The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [148]
But Lymond, to his relief, did not attempt even a standard exchange of civilities, far less a discourse or an apologia. He merely remarked, in the same prosaic voice, ‘The mortifying quality of cold,’ and then abandoned communication, leaving Chancellor wondering, for an unlikely moment, if he had read his mind. He waited, and then, as nothing happened, spread his rug more comfortably over the floor, and stretched himself full length to sleep.
To a healthy, vigorous man in his thirties pursuing an open air life with a clear conscience and an active mind, this presented no problem.
An hour passed, during which sleep surprisingly avoided him. Chancellor turned, twice, and settled down with a sigh, once more, for his night’s rest. At the end of a further hour he was, to his annoyance, still fully awake.
So was Lymond. He discovered that, by a discreet glance, as he turned over yet again. The Voevoda was exactly as he had left him, his head resting against the wall, his body perfectly still, his face indistinguishable in the flickering candlelight. Only Chancellor could see the two points of flame, reflected in his dark, open eyes.
The next time he looked, the place was empty. Then the door behind him was pushed quietly open and Lymond came in, carrying in each hand a pewter tankard from which steam was rising. He pressed the door shut, waited a moment, and then having made sure Chancellor was still awake, moved forward and placed one of the beakers beside him. It smelt of hot mead, with something else added of a distinctly alcoholic nature.
‘Drunk among the Scythian snows,’ Lymond said. ‘It is, sometimes, preferable to being sober.’
It was Candy wine. Chancellor sat up slowly. To be drunk among the Scythian snows in their native purity and pleasantness was what Richard Eden had written about Candy wines, in the Russian coda to his book he and Chancellor had worked on, before he left England. There was a copy in his baggage. He looked up.
‘I have a copy, too,’ Lymond said. ‘Sent me from Danzig.’ He took his place again by the opposite wall, and, resting his arms on his knees, cradled the tankard in his two ringless hands. Below his candlelit hair, his face was in shadow. ‘It seemed a mischievous waste, to chain that observing brain to Moscow. In any case, no doubt Eden is planning to collaborate on a sequel.’
‘That is why I am here?’ Chancellor said. He did not believe it.
‘You intended to come,’ Lymond said. ‘An irrelevant emotional crisis could not be allowed to prevent it. I am not saying it was unimportant. Only that it should not affect this experience.’
‘Ah,’ said Chancellor. ‘Trade. The chief pillar to a flourishing Commonwealth.’ He had taken a deep draught of the mixture and fire, human and reviving, again flowed through his veins. ‘The Tsar commands that the Muscovy Company should see the best furs and buy the cheapest train oil, and in all things be satisfied. Why, I wonder?’
‘The Tsar’s counsel is his own,’ said Lymond. ‘All I can tell you is that he is not responsible for your journey to Lampozhnya. And that I am beginning to be singularly weary of peddling.’
It struck, as it happened, a vibrating chord in Chancellor’s present mood, but he did not say so. He said, ‘It is a poor country. It needs trade, if only the Emperor would allow his people to benefit from it.’
Lymond said, ‘It needs trade. It needs miners and metallurgists, architects, doctors and apothecaries. It needs good roads and schools and universities and first-class local government and a decent drainage