"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."
