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Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Tags: #Fiction, #Horror, #Fantasy, #Historical, #Dark Fantasy

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BOOK: A Dangerous Climate
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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
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