Commedia della Morte (42 page)

“That is likely,” said Roger emotionlessly.

“Or I want to believe it enough to decide it must be so,” said da San-Germain with a mirthless smile.

“You know my opinion on that,” said Roger.

“Yes; and ordinarily I would share it, but just at present, I can’t,” said da San-Germain, rising from his earth-filled chest. “And for our plan to succeed, I will have to keep the troupe aligned with my purpose, and that will not happen unless they see that I am ready to carry out my part. So I will have to attend at least some of the rehearsal today and join the performance tomorrow, and the parade.”

“And what if they decide not to support your plan? That could happen.”

Da San-Germain sighed as he straightened up, assuming some of his usual manner. “Ah, you are too acute, old friend. I need to take stock of them, as much as they need to see that I am recovering, to find the answer to your question.”

“Are you certain they will tell you their thoughts? Matters here in Lyon are more volatile than they were in Avignon. There are apt to be rifts among the players, as there are rifts in the Revolutionary Court here. The Girondais are holding to their position, let the Assembly in Paris say what it will.” Roger glanced toward the door as if he expected to be interrupted. “And there’s still the matter of Enee to deal with.”

“When we have Madelaine safe, I’ll give Photine money enough to buy his release. That should inspire her to continue with our connivances.”

Roger stared at him, unable to conceal his disbelief. “Do you truly want that boy released?”

“Not as a gesture of altruism, I admit: to be certain of Photine’s good-will, and to make sure she honors our agreement,” said da San-Germain slowly.

“He won’t be grateful,” Roger warned.

“No, he won’t.” He untied the sash of his dressing-robe. “He will resent anything I do, or fail to do, so I must put emphasis on Photine, not her son.”

“He may try to kill you again.”

Da San-Germain shrugged. “If he wants to keep his mother’s good opinion that would be unwise.” He reached for the shirt Roger held out to him. “He can be bribed out of a cell once, but not twice.”

“Do you think that would stop him? He is as likely to defy her as not.”

“Very probably,” said da San-Germain, taking the shirt as he turned away and took off the dressing-robe in order to don the shirt.

Roger watched him dress, noting the care he took with his movements, the way he guarded his left side where most of the wounds had been inflicted; there was an air of fragility to da San-Germain that Roger rarely detected in him, and it worried him to think that his master was preparing to undertake something as hazardous as removing Madelaine from the Department of Public Safety in just four days. He was aware that da San-Germain would persevere in his plans whether or not he was hurt, and that mentioning his reservations would do no good. Without a word, he gave da San-Germain his black wool unmentionables and watched while he pulled them on. “Do you want help with the coat?” He knew as soon as the words were out that he should not have made the offer.

“I think I’m strong enough to put on a coat,” he said, and did his best to demonstrate, taking more time than he would have before the attack, but not bungling the attempt. “There. You see?” He felt the garment, satisfied with what his fingers revealed. “The sleeves aren’t twisted and the collar is lying correctly.”

“And playing the cimbalom—will you be able to do that?”

“Not terribly well, but enough to satisfy the needs of the play; I’ll ask for a stool to sit on at rehearsal. That should help,” da San-Germain said as he turned around to face Roger. “You can tell me if the buttons are—”

“Your appearance is quite satisfactory,” Roger conceded. “Not quite as elegant as usual, but not disheveled, either.”

“The bandages aren’t obvious.” He felt the front of his coat.

“No. Your eyes are black, but there’s nothing beyond that that would suggest you survived a murder attempt three days ago. I’d recommend that you don’t overplay your recovery; take the time to show some sign of discomfort, at least.”

“It would be nothing less than the truth,” said da San-Germain ruefully.

“Good,” Roger told him. “They must see the pain of all those stab wounds, or they will begin to wonder.”

“Such is my intention,” said da San-Germain with genuine satisfaction.

Yet Roger persisted. “And sustenance? have you made any arrangements for that? You won’t get over your weakness until you get living blood into you.” This blunt a statement was unusual for him, and he emphasized his apprehension with a hard stare. “If you’re going to help Madelaine, you need to take nourishment before then.”

“I know,” da San-Germain admitted. “I think I can find one or two women to visit as a dream, and that will provide enough for now.”

“Not Photine?”

“No; she’s caught up in performing and would find me disquieting.” He said nothing more as he reached for a neck-cloth and began to tie it around his neck.

“She’s a risk to your contrivance to gain Madelaine’s freedom, my master.” He did not add that he thought she was not as reliable as she had been before Enee’s assault on da San-Germain.

“Not just at present, I think. She’s too concerned about Enee.”

“I’m not so sanguine. It seems to be quite a gamble to trust her now, if you ask me—although you didn’t.” Roger did not raise his voice, or make any sign of distress at da San-Germain’s position, but added, “As you say, she is concerned about Enee: who knows what she might use to bargain for his release.”

“You mean she might inform on me?”

“Directly or indirectly, yes. She might even believe that she was doing you a service.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because she wants her son out of prison, and I’m not convinced that she would hesitate to use you to bring that about.”

Da San-Germain took a minute to ruminate on Roger’s worry. When he looked up, he said, “Revealing the intention to remove a prisoner from the Revolutionary Court would not be sufficiently remarkable to warrant any favors beyond something very minor; everyone knows that such attempts are possible, and revealing such a plot—it would not be sufficient to get Enee out of jail no matter how persuasive Photine may be. The spies report constantly on such rumors, and nothing comes of them. To have such a account from a player would likely be regarded as more common gossip.”

“But she does know what you plan to do,” Roger reminded him. “That could lead to the kind of investigation that—”

“Actually, no; she does not know what I plan to do. Neither she nor Theron knows that: they know what I’ve told them, which is not my actual plan. Other than you, only Feo knows what I intend, and he won’t mention it to anyone.” He looked toward the armoire and the chest that stood next to it. “My walking shoes—where are they?”

“I have them in the closet. I refilled the soles and heels yesterday.” He went to get them, a little surprised that da San-Germain had not asked for his boots.

As if aware of this, da San-Germain said, “The cut on my calf is too tender for boots. The shoes will be more comfortable.”

“They will,” Roger agreed, bringing the shoes and stockings to him. “The stockings aren’t high enough to bind on the cut.”

“Fortunately, they aren’t.” Da San-Germain went to the upholstered chair at the end of the bed and sat down to allow Roger to put on his stockings and shoes. “When the bandages are off, I can do this well enough, but right now, I can’t bend my waist very much, and won’t be able to for another month or two.”

“Not as bad as Sankt Piterburkh, or Mexico,” Roger remarked.

“Or Delhi, or Moscow, or Gorwiecz, or Cyprus, or Lo-Yang, or Fiorenza, or Tunis.” He sighed. “Or, or, or.”

“It’s a long list.” Roger put the stockings on with care, and then slid the shoes on. “Try standing.”

Da San-Germain complied. “They’ll do. I may need to go down the stairs one at a time, but otherwise I can manage.”

“Would you like to have a cane?” Roger suggested, anticipating the answer.

“No, old friend. That would give rise to comments from the troupe that could be troublesome.” He crossed the room with only a slight limp to show how badly he had been injured.

“You conceal your pain very well, my master,” said Roger drily.

“Not well enough if you can see it,” was da San-Germain’s rejoinder.

“But I know what to look for,” Roger said.

“Point conceded,” da San-Germain told him with a slight bow. “You have the advantage over the others, old friend, and for that I am relieved.”

Roger gave him an austere smile. “Then be willing to take my advice: do not walk far today. There is no reason for you to do more than play for the rehearsal; you need not join the parade before tomorrow’s performance.”

“Photine wants music, or at least noise, to attract attention. I will need to provide that for her, though she won’t expect me to carry the cimbalom and march with the rest.” He paused. “Besides, Corpse costumes aside, I want it established that I am part of the parade, so that I will be able to account for my time if I’m asked to do so.”

“So you can be elsewhere,” Roger said in Byzantine Greek. “You have two drums in your chest that haven’t been used, and there is that Turkish trumpet; they can provide noise.”

“That’s why I brought them,” da San-Germain said. “I thought we might have use for them.”

“Would you like me to take them out of their trunk?”

“If you would, and bring them down to the inn-yard in an hour or so,” said da San-Germain. He started to the door, then stopped. “The physician’s report that the Guard demanded: do you know if he has completed it yet?”

“He has. It’s with the Department of Public Safety,” said Roger.

“Do you know what it says?”

Roger was nonplussed by the question. “I haven’t seen it. Does it matter?”

Da San-Germain avoided the question by asking another. “Did the physician tell you anything?”

“Only that you were lucky to be alive, and that your pulse was so faint he wasn’t sure you would survive.”

“I see. Then, I will have to let my weakness be visible, for if you have learned so much from the physician, then I must assume that Photine has found out much the same information.” He stood still, thinking. “I suppose I should use the cane for now, since the physician said my case is severe.”

Roger nodded. “A wise decision, my master,” he said as he rose.

“You’re being most accommodating,” said da San-Germain, a speculative flicker in his dark eyes.

“I want to see you and Madelaine safely out of Lyon,” said Roger. “If that requires the troupe to achieve that, then I want them to come with us.”

“And I want to be done with our tasks here and be on our way out of France as soon as we have Madelaine free from Warden Loup and the Guards, before the city can be shut and the buildings searched. That’s going to be more difficult than we originally thought, what with the Commedia della Morte having become so popular.” Da San-Germain patted the chest next to the armoire. “Some of the troupe will have to follow us in hired wagons, if they decide to return to Padova; they might not be allowed to cross the border at all.”

“That may not be possible no matter when they depart; if we leave riding, the wagons will go more slowly than we do; the troupe won’t be willing to go ahead of their wagons and carts, and so will have to stick to the main roads.” He frowned as the extent of the problem was borne in on him. “You can hardly blame them: all the things they need to perform are in the wagons and carts.”

“You have the right of it. Photine has been very set on that point,” da San-Germain concurred.

“Mounted we can use the minor roads, which the wagons cannot traverse. With a little care, we could put ten leagues between us and any pursuit.” Roger paused. “If your injuries won’t stop you from such a ride.”

“Indeed; I will have to manage it. We have several days’ journey to reach the border on horseback—longer with the troupe and the vehicles,” said da San-Germain. “I’ve been considering our options for the last day or so. If we were departing from Montalia, we might have been across the frontier in two or three days, and the troupe with us; that was the end of summer, not the end of autumn, and there were few Guards at the crossing we used. Now the roads are muddy and we have perhaps seven days of hard riding on back roads to reach the nearest crossing, where there are few Guards and we are not likely to be detained. If the weather worsens, then it will take longer to leave the country.” He pondered their predicament, then said, “I believe we should consult Feo for his advice.”

“Do you think he will be able to guide us?” Roger asked, giving da San-Germain his cane; it was of a fashionable height and topped with a jade ferrule.

“I trust he will; I’ll have a word with him after rehearsal,” said da San-Germain, taking the cane and testing his moving with it. “This will do well enough.”

“Very good,” said Roger, and went to open the door for him.

It was difficult for da San-Germain to make his way down the main stairs of the Jongleur, but he accomplished his descent in little more than five minutes, with only one uncertain moment when his grip on the banister nearly failed, and when he reached the ground floor, he exchanged greetings with the innkeeper before going out into the yard where the wagons were now set up for the troupe’s rehearsal. He stood for a short while at a dozen paces from the troupe, watching them place their set props for the second scene.

Tereson was the first to notice him; she had been sitting on the edge of the stage, but was now on her feet, gesticulating and calling out, “Ragoczy! Ragoczy! You’re up!” She swung around toward the stage. “Look, everybody! Ragoczy’s here!”

The troupe turned to stare in his direction, and there was a moment of surprised silence. Then Photine got down from the stage and bustled over to him. She had a thick woolen shawl around her shoulders, for once concealing the swell of her bosom, but she curtsied to da San-Germain, and made sure he noticed her sumptuous figure. “I am glad to see you, Ragoczy. I was afraid you would have to remain abed for several more days.”