Saint-Germain 19: States of Grace: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “It may be so,” Trevisan said slowly, and he studied di Santo-Germano’s face for a long moment.

  “And if it is, you will want to secure this Cuor as quickly as possible, for I think the man’s master must be eliminating any who share his secret in order to escape the consequences of his act.” This was the most perturbing aspect of the present situation—that those who had the means to reveal whose secret all this was might soon be removed, and the culprit go undiscovered, leaving official suspicion to remain focused on di Santo-Germano and his associates. He regarded Trevisan steadily, an unfathomable light in his dark eyes. “If the master in this is one of yours, what will become of him?”

  “Do you mean if he is a Venezian, or one of the Consiglieri?” Trevisan imbued his question with a quality of incredulity, as if daring the foreigner to answer.

  “I mean if he is connected to the government of La Serenissima Repubblica,” said di Santo-Germano. “Will the Consiglii support my claim over that of one of your own?”

  “We here in Venezia observe the law,” declared Trevisan. “Whether it is to our advantage to do so or not.”

  Di Santo-Germano nodded decisively once. “So did the Romans of old, and strove to uphold the principles they espoused; but often it turned out that those with ties to the Senate suffered less for their criminality than those who lacked powerful friends.” He had a short, powerful recollection of Cornelius Justus Sillius, Olivia’s brutal husband, who had been condemned only after his ambitions brought him too near the Emperor.

  Trevisan gave a short, hard sigh. “Yes. There are abuses everywhere, which is all the more reason for us to extirpate malfeasance wherever it is found.”

  “Then you will act if you have proof of the culprit,” said di Santo-Germano.

  “I would hope so,” said Trevisan, then lowered his voice. “I would, if I were you, arrange protection for your presses and your … other interests until this matter is concluded.”

  “A wise precaution,” said di Santo-Germano. “I will take it to heart.”

  “But have a care: you would not want to alert your foes by precipitate action.” Trevisan folded his arms.

  “No, I would not.” He waited for Trevisan to speak, and when the Doge’s friend remained silent, di Santo-Germano continued. “From which I infer that I am still being watched.”

  “I would suppose that is a safe assumption,” said Trevisan. “Certainly it is better to take precautions than to proceed heedlessly.”

  “I will keep your admonition in mind,” said di Santo-Germano. “I gather from this that you have a certain culprit in mind?”

  Trevisan weighed his answer. “Let us say that those under scrutiny may reveal much to us if they are not alerted to our efforts.”

  “So you would prefer I maintain my usual habits while you continue your investigation. You want my cooperation.” He looked directly at Trevisan.

  “Yes, Conte, we do.” It was as blunt a statement as Trevisan would make, and both men realized it.

  “Then, for the sake of my reputation and the protection of my friends, I will do as you ask, at least for the next several days.”

  “If we require longer, we will inform you,” said Trevisan, his manner shifting from formidable to affable in an instant.

  Di Santo-Germano knew better than to ask the Doge’s friend Trevisan whom he meant by we, saying only, “As I will send you word if I become aware of growing peril to my household or associates.”

  Trevisan smiled. “I am obliged to you, Conte. I trust Consiglier Ziane will settle your case to your satisfaction when your hearing resumes and this Cuor can be examined by the advocates.”

  “I share your hope,” said di Santo-Germano, aware that they had struck a bargain between them.

  “Then,” said Trevisan, “unless you have any other issues to raise, I presume our business is done?”

  “I believe so,” said di Santo-Germano, offering a slight bow to the Consiglier.

  “I will leave first, with Fra Rufio to escort me to my cousin’s house on Campo San Polo. I would recommend that you wait a quarter of an hour before departing. You will find very comfortable benches at the end of the narthex where you will not be disturbed.” With those instructions delivered, Merveiglio Trevisan left the chapel.

  Di Santo-Germano remained where he was, staying away from the door into the chapel, waiting for the chime on the half-hour. He occupied himself trying to decide what he might do to make sure Pier-Ariana was beyond harm until she came to his life. Little as he wanted to be deprived of her company, her music, and her blood, he knew she would have to leave Venezia for a year or two; if she remained, she would be vulnerable to all manner of attacks. He was pondering if Giovanni Boromeo might require a second location—one away from the city—when his cogitation was interrupted by the sharp, metallic voice of the bell, accompanied by a ragged chorus from the other bells of Venezia, chiming the half-hour.

  Fra Rufio had finished hanging the pine-boughs and the sanctuary was framed in branches. Di Santo-Germano half knelt and crossed himself, making sure anyone watching him had the chance to observe this pious act, then he went out of the church, his footstep as quiet as an owl’s wing, using the side-door in order to avoid the narthex and anyone that might be waiting for him. As if to aid him in his clandestine departure, the fog enveloped him as he closed the door behind him, leaving him in a narrow passage that led through to the rivi behind the church or back to the Campo San Giacomo dell’ Orio at the front of the church. Di Santo-Germano hesitated, considering his choices, and it was then that he heard a stealthy footfall from the campo-end of the passage.

  “I know you’re there, Conte,” came a singsong challenge from somewhere in the obscuring haze. “I saw you leave San Giacomo.”

  Di Santo-Germano felt his lace cuffs, loosening the hilts of his two small knives. He moved a short distance farther down the passage, away from the voice, then stopped, listening intently; he was rewarded with a faint scuff of an approaching step. Flattening himself against the wall of the church, di Santo-Germano slipped toward the voice, hoping for an opportunity to get past the man searching for him, but prepared to fight if he could not win free.

  “You want to talk to me, Conte,” the voice continued; di Santo-Germano began to notice the odor of sour wine. “You want to deal with me now.” An echoing rattle sounded along the passageway: di Santo-Germano realized the stalker had thrown a handful of pebbles to make him stumble and so give away his location.

  Di Santo-Germano resisted the urge to bend and pick up any pebbles he felt, aware that such an act would expose him to attack as sure as a ray of sunshine would. Knowing his pursuer expected him to be distracted by the pebbles, di Santo-Germano moved away from the campo again, toward the rivi at the far end of the passageway. He thought that the man could have a confederate or two waiting at the far end of the passage, and that he would have to deal with two or three attackers, not just this single, jeering man.

  The next words out of the stalker were more hollow, echoing more from the stones around them, indicating he was following di Santo-Germano; another rattle of pebbles underscored his purpose. “I have watched you for many months, Conte,” the voice informed him. “I know all your secrets. I know what you are.” His voice was no louder, but the accusation held more malice than anything he had done or said before this last recrimination.

  Stopping still, di Santo-Germano clenched his teeth to keep silent.

  “I know you prey on women’s dreams. I know what you take from them. I know what you are, and what your mistress will become.” Covered by his disorienting charges that rioted along the passage, the man was moving closer.

  Di Santo-Germano drew the daggers from his sleeves, poised to meet the rush he knew would have to happen before he reached the end of the passage and the small canal beyond.

  “You are a very clever man, Conte, I give you that,” the voice mocked. “But wait! You aren’t a man at all, are you?” There was the hiss of
a blade passing through the air hardly more than a handsbreadth away from di Santo-Germano’s shoulder.

  Ducking below where the sword had passed, di Santo-Germano eased away from where the man was standing, looking for the rise of the bridge over the rivi just beyond this passage. If he could reach the bridge, he would be able to escape without fighting.

  “Not that the Consiglio would believe it, but they would burn you anyway, if they knew.” The hunter was a suggestion of shape in the dark passage, a place where the fog was less dense and the shadows clustered to form a figure of a large man in a long sailor’s cloak.

  This time di Santo-Germano knew he had to take a chance: he tucked his daggers back in his sleeves, but with the hilts protruding from his cuffs, then he ran toward the end of the passage, not as fast as he could, for that might be observed, but fast enough to draw the stalker from cover.

  “I know you are a vampire,” Basilio Cuor hissed as he lunged at di Santo-Germano, his sword raised to strike a deadly, downward blow

  Di Santo-Germano swung his cloak, lifting it from his shoulders and wrapping it about the sword-blade, jerking sharply and pulling the weapon from the larger man’s grip; he released the cloak and heard it splash as it and the cloak dropped into the rivi just beyond the walls of San Giacomo.

  “I know you are a vampire!” Cuor raised his voice, and the echoes became noise rather than words. “If I testify to what you are, you will be disposed of, and all my crimes will be forgot by all Venezia.”

  “If you know what I am, then you should realize you are in danger,” said di Santo-Germano, almost conversationally. He pulled out his daggers and took a defensive stance.

  “I will strike off your head, Conte,” Cuor vowed, and moved in on him, a short-sword at the ready. Steel blade met steel blade in a scrape that was marked with sparks. Cuor shifted his position, stepping back into the middle of the passage, becoming almost invisible once again. The sharp intake of his breath warned of his second strike.

  “Attack however you like,” said di Santo-Germano, then went silently along the wall, keeping pace with Cuor as the man moved toward the rivi.

  “If you encounter water, you will be powerless.” His laughter was dire. “Why would something like you come to Venezia?—or Amsterdam?”

  Unwilling to be goaded into an answer, di Santo-Germano felt his way to the half-round pillar that marked the end of the church-wall. He could feel the presence of water, and he knew his strength would be lessened. He reminded himself: if he reached the bridge, he could escape.

  “Running away? I don’t think you can, not now.” He rushed at di Santo-Germano, swinging the flat of his short-sword in an effort to knock di Santo-Germano off his feet. “How much of your fortune do you think I’ll be awarded for putting an end to you?” He was breathing rapidly now, his caution fading in the heady excitement of this desperate struggle.

  Di Santo-Germano evaded Cuor’s feint, and swung back to face him, his two daggers held away from his body to allow him the widest range of movement. He kept making his way backward toward the rivi and the bridge, his full concentration on the man coming at him through the fog.

  With a bellowed oath, Cuor flung himself at di Santo-Germano, his short-sword extended; he felt the blade penetrate the velvet of the foreigner’s black chamarre and doublet, then nick a bone as Cuor pushed it through di Santo-Germano’s body, and saw the end of the blade emerging from the left side of his chest.

  Staggering with the weight of the man behind him and the shock of the wound, di Santo-Germano dropped to his knees, a long, soft gasp underscoring his fall.

  “You’re dead,” Cuor gloated, bending over to pull his short-sword out of di Santo-Germano’s body.

  “Yes,” di Santo-Germano whispered. “I have been dead more than thirty-five centuries.” In spite of the grinding pain of the blade, di Santo-Germano sloughed around and half rose, plunging his daggers into Cuor’s body just below the arch of his ribs. “And now, so are you.”

  Cuor gagged, stumbled, and tried to keep from falling; seen in the pallid, mist-filtered light at the end of the passageway, his features were set in a rictus, his limbs beginning to twitch as he collapsed and died.

  Very slowly di Santo-Germano got to his feet, and very gingerly he pushed the short-sword out of his torso, pausing when the pain became too ferocious, but keeping steadily at it. Only when the sword dropped to the stones did he bend to pick it up, then, almost fainting, he went to Basilio Cuor’s big body and took his still-warm hands to lug him to the narrow canal, where he shoved him into the water, tossing his short-sword in after him. Light-headed with agony, di Santo-Germano moved back into the protective darkness of the passage and leaned against the inner curve of the half-pillar, grateful for once that the fog concealed him better than shadows could. Gradually it occurred to him that he was out of danger, either from the court or the Church, and that recognition proved anodyne, making it certain that he was safe at last. He remained on his feet in an act of will, striving to remain conscious until Milano returned to bear him off to Campo San Luca and the care Ruggier would know to provide.

  Text of a letter from Olivia at her horse farm near Orleans to Franzicco Ragoczy di Santo-Germano, Campo San Luca, Venezia, written in Imperial Latin and delivered by private courier eleven days after it was written.

  To my most treasured friend and long-time confederate, Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus, the most sincere greetings on this, the 22ndday of December, 1531, from Atta Olivia Clemens, presently in residence outside Orleans, tending to my horses while the rest of the world is going mad—which should please those seeking the end of time.

  I include you in the general madness, for I cannot help but think that by remaining in Venezia, you have lost an excellent opportunity to find a less risky place to live just at present, while the various religious, military, and national interests vie with one another and among themselves to sort out the new form of their world. I do understand that trade is important to you, and your book-making, but to remind you of the warning you gave me twenty years ago: Europe is on the boil, and it will have to explode or overflow; neither will be pleasant. I cannot convince myself that you were in error, and therefore, I am bracing for worse to come, and I trust you are doing the same.

  Your escape from attack was fortuitous, and you would be well-advised not to tempt the gods to spare you from another such ordeal; one fortunate happenstance is enough for this century. Had you not been in fog, and had your gondolier not returned to take you back to your house, things might have gone very differently. Rogerian has informed me of the wound you received, and remarked that had the blade severed your spine rather than cracking one of your ribs, you would have died the True Death, which has given me much to worry about. I am sorry you have to have a long, sore recovery, but it is preferable to the end of your life. Do guard yourself more thoroughly, for my sake if not your own.

  And speaking of risks, I do applaud you for arranging passage for Pier-Ariana to Amsterdam, where she may still compose and where you have a press to publish her works, but where she will be safer than she would be in Venezia. I know the scholar there—Erneste Amsteljaxter you have called her—will know better than to ask too many questions of Pier-Ariana. Your decision to send her by sea is a prudent one, for the amount of turmoil on the merchants’ roads is increasing, in addition to the hazards of bad weather. It is still stormy on the ocean as well, but not so much so that ships will not set out for fear of being damaged, and as you pointed out, there are fewer corsairs to contend with in the stormy season. It would be awkward to have to ransom her; you certainly could not leave her in Ottoman hands, so better a few storms than capture, to say nothing of the awkwardness of wakening to our life in a city built in a lagoon. Not that Amsterdam is much better, but it is on sounder footing than Venezia with its upended logs.

  You must feel relieved of a great burden to have both the Venezian Consiglii decide that you were faultless in the embezzlement of your business
factor, the man Emerenzio—although why they should think you could be implicated in any way baffles me: you were the one he stole from. No doubt this is a very Venezian way of looking at matters. Still, you are no longer under the shadow of suspicion, not even as regards the death of said Emerenzio, and that has to be an improvement from what had gone before. You say that it was proven by your advocate that the senior secretary of the Savii was giving orders to the man Cuor, who has so conveniently vanished, and that has made it impossible to lay responsibility on you. When a sentence has been agreed upon for Christofo Sen, I hope you will let me know of it. I am curious to know what the Consiglieri mete out as appropriate, given the extent of his crimes.

  Let me once again invite you to visit me here, where you could recover in as much comfort as you can find in Europe today. I think back to my living youth and I am struck again with how much has been lost and is only now being rediscovered. I find I miss your company and the comfort you bring me. Not even Niklos Aulirios can console me when solitude is upon me. You have always restored me to an understanding of my own place in this very long life you have given me. If you would like a year or two away from the water—and I cannot doubt that you would be pleased to get some earth, though it is not your native earth, under your boots—you have only to tell me when to expect you and Rogerian, and I will make all the necessary preparations for your visit.

  So until I see your face again, I hope this letter will convey

  My undying love,

  Olivia

  EPILOGUE

  Text of a letter from Erneste Amsteljaxter to Grav Saint-Germain in care of his kinsman, Franzicco Ragoczy di Santo-Germano, Campo San Luca, Venezia, written in scholars’ Latin and delivered by private courier twenty-two days after it was dispatched.