A Dangerous Climate (34 page)

Read A Dangerous Climate Online

Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

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

BOOK: A Dangerous Climate
4.18Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

 

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."

Other books

Buddy by M.H. Herlong
Dreaming a Reality by Lisa M. Cronkhite
The Supernaturals by David L. Golemon
The Baby by Lisa Drakeford
Revue by K.M. Golland
.5 To Have and To Code by Debora Geary