A Quiet Crossroads (Lake Baikal, Siberia)

[Sören]

Sören made a gruff note of amusement, but thought it wiser not to answer the trap of a question. He saw no reason to mistrust her judgement on either score: such expertise had been the main reason for his extended invitation after all. Instead he watched her evaluate the shawl in her hands. Zhenya had always lamented how frugally Sören gave gifts. Though this wasn’t that; it was a practicality to stifle Kemala’s complaining, and failed in even that simple regard. He was gratified that she at least wound it about her shoulders, whatever sharp words cut her tongue like a fin scything water. He was learning to brush off her phrasing anyway. It seemed she could not breathe without it.

“You’re welcome,” he said pointedly, and only because of her earlier correction; if a game of manners mattered so much to her, he would not be shortchanged. Meanwhile his attention turned to the vista around them as the boat pushed off shore. The lake was impossibly vast, and he had little idea where the creature might dwell within it. Given Elias’ information, it seemed she had migrated this way; was not contained the way the beast in India had been contained. But Baikal had a thousand folk stories about monsters in the deep, and no clear indication of where one might look in earnest.

“Just head towards the middle, for now.” He could have wished for the Roopkund amulet as a failsafe, but if his speculations were correct it would have done him little good anyway. Kemala was the key to checking the manner of this particular lock. He paused to see if she might have complaint or comment, then turned his attention away. From the pocket of his jacket he pulled a square of fabric that he set on the boards between his feet. A handful of stones clinked and warmed in a palm before he let them trickle loose, and frowned down at the answer given.