Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Vampires, #Transylvania (Romania), #Krakatoa (Indonesia), #Volcanic Eruptions
Dark of the Sun (45 page)
The hand tightened.
“All right,” said Rojeh, positioning himself to lift Ragoczy Franciscus. “Let’s try.” It took a steady effort, but there was a little strength still left in Ragoczy Franciscus, and he was able to get to his feet with less effort than Rojeh had anticipated. “Can you stand?”
Ragoczy Franciscus swayed a little but he moved a clenched hand.
“Do you think you can walk?”
The hand did not move.
“No, I didn’t suppose you could,” said Rojeh, tugging on the lead to bring the horse up to them. “I am going to mount first and then haul you into the saddle, if I can.”
Ragoczy Franciscus closed his hand.
Rojeh positioned the spotted stallion carefully so that the horse could give Ragoczy Franciscus something to lean upon. Then he mounted behind the saddle and reached down to take Ragoczy Franciscus by the hands and began the struggle to haul him aboard the restive horse. Ragoczy Franciscus was a considerable weight to lift, and Rojeh lacked his preternatural strength, so the effort this required was great, demanding his full concentration and force; gradually he raised Ragoczy Franciscus off the ground without unbalancing his own seat and finally lugged him into place, panting with the exertion this feat demanded.
Ragoczy Franciscus’ hand closed on Rojeh’s wrist in a gesture of thanks.
“We’ll return to Sarai, my master,” Rojeh said quietly, and tapped his heels to start the horse moving.
The journey back to the town gate seemed interminable, with the roaring wind blowing sleet in their faces; the cold cut through their clothes and sank into their bones. Even Ragoczy Franciscus, who was rarely bothered by cold, began to shiver, which made his seat less steadied than Rojeh would have liked, and that slowed their progress even more, for Rojeh had to continue to hold Ragoczy Franciscus upright while he also guided the horse. By the time they reached the long ascent to the town, Rojeh was as fatigued as he was cold, and as he summoned the guard, he had to hang on to the saddle as well as the reins to remain in place on the horse’s croup.
“You are back after all,” said the guard as he opened the gate.
“Close the gate. I am taking my employer back to the Foreigners’ Quarter. He has sustained a bad wound and I must dress it properly.”
“Judging by that bandage, he must have been waylaid by thieves,” said the guard as he worked the device that closed the gate.
“I will know when he is able to speak again,” said Rojeh, and continued away from the gate to the far side of the town. As he passed the rubble from the most recent fire, he felt Ragoczy Franciscus twist in the saddle, and he had to halt in order to seat him properly once more. “We are nearly there. You haven’t long to wait.”
A small lamp burned fitfully beside the gate to Ragoczy Franciscus’ house, a sign that encouraged Rojeh as he caught sight of it. He dismounted and took the lead, going up to the gate and tugging once on the bell-pull. He hoped that Chtavo was still awake and sober enough to help him with the horse. He rang a second time and heard the bolt slide back almost as the second toll sounded; the gate swung open, and Rojeh led his horse into the entry court, halting the stallion so that he could drag Ragoczy Franciscus out of the saddle.
Chtavo was beside him, bleary-eyed and a little drunk. He peered at Ragoczy Franciscus. “Been hurt?”
“I’m afraid so. I am taking him to his apartment, and I will need Aethalric to join me promptly. I trust he hasn’t gone to bed?” He was keeping Ragoczy Franciscus on his feet by shoving him against the stallion’s shoulder.
“Aethalric and Dasur are in the kitchen, drinking hot wine and telling each other what may have happened to the master; their tales are becoming preposterous.” He kicked at a loose paving stone as if to underscore his point.
Rojeh nodded. “If you will tend to the horse. Is there enough grain to give him some warm mash when he’s cooled down and been groomed?”
“I can find a handful for him,” said Chtavo, taking the lead from Rojeh. “Have you any need of me once the horse is stalled?”
“No. You have done well, Chtavo. Ragoczy Franciscus will be grateful.” Rojeh wedged his shoulder under Ragoczy Franciscus’ arm and started toward the kitchen door, supporting Ragoczy Franciscus’ feeble efforts with his own tired body. He gave the kitchen door a single blow, then waited for it to be opened, occupying himself with determining how much of Ragoczy Franciscus’ remaining vitality had been vitiated during their ride back; that process left him uneasy, so he was pleased when Dasur opened the door, staring into the darkness and clearly anticipating the worst.
“The master!” he exclaimed. “Is he—”
“He is not truly dead. As you see, he is attempting to stand,” said Rojeh, pushing past Dasur into the house.
“By the Djinns,” said Dasur, fumbling to close the door even as he strove to lend a hand to Rojeh’s struggles. “You have wrapped his head!”
“To protect his wound. It is such that he cannot speak.” Rojeh was pleased that Dasur had noticed that instead of the heavy swathing of Ragoczy Franciscus’ throat. He looked over his shoulder to be sure the door was fully closed. “He is going to need careful nursing to recover. I want the fire in the master’s rooms built up. Now, Dasur.”
Dasur was wringing his hands in distress. “This is dreadful. This is terrible. He’ll die, and then we’ll be cast out into—”
“He is not dead yet, and if we are quick about it, he will not die,” said Rojeh, and saw Aethalric coming toward them, his face stark with dismay. “Will you help me carry him?”
“Oh, yes. I will,” said Aethalric in the slightly thickened voice of one suddenly struck sober. “How do you want it done?”
“I will carry his shoulders, and you will take his legs. We must go slowly—I will take the lead up the stairs, walking backward. You will have to guide me.” He glanced at Dasur. “The fire? In his rooms?”
Dasur nodded repeatedly and hastened to load up a large basket with lengths of wood. “Right away, right away,” he kept repeating as he worked.
The warmth of the kitchen finally penetrated Ragoczy Franciscus’ daze; he half-opened his eyes and stared at the hearth. His lips moved but no sound came from them, and Rojeh saw anguish in his face.
“That will come, in time,” Rojeh said, and watched Dasur scurry from the kitchen with his basket of logs. He looked at Aethalric. “If you will help me?” He turned to Ragoczy Franciscus. “We are going to carry you upstairs. We’ll go slowly, but if you are pained too much, signal with your hand.”
Ragoczy Franciscus closed both his hands to fists; Aethalric saw this and gasped.
“Very good,” said Rojeh, preparing himself as he went on, “If you will lean back against me, I will take your shoulders, and Aethalric will take your feet. We will make this as easy a climb as we can, but I fear there may be some problems.”
Ragoczy Franciscus complied, and after a brief jostling, Rojeh and Aethalric were bearing him out of the kitchen and toward the stairs, which were steep, and they curved in unexpected places. By the time they reached the main floor, Aethalric was sweating, and Rojeh ordered a brief halt. As they resumed the upward climb, Ragoczy Franciscus kept lapsing into unconsciousness, which made carrying him trickier, for not only was he dead weight, he could communicate nothing about his state.
Dasur admitted them to Ragoczy Franciscus’ room. His hands were sooty from building up the fire, but he seemed relieved to be able to do something useful. “What more do you want?”
“There is a chest of rosewood in his study, banded with brass. Would you fetch that, please,” Rojeh said, doing his best to keep his tone level and his manner confident.
“Where do you want him?” Aethalric asked, his cheeks flushed from his exertions.
“On his bed. Just put him on top.” He backed in that direction. “Lift him carefully.” He hefted Ragoczy Franciscus’ shoulders, taking care not to let his head go unsupported.
Aethalric took an awkward step back and almost collided with a low, brass-topped table. He opened his hands to show apology and said, “I had better get back to my quarters. The children will rise at dawn, and Herakles has been feeling ill, so dealing with them falls to me.”
“You seem to enjoy that task,” said Rojeh, making sure Ragoczy Franciscus was lying squarely on the bed. “If you will spare a little more time and help me remove his boots?”
Nodding, Aethalric stepped up to the foot of the bed and took hold of the left boot. “If you hold his shoulders again, this should be simple.”
Rojeh agreed. “Pull by the heel; they’ll come off more easily.”
Following these instructions, Aethalric tugged off the left boot and then the right, letting them drop to the floor. “There. Is that enough?”
“Yes. Thank you for your help. And don’t let the children overwhelm you,” Rojeh advised. “I had a family, many years ago. I know how children can require more than we anticipate.”
Aethalric gave Rojeh a startled look. “You had children?”
“And a wife. But they have been lost to me many, many years and were far away from here.” He changed the subject, not wanting to divulge much more information. “In the morning, neither my master nor I should be disturbed.”
“And the widow? She’ll want to see him, I’m sure,” said Aethalric.
“No doubt,” said Rojeh. “Tell her she may talk to me when I rise, but that Ragoczy Franciscus is to remain undisturbed until he himself says that he is ready to receive company.” Rojeh motioned to the door. “That goes for all the household.”
“I will tell Dasur and Chtavo,” said Aethalric.
“If you like. Inform Sinu as well. The widow may want to assign her to my master, but that would not be wise.” Rojeh heard Dasur approaching. “Go along now, and know that you have Ragoczy Franciscus’ gratitude.” Aethalric bolted from the room, and as soon as he was gone, Dasur brought the rosewood chest into the chamber; Rojeh pointed to the brass-topped table. “If you would put it down?”
“May I go bank the kitchen fire and prepare to sleep?” Dasur’s cot was in the little pantry, to guard the food from any thieves that might sneak into the house.
“Yes. I appreciate what you have done,” said Rojeh, as he knew Ragoczy Franciscus expected him to. “When I wake in the morning, I will provide proof of gratitude.” He had decided that all three servants would be given a gold Byzantine Apostle for their extra service this night. “A formal report hasn’t been made yet, and until it is, gossip could have unpleasant ramifications.”
“Nothing leaves this house. I will see to it,” said Dasur just before he left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.
Rojeh went to the rosewood chest and unfastened its locks and took from the upper compartment a pair of shears made of fabulously valuable steel. He used these to cut the clothes of Ragoczy Franciscus, and then to sever the knot on the bandages. Putting the ruined clothes aside, he drew a silk-stuffed blanket over Ragoczy Franciscus, then went to the chest and took out the first compartment, revealing two more beneath. From the second compartment, he took one of the three needles he found there, threaded it with fine silk from a reel of the shiny strands, then went to begin the exacting work on Ragoczy Franciscus’ throat. He had seen his master do repairs on appalling injuries and had assisted him more than once to reunite vessels and muscles and skin; he had never had to do it on his own, and with Ragoczy Franciscus for a patient. He began the painstaking work of stitching the severed tissues together again.
It was nearly dawn when Rojeh finished. The snow was falling heavily but the wind had slacked off, and sunrise promised only a slight diminishing of darkness, but for Rojeh, it was as splendid a morning as any he had known, for he was sure that as horribly as Ragoczy Franciscus had been hurt, he would recover.
Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens in Roma to Abbot Helieri at Santus Spiritu in Gaul, carried by the merchant Voramalch of Vindobon, journeying north from Roma, and delivered three months after it was written.
To the esteemed Abbot of Santus Spiritu monastery in Gaul, the greetings of Atta Olivia Clemens in Roma, on this the tenth day of January in the 1290th Year of the City, and the 537th Year of the Christian faith, in the hope that this finds you and your monks in better circumstances than prevailed a year ago.
In answer to your question, I have very little news of the world beyond the region we both inhabit; you in Gaul, and I now in Roma. With the restrictions placed on me as a widow, I have to depend on Niklos Aulirios to obtain gossip and reports circulating in the city; he is diligent in procuring all the latest intelligence, but there are a few things I know for myself: trade with foreign ports has remained inactive, and the weather continues to be to blame. And I have had no word from my blood relative, who is in China, at a place called Yang-Chau, or was the last time I heard from him, a decade ago. Lacking news of him, I can find no one whose opinion I consider reliable who can provide accurate information regarding what has transpired in those remote parts of the world, so I cannot advise you on any points of your inquiry. The merchant who bears the letter, Voramalch of Vindobon, claims that he has heard that there are orchards and fields in the East that are flourishing, protected by mighty sorcerers whose spells have brought the people of those places rich harvests and fecund herds, but I must tell you, I put no stock in such tales. What little I have heard suggests that the East has been as hard-hit as the West in regard to the weakened sun and the lingering cold. I apologize for not having anything more definite or more optimistic than this to report, but to tell you otherwise would be to bear false witness.
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