"I wouldn't worry about that," intoned Nika. An ironic smile betrayed itself at the corners of his mouth.

This Uncle Slava would probably not appreciate their idea of leisure, if he knew what it was they often did.

By his definition, it would probably be "not too good".

Nika gave a clipped nod and slid his hands into his pockets as Lasha gathered his keys.

"You ready," he said in a low voice, not really a question.

Lasha had planted a boot onto a nearby chair and was inspecting the shine with keen attention. Frowning, he pulled a folded handkerchief out of his pocket and gave it a brisk rub up and down the last, finishing with a flourish.

"Da," he said, belatedly. "I'm ready.

Nika nodded, unruffled.

"Let's go. Take care," he added, mildly, in the foreboding man's general direction.

Ilarion sauntered after him, close at the shoulder.

"What do you think? The Evroperiskaya?"

"Sure," Nika replied. "It's as good as anywhere else."

Which was true universally, provided they were both there.

Ilarion paused at the entryway, hand on the jamb, gaze piercing.

"Hey Cheslav. It was good of you to come," he said, after a moment.

He paused, and his eyes narrowed, not in anger but in significance.

"I won't forget it."