Pyetr folded his arms and turned away and looked at the floor.
“Tell him,” Pyetr said after a moment, “he’d damned well better think twice where he sends me after this, because you’ll take it out of his hide someday.”
“I will,” Sasha said. He had never in his life intended harm to anyone: but he did, for whoever harmed Pyetr, and had no qualms and no doubt about doing it.
For a moment he realized that he was capable of wanting harm. In a heartbeat more he realized that he already wanted it; and that that wanting was a wish already sped at Uulamets—
Who was far more callous and by that degree, more powerful.
“Do as you please,” Uulamets said, and added with malice: “I’d advise you try healing, boy.—It’s much harder; and much more to the point right now.”
Sasha looked at Pyetr. And knew—was suddenly sure—that Uulamets’ warning was absolutely real; and that Uulamets was absolutely confident he would fail.
“Or do you need help, boy?”
He looked back at Uulamets.
“So you don’t know everything,” Uulamets said. “I’d suggest you reason with your friend. Your threat is a future one—at best; but if the day comes, boy, that you have your way, believe this for a truth—he’ll be far more at risk from you then than he is now from me.”
He did not like to hear that. Uulamets might lie. He had a feeling this was not one of those times.
But Uulamets walked over to the fireside to investigate the cooking.
“Master Uulamets—” Sasha said.
“Let it be,” Pyetr said, catching his arm, and Sasha saw how Eveshka slipped away from her father, never looking at him as she gathered up bowls and spoons from the shelf.
“He’ll come around,” Sasha said, and looked at Pyetr. “I’ll talk to him. You don’t have to. Just please don’t—don’t fight with him.”
Pyetr said nothing for a moment, his jaw set so the muscle stood out. Then he folded his arms again, tucking the injured hand under as if it hurt him, and said, with an evident effort at reason, “There’ll be a way out. I’m not leaving you here.”
“I wish—”
“For the god’s sake don’t wish. Haven’t we got enough?”
It was cruel; and true. Sasha shut his mouth and stopped wanting other than what Pyetr wanted, especially about Pyetr leaving—Pyetr having very good sense when he was using his head: and having more wit than he had when it came to ways to get around people.
“We just mind our manners,” Pyetr said. “You think about it. Think, that’s all. I can put up with grandfather.”
“You’ve got to get along with him.”
“I can get along with him,” Pyetr said, and assumed a deliberate, thin-lipped smile. “I’ve no difficulty with that. I’ve dealt with thieves before.”
“Pyetr, please!”
“I’ve even been on good terms with them.” Pyetr gave Sasha’s shoulder a light rap with the back of his hand and made a quick shift of the eyes toward the fireside, reminder that Uulamets might well overhear. “So he’s got us. Nothing lasts. You use your head, and trust me to use mine, hear me?”
Sasha nodded; and glanced to the fireside where master Uulamets was ladling out a bowl of porridge, talking the while to Eveshka, who stood staring at the floor, hands folded, not responding at all to her father.
Eveshka was not all right. Nothing seemed to be, not the house, not Uulamets’ daughter. Nothing that Uulamets had planned seemed to be turning out the way he had intended.
And Uulamets wanted them, he even wanted Pyetr, quite badly, for that matter, despite his offer to let Pyetr go—Sasha had a deep, worried notion that Uulamets had had that string firmly tied to his finger before he ever made the offer—that Uulamets had known Pyetr would refuse, not least because Uulamets wanted him to. There were undoubtedly wishes loose, powerful ones: five wizards, Pyetr had said, constantly pushing things back and forth among themselves; and Hwiuur’s wishes and Hwiuur’s cunning were not to disregard.
“Conspiracies?” Uulamets challenged them suddenly, looking in their direction.
“No, sir,” Sasha said, and walked over to get his bowl and Pyetr’s, to fill them, but Eveshka did that, and he stood there waiting with his hand out, looking at what looked like a live girl, with wonderful long hair that she had simply caught back with a ribbon this morning; with a smudge of soot on her hands from the pothook; and with tears in her eyes that she was trying not to spill. He felt sorry for her. He wanted to do something.
“After breakfast,” Uulamets said, at his elbow, “there’s packing to do—things to take to the boat. We’re not finished.”
“Finished,” Sasha echoed, not because he did not understand that word. He was afraid he did.
“Chernevog,” Uulamets said.
“You know where he is?” Sasha asked.
“I’ve always known where he is,” Uulamets said.
CHAPTER 16
IN THE WAY of such things, the hand had not hurt until everyone began to make a fuss over it. Now it did; and Pyetr gave it surreptitious, anxious glances between trips back and forth to the boat, fearing he had no idea what—some sudden change, corruption—for the hand to turn black and rot, he had no idea what kind of venom a vodyanoi’s teeth could carry. The creature had scratched him before, in the set-to at the knoll, or roots or bones had, and no one had worried then; but Sasha fretted over the wound and made a nasty-smelling concoction of chamomile and wormwood and vodka—which stung, for one thing. More, Sasha himself insisted he had no idea what he was doing, and Pyetr was unhappily constrained to believe Uulamets could ill-wish them at any moment.
Think of the cup that broke, Sasha had said, daubing his hand with his smelly potion. That could have been your heart, Pyetr…
Gruesome notion.
…or he could use the vodyanoi, Sasha had said—just let it loose on us. And it’s one thing to fight it when he wants us to win, but if he’s helping it…
So Pyetr carried loads to the boat. A little trip across the river, Uulamets had said. Hunt down a former student. And Uulamets ordered multitudinous pots hauled out of the cellar, packed into mouldering baskets and ported downhill; after which he loaded them down with huge coils of rope and tackle and a furled sail and spar Pyetr and Sasha together had to manhandle down the eroded slope.
So the old man did know boats. One could learn from him… all of which said to Pyetr that it was only well to keep his head down and be polite to grandfather, however bad it got.
Grandfather wanted the boat loaded, grandfather wanted this and grandfather wanted that: Uulamets and Eveshka were waiting on the porch when they came trudging back up the hill, Eveshka standing in the midst of a number of baskets—food, one guessed, the door of the house being shut, as if that was the last they had to take—food not having figured in the previous levels.
Uulamets loaded them down with baskets, five and six apiece, and they went down the hill to board, after which Uulamets plumped down on a basket on the leaf-strewn deck and announced he would tell them how to rig the sail.
The hand hurt worse since hauling the sail and the tackle down, but it seemed unlikely Uulamets would have any sympathy. Pyetr gave Uulamets a sullen look and followed Sasha forward where the mast lay on the bow in a tangle of mouldering rope.
“I don’t suppose grandfather could somehow magic this up,” Pyetr muttered, pulling at a rope to see where it was connected.
“He’s tired,” Sasha said.
“He’s tired,” Pyetr cried.
“Don’t—”
“I’m not,” Pyetr said under his breath, “I’m not, I won’t.”