"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."
