished to inform him that you had seen my uncle more than two years after the Court was informed that he had died, and that you were convinced further investigation was necessary.

Since you have not come to me in regard to this matter, it appears that I must come to you, and so I entrust this to the singer, Julij Redzynski, and ask that he deliver it into your hands before the salon at the English Residence this evening. It would hardly be appropriate for me that I broach the matter with you while the festivities are ongoing, so I hope this will serve to gain your attention. If you are willing to discuss this with me, you have only to say when and at what place, and I will present myself.

I know you informed Menshikov that you are disinclined to take up the matter with me in order to avoid the appearance of impropriety, and were we in Hungary, I would second your probity, but as we are in Russia, such sticking points would seem to be too severe to our shared circumstances. Therefore I urge you to provide me with all the information that is at your command so that I may set about putting this injustice--if there is an injustice--to rights. You may rely upon my discretion in anything we discuss.

Believe me, Hercegek,

Your faithful countryman,

Lajos Rakoczi

Grofok Saint-Germain

October 25th, 1704

4

A puddle of light from the overhead oil-lamps brought the pages on the trestle-table to full legibility; he had set out the latest lists of words and phrases in Dutch and Russian, and was now waiting for Ludmilla to arrive. The room was warmer than it had been, for Saint-Germain's quarters were now almost finished. At the other end of the room, the half-built athanor was the only obvious sign of incompletion. The wall-panels were new enough to retain marks from the saws that cut them, but the book-cases placed up against them made the rawness less apparent. The bunk constructed for Gavril Valentinovich was next to the athanor, empty now that its occupant had died, but made up and ready to be put to use again.

At seven o'clock, there was a knock on the door, and Saint-Germain went to admit Ludmilla. Tonight he was in his long, black chamber-robe, which he wore over ankle-length black leggings of knitted silk; his chemise was simple, without collar or neck-cloth, and of spotless white triple-ply silk. His black slippers had unusually thick soles. He offered her a partial bow. "Come in, Ludmilla Borisevna. You are always prompt."

She bobbed a curtsy. "As we are under the same roof, I have no excuse not to be." She adjusted the fine Turkish shawl around her shoulders as she carried her lesson-books into his quarters; the lamplight turned the rust-color of her dress to chestnut, and shone on her ordered coronet of bronze braids. "They are having their meal downstairs."

"I can smell the fish baking," he said, watching her with concern. "It is baked fish and turnips boiled in milk tonight, I believe."

"That's right," she said. "We're getting to winter food now that it's November and the ice has come. In another week, the Neva's ice will be thick enough to hold carriages and wagons and all the boats will be marooned until spring, but the Guard can go hunting for game for the city."

"Winter food or not, should you not have something?"

"I wasn't very hungry." She looked away from him. "And it was time for our lesson. I'll have something later, while I take my ease at the end of my watches." Her watch concluded when the Cathedral clock chimed four, many hours away.

He saw the remoteness in her face, and said, "Are you sure you would not rather cancel tonight's instruction? This has been a harder day than most."

"Not studying won't change the day." She did her best not to look directly at him. "I'd like something to concentrate on, other than our losses."

"I have no wish to intrude, but, Ludmilla, have you recovered from the misfortune earlier today? It would be most understandable if you had not." He could see lingering shock in her eyes and the beginning of anguish. "If you are troubled, tell me; I will hold anything you say in confidence."

"Would you?" She studied him. "Why should you?"

"For respect, and trust." His voice was low and steady, like the bass string on the viola da gamba, and the sound reassured her.

"What if what I say doesn't deserve respect, or trust?"

"You already have my respect and my trust, Ludmilla Borisevna; nothing you say will change that."

She crossed herself; when she spoke it was as if she were compelled and relieved at once. "There are so few children in Sankt Piterburkh, fewer than forty that I know of. To lose one to something so simple as an inflamed cut ... I do feel desolated by the death of the Ratschin boy as I have not when the deaths have been of adults. He is the fourth child we have lost since midsummer, and that troubles me. He was cheated of so much, that child. I would have been willing to try anything to keep him alive and help him to get well again--But there was nothing we could do by the time they brought him here. So the Danes no longer have a page at their Residence, and the steward and chambermaid have lost their only child. Just eight years old, and so far from home. He came here in June, from Moscow, with his parents. They told me that the Czar ordered them to come, as he has ordered so many others, and he told them to bring their son, to serve with them in the Danes' household. It is all part of the Czar's plan: Piotyr Alexeievich seeks to have his city built, and to be a hallmark for all Russia, and an example for Europe as well." Reciting this as if it were a strange alphabet, she moved automatically to the trestle-table, each step disjointed from every other step. "What would you like me to study tonight, Hercegek?"

"I think, as I have told you, that you may want to postpone the lesson, at least in our usual manner; I will not send you away, but with all you have been through, something a little less demanding may be preferable, and provide an instructive distraction--something that engages your attention without demanding your concentration," he said, taking the books from her and then gathering her hands in his so that she would face him. "If that seems too much, tonight you may choose to rest, so that you may restore yourself." He held her gaze with his own for several seconds, and then she looked away as if compelled by guilt.

"I shouldn't," she said, her voice quiet. "Tonight is going to be a difficult time for all the staff, and I must be prepared, and not only for the boy's death: we have lost others today. With Heer van Hoek gone for two hours to be with his Dutch friends, to ease the burdens of the day and to relieve his homesickness ... A lesson will help me to regain my perspective, a little. I need to regain it so that I can do my work. I can't allow ..." She glanced toward the shuttered windows. "It's still snowing, you know. Kyril said so when he came in from the street a short while ago. He had gone to the Cathedral to arrange something for the boy." Her voice broke; she began to weep silently, without sobbing.

He released her hands and touched her shoulder lightly, letting her head fall forward onto his shoulder. "Better to weep, Ludmilla, and honor the child's life, than to nurture grief like a hidden treasure, for that can be poison to the spirit." His hand remained on her shoulder, not heavy but sustaining.

"I've seen children die before; we lost two to Swamp Fever in the summer; they were pages, too, and as innocent as the Ratschin boy, but their loss didn't seem as great as this one," she said, the words muffled. "I don't know why this has overcome me so." She attempted to wipe away her tears, but they continued; her face lost its impassivity as the lines of despair sank into her features. "Why couldn't we save them? Why do any of them die?"

Saint-Germain smoothed the wisps of hair back from her face. "Everything dies, Ludmilla." He spoke with sorrow and with an abiding acceptance that had come with his long, long life. "Everyone."

"But must they?" This was no louder than a whisper, but it held all the heartache she had experienced since she came to the care-house a year ago. She stared into his dark eyes as if she hoped to find the answer there.

It took him a while to compose an answer for her. "You have given many of your patients more days of life than they would have had without you. There may not be much consolation in that, but your gift is genuine, and the extra time you have provided is a gift beyond price. Yet in spite of your good care, every one of your patients will die, one day. That does not diminish your gift, either, nor is it lessened because you cannot always restore your patients to health. What matters is that you are willing to make the effort on their behalf." It had taken him three centuries to learn this during his service at the Temple of Imhotep.

Ludmilla leaned against him more fully. "But a little boy, with nothing more than a cut--Why should he die, and rough supervisors who live more like wolves and bears than humans survive?"

"I wish I knew," said Saint-Germain with undisputable sincerity. "Worthy people perish and reprehensible ones live, some of the time. Just as often the reprehensible ones die and the worthy live, and there is no reason for any of it, except that death comes to us all."

"His parents are mired in grief, and nothing can change that. I couldn't think of anything to say to them." This time when she wiped her eyes, her tears stopped. "If only I could believe that life is a bad joke that God plays on all of us, as many of my countrymen do, I would not be distressed." She gathered up her courage and looked directly into his eyes now. "But I can't."

"I would imagine that if you did, you would not be here; those who bank their feelings so relentlessly eventually lose all their emotions," he said, watching her attentively.

She managed a single, rueful laugh, and something corposant deep within her seemed to retreat. "Nor would you, Hercegek," she said, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek.

For an instant both of them were perfectly still, then he returned the kiss affectionately, matching his mood to hers; he put his arms around her. "I have a notion," he said companionably. "Tonight, rather than our usual lesson, I will tell you stories in Dutch, and you will translate as much of them as you can as I go along--that is, if you are willing."

"Stories?" She gave this her consideration. "All right. If you promise me that you won't choose ones about reckless or vain girls coming to grief. I heard enough of those when I was young, along with constant admonitions to do my duty."

"No exemplary tales, then; my Word on it," he said with a quick, one-sided smile, and stepped back from her, pointing to the comfortable chair next to the largest book-case. "If you will sit down, I will light the lamps on the table by the chair, and we will begin."

"But isn't this your chair?" she asked, feeling uncomfortable at the thought of displacing him. "Don't you want to use it?"

"Everything in this room is mine, except that bunk on the wall," he said calmly. "It would please me if you would accept my hospitality; the chair is more comfortable than the stool, so it is fitting that you, as my guest, should have it." His bow, while moderate, was as elegant as any she had ever seen.

"All right: to please you," she said as she sank into the high-backed upholstered chair. "Has the Czar seen this?"

"The chair? Not that I know of," Saint-Germain said, surprised at her question. "Why do you ask?"

"Only that if he does see it, he'll probably expect you to make him a present of it. The workmanship is so fine, he would want it in his collection. It has happened with many another." She touched the padded arm and the lion's paw at the end of it.

"If he likes the design of this chair, surely he would prefer to make his own," said Saint-Germain, thinking of all the beautifully turned wood in the Czar's house, all of which Piotyr had done himself.

"He may want this for a model to work from," said Ludmilla. "If you presented it to him directly, he would probably show his gratitude handsomely."

"I will bear that in mind," said Saint-Germain as he brought a long match to light the lamps on the inlaid occasional table from Egypt. "Would you like some tea? I have a spirit-lamp and a teapot to make it; and I have a cordial of black raspberries, if you would like stronger fare. I brought it with me from Poland."

She blinked at him in surprise. "May I have the cordial mixed with hot water?"

"Certainly." He brought the spirit-lamp from the end of the trestle-table and put it in the middle of a raised ring of iron. Next he took the teapot from its place on the shelves at the end of the table and filled it with water from a small barrel of it that stood under the table. After putting the pot on the raised iron ring, he used the match again to light the spirit-lamp. "It will boil shortly."

"Spasiba," she murmured.

He acknowledged her thanks with a nod even as he carried the stool nearer to the chair and set it down. "What sort of story would you like? There are stories about real people and actual events, stories about clever peasants, stories about seafaring to distant lands, stories about magic and wizardry, stories about great sacrifice, stories about foolishness--you have only to choose which one you want to hear."

"What story would use the Dutch words I know the most?" she asked.

"Probably the story of times past," he said. "If you think you would like to know some of the history of the Dutch?"

"It would please Heer van Hoek, and that would be useful," she said, trying to be practical; what she wanted most to hear was stories of high adventure in distant lands. Inspiration struck her. "Or you could tell me about your travels--all the places you have been, and the wonderful things you have seen."

It was Saint-Germain's turn to be perplexed; he knew a fair amount about Arpad Arco-Tolvay's life, but had only a sketchy knowledge of his journeys. "Shall I tell you about the great cities of the world? Not just the ones I have seen, but the ones I have had described to me? I have often asked travelers of their experiences," he offered, knowing he could draw on his long experience without exposing himself.

Her eyes brightened. "Oh, yes, please. The more ships come here, the more we will see sailors from many distant ports. I will need to know what is true and what is imaginary."

Saint-Germain said, "Let us begin, then, with Amsterdam, since it is Dutch, and the Czar admires it." Just as he said it, he remembered that Arpad Arco-Tolvay had never seen that city, and so he added, "Although I have never been there, I have often heard it described, and from most reliable people; I can compare what I have heard to places I have seen." He sat on the stool, and went on in that language, "Like this city, Amsterdam has been built on what once was marshland. It is low-lying, on the edge of a large bay to the east of the city. There is a good harbor there, and many canals, so that the city is protected and constantly busy." He paused and listened while Ludmilla repeated most of what he had said in Russian, then continued in Dutch, "Like Sankt Piterburkh, it is a cluster of islands, some as they were in nature, some made or made larger by human endeavor, and connected to the drained mainland and one another by bridges. The Dutch continue to enlarge their city, always striving to reclaim land from the sea. The canals are structured in a horse-shoe pattern, one set inside another, and another inside that, and so on. The canals are flanked by streets, and the houses line the canals. Merchants live along the canals." Again he went silent while she did her best to say a fair portion of what he had told her in her own tongue; she managed more than half the words without mishap.

"How long did it take the Dutch to finish their city?" she wondered aloud when she was done with her translation.

"It is unfinished still, and may be so for another century yet." He was still speaking Dutch.

After she had translated what he said, she remarked, "This city will be finished in fifteen years at the most. The Czar has ordered it. Why would the Dutch need more than fifteen years to build such a place?"

"The Dutch continue to expand their activities. Amsterdam grows. Even the Czar may discover that the same will happen here; the city may grow beyond the limits of his formidable design." Saint-Germain paused, then said, "I know of one city in the sea that changes very little, but that is because it keeps itself apart from the mainland, and has only so many islands that it can include within its boundaries: that is the fine city of Venezia on the Adriatic Sea." He experienced a pang of dejection, missing the Most Serene Republic where he maintained a trading company and a press--as he did in Amsterdam as well. "It has fallen from its earlier power, but still retains its importance in trade in the eastern seas."

"I've heard of Venezia. Is it true that it has palaces riding on boats?" Ludmilla asked in Russian, then asked the same thing in Dutch.

"It has fine boats, to be sure, and a great many of them, but all of their palaces are built on reinforced islands. You have seen the work-gangs here sinking logs straight down into the damp ground to shore up the footing? All of Venezia is built on such pilings. Its palaces and churches and piazzas all stand on a sunken forest." He waited for her to translate what he said, and spent some time explaining pilings and piazzas, then said, "Both Venezia and Amsterdam are seafaring centers, and both of them depend utterly upon shipping for their very survival."

"That must happen here," said Ludmilla emphatically. "So long as Piotyr is Czar, his city will endure, but once he is gone, it may fade, and all of us be cast on the world again."

The teapot began to boil; Saint-Germain went to remove it from the flame of the spirit-lamp and to blow the lamp out. He selected a porcelain cup from its place on his shelves and then brought the bottle of cordial from a chest beneath the empty bunk. "Half cordial, half hot water?" He saw her nod, and poured the cordial into the cup until it was half-full, then stoppered the bottle again and added the hot water. He carried the cup to her, setting it down carefully. "There you are, Ludmilla Borisevna." He withdrew to the stool again, but did not sit upon it.

"It is fragrant," she said in Dutch, then added in Russian, "There are so many things I need to learn to say, and to write. How can I ever hope to know what I'm reading if I don't understand enough? Yet I must know more, mustn't I? How can I provide records and other information if I haven't mastered writing?"

"You are learning very rapidly," Saint-Germain assured her in Russian. "You have good reason to be pleased with your progress."

"So you have told me," she muttered, taking up the cup and drinking. "It seems to me that I am dragging along like an old donkey behind a cart."

"I think perhaps that today everything disappoints you," he said kindly.

She lifted the cup. "This doesn't. This is very good." She drank again. "May I have some more? Not immediately, but when we're finished here?"

"If that would please you, of course you may." He could see the elusive radiance he had perceived within her earlier flicker in her eyes and then fade again. "In this room you are my guest as well as my student."

With a hint of a sigh, she abandoned her attempt to smile. "I thank you for your understanding, Hercegek. You are most generous. It is more than I have--" She made herself stop. "I beg your pardon. You've endured too much of my crying already."

"If you have tears to shed, they will not offend me," he said, and took a step toward her. "I won't impose upon you." Then, without warning, she began to cry once more, no longer silently, but in a soft, keening wail that reminded him of the rising wind. Scraps of words tumbled out of her, exposing the depth of her feelings that were beyond language. She made complicated gestures with her hands as if to keep him from coming nearer.

He went to her and knelt down on one knee beside her; he took a lace-edged linen handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her. "There is no shame in mourning, Ludmilla," he said as gently as he could.

She took the handkerchief and held it to her eyes, struggling with her tears. She did her best to speak, but the words caught in her throat and she surrendered to her weeping, secretly astonished that he remained beside her. "It isn't just sorrow for the child: I can't go back to my husband; I can't. But if I fail here ..." She was shocked to hear this admission, for until this outburst, she had not realized how much grief she had kept within her, and how much dread. For more than three minutes she wept, all the while staring at him through her flooded eyes, finding nothing but sympathy in his reaction to her crying. Gradually her tears diminished, and as she strove to compose herself, she kept her lips pressed tightly together. Finally she drew an unsteady breath. "Truly it's said that suffering is the way of the world," she murmured, making this a kind of apology. "The Church tells us that, and we haven't the wisdom to comprehend our mortality, the burden of sin, the innocence of children." Her body slumped. "So long as we will not lead blameless lives, we will be weighed down with wretchedness of our own making."

"It need not be so, not always," he said, getting to his feet and drawing her out of the chair to be close to him.

"For our sins we must endure pain and sadness, despair and loneliness, though the Savior died on the Cross to spare us. It is sin that often brings us down." She made the sign of the cross, more out of habit than piety. "No one can know grace but through embracing the agony of life."

"Life has pain and life has joy, and sin has nothing to do with it unless one makes it so," he said, trying to provide some consolation that would diminish her anguish.

"We are weak, and we fail God," she said, wadding the handkerchief into a ball. "The priests tell us every day, and we don't understand what they say."

"You have not failed, Ludmilla Borisevna," he said more compassionately. "You have done your utmost to ease misery and sickness. You have devoted yourself to alleviating pain. If your God expects more, who could satisfy His demands?"

"But that child--"

"It was a difficult loss," said Saint-Germain quietly, feeling her tremble against him.

"And Ivan Ivanovich Zacharov. He is alive, but his mind has gone. In the spring he will have to be sent to Moscow, to the monks who care for such men." Her shaking got worse. "If we had treated him properly, he would be restored."

"No, Ludmilla, he would not," said Saint-Germain. "Zacharov was struck in the head two times with an iron bar, which would have killed most men, and that has left a permanent injury. Nothing you or I or anyone could do would change this."

"Why was he spared, then?" Horrified at her own question, she pressed the handkerchief to her mouth.

"I wish I knew," he said. "If I understood why--"

"Don't say that! There must be a reason!" she interrupted.

"If there is, it has eluded me for a long, long time." He took her nearest hand, lifted it, and kissed it. "We must make our reasons for ourselves."

"No," said Ludmilla. "There must be reason beyond our own, or the world would never change, and we would live as our ancestors did."

"The world is always changing, and we, perforce, change with it," said Saint-Germain. "No change is for good or ill, it is for the necessity of the world. Good or ill is what we make of it." He put her hand down. "You have only yourself to answer to, Ludmilla, as we all must answer to ourselves." He felt her wince at this thought. "You are capable of all things, and you have decided to aid your fellow-beings. This speaks honorably of you."

She crossed herself again. "If I can't manage here, if I am condemned by the Metropolitan for permitting helpless children to die, I will have to return to my husband, in disgrace and an embarrassment to him. He would be allowed to dispose of me for bringing disgrace upon him. He will send me to a convent, or kill me." This last was said in flat certainty.

"Any man who would think you an embarrassment diminishes himself." He helped her to stand, and remained next to her. "I have no fear that you would be compelled to go back to your husband. The Czar would not want to lose such an accomplished woman as you are to the vanity of a boyar, given that you have done so much to benefit his new city."

"Let me lose another child, and I may be sent away," she said harshly. "It is not as if my skills are sufficient to sustain this care-house; I am not essential here. Heer van Hoek is a trained man with experience. I am little more than his assistant."

"One he could not manage without," said Saint-Germain, aware of the depth of her worry. "If there should be any doubt as to how essential you are, I will gladly tell Piotyr Alexeievich that you are as necessary to this care-house as Heer van Hoek is."

"You are a Hungarian. Why should he listen to you?"

"Because I know something of medical treatments, and my opinion is disinterested; I have nothing to lose or gain in speaking my mind. I think he would be willing to hear me out." Saying this, he had to admit he had doubts, but he was fairly sure that the Czar would want to keep Ludmilla here for the sake of the patients in the care-house.

"You have more faith in the Czar than I do," she said slowly as she wrapped her arms around him. "But it is good of you to make such an offer, and to permit me to give voice to my sadness and my fears. I'm grateful to you."

"I have no wish for your gratitude."

She stared at him. "Why?"

He answered her obliquely. "Long ago there was a merchant who traveled in the lands of Hind, and when he learned of a coming attack, he sent the woman he loved across the Arabian Sea to Egypt, providing her with the means to live comfortably until he should be able to join her. Unlike most of the women of Hind, the woman was spared penury and worse. But the barbarians took him captive and years passed until they were able to meet again, when it became apparent that the woman had come to resent him for caring for her." He kissed her forehead, the image of Avasa Dani fading from his thoughts. "I have learned from that man, and I distrust gratitude. Thank me if you like: that will discharge any obligation you may have to me."

"But ..." She hesitated. "You've done so much for me--why shouldn't I be grateful?"

"I have done what I have done out of my own inclination, not to favor you," he said, with such tenderness that she blinked and hoped she would not cry again. "That I have pleased you is an added satisfaction for me."

Tentatively, Ludmilla asked, "Does your wife mind what you do here?"

Saint-Germain turned his enigmatic eyes on hers, then answered, "If my assisting here pleases the Czar, it pleases her, and her brother approves it, as well."

"And if she commanded you to stop your work here, would you?" Her question was breathless, and she remained still as she waited to hear what he would say.

"It would depend upon why she had commanded me," said Saint-Germain, a wry smile touching his mouth. "She is one of the representatives here for Poland, and I am pledged to assist her, but if she ordered me away in a fit of pique or because she dislikes some of the ills we treat, then I would not leave; my King would expect me to remain."

Ludmilla thought about this for several seconds. "And if you become ill, what then?"

"Those of my blood do not become ill," he said levelly.

"You say that after you were set upon in May? And those old scars you have?" Her incredulity turned to hard laughter.

"I did not say I could not be injured," he told her steadily, "I said I do not become ill; they are two different matters."

Her laughing stopped abruptly. "You are right," she allowed. "They are different." Once more tears welled in her eyes. "Not again."

"Weep as long and as often as you need to, Ludmilla," said Saint-Germain.

"I don't want to need to," she said, opening the handkerchief once more. "I've ruined this, I think," she added before she wiped her eyes.

"I have more," he assured her as she stepped into his arms.

They stood together for some little time, Ludmilla leaning on him as the accumulated despair and fatigue went slowly out of her and she began to feel purged of her exhaustion; with it came a distancing from their closeness. She lifted her head from his shoulder and took a step back. "Is Hroger here?"

"He is at the Polish Residence," said Saint-Germain. "I sent him to deliver a message to the Ksiezna and to my coachman." He did not add that he had included instructions for Saari as well.

"How long will he be gone?"

"He will return after he has eaten."

"Should we try for a lesson tomorrow night as well as the night after?" She put the handkerchief down on the table beside the chair. "I should be more attentive then."

"If you would like it," he said, releasing his hold on her.

"Then we can do the lessons you planned for tonight." She picked up the teacup and drank the last of the black raspberry cordial, though the water with which it was mixed had gone cold.

"Would you like some more?" he offered, aware that she had a secondary reason for her inquiries.

"No, not now. If you are awake when I've finished my watch tonight, then I'd welcome it." The smile she gave was more secure than any other he had seen that night, and her voice more caressing than he had ever heard it. "You are often awake far into the night, aren't you?"

"I require little sleep," he said.

"Might I come up then? For your cordial in hot water?" There was a promise of something more in her request; she confirmed his supposition by suddenly closing the distance between them and kissing him on the lips. "Will you let me visit you then?"

He nodded. "You are welcome here at any time."

"No matter what your wife may think?"

He held her eyes with his. "Until the end of your watch, Ludmilla."

"Yes, Hercegek Gyor, until then," she said before she let herself out of his quarters.

Text of a letter to Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, from Johannes Walther Oertel Stiffelmund, Graf von Altenburg, Prussian Envoy to Sankt Piterburkh, carried by messenger.

To the esteemed Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, from the Graf von Altenburg, his apologies for the cancellation of the fete tomorrow night, and the brevity of this note.

My dear Arco-Tolvay,

It is inconvenient, I know, to postpone the entertainment I had planned to offer to the diplomats and other important figures of the Foreign Quarter tomorrow, but as I have become ill, as has Theophilius Schaft, I am reluctant to expose others to this inconvenient fever, which I fear I contracted while I was supervising the unloading of the Koenigen Frika. She has become mired in ice, as you know, and will remain at her moorings until the thaw releases her in spring. All her cargo and many of her ship's appointments have been removed to our assigned warehouse for the winter, in case there should be trouble out in the river, and the ship be damaged because of it. Four of the sailors were suffering from this sickness, and I have assumed that I have had the disease from them. As soon as the illness has run its course, I will once again set a time for the fete. I am only sorry that it will mean that the Czar will not be here to lend his presence to our amusements.

We have arranged with the Guard for one of the Watchmen groups to visit the ship twice a day in order to ascertain its condition and to protect it from some of the robbers from the mainland who have taken to plundering unmanned ships caught in the ice. That should at least spare us the loss of goods that so many others have experienced. The Watchmen we have been assigned are from Novgorod, and have sworn to keep our ship protected. We are paying them well for their protection, and we have secured the services of a pair of sailors who will spend time on the ship during the daylight hours. They have been given a signal-horn to sound in case of trouble, as have the Watchmen. Under the circumstances, this is the best we can do to protect the Koenigen Frika.

I dislike having to impose upon your good-will still further, but I would like to ask you, since the care-house where you work has agreed to take in Schaft tonight, that you will deign to visit me with your case of medicaments, as I must, of necessity, remain here at the Residence. The ship's physician, who is staying at the Residence along with the rest of the Koenigen Frika's officers, has bled me, but I have felt no reduction in symptoms--in fact, my cough is worse. You are said to possess an array of treatments, some of which might serve to lessen my fever and my cough. You will be welcome whenever it is convenient for you to call; you need not send a messenger to announce your coming.

Anticipating your arrival,

I remain most sincerely,

J. W. O. Stiffelmund

Graf von Altenburg

Prussian Envoy at Sankt Piterburkh

November 9th, 1704

5

Through the thickening fog the Czar's four-room house blazed with lights, making it a fuzzily luminous beacon to all those summoned to his gala of farewell; Watchmen on the streets carried extra lanterns to help guide the sleighs and horses to the splendid occasion that was to mark Piotyr's departure to rejoin his troops.

Huddled in her enclosed Polish sleigh, Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, snuggled into her long sable coat and glared at Saint-Germain. "You should have told me before now, and you know it," she complained, her breath adding to the fog; she had been argumentative since he had arrived at her house an hour before, and that acrimony continued as they cut along the icy street. "If you are withholding this deliberately--"

"That Graf von Altenburg is very ill? I thought it was generally known already. The Prussians have certainly made no secret of it, and the Foreign Quarter has few secrets. Is there something you would like to know in regard to his case?" His courtly garb was covered by a long cloak lined and hooded in wolf's-fur, and his gloves were elk-leather lined in silk.

She answered obliquely. "Benedykt said he was ailing, but not that it was anything more than a winter fever. Now you tell me that he may have putrid lungs. Putrid lungs, in this place! How can he expect to recover? And what I am to do to keep on good terms with the Prussians while he is unavailable to me? Hugo Weissenkraft won't provide me the information that von Altenburg has." She held a small heated stone in her gloved hands to keep them warm, but she balanced it now as if she intended to throw it at him. "This is important, Grofok. The Prussians and the Poles have many interests in common, and if von Altenburg dies, then my position could become more perilous, and with it, your own."

"In what way?" Saint-Germain asked with great cordiality. "I am willing to do what I can to ensure our mutual security, but until this evening, you have said nothing about von Altenburg's relationship to your mission, or what it has to do with his illness, since I went to the care-house. I may no longer be directly included in your duties here, Zozia, but I do not grasp how von Altenburg's sickness endangers you, or me. I do see his present incapacity may be an inconvenience, but--"

"Do think a little, Grofok." She stared at him in exaggerated patience. "If I am required to make a decision that could bear on Poland, I prefer to consult with von Altenburg so that nothing I do will compromise any understandings that exist between Prussia and Poland. Surely you can see that, can't you? You were recommended for this post because you are said to be sensitive to diplomatic relations; doubtless you are aware that Poland and Prussia have many interests in common in regard to Russia; you were ready enough to support them when you accepted Augustus' terms for this delegacy." Before he could speak, she went on, "So far, in spite of changing mandates, you have shown that you have a good understanding of my situation, and I know you are a man of worldly experience, or you would not have been asked to accompany me in this ineluctable deceit, and I would not have lent myself to this project. Having agreed to our task, why would you hesitate to inform me of something so important as the Envoy's condition? If he is seriously ill, then I will be stymied, and will have to wait until he recovers or his replacement arrives to make any commitments to other foreigners in this city."

"A situation shared by many of those living in the Foreign Quarter," said Saint-Germain. "Nothing official may be concluded before spring, unless you have a special courier to take dispatches overland. With the worst weather yet to come, I presume you would not want to send a courier out except in the direst emergency." He thought for an instant of Niklos Aulirios, and hoped that he would be able to make the most of his journey from the Carpathians to the banks of the Neva before the thaw, though it meant traveling in the fiercest weather. "If your problem is urgent enough, perhaps you can arrange something with the Prussians to your mutual but temporary benefit."

This time she regarded him with dislike. "You have no idea of how difficult my situation here has become," she announced.

"No, I do not: how could I?" he countered reasonably. "Since Stanislas replaced Augustus, I have not been included in any aspect of Polish efforts here; that was to be expected, and I have no argument with it. Since Augustus left Poland, I have been superfluous to your purposes; I know Stanislas approved my work at the care-house, little as you may wish to admit it, not only to allow you to consult more often with your brother, but to remove me from your activities, and the chance that I might do something contrary to your assignments for the benefit of Augustus or Hungary."

Her indignation was immediate. "How can you say such a thing to me, Grofok? How can you impugn me so unjustly? You have no right to cast aspersions upon me. You agreed from the first that you would accommodate me in all matters diplomatic, and yet you have the gall to claim I have treated you unfairly."

"I do not claim that you are unfair, only that your purposes are not unknown to me although your instructions are, which is where we have encountered trouble, as you have acknowledged before now. If you are willing to tell me what you need me to do or say, then it is far more likely that we will deal better with each other. I will respect your confidences, as I have done from the first." His voice softened, and he leaned forward on the seat. "I would appreciate candor from you, so that I may do my part to help you." He held up his hands. "I have nothing against you, Zozia. I have no objection to you sending me away from your house so that you could continue your mission in safety with your brother. But I cannot intuit all that you require of me; in order to support you, I have to know what you expect of me."

She lowered her head so that he could not see the expression that marred her pretty features. "I take your point, Grofok. You and I must find a way to share our work but without the risk of exposure," she said at last. "Pragmatically it is the best approach for us to have more regular private discussions, so that this kind of impasse may be avoided in future." There was a steeliness in her voice that made it apparent that she would not back down from her position.

"I agree," he said as the sleigh was pulled in to a stop. "If you will permit me to help you to descend?" He had reached to open the door and let down the steps, rose crouched over and stepped back out of the sleigh, then held out his hand to assist her.

She put her hand in his. "Be careful tonight. If anyone asks you about von Altenburg, say as little as you can, and dismiss the rumors that he is dying in any way you can short of clear mendacity." Putting her foot on the hard-packed icy snow, she had to steady herself on his arm.

"I will do my best, Ksiezna." Looking up at her coachman, he said, "If you will return at midnight?" He started toward the door of the Czar's house.

"Vincenty," said Zozia to the coachman; she still clung to Saint-Germain's arm. "Tell Gronigen to come at midnight. You need some rest."

"Yes, Ksiezna," he said, and prepared to turn the sleigh around.

"If you hear any rumors tonight about Polish or Prussian interests, let me know at once," Zozia said as they reached the small porch of the house.

"I will," he promised her, stepping into the vestibule and removing his cloak, which he handed to the servant, revealing himself in a deep-red damask silk coat and britches with black leg-hose, black shoes with diamond buckles, a black chemise and a dull-silver satin waistcoat; his English wig was freshly dressed and curled, and he had two splendid brooches holding the revers of his coat in place. He removed Zozia's long sable wrap and handed it to the servant, then went into the main room where more than thirty guests had already gathered.

Marfa Skavronskaya greeted Zozia warmly, complimenting her elegant dress of plum-colored satin over petticoats of light-blue lawn cut-lace, with matching tiers of the same lace at her elbows and framing her face with a curled ruff, setting off a collar of diamonds and rubies. Marfa herself was in a dress of red satin with a square neckline piped in Baroque pearls and sprays of gold embroidery; on both wrists she had multiple gold bracelets set with precious stones. "Your husband is a generous man; no doubt you're deserving of his gifts."

"He has good taste in jewels," Zozia allowed, and was rewarded with Marfa's hearty laugh.

"That's to his credit," said Marfa.

"Madame," said Saint-Germain, bowing over Marfa's hand. "If you think well of my taste, what can I be but flattered."

"Deft, very deft. You're being quite grand tonight, Hercegek," Marfa said, an appreciative glint in her eyes. "The Czar will be glad to see you, as am I." She indicated the far end of the room where most of the guests were gathered.

Piotyr had abandoned his place beside Marfa near the door and was standing beside the stove, busily pouring libations for his guests and trying to get more of the company to join him in a drinking contest. Catching sight of Saint-Germain, he raised his tankard of beer and shouted, "Ah! My Hungarian Hercegek and your Polish wife! Twice welcome!" He was in a handsome ensemble of lilac satin coat, puce britches, a blue velvet waistcoat lavishly embroidered in gold thread, and a chemise of pale-gray silk with a neck-cloth of matching lace; his wig was a masterpiece of cascading russet curls. Doughty and effusive, he dominated the room as much by the force of his presence as his great height.

"Majesty," said Saint-Germain, offering an extravagant bow; beside him, Zozia made an elegant curtsy.

"Come! Come." He held up a glass of Champagne, beaming at them as they obeyed. "Let me give you something to--" He stopped himself with a booming laugh. "No, Hercegek; I think nothing for you. You see, I remember your scars." He wagged a finger at Saint-Germain. "I will excuse you from joining in the merriment. But your wife will not refuse my wine, will she? It is a fine vintage."

"Most gracious, Majesty," said Zozia, moving toward Piotyr to take the glass he had poured for her. "May God attend you in your travels."

"I hope He will," said the Czar, pointing to the Captain of the stranded Koenigen Frika, who was lingering near the stove as much for beer as warmth. "Herr Drost there is making the most of the evening. I hope you will do the same, Ksiezna."

"Herr Drost," she said with a gracious nod.

"Ksiezna," he said, returning her nod. "I am delighted to see you." His hang-dog expression belied his courtesy.

"He is glum because two more sailors from his ship have died of the epidemic cough; that makes five." Piotyr held up an empty tankard. "Hercegek! For you!" He shoved the tankard into Saint-Germain's hands, grinning as he did. "Since I won't put you through another bout of vomiting, not tonight."

"Most gracious of you, Majesty," said Saint-Germain, taking the tankard and holding it carefully as if it contained something of great value.

"So," the Czar boomed, "you can tell me, Hercegek: is it true that von Altenburg is dying?"

Zozia shot an accusatory glance at Saint-Germain. "Yes; is he?"

"He is gravely ill, but I am not yet certain that he will die," said Saint-Germain, uncomfortably aware of the high degree of attention he was receiving. "The Envoy is a man of strong constitution, and that always gives reason for hope."

"Well, then, I will hope," said the Czar, and drank a generous draft of beer. "See that you do your best for him."

"Certainly, Majesty." Saint-Germain made a leg in the manner of the French and English, and was rewarded with a whoop from Piotyr.

"Well done, well done!" he exclaimed, and rounded on Zozia. "You have a most clever husband, Madame."

"So I think," said Zozia with a trace of a simper, taking a step away from Piotyr. "We must not monopolize you, Majesty. You have many other guests coming to wish you Godspeed on your return to your troops."

"And for that, I am grateful," said Piotyr automatically. "See that you remember me and my soldiers in your prayers, Ksiezna."

"I will," said Zozia, still backing away from the Czar; she signaled to Saint-Germain to join her. "Hercegek, I would like to have some of the sausages I smell cooking in the next room. Will you escort me?"

"Of course, Ksiezna," said Saint-Germain, keeping by her side as they moved into the second room of the house. "Would you like me to bring you a plate, or will you select your food for yourself?" He set his tankard down next to her Champagne glass on the table but remained standing while she decided.

"If you will bring me sausages, and a few of those little pastries stuffed with sour cream and spinach?" She waved him in the direction of the buffet table, then sought out a seat at one of a half-dozen small tables out of the line of sight from the main room.

Saint-Germain did as she bade him, taking a plate and serviette, and selecting from the uncovered platters the food she had requested. As he turned to carry it to her, he saw that she was deep in conversation with Lajos Rakoczi; her voice was low, but her manner was emphatic as she leaned forward to address him, saying in German: "--have no business questioning the Hercegek's veracity. He has done what any honorable man must do; if your claims are truthful, then you can have no reason for your indignation. If my husband says that he has seen Ferenz Ragoczy alive, then you may be sure he has done so."

"It is admirable, Ksiezna, that you defend the Hercegek so passionately, but you do so without the knowledge you need to be able to--" He broke off as he saw Saint-Germain approaching. "Hercegek," he said curtly, rising and offering a minimal bow.

"Grofok," said Saint-Germain as he put down the plate and the serviette he had brought. "I trust I see you well." His politeness concealed his inclination to remove the man from Zozia's vicinity, but he knew he should not provoke a confrontation with him at this gathering. Belatedly he managed a small bow.

"I would be better if you would respond to the letter I sent to you." For some reason, he continued to speak in German. His face was set in uncompromising lines as he regarded Saint-Germain, obviously disapproving of his clothes, for Rakoczi was in full Hungarian array: a heavy russet-colored woolen dolman with black lacings, embroidered leather gloves tucked in his belt, elaborately embroidered riding-britches with high black boots; he wore his own hair and a narrow gold coronet to proclaim his rank. "I would have thought you would have done me the courtesy of answering my very reasonable requests."

"As nothing has changed since my original declaration to Menshikov, I did not see how an answer would alter anything. You already have all the information I can provide; I have had no new information." He inclined his head, his manner impeccable. "If this has offended you, I am sorry that you chose to see it in such terms."

"I will be less offended if you will tell me when I might expect you to withdraw your challenge to my rights to my estates and title." The audacity of this remark was deliberate, and it commanded the attention of the dozen guests in the room, as well as the servants who waited upon them.

"I have not challenged you, Grofok. I have been at pains not to challenge you, but I also cannot fail to report what I know." Saint-Germain studied him. "If you were in my position, would you withdraw?"

He glowered at Saint-Germain. "I would wait to determine if the man who you saw a year ago was still alive before I said anything to his discredit. I wouldn't besmirch the reputation of an honest man by claiming that I have come by my advancement through fraud."

"I have never said you were perpetrating a fraud, nor would I ever do so. As Menshikov has been informed, I have dispatched a courier at my own expense to attempt to reach Ferenz Ragoczy. You may think that I am not giving you the benefit of the doubt, or allowing for misinformation." He nodded toward four more guests who had come into this second room to help themselves to the buffet, and added in the Transylvanian dialect, "If you have other proof, why not offer it?"

Rakoczi ignored the last. "But you have done nothing to stop the speculation that has become rife in the Foreign Quarter. I would have thought that, as conscientious as you are, you would have worked to quell the gossip." He leaned toward Saint-Germain, deliberately looming, as if to make their difference in height more apparent. "You're Hungarian, and so am I. It behooves you to support me, Hercegek Gyor."

"Does it?" Saint-Germain asked in Magyar, as if appealing to their shared Hungarian heritage; he was unimpressed at this attempt at intimidation. "I would have thought that I have done so." There was an ironic shine in his eyes.

"How do you reckon that?" Rakoczi said more pugnaciously, still in German.

Saint-Germain continued in Magyar. "I have said, on those occasions when I have been asked, that I have only done what is required of me, and that until Ferenz Ragoczy himself can be located, alive or dead"--a faint smile fluttered at the corners of his mouth--"the matter must remain unresolved."

"Why does that help me?" Rakoczi asked indignantly in German-accented Magyar.

"I have done everything that law and honor compel me to do were we in Hungary: nothing less and nothing more." He was about to continue when Zozia stood up.

"Both of you--stop. Unless you want to give fuel to more rumors, you will say nothing more." She pushed Saint-Germain on the shoulder. "You are here to promote Polish goals, not to dispute the titles and estates of a missing Hungarian nobleman."

"You are right, Ksiezna," said Saint-Germain, and glanced at Rakoczi. "If you must press your arguments with me, another time would suit both of us better than doing anything now." Rakoczi looked about the room as if he had been unaware of the attention they had attracted. "For you," he said, recovering himself and bowing to Zozia, "I will withdraw. But only temporarily. I will have answers." Without any acknowledgment of Saint-Germain, he turned on his heel and left the room.

"How dare he snub you!" Zozia exclaimed, ignoring her own stricture.

"He dared quite readily," said Saint-Germain, sounding amused. "And no doubt he has accomplished his purpose."

"What purpose would that be? He said he wanted to dispel rumors. Nothing he did here will have that result." She sat back down and pulled at his sleeve to urge him to take the other chair drawn up at the small table. "For the sake of the Holy Angels, sit down, Hercegek. Everyone's staring as it is."

Settling into the chair, he took one of her hands in his. "I think that he has no reason or inclination to dispel rumors; in fact, I think his intention was to prime the rumor-mill with more grist," he said in Polish, fairly softly. "You may believe what he told you if you like, but to me he is all of a piece."

"You mean you think he's deliberately deceptive?" Her question was genuinely shocked.

"Why is that so astonishing to you?" he inquired gently.

She fixed him with her stare. "What makes you think he is deceptive?"

"He speaks Magyar badly, and from what I could tell, he does not speak Romanian at all," said Saint-Germain. "Yet the inheritance he says is his is in Transylvania. You would think he would know Romanian at the least."

"He might be from another part of the country originally. He is a nephew, not a son," she said. "It wouldn't be the first time a man came to his inheritance as a stranger."

"Would you say the same if he were Polish?" Saint-Germain inquired quietly. "Would you question his assertions more closely then?"

"Until he explains his reasons, I see no reason to condemn him; he wouldn't be the first man to come by his inheritance early," she said. "You said yourself that his mistake could be an honest one; the Grofok is rumored to be a great traveler, as you yourself have said. I can't bring myself to discredit his explanations."

"Because you admire his bravado, or his dissimulation?" He was about to rise, but Zozia laid her hand on his to stop him.

Color mounted in her face, and though she managed to keep her voice low, her eyes blazed. "If you mean that I must occasionally avoid the truth for the sake of my mission, that's entirely different than what you're implying."

"No; you do not lie to gain position and wealth for yourself, but to secure your country." He looked at her plate of unfinished food. "If you would eat a little more, most of the guests will pay us no more notice."

"And are you going to pretend to drink from the tankard?" Zozia asked, too sweetly.

"No; if I did, Piotyr would probably order it filled, and then things could become unpleasant." He reached over and tweaked one of the curls that hung down beside her ear. "You know how to conduct yourself in these sorts of circumstances: you can hardly blame Rakoczi for seeking an early conclusion to the problem, but all that can be done is being done, and everyone knows how slowly these issues are concluded."

For the first time this evening her laughter was untouched by anger. "I know precisely how that game is played, and for once I'll relish my role in it," she said, anticipating a lively evening of misdirection. "I'll extend every sympathy to Rakoczi, but point out that your situation demands that you present your information. I should have most of the Foreign Quarter concurring by the time the sun sets tomorrow."

"I am most grateful, Ksiezna," he said. "Why not begin with Colonel Broughton?"

"You mean he's here?" She looked around in some alarm.

"Yes, he is here," said Saint-Germain, puzzled by her response. "Did you think he would not be?"

"It's not that," she said hurriedly. "There is something I don't want to have to ... He's been deeply caught up in plans with Benedykt." Belatedly she started to eat again, selecting the sausages, picking them up in her fingers, as she was intended to do.

"Why would you not want to talk to him, if that is the case?" He could see her jaw set as she listened. "You need not tell me if you would prefer not to, but it may be wiser to take me into your confidence a little, so that I may continue to serve your purposes. If I am not familiar with your intentions, I might, accidentally, put you at a marked disadvantage."

She swallowed very slowly. "It would be easier if I knew more about you. I know you're Hungarian, a Grofok, and have good reason to cooperate with Poland, but--"

"It is burdensome to have such secrets between us, I understand, and I chafe at the restrictions as well as you do," he said at his most reassuring. "But they are conditions of our mission, and we are constrained by them."

"Do you really know that Grofok Saint-Germain is alive--"

"Oh, yes."

"--or are you trying to interfere with his heir?" It took all her audacity to ask, and she held her breath as he answered.

"I have good reason to suppose that this Rakoczi is not all he claims to be."

"Because his uncle is alive?"

"That is one way to put it," he said, and would have added more, but he lifted his head to see Colonel Sir Peregrine Broughton coming toward them, a brimming tankard in one hand, a glass of Champagne in the other.

"Ksiezna! The Czar said you might be thirsty," he cried in German as he held out the glass to her.

Zozia took the glass and set it down next to the half-empty one. "I've been enjoying the Czar's table and have neglected his Champagne." She reached for the half-empty glass and hastily drank it down. "There." She smiled at Saint-Germain. "You and Colonel Broughton must have matters you want to discuss, so I will excuse you."

Since there was nothing for Broughton to do but accept his dismissal, he bowed, smiling, his regimentals as grand as dress occasions could make them. "Rest assured that you and I will share a libation later this evening, Ksiezna." He turned to Saint-Germain. "Well, Hercegek, shall we get to it?"

"If you like," said Saint-Germain as he picked up his empty tankard. "That alcove there, behind the baskets of bread?"

"That gives an excellent view of the room. Yes, it will do." He half-bowed to allow Saint-Germain to proceed him. "And you can tell me what you know about the condition of Count von Altenburg," he said in English. "As you can imagine, the tales of his imminent demise are all over the Foreign Quarter."

"He has a high fever and putrid lungs, which is serious but not necessarily deadly," Saint-Germain said automatically.

"And the rumors of an epidemic--would you say they are groundless?" Broughton asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"I would say that in this place, with conditions as they are, it is possible that we will see more of the disease--what the Italian physicians at Padova and Bologna would call l'influenza, due to the insalubrious alignment of the stars. I would recommend care with any sign of sickness." He could read the lack of interest in Broughton's eyes, and an underlying uneasiness that revealed an unspoken urgency; he looked directly at Broughton. "Now, Colonel, what do you really want to know?"

Text of a report from Heer van Hoek to Nikolai Evkareivich Fet, Captain of the Sankt Piterburkh Guard, carried by a Guardsman.

To the most distinguished Captain Nikolai Evkareivich Fet, the physician-anatomist Lodewick Kerstan van Hoek sends this report from the care-house.

My esteemed Captain Fet:

It is my unhappy duty to inform you that the spread of the feverish influenza continues to spread, and it has become a serious problem among the supervisors of the work-gangs. We now have sixteen men at the care-house suffering from the disease, and each one of them reports that the disease is rife among the work-gangs, for although most of them are working indoors through the winter finishing buildings to be occupied as soon as the thaw sets in, they are exposed daily to cold and the company of those who already carry the cough and aching muscles that mark the illness. Here at the care-house we are struggling to give the attention needed by these men, but it is proving difficult, and is unlikely to get better before the end of the year, and may, in fact, continue until the thaw.

I fear that the disease has already become prevalent among the residents of the Foreign Quarter and the Russian people of the city. I mention this because my colleague, Hercegek Gyor, has offered to take on the task of visiting the sick in their homes and treating those members of the households, including servants, who show signs of having contracted the condition. He has various treatments to offer, and can assure you of some success in treating the condition, so long as there is no cough or constant flux in the symptoms. If you will provide him an escort and the permission of the Guard and the Metropolitan to do this, he will take up his rounds at once. If you are not inclined to permit this, I must warn you that there is insufficient space here at the care-house to accommodate all those who may contract the influenza.

We have also had an increase of supervisors and servants with frozen fingers and toes, and also a few noses. If putrefaction is not to set in, such frozen parts as turn black must be removed, or the person will die. At the moment, we have seven cases of frozen extremities recovering from surgery, including two Watchmen who have been patrolling at the third and fourth levees. Also the coachman for the Dutch clock-maker has had his nose and ears removed, and I am by no means sure that the man is yet safe from danger. I have heard, but I do not know of my own witness, that many of the men in the work-gangs, if they show signs of freezing, are dispatched as being useless, and their bodies disposed of in the deep holes sawn in the ice. If this is true, it is a deplorable practice and one I must urge you to make efforts to stop.

For the last four weeks, we have treated no more cases of Swamp Fever, which is a favorable development, one of the few for which we may thank the cold, for Swamp Fever is inactive when there is ice on the ground. I pray it will not return until May, for it most certainly will be back again. For now, I encourage you to insist on boiling linens and blankets at least once a month through the winter to check the spread of fleas and bed-bugs, which seem to be everywhere. This may not stem the tide of the epidemic disease, but it is likely to increase the haleness of the population and thereby reduce the number of people tending to be subject to infection.

Although the care-house has a devoted staff, Ludmilla Borisevna Svarinskaya and I have decided that we need at least four more men to assist us. Those we have are over-worked and two of them are sick themselves, and one other has died, so none of the three can be of help to us in our work just now. With another four men, we could maintain the level of care we have been providing through the dark of the year. Without additional help, however, if we continue to receive more patients here, the quality of attention we will be able to give must be curtailed, and that, as you must realize, is something none of us can want. Hercegek Gyor has already provided his manservant to help us, and his personal messenger, Yrjo Saari, who was once a Watchman before he was injured in an attack. The Hercegek is already covering most of our expenses from his own purse, so I am loath to ask him to extend himself further. I require you to consider this request as one intended to benefit everyone in this city. Heer Bourgdrei, the recently arrived Resident from Flanders, has offered his under-steward to help us for half-days as a gesture of community support, but this is not the sort of continual assistance we need for the next year or two, until trained nurses may be found to work here.

The six men who have been brought here for treatment for injuries inflicted upon them by gangs are generally improving, except one, who is blind in one eye as a result of the attack he sustained; it is unlikely that he will be fit to return to his barrack for several weeks at least. He has also claimed that the comrade who was with him must have frozen to death, for no Watchman and no Guard has found his body, and he remains missing. This may not be the time to search, but once the spring arrives, it would behoove you to arrange a squad to find those hapless men who died in the snow. I fear you may find more of them than you presently anticipate.

At the moment all our beds are full and we have brought in an additional nine pallets for those we have taken in beyond our usual limits. We have food enough for all the patients and our reduced staff to last into January, but then we must have more smoked meats and pickled vegetables, or some of our patients may begin to starve. I ask for your consideration when your midwinter supplies arrive from Moscow, for the men who are our patients surely deserve help from you and the garrison as much as from our staff and Hercegek Gyor.

Submitted to you as per your request,

Most respectfully,

Heer Lodewik Kerstan van Hoek

physician-anatomist

November 17th, 1704, at Sankt Piterburkh

6

Graf von Altenburg's breath was raspy and his skin was the color of porcelain clay; he lay in his massive bed, three quilts drawn up to his chin, his back supported on a pyramid of bolsters and pillows; the light from an oil-lamp provided a soft glow that made the dark beyond its reach appear to be illimitable and the room itself more like a cave than a bedchamber. He looked up at Saint-Germain and tried not to cough. "I suppose you will send word to my wife not to come in the spring? One of the couriers will have to carry the message."

"When a message is needed to be sent, your staff will surely do so," said Saint-Germain, holding out a cup of angelica root and elderberry tea to which an infusion of cough-weed, pine-bark, and feverfew had been added; around them the whole of the Residence was hushed, servants tip-toeing, the staff talking in whispers if they spoke at all. "But I will have a word with Schaft, if it will ease your mind."

"And you'll see that my bones are sent back to Prussia, not buried here? I want to lie in Prussian earth. Can you understand?" His voice was little more than a rustle of breath. In the last month he had lost flesh, and now there were hollows in his cheeks, his eyes were sunken, and his fingers lay like small bundles of twigs at the top of the quilts.

"Better than you know," said Saint-Germain.

He cleared his throat and did his best to suppress his coughing. "Then I am grateful to you, Hercegek."

"Please, Graf, drink this while it is still warm," said Saint-Germain.

"Don't waste your potions on me, Hercegek. I will soon have no use for them." He made a flapping motion with one hand to indicate that Saint-Germain should move away. "Give it to someone who can recover."

Saint-Germain remained where he was. "You might still do so."

Von Altenburg laughed, and gave way to a spasm of coughing, which took him some little time to overcome. "And the river might thaw in the night." He shook his head as if his skull weighed as much as an iron cauldron. "No, I know my time's up: my time's up and I've no complaint. Fifty-one is a very respectable age to attain." He studied Saint-Germain with owlish intensity. "My lungs are purulent, aren't they?"

"I fear so," Saint-Germain said evenly.

"And that means I have little hope of survival, with or without your elixirs." He sighed and fell silent for more than a minute. "I'd best thank you now for all you've done for me."

"You have no cause to thank me," said Saint-Germain.

"Not for this--that's what you've done for everyone. But for the information you provided to me when reliable reports"--he gagged and recovered--"were in short supply."

Saint-Germain was uncertain what von Altenburg meant by reports, but only responded, "If you have regarded our occasional discussions as a service, then I am glad to have been able to make myself available to you." He waited while von Altenburg stared away into the shadows; when he blinked and turned his oystery eyes on him, Saint-Germain added, "Is there any other service I can do for you?"

Von Altenburg considered. "Send for that minister at the English Residence--Bethune, his name is, as I recall."

"Thomas Bethune," said Saint-Germain, and signaled to Hroger, who stood on the far side of the room. "Are you certain you want to see him?"

"I am," said von Altenburg in a determined mutter. "I want to talk to a Protestant, not a Catholic or one of these Orthodox priests." A harsh cough brayed from him, and he once again made an effort to calm the urge. "Since our own Lutheran cleric left with the last boat, it is Bethune or no one." He stopped to gasp for air.

"I will send my manservant to do this for you, but I ask you to take the drink I offer you. It is not so much that it will deprive anyone beyond you of its virtue, and it should lessen your discomfort." He nodded to Hroger and saw him leave the room.

"What is the weather like?" von Altenburg asked, his eyes turning toward the shuttered window.

"It is snowing," said Saint-Germain, not adding that a blizzard was brewing over the vast expanse of marshland that surrounded Sankt Piterburkh on three sides.

Von Altenburg started to say something but was taken with another bout of coughing, this time hawking up yellow-green mucus into his embroidered handkerchief. "I can't breathe," he said hoarsely.

Saint-Germain offered the cup again. "It will put my mind at ease if you will drink this," he said calmly. "I will know I am doing all that I might to help you recover." There was one more thing he could do, but it was so desperate that he would be a fool to speak of it, he thought; he knew that von Altenburg would refuse such a life as those of his blood must lead.

Von Altenburg mumbled something.

"Would you repeat what you said, Graf? I did not quite understand you."

"Does it taste vile?" he asked, raising his voice as much as he could.

"It tastes of herbs and elderberries," said Saint-Germain, extending the cup so that von Altenburg could sniff.

"I like elderberries," he said, his eyes looking past him into the distance. "All right." His fingers scrabbled around the cup and he managed to drink half the contents before he began to cough again.

Saint-Germain took the cup and wiped von Altenburg's mouth with a soft linen cloth. "If you would like more, you have only to tell me."

Von Altenburg brought the focus of his gaze back to Saint-Germain. "I have taken too much of your time, Hercegek. You have other patients to attend to."

"Yes, I do; but not at this instant. I will remain here a while longer." He laid his hand on von Altenburg's brow, and felt the ominous combination of heat and chill. "When Bethune arrives, I will take my leave until tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" von Altenburg scoffed, then clapped one hand to his mouth, all but choking on a cough. "Although I imagine you must say such things to your patients, but I know what I know." He looked at the cup. "I'll have the last of that, and--" He squinched his eyes closed and gave a low, painful groan.

Saint-Germain moved to steady the cup and offer his arm as support for the dying man. "Let me raise you up a little."

His breath coming in hard gasps that sounded like green wood being sawn, von Altenburg sat up and leaned forward, trying to get air into his lungs, his efforts making a noise like a razor being stropped. Four loud, tight, guttural coughs jarred through him, more mucus sprayed the quilt, and he sank back against his pillows. "The drink."

"Here. I will hold it," said Saint-Germain, and set the cup at a slight angle to his lips, tilting it slowly so that von Altenburg could finish it.

The Graf was panting shallowly as he let his head go back into the pillows. "What a wretched place this is to die, out on the edge of this marsh, among so many strangers, all for the whim of a mad Russian."

"It is a difficult location," Saint-Germain agreed, aware that von Altenburg's attention was drifting again. "If the Czar has his way, five years from now Sankt Piterburkh will be a more pleasant place."

"Not in November, unless he can change the weather as well as the island," von Altenburg growled, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. "My eyes long for ... mountains." He gasped twice. "I won't see them again."

"Tell me about them," said Saint-Germain, knowing that the more von Altenburg wandered in his mind, the harder it would be to encourage him to live.

It took over a minute for him to comply. "Not imposing or formidable as the Alps, or as small as the ... rolling Alsatian hills. Grand enough they are, with ... rivers flowing through them. My home stands above a river, on ... the brow of a long ridge." He succumbed to coughing once more, but not so wrenchingly as before; when he spoke again his voice was insubstantial as a spider's web. "It was begun in the time ... of Great Karl as a watch ... watchtower and be ... came a castle in 1280 or so, when my family was given it along with the ... lands from the river to the second ... line of mountains. We have about half as much land ... now as we did then." He stopped speaking, gulping for air.

"Try not to struggle, Graf; that makes it worse." He laid his hand on von Altenburg's shoulder, gently but firmly enough to bring about a lessening in his combat with his failing lungs. Gradually the tension went out of him and his breathing went back to a fluttering rasp.

"Why do you bother?" von Altenburg asked, just above a gnarl.

"Because you are not yet dead," said Saint-Germain, his blunt-ness softened by the kindness in his demeanor.

"Don't make ... me laugh, Hercegek," he pleaded, ending with sporadic coughs.

"It is not my intent to make you laugh," said Saint-Germain, "it is my intent to make you better."

"That's a lost cause," said von Altenburg, his words fading as he lapsed into a fitful half-sleep that revealed the depth of his fatigue.

For almost five minutes, Saint-Germain stayed still, listening to von Altenburg's labored breathing. Then he began, very quietly, to speak. "I, too, come from mountains, not as friendly as your own, yet I know what it is to miss them; they are my native earth, and I am bound to them for all my days. In my travels, I have always found that the sight of mountains comforts me, other factors notwithstanding." Even during his long incarceration in South America, fifty years ago, the Andes had provided him a degree of solace beyond what he had experienced in deserts or grasslands, or marshes.

"Ummm?" von Altenburg responded.

"The Carpathians are magnificent, rising up like the fortresses of ancient, forgotten gods." Saint-Germain spoke a little louder. "Anyone who has seen them knows their majesty, and their dangers."

Von Altenburg's eyes flittered open. "I like mountains."

"Yes, Graf." He found a chair and brought it to the side of the bed. "Tell me what you like about mountains."

"Their stillness. We all buzz and ... bustle about the world, hart and hind ... and vermin are always on ... the move, ... rivers run down to the sea, the sea ... is pulled about by ... tides, but the mountains are ... inviolate." He rubbed his lips together.

"Would you like some water?" Saint-Germain offered, aware that the gesture was futile, that water would do almost nothing for him now.

"I'm ... not thirsty."

Saint-Germain closed his eyes for a moment, feeling life slipping away from his patient. Then he opened his eyes and said, "A little water and your throat would be less dry."

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

A flurry of noise at the front door penetrated to von Altenburg's room, only to be hushed by the servants. The sound of soft footsteps approached the door, and there was a hesitant tap on the planks.

"I believe Thomas Bethune is here," said Saint-Germain, rising from the chair. "Shall I go and let him in?"

Von Altenburg nodded, his fingers twitching.

Saint-Germain was half-way to the door when it opened and Hroger stepped through, Bethune immediately behind him. "You made good time, old friend."

"No reason to linger on the street," said Hroger, taking the end of his muffler and unwinding it from around the lower part of his head. "The wind is picking up, and the drifts are deeper."

Thomas Bethune wore his clerical bands spread on his slate-colored woolen coat, and the hair that hung around his shoulders was his own and not a wig; he was pale but for wind-ruddied spots on his face. He bowed slightly to Saint-Germain. "Hercegek. I understand Graf von Altenburg has asked to see me."

"Mister Bethune," said Saint-Germain. He stepped aside so that Bethune could see von Altenburg. "He will not last much longer."

"God have mercy on him," whispered Bethune.

"If you can assure him of that, he will depart this life with more peace than if you dwell on his shortcomings." Saint-Germain held up his hand before Bethune could respond. "I am concerned because so many Protestant divines dwell on sin and failings. For his sake, put your emphasis on grace."

Bethune nodded twice. "I am not his cleric, so I haven't the position to take him to task."

"Hroger and I have others whom we must visit." He bowed again and motioned Hroger to leave the room with him. In the next chamber they found Theophilius Schaft and Hugo Weissenkraft waiting with Echbert Gluck, the steward.

"Can you tell us anything?" Schaft was the first to speak, anxiety in every lineament of his body.

"I am sorry to tell you: another hour or two at most, and then you will have to alert the Guard and your courier." Saint-Germain could see shock and acceptance war within the three men.

"Hercegek, is there no chance?" Schaft asked, his expression so down-cast that Saint-Germain strove to provide him a little comfort.

"There is a very slim one, but it is not to be depended upon, I regret to say. The Graf is no longer clinging to life. If the Graf were younger, or if he had the will to stay alive, perhaps he could rally, but as it is--"

"Are you certain?" Gluck asked abruptly; he was new to his post, having arrived in Sankt Piterburkh in late September, and this development was more than he wanted to deal with.

"No; as I am not certain that a great flood will not inundate Sankt Piterburkh before morning. But I know he cannot live much longer." He studied the three men. "You will need to have your notifications ready; Schaft, I imagine you know the Graf's instructions for the disposal of his body."

"Boiled and the bones sent home to Prussia in the spring," he said with distaste.

"Yes. He seems concerned about it, so I urge you to have your arrangements made, and to comply with his request," said Saint-Germain, pausing before continuing, "Once he has been removed from the house, boil his bed-linen and such blankets as can be boiled, then burn his pillows, mattress, and bed-clothes. Have his room washed down with garlic water and lay out pots of camphor--I will send some to you--for three days."

"I'll fetch your medical case, my master," said Hroger, and went back into von Altenburg's room before anyone stopped him.

"Isn't that a bit extreme?" Weissenkraft asked.

"It lessens the chance of anyone else who may contract the influenza having his lungs turn putrid," said Saint-Germain steadily. "Be sure you watch the servants, to be sure they have not taken sick."

"Servants?" Gluck was shocked.

"They sleep under this roof, as you do, and they are often more tired than you: tired people are more likely to become ill than rested ones." Saint-Germain offered a half-bow to the three men. "I will come tomorrow, before nine o'clock. You may tell me then if anyone else in the household shows signs of the influenza."

Gluck clapped his hands. "The Hercegek's cloak and hat--and his servant's." He turned to Saint-Germain, speaking stiffly. "Thank you for telling us of your fears. We will see that the Graf isn't left alone at any time this night."

"A good precaution," said Saint-Germain.

"As soon as there is anything to tell, we'll send you word," said Schaft. "Will you want to see the ... the Graf before he leaves the house?"

Saint-Germain thought carefully. "If he starts coughing up blood again, then let me see his body. If he does not, then I will not be needed to certify the nature of his death, and my statement of putrid lungs will stand."

"Very well," said Schaft.

"We thank you for easing his end," said Gluck, his tone much less cordial than his words.

Hroger came out of the Graf's room, Saint-Germain's case in his hand. "My master."

"If you have need of me, send to the care-house," said Saint-Germain as one of the servants handed him his wolf-skin-lined cloak, and gave Hroger his, of boiled wool lined in marten-fur. He bowed to the three men as he donned his cloak and raised the hood. "I am truly sorry that the Graf is not going to live."

Only Gluck looked at him. "You would be, wouldn't you?"

"Gluck," said Schaft. "This isn't the time."

"The Graf is going to die, and this isn't the time to place the blame for his death?" Gluck rounded on Schaft. "You don't mean you still think that this ... this Hungarian could be trusted to treat Graf von Altenburg, do you?"

Weissenkraft flung up his hands and turned to Saint-Germain. "You must forgive him, Hercegek. He's upset."

"Are you apologizing to him?" Gluck expostulated. "If he hadn't come with his tinctures and his potions, the Graf would recover, as the servants have done."

"Gluck," whispered Schaft. "Please."

"If you're afraid to speak up, so be it. But I am not. I know what I know, and I will tell it to all the world." He pointed at Saint-Germain, who was now preparing to leave the Residence. "You are responsible. He's dying because he let you pour your substances down him. Left to his own, he would have--"

"Gluck, that's enough!" Weissenkraft snapped. "Hercegek Gyor has been attentive and careful with the Graf, as he has for many others, including our cook. They are all returning to health, and so do most of the men he treats. These accusations are baseless and insulting."

Saint-Germain approached the three men. "I know it would be less frightening if you had someone to hold accountable for von Altenburg's dying, Herr Gluck. But there is only the infection that settled in his weakened lungs that is responsible."

"So you say!"

"Ask any physician or apothecary, and he will tell you the same," said Hroger. He cocked his head toward the door. "If you will excuse my master? He has other patients to see."

"It probably would be best," said Schaft. "We'll have a word with Gluck when you've gone."

Ordinarily, Saint-Germain would have extended condolences again, but seeing the bellicose light in Gluck's eyes, he only nodded and went out the door into the small vestibule, Hroger close behind him. "Herr Gluck is upset."

"Gluck is a thoughtless fool with a temper: what can you expect of him," said Hroger in Spanish as they opened the outer door and stepped out into the keening wind where they stood, taking stock of the pelting snow. "Were you planning to stop at the Ksiezna's house on your way, to call in at the stable?"

"No; the winter makes too much of a demand on the horses. I will not use them for sustenance until spring."

"Then what?" Hroger asked. "You've said the Ksiezna is less inclined to provide you, and you've only had one encounter with Madame Svarinskaya. You mustn't starve yourself, my master, not at this time of year, in this place."

"And what choice is there?" Saint-Germain asked a bit more sharply than he had intended. "You know it would not be safe for me to visit a woman in her dreams, assuming it were possible to find a woman sufficiently unguarded that I could gain access to her." He squinted into the snow. "For now, I am at an impasse."

"You may have another meeting with Madame Svarinskaya, of course, if you can find a time when the care-house is quiet enough," Hroger persisted, his concern showing in his aggravation. "Or shall I find a deer for you to drink from? The care-house could use the venison."

"That is hardly necessary, at least not yet." Saint-Germain turned his shoulder into the wind and stepped carefully onto the icy street, glad for once that the snow had not been trampled by hooves and wheels so it would turn to ice. "Luckily we have only the sixth part of a league to go to the care-house."

"It may seem longer," said Hroger, also angling his body to put his shoulder into the wind. "Von Altenburg makes fourteen dead in the Foreign Quarter, as I count."

"Fifteen--the dressmaker for the English Residence died yesterday," said Saint-Germain, his thick-soled boots crunching on the slight declivity marking the middle of the road.

"Oh yes," said Hroger. "I'd forgotten about her."

"She was not well when she contracted the influenza; you said she wasn't strong enough to keep the disease from overtaking her. Nor was von Altenburg, for that matter." They were still speaking in Spanish. "The fever went right through her. But given that seventy-nine have contracted the illness that I know of, fifteen is not as high a death-toll as sometimes happens when the influenza breaks out."

"Nevertheless--poor woman," said Hroger, and stopped still.

"What is it?" Saint-Germain asked, peering into the night and the false brightness of the flailing snow.

"I thought I heard something."

"A sleigh coming, do you think? We should hear hoof-beats and bells if it is a sleigh," Saint-Germain observed, halting to listen with him; at first he heard nothing more than the whine of the wind, but this was not reassuring, for it was a reminder that although they were in the middle of the Foreign Quarter, they were essentially alone. "Should we get out of the road?"

"No, I don't think so," said Hroger.

"No," Saint-Germain agreed suddenly, striding to Hroger's side. "Four or five men running."

"Not Guards, then," said Hroger.

"No, not Guards, or Watchmen." Saint-Germain thrust his hands inside his cloak and into the pockets of his coat where two francizcas were concealed. Grasping the small throwing axes, he drew them out and said, "You have your stars?"

"Three of them," said Hroger, moving so that he and Saint-Germain stood back-to-back. "And a dagger."

"Let us hope you will not have to use it," said Saint-Germain, readying his francizcas as the sound of running grew louder.

"Gladly," said Hroger as the first of the gang burst from the cover of the house across the street; all carried cudgels and were ready to use them.

"Now," Saint-Germain ordered, and flung the first francizca expertly, so that its curved blade bit deep into the shoulder of the leader of the group.

The man howled and swore, staggering from the force of the impact and the pain. The man behind him tripped over him and went down in the snow.

Hroger used all his skill to send one of his Chinese stars slicing through the wind and into the forehead of the third man, then adjusted his stance to attack the next man.

"Leave now and we will not pursue you. Stay to fight and we will hunt all of you down: believe this," Saint-Germain said, loudly enough to be heard over the wind, his manner grimly confident.

The men behind the injured attackers faltered; Hroger threw his second star and saw it bite into one of the gang's eye. There was a shriek of anguish, and the man blundered backward, and fell, splayed and stunned, on the drift at the edge of the road. For several seconds only the wind moved, and then the rest of the gang broke and ran, rushing off along the side of the house across the street, leaving four of the attackers lying in the snow, three of them bleeding.

Saint-Germain approached the four. "Listen to me, because you are all in danger: if you get to the Guard station, you may escape freezing to death, but if you remain where you are, you will be ice by morning." He pulled his francizcas as gently as he could from the leader's shoulder. "I fear your muscle is badly damaged, and you may not recover the use of your arm. Press your hand against the wound," he recommended. "Otherwise you will lose too much blood. I will help you to your feet so that you may start for the Guard station--"

The man pulled back from him, swearing at him, calling him a fucker of demons and a son of a harlot and a rabid wolf.

Hroger retrieved his throwing stars, and came back to Saint-Germain's side. "Do you think there's any point in asking who sent them?" he inquired in Spanish. "It's fairly clear they were waiting for us."

"No; they would tell us nothing." Saint-Germain wiped his small axe on the snow to clean it, then straightened up. "But we had best inform the Guards ourselves, before we go to the care-house."

Hroger looked over the four fallen men. "Then you do think they were sent."

Saint-Germain gave a tired sigh. "Oh, yes," he said. "As you said, it is too much of a coincidence otherwise."

Text of a report from Jeremye Kristostomovich Belayov, the Clerk of the Foreign Quarter for the Archives of the Czar, written in Russian and delivered to the central station of the Sankt Piterburkh Guard.

To the Archivist of the city of Sankt Piterburkh, Modeste Mileifich Dihally, serving at the pleasure of the Czar, Piotyr Alexeievich Romanov, the respectful greetings of Jeremye Kristostomovich Belayov, Clerk of the Foreign Quarter.

My most esteemed Archivist:

This being the third week of my duties here, I wish to remark that this last week has been more filled with incident than the previous two put together. It may be that the presence of the Czar has had some impact on events in the Foreign Quarter, and now that he has left, there are wider activities to consider: as I have only been resident here for five weeks, I am not in any position to make such an evaluation. That said, I am inclined to believe that the presence of the Czar has made a great impact on the community here, as does his absence.

Deaths from the epidemic disease have continued: not only did the Prussian Envoy, the Graf von Altenburg, die this last week, but so did three work-gang supervisors, nine household servants, and a Guardsman. Among the work-gangs there are no firm numbers, but the current estimate is approximately three hundred thirty have succumbed. This is based on accounts from supervisors, and may not be wholly accurate, particularly among those work-gangs dispatched to cut down trees in the nearest pine forest. Those work-gangs, of necessity, sleep in tents, and therefore when illness takes them, it is often far more dangerous than among those enjoying the safety and warmth of houses and the care of servants. Those who die in those work-gangs are often abandoned in the woods, in spite of orders not to do so, since such bodies attract wolves and all manner of scavengers. Already we have had reports of wolves crossing the ice of the Neva to our islands, and some of them have endangered the work-gangs guarding the levees and dykes.

Twenty-two work-gangs are employed now in finishing off a number of new buildings, including four warehouses, nine barracks, and four three-room houses for the first of the spring's arrivals from European ports. There have been a total of sixty-seven new residents--masters and servants--in the Foreign Quarter since the beginning of October, and not all of them have moved into completed houses, and those whose houses will be taken down have not yet been provided new houses to occupy. The Czar left specific instructions regarding the removal of nine houses and the redirection of Spasky Street so that two more cross-streets may be put in place. The Czar has ordered that the lumber taken from the buildings to be removed be saved and used in the new buildings or in the roadway sidewalks. The work-gangs can do little about the street, but six of them are taking down the buildings the Czar has marked for removal. Progress is slow, in large part because of the weather, which has been marked by snowstorms for four days out of the last seven. Yesterday saw an easing in the storm and today the sky was clear. With daylight so limited, it will not be until the end of February that we can have light enough to make for a productive working day.

The darkness is becoming a problem, for we have had to ration candles and lamp-oil, and even those work-gangs laboring indoors have to do so with limited amounts of light, which contributes to the slowness of execution that has marked the last two weeks. With this problem, darkness brings other problems: among the work-gangs, idleness has led to violence. Fighting is becoming commonplace, as is gambling, neither of which is desirable; drunkenness, of course, is found everywhere, and yesterday three men were discovered frozen dead where they had fallen in their stupor the night before. The criminal gangs from Moscow and Kazan have been the worst in turning the long night to mischief, often spending part of the night out in the streets, waylaying unwary persons abroad at night. So far this week, eight residents of the Foreign Quarter have been set upon, and one of them killed by these gangs. If the criminal gangs might be moved to the forest to cut trees, then the streets of the Foreign Quarter would be safer. Many residents of the Foreign Quarter have requested more firewood, for their supplies are running low at a more rapid rate than originally expected. If one of the work-gangs in the forest could be assigned to providing more cut wood for the household stoves, it would be a deeply appreciated act, and one that would lessen the various complaints that have been voiced in this last week. The Hessians, so newly arrived here, are the least prepared; their need is clearly the greatest. To be here just two months in a house that is still unfinished has seemed a hardship to them, and one that there is merit in addressing. However, the appearance of showing favor to them over longer residents may lead to acrimony among the people in the Foreign Quarter, which is not a development any of us could want.

There has been a request from the care-house for permission to add another room to the building, and beds for another twenty patients. With the various injuries and ills that have been so prevalent here in the last months, it is not an unreasonable request. I have two days since visited the care-house, and I can say from my own observation that the care-house is overcrowded, and there is little that we can do to improve their situation without enlarging the building itself. It could be moved to the large barrack being built a short distance away, but that would mean that the care-house should be torn down and its site chosen for other uses. If this problem could be set before the Czar as soon as possible, we might be able to have the room the care-house requires by June.

Given that the weather is improving at present, it is a good time to mount hunting expeditions to resupply the larders of the Foreign Quarter with meat. I am proposing to ask a dozen of the foreign men to assist in the hunt. Since the foreigners do not observe the same fast-days we Orthodox do, it may require some negotiating to agree on a time, but since there are dwindling reserves in most houses, I trust that this proposed venture will meet with garrison approval. The provision-trains from Novgorod and Moscow will not arrive until early January, and that being the case, we must do something to bridge the gap. Let me know if this plan is approved as soon as you may, and if it is not, then propose some other way for the Foreign Quarter to avoid hunger between now and Epiphany.

Submitted with full respect,

Jeremye Kristostomovich Belayov

Clerk of the Foreign Quarter

Sankt Piterburkh

November 29th, 1704

7

"Tonight should be clear," Yrjo Saari said as he lingered by the stable door, his breath making ghosts in front of his face. "That may mean it will be much colder, as well, but at least there is no fog forming, and no clouds overhead." He regarded Saint-Germain warily. "You are going back to the care-house on your own?"

"I am expected there, and it is not far to go; hardly worth saddling a horse and arranging for its return," Saint-Germain said, a bit apologetically. "I thank you for the information you have provided."

"I wish it were more. Those men who told me about that Moscow gang didn't want to say too much, in case it should get back to them, and they should take action against the informers. That happens fairly often." He shook his head. "Thieves and cutthroats, all of them."

"Well, most of them," Saint-Germain agreed with a hint of amusement, pulling his cloak around himself and raising the wolf-fur hood.

"The coachmen here in the Foreign Quarter have all decided to carry pistols as well as long-guns when they go out. It's probably a good idea. A knife might not be much good on a driving-box." He tapped the scabbard on his belt. "I have my puukko. It is most useful at close range." His chuckle had no trace of humor in it.

"I would think so." Saint-Germain prepared to close the door. "Thank you for the information. I will see you in another two days."

"Unless I learn something urgent," said Saari.

"Unless you do," Saint-Germain confirmed, glancing at Zozia's house as he shoved the stable door and trudged away through the knee-deep snow, keeping to the track he had made when he went to the stable so as not to have to wade any more than necessary. He knew Zozia was attending a small salon at Nyland's house that evening and would not be in to welcome him; wherever Benedykt was spending his time, he would not like to find out that Saint-Germain had been at the house when neither he nor his sister was there. Reaching the street, he looked up into the clear night sky, the stars standing out against the sky like white-hot sparks from a steel-furnace. It was unfortunate that none of their warmth reached this bleak part of the world, he thought, as he made his way to the street where one of the work-gangs had swept the wooden sidewalk clear of snow earlier in the day. He went along carefully, trying to avoid patches of ice that made the walkway treacherous, all the while trying to discern if he were being watched.

Kyril opened the door to him when he knocked, and bowed him inside. "Hercegek. It's good you're back."

"How is everything, Kyril Yureivich?"

"They are quiet, at least on this floor," said Kyril. "Heer van Hoek has taken to his bed with a slight fever, and Ludmilla Borisevna is dealing with the coachman from the Flemings' Residence--you know, the new house nine doors from the end of Spasky Street--who's upstairs."

"The man with the broken arm?" Saint-Germain had set it two days since. "Is he doing badly?"

"Quite the contrary," said Kyril, taking possession of Saint-Germain's cloak. "He has been demanding to be allowed to return to the Flemings' Residence tonight. He insists he is recovered enough."

"How very inconvenient for Madame Svarinskaya," said Saint-Germain quietly. "Should I perhaps have a word with him?"

"You may try--for all the good it may do," said Kyril. "Your manservant is in your quarters, measuring out medicaments for later this evening."

Since this was what Hroger did most late afternoons, Saint-Germain found nothing alarming in Kyril's announcement. "Good. Then the medicaments should be ready to distribute in a short while. I'll try to have a word with him before Madame Svarinskaya has her lessons. Now tell me about Heer van Hoek."

"He fears he may have taken the influenza from one of the patients, and he thought it best not to expose more of them to the condition. He's in with the rest of the influenza patients." Kyril sighed. "It would be an unfortunate thing for all of us if Heer van Hoek should become seriously ill."

"So it would," said Saint-Germain, looking about the main room of the care-house. "No more new patients today, though. That is an improvement." He started toward the stairs. "Madame Svarinskaya is with the coachman, then."

"Yes, she is," said Kyril, looking tired and slightly annoyed. "Unless he has decided to be sensible and stay in bed."

"Do you think Madame Svarinskaya could use my help?" Saint-Germain asked.

Grudgingly, Kyril nodded. "The man is becoming obstreperous."

Sensing that this was more than disapproval of the coachman, Saint-Germain guessed aloud, "Would you prefer I look in on Heer van Hoek before I go up to Madame Svarinskaya?"

Kyril did not smile, but there was an easing of his expression that made his demeanor less disapproving. "He's in with the men who have influenza, as I told you."

"Very well," said Saint-Germain, and turned into the larger of the two flanking rooms; here the light was dim, and it took him almost a minute to discern which of the men was van Hoek. Making his way toward the back of the room, he saw that most of the patients were having their evening meal--a venison-turnip-and-onion soup along with a thick slice of black bread. "Heer van Hoek," he said in Dutch as he approached the bed where van Hoek sat.

"Hercegek," he responded with the suggestion of a bow. "I had hoped you might stop here before you go up to your quarters."

"I am sorry to see you in this place," said Saint-Germain.

"No more so than I am." He cleared his throat. "Still, with all the exposure I have had, it is small wonder that I should contract the illness."

"It is a hazard, certainly," said Saint-Germain. "How do you feel?"

"A bit light-headed, my joints ache, my mouth tastes of metal, my throat is sore, and my eyes are beginning to hurt: classic symptoms." He made a self-deprecating gesture. "So I fear I will have to depend upon you and Madame Svarinskaya to treat all our patients, or close the doors to new patients until I am able to rejoin you."

"I shall have Hroger bring you willow-bark tea, and a pastille of minced orange rinds." He did a rapid surveillance of the room. "Shall I offer the same to the others?"

"If you would, please," said van Hoek. "Along with the other medicaments you've provided, this is deeply appreciated."

"Thank you for saying so, Heer van Hoek," said Saint-Germain, taking a step away from the Dutch physician.

"And if you would, give Ludmilla Borisevna any preparations you have that may help in preventing her from taking the influenza herself. You should do so as well. It is bad enough that I should be stricken, but if either of you also contract it--"

"I will bear that in mind," said Saint-Germain, bowing slightly as he took his leave and made for the stairs to the floor above. Turning left toward the patient dormitory, he hesitated for an instant, knowing he would have to meet with Hroger shortly. But the coachman seemed more urgent, so he went into the room and found Ludmilla standing beside the bed of the coachman while he perched on the edge of the bed and tried to pull on his britches using his one good arm.

"Ah, Hercegek; thank God you are here!" she called out. "Will you come and talk sense to this fellow?"

Saint-Germain walked up to the bed, paying little attention to the interested stares from the other patients. "It looks as if you have done so already, not that he has been listening." He stopped and looked at the coachman. "So, Valery Andreivich Rossiev, are you managing to dress yourself in spite of the splint?"

The coachman grunted and continued to try to work his britches over his hips, his cheeks turning red with his effort. "I'm doing it."

"As you see, he is not making much progress," said Ludmilla.

Saint-Germain moved a step closer. "If you are having so much trouble with your britches, how will you pull on your boots, let alone hold the reins?"

Valery looked unhappy, but stopped his tugging and wriggling long enough to say, "The Flemings are new to Sankt Piterburkh. Nine of them in the household, and they've been here only six weeks. They depend upon me."

"And no doubt you are most useful to them," said Saint-Germain, wholly unflustered. "For that reason alone you need to take good care of yourself, which includes another two days of rest before you undertake even moderate exercise of any kind. Your arm is newly set, and until the bones begin to knit, you could shift them, and they would have to be set all over again." He paused so that Valery could consider that possibility. "I doubt you would enjoy the process; I know I would not."

Valery Andreivich gave a snort of derision. "You've splinted my arm with linen and boards. How can I shift my bones?"

"You have very strong muscles in your arms, as all coachmen do. If you exert yourself, you could, by virtue of your strength, pull your bones apart. That could lead to a weakening of the arm itself, and then your coaching days might well be at an end." He said all of this in his most matter-of-fact manner. "I would like to think you are not so foolish as to risk so much for so little."

Valery halted, his face going pale. "That's impossible."

"No, unfortunately it is not," said Saint-Germain. "If you were a long-time family retainer, the Flemings might make allowances for your inability to drive, but as they, as you said, are new to the city, they would have no reason to pension you. What then, Valery Andreivich?"

For several seconds, the coachman sat still, indecision apparent in every lineament. Then he began to pull his britches off. "You must send someone to the Flemings' Residence to explain why I haven't returned," he muttered.

"Of course," said Ludmilla. "One of our staff will take care of it this evening." She shot a thankful glance in Saint-Germain's direction. "For now, be comfortable and allow our people to do for you. As soon as the Hercegek approves, you may return to the Flemish Residence."

"Heer Bourgdrei will have to--"

Saint-Germain interrupted, "I will see that all is explained to him." He reached down and picked up the man's britches. "You will have your supper shortly, and then I will see you have a composing draught before you sleep."

Valery said something under his breath, swung his legs back onto the bed, and pulled up his blanket. "I won't stay here much longer."

"That is what we all hope, Valery Andreivich," said Ludmilla before Saint-Germain could respond. "For now, try to rest; it will do you good." She came over to Saint-Germain. "Our lesson should begin in a little more than two hours, as we have arranged. Will this suit you, Hercegek?"

"Most certainly, Ludmilla Borisevna," he said, warmth suffusing his voice.

She offered a quick, shy smile. "I look forward to learning new things."

"And I." He offered her a small bow. "For now, do you have any more need of my aid?"

"Not for now," she said, and turned away from him.

Saint-Germain watched her make her way down the room, her movements steady, her manner calm. How many times in the past had he longed for just such a competent colleague as she! He thought of the Black Plague, and the devastation measles had brought to the Americas, of the many epidemics he had seen over the centuries at the Temple of Imhotep, and of the terrible ruin throughout all China and Central Asia following the Year of Yellow Snow--in all those disasters, Ludmilla's steady capabilities would have eased distress for so many. "Until seven," he said, and left her to her work, crossing the surgery-room to his own quarters, where he found Hroger measuring out small cups of a clear liquid with an iridescent shine: this was Saint-Germain's sovereign remedy, which began as moldy bread. "The day has been difficult, I take it." At the far end of the room, the recently completed athanor gave off a steady aura of heat.

Hroger continued his work. "Difficult enough. I gather you convinced Valery Andreivich to remain with us."

"I did, for now. When was Heer van Hoek stricken?" Saint-Germain asked, going to his red-lacquer chest and removing a small carton of slivered willow-bark which he opened and plucked out half a palmful of slivers. These he dropped into a large earthenware cup.

"Around two in the afternoon. He said he was light-headed and overly warm. Madame Svarinskaya told him to lie down, and by three he was plainly ill." Hroger paused. "Even without the influenza, he is exhausted."

"As are most of the staff, especially the three new aides," said Saint-Germain, setting down the large cup. "Is there water in the teapot?"

"A little. Would you like me to add more from the bucket?"

"I can do it. You have enough to do." He went to the bucket and pulled out the ladle, emptying its contents into the teapot.

"You're making willow-bark tea?" Hroger sniffed the air, recognizing the smell.

Saint-Germain added the ladleful of water to the teapot. "For van Hoek; he should also have some orange-peel pastilles; with a little luck, we can forestall any putrefaction in the lungs, and he will then make a good recovery."

"Just for him, or for all of them? The pastilles, I mean, do you intend them for the rest of those with the influenza?" Hroger asked. "Your pardon, my master, but I am--"

"--concentrating on measuring, as is appropriate: pray continue." He set the teapot over the spirit-lamp, then took out another item, a small flask of anodyne fluid distilled from a tincture of hemp-flowers and pansies. "This is for Valery Andreivich, after he has eaten. It will calm him and allow him to sleep with less discomfort."

"Are the pastilles just for van Hoek?" Hroger repeated; he was peering closely at the amount of the opalescent liquid in the next-to-last cup.

"The others already are getting willow-bark, so pastilles for them; if nothing else, it will help van Hoek to feel less ineffective than he does, and will lend strength to those who are on the mend."

Finishing his task, Hroger set down the vial and said, "We are running low on the remedy, my master."

"So I am aware," said Saint-Germain, a slight frown creasing between his brows. "I may put Saari to work collecting old bread from the various houses in the Foreign Quarter tomorrow for as long as there is light. I could have more made in a matter of days if we could get a sufficient amount of moldy bread." He put the earthenware cup on the trestle-table next to the line of small cups. "Boiling water, just before you take the lot down."

"Of course," said Hroger. "I will attend to them and then go find something to eat."

"Very good," said Saint-Germain.

Hroger paused, not wholly to attend to placing the small cups on the rimmed tray set out for them. "You will be doing lessons with Madame Svarinskaya?"

"Very likely," said Saint-Germain.

Hroger's brow arched, but that was the only change in his demeanor. "It's a good thing that she's such an apt pupil, for both your sakes."

Saint-Germain regarded Hroger with a discerning eye. "Let us keep that between you and me, old friend."

"Whom would I tell, and why? I am glad you have gained her companionship as well as her assistance." He rubbed his faded-blue eyes. "Less than five hours of sunlight a day, and that so wan that it's largely useless."

"We have encountered worse," Saint-Germain reminded him.

"The Year of Yellow Snow?" Hroger asked. "That was not like other years. Here the sun fades every winter."

"And farther north, it disappears altogether, or so they say." Saint-Germain studied the spirit-lamp as if willing it to boil the water in the teapot faster.

"Did you ever want to see the places of the earth where the sun vanishes?"

"We did see such a place when we left Novo-Kholmogory, bound for England. Much of the White Sea is wholly dark in winter." That had been slightly more than a century ago, and the trip had been a hard one.

"Fortunately we weren't there in winter," said Hroger.

"That may have been the one good thing about it," said Saint-Germain drily. "Night may be kinder to those of my nature than day, but there is also so much night that the living spend many days shut within doors, and do not welcome travelers, who may not be all they seem. It is as if the households all enter their houses as if they were winter burrows, and remain there until spring, in a kind of hibernation; even this Foreign Quarter has not escaped that immurement entirely." He looked over at the spirit-lamp. "The teapot is thrilling."

"And will boil shortly," said Hroger, making his last adjustment to the tray before he reached for the teapot. "I will take this down, and then I'll see to my evening meal. If there are other tasks you want to assign me, I will be pleased to perform them." He poured the water into the large earthenware cup; the sharp smell of willow-bark wafted up from its depths.

"By which you mean you plan to stay away from this part of the care-house for some hours," Saint-Germain observed. "Your discretion is, as always, impeccable."

Hroger blew out the spirit-lamp, picked up the tray, and started toward the door, which Saint-Germain went to open for him. "Most gracious, my master."

"And practical," Saint-Germain said, leaving the door ajar when Hroger had left. Taking stock of the room, Saint-Germain went to inspect the athanor, making sure the seal on the door was even and tight, that the pipe that served as a chimney was still properly anchored at the top of the window, its sleeve of iron bolted into position; he satisfied himself that the intake valve was performing to standard, and then he went to the bunk built onto the wall, and tested it. The linens were clean, the woolen quilt washed, smelling faintly of camphor and garlic, as a repellent for insects. The single pillow, stuffed with goose-down, had been perfumed with tincture of jasmine-and-attar-of-roses. He glanced at his clock at the end of the trestle-table, and saw it was only five-thirty. "An hour and a half," he said aloud. "The gold will not be finished until midnight." He thought for a short while, then picked up his log-book, found the standish and his quills, and sat down to record the events of the day.

"Hercegek?" Ludmilla's tap on the door was quiet, and her voice was low. "It's seven o'clock."

Saint-Germain dusted the page with fine sand, laid it open on the occasional table beside his chair, and went to admit her to the room. "Welcome, Madame, and forgive me; I had lost track of time."

"I hoped you were expecting me," she said, dubiety making this almost a question.

He smiled at her. "Most certainly, Ludmilla Borisevna. I have been looking forward to our time together."

She stepped inside, a bit hesitant, filling the possible silence with, "When the Czar first insisted that we all be governed by clocks, I thought it was another European affectation, for the church-bells provided enough time for anyone. But since I've been working with Heer van Hoek, I believe that a more specific delineation of time by minutes is useful, after all."

"Then I thank you twice-over for your promptness." He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. "Come in and be comfortable."

She leaned back against the door to close it; her features softened and she reached out with her free hand and touched his face. "If you wish to ... do as you did the other evening, I would be happy to have it so."

He reached behind her to set the latch in its staple. "Thank you, Ludmilla Borisevna. It is my desire that you achieve happiness." He escorted her to the chair and bowed her into it. "But there are some matters we need to discuss before we begin again."

"So you told me," she whispered, continuing hurriedly, and increasingly softly, "I do understand that your first loyalty must be to your wife, of course, though you are not under her roof." Her mouth trembled. "Everyone says her brother ordered you to leave."

Saint-Germain was startled by what she said. "Oh, no; that is not the issue," he said once he had recovered himself. "There is not room enough for all three of us at the Polish house as things are." He gave a single laugh. "Not that Benedykt does not prefer to have me gone."

"Then what is--" She stopped herself. "It isn't my place to ask."

"I have to explain about ... about what has taken place between us, not about the Ksiezna or her brother," he said.

"Adultery is what ... Yes."

Again it took Saint-Germain an instant to compose himself. "Specifically there was no true adultery, as there was no--"

"It was kind of you to spare me that." She put her hands together. "My husband could cast me upon the world with nothing if I were defiled, but I assume you know that. My family wouldn't receive me, either."

He took her hands in his. "You will have nothing to trouble you, Ludmilla." Then he waited until she met his steady gaze. "It is not in my nature to do that which would dishonor you."

"Are you certain of it? It is one thing for a man to pledge that, and another for him to remain committed to his promise." Very carefully she withdrew her hands from his. "Or do you say this so I will be more compliant now? I don't intend to refuse to lie with you, but you don't need to tell me that you will accommodate me if you intend otherwise."

"You have nothing to fear, Ludmilla," he promised her.

There was something in his voice that was utterly convincing, and she gave a little sigh of hopeful expectancy. She could feel an anticipatory quiver deep within her, an echo of what she had experienced with him before; this quiver of sensuality sent tiny ripples through her, summoning more responses until the prospect of recapturing that wonderful delirium weighed against the prudence she was trying to exercise, and all the while her flesh became flushed and sensitive, and her breathing quickened. It gave her a long moment of dismay, knowing how she had come to depend on him for her gratification, but she banished it with the expectation of the euphoria to come. "I don't fear you."

"Good; for you have no reason to." Slowly he took her face in his hands, and softly kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, her mouth, the touch of his lips awakening her ardor and her unrecognized need; she leaned into him, as if carried on the supporting current of a warm river. After more than a minute, as she moved back from him, he said, "You have no cause to think that I might require more of you than you are willing to give, in any way. I will not ask this of you more than four times after tonight. You need not worry that I may come to expect this to continue for many months."

"Four more times?" The specificity startled her. "Only four?"

"Among those of my blood, there is an understanding that more than six ... exchanges and you would be one of us. That would be a burden for you, and one I will not ask you to bear, not here." He spoke indirectly, for he did not want to try to explain his true nature to her, not yet, not while she was still doubtful and ambivalent; he was well-aware of the dread tales of his kind would awaken in her. He kissed her again, lingeringly, inquiringly; her lips softened again, feeling the fervency of her desire increase. "Come, Ludmilla." He stepped back just far enough to be able to guide her to the chair. "I will bring you a cordial to warm you."

She sat down, her face perplexed as she looked around the room. "Don't you worry about being watched? In such a place as this, there are eyes everywhere."

"Everywhere but my rooms; here I have taken precautions," he said calmly as he removed a small glass from the tall cupboard next to the trestle-table, then removed a narrow glass bottle from his red-lacquer chest.

"Are you so sure? Have you made any tests?" Her face was a study in consternation, as if she had realized how exposed they might be.

He poured out the potent herbal cordial, a brilliant, clear yellow-green, into the glass. "Ludmilla Borisevna, I have lived as a foreigner in many places, and I have learned how to guard against prying eyes and ears. You may be assured that you are safe here." He put the bottle back in his chest and carried the glass to Ludmilla, making sure the oil-lamplight shone through the glass before he put it down. "The monks in the Alps make this to revive travelers lost in the snows. They are famous for their elixir throughout all of Europe."

She took the glass and sipped at the cordial. "Not unpleasant," she pronounced. She sipped again. "Why do you delay with me?"

"Because I would rather you not be haunted by uncertainties, and this gives you time to contemplate the possibilities," he said tranquilly. "I have no wish to impose myself on you."

Ludmilla thought this over. "But you would rather I lie with you--"

"After my fashion," he interjected.

"After your fashion," she agreed. "Wouldn't you?"

"Yes, but only so long as our intimacy gives you pleasure; it is you who must decide that," he told her, and reached out to touch the neat braids wrapped around the crown of her head. "If you would rather that I not embrace you, then we will have our usual lessons and wait until a time that would suit you."

She finished the cordial. "Why?"

He sat on the upholstered arm of the chair. "Because without your consent and fulfillment, the act between us is empty--you would have little joy of it, and I would have none. If you want more time to assess your position, then we can wait until you are certain."

"If I don't want to wait?" She held her breath waiting for his answer. "I came to you tonight for this, not for lessons in Russian and Dutch."

�Then what can I be but delighted," he said as she leaned against his thigh.

"I'll keep in mind all you've said," she murmured, touching the lacing on his long coat. "But for now, all I want is the passion you give me." Reaching up, she pulled him down to her, for a long, intricate kiss that left her breathless and almost giddy. "No matter what comes later, for tonight, I want to feel all the pleasure you can give me."

He moved off the arm of the chair and drew her up against him; she was only a bit shorter than he, so their eyes met levelly. "I have prepared a place for us, at the warm end of the room."

She managed a little laugh as she slipped her arms around him; she found his sturdiness and strength not only comforting but stimulating. "You ought to be warm enough, Hercegek." It was wonderful to be so frank with him, to speak what she had been feeling since he had first offered her his love a week ago.

"The bunk is more comfortable than the chair, or the floor." He let her rest her head on his shoulder. "You may want to let me loosen your lacings and your stays. You will be more comfortable without them."

"Thank you, but I can manage for myself," she said, and reached around over her shoulders to untie the lacings down the back of her dress. She performed a complex wriggle and the lacings grew slack. "If you would help me pull it over my head?"

"How do you manage this alone?" Saint-Germain asked.

"I have a dress-makers' tool--a long wooden double-hook that permits me to unfasten dresses and stays, and I have three wooden hooks on my bedstead that allow me to pull out of the dress without the help of a maid." She bent over slightly so that he could get a good hold on her corsage, then she stepped back, and the dress slid upwards. Working the snug, long sleeves, she peeled her arms out and stood straight, her petticoats and farthingale revealed, and her whale-boned corset. She remained still for a long moment, then asked, "Will you unfasten my stays for me?"

"Certainly," he said as he laid her dress over the back of his chair. "Turn around?"

She did, and felt his lips make a light excursion along her shoulder to the nape of her neck, all the while he undid the bow-knots that held the corset closed. The sudden release of pressure on her breasts and torso gave her a little unstableness; she leaned back against him as he whisked away her corset, and gathered her close to him. The pressure of the lacings of his long coat against her naked back was more exciting than anything she had believed possible, and she gasped with the intensity of the sensation. "I can manage my petticoats and farthinga--"

"If you would allow me," he offered, sliding his hand into the waist of her petticoats. "These first, then their frame, and then your under-clothes."

The suggestion sent another pleasurable quiver through her; where his hands touched her flesh, she felt such heightened awareness of him that she was surprised her skin did not begin to sizzle with the anticipation of what was to come. She hardly recognized her own voice when she answered, "Yes, yes. If you would."

Saint-Germain pulled the ties open and let the petticoats and farthingale drop to the floor. He turned her toward him, his hands grazing her breasts before drawing her to him. "Let me wrap you in blankets so you will not be chilled."

"Chilled? That's not possible," she breathed.

He nuzzled her neck and bestowed more feather-light kisses on her throat and shoulders, then took a single step back so that they could walk the short distance to the bunk, where he threw back the quilts and sheet, bowing her into its warm interior. As she drew the covers around her, he removed his coat and put it down on the trestle-table, then came back to the bunk and reclined beside her. "What would you like of me, Ludmilla?"

She had no idea what she wanted, but could not bring herself to say so; she answered with as much nonchalance as she could summon up, "Begin as you began before."

"Very well," he said, and kissed her once more, this time aware of her ignited ardor, and responding to it with esurience, caressed her breasts until he felt her nipples harden against his palms; he bent to tantalize them with his lips and tongue.

Ludmilla arched back, her head sinking into the fragrant pillow. Now her whole body felt limned in marvelous fire that made her life more real by its presence. She felt his hands work the ties of her under-drawers, and she shivered in anticipation of what was to come. "Yes. Do that," she whispered as she raised her hips to allow him to remove her under-garment; the awareness that he had access to her very core gave her body a preparatory jolt of culmination. She felt a tightness at the apex of her thighs, a delicious tension that sought release.

He moved down to her belly, then maneuvered between her legs, all the while stroking her thighs, her hips, and the curly hair at the base of her abdomen. Each touch brought her a new and rapturous discovery; his fingers and his lips evoked an ecstatic panoply of sensations that were more than anything she had experienced before: not even her previous evening with him had been ecstasy wholly awakening. She delighted in the many ways he caressed her, and his increasing closeness as she neared her release; with a soft cry, she pulled him as near to her as she could, his lips brushing her neck as the first spasm expanded through her.

By the time the first of her spasms of fulfillment took her, she was already transported, the limits of her body seeming to have fallen away, her exaltation banishing her anxiety and exhaustion, filling her with an elation that seemed to extend as far as the stars. Finally her all-encompassing satisfaction began to fade and she felt his gentle, persuasive stroking that eased her from the heights of gratification to the comfort of his touch. Gradually her excitement abated, and she opened her eyes, whispering, "That was better than the first time. You've done glorious things to me."

"You were willing to achieve more for yourself," he told her, kissing the arch of her brow.

She snuggled against him, reluctant to break their closeness. "I suppose I shouldn't linger here."

"Probably not," said Saint-Germain, making no move to shift her from the bunk.

She lay still for several minutes, then summoned up her resolve, sitting up and patting him on the shoulder as a sign that he should move. "I'll need your help getting dressed," she said with unconvincing briskness.

"Of course," he said, rising and offering her his hand for support as she threw back the bedding and sat up.

"I'll need my under-drawers," she said, doing her best to be as pragmatic as she could. "Then the stays, then the petticoats and farthingale."

"I know," he said; while she stood up and stretched, he gathered up her garments and readied himself to assist her back into them, all the while aware of the strength of her passion giving way to her concern for the patients in her care.

Text of a proclamation from the Metropolitan Matvei Nikitich Golrugy of Sankt Piterburkh, to the residents of the Foreign Quarter.

To the many foreigners and their households, the blessings of God be upon you.

As the time of the Nativity is approaching, it is my duty and privilege to instruct you regarding the celebrations to come to mark the Birth of our Savior, since most of you are not of the Orthodox Church, and are far from the comforts of your usual religious traditions and have limited opportunity to practice your customary observations of the season.

For those of you who may wish to join your Russian hosts at the Cathedral for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, you would be welcome among us. The Mass is sung and lasts for over an hour, at the conclusion of which there will be a banquet at the master station of the Sankt Piterburkh Guard for all who have attended the Mass. For Epiphany, the Mass will be sung at dawn, and there will be a banquet sponsored by Marfa Skavronskaya at the new warehouses. Any Christian, man or woman, master or servant, will be received with Christian charity and fellowship.

For those who prefer to keep to their own rites, Thomas Bethune has offered his services at the English Residence to the Protestants, and Father Lothar Blaufeld will celebrate the Catholic Nativity Mass on Christmas Day, and the Epiphany Mass at the house of the Flemish Residence in the Residential chapel. Let no ungracious acrimony blemish this sacred time.

May the peace of the season brighten the dark of the year for you, and for Christians everywhere.

Matvei Nikitich Golrugy

Metropolitan of Sankt Piterburkh

December 10th, 1704

8

Nacreous sunlight cast its eerie lume over the frozen marshes, its anemic glow limning the approaching line of seventeen heavy wagons--some containing livestock, some containing men--an army escort of twenty soldiers, a remuda of twenty horses, and a dozen open carts piled high and covered with vast canvas tarpaulins: they seemed spectral, insubstantial in the wan afternoon; only the muffled sound of their advance made them real. For those residents of Sankt Piterburkh who were prepared to brave the furious cold of this short, dim day, it was a relief to watch the supply-train coming across the frozen river toward the city, Alexander Menshikov at its head, his shaggy horse swaddled in bear-skins for warmth, as were all the horses. They came on steadily through the pallid landscape, their progress marked by the bobbing lanterns on all the vehicles. As Menshikov urged his horse up the incline of the bank along the broad, icy swath that gave access to the sanded snow track on the dyke above, a growing cheer went up from all those who had come to the frozen river; the Captain of the Sankt Piterburkh Guard came out to greet him, nine of his men behind him to make a good showing, for the supply-train was earlier than it had been expected, and this was cause for celebration. "We will open a keg of brandy at once, for you and your men! Everyone will join in the celebration!" This announcement brought more cheers.

From his vantage-point near the fortress gate, Saint-Germain watched the long line of wagons and men; he turned to Yrjo Saari, who had insisted upon accompanying him to the office of the Clerk of the Archives to deliver a written account of the current state of supplies and aides at the care-house. "At least there will be food enough for a while." He did not join in the cheering, but he could feel the surcease of anxiety experienced by the residents of Sankt Piterburkh, and it brought him a sense of relief.

"Thank you, Captain Fet. It is satisfying to arrive. We've been pressing for ten days--eight hours on the road each day, almost four of those hours in darkness--for they say a bad storm is coming, and that might have kept us from traveling for more than a month while the roads were marked and cleared. I promised the Czar that we would be in Sankt Piterburkh for Christmas, and fortunately, that promise can be kept," Menshikov declared when the Captain completed his brief welcome. "It's taken a toll, but we are here with six days to spare." He nodded to the Captain of the Guard, and said, "Is the army garrison going to greet us, or only you Guards? I need some soldiers to deal with the convicts we have with us."

"Most of the officers are off supervising the work-gangs in the woods." Guard Captain Nikolai Evkareivich Fet pointed in a vaguely northeastern direction.

"Surely you don't have men trying to run at this time of year," Menshikov said. "Why waste soldiers on them? Won't Watchmen do?"

"Not fugitives." The Captain shook his head. "Wolves."

"Of course," said Menshikov. "But I need the soldiers here. Bring the work-gangs in for the time being. You don't want them caught in the storm in any case."

Captain Fet saluted. "We'll send a messenger at once."

"Do so," said Menshikov. "And make room in one of the barracks ready for the convicts. It doesn't have to be completely finished, just enough to get a roof over them and walls around them. You'll need to set the Guards to keep watch over them. We have about fifty of them from Moscow--we lost five of them on the journey, but we've added a dozen more whom we caught on the road two days ago. They made the mistake of attempting to rob us, unaware that our escorts are soldiers, not simple streltsy of a decade ago, and ready to deal with such scaff-and-raff as they. The soldiers quickly detained them. One of my officers thinks they may have come from here, since the Guard has driven many of the robber-bands away from the city, leaving them desperate for spoils." He swung down from his mount, his movements stiff from cold as much as from his long hours in the saddle. Steadying himself against his gelding's shoulder, he said, "Did the Guards shoot any bears before they went to hibernate, or have the soldiers? Bears have fur and meat in abundance."

"Only one, and some of it is still in our Guards' larder. The soldiers have brought back pelts of a dozen wolves, and four white foxes."

"Disappointing," said Menshikov. "Still, there should be deer in the forest. We'll dispatch hunting parties in the next few days." He looked over the small contingent of Guards. "We're ready for journey's end."

Taking this as an order, the Captain motioned to one of his men to take the reins from Menshikov. "Get the horses to the Guards' stable and have them groomed, fed, and watered. Double up on stalls if you have to."

Snow crumpled and crunched underfoot and beneath wheels as the rest of the train came up the bank and halted, the army escort grouping around two large wagons, drawn by eight horses apiece, holding huddled men. The smaller wagons carried both men and supplies, and the coachmen kept to their driving-boxes while the postilions dismounted. The carts were still out on the river ice, bringing up the rear of the train.

"Is the bath-house ready? I need an hour in hot steam, and a large glass of hot buttered brandy," said Menshikov, nodding to Saint-Germain as he trudged toward the Guard station at the fortress gates. "Hercegek."

"Poteshnye," said Saint-Germain, returning the nod; he, along with a dozen other residents of the Foreign Quarter, had come to watch the arrival of the supply-train, keeping a little distance between themselves and the wagons so as not to rouse suspicions by the Guards, who were alert to pilfering. Saint-Germain walked a few steps forward until he was on the dyke-road, Saari not far behind; without being obvious about it, he was trying to calculate what the various equipages contained, hoping that some of the supplies were earmarked for the care-house. "You made good time. Did you leave Moscow early?"

"No, but an early arrival was my intention; the convicts wouldn't stand being kept chained in the wagons for many more days. I must attend to their moving into barracks," said Menshikov, about to pass on, but pausing, asked, "Will you tell your wife's brother that I'd like a word with him some time this evening?" as if he had just recalled something important.

"I will go by the Polish house before I return to--"

"The care-house. I remember. I'll have information for the Dutchman, too, in a day or so; I'll send for him to discuss the expansion he has requested so often." He considered again, then fanned his gloved fingers next to his head, showing his thoughts were in disorder. "One more thing: have you produced the proof you claim to have against the claims of the other Hungarian?"

"Not yet." Saint-Germain indicated the ice-bound marshes. "I have sent word to Grofok Saint-Germain where I last encountered him, but I do not expect an answer until spring."

"Um. Well, let me know when you have information: the Czar wants the matter settled quickly. If the war with Sweden continues, Austria and Hungary may yet have an important role to play, and having such an unresolved matter of identity could prove difficult when it comes to ensuring alliances." He coughed diplomatically and changed the subject. "My regards to your wife--the Ksiezna is a fine woman. I hope you will tell her I said so."

"As you wish," said Saint-Germain, and gave a second, little bow, then stepped back as the first of the largest wagons moved off toward the Guards' stable, the men inside huddled together for warmth, all of them cold and weary.

"Will you go to the Polish house, Hercegek?" Saari asked when Menshikov was out of earshot.

"I suppose I will have to: Menshikov expects it, and he wants to see Benedykt," said Saint-Germain, preparing to slog through the thigh-deep snow that lined the streets. "Tell me, Saari: have you learned anything more about this Lajos Rakoczi in the last several days?"

"Not very much. He has been staying with the Resident at the Hessian house now that the interior is finished. He has continued to mock your statement that you have seen his uncle, telling everyone that you are either mistaken or determined to make mischief for him." Saari sounded apologetic for reporting this.

"He would be wiser to say that he welcomes my inquiries; his current tactics may cause some of the Foreign Quarter's residents to doubt him."

"I would think it would bring him supporters," said Saari.

"Possibly a few, but his continuing slights about me remind others of the reservations I have in his regard, and that can lead to doubts. That is one of the reasons I will not talk about the matter unless pressed." Saint-Germain waded away from the packed snow of the road along the dyke toward the Polish house, nine buildings along the street.

Saari plodded after him. "What would you like me to do?"

"For the rest of the day, go back to the stable and get warm; have a good sleep. The next few days are bound to be busy, so take rest while you can." Saint-Germain pulled his cloak more tightly around himself for emphasis. "Stay in for the night, have a good meal, and a pitcher of beer. Tell Gronigen I want the small sleigh harnessed and ready tomorrow at sunrise, and keep in mind while you do that the Ksiezna's coachmen overhear everything you say. Tomorrow I have to do my weekly inspection of the treadmills, and Menshikov is right: a storm is coming."

"Don't you want me to go with you to the care-house? With so many people out in the streets, you could be set upon again."

Saint-Germain shook his head, although the movement was obscured by his wolf-skin hood. "The crowd is not big enough to provide protection to an attacker; there would be no advantage for anyone making such an attempt with so many people about. And if anyone should be foolish enough to try, I have my francizcas with me. I will arrive safely enough." He adjusted the hood of his cloak and pressed on.

"Are you going to need me to go with you in the morning?" Saari asked.

"It would probably be a good idea," said Saint-Germain after brief consideration. "Gronigen will have his hands full out on the dyke road just driving the sleigh; they've taken up the wooden walkways until spring, and the route is not well-marked. Another set of eyes will be useful. This is not the time to end up in a ditch."

"No, it's not," Saari agreed, pointing ahead through the fading light. "There. The lantern over the door is lit. Someone more than servants must be in."

"I see it," said Saint-Germain, and forced himself to move more quickly.

"Do you want me to go on to the stable?" Saari called, raising his voice.

"If you would; I will deal with the Ksiezna without fear of assassins," Saint-Germain answered. "I will see you tomorrow." He floundered his way toward the door.

"In the sleigh, when we come to the care-house," called Saari as he made his way toward the stable. His wave was broad so that it could be seen in the last of the daylight; overhead the first, pale streamers of yellow and pink and green began to undulate across the darkened sky.

"No wonder the Chinese think those lights are dragons," Saint-Germain said aloud to himself as he gazed upward. It almost made up for the long hours of darkness, he decided. But tempting as it was to stand in the cold watching the aurora, he had a task to accomplish. Abandoning the radiant sky, he made his way to the porch of the Polish house and used the heavy knocker, banging it three times as the Russians did to honor the Trinity. He waited, then knocked another three times, and this time saw the door open, and met the stare of Benedykt's manservant, Antek Lienjek. "Good afternoon, Antek. Is your master or your mistress within?" He spoke in Polish.

Scowling, Antek admitted Saint-Germain. "Hercegek Gyor," he said, ducking his head. "They are in their apartment."

"Would you be good enough to announce me to them?" Saint-Germain asked.

"You will wait here, in this room," said Antek, after he considered the request. "If they are willing to speak with you, I will inform you."

"As you like; you might tell them that I come on an errand from Alexander Menshikov," Saint-Germain said, pulling his cloak off his shoulders and going toward the stove, just now pouring heat into the main room. "I will wait here."

Knowing he had over-stepped himself, Antek said, "As you like, Hercegek." His words were conciliatory, but his manner was irritable.

Saint-Germain selected one of the three visitors' chairs and dropped into it. He rubbed his face with his gloved hand to help restore warmth to his icy skin, then, realizing that he should offer Zozia his ungloved hand, he removed them both and thrust them into his coat-pocket on top of the francizca. For more than ten minutes he waited, his thoughts focused on the arrival of the supply-train. He was becoming restive when Antek came in from the adjoining room. "They will be with you directly." He bowed and went on into the servants' room without offering any other show of hospitality.

It was almost five minutes later when Zozia bustled out of her chamber, enveloped in an ermine wrapper, her cheeks bright, her demeanor unusually active; Benedykt was close behind her, his chamber-robe of heavy satin held closed with a broad, embroidered belt, and his wig slightly askew on his brow. She gave a small curtsy in answer to Saint-Germain's bow. "What an unexpected visit," she exclaimed.

"I am here at the behest of Alexander Menshikov," said Saint-Germain, "who has charged me with messages to both of you."

"Then he is back?" Benedykt asked. "Was that why we heard cheering a little earlier?"

"Yes; the supply-train has arrived." He looked around the room. "I was a bit surprised that you remained here rather than coming out to greet the train as most of the Foreign Quarter has."

"We have been playing chess," said Zozia.

"A most engaging game," Saint-Germain remarked.

"We were told the supply-train wouldn't arrive for three or four days," added Benedykt. "There was no reason to leave the house for less than that." His nose and cheeks were chapped and his knuckles were red from cold.

"There may be now," said Saint-Germain, noticing that both Zozia and Benedykt were wearing boots under their finery and that the boots were wet; he kept his observation to himself, saying only, "Menshikov would like to see you later this afternoon, Ksiaze Radom. He asked me to inform you of this."

Benedykt sighed. "If he asks for me, I suppose I must." He began to pace. "Did he happen to mention why he wants to see me?"

"Not as such, no," said Saint-Germain. He turned to Zozia. "He asked me to convey to you his admiration: you are a fine woman."

"A compliment, to be sure," said Zozia, pursing her lips, not entirely satisfied. She said nothing more, and the silence lengthened.

Saint-Germain bowed again. "So. My obligation is discharged. If you have any message you would like me to take to the care-house?"

"There's no reason to send one; you are here, and you're the only one we have reason to communicate with." Benedykt lowered his eyes. "We have nothing to say to you."

Saint-Germain gave another bow. "Will you be attending the Christmas Eve festivities at the English Residence?"

"For a time," said Zozia before her brother could answer. "I take it you will be there."

"I have accepted the Resident's kind invitation, and I have a meeting there tomorrow afternoon with Brian O'Meaghar, Tarquin Humphries, and Mungo Laurie, in regard to the ice-bound ships out in the mouth of the river; they will need shielding from the movement of the ice, or risk damage before the thaw. They also want to know about the treadmills and the dredging-barge, which is why I have been asked to attend; so you may find me there before their celebrations."

"Will you play for the evening? On the clavichord?" Zozia asked.

"I have not been asked to, so I cannot say." He went to the door. "If we do not see one another before the day, the joy of Christmas be with you," he said, taking his cloak from the rack and drawing it around himself. He pulled on his gloves and let himself out into the night. All the way back to the care-house he wondered why Zozia's and Benedykt's boots were wet, why they both appeared chilled, and what they had been wearing under their enveloping garments.

By ten the next morning, Saint-Germain was ready to leave for his inspection; he met with Hroger and van Hoek as he got ready to step out into the deteriorating weather. "I should be back by six in the evening. After the inspection, I will attend the meeting at the English Residence. If I am going to be later than six, I will send Saari with a message."

"Is there anything you would like me to tell Madame Svarinskaya?" Hroger asked. "She will be up from her sleep by three in the afternoon."

"When it will be light," said van Hoek, sounding annoyed.

"Four hours of not-quite-light in winter, and four hours of not-quite-dark in summer," Saint-Germain said, shaking his head. "If she would like to postpone our lesson until tomorrow, I would be willing to have it so."

"Very good," said Hroger, opening the door and revealing wind cutting along the drifts, sending thin swaths of snow scudding; the sky was gloomy. "I will continue to guard her, and the care-house, as you have asked me to do."

"If anything should need my urgent attention, send word out to me, unless the storm has arrived: in that case, send someone to the English Residence with a note to me, and tell me what has transpired."

Hroger pointed to the sleigh coming down the street, the horses blanketed in bear-skins beneath their harness. "There. Gronigen is driving, I see."

"Do you recognize him?" Saint-Germain asked, startled.

"No, but I know his cloak," Hroger said with a faint smile. "Make sure you wrap your face, my master."

"I will; you need not fret, old friend." In proof, he took his heavy Persian-lamb muffler and wrapped it expertly around his head so that only his blue-black eyes remained uncovered. "Will this do?" he asked in a muffled voice.

"It's satisfactory," said Hroger, watching Saint-Germain make his way out to the open sleigh and climb into it. He stepped back and closed the doors.

"Hercegek," said Adolphus Gronigen, nodding as much as his heavy fur robe would allow.

"Gronigen," said Saint-Germain as he settled down on the wide bench, facing the bundled figure of Yrjo Saari.

Gronigen snapped the whip and the two horses started off at a jog trot, toward the road along the dyke, the beams of the two fixed lanterns framing the coachman's box providing a tunnel of light for them. "Clouds are thickening up," he said. "We won't see much sun today."

"We would see little sun even if the sky were clear," said Saint-Germain, thinking of the previous evening when the aurora had brightened the night.

"You have the right of it," Gronigen sighed as the sleigh moved on.

"What did he say?" Saari asked in his version of Russian.

Saint-Germain explained, and added, "If it starts to snow heavily, the lanterns will not be much use and I will have to get out and lead the way to be sure we stay on the road."

"I should do that," said Saari.

"It is one of the gifts that those of my blood possess that we see better than most in darkness. I will lead because I will see the way better than you or Gronigen could." Saint-Germain adjusted his muffler and squinted into the rising wind. "By tomorrow the snow will be falling, whether it does or not tonight. I can smell it."

"I agree," said Saari, and lapsed into contemplative silence as the sleigh continued onward.

It was more than half an hour later that they arrived at the first treadmill; it was wrapped in tarpaulins and its pump housing had been protected by a wooden enclosure. Snowy ice weighted down the tarpaulins and the wooden shield. Saint-Germain got out of the sleigh and spent the next twenty minutes making sure the tarpaulins were properly anchored and the enclosure did not have too much weight on it. Satisfied that the treadmill would be able to resume work in the spring, Saint-Germain climbed back into the sleigh and told Gronigen to drive to the second treadmill.

They were half-way there when Gronigen drew rein: a line of chained men occupied the road, a dozen Guards watching them, whips and cudgels in their hands. Iron poles hung with lanterns provided illumination to their efforts.

One of the Guards held up his hand. "Who are you and where are you going?"

Saint-Germain stood up in the sleigh. "I am Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, inspecting the treadmills--those of my design--on the order of Alexander Menshikov."

The Guard looked displeased. "It would be better if you would wait a day, Hercegek."

"No doubt; but tomorrow will be stormy and I am charged with delivering my report this afternoon." Saint-Germain remained standing. "If you would permit me to pass ..."

The Guard held up both his hands. "You will not move," he said, and signaled two of his men to approach him, and they talked in low voices. "These men are outlaws," the Guard said at last, waving his men back to their posts. "They are assigned to repairing the slippage in the embankments. We have to keep them working. It is important that this section be repaired, and as you say, it will storm shortly."

"Don't believe him!" shouted one of the chained men. "They are killing us!"

The Guard struck the outlaw with his cudgel. "If they die, that is unfortunate, but the embankment must be saved, or part of the city will flood when the ice melts."

Saint-Germain did not raise his voice, but there was something in his demeanor that commanded the attention and respect of the Guard. "Are you killing them?"

"They're outlaws. They are condemned to death in any case," said the supervising Guard. "If we move the men, will you drive on?"

Gronigen started to answer, but was stopped by Saint-Germain, who said, "What are you doing to them?"

Another of the chained men dared to answer. "As soon as we stop working, they strike us over the head and shove us down that hole in the ice. Who's to say if we freeze or drown." His complaint was echoed by resentful, ragged shouts.

"That is hardly an honorable execution," said Saint-Germain, looking directly at the supervisor of the Guards.

"Hercegek," Saari whispered. "Don't interfere."

The Guard gave a mirthless chuckle. "We can do this, or we can let them starve: which is more honorable from your point of view, Hercegek?"

"It would be better if they are not required to die," said Saint-Germain.

"Are you prepared to house and feed them?" the Guard scoffed.

"I wish I were, but as I am a foreigner, I would not be allowed that opportunity. Still, I would think you will want to keep them alive," said Saint-Germain. "If only because you will be short of workers in the spring." He saw the Guard frown under his bear-skin hat.

One of the Guards began making ominous motions with his whip.

"Vadim Levovich, don't be so unkind to this Hercegek." He strolled over to the sleigh. "We know these men attacked, robbed, and killed more than a dozen men in the last year, and beat up another twenty or so, judging from the money, jewelry, watches, and other items they had in their possession when they attacked the supply-train--more fools they. We found a kind of tally-sheet for their victims and what these men took from them. After being questioned, they admitted they kept a camp near the fishermen's cabins at the far end of the island. We found all manner of loot in their baggage, and they claim there is more at their camp." He leaned on the sleigh. "So you see, these are men who have given death to others--they wouldn't hesitate to give it to you--and so should be willing to take it for themselves. We're only making sure they do something useful before they die."

"Hercegek, please," Saari whispered. "Move on."

Another of the Guards drew his pistol, giving a long, significant look to Saint-Germain before shouting orders at the chained men to form a line along the side of the road. Slowly, sullenly, the men shuffled into the line required.

The supervisor-Guard stepped away from the sleigh. "You may drive on; take as much time as you like getting back," he said, offering a deep bow that almost submerged his head in a snowdrift.

Gronigen did not wait for Saint-Germain to sit down, or for his order, but snapped his whip and set the sleigh moving on. He remained utterly silent until they had reached the second treadmill, when he said, "Hercegek, you don't want to challenge soldiers like that. They wouldn't think twice about putting you under the ice with those men."

"Those men," said Saari. "I recognized a few of them from my days as a Watchman. They're outlaws, all right. They might even be the gang that set upon you, Hercegek."

"Would that not be convenient," said Saint-Germain ironically. He got out of the sleigh and approached the treadmill, taking his time inspecting it. He found it difficult to concentrate on the tarpaulins and housings and cables: what if those men were being murdered by the Guards--and what if the men were the ones who had tried to kill him in May? He finally decided that he had done all he could to ensure the preservation of the treadmill, and went back to the sleigh, going on to the third, where he made another somewhat preoccupied inspection as the wind picked up and the first, ephemeral flakes of snow began to fall.

"Hercegek!" Gronigen urged as Saint-Germain kept up his inspection. "It's almost full dark and I don't want to have to pick our way without our tracks to guide us."

"Very well," Saint-Germain said, complying more quickly than Gronigen had expected. "Saari, get onto the driving-box with Gronigen, to help him see his way. I doubt anyone will be lying in wait for travelers out on the dykes this afternoon."

Without making any comment, Saari did as he was told, shielding his eyes with his arm so that he could make out their tracks ahead of them. No one spoke, but Gronigen kept the horses to a smart trot, determined to get them back to their stable as quickly as possible. By the time they made their way to the place between the first and second treadmill, the Guards and the chained men were gone, only the lanterns burning on their poles and rapidly vanishing trampled snow remained to remind others that they had been there.

Text of a note from Benedykt Rozmowaslad, Ksiaze Radom, to Viatislav Brodsky, both in Sankt Piterburkh, written in code and carried by private messenger.

Viatislav,

Can you please tell me why Arco-Tolvay is still alive? You assured me that you and your men would make short work of him, and that his death would be attributed to the same men who had attacked him shortly after his arrival in the city. I have paid you well for your skills, but I begin to think that my good opinion may have been fraudulently obtained, in which case, I will expect the return of the sixteen silver Angels I gave you against the completion of the mission with which I entrusted you.

Because of the sacred season, I will not expect the return of my money quite yet. Let me urge you to use this time to redeem yourself. You have until ten days after Epiphany, and then I will assume I will have either a pouch of coins or a corpse from you. I am not interested in any excuses you may have for your failures--only your success matters to me, and you have had little in your performance to give me hope that you will come through with your promise.

To enable you to make the best use of your time, I will include as much of the Hercegek's schedule as I know it. If you make a note of it, you may find opportunities within it that will provide you with the advantages you say you have lacked.

Christmas Eve, the Hercegek will attend the festivities at the English Residence, and may join some of the Foreign Quarter at Midnight Mass at the Cathedral.

It would be inappropriate to kill him on Christmas Day, since anyone dying that day goes immediately to Heaven, and that is more than I am willing to countenance.

The day after Christmas, he will be playing the violin for the ball at the Hessian Residence, an engagement that will keep him there until midnight or later.

The last day of December, he is engaged to come here to this house for a conference with his wife; unless it is actively snowing, as it is now, I think you may assume he will walk back to the care-house, it being so near.

On New Year's Day, he will be one of those in the Foreign Quarter to attend the fete at the house of Alexander Menshikov, and his return from that engagement may well be the most opportune time to rid me of him; the guests will be drunk and the Guard will be busy making sure no one falls down in the snow, lost in drink, and freezes to death. You may move about largely unhampered; if asked, you need only say that you are looking for your master, who has not yet returned home.

If you apply yourself, you should find something in his agendum to turn to your advantage. If you fail, then I will be glad to have my money returned. Do not think of denouncing me to the Guard: I have already warned them that there are workmen in the city who have attempted to blackmail me with spurious charges so outrageous that only a fool would lend them credence.

Appreciatively,

Benedykt Rozmowaslad, Ksiaze Radom

December 22nd, 1704

9

Over the last few hours the wind had dropped so that now the snow came coursing out of the sky as if pouring from a vast celestial sieve; it was deceptively tranquil in its falling, concealing its danger in a brilliant display of winter's loveliness. All over Sankt Piterburkh, the steep roofs were fancifully decorated with jaunty caps and swaths of snow, glistening like cloth-of-gold in the shine from the windows and the lanterns on poles set in along the streets to guide the people of the city. As the chimes of the Cathedral of Sankt Piter and Sankt Paultje struck midnight, the beginning of the Mass took up where the bells left off, a sonorous, penetrating harmony of deep voices that carried softly through the night to all the city.

At the English Residence, the festivities were winding down; many of the guests were feeling the effects of the many cups of hot wassail, and were in need of escort to their homes; others, knowing tomorrow was close at hand, wished to show proper reverence for the day. A small number of guests lingered to gather the last sweetness from the evening, a few of them singing traditional carols and madrigals in the room next to the ballroom.

"It was good of you to come, Hercegek," said Drury Carruther, bidding Saint-Germain the joy of the holiday as he prepared to depart. He was looking tired, although he was splendidly turned out in rich, dark-green velvet with revers of gold brocade to go with his waistcoat and leg-hose; his elaborately tied neck-cloth had wilted a little during the evening and his wig was a bit rumpled.

"You offered a grand evening," said Saint-Germain as he drew on his wolf-skin cloak, covering his burgundy elk-leather coat and britches, which he had got from the leather-tailor just four days ago; ordinarily he would have saved the ensemble for hunting, but in this pervasive cold, more sporting than formal dress was approved, unlike expectations in England. "I think your evergreen swags are appropriate and excellent decoration, no matter what some of the others may believe." Earlier that evening, one of the guests--perhaps overcome by the wassail of brandy, whipped eggs, and heavy cream--had complained loudly that the evergreens were tasteless.

"You mean Dvama--that was unfortunate. His companions told me he is a Hussite, and opposed to holiday displays. There are Hussites in Bohemia still, it appears." Carruther shrugged. "At least no one wanted to fight, as happened at the Four Frigates."

"Something to be thankful for, no doubt," said Saint-Germain. "Between the sailors and ships' officers at the taverns, the ration of spirits in the supervisors' barracks, and the party for the Watchmen at Menshikov's house"--which Saari had attended under protest--"the Guards must have their hands full tonight, if they are patrolling."

"At least we have the Guards." Carruther touched his brow in a show of relief. Fatigue had made him nervous and his thoughts were over-strung. He licked his lips. "They weren't here last year, you know, the Guards weren't."

"They began at the end of July," said Saint-Germain.

"They and the Clerks. About time we had a central place for records. These Russians are dreadfully lax about records."

"Because so few of them can read," Saint-Germain suggested.

"That may be. But it's much better now than a year ago, that I can promise you."

"That's right. You and the Prussians were the first ones living here, weren't you?" Saint-Germain asked. "How did the Watchmen deal with the celebrations?"

"There was only one tavern, hardly more than a single large room, and there were far fewer residents in the city; only a few wives and hardly any children at all. I don't think we had more than fifty Europeans in the Foreign Quarter, so the possibilities were limited. Most of us were expected to fend for ourselves, as was the case for the rest: the army garrison was in place, but they looked to the work-gangs and the building of the port. Christmas was not much different than another cold day: the work-gangs weren't allowed more than an extra ration of drink and a sweet cake for the occasion. The service in the Cathedral was much less grand, and for that matter, so was the Cathedral. Spartan as this year is, it is a great improvement on last year. Next year should be grander still, if Czar Piotyr has his way." He made an uneasy motion of his head. "If the Resident would only agree to leave in the spring, so someone of a hardier constitution could take his place. Gout is the very devil in this climate."

"Has the tincture I provided given him any relief?" Saint-Germain inquired.

"I don't know. He has become so invalidish in his habits that I can no longer discern when he is actually incapacitated, or only fears he might be." His sigh was almost a snort. "The trouble is, with his health so poor, this mission is not functioning well, and another year of such performance, and we English will lose even more opportunities than we already have. Our government is at a disadvantage."

The wind picked up a bit, frisking the torrent of snowflakes about the air.

"You are making the best of a bad situation," Saint-Germain suggested.

"Hardly a workable excuse." He fiddled with the ruffles of his cuffs. "If we're able to enlarge our mission here, then we may have more success with the Russians." He closed his eyes, a frown deepening on his forehead.

"You are tired," Saint-Germain said.

"Regretfully, I must concur," said Carruther. "I apologize for my--"

Saint-Germain waved this away. "Anyone in your position earns his exhaustion." He inclined his head as a signal of departure. "I thank you for a festive entertainment. Is there anything more I might do for you before I leave?"

"No, I think not. I appreciate your willingness to listen."

Saint-Germain gave a slight bow. "You provided a most enjoyable evening, and I thank you for including me."

"I have Colonel Broughton if I need him," said Carruther. "That is, if he isn't too drunk to respond."

"My point exactly," said Saint-Germain.

"Captain Fet came by three hours ago, to see if we might need one of his men posted here. I asked him to send someone �round later tonight, just as a precaution. He said one of his men would be here, and reasonably sober." Carruther held Saint-Germain's Persian-lamb hat out to him. "You'll need this tonight, even with your hood."

Saint-Germain took the hat and set it on his head before raising the hood. "I will call back in two or three days, to see how the Resident is doing."

"A pity your wife didn't join us," said Carruther.

"Yes; but she elected to attend the Midnight Mass at the Cathedral after dining at the Prussian Residence. She asked me to join her at the Cathedral. After all she has heard about Orthodox rituals, she wanted to see a Mass for herself. She promised her brother she would Confess it when she returned to Poland, because while she is here, she is sure it cannot be a sin. I plan to meet her there in half an hour." He bowed and stepped out into the flying snow, accompanied by Carruther's chuckle. He followed the lanterns down the street toward the Cathedral and the rich harmonies that rode with the snow; as he walked, he thought back to his breathing life: he had been born at the dark of the year, and took an odd satisfaction in these later celebrations, which served as a reminder of his own provisional mortality.

The Cathedral smelled of incense and wet fur; at least three hundred people stood to hear the Midnight Mass, most of them Orthodox, and following the liturgy. At the rear of the Cathedral, and near the door, a small group of foreigners was gathered, most of them watching the celebration attentively, a few clearly baffled and bored: Zozia was one of those who had no interest in the Mass, and had begun to flirt with the Hessian courier next to her.

Saint-Germain stepped to her side, lifted her hand, and kissed it. "Ksiezna. A joyous Christmas to you."

Speaking just above a whisper, she said, "So far, Hercegek, it is a tedious one. I had no idea how soon this would pall on me." She sighed. "Lugubrious music, with far too much incense, and too many candles. And those icons!"

Remembering his time in Moscow over a century ago, when every home had its own iconostasis, and every door was guarded by an icon, Saint-Germain thought this Cathedral was austere by Russian Orthodox standards, but he knew better than to say so. "Some Catholic churches are as grandly ornamented as this one."

Zozia paid no attention to his remark. "And look at all that gold, and the seed-pearls on the vestments, and the rough-cut jewels. The Metropolitan has an amethyst the size of a baby's fist in his head-dress. Too gaudy for an Emperor, and not even the Pope goes to such excess." She realized she had raised her voice, and put her hand to her lips. "We had best get out of here before I do something truly unwise."

"As you like," he said, with an elegant inclination of his head, following her out into the writhing snow. "Is your sleigh waiting, or are we going to walk?"

"I told Vincenty to come for me when Mass was over, and there's almost an hour and a half to go--I fear we will have to walk. I cannot remain here any longer." To emphasize her determination, she donned her high-crowned fur hat, took hold of his arm, and moved him along toward the Foreign Quarter. "I don't know how you can stand that music. Just voices, no instruments, and all men. Give me a lively little consort with singers or a splendid organ, at least, and things become bearable. But this drone, drone, drone and Byzantine texts no one understands!" She found a slight rut under the snow and began to follow it.

"Where is your brother tonight, that you came to Mass alone?" Saint-Germain asked as they managed to establish a walking pattern together.

"Oh, he and Nyland went off to the Four Frigates, along with a dozen other men. They say the tavern will be enlarged next summer, and given direct access to the docks. For tonight, it will be crowded and the men will roister. I doubt I'll see him before sunrise, given how late sunrise comes." She cracked an angry laugh. "Those two spend hours and hours together. Nyland has come to the Polish house often and often. Not that there's anything much to do here. They go to the taverns, and other houses. I know they play cards, and drink, but I don't know what else they do." Then with an engaging look she changed her tone. "I have missed seeing you of late. I apologize for Benedykt's rudeness, but he believes that he must have final say in all I do. He has heard gossip about us from the servants, and he is afraid you will yet compromise me."

"That would be impossible," said Saint-Germain.

"I've told him so, but he is always thinking the worst of me. He claims that he is sure we have done the act, though I have denied it on the cross." She steadied herself through an uneven patch of ice and snow. "How little it takes to lose his good opinion."

"Probably not very much," said Saint-Germain. "Especially now, with everyone remaining indoors for days on end."

"He has nothing to do but play cards, drink, and brood, since there are few wives and no whores to be had. At home he might have amused himself with a chambermaid or a goose-girl, but here? The servants cannot be compelled to grant their favors; the Czar has said so. What else is there to do? He isn't a man to read."

"Then I suppose you have the sum of it," said Saint-Germain. "Unless he has the Czar's aptitude for working wood."

"Oh, spare me," exclaimed Zozia. "A lathe in the house would be all we'd need. Noise and shavings all day long."

"Well, the days will be lengthening soon, and the people will move about more," Saint-Germain reminded her as he guided her around a suspicious hillock in the snow. "The ice will start to thin at the end of March and will break up in April."

"Not nearly long enough days, and not nearly soon enough thaw." She would not permit him to cheer her. "I will be glad when the two years are up and I may return to Poland. I miss real fields, and the look of hills and mountains. This place is so flat! And it smells. Say what you will, it is no place for a city. If Piotyr wants a Baltic port, let him build up Kronstadt, or take Vyborg and shape it to his will. This place is unbearable."

"Everything you say is true," said Saint-Germain, "but it is Piotyr's decision, not yours or mine. This is his own, personal dream, and he will have it, the cost in treasure and lives unreckoned and insignificant compared to Piotyr's vision."

"You know they're going to tear down a dozen houses in the spring and rebuild them elsewhere, because the Czar has modified his design for the place." She slipped and sagged against him. As she righted herself, she panted as much from her aggravation as from the shock of a twisted ankle. "Oh, the Devil take it!"

"What is it?" Saint-Germain asked, steadying her.

"My ankle. It's not going to hold me up. It may start to swell if I try to walk on it." She gave a ferocious smile. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to carry me home? Or at the least, let me lean on your arm."

"Whichever you like," said Saint-Germain, and prepared to scoop her up into his arms. "I am yours to command."

She backed up a step, teetering on her left leg. "The snow is deep, and I'm no featherweight, nor is my cloak; I doubt you can carry me so far." She smoothed the ermine, her smile wide and filled with invitation and challenge. "It is some distance to the Polish house."

"No matter. I've carried more much farther." He closed the distance between them, curious now as to why she was paying such determined attention to him, and what the ploy was intended to accomplish. "Put your arm on my shoulder, Ksiezna."

"If we both fall down, what then?" She glared at him.

"Until that happens, at least you will be getting closer to the Polish house." He waited a bit, and then said, "If you remain standing here, you will risk frostbite, and I cannot believe you would want that."

Her eyes narrowed. "All right. We can try it." She laid her arm on his shoulder. "There."

With little effort, he swung her off her feet, and with one arm under her shoulders and the other under her knees, he began to wade through the snow.

"You're very strong," she whispered, her eyes shining speculatively. "I didn't know. You have good shoulders and a deep chest, but this is remarkable."

"Those of my blood have some strength." He continued on, taking care to make it obvious that he was making an effort far beyond what he was--not unlike her protestation of a damaged ankle, he thought. He could hear the merry-making in the Guards' barrack, and he thought the streets would not be as safe as they had been given to expect. After about ten minutes, he said, "I am going to stop and put you down for a little while, so I can catch my breath." It was not true, but he knew it was what Zozia expected of him.

She laughed in approval. "I like this way of going home."

He let her down, and took advantage of the moment to brush away the snow on his hood and his arms and shoulders. "If you will come a bit nearer?" He got the snow off her hat and the folds of her cloak. "The drifts will be higher than my waist by morning."

"They'll have work-gangs out with shovels and barrows in the morning, Christmas or not," said Zozia. "They can't let the roads become impassable."

"That would immobilize the city until spring, and no one is prepared for that," Saint-Germain agreed. He took her hand and slipped it onto his shoulder. "Are you ready?"

"Oh, yes, please," she said, making the simple request provocative.

As he took her up into his arms again, she managed to give a quick kiss to his cheek, and she rested her head under his chin as they went on to the Polish house.

Antek admitted them disapprovingly to the vestibule. "Joyous Christmas," he intoned as if announcing a death in the family.

Saint-Germain set Zozia down once more, and told the dour servant, "And to you."

Zozia gave a mischievous wink to Saint-Germain, and said to Antek as she slipped out of her ermine wrapper, "My husband and I are going to my room for a while. He won't stay the night, of course--he must return to the care-house--but it is time we had a little privacy together. It's been far too long." She reached up and tossed back Saint-Germain's hood. "Take off your cloak. Antek will hang it on the peg over there, and you and I can adjourn to my room. You know the way."

Antek took Saint-Germain's cloak and his hat, hung them up, and ducked his head. "Do you require anything more of me, Ksiezna?"

"Nothing just at present," she said lightly. "I would like to think that I can rely upon you to do all that is necessary while the Hercegek and I retire." She was almost skipping as she urged Saint-Germain to follow her to the room.

He allowed himself to be drawn after her, although he was apprehensive about her state of mind, which seemed more volatile than usual: he was, he reminded himself, far from home at the most difficult time of year. As she enticed him into her part of the bedroom, the first thing he noticed was that there were now draperies over the window and a second armoire for her clothes. "You've made it very nice here."

"I wish we could have more mirrors, for brightness," she said, taking off her Ottoman shawl and tossing it on the end of her bed. "But the Russians don't approve, thinking them dangerous and filled with temptation and vanity, so we close or cover them except when we're dressing, and the Russians are satisfied." She went and patted the stack of pillows at the head of her bed. "Three of these are new, as well."

"Very nice," said Saint-Germain.

"I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to help me to undress, Hercegek," said Zozia, still playfully tantalizing. "Salomea is at Catholic Mass, and she won't return until later, since the Hessians are holding a supper for those who attend the Mass. I can't manage all the lacings and such, and I must rely on you."

"How do your Russian servants feel about that--your Polish servants attending Catholic services?" Saint-Germain inquired, although he supposed they were generally displeased. "Heer van Hoek will attend Protestant services in the morning, to give thanks for his returning health, and the assistants and nurses at the care-house are not well-disposed toward him for doing it. They fear it will cause God to punish them for allowing him to attend Protestant worship."

"Russian servants think God will punish them for everything." Zozia went on as if the notion had just occurred to her. "I didn't see Madame Svarinskaya at the Cathedral."

"She may not have attended; she's been looking after a boy with a shattered hand, which he is probably going to lose." His face was grave and he considered Zozia with steady, enigmatic eyes.

"I don't know how she stands it," said Zozia. "Or how any of you stand it, for that matter. So many men injured, sick, and dying. What a terrible way to spend one's days." She turned her back to him. "If you'll unfasten my laces? And my necklace?"

"Which would you prefer first?"

"The necklace. The pearls tend to get caught in the lace if I don't remove it first." She offered a winsome smile, then frowned a little. "Be careful with the clasp--it's not very secure."

"I remember," said Saint-Germain, working the temperamental clasp with expert fingers. "There." He took the pearl necklace and handed it to her. "A very handsome piece."

"Yes, so I think, too." She weighed the necklace in her hand before setting it in a small box on her dressing-table. "I've worn it too often, I think. This next year I must have some new jewelry or I will look paltry."

"An impossibility, Ksiezna," said Saint-Germain.

"Gallant as ever." Zozia stretched artistically, making sure Saint-Germain saw the curve of her breasts and the creaminess of her skin. "Now the lacing, if you would?"

Saint-Germain obliged her, taking care not to damage the heavy satin of her dress as he did. He then loosened the skirt and helped her to get out of the dress. "It is a beautiful dress; the wheat-color becomes you."

"Salomea and Feodosia only finished it two weeks ago. They are working on another for Epiphany; something in red, so the Russians will approve, although the Poles are going to disapprove its luxury. My seamstresses keep telling me the low light bothers their eyes and they have trouble setting stitches." She made a little sigh of exasperation. "That's servants for you, Russian, Polish, or any other."

"The light is low at this time of year," Saint-Germain said, "and sewing is exacting."

"You don't want me to look like a merchant's wife, do you?" she asked, a martial light in her eyes.

"No, Ksiezna, I do not," he assured her. "But I do not think it quite reasonable to expect your seamstress and maid to blind themselves on your behalf. I should think you would not want that, either."

"You've taken servants' sides before," said Zozia, as if calling another of his failings to mind. "You see them differently than I do."

"Very likely," he agreed. "Do you want me to unfasten your petticoats?"

"Oh, I can manage, thank you," she said. "I want you to help me unfasten my corset, and then I want you to remind me of what I have missed." She ran the tip of her tongue along her lips, watching him through her eyelashes as she did. "I have to clean my face, too."

As she unhooked her petticoats and stepped out of them, he went to turn back the coverlet spread over her bed. "How many quilts do you use?"

"Four. The nights are horridly cold." She removed the bolster-farthingale and set it on top of her petticoats on the dressing-stand.

"I hope you have not been too uncomfortable," he said, determined not to be drawn into an argument with Zozia.

She sniffed in disapproval. "Who hasn't been uncomfortable in this miserable place? I'm ready to have you unfasten my corset now." Again she turned her back and waited for him to untie the looped knot that held the corset. "You and I can still turn this night to advantage," she said as he set to work.

He could sense the calculation in her smile and the artifice in her seductiveness; much as he was unnerved by the comparison, he felt himself longing for Ludmilla, and that realization made him careful. He undid the lacing on her stays and took a step back. "Your servants are sure to talk, Ksiezna, whatever we do or do not do."

"Good. Good. Let them clatter like crows." She pulled off her corset and sat down on the small, low-backed stool in front of her dressing table. "I've been thinking," she began as she reached for his hands and carried them to her breasts. "I'm almost certain Arpad is not coming back. No one has found him, despite good efforts. There hasn't been a whisper of him anywhere. And no demand for ransom has come."

"A discouraging sign," Saint-Germain agreed, disengaging his hands. "But you may learn something more in spring, when the ships bring mail again."

Ignoring his last remark, she continued, "I have to assume that if he is still alive, he isn't going to return, or the man I have hired to locate him would have found some trace of him." She reached out to him once more. "Yet I have been thinking: here you have been accepted as Arpad. Only you and my brother and a few others know who you are--or rather, who you are not--and why you are here." She caught her lower lip in her teeth in a calculatedly seductive smile. "So long as I remain childless and my husband is missing, I will be my brother's pawn. But if I had a son, who is to deny that he is Arpad's child?"

Saint-Germain took a step back. "Ksiezna, you have not considered what you--"

"Oh, but I have," she said with strong intent in her eyes. "I have had little else to consider for the last two months, and I have hit upon a solution. If I remain childless, and Arpad is not found, then I am at best a pawn for my brother to use to his own ends." Her eyes were lambent with anger. "But if I could have an heir, a son, then I am free of Benedykt. I intend to have that heir, Grofok. You can do so much more for me than you have done."

"Ksiezna, you know my position: I took an oath to Augustus that I would do nothing to compromise you, and I renew that oath to you now," Saint-Germain told her. "I would not have been allowed to make this journey had I not so vowed. You have no reason to doubt me; I have nothing to gain by exposing our imposture, and a great deal to lose."

"All very noble," she said, clearly displeased at his response. "You also vowed to obey me, as I recall."

"Not where your brother is concerned, or the honor of your office," he reminded her.

"It's all nonsense." She rose from her low-backed stool. "You are here to serve me. You will do as I tell you."

"I am here to serve Augustus and the Polish Crown; this has been complicated by the rise of Stanislas in Augustus' place, but my responsibilities are clear, and I will do all that I can to see you remain uncompromised in your work and your position." He could read the ire in her face, and strove to recall her to their shared duty. "You and I are sworn to this endeavor, and if I fail to do what is expected of me, I stand to lose more than my good name."

"Whatever that name may be," she said. "You at least have anonymity to protect you. I have my name and my position to consider."

"Precisely," he said at once. "You risk your name and your position by planning such a desperate solution."

"Only if it is recognized as such. Who is to say that having been here with my husband that I have not borne my husband's child?" She reached out and snagged the skirt of his coat. "Grofok, you are a sensible man. Anyone can see that. And you can see what's to be gained by our cooperating on this plan."

"Ksiezna, I am in no position to accommodate you, and well you know it. It would bring disgrace upon you and upon me." He kept the sting out of his words, but there was something in his dark eyes that engaged her attention. "If you have a child here, and in a year or two, Arpad returns, what then, or is proven to have died well before he could have fathered that child? You would be more completely at the mercy of your brother than you are now, and your husband would have to disown you." He tugged his coat free of her grasp. "Whether Stanislas or Augustus is on the throne of Poland, neither would tolerate such an embarrassment in his embassy as you could provide. Think, Zozia. You risk your safety and the safety of any child you might have."

"Arpad is gone! No one is going to find him, not now!" Zozia insisted, her face darkening in anger. "He has been gone so long, and no word has reached me or anyone else of his whereabouts. Why should I continue to wait?"

"Any letter may have to come a long way, and in winter, it may be many months before it can make its way here." He looked at her, trying to offer her kindness as well as his thoughts. "You are in a very difficult position, and it would be beyond unwise to do anything that could endanger the work you do here."

She reached for her powder-pot and hurled it at him, the powder leaving fronds and curls across her room before spattering him thoroughly and dropping onto the carpet. "How can you speak to me in that way? To me?"

"You and I have oaths to uphold, Ksiezna," he said gently. "If we compromise them, we do more harm than we know."

Her laughter was angry and harsh. "You look at me, and you can say that? You, who've come to my bed to pleasure me. You deny me this, when it is the only thing I truly want? What are you then, a eunuch?"

"I wish only to be of help, Ksiezna, to Poland and to you; you know your brother would not countenance any child you might have through me," he said, refusing to be goaded into an open argument, or to having to defend his true nature.

"Well, you're not helpful, not at all," she informed him grandly. "And since you are not, you may leave me. I will send you word when your return will be welcome." She reached for her wrapper and drew it around her. "If you change your mind, send me word. Otherwise, our communication is at an end."

"Ksiezna," he said, making a leg in the French manner, then leaving her, paying little attention to the disapproving smirk Antek offered as he shrugged Saint-Germain into his cloak, offered him his hat, and sent him out into the steadily falling snow.

Text of a letter from Evdoxia Sergeievna Urusova in Sankt Piterburkh to her brother, Nikita Sergeivich Urusov in Moscow, carried by private courier and delivered six weeks after it was written.

To the excellent Boyar Nikita Sergeivich Urusov presently in Moscow, the greetings of his sister in Sankt Piterburkh on this, the day following Christmas in the European year of 1704.

My joy, my brother Nikita,

You would be appalled to see how Christmas has been celebrated thus far in this city. I cannot begin to tell you what has taken place without shuddering. The Foreign Quarter has had services of its own, not just for the Roman Church, but for the so-called Protestants who are among the Europeans, and the confusion is truly astonishing. I wish I could impart to you the full degree of confusion that has been brought about by the Czar's insistence that the Europeans be allowed to observe the Nativity in the manners they see fit. No wonder God has visited a blizzard upon us. I am astonished that He has not done more to chastise us for indulging all manner of irreligious practices. Our cousins were as distressed as I have been to see how lax the clergy is here, permitting services for Christmas not in the Orthodox traditions. Our cousin Nikolai has told me that I would be wise not to complain, for fear of offending the Czar, so I have said little, but I am not going to constrain myself with you. I can hold my tongue no longer, and since our father made sure I could read and write, I will express my misgivings to you.

We have been caught in deepening snows so that the streets are becoming impassable, and now the wind is rising, which will not only bring higher drifts to the streets, it will keep everyone indoors for days. Those who venture out risk dying of cold. Ships in the harbor are cracked and broken by the ice. The roads beyond the Island of Hares vanish into banks of snow. I will hand this to our courier when I am finished, but he may not be able to leave until the weather clears and some effort has been made to allow horses and sleighs to move without fear of being trapped in drifts as high as houses. There has already been warnings that the work-gangs that have been cutting trees some distance away may be stranded, and as they have little food, so we will have little wood until this series of storms passes. I hope none of us starve or freeze during that time.

It has been a quiet day so far, and not because of the weather, but because no one is willing to venture out. A dinner that was to be held at the Hessian Residence has been postponed since there is no certainty that most of the guests could get there safely, or once arrived, could return to their various houses afterward without risking being caught in the snow. The Poles have opened their house to the Czar's officers seeking to play cards or drink, but few have accepted the invitation. Already we have had reports that two work-gangs assigned to shore up the embankments have lost men to cold, and we must expect more will die in the same way before the thaw comes. I hope the Czar has arranged to have replacement work-gangs sent as soon as it is possible to bring them here.

Alexander Menshikov, the Czar's close friend for whom our cousin is a scribe and keeper of records, remains here, carrying out the Czar's orders and overseeing the city in his stead. Marfa Skavronskaya, the Czar's preferred companion, has pledged to offer a banquet for Sankt Piterburkh's foreigners for the Feast of the Epiphany, if the weather clears enough, which many of us believe is yet another sign of the Czar's catering to the West. The Europeans are granted so many more privileges than we Russians that I begin to fear that there will be clashes between them and us in the coming year. Why should Piotyr insist that we dress as the Europeans do, keep the calendar, and tolerate their religious errors? It is bad enough that we Russians must remain here as long as the Czar wishes, but that no such constraints are imposed upon the Europeans only creates rancor and resentment among us.

Doubtless it will be spring by the time you receive this, and much of what I have said will have changed here. That is to be expected in this place, for the Czar demands it, and no one can gainsay him. He continues to require work to go on no matter what the conditions, so work-gangs are laboring on the interiors of buildings they framed in late summer, so that by the time the ice melts, the buildings will be ready to occupy and more can be built. We have been told that another five hundred buildings are to be completed and occupied by the end of next summer. The Foreign Quarter is to be doubled in size during the summer.

To that end, I ask you, of your kindness, to send me a pair of tutors. Most of the Russian children here are supposed to be taught to read, write, do figures, know geography, and whatever other topics the Czar decrees must be studied. If I can join with the tutors to start a school, there will be benefits for you as well as for me and our cousins. The Czar's woman, Marfa, is encouraging all families to have good teachers for their children in Piotyr's name. If we can establish the first school, our fortune here will be made.

Let me advise you to stay away for at least another year, not that I would want to postpone the joy of seeing you, but there is so much of this city that is unfinished, I cannot help but think that in spite of the vast amount of building going on, it is not yet in a state where a visit would be more than a trial. For all the building and grand plans, this place is hardly more than an army camp, and one that is unpleasant to live in, given its marshy setting and the harshness of the climate. By the spring after next, there will be amenities here that will make it a livable place, but for now it is unpleasant, demanding, and plagued by weather, bad water, and shortages. It is the sort of place that most sensible persons would avoid; you would find it inconvenient in many, many ways. If all goes as the Czar plans, by the spring after next, there should be a lessening of these problems, and fewer difficulties in living here. If it is the Czar's desire to continue to build this city, we must do all we can to bring that about for him.

Do not worry for me: I have become very comfortable with our cousins; their three older children are proving to be apt pupils, for just now there is little to do but study and play chess. There are few children in Sankt Piterburkh to offer them companionship or the opportunity for amusement, and so lessons have become a substitute for their entertainment. Spring will most certainly change this, but for now, I have their undivided attention.

Until I see you again, may Heaven bless you, and your wife and children, may you have good fortune and good crops, and may no misfortune befall you, my treasured brother.

With devotion and love,

Evdoxia Sergeievna Urusova

10

Nikolai Dmitreivich Urusov, rigged out in a fur-trimmed coat of mulberry wool and britches of dark-gray, presented a very correct appearance as he tended to his duties; his waistcoat was simple dull-red wool, his shirt was heavy ecru cotton, and his neckcloth was lace-edged muslin, all ways to compensate for the cold in the room as well as to distinguish him as a conscientious assistant to Alexander Menshikov and not simply a household servant. Just now, at half past two in the afternoon, he was occupied with the reports from the Clerk of the Foreign Quarter, detailing progress on new buildings and deaths among the work-gangs; he did not immediately notice that the door to his partitioned section of Alexander Menshikov's office had been opened, for he had not been expecting any kind of interruption to his work. Only the firm tread of the new-comer gained his attention, and he looked up, trying to make out the person in the dusk.

The man who approached him with a firm stride was of slightly more than average height, broad-shouldered but trimly built, unusually handsome, and with an aristocratic bearing; olive-complected and dark-eyed, he presented a vigorous demeanor as well as courtly manners. He seemed to be in his mid-thirties, or perhaps a little more. He was in traveling clothes that were both practical and elegant, his tall leather riding boots and tooled-leather britches as black as his long, skirted coat of heavy silk twill over a silver-embroidered black silk waistcoat. His shirt and cuff ruffles were lustrous white silk, his neck-cloth of Bamberg cut-work lace, his gloves were black Florentine leather, and his wig was black, set in proper angled rows of Bohemian-fashion curls; he carried his ermine hat under his arm. He stopped three paces from Urusov's desk and bowed.

"Yes?" said Urusov, sounding a bit annoyed at the interruption in his afternoon tasks. "What is it?" He disliked having to admit he had not learned the names and faces of all the residents of Sankt Piterburkh; he scrutinized the man, trying to put a name to his face. "Have you an appointment with Poteshnye Menshikov?"

"Not yet, but I hope to secure one: I am Ferenz Ragoczy, Grofok Saint-Germain," said Niklos Aulirios, his Russian accented with fourth-century Greek. "I am here to show that I am very much alive, since from what I have been told, that seems to be in question." He stood still, waiting for a response; when none was forthcoming, he said, "I was given to understand that Alexander Menshikov is the man I should speak to in regard to certain claims on my lands and fortune, and that means beginning with you."

Urusov stared at the stranger. "I--"

"You are the man, I understand, whom I need to address in order to secure an appointment with Alexander Menshikov."

Urusov tried to summon up something impressive to say, but could only stammer out, "Wh-why are you here?"

This was a question Niklos was prepared to answer. "Word reached me as I was preparing to leave ... the city hardly matters, save that it is a European one. It came from my comrade, Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, whom you know, that someone has claimed my estates and fortune as my heir, and was presently here in Sankt Piterburkh. I have already dispatched notifications to Bucharest, Buda-Pest, and Vienna, and I now present myself here to resolve this misapprehension." He took another step forward. "I have been traveling for many hard weeks to get here, and I would like to be able to set the matter to rights as soon as it may be convenient. As I have already said, I have been told that I should ask you for an appointment with Alexander Menshikov."

Urusov blinked, attempting to decide what would be the proper thing to do. "If you will wait for a ... I will see if something can be arranged." He got up from his chair and hurried toward the door leading to the inner partition of the office portion of Menshikov's house, trying to work out how he would explain the newly arrived foreigner. He tapped on the door. "Poteshnye Menshikov," he called out.

"Enter," said Menshikov, sounding more brusque than Urusov would have liked.

"There is a gentleman ... waiting," Urusov began as he closed the door between the two sections of the room, uncertain how to go on. "He is eager to speak with you."

"Russian or foreign?"

"Foreign," said Urusov. "He must have arrived earlier today, for I haven't been told of any new-comer in Sankt Piterburkh, and all new arrivals must be recorded by six in the evening."

"Arrived today, did he? Unusual to come in January." Menshikov put down the map he had been studying. "Did he come alone? And from what place?"

"From Europe or so he claims. I have no idea if he came alone."

Menshikov was musing, his clever black eyes distant. "He had to come overland, and at this time of year: impressive. Where in Europe has he come from?"

"He hasn't told me." Urusov cleared his throat. "He says he's Ferenz Ragoczy, Grofok Saint-Germain."

Menshikov gave Urusov a sharp look. "He says he is Grofok Saint-Germain, does he? How interesting."

"So he identified himself," said Urusov. "Do you wish to see him, or would you like me to put him off?"

Menshikov tapped the top of his desk, mulling over the possibilities. Finally he slapped his palm down as if settling a dispute within himself. "I'll have to see him eventually, so why not send him in now? He should be able to tell me what I need to know before rumors can spread too wildly. And don't doubt that the rumors have already begun, for anyone new to the Foreign Quarter must be the object of speculation for everyone in the Foreign Quarter. By tomorrow morning, there will be more hearsay in this city than in all of the army." He waved Urusov back toward the door. "Send him in." He began to roll up the map.

Urusov hesitated, trying to think of some reason to delay the introduction; at a second sign from Menshikov, he let himself back into his own part of the room, still perplexed by Menshikov's concession to receive the stranger so quickly. "Grofok Saint-Germain?"

Niklos nodded. "What have you to tell me?"

"Poteshnye Menshikov will see you now. If you will go in?" He hesitated. "Are you armed?"

"No. My swords and pistols are with Hercegek Gyor. I have a small knife in my boot; it is sheathed. You may search me, if you like." He smiled enough to be polite, knowing the most dangerous weapon he carried was unlikely to be found. "Thank you for your efforts in arranging this meeting so very quickly. May I know your name?"

"Nikolai Dmitreivich Urusov. I am Menshikov's record-keeper." He bowed slightly, not adding that he did most of Menshikov's writing for him as well. "Searches aren't required of nobles."

"A good name, Nikolai Dmitreivich--a very good name," Niklos remarked as he strode to the door and opened it, pausing to say, "Ferenz Ragoczy, Grofok Saint-Germain, at your service, Poteshnye Menshikov."

Menshikov had half-risen, wariness in his eyes as he studied the foreigner, taking in the signs of obvious wealth as well as his remarkable good looks, which Menshikov, who was known for his vanity, could not help but begrudge him. "Be welcome, Grofok. I thank you for coming to me so promptly." He indicated the only other chair in the room. "If you will?"

"As you like," said Niklos, drawing the chair close to Menshikov's desk before sitting down. "And I thank you for seeing me so speedily."

"Well, I did consider making you wait," Menshikov admitted with a calculatedly graceful wave of dismissal. "But given the circumstances, I decided now was strategically better than waiting would be."

"Then I gather that what Hercegek Gyor has told me is true: someone in Sankt Piterburkh has claimed my title and my estates as my cousin and heir--which assertion might prevail if I had cousins named as my heirs." He conveyed indignation without raising his voice. "Yes, I have been traveling for a long time, but that is hardly reason to assume I have died. The manager of my Hungarian estates receives regular reports from me, and would know how to reach me if he needed to do so."

"Then it was fortunate chance that Hercegek Gyor was here, and knew how to inform you." He smiled with his teeth but not his eyes. "I understand you have Russian estates as well as Hungarian ones."

"I do. And others as well. The man could have garnered a great deal of land and money if his claims remained unchallenged."

"So it appears," said Menshikov, a measuring shine in his eyes. "I have to admit, I was skeptical about the Hercegek's assertion regarding you, but I realized that circumspection was a wiser course than out-of-hand dismissal."

"I thank you for that," said Niklos, reaching inside his impeccably tailored coat for a large envelope. "If you wish to examine them, here are my bona fides. I have my signet-ring under my glove, which I'll remove if you like." He was already pulling at the ends of his right-hand glove-fingers. "If you want to peruse the patents and my ring, to satisfy yourself that I am the man I claim to be?"

"You mean because of the man who has declared himself your heir, entitled to your estates and fortune?" Menshikov asked with a note of skepticism in his question. "You are asserting your right to your titles and lands."

"I do wish to regain my titles and holdings, it's true," Niklos allowed. "But I wish to give you reason to endorse my proofs. I believe it is as well to be forthright in these matters." He handed over the envelope. "I will arrange for perfect copies if you wish, with signatures from witnesses as to their authenticity."

Menshikov was not literate enough to read what the various parchment documents disclosed, even if they had been written in Russian. "I'll have Urusov examine them, and Jeremye Kristostomovich Belayov, the Clerk of the Foreign Quarter, who has more experience of foreign languages as well as patents of title and arms than I do."

"As you wish. They will be available to you whenever you like." Niklos held up his right hand, revealing his sigil-ring on his little finger; he studied Menshikov, trying to anticipate what he might next tell him.

"Have you a place to stay? We are lamentably short of room just now. Everyone is crowded, and we have yet to provide actual hostelries for travelers. In a year or two, it will be otherwise, but now--" Menshikov made a gesture to indicate the whole of the city. "We're building as rapidly as the work-gangs can manage, and the climate allows."

"Thank you for your concern; I will be staying with Hercegek Gyor at the care-house in his quarters there. I've one servant with me, a man I engaged at Pskov, and four horses, which my countryman, Hercegek Gyor, has found accommodation for--the Ksiezna Nisko will give space in her stable to all."

"A prudent arrangement; the Poles have bunks in their stable, and a stove to keep the horses warm. Your man and your horses could do much worse." Little as he was inclined to inquire, Menshikov said, "You must have had a difficult journey coming here from--?"

"The message reached me in Transylvania. I had planned to go on to France, where I have some holdings"--that was essentially true; among his inheritance from Olivia was a horse-farm near Orleans--"but when I saw the urgency of the problem here, I came north instead. Wounds of this sort cannot be permitted to fester." He chuckled, the sound more like pebbles underfoot than merry amusement. "I would have rather waited until March or April, but Hercegek Gyor advised me to come at once."

"How very punctilious of the Hercegek." Menshikov frowned at the parchments he held as if staring at them would turn them legible, then abruptly thrust them toward Niklos. "Here; take them. You had best keep these with you until you're ready to present them to the Clerk of the Foreign Quarter."

Niklos took the sheets, folded them again, and returned them to the envelope. "I will try to arrange a time to present them tomorrow."

"Don't delay too long, or the people will ask why." Menshikov regarded Niklos. "I would have thought you would be older."

"I'm not as young as you suppose," he countered. "It is probably fortunate that I have kept a certain youthfulness, for in my travels I would prefer to be thought vigorous."

"The Czar would agree with you on that point," said Menshikov.

"I look forward to meeting him--is he in the city at present?" Niklos inquired, knowing from Saint-Germain that he was not.

"He is with his troops," said Menshikov. "I don't expect him to return until the worst winter storms have passed."

"I may well have left by then; I have diverted from my plans, but I can't neglect my purposes for too long; as soon as my claims are fully established, I will probably depart, weather permitting. Perhaps his path and mine will cross on our travels if they don't cross here," said Niklos, pulling on his glove and preparing to rise. "Whom should I see about authenticating my patents or arms?"

"The Clerk of the Foreign Quarter: Jeremye Kristostomovich Belayov. He will take care of translating and recording the material you provide. His office is in the Archive Building--that's the new one about half-completed at the west end of the Foreign Quarter. In time, when the Admiralty is built as the Czar wishes, the Archive will be kept there, and the current building will be torn down for the permanent residence of the English Ambassador." He regarded Niklos with steady patience. "You may not know how these matters are handled in Sankt Piterburkh; do you want to make it worth my while to speed your applications through the Archivist's hands?"

Niklos had been warned about Menshikov's fondness for bribes, and so he responded smoothly, "I have with me three diamonds of excellent quality, newly cut. If they would help to bring my case to the immediate attention of the Archivist, then it would be my honor to provide this incentive to you and to him."

"Grofok, I believe we can have your claims upheld in ten days or so, which is the most rapid response we can provide." He stood up; so did Niklos. "I thank you for coming to me before announcing your intentions to all the city, which could stir up controversy none of us would like. If you would leave the stones with me, I'll have the Dutch merchant appraise them. In the meantime, my messenger will inform Jeremye Kristostomovich that you will call upon him tomorrow morning--I assume that will be convenient?"

"Most convenient, and I thank you for your ... consideration." Niklos pulled open a black leather pouch embossed with the eclipse sigil of Saint-Germain. "With my gratitude, Poteshnye Menshikov." He handed it over with an elegant bow.

Menshikov winkled it away at once. "Much appreciated, Grofok."

Passing through the outer section of the office, Niklos offered a suggestion of a bow to Menshikov's scribe. "Thank you, Nikolai Dmitreivich." He dropped an Austrian gold Emperor on the edge of Urusov's desk, and continued on to the vestibule to claim his long Hungarian cloak. He passed out of Menshikov's house and made for the Foreign Quarter along the freshly cleared streets. Since the light was fading to night, the work-gangs had been taken back to their camps to spend the next fourteen hours in tents. There were not very many people abroad in the anemic light of the distant, setting sun, but those who were on the street stared at him, noting him as a stranger in their midst.

"How did it go?" Saint-Germain asked in Roman Italian as he admitted Niklos to the care-house.

"You were right about the bribe. No one in all of Byzantium could have done it more smoothly. He had the good grace not to examine the stones too closely while I was present." He surrendered his cloak to Kyril and removed a thin short-sword from down the center of the back of his coat. "Be careful with that; it's sharp," he admonished Kyril in Russian.

Kyril looked at Niklos with a kind of concentration that demanded attention in return. "You have learned to guard yourself," he declared.

"I have traveled much, and that has taught me practical wariness," said Niklos.

"This is a most subtle blade."

"That it is," said Niklos. "I had it from an old-fashioned blade-smith in Damascus." He had purchased it when the Crusades were at their height. He rounded on Saint-Germain, returning to Italian, "So I am at your disposal, Hercegek. You summoned me--for which I am most sincerely grateful--and I will be at your service while I am in this city."

"Elegantly said," Saint-Germain approved, indicating the main room on the first floor of the care-house; for Kyril's sake, he spoke in Russian, "Now that you have finished with your day's work--and I take it you are finished--I will be pleased to show you about the care-house and the Foreign Quarter, assuming there is no more snow until the city is asleep."

Niklos looked around at Kyril. "Is Hroger in?"

"He's upstairs in the Hercegek's quarters," said Kyril. "As the Hercegek well knows."

"Then perhaps he would be willing to discuss making arrangements with me to permit me to join him in finding food?" Niklos suggested. "I'm hungry."

"Speak to him upstairs," said Saint-Germain.

Niklos noticed that two of the monks had emerged from the side-rooms and were staring at him. "These men must have seen foreigners before."

"That they have," said Saint-Germain, looking pointedly at the two monks. "But winter has been thin of new company, and any novelty is subjected to scrutiny, as much for entertainment as for protection."

"Hardly surprising that you have few new-comers, considering what it took to get here," said Niklos. "Had I not been spurred by necessity, I wouldn't have arrived until April was half over."

"That would have led to more problems than we presently have." Saint-Germain bowed in the direction of the stairs. "If you would care to join me in my quarters, Hroger and I can see you set up as comfortably as is possible." He went to the stairs and began to climb. "You may make arrangements for food with Hroger."

Niklos glanced at the two monks and then followed Saint-Germain upward and through the surgery-room into Saint-Germain's quarters, where he found Hroger setting out a raw haunch of goat between two wooden plates laid out at the near end of the trestle-table. He grinned and saluted Hroger. "What a welcome!"

Hroger inclined his head. "I thought you must be hungry, and reluctant to dine where you might be observed." He spoke in Imperial Latin.

"Which seems to be almost everywhere in this city; I am watched constantly," said Niklos in the same tongue, and looked around at Saint-Germain. "You are in a fix, Sanct' Germain, and no doubt about it," deliberately using the version of his name that he had been using when they first met. "It will take some skill to extricate yourself with so small a community and so many eyes."

"Yes, I am, as you say, in a fix," Saint-Germain agreed. "Which is why I sent for you; I could think of no one else."

"I'm honored that you did. Tergeste was a long, long time ago, and so was Porolissensis. Our legal dispute in Roma was what--twenty, twenty-five years since?" He smiled with great enthusiasm. "All were worthy fights. I'm pleased to be part of this one."

"This one is more subtle than dealing with murderous pirates or holding off marauding Huns. To end one deception while maintaining another--" Almost fourteen hundred years had passed since he had restored Niklos to life, as he had restored Hroger to life nearly two hundred fifty years before that.

"Or protecting my legacy in Roma?" Niklos suggested.

"I trust this is worthy in its own way." Saint-Germain went toward the center of the room. "When you have dined, I will show you how we have set up your bed."

Hroger looked at Niklos. "It's a bit unnerving, seeing you all in black, and my master in colors." He indicated the knives and forks set out. "If you would like to begin? I don't want to rush you, but I'm afraid I don't have much time, and I'll need to dispose of the bones before I do my rounds with Madame Svarinskaya."

"Certainly," said Niklos, drawing up one of the stools set along the table. "Do you have any recommendation about what I should do next?" he asked Saint-Germain as he perched on the stool.

"What did Menshikov recommend?" Saint-Germain inquired. "Did he give you any instructions?"

"He said that I should take my patents and other bona fides to the Foreign Quarter Archivist tomorrow and submit them to his examination. I expect the Archivist will be more helpful to my cause if I give him a bribe. You were right about Menshikov; I gather that if he has his hand out, I must suppose other officials do, as well." He began to cut a good portion of meat away from the bone, and when he had enough, put it on his plate.

"Then that is what you must do. Anything Menshikov suggests, unless it would compromise either of us, do it, and with an appropriate token of gratitude." Saint-Germain sat down in his high-backed chair, remarking as he did, "He is both the most efficient and the most corrupt man in all of Sankt Piterburkh."

"Strange fellow, Menshikov; I'm surprised the Czar puts so much faith in him. Still, I gather he gets things done," Niklos said, cutting a number of small bits of the meat before starting in on them. "Is it true he can't read?"

"He knows a few basics, but that is the extent of it; he is not able to write much more than a simple sentence, and all the reports submitted to him have to be read aloud; he is hardly the only one," said Saint-Germain. "I will say this for Menshikov: he can make good sense of maps and plans, however little he can manage a book."

"And he's the Czar's most trusted advisor? Truly? How could that have happened?" Niklos shook his head in bafflement.

"He is not stupid; never think he is. And he is truly effective in his post, for all that he uses it to enrich himself shamelessly." Saint-Germain gave a little sigh. "Compared to some of the old nobles, he is forward-looking and brilliant in his own way."

"Do you like him?" Niklos asked in surprise.

"I did not say that," Saint-Germain answered obliquely.

"But do you?" Niklos persisted.

"I do not dislike him," Saint-Germain conceded.

"How difficult was your journey here?" Hroger asked, changing the subject.

Niklos accepted the new direction in their conversation. "It was bitterly cold, and thank goodness we could use secondary roads, for there are bandits in plenty along the main ones. Boguslav Miesienkevic knows his way along many roads. I was sorry to have to bid him farewell when we reached Pskov. I gave him the money you promised him and he turned west toward Riga and a ship bound for England or France as soon as the ice is gone, so that from there he could travel on to the Americas." This report was calmly provided, and there was a knowing nod from Hroger.

"He drove a hard bargain, but he certainly knew his way about. If he's determined to see the New World, may he have better fortune there than my master and I had." Hroger was rushing his eating, not only because he was bored with goat-meat but because he had no wish to be hurried to his duties. "Madame Svarinskaya will be up within the hour and would like a word with you," he added to Saint-Germain.

"Very good. If you will, tell her I am at her disposal. She needs to know more about our guest." He gave his attention to Niklos again. "I read the material Moricz Losi sent with you--and I thank you for bringing it."

"He told me to inform you that your lands need your attention, and sooner rather than later; he thinks you should return home," said Niklos, not apologizing for chewing while he spoke.

"I am aware of that," said Saint-Germain. "I will need to arrange something with the Ksiezna as soon as the thaw begins. She may want to stay here longer, and if that is her decision, she and Benedykt can arrange that." He was silent for a few seconds, knowing how displeased Zozia would be to have to answer to her brother; then he added, "I doubt if she and I can sustain our imposture much longer in any case. It is becoming too complicated; her brother will be glad to be rid of me."

"Are you certain of that?" Niklos asked.

Hroger answered, "Oh, yes. Ksiaze Radom wants his sister to be wholly under his influence. He was delighted when my master was compelled to leave the Polish house for here; he made no secret of his satisfaction."

"Why would he--" Niklos stopped himself. "No doubt the man has his reasons."

"Everyone has reasons," said Saint-Germain. "They may not be sensible, but they are reasons."

"Olivia used to say much the same of you, when she was exasperated with you," said Niklos, and then went silent. The mention of Atta Olivia Clemens resounded like the toll of a bell throughout the room, and the silence deepened. Then Niklos made himself continue, "It is not quite fifty years since she died the True Death. I know she's gone, but it hardly seems possible."

Saint-Germain stared in the direction of the athanor, seeing something else, seeing Olivia in a garden at Nero's Golden House in Roma. "No, it does not seem possible." Then he cleared his throat and went on, "I can only guess at Ksiaze Radom's reasons for what he does, but I have thought from time to time that he is jealous of Zozia, and wants to constrain her so that her talents will not diminish his own, which are not as great as hers. For her part, she is a woman who chafes at constraint, and that has resulted in a very precarious balance between them. Occasionally I wonder if she provokes him deliberately, in the hope he will make a mis-step and expose himself."

"It is better to be here, at the care-house, than with the Poles," said Hroger, adding to Niklos, "You will find that with a little circumspection, it isn't too overwhelming to have so many sick and injured around you. Think of the conditions when the Huns attacked: this is nowhere near as bad."

"You're right," said Niklos. "But I wouldn't want to remain here for long. It's too easy to be all but imprisoned in such a place as this."

"It may be true," said Hroger.

"Tomorrow there is a concert being played at the Hessian Residence. If you think you might enjoy it, plan to come with me; the Hessians are the newest faces here, and they will be glad to have someone divert the attention of the Foreign Quarter away from them," said Saint-Germain. "If it seems that you are hiding, your claim against Rakoczi will lose credibility. This will be a suitable occasion for you to make yourself known to the Foreign Quarter."

"Will Lajos Rakoczi be there?" Niklos asked shrewdly.

"He very well may; he has stayed there from time to time, and he works to be visible." Saint-Germain was aware of Niklos' hesitation. "Better to meet him sooner than later, and in company rather than alone."

"I suppose so," said Niklos, having more of the raw goat. "I didn't come here to hide."

Saint-Germain managed a wry chuckle. "I should hope not."

"But will it matter that I don't join them at table?" It was always a problem for Niklos, as it was for Hroger, for the only thing he ate was raw meat, as did all ghouls.

"Say you do it as a courtesy to me. They all know I do not dine. And with food in short supply, their protestations will not be great, in fact, you may be regarded as a conscientious guest for not taxing the dwindling reserves here." He thought a moment. "Every one of us is under scrutiny; bear that in mind."

"You warned me," Niklos said, and glanced around the room as if wondering if there were spies watching them. "And you were right to do so."

Saint-Germain touched his fingertips together. "Yes; unfortunately."

"This game is a very dangerous one, Sanct' Germain," Niklos warned him.

"I know," said Saint-Germain.

Text of a challenge issued to Ferenz Ragoczy, Grofok Saint-Germain, by Lajos Rakoczi, Grofok Saint-Germain, written in German and carried by the Hessian Residence's messenger.

To the so-called Ferenz Ragoczy, claiming to be Grofok Saint-Germain, this formal response to your answer to my challenge.

Spurious Grofok,

Despite your smooth words at the concert, I do say, and will continue to say, that you are an impostor and that I am the rightful heir of the man you claim to be, and I will vindicate my claim on your body under the terms put forth in your answer: you have the choice of place, hour, and weapons, which I am willing to accept.

The duel will take place as you have chosen on the dyke-road by the second treadmill at dawn on the first clear morning to come.

The weapons will be paired short-swords.

You will have your ally Hercegek Gyor as your second, and I will have the only other Hungarian in the Foreign Quarter, Janos Czobor, to act as my second.

Each of us may bring our own short-swords, subject to inspection by our seconds.

Each of us may engage a physician.

Each of us may bring a carriage or a sleigh.

Each of us will have no more than four men attending him.

Each of us pledges to bring a signed and witnessed Will to the engagement.

The Watchmen and the Guards are not to be informed of this meeting until after it has occurred.

If either of us should fail to appear on the first clear morning, then whichever party has arrived will be said to be victor by default, and the defaulter engages to remove himself from Sankt Piterburkh within forty-eight hours of the default or face ignominy and odium. If both fail to keep the appointment, then the challenge and all that goes with it are null and void.

In the hope a clear day will come shortly,

I remain

Lajos Ragoczi

Grofok Saint-Germain

January 24th, 1705

11

A chatoyant glimmer along the south-east horizon heralded the dawn; long, attenuated shadows lay across the snowy ice that was alternately steel and brass in the first rays of dawn. In the declivity behind the levee the darkness was like iron; the tarpaulin-wrapped treadmill loomed above in its stiffened shroud. The morning was still but for the crunch of Yrjo Saari's footsteps as he trudged the broad elevated roadway, marking out its length before returning to the enclosed sleigh that stood at the edge of the appointed dueling ground. This was an incisive cold, slicing through to marrow without regard for clothing or other protection; the cold was a living presence that held all the world in its frigid embrace. In the sleigh, Niklos Aulirios sat wrapped in a bear-skin rug, two short-swords on the seat beside him.

From his vantage-point on the driving-box, Saint-Germain stared out across the marshes, his body wrapped in the engulfing coachman's cloak of boiled wool and marten-fur; his muffler wrapped his head so that only his eyes were visible; he held the pair of horses with steady, gloved hands, relieved that the grays were protected with marten-fur blankets and traveling-boots of shearling wool.

"There's room enough, but they'll have to be careful of their footing; it's very slippery," Saari reported as he made his way back to the sleigh. "Shall I post the boundaries of the duel?" For Niklos' convenience, he spoke in Russian.

"Not yet; Rakoczi may want to pace it out himself when he arrives, to be sure we haven't taken advantage of him. He's suspicious enough to want to measure out the area for himself." Saint-Germain slewed around on his box and stared at the road along the dyke--nothing seemed to be moving.

"It's early; the sun has only just risen," said Saari. "He probably won't be along for a while yet, if he waited for dawn to come out."

"His stipulation was that the duel is forfeit an hour after dawn," Saint-Germain reminded him. "It takes a while to drive out this far. If he is not on his way by now, he will miss his own appointed time."

From inside the sleigh, Niklos said in his Greek-flavored Russian, "He may want to draw the wait out in the hope of making me nervous. It's a tactic that other duelists have used."

"True enough, though you do not appear to be nervous," said Saint-Germain as he handed a ceramic flask of Carthusian spirits down to Saari. "Here. To help you keep warm."

"Not nervous," said Niklos, "but hellishly cold. The damp goes through like a razor. I'd rest a bit if it weren't for the chill."

Saari took the flask in his gloved hands, opened the cap and drank, smacking his lips when he was done. He put the cap back in place and held the flask up to Saint-Germain. "Thank you, Hercegek."

"If you would like more, you have only to ask." He slipped the flask into his cloak's outside pocket.

"I thank you," Saari repeated and paced some more to keep warm. "You'll want to let the horses walk a little. Winter coats and marten-fur blankets won't keep the chill out of them if they don't move, and we have no provisions to warm beer for them."

"I'm aware of that," said Saint-Germain, and continued to wait, watching the road behind them. After a silent ten minutes, he set the pair in motion, moving the sleigh along the levee and back to where it joined the dyke at a brisk walk to keep the horses warm. He duplicated the circuit again five minutes later, his grays mincing through the crusty snow, their breath billowing like smoke from their nostrils.

"A sleigh is coming," Saari said, pointing along the dyke-road toward a moving smudge. "Bay horses--three of them, a troika harness: Russian. Two lanterns, as well. He's taking no chances."

"About time," said Niklos, getting out of the sleigh, his swords in his left hand. "Let's settle this nonsense."

"You would think the sleigh would be Hessian, given Lajos Rakoczi's circumstances, and the time he has spent at their new Residence." Saint-Germain secured the reins and climbed down from the driving-box. "He's cutting it very thin."

"He may be the one who's worried," said Niklos in Greek. "He may not be as good with short-swords as I am."

"He was probably hoping for pistols." The chuckle Saint-Germain gave had only a suggestion of humor in it. "Remember the Huns, and use your swords accordingly."

"I can hardly forget them." The sleigh grew nearer, and Niklos exchanged a glance with Saint-Germain. "Do you recognize the horses?"

"No," Saint-Germain said, studying the sleigh. "I doubt they are from the Foreign Quarter; I know almost all the sleighs and carriages and horses from that part of the city. There are few troika harnesses in the Foreign Quarter."

Eight minutes later the Russian open sleigh pulled to a halt behind Saint-Germain's, and Janos Czobor stepped down from the broad seat, his traveling coat of arctic-fox blending uncannily with the snow, so that his head appeared almost disembodied. He bowed deeply to the three waiting men. "I have come alone, prepared to end this encounter," he said in Hungarian, his voice strained by more than cold; his eyes kept shifting uneasily, as if he expected some kind of ambush had been set for him.

Niklos held up his short-swords. "Lajos Rakoczi has withdrawn his challenge?" he asked in a tone of ill-usage.

"I ... I believe he has," said Czobor.

"You don't know?" Niklos was baffled.

"No," Czobor admitted. "I have had no communication from Lajos Rakoczi since I received a note from the Clerk of the Foreign Quarter last night that stated that your patents and proofs, Grofok Saint-Germain, have been authenticated, and entered into the records of the Archive as such, and Rakoczi's have been declared invalid and expunged. You will probably be issued an official apology for the errors that were made because of Rakoczi's claims." He coughed. "And because of those errors, Poteshnye Menshikov has declared that Lajos Rakoczi has three days in which he may leave Sankt Piterburkh and Russia without let or hindrance; if he remains beyond that time, he risks being taken into custody by the Guards and posted to a work-gang."

"I thought only the Czar could banish people or condemn them out of hand," said Saint-Germain.

"In matters of this sort, the Czar has extended that right to Poteshnye Menshikov as regards Sankt Piterburkh when Piotyr himself is absent from the city; Menshikov has a decree to prove it." Czobor rubbed his gloved hands together, flicking snow off them as he did. "I can't recall a time when he has used this authority he has before now; nonetheless, used or unused, he has it."

"Do you think Menshikov would order Lajos Rakoczi's arrest? The weather is such that having to leave would be difficult," said Niklos.

"Someone will surely speak with Menshikov on his behalf," said Czobor, making a fussy adjustment to his fox-fur hat and his thick muffler. "Don't you think? No one should be sent out in the depths of winter."

Saint-Germain said nothing for a short while, and the others kept quiet. Finally he broke his silence. "If one or two Residents spoke to Menshikov, he might be willing to permit Rakoczi to remain in partial custody until spring: as it is, Rakoczi can hardly slip away at present without endangering his life, and if he has done that, we may never know why he has done what he has done. In a few days, when the excitement is over, perhaps you would join me in addressing Menshikov on Rakoczi's behalf?"

"You'd be willing to defend him?" Czobor asked incredulously.

"No, not defend him--spare him from dying out in the wastes," said Saint-Germain. "And perhaps while he is being detained, I could persuade him to tell me how he came to take on this daring impersonation, and for whom." His tone was heavily ironic, knowing he himself was guilty of similar misrepresentation, as was Niklos.

"Yes. Exactly so; you could learn a great deal over two or three months," said Czobor, his expression lightening. "As you realize, there is no need for a duel." He turned to face Niklos. "Your claim, Grofok, is fully vindicated, and you need have no reservations about your standing in the city. I have it from Menshikov himself that all Russian property conveyed to Lajos Rakoczi will be formally restored to you before the end of the month." Czobor lowered his head. "I hope you will accept the humble apology I extend to you on Lajos Rakoczi's behalf."

"Of course," said Niklos. "I have no dispute with you."

"And none with Lajos Rakoczi, whoever he may be," Czobor added.

"That I can't pledge," said Niklos less genially. "He has caused me trouble and effort which I have yet to conclude. Like Hercegek Gyor, I would like to know how he came to decide to make his claims in the first place."

"He probably believed that Grofok Saint-Germain was dead and that being the case, he might as well gain the man's fortune," said Saint-Germain, thinking of the times in his past when similar errors had been made.

"That could be possible," said Niklos, clearly unconvinced. "It's a somber business, whatever the case may be."

"A place like this--so new and with so many strangers in it--will surely attract more than a few adventurers," said Saint-Germain, regarding Czobor steadily. "The Russians are fortunate there has only been this one so far."

"That they know of," added Niklos with a quick glance at Saint-Germain. "Others may still be in the city, undiscovered."

"Most assuredly," said Czobor, his edginess dissipating still more. He bowed to the three men. "I must return to the Clerk and tell him I have informed you of the developments of the last fifteen hours. You may want to call in at his office tomorrow to receive his formal notification, and have your patents and proofs restored to you." Without waiting for a response, he stepped back into the sleigh, saying, "Mustn't keep the horses standing in this weather. Turn around, Ivan Modesteivich, and back to Sankt Piterburkh."

The coachman snapped his whip and set the sleigh moving, taking great care not to let the runners reach the edge of the dyke-road. When the sleigh was aligned with the road again, the coachman kissed his three horses to a trot, leaving Niklos, Saint-Germain, and Saari standing in the snow, each of them perplexed.

"If he's fled alone, he freezes," said Saari at last. "No man can go into this cold alone unless he has remounts, food, and fuel for fires."

"No doubt," said Niklos, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. "It does seem a little desperate, running off like that."

"But he is desperate," said Saint-Germain. "He is very desperate; he must believe he has good reason to take such a chance."

"Unless he has an accomplice in the city, someone who will hide him," said Niklos. "In which case, if he remains in the city, he is going to risk discovery and all that goes with it."

"Especially if his accomplice--assuming there is one--turns on him," said Saint-Germain.

"I'd take my chances with winter," said Saari.

"Unless he had more to hide than this fraud: an accomplice would make his situation more precarious," said Saint-Germain, feeling increasingly apprehensive as he thought about Lajos Rakoczi. He motioned to Niklos. "Get into the sleigh and let us return to the Foreign Quarter. There is no reason to remain out here in the cold." For emphasis, he swung back onto the driving-box and unfastened the reins. "Saari, if you will take your place on the rear of the sleigh, we can be off." In response to this, Niklos slid his short-swords onto the seat and climbed in, sitting next to the shining blades while Saari bestrode the rear of the vehicle and took hold of the broad rail that wrapped around the back of the sleigh. "We will start back," Saint-Germain said as he signaled his grays to trot.

By the time the care-house was reached, Sankt Piterburkh was alive with whispers and speculation; two secretaries, a translator, and Colonel Broughton were waiting in the main room of the care-house as Saint-Germain and Niklos Aulirios came through the door, the sleigh consigned to Saari's care, to be returned to the Ksiezna's stable behind the Polish house.

Heer van Hoek looked up. "Thank God you're back, and safe."

"And to all the forgotten gods," said Saint-Germain, and felt Ludmilla's eyes upon him from the top of the stairs as he removed his cloak; he noticed that no one from the Polish house was here for news.

"What happened?" van Hoek prompted. "Was it a hard fight?"

"It was no fight at all," said Niklos, getting out of his long coat and removing his Astrakhan-lamb hat. "Janos Czobor came out to inform us that the Clerk of the Foreign Quarter has upheld my claims and has rejected those of Lajos Rakoczi, who, it appears, is missing." He held up his hands to forestall more questions. "That is all we know--any of us. Tomorrow I'll call upon the Clerk and find out whatever I can."

Van Hoek shook his head to express his incredulity. "What an amazing change." He regarded Niklos with an emotion close to awe. "You left facing a duel, and return unscathed and exculpated without having to raise your weapons."

Niklos bowed. "I have been spared two unwanted battles, neither of which I have sought. I am grateful to have been spared. Neither a duel nor a prolonged action in the courts appeals to me, so it's fortunate that this matter has been settled without having either. Yet I am curious about Lajos Rakoczi, and where he might have gone." He was aware of the interest of all the occupants of the care-house, and added, "I have come a long way to set a great wrong to rights, but I am sure that without the good opinion of you and many others, this happy result might not have occurred." He swung around to Saint-Germain. "I would not have known of Rakoczi's claims had you not notified me, Hercegek. I am most appreciative."

Saint-Germain felt the intended, good-natured barb in Niklos' words, but gave no outward sign of it. "We are all gratified that you could come here so hastily, or matters might not have fallen out so well."

Van Hoek signaled to Kyril. "Heat up some wine and put in cinnamon, as the Danes do. It will be a welcome drink for all."

"Most gracious," said Broughton.

"And if there is anything we must discuss, we may do it in good fellowship," said van Hoek, waving toward the two upholstered benches that comprised the seating in the room. "I will not offer hot wine to you, Arco-Tolvay; you do not drink."

"An excellent notion; something hot would be most welcome," Niklos exclaimed, and waited for a moment before adding, "You will have much to discuss, don't you think?"

Colonel Broughton was the first of the four to speak in response to this slight prod. "Whatever else we have to discourse upon, you may be sure it will not be to your discredit: I congratulate you on your deliverance, Grofok."

"Thank you," said Niklos.

"Do you have any information regarding Lajos Rakoczi beyond what we have been told--that he is missing?" Broughton asked as if it were only a passing interest rather than the reason for his visit.

Niklos shrugged. "I'd probably be the last one to have such intelligence to impart, since I doubt I'll be told much beyond what I already know. Talk to Captain Fet of the Guards tomorrow afternoon. He's likely to have news, if there is any, and he will know what he ought to reveal." He started toward the stairs. "I can see you have questions, but I won't be in a position to say anything officially until tomorrow after I go to the Clerk of the Foreign Quarter. Whatever I tell you now is nothing more than speculation."

Broughton scowled. "By tomorrow there will be so many rumors abroad that what you say will make little difference; unless the gossip is quelled with hard facts, it will run riot through the Foreign Quarter. After that happens, the mischief, whatever it may be, will be done, and the truth will be lost in the confusion around it."

Niklos bowed again. "I see we understand each other, Sir Peregrine," and before anyone could stop him, he went up the stairs two at a time to the haven of Saint-Germain's quarters on the second floor.

Gerhardt Pfassbinder, the under-secretary at the Hessian Residence, gave a startled jump at this unexpected dismissal; he turned to Micheau Pastorine, the translator at the Flemish Residence. "What do you make of that?" he exclaimed in German.

"I expect his nerves are overwrought; I know mine would be," said Pastorine in the same language; in his not-quite-four months in Sankt Piterburkh, he had developed a calculated indifference to the unexpected, which at the moment served him well. "Think of what he had been through this morning. You might want to recover yourself were you in his shoes."

"I might want to spend the day with a bottle or two of brandy," said Colonel Broughton, also in German. "And a friendly wench to comfort me--not that there are many of those to be had here, more's the pity."

"They say more women will come in the spring," said Pastorine.

"So they do," agreed Broughton. "But that's no help now. If we were in the army, at least we'd have camp followers."

"This is a most ... Spartan place, for all the court manners and pomp." Pastorine cocked his head. "It isn't what I expected it would be."

Pfassbinder sighed. "Rumors and secrets: the city is filled with rumors and secrets. How am I to sort out what to tell the Resident?"

"Wait a year and you won't have to be bothered with such things," recommended Hugo Weissenkraft, relishing his own cynicism. "Heer Bourgdrei will have spies in this household and a dozen others, just as the rest do. You won't need to deal with these awkward inquiries; you won't have to come here yourself."

"How can you say that?" Pastorine asked, shocked.

Saint-Germain answered before any of the others could speak. "It is the nature of the place. Everyone is new to it, and striving to seize the greatest advantage possible."

Pastorine considered this. "The Czar sees it as a great city even now, when it is little more than an army camp. When I came here, I thought there would be more, and greater buildings, and more people."

"And who is to say it will last? Many people think this whim of his will fade when its many problems overwhelm his plans, or the Swedes recapture it," Weissenkraft remarked. "The Czar may decide he can direct his energies and money elsewhere, and this place will vanish into the marsh."

"Highly unlikely," said Broughton. "This is his pride and joy. I think he would rather lose Moscow than Sankt Piterburkh."

Saint-Germain nodded. "I would agree. This is where he has gathered all his hopes and ambitions, and unless the Czar falls, Sankt Piterburkh will go on." He gave a small bow to the four men. "To morrow we might know more, but today, we are as ignorant as everyone else." With that, he went to the stairs.

"Hercegek," Broughton called out. "If you learn anything tomorrow, will you pledge to inform us all?"

Saint-Germain was on the third step, but he paused. "If it is of anything significant, I will send a note to all of you."

The four men exchanged glances; Hugo Weissenkraft shook his head slowly. "Don't worry about significance; with so many rumors flying, anything will be grist for the mill. Just give us your word that you will pass on anything of interest."

Van Hoek wagged a finger at them. "Be wary of gossip, gentlemen. This city is a hotbed of rumors as it is."

"I will guard my tongue, and suggest that others do the same," said Weissenkraft, adding piously, "That's why I want the information Hercegek Gyor can supply, so that I will be able to quash any outrageous bruiting that I may come across. There are so many untruths about, as you have been told already."

Saint-Germain offered a gentle bow as he continued up the stairs, but stopped as there came an energetic pounding on the door. "What now?" he asked the air, halting once more as Kyril went to discover who was outside; the four visitors clustered around him, eager anticipation in their eyes; van Hoek joined them, not as avidly.

In a moment the door was opened, and Adolphus Gronigen all but fell into the room, his eyes wide in shock, his face pale beneath his hat of fox-fur. "Hercegek! Come! You must come." His dark cloak flapped open where he had neglected in his hurry to lace it. "Please, Hercegek!"

Van Hoek moved aside so that Gronigen would not be completely surrounded. "Come in," he said. "You need help."

Saint-Germain rushed back down the stairs and pushed the visitors aside to reach his coachman. "What has happened, Gronigen?" he asked, noticing that the arm of Gronigen's cloak was stained with blood. "Are you hurt? Have you been attacked?"

"Not I," Gronigen panted. "No. It's Saari." He staggered as if he had been struck a blow.

"Kyril, some brandy, if you would," Saint-Germain ordered, determined to find out what the trouble was.

"At once, Hercegek," said Kyril, pushing his way back toward the stove and opening the chest that contained all their strong drink.

"No. No," said Gronigen, gasping for air. "You must come. Now." He reached behind him for the door. "Now, Hercegek. It's Saari."

"What about Saari?" Saint-Germain asked, sensing that the news would be bad; he gave Gronigen his full attention.

"You must come with me!" Gronigen insisted, his voice going up five notes. "He's ... he's dead."

"Are you sure?" Saint-Germain kept his voice low and steady, but he felt a cold come over him that had nothing to do with ice and snow.

"Yes. Yes. He's dead." Gronigen noticed the other four men as if he had been unaware of them until now. He drew back as if his coat could protect him.

"Calm down," Heer van Hoek recommended. "Tell us what you require. We will be better able to serve you. You say Saari is dead. How did it happen?"

Gronigen took a deep breath. "The sleigh came back to the stable at a fast trot. That troubled me, because Saari was supposed to be leading them--at a walk, of course. In so much snow, the horses shouldn't move too quickly; over-heating is bad for them."

"About Saari," Saint-Germain said, recalling him to his purpose.

"I was going to admonish him about not minding the horses"-- Kyril thrust a mug of brandy into Gronigen's gloved hand--"Thank you." He took a deep sip, coughed once, and went on. "I thought he might have tried to drive them, but he wasn't on the driving-box."

"Do you mean he, too, is missing?" Saint-Germain asked, astonished at such a notion.

"I thought that he might be. So I looked inside the sleigh." He shuddered. "He was on the seat, on his side. His throat was cut and he was nearly dead. I think he realized I was there, because he struggled to talk. He said something like lan or lank or lang, I think; it was hard to hear him. He said it twice, and then ... he died." He drank more brandy. "I took the sleigh to the stable and told Vincenty to unfasten the horses, take off their harness and blankets, and groom them, then I sent Antek to the Guard station and I came for you."

"He must have been attacked almost as the sleigh reached the stable," Saint-Germain said. "If he could speak at all, the cut had to be within--"

"Blood was still running from his wound, but the spouts of it were slowing; they no longer reached the ceiling of the sleigh." Gronigen was shaking again.

Saint-Germain heard the hush around them as ominous. "And Saari--what did you do with him?"

"I left him where I found him. There was so much blood, that even putting my arm on the seat, well, you see--" He lifted his bloody cloak and indicated the stain, like a black blot on the dark-brown canvas. "I couldn't bear to move him, not with so much blood. It was so fresh that it steamed in the cold air." He thrust out his arm for support, and found Saint-Germain beside him, holding him up.

"Finish the brandy--you need it by the look of you--then take me with you. I need to see him before the Guard takes the body." Saint-Germain reached for his cloak and pulled it on. He looked directly at van Hoek. "I do not know how long this will take. I apologize for having to leave you this way."

Van Hoek held out his hand and shook Saint-Germain's. "When you return, tell me what has transpired."

"Do you want to be wakened?" Saint-Germain asked as he pulled the door open and let Gronigen precede him outside.

"Yes. In such a situation as this one, I do. Madame Svarinskaya will be up, of course, and you should inform her, as well. She and I will worry until you return." Van Hoek motioned to the four men. "Come. Have your drink and give yourselves time to talk."

"By which you mean you don't want us to follow the Hercegek and his coachman," said Weissenkraft.

"A good precaution, with the Guards coming," said Colonel Broughton as the door closed.

"You said the stable at the Polish house, did you not?" Saint-Germain set out in the broken snow that marked Gronigen's approach to the care-house. "The sleigh is still there?"

"It should be where I left it," said Gronigen, lengthening his stride to keep pace with Saint-Germain, although Saint-Germain was a hand shorter than he.

"Did you notice if he was warm?"

"I told you I saw steam rising from his blood. I didn't touch him but once, and I couldn't tell through my gloves if he was warm or cold." He almost stumbled as Saint-Germain strode on.

"Did you tell anyone in the Polish house about this?" Saint-Germain asked, keeping up his rapid pace.

"Antek, when I told him to fetch the Guards," said Gronigen. "I would guess he told someone about it before he left the house."

"But you don't know for certain," said Saint-Germain, glancing toward the Guard station at the far end of the road where nothing seemed to be happening. "Do you know that Antek has made his report yet?"

"How could I?" Gronigen sounded rancorous. "I came to get you as soon as I told Antek to inform the Guards."

"That's right," said Saint-Germain as he turned toward the Polish house. "You did," he said grimly as he made for the stable and the sleigh with its appalling contents.

Text of a letter from Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, to Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, written in Krems' code and carried by Salomea to the care-house.

To the man I know as Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor,

Hercegek,

There has been so much scandal attached to you in the last ten days that I fear I must change our arrangement: as soon as is possible I am asking you to leave Sankt Piterburkh. Do not wait for the thaw, but leave as soon as there is a sufficient break in the weather to allow you to travel overland to Hungary; the next arrival of the supply-train should be a good time to leave. If there were some way to nullify the rumors, you might be able to remain, but between the murder of your body-guard and the continuing absence of Lajos Rakoczi, you are too much an object of gossip and speculation that can only lead to problems here.

I have been questioned by Captain Fet of the Sankt Piterburkh Guard, and I am convinced that he believes you have played some role both in the Finn's death and the disappearance of Lajos Rakoczi, and for that matter, my brother agrees with him. I want to think well of you, but there are too many questions being asked, and this cannot continue much longer. You can understand why I have decided that you must depart, for it would be most difficult for my mission to have you unmasked or imprisoned; it would undo all the work I have undertaken here for Poland.

My brother has convinced me that your presence compromises my purposes here, and I find that, regretfully, I must agree with the points he has presented to me. Benedykt has told me that he has heard far too many discreditable things about you to allow you to continue here, for you complicate all my efforts; my brother has assured me that he will be at pains to guard me and support the tasks Stanislas has charged me to accomplish for the benefit of Poland, and to be more attentive to my welfare than he has been since he arrived here. He admits that he has been lax in his duties, but that was because you were so shielding of me that his attentions seemed superfluous. You have done all that you can for me in that capacity now that Benedykt has promised to support me as well as you have done, and better; he and I agree that it would be best for you to leave now, before any more misfortunes befall you.

You have done much good work in Sankt Piterburkh--your departure now will salvage the last of the good opinion you have enjoyed for so many months. If you leave money to endow the care-house for another several months, it is likely that your reputation can, in time, be restored, and the problems of the last several weeks may eventually cease to be spoken of. This would please Stanislas and make my position easier. With Ferenz Ragoczy, Grofok Saint-Germain, still in the city, you could announce your intention to return with him to Hungary, to aid him in regaining his titles and estates. That would also spare me from having to invent an argument to account for your departure and relieve me of the necessity of risking my mission to protect you.

I thank you for the service you have given me and Poland.

In highest regard,

Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko

February 22nd, 1705

12

For five days the winds had howled over the marshes along the River Neva, bringing more snow and a cold so intense that even the wolves kept to their dens, and the deer remained huddled in their thickets, now nothing more than rounded drifts in the snow. Throughout Sankt Piterburkh, the residents took the example of the animals and stayed in their houses and barracks; work-gangs were crowded into half-finished buildings in order to provide them some protection from the savage storm while they continued their labors. By the evening of the fifth day, the winds were dying down at last, and the leaden clouds were beginning to break up.

"They say the English ship, the Dauntless, moored in the mouth of the river has broken apart--crushed by shifting ice," said Hroger in Imperial Latin as he strove to pack the old red-lacquer chest with things they would need on the road.

"The Koenigen Frika may meet the same fate, according to the sailor with the broken leg; all the crew is afraid for their ship," said Saint-Germain, taking stock of the various pots, jars, and vials set out on his trestle-table. "Leave as much of this as you judge we can spare. They will have more need of it here than we will traveling." He was in his burgundy leather riding coat and leather britches, with a warm woolen chemise beneath; his high boots had a turned cuff just below his knee, and he wore a knit-cap on his recently trimmed head.

"The salves and tinctures could be useful," said Hroger, pointing out the ones he thought would be most in demand. "And your sovereign remedy."

"Not that we will benefit from the medicaments," Saint-Germain said calmly.

"The horses might," Hroger observed, selecting rolled lengths of linen. "This old chest, then two for clothes and bedding, and one containing your native earth. That will fill two pack-saddles. We also have the tent we brought from Poland, and the coverings for grain for the horses; the grain can be divided up into sacks and carried on all the saddles, riding and pack. That is the smallest amount that we can take with us from here and be safe."

"Two pack-saddles, then, and shearling blankets for all." Saint-Germain considered. "We have sufficient in the tack and supplies we brought with us."

"For how many horses?" Hroger asked. "Have you worked that out yet?"

"We will need twelve of them, I think," said Saint-Germain. "Three for riding, three for remount, three for packs, and three for reserve."

"That would take most of what is in the Polish stable," said Hroger.

Saint-Germain hesitated, then told him in Frankish, "I have spoken with Zozia, and she has agreed to let us have her pair of Danish Ardennes as pack animals; I have given her my chestnuts in exchange, and the carriage she is so fond of. She is pleased with the arrangement, and that will make our leaving easier, since it will not make it seem that my departure indicates a formal separation from Arco-Tolvay." He indicated his shelf of books. "These will have to stay. There is no way we can take them with us, not traveling as lightly as we must."

"Madame Svarinskaya will be glad of them, and Heer van Hoek," said Hroger with extreme neutrality, his Frankish almost too precise.

"So I hope," said Saint-Germain. "She has been very good to me. So has van Hoek, for that matter."

"How much have you explained to her--to Madame Svarinskaya?" Hroger asked, deliberately bluntly.

"As much as has been needed," he said, a tinge of ruefulness in his admission. "We have lain together only four times. If she wishes to lie with me one more time, she will still be free from the taint of my blood."

"Do you think you should tell her, so she'll understand your nature?" Hroger paused in his sorting to give Saint-Germain his full attention.

"I know it would distress her to learn what I am, and it would cause her much anxiety for no useful reason, fearing that she had been contaminated by my--" He stared at the shuttered window. "It troubles her that I am an alchemist; she would be appalled to learn what else I am."

"Do you think she will lie with you again, at least?" Hroger went on without waiting for Saint-Germain's answer. "We will be on the road a long time, and the blood of game and horses may not be enough to sustain you."

"We have had harder journeys," said Saint-Germain.

"Yes, we have," said Hroger. "But none of them are things to aspire to, are they?"

Saint-Germain gave a single, sad laugh. "No, old friend, they are not." He mused for the greater part of a minute. "Is Niklos expected back shortly?"

"I suppose so," said Hroger. "Captain Fet said he wants only to resolve a few questions about Lajos Rakoczi, though what they might be, I cannot guess." He made a sharp gesture of exasperation. "Why should they have more questions to ask? What more is there to say? The man is gone, and we have no idea where. He has my note and my report, and yours, so what more can he learn from Niklos? And you have assured the Captain that you will call on him shortly."

"It is a bit disturbing that the Guards continue to question him," Saint-Germain said. "How many times can he say that he knows nothing?"

"I hope they will not torture him for answers," said Hroger.

"Fet is more likely to want to torture me than Niklos," said Saint-Germain. "Since I informed ... myself of the problem, I am more suspect in Fet's eyes. If Rakoczi were here, we would probably both be beaten."

"To what purpose? Why should Lajos Rakoczi tell us anything more than what he told everyone else?" Hroger asked.

"Why indeed," Saint-Germain agreed.

"The man was prepared to fight a duel with Niklos," said Hroger. "That makes his posture unfavorable toward Niklos, and you."

"I hope his disappearance does not remain tied to us. The Guards still seem to think we might be connected to his disappearance, although they have only gossip on which to base their suspicions." Saint-Germain gave the clock a quick look, then lifted his head. "If Niklos has not returned within the hour, I will set out for the Guards' station to discover why they continue to hold him for questioning."

"That sounds reasonable." Hroger began to stack those unguents, lotions, tinctures, and salves that would not be necessary on their travels. "Pansy-and-willow-bark: what do you think? Do we leave it or take it?"

"It is helpful against fever and pain. None of the three of us can contract a fever, and our pain cannot be relieved with nostrums, so unless you want some for the horses, we can leave all behind." Saint-Germain looked around the room. "Blankets for us as well as the animals, and it would be wise to seal our boots with goose-grease."

"I'll take care of it," said Hroger. "And I'll arrange for a haunch or two of venison for Niklos and me. The meat has been preserved by being buried in the snow, but he and I will have to eat it quickly, for such meat goes off quite rapidly."

"You two can live on fresh raw meat; sometimes I believe you are more fortunate than I." He pulled his black chamber-robe more tightly around him.

"You need living blood to nourish you; I know." Hroger put down a dozen maps rolled into a long leather tube. "We'll want these, and a compass to keep us aligned."

"So we will." Saint-Germain looked up, and saw Ludmilla standing in the door; immediately he switched from Frankish to Russian. "Ludmilla Borisevna; I am honored to receive you tonight."

"Is it true that you're leaving in the morning?" she asked without prelude.

"I am; Poteshnye Menshikov has ordered it, and while the Czar is away in the Ukraine, strengthening his ties to Mazepa, anticipating another confrontation with Karl and the Swedes, Menshikov has almost unlimited authority here, and we are bound to obey him." Saint-Germain went to her and escorted her into the room. "I regret that I will not be able to continue your lessons."

"Heer van Hoek has said he will try to tutor me as often as he is able," said Ludmilla, a bit distantly; she sat down in Saint-Germain's chair, and patted its upholstered arms. "Will you take this with you?"

"No," said Saint-Germain. "It is yours, if you would like to have it."

She smiled at him. "You are very kind, Hercegek." She turned toward Hroger. "I hope your journey is safe; you will be much-missed here."

"Most gracious of you to say so, Madame Svarinskaya." Hroger continued with his work for a few minutes while Saint-Germain and Ludmilla occupied the time reading through a few pages of one of the books from Eclipse Press that would be left at the care-house; he said, "I have to go fetch the traveling trunk from the Polish house stable. I'll return in half an hour or so." With that he bowed to the two of them and left the room.

"Most accommodating of him," Ludmilla said, her smile quick and broad.

"You shouldn't be surprised that he would do this, since he knows privacy is in short supply here." Saint-Germain bent to kiss her, relishing the mollescence of her lips.

"This care-house or Sankt Piterburkh?" she asked as lightly as she could.

His answer was utterly sincere. "It is hard to take my leave of you, Ludmilla Borisevna." He touched her face with a kind of reverence.

There was a sadness in her eyes as she moved away from him. "Hroger will return in a short while. There isn't enough time for us to take our pleasure of one another, and almost everyone in the house is awake. This is too risky."

He nodded. "It is. But it may be the last chance we have, if you are willing to share your passion with me one last time."

"Then tonight, when I've done my first rounds, I'll come to you." Her face shone with anticipation and she reached out to touch his hand. "You have such beautiful hands. I never thought much about the beauty of hands until I met you, but now I think you have--" She picked up his hand and brought it to her lips. "You've given me much joy. I'll never forget it." Silently she began to weep.

He reached for his handkerchief and gave it to her. "You need not cry on my account," he said gently.

"I'm not," she said, and sniffed. "I'm crying on mine."

Saint-Germain half-sat on the arm of the chair, and drew her close to him. "Tonight I will do all I can to ease your grief."

"And make it that much sharper when you are gone," she said with a mournful attempt at a laugh. "But I'll be glad of your attentions and all that you may give me; everything you have offered me thus far has gratified me in many ways. You have done more to bring me pleasure than any man I have ever known, and I will treasure having known you until I'm an old woman, sitting by the fire, toothless and dreaming." She shook herself, and continued more brightly, "My family is quite long-lived. I may reach sixty-five, or seventy; my father is sixty-one and still hale. I'll have many years to remember you and all you have done for me."

"Do you think you will ever return to your father's house?" Saint-Germain asked.

"Why do you ask?" She studied him with sharpened interest.

"It is my curiosity: I return to my father's lands, from time to time, though my father is long dead." His father had died more than thirty-seven centuries ago, but he kept this last to himself. "There is a closeness to my native earth; I thought you might feel something similar."

"It's my father's land, not mine, and his house," she said with a touch of acerbity.

"And you do not think it will ever be yours," he said, understanding her response.

"I have brothers, and I'm still married, little as Daniela seems to remember it." She shrugged. "This will become my native earth, this care-house, and its legacy will be my legacy." Her eyes grew keener. "That is my reason for caring for the men who come here, to have a legacy of some value. Van Hoek has been engaged by the Czar and promised a school where he may teach anatomy; it will be built within the decade, according to Piotyr Alexeievich's plan, so it suits him to care for these men, in that it keeps the Czar mindful of his promise while building a reputation in this city. But why do you bother with these patients? What does it benefit you?"

He contemplated her questions, and finally said, "When I was much younger than I am now, I cared little for the suffering of others, and rarely extended myself on any account but my own." He had a miserable memory of an ancient battlefield through which he moved, seeking for those few living men on whom he might slake his thirst; his captors had considered him a demon, and feared him more than they dreaded their enemies. "In time I realized that every time I ignored the misery of others--particularly if it was misery I could alleviate but did not--that I ... died a little. So when I care for patients here, or anywhere; when I extend my hand to those in need, I do it as much for myself as for them. It restores my humanity."

"And what we have done together, what does that do?"

This time he took longer to answer. "When we have lain together, something more than our skins have touched. It is that other touching that makes the loneliness bearable." He touched her shoulder. "So you see, the joy you say I have given you, I have experienced through you--it is the greatest gift I can know."

"Then I am doubly glad you have come to this house." With a sudden movement, she moved away from him and rose to her feet. "And speaking of this house, I have duties that need my attention."

"You need not leave if you would rather not," he said.

She gave him back his handkerchief. "I'll come around midnight, for our farewell, when the chances of interruption are fewer than they are now. You have much to do, and so do I."

He rose and offered her a bow. "You are an excellent woman, Ludmilla Svarinskaya. You deserve the high opinion of all Sankt Piterburkh."

"In your eyes, perhaps." She turned to leave, but hesitated. "You will be remaining here or going out this afternoon?"

"I am planning to go to the Guard Station of the Foreign Quarter in a while. Grofok Saint-Germain is there, and I have to inform Captain Fet of the hour of our departure tomorrow, if the weather remains clear, of course. I have to present my disposition of goods, for the Archive."

"It will remain clear," she said with complete certainty. "And it should stay clear for three days. That is the pattern here, according to the Karelians, and they should know this place best." She opened the door. "Until midnight, Hercegek."

"Until tonight, Madame," he responded as she left the room; he heard her descend the stairs, and felt relieved that he had told her as much as he did. He spent the next ten minutes finishing packing the red-lacquer chest, then he went to his trestle-table and opened the drawer that held his paper and writing implements; he selected a quill, trimmed it, sanded a sheet of paper, and started to write. When he was through, he went to his strong-box and counted out eighty gold Emperors and thirty silver Angels, all of which he put into a leather pouch, then tied it closed and slipped it into his large pocket. He went out of his quarters and down the stairs, pausing to take his wolf-skin cloak off its peg before he left the care-house.

"Is there anything I can do to help you, Hercegek?" Kyril asked as he came up to Saint-Germain.

"I am going to the Guard Station for the Foreign Quarter to fetch Grofok Saint-Germain," he said. "I also have a letter to deliver concerning the disposition of the goods we will leave behind, and a year's endowment for the care-house."

"That will please Heer van Hoek and Ludmilla Borisevna greatly," said Kyril, taking a step back from him. "When will you return?"

"An hour at most, I would expect," said Saint-Germain.

"And you will leave tomorrow?" His voice was unusually emotional. "The patients here will be sorry to see you go."

"We must be gone before sunrise. Menshikov wants us on our way by eight o'clock." He watched him, his dark eyes enigmatic. "I am sorry to have to leave, but--"

"If Menshikov says it, it is the same as the Czar saying it; you have to depart." As if this was all he could bring himself to express, Kyril stepped back from the door, making way for Saint-Germain to step out into the cold, cold night. The street was so swaddled in snow its location was apparent only by the houses that lined it; as Saint-Germain made his way toward the Guard Station, he looked up at the tattered clouds sailing under a starry sky, and thought of the orders for the morning. Low-lying fog was gathering on the ice-bound Neva, and the first of its tendrils was slipping into the city, snaking among the buildings, and concealing more than the snow did, although it rose only to waist-height, no more than two hands above the snow; Saint-Germain was more careful walking, unable to make out hidden dangers beneath the mist and drifts. He was half-way to the Guard Station when he became aware of someone behind him. Knowing it was folly to try to run in thigh-deep snow, he stopped and turned. "Who's there?"

"It's Hroger, my master," came the answer in Visigothic Spanish. "I'm going back to the care-house. I saw you and decided to have a word with you--privately, where no one will overhear us."

"For what reason?" Saint-Germain asked; he knew Hroger well enough to intuit that it was something that could prove difficult for them both.

Hroger pointed to a dark object lying in the snow. "The traveling trunk. When I went to get it from the stable, the Ksiezna's brother saw me and pulled me aside at the rear of the house."

"Why would he do that?" Saint-Germain asked, as much to himself as to Hroger.

Hroger gave a derisive snort. "He was not cordial in his manner, but instead took a tone that I would suppose he is inclined to use with inferiors and enemies. He accused you of having ordered Lajos Rakoczi killed, and of arranging to have the murder concealed, for which crime Stanislas of Poland would consent with the Czar in your execution, should your crime ever be revealed. He told me that if you contradicted any of this, he would accuse you publicly of all your malefactions." He waded back toward the trunk. "He has this warning for you: if you wish to avoid scandal and disgrace, you are to leave as you have been ordered to do, and not return. If you decide to come back to Sankt Piterburkh while the Ksiezna is still in the city, he will denounce you as an impostor and an abuser of his sister." He hefted the trunk and stared back toward the Polish house. "He said that your life would be forfeit if you returned."

"Another of his threats," said Saint-Germain, startled that Benedykt was being so persistent. "What will he do, I wonder, if the real Arpad Arco-Tolvay should return? Then it is the brother who would be in a most awkward position."

"So would his sister be," said Hroger. "I'll see this is packed and readied for the morning; don't worry: I'll say nothing about any of this to anyone, not even Niklos." He stepped into Saint-Germain's tracks in the snow. "You'll bring Niklos back with you from the Guard Station?"

"That is my intention. Thank you for your discretion."

"I've been wondering why Benedykt chose me to bear the message instead of addressing you himself," said Hroger, continuing on in the rutted snow.

"He probably wanted to frighten you as much as he wants to frighten me." Saint-Germain offered a half-bow to Hroger. "Is it possible that Benedykt bribed Lajos Rakoczi to leave as a way to force me to go, or is that too extreme?" He did not expect an answer. "Fet is waiting," he remarked; he watched Hroger lug the chest back toward the care-house, lingering until Hroger knocked on the door before he resumed his walk to the Guard Station, all the while puzzling on what Hroger had told him. As he reached the Guard Station, he saw the station door flung open and heard one of the Guards shout to him to hurry out of the cold.

"Captain Fet will see you, along with Grofok Saint-Germain, to conclude the questioning that must be done." The Guard was a young man, not more than twenty, and he had a high opinion of his own importance, which he showed in the very slight bow he offered to Saint-Germain as he stepped over the threshold into the main room of the station. "Hercegek Gyor. Captain Fet is expecting you. The second door on the left."

"Thank you," said Saint-Germain as he removed his cloak and straightened his simple neck-bands. He found Captain Fet behind a square writing-table with two oil-lamps burning on it, casting their yellow light on the stack of papers laid out before him. His uniform was a bit untidy, but his posture was imposing; he looked up as Saint-Germain came into the room. "Captain," he said, making an elegant bow. "May God send you good evening."

"Amen to that," said Fet, and nodded to Niklos, who sat in a chair against the wall, very refined in black velvet and white silk. "Grofok Saint-Germain and I were just reviewing the terms of his recognition of claims along with his permit of residency, which expires in the morning." He gave Saint-Germain a piercing look.

"As does my own," said Saint-Germain. "I've come to deliver an official letter to you concerning my belongings." He reached into the pocket of his elk-leather coat and brought out the letter he had written less than an hour ago. "This details my wishes and records the various arrangements that Ksiezna Nisko and I have arrived upon regarding horses and furniture." He handed the letter to Fet. "You will need to present this to Jeremye Kristostomovich Belayov for the Archive of the Foreign Quarter. I have made a copy of it, which is at the care-house. I will entrust it to Heer van Hoek, to ensure that it is honored."

"Do you mean that you believe your letter would be altered?" Fet demanded, greatly offended. "Hercegek, you have no cause to make such an accusation."

"No; but I know how easily how such items may be lost. This way, if the letter is mislaid, its contents may still be known." Saint-Germain inclined his head and waited for half a minute while Fet made up his mind whether to continue to be outraged or to accept Saint-Germain's assurance. "I rely upon you to attend to this for me." And saying that, he dropped two gold Emperors on Fet's writing-table.

Fet stared at the coins, then quickly snatched them up. "Of course; I will attend to it as soon as I have been informed that you have left Sankt Piterburkh."

"Most gracious," Saint-Germain murmured. "Now, if there is nothing more, the Grofok and I have much to do before tomorrow morning. If you would be kind enough to permit us to take our leave of you?"

"There is one more thing," said Fet with a self-effacing half-bow. "If you wouldn't mind clearing up another few matters."

Saint-Germain concealed his niggle of alarm. "What do you want to know?"

"It's the death of the former Watchman--Yrjo Saari? He worked for you, didn't he?" Fet shifted his papers on the writing-table. "The report here says that you have been supporting him since he was injured."

"That is correct. I was very much shocked at his murder." He paused, thinking back to the sight of his body. "It was a vicious killing."

"A vicious killing," Fet repeated. "One committed in a ruthless fashion. The Ksiaze Radom has declared that it was the work of a mad-man."

"I would not disagree with my wife's brother, but if the killer were a mad-man, he would have to be a very subtle one, who planned Saari's death down to the minute." Saint-Germain thought for a few seconds, then said, "Consider how little time the killer had to act: the Grofok and I had entered the care-house and dispatched Saari with the sleigh. Whoever attacked him had to do it in those ten minutes between the time the Grofok and I alighted, and the time the sleigh went into the stable. All without being seen by anyone but Saari. The killer must have been known to Saari, because there was no sign of a struggle, nor did Saari attempt to escape his murderer."

"You have given this much thought," said Fet, a look of concentration coming over his countenance.

"Certainly; Saari was in my employ and he was killed while looking after my property. I am obliged to try to bring his killer to justice." This was an explanation the Russian would want to comprehend. "At the least I need to acquaint myself with the details of the crime."

"Why would you do such a thing, Hercegek? You won't be here if we apprehend the man who killed him." Fet waved his hand over the papers on his table as if to cause them to vanish. "You won't have to deal with his murderer, and you've already paid for Saari to be buried after the thaw. All the rest is to be left to us."

Once again Saint-Germain took a little time to respond. "What else do you need to know from me, then, Captain Fet?"

"Your coachman, Gronigen? The man who found him? Might he not also have killed him, and then reported that he discovered the dead man?" He proposed this theory with the assertion of one convinced of its correctness.

"Gronigen had one patch of blood on his cloak; had he been the killer, he would have been awash in it. All you have to do is look at the interior of the sleigh to see that the killer must have been soaked in it." He contemplated Fet. "There was no blood on Gronigen's face, either."

"But is this proof that he is innocent?" Fet asked. "Ksiaze Radom was most convincing when he proposed Gronigen as the killer."

"No doubt," said Saint-Germain drily. "If he can explain how one man may cut another man's throat in an enclosed vehicle and have only one patch of blood on him, I would like to hear it."

Fet nodded slowly. "Well, it bears investigation." He pressed his lips together, clearly pondering what Saint-Germain had said. "Were Ksiaze Radom and the coachman Gronigen Russians, they would be tortured to discover the truth, but as they are not--"

"Tortured? Accused and accuser?" Niklos asked, knowing the answer.

"Yes, of course. How else can you determine if the accusation is a valid one?" He rose. "I will not keep you, Hercegek, or the Grofok. May you have a safe, swift journey."

Niklos joined Saint-Germain in front of Fet's writing-table. "Thank you, Captain Fet."

"Go away. Leave by eight o'clock tomorrow." He nodded a little bow. "Good-bye."

Saint-Germain returned the bow and left the room, Niklos on his heels. No one stopped them when they donned their cloaks, and no one kept them from leaving the Guard Station. They walked as quickly as the deep snow would allow, saying nothing, bound for the care-house.

Not far from their goal, Saint-Germain stopped, turned, and looked back at Sankt Piterburkh; with the mist masking the snow, the buildings and walls appeared to float on a layer of clouds, a vision or a dream. "It looks unreal, does it not?" he said to Niklos.

"A fantasy, at the least," said Niklos. "Like that Russian story Kyril was telling two nights ago--the one about the invisible city that can only be seen on certain nights when it rises out of a lake."

"Kitezh," said Saint-Germain. "Yes, you are right--it is like Kitezh." Then he turned around and resumed his walk back to the care-house, and his last night with Ludmilla.

Text of a letter from Piotyr Alexeievich Romanov, written in Dutch and sent by Royal Courier through Klaus Demetrius Krems to the man calling himself Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, and delivered three months after it was written.

To the man known as Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, the greetings of Piotyr Alexeievich Romanov, Czar of all the Russias.

Min Heer Hercegek, whoever you may be,

I am sorry I did not have the pleasure of seeing you before you departed Sankt Piterburkh, but circumstances have kept me away from my wonderful new city, and they continue to engage my time and efforts. I would have liked the opportunity to thank you for what you have done to benefit all those living in Sankt Piterburkh, for I have received most praiseworthy accounts of you from my man at the care-house, Kyril Yureivich Bolkov, who has described all you have done to assist Heer van Hoek in his work, and to ease the burdens taken on by Ludmilla Borisevna Svarinskaya. As much as it would give me pleasure to honor you more publicly, this must be the sum of the expression of my gratitude.

I wish I had learned who you are, but that, too, will be denied me. I know you are not Arpad Arco-Tolvay, for in my tour of Europe, I happened to meet him once, in a brothel in Saxony. The man was then suffering from a degenerative condition of the genitals, and the owner of the brothel would not allow him to take his pleasure with any of the women in the house, which displeased him greatly. He was a tall man, though not nearly as tall as I am, of a mercurial temperament and a sickly disposition. When I was first informed that he would accompany his wife to my city, I was shocked that Augustus would do such an ill-considered thing. As soon as I met you, I realized that Augustus had arranged for a substitute for Hercegek Gyor, and aside from the general impropriety of his act, I applauded his decision to find a way to engage the Ksiezna's many skills without having to create a potential disgrace through her reprobate husband. Still, it would please me to know your identity.

There is something I must ask you in regard to your mission here: do not ever speak of it. If you can, forget it happened, and that you were ever here. Do not reveal your knowledge of this place, or any of its inhabitants, particularly those of the Foreign Quarter. If your impersonation is to be truly successful, it must continue unchallenged and undoubted, which means there must never be the slightest whisper that you are not who you claimed to be. You have done much to ease the Ksiezna's duties; in fact, your support of her was greater and more successful than the efforts of her brother, who is determined to show that his capacity for diplomacy is greater than hers, and at every step reveals that he is the one who is incapable of true diplomacy. By remaining in her shadow, and by not interfering in her negotiations, you were far more useful to her than the Ksiaze has proven to be.

I will assume that I will not see you again, and so this will serve as a farewell between us. May you have many rewards for all you have done for Poland, since it is obvious that you are not Polish yourself. I am willing to believe you are Hungarian, one of the older blood-lines, but Hungary will not thank you for aiding Poland in Russia, and Stanislas may not wish to honor the works of Augustus. May my thanks content you.

In deepest appreciation,

Piotyr Alexeievich Romanov

shipwright and Czar

March 24th, 1705

EPILOGUE

Text of a letter from Niklos Aulirios near Orleans, France, to Francesco Saint-Germain Ragoczy at Lecco on Lake Como, written in first-century Greek and carried by private messenger.

From Niklos Aulirios to Saint-Germain, greetings, on this, the 19th day of October, 1711.

My dear Conte,

A most unusual encounter occurred two weeks ago while I was in Paris, and after weighing the matter for six days, I have decided to tell you about it: I had gone to Paris to settle the last of my inheritance claims, and while I was there, I encountered Colonel Broughton, who has been back from Russia for six months or so, and is about to be posted to Boston in North America come April. He is thicker of body, his skin is more florid, and his hair is going gray, but he is otherwise the same man as you introduced to me in Sankt Piterburkh; he told me that he came to Paris to have a little of the pleasures of civilization before he was once again condemned to the wilderness; he will be in Paris for a month, then he will return to England to begin his preparation for Boston. He accepted my explanation of traveling incognito, and we spent an interesting evening at the Hotel de Ville, where he lost a large amount of money and drank a prodigious quantity of Champagne.

Among the many things he imparted in his rambling discourse, he informed me that the Ksiezna ordered Gronigen back to Germany in April after you and I left, and he set sail on the first boat with Prussian ports of call. A good number of the residents of the Foreign Quarter had come to believe that he was Saari's killer, possibly the murderer of Lajos Ragoczi, as well, who remains missing, and she wanted to spare him the Russian version of justice. No one else other than you, Rogerian, and I has ever been questioned in regard to the crime. Ksiaze Radom has been at pains to say it is his conviction that Gronigen is guilty, and because of his assertions, Captain Fet has endorsed his position.

Ksiaze Radom has also taken over most of his sister's duties for Poland; the rumor is that he has taken to whoring out his sister to those diplomats who have no women to satisfy their fleshly needs; he has charged her with choosing only the most powerful and well-established lovers, who are in a position to do Poland a great deal of good; at the time when Broughton left, he had arranged for his sister to entertain Alexander Menshikov, since his family has not yet moved to Sankt Piterburkh. The Ksiezna has complied with her brother's orders, but it is rumored that she has become somewhat more volatile than she was when you and she arrived in Sankt Piterburkh. I was shocked but not surprised to learn of what he has required of her, being that he is the kind of man who tends to value women according to what lies between their legs.

When I asked him about the care-house, he said it was now situated in quite a large building. There are more than ninety beds in it, a surgery-room, a pharmatical preparations room, its own steam-bath, and a staff of ten. Broughton told me that two years ago, when the Czar had dissolved Ludmilla Borisevna Svarinskaya's marriage and Heer van Hoek received notification that his wife had died, that the two married, and pledged to continue caring for the sick and injured of the city. The Czar is still promising a school of anatomy to van Hoek, and has ordered a number of major civic buildings to be constructed, including two large schools, one of which is supposed to be the anatomy school promised to Heer van Hoek and his Russian wife.

From what he described to me, you and I would not recognize Sankt Piterburkh today, had we permission to go there. Broughton tells me that there are over five hundred Europeans in the Foreign Quarter, that the harbor has been dredged and protected, permanent docks are built. The Russian part of the city now boasts six hundred houses and nineteen barracks. Work-gangs have tents in summer and barracks in winter, and there are more than eighty thousand of them. The embankments, which were lined with wood, are now being lined with stone; the streets are paved, at least the main ones. Draining of the marshes has progressed to beyond a ninth levee, and gravel and soil have been brought to fill in the drained parts. There are more than twenty stone buildings in the city--in fact, the Czar has forbidden building with stone anywhere else in Russia until his city is finished.

Mungo Laurie has been able to bring his wife to the city and has been promoted, along with Harald Nyland, Graf Horens, to the position of harbor-master. There is a new Prussian Resident, one Helmut Kowenwald, Herzog von Luftensee, a very efficient man. The Dutch have more men in the city, and there is even a troupe of Italian musicians to entertain at celebrations, and a family of Italian architects is expected in the spring. Thomas Bethune has been sent back to England to care for his ailing wife. Those are all the names I remember, yet they seem sufficient.

Ever since his victory at Poltava, the Czar has redoubled his efforts to complete his city. Now that Sweden is all but defeated, Piotyr is concentrating on making Sankt Piterburkh as fine a city as any in Europe. He, himself, continues to occupy his four-room wooden house, but he entertains in Menshikov's new stone house, and occasionally spends his evenings at the Four Frigates, which is now two stories tall and has twelve rooms. He enjoys the company of seafaring men, and prefers easy company to formal Court occasions. Marfa Skavronskaya has more of a taste for grand entertainment, and has been known to join with the Prussians to hold a grand fete. Broughton says that winter supplies remain a problem, but the Czar now has three resupply-trains sent in November, January, and March, and has hired a clan of hunters to remain in the distant woods to hunt game and bring it to the city.

Of course Broughton asked after you, as Arpad Arco-Tolvay, and I said we had not been in contact for some time. I assumed you were still in Hungary, but I could tell him nothing more. He asked that the next time I wrote to you that I should include his good wishes to you. I suspect he is embarrassed for you because of how the Ksiezna is behaving, although he said nothing specific to make me think so.

How is the new house at Lecco coming? The sketches Rogerian sent me are very handsome. I think Olivia would like the new design with its columns like those of Roma, and the long loggia facing the lake. Perhaps one day--some decades from now--you and I will meet there and recall our other meetings over the centuries.

Until then

I remain your grateful comrade,

Niklos Aulirios

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