Yvgenie (19 page)

‘
No,
’
Yvgenie Pavlovitch whispered, with his eyes shut, looking, Pyetr thought, very young, and very handsome, and very rich in his gold collar and his red silk shirt—which meant at least the opportunity to grow up a scoundrel, Pyetr knew it from his own youthful associations.

But a very ill and almost dead young scoundrel, for all
that
, and for the first time Pye
tr found himself seriously wond
ering whether he might have been too rough with what might
after
all be an innocent boy. He listened to Sasha's mumbling
over
the lad, heard the breath rattling in the boy's chest in a most disturbing congestion, and truly, he did want the boy lo live—

And be on his way to Kiev or wherever, without having
th
e least to do with his daughter.

But Ilyana
had already seen him, and the mouse was inevitably curious and mos
t damnably, reprehensibly stubb
orn—which first trait was his and the latter one she had
g
otten fairly from both sides. Present the mouse a mystery,
te
ll her no, and absolutely there was no stopping her.

And might this boy be, h
e wondered distractedly, the an
swer they had wished for, to win Ilyana's heart away from
a
most dangerous ghost?

Or might he be (as he most acutely feared) Chernevog's chosen way back from the grave?

Why should Sasha's house burn, except to keep Sasha busy while wishes came unhinged and this boy found his way to Ilyana's heart? Lightning had burned Chernevog's house to its foundations, and one could never say Kavi Chernevog lacked a sense of humor, even in his darker moments.

Their own looming shadows did occasional battle with clouds of steam, jumped as Sasha worked, with a good deal of muttering and an occasional puff of pungent smoke from the fire, firelight glistening gold on his frowning face. Sasha did not look happy, no; and the thought gnawed him the while Sasha did whatever he was doing, that somewhere in the outcome of this night, he might well be losing Ilyana from his life—not, he prayed the god, in the direction of Kavi Chernevog; but at least in her growing up and away from him, now that this boy had come into the question—this Yvgenie Pavlovitch, who, by that silk and gold he wore, might make his daughter very unhappy.

He prayed if there
was
a rich father and a palace somewhere involved, that neither should ever involve his daughter, who could have no patience for the scoundrels who went thick as flies about such places—and a young man who lived in such places could not help but entertain scoundrels among his associates, even granted his own impeccable good character.

—No, surely this can't be our answer. This
can't
be the boy our mouse will marry. He's something altogether other— thoroughly dead, by the look of him. Damned if it isn't Chernevog! Damn, damn, and damn the scoundrel!

He paced. He watched. He asked Sasha quietly, coming to lean over his shoulder, against one of the posts that held the roof:
‘
If he is a boy, do you think you possibly wished him up? Or did the mouse?''

‘
I truly don't know,
’
Sasha said, moping sweat from his
face.
‘
I can say he's stronger now than he was, but whether that's good or bad for Yvgenie Pavlovitch I honestly don't know.''

He did not like the sound of that at all. He muttered,
‘
Where's Chernevog's heart right now, that's what I'd like to know.
’

And Sasha said:
‘
I can't answer that. I do think we should take a very quick bath, get the mouse inside, and wish her a sound sleep tonight.
’

Yvgenie lay listening, watching sometimes from slitted eyes while water splashed and the wizard and the fair-haired man washed and talked in low voices that rang strangely through his ears. The heat made him dizzy. They spoke names that stirred no memory in him. He thought, What's my father's name? Pavel, of course. But what's the rest of it? What am I doing here and what do they want from me?

He stole glances at Pyetr, whose features recalled so strongly the girl who had rescued him—who had rescued him and held him when the river had tried to drag him away—she had protested, he remembered her voice, clear above the rain and the rush of water, Papa, please, not head down like that, he'll have a headache
—

He had thought so too—but he had been too far gone to protest being slung over a horse's back like a bale of rags. And he was sure on those grounds he ought not to like or trust this Pyetr, but his heart wanted to—he desperately wanted Pyetr to trust him, and not to frown at him and wish him dead, and most of all, please the god, to stand between him and Sasha the wizard—who might have helped him so far; but whose ultimate intentions he dreaded more than he dreaded Pyetr's scowls.

What wil
l
he want of me? he wondered, recalling (so he did remember some things) an old woman saying that wizards drank from dead men's skulls and stirred their potions with children's finger-bones; wizards bargained very sharply, wizards could bind people helplessly to do their bidding,
most probably lost young men who came into their debt, souls who became birds at night and flitted about the woods looking for their suppers.

Their shadows and their footsteps came toward him, making a cool space in the heat from the fire. He kept his eyes shut, while his heart pounded, trying not to let them know he felt the hand that rested first on his brow, and lightly then against his cheek and his shoulder.

‘
Rest easy,'' the wizard said, and it would have been very easy to slip right down then—they tried to take even his fear away, and that was the last defense he had. He fought that urge, held on to his doubts, and after a moment their shadows went away and left him in the light and the breathless heat. The door opened and closed with a single gust of chill from that direction, after which he dared open his eyes and look up at the shadows shifting among the rafters. He was at the first breath relieved that they had gone, and then not glad at all: he began to have the most terrible conviction that not everyone who had been with them had left the bathhouse, that there was someone standing just out of sight in the shadows behind the fire.

Perhaps Pyetr had stayed—perhaps they had only been trying to trick him into opening his eyes. But it did not feel at all like Pyetr's shadow—it had no feeling of a man at all. Perhaps he should call out to the wizard and his friend before they got too far to hear and beg their help—but like a child in the dark, he dreaded to cry out, first for fear they might not believe him, and might desert him here with an angrier, more wakeful spirit—and then for fear he had already hesitated too long. They were surely out of hearing now.

It might be a bannik—surely that was it: he was in a bathhouse, after all, a wizard's bathhouse, to boot, and an Old Man of the Bath was not necessarily a hostile or a baneful creature to strangers, just peevish and difficult and probably wondering what he was doing here, a prisoner in its domain.

He thought desperately—that if he could just gather the little strength that had come back to him, he would gladly
oblige the bannik and make a fast run for the door, escape
across the yard to the horses, wherever they were. He might
ride out of this place, and reach—

But he had no idea where he had been going. Not home.
Not back to his father, never, never—

A log fell, making his heart jump, with whatever-it-was creeping closer and closer.
He felt
it on his right, he felt it almost on him, and he leapt f
or his feet in a tangle of wet t
owels—fell and scrambled on his knees toward the door. He pushed it and pulled it and it no more than rattled to his efforts while the presence loomed over him. He flung himself around with his shoulders pressed to the door, his senses reeling with the heat and the light. The shadows of beams and posts and rafters gyrated in a gust of wind from the smoke hole.

Whatever-it-was cast no shadow itself, but he felt its chill between him and the fire. He reached back and gripped the solid wood of a beam, hauled himself up sitting against the door and waited for it.

A bannik? A Bath-thing, in a bad mood? They had long, long fingernails that they u
sed when they were angry—always—
from behind you. He knew that from somewhere—they would always come at you from behind.

Which this one could not do, while he had his back against (he door—so long as he could keep his eyes open, and keep
fr
om fainting in the heat.

H
ot tea and blankets. Ilyana had never been so sore or so
ti
red in her life. There were scratches all over her arms, her
f
ather and her uncle had had their baths, but that had only helped the mud and the soot: they both had deep burns and scratches she wanted
well,
dammit, right now: it was the one point on which her thoughts were not scattering tonight, and she wanted that fixed.

‘
Thank you, mouse,
’
her uncle said, with that strange, distant feeling he had had since he started talking to her
again
, and she did not know how to fix that. She only nodded
unhappily, having her mouth full, and wondered if her uncle was finally angry at her—not fair, if that was the case, though she had deserved it a hundred times before this, and supposed it was due on other accounts. Or on the other hand her uncle might be upset about the fire and just not trusting himself close to people. She did not want him to be upset, please the god: her mother being upset was enough to be wrong with the world. She
needed
her uncle to have his wits about him, please.

‘
Thank you for that, too, mouse—and, no, it's quite all right. There's just enough gone on today, and I'm very tired. Nothing's your fault.
’

‘
Everything's my fault. I didn't need to go after Patches, I could have wished her out, if—
’

‘
None of us had choices,
’
her uncle said.
‘
That's why I tell you don't ever wish for generalities. You didn't chance to wish up a young man, did you?
’

Her face went hot.
‘
Certainly not to drown one!
’

‘
Of course not,
’
uncle said.
‘
But if he
is
an ordinary young man, you above all mustn't make wishes about or at him. It wouldn't at all be fair.
’

‘
I want him to get well!''

‘
Of course you do.
’
Her father, next to her on the bench, poured Babi's waiting mouth a dash of vodka, poured his own cup, and then poured a large dose into her tea. She had just taken another bite meanwhile, and she needed a drink even to protest her father's recklessness. She washed down her mouthful of bread with a gulp of the only liquid she had and gasped, her eyes watering.

‘
Father! That's more than I've
ever
had!
’

‘
This once,'' her father said.

She took a more cautious sip. It was strong, but she could taste the tea this time, and the fumy vodka eased her throat and her eyes the way the tea had not. She sipped it slowly, thinking how her mother would say, Pyetr! Don't give her that much. But her mother was not here. Her father had the only say-so, and his rules were not so strict, about anything
.
The whole world seemed wider and more dangerous, with her father in charge, and he was treating her like a grownup.

Her uncle said,
‘
I think we should get some rest while we can. Our friend's asleep out there. I've seen to that.
’

‘
Sounds like a good idea,
’
her father said.
‘
Ilyana, your uncle's put the old tub in your bedroom; I'm afraid the bathhouse is rather well taken tonight.''

‘
I don't know why you can't bring him up here tonight. The kitchen's more comfortable than the bathhouse. What if he needs help?
’

‘
Your uncle's already sleeping here, remember? He's having to share a bed with me tonight, and I'm certainly not having any stranger bedded down next to the kitchen cutlery.
’

‘
He doesn't dress like a bandit. I think his father must be
a
boyar at least.
’

‘
That's no recommendation. I've dealt with boyars' sons,
an
d there's not a one I'd trust outside your door.''