The Girl in the Tower (The Winternight Trilogy #2)(22)

A blush crept over Vasya’s neck. Her hair was bound in a fur-lined hood, tied about her chin, and she wore her hat over that. She was as sexless as a loaf of bread, and yet…She pressed her lips together. “Forgive me, Gospodin,” she said sturdily. “I do not know you.”

He studied her a moment more. “Nor I you,” he said. His voice was lighter than she would have thought, very clear, the accent strange. “Boy. Though your face is familiar. What is your name?”

“Vasilii,” said Vasya at once. “Vasilii Petrovich, and I must be getting back to my horse.”

His eyes, curiously intent, made her uncomfortable. “Must you?” he said. “I am called Kasyan Lutovich. Will you break bread with me, Vasilii?”

Vasya was startled to find herself tempted. She was hungry, and she could not take her eyes from this tall lord, with that hint of laughter in his eyes.

She gave herself a mental shake. What would he do if he realized she was a girl? Would he be pleased? Disappointed? Either one did not bear thinking of. “I thank you,” she said, bowing as the peasants did to her father. “But I must be home before dark.”

“And where is home, Vasilii Petrovich?”

“Up the river,” said Vasya. She bowed again, trying to look servile, beginning to be nervous.

Suddenly the dark gaze released her.

“Up the river,” he repeated. “Very well, boy. Forgive me. It seems I took you for another. God be with you.”

Vasya piously made the sign of the cross, bowed, and made her escape, heart beating fast. Whether that was from his stare or his questions, she could not have said.

She found Solovey, thoroughly irritable, standing where she had left him. The mare was being dragged away by her owner, tail high, more irritable still.

A honeycake (bought from a glorious stall all wreathed in steam) restored Solovey’s good humor. Vasya mounted the horse now, eager to leave. Though the red-haired lord had gone, his thoughtful stare seemed to hang before her eyes, and the din of the city had begun to hurt her head.

She was only a little way from the city gate when she happened to turn her head to look through a gaily-painted archway. Behind the archway lay an inn-yard, in which there stood, unmistakably, a bathhouse.

All at once, Vasya’s aching head and chilled limbs reasserted themselves. She stared into the yard with longing. “Come on,” she said to Solovey. “I want a bath. I’ll find you some hay and a bowl of porridge.”

Solovey loved porridge, so he merely gave her a resigned look when she slid down his shoulder. Vasya marched boldly in, pulling the horse behind her.

Neither of them noticed the small, blue-lipped boy who detached himself from the shadow of the overhanging buildings and darted off.

A woman came from the kitchen, gap-toothed and fat with the remains of summer’s bounty. Her face had a rose’s sere beauty, when it is past its best and the petals are yellowing. “What will you have, boy?” she asked.

Vasya licked her lips and spoke up boldly, like the boy Vasilii Petrovich. “Grain and stabling for my horse,” she said. “Food and a bath for myself. If you please.”

The lady waited, arms crossed. Vasya, realizing that something must be traded for these delights, reached into a pocket and handed the inn-wife a piece of silver.

The woman’s eyes grew round as cart-wheels and her manner at once softened. Vasya realized that she had given too much, but it was too late. The inn-yard was flung into motion. Vasya led Solovey into the tiny stable (he would allow no stablehand near him). The stallion suffered himself to be tied for show to the common rail and was even sweetened by another honeycake and a flake of hay, brought tremblingly by the stable-lad.

“My horse must have a bowl of porridge, still warm,” Vasya told the boy. “And leave him alone otherwise.” She strode out of the stable with a fair show of confidence. “He bites.”

Solovey obligingly laid his ears back, whereupon the stable-lad squeaked and ran for porridge.

Vasya took off her cloak in the well-kept kitchen and sat down on the bench beside the oven, blessing the heat. Why not stay here the night—or three? she wondered. I am in no hurry.

The food came in waves: cabbage soup and hot bread, smoked fish with the head on, porridge and pasty, and eggs cooked hard. Vasya ate until even the stolid inn-wife’s eyes misted at the hunger of growing boys. She gave Vasya a great slab of milk baked with honey to eat with her mug of beer.

When at last Vasya sagged on the bench, the woman tapped her on the shoulder and told her the bath was ready.

The bathhouse was only two little rooms, dirt-floored. Vasya stripped in the outer room, pushed open the door to the inner room, and breathed greedily of the heat. In a corner of this room stood a round oven made all of stone, with a fire lit and drawing. Vasya ladled water onto the rocks and steam billowed up in a great concealing fog. She sank delightedly onto a bench and closed her eyes.

A soft scraping noise came from the vicinity of the door. Vasya’s eyes shot open.

A little naked creature stood just inside the threshold. His beard floated like steam, framing his red cheeks. When he smiled, the eyes disappeared into the folds of his face.

Vasya watched him warily. This could be no other than the bannik, the bathhouse-guardian, and banniki could be both kind and quick to anger.

“Master,” she said politely, “forgive my intrusion.” This bannik was strangely gray; his fat little body looked more like smoke than flesh.