A Dangerous Climate by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page B

for all that some of the servants may complain of service in this place." Colonel Sir James Peregrine Ambrose Mordecai Broughton accepted another large glass of the German white wine, tasting it carefully, then nodding his acceptance. "Still, even with complaints, it saves having to hire and train Russians, so I can understand why the Czar allows it. His purpose is building, not catering to outlanders. They want as many of their men in the work-crews as possible, and this way, he gets what he wants."
     
"It also means that the treasury doesn't have to pay servants' wages," Saint-Germain remarked. "That will surely please the Czar."
     
"They're mean that way, you know, small and niggardly." He realized he had been overheard by one of Menshikov's companions, and so made an effort to undo any offense he might give. "I will say this for the Russians--they have lavish hospitality. There is so much food and drink at their feasts that it's all quite Lucullan." Satisfied that this would restore him to Russian good graces, he went on more quietly, "Sometimes I think their hospitality is almost too lavish. They want one to eat to bursting, and the other night I drank so much of their vodka--amazing stuff!--that I almost had to go home in a wheelbarrow. I don't know how they manage to sluice it down night after night as they do. I would be overwhelmed completely on such a regimen as they keep."
     
"They say it fortifies them," Saint-Germain pointed out.
     
"In winter, they probably need it." The Colonel studied Saint-Germain. "I've heard that since your attacks, you've been abstemious. You don't look like you're starving, but you'll have to be willing to gorge yourself if you're to be a guest of any of the Russians."
     
"I'll keep that in mind."
     
"Have you had any recent requests from the Czar?" He asked this a bit too casually.
     
"When I arrived there was a missive from him waiting: the Czar is interested in adding some Hungarian broodmares to his breeding stock. I have sent an answer to him saying that in spring, I will see he has a dozen of the best from my estates. Other than that, nothing." He had already dispatched one of his messengers with this request, hoping that the mares could reach Kiev before winter closed in.
     
"I, like you, have a request from Piotyr to send home to England--he wants trees now, a great many trees. He barely has any streets, only a few houses are up and finished, and he has decided to plant trees." He made an exasperated gesture. "He wants them hardy and handsome. When the Duke of Gloucester returns, she's supposed to bring forty tubs of trees, and she's not the only ship to receive such orders. The Duke of Gloucester sailed today and should be back before the ice forms. If not, the Czar will have to wait until spring for his trees." Broughton stared up at the pale night sky. "It's quite eerie, isn't it? That color that says night is coming, but it never actually arrives."
     
"It will not last forever," Saint-Germain told him. "In another month the light will be fading again, and we'll have a proper night, albeit a short one until autumn comes."
     
"And in winter, we'll be grateful for four hours of half-light. That's the way it is this far north." Taking a quick drink of his wine, Broughton listened to the consort play, their music making little headway against the polyglot conversation on the terrace. "That is a most pleasing air, the Purcell they're doing now. Pity there aren't more women here, so we could dance. I think your wife would enjoy an Allemande."
     
"You are right: this is a pleasant piece, and I am sure the Ksiezna would be glad to dance," Saint-Germain agreed. "But the other ladies here might not."
     
"No. You're right there," said Broughton, peering through the crowd to make out three other women at the party: one was a German matron heavily pregnant; another was the young wife of the Irish shipbuilder Brian Lucius O'Meaghar; the third was the wife of the Swiss