"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.
