Saint-Germain 18: Dark of the Sun: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “They have helped our wounded and shared their food,” the Kaigan said, making this bear more weight by speaking with loud authority.

  “Only to earn our gratitude,” Imgalas said, spitting for emphasis.

  “This man is helping us! You will not despise him!” Baru Ksoka barked out his commands, his face flushing to the color of Damascus leather.

  “Do not shout,” said Imgalas, relenting for the present. “I meant nothing to his discredit.” The necessary lie received an automatic nod.

  “Take the sack and distribute the chopped hay to the ponies and goats; be sure that all of them have some,” said Baru Ksoka, now sounding more tired than angry.

  Imgalas frowned as if wanting to say more, then hefted the sack and trudged away toward the large pen of driven posts and heavy rope where the ponies and goats were nominally confined.

  “That was a generous act,” said Baru Ksoka as soon as Imgalas was beyond hearing range.

  “It is also a practical one. Neither your clan nor my companion and I wish to prolong our journey any more than we must.” He gave a small, single nod.

  Baru Ksoka considered this. “You are correct in that.”

  “It is not a question of being correct, Kaigan, it is a question of living,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and took a step back. “I want to be sure that Jekan Madassi has put aside meat for Dukkai.”

  “Of course she has,” said Baru Ksoka. “She wants no curse on her family.”

  “I should think not; she is a most sensible woman, and worthy to be the head of her family,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and nodded to Baru Ksoka again before turning away and striding off toward the cooking fire again, where he slipped through the crowd of Desert Cats to Jekan Madassi’s side, near the spit where the spitted goat turned, and next to the large cauldron in which a stew of dried squashes, herbs, mushrooms, and garlic simmered. “You are fortunate that those markhor are so large.”

  “For that, the gods have been good to us in hard times,” said Jekan Madassi, a short, robust woman with bright blue eyes and deeply marked features. “Though I could wish for another markhor or two, and a serow as well. I would rejoice in having so much as a single animal for my spit: I prefer them good-sized and meaty.”

  “May your gods give you what you seek,” said Zangi-Ragozh.

  “They have been reluctant or unable to do so,” Jekan Madassi complained, her voice dropping as if to keep from being overheard.

  “It is not for you to deprecate the gods,” Baru Ksoka warned her.

  “Then order the foreigner to make our magician well, and they might grant us their protection again,” Jekan Madassi said, adding to Zangi-Ragozh, “I will send meat to her shortly.”

  “There are some who say her child is stealing her magic, which is what makes her ill.” Jekan Madassi gave him a sidelong stare.

  “All the more reason to think that the child will be a powerful magician when it is born,” said Zangi-Ragozh.

  “It may seem so,” said Jekan Madassi. “But in such hard times, there are those who will not believe a child can flourish while the mother declines.”

  Zangi-Ragozh concealed his alarm at this cold-blooded remark. “Once you get beyond the afflicted region, you may find that she, and her infant, will thrive.”

  “If such a place still exists, and if we do not have to fight too many foes to claim it,” said Jekan Madassi.

  “May it be so,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and made his way through the crowd once more, this time going toward his wagon, which Baru Ksoka had commandeered for Dukkai’s use. As he approached, he saw Gotsada climb down from the rear platform and raised his hand in greeting. “How does your cousin today?”

  “She is improved, I think,” said Gotsada, his voice more hopeful than certain.

  “That is encouraging,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “Is she awake?”

  “Oh, yes; and fretful. She dislikes her confinement.” Gotsada tried to maintain an air of friendliness, but anxiety gave his manner a sharp edge.

  Zangi-Ragozh nodded toward the rear platform. “I will tend to her for now. You go get your supper.”

  “I will be back when I have finished,” said Gotsada. “I will bring Dukkai her supper so that she may be well and strong again.”

  “Very good,” said Zangi-Ragozh, determined not to be put off by Gotsada’s ill-concealed hostility; he watched Gotsada go and then, quickly and lightly, sprang onto the platform and stepped through the heavy silk-canvas cover into the interior of the wagon. He saw Dukkai lying on her back on the hanging cot, her body supported by folded bear-skins, her face lit unsteadily by a small butterlamp set in the bracket on one of the cover supports. He had to stand slightly stooped to keep from brushing the roof of the cover with his head. “How do I find you, Dukkai?” he asked, nodding to her.

  “You find me bored,” she said, offering him a wan smile.

  “A very good sign,” he approved, ignoring her disbelieving snort.

  “I don’t want to have to live this way until my child is born,” she informed him.

  “It would trouble me if you did, for it would mean you were losing strength,” he said, and went to her side. “Is your cousin giving you good care?”

  “Gotsada?” She sighed. “He is doing the best he knows to do.”

  “You are not satisfied with his efforts?” Zangi-Ragozh asked, dropping down onto his knees beside the cot.

  She shook her head. “I know that what he has made is his best effort, too obviously. I tried to explain at first that he didn’t need to strive so hard, but it only made him fussier.” She waited while he moved his hand from her forehead to her throat, to test the pulse there. “What do you think, Zangi-Ragozh?”

  “I think you are a little better, but I also think you need to continue to be careful,” he told her. “You are not fully recovered, and you will not be for a while yet.”

  “A while yet,” she repeated.

  “I cannot anticipate how well you will do. If your infant is growing rapidly, that may cause you to be tired. If it is not growing quickly enough, it could still become dislodged.”

  “My limbs are feeling stiff,” she said.

  “Then work them gently, while you lie in bed. Stretch, and flex your arms and legs. I wouldn’t recommend you rising yet, except as you must. But stay in the wagon for a while longer. You are not up to walking about, no matter how much you long to do it.”

  She looked at him, a long, thoughtful scrutiny. “What do you think is wrong?”

  There was a loud shout from outside, and a general scuffle as Jekan Madassi decreed that the markhor was done and that all could eat.

  “I told you before—your child is not well-fitted in your womb, and until it is larger, it may be easily dislodged, and that would be a problem for you.” He took her hand, holding it gently, sensing her strained vitality.

  “You mean I would lose the child?” She shook her head. “That must not happen.”

  “Then you must remain where you are and keep yourself rested and still for another fortnight, at least.” He put his other hand over hers. “It is hard, I know, but you are sensible, and you have self-discipline to serve you.” He reached for a small crate and drew it nearer so he could use it as a stool. “It is a pity that you should be pregnant at such a time as we have to endure now.”

  “There are three other women in the clan who are pregnant,” she pointed out. “They are not as weak as I have become.”

  “Only two are pregnant now. Boksalli lost hers yesterday. And Meudan’s young son died the day before.” He had not been allowed to tend Boksalli, but had prepared an infusion for her to drink, and a poultice, to speed the purging of the womb lining. For Meudan he could offer no consolation, not with her loss so agonizingly recent; it would be many days before her grief would allow her to accept the commiseration of her family and clan.

  “Poor women,” said Dukkai, surprised to feel tears well in her eyes.

  “If the infant could not live within her, it certainly
could not live outside her; and Meudan’s son had been coughing for a fortnight,” said Zangi-Ragozh as kindly as he could.

  “Could they have been saved?” she asked him. “I would have done my utmost when they asked for my magic to protect them, but as it is, I cannot serve my people as they deserve.”

  “No, not just now,” he said, holding out his hand again.

  “Will I regain my strength when my child is born?” There was worry in her ice-blue eyes, and she touched him again as if for reassurance.

  “If the weather is better, and you eat well, you should not continue to suffer.”

  She studied his face again. “Hunger is hurting our clan, isn’t it?”

  “That, and the cold,” said Zangi-Ragozh.

  “If it continues, we will lose more than infants, won’t we?” Her eyes again filled with tears.

  “It is likely,” he said gently.

  “Then I have failed them.” Dukkai swallowed against a fresh bout of weeping. “My magic is needed, and I am a burden instead of a help, lying here in this hanging cot, unable to do more than sit up to piss.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I wish I could keep from crying. It seems so … so fragile a thing to do.”

  “Women with child often weep readily,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “It is no weakness.”

  She managed a single laugh. “You may think that, but I know my Desert Cats, and I am certain they have a poor opinion of me for it. Their women may cry, but not their magician.”

  “Even if that magician is a woman,” Zangi-Ragozh suggested.

  “Especially then,” she said. “They want me to be stronger than any of them, so they know my magic has power in it.” Dukkai shook her head. “I worry about that, too.”

  “That you are losing your magic,” he said.

  “That, and that I am failing my clan.” Her tears were falling in earnest now, and she did not bother to wipe them away. “I feel a complete ruin.”

  “You are not that,” Zangi-Ragozh promised her, leaning forward, his dark eyes fixed compellingly on hers. “You are not failing your people. You are providing an example for all of your Desert Cats, an assurance that this appalling time may be survived, and that you and your clan have something to live for, a good reason to do all you can to survive.”

  Dukkai sniffed and thought about what he said. “It would please me to think this,” she said at last.

  “You would not deceive yourself if you did,” he said, and touched her forehead with his lips.

  “That strange Western salute again,” she said, fingering the place his mouth had brushed.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You told me it is a token of honor,” she said.

  “And affection. The old Romans would call it piety—loyal, fond devotion.”

  She considered this. “Apostle Lazarus said that piety meant devotion to his God, and the God’s Son.”

  “So his sect uses the word, but the Romans applied it more generally,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “I prefer the old definition.”

  “And you feel this for me? loyal, fond devotion? Piety?” There was more longing in her question than she knew, so she was startled at the warmth of his answer.

  “Were you not the woman of Baru Ksoka, and not pregnant, I would want you to be my woman, for as long as it suited you to be.”

  Staring up at him, she could think of nothing to say to him, and so she shoved herself up and kissed his forehead. “Token for token.” She reached for his arm and pulled him down beside her, wrapping her arms around his waist. After a moment she blinked. “I can’t hear your heartbeat.”

  “Never mind,” he said, his voice low and melodic as she once again snuggled close to him. “It does not matter.”

  Text of a letter from Chu Sung-Neong, the Undersecretary of the Prefecture of Holin-Gol, to Minister K’an Shao-Shou, at the Wen Emperor’s capital at Chang’an; carried by a courier but never delivered.

  To the most worthy Minister K’an Shao-Shou at the Wen Emperor’s capital of Chang’an, the greetings of Chu Sung-Neong, Undersecretary of the Prefecture of Holin-Gol, on the behest of the Prefect Ting Yu-Huan, with utmost regard for the Wen Emperor and his Minister:

  Regretfully, I am charged with the task of informing Your Excellency that we cannot support the company of two hundred soldiers you have dispatched to this city to detain refugees from Chang’an; we are hardly able to provide for our own garrison, which is loyal to the Northern Wei Dynasty, no matter who wields the vermilion Brush in Da-Tong. Our soldiers here will be willing to apprehend those refugees summoned by your courts to answer criminal charges, but not to keep them as prisoners.

  Unfortunately, your soldiers have taken certain matters into their own hands, and that has led to most unwelcome incidents in this town. Five of the suspects seized, including two women, were pulled apart by four oxen, three were subjected to the execution of the bell, and the rest were mutilated and beheaded. None of this is acceptable to the Prefecture, and the new Magistrate, Ngo Hai-Ming, has dispatched his own condemnation of this flouting of law and social order, and his request that the troops be withdrawn at once.

  It is my sad duty to inform you that Holin-Gol is very low on civic provisions. We are halving difficulty feeding our own people, and the addition of your two hundred soldiers is imposing an intolerable burden on us. Dreadful acts of theft and other outrages have been perpetrated, and the new Magistrate has ordered our local militia to remove your soldiers from the town and not to admit them again, upon pain of death.

  Here in our town there has been a very cold summer, and now that the year its closing in to the dark, we are already seeing snow two days out of three. The snow its yellow and it bears an odor that is most offensive. This would be hard enough, but in a time when there have been almost no crops harvested, our Merchants’ Council has declared that many businesses in Holin-Gol will not survive the winter without some relief granted them by the Prefecture, which arrangement we are even now attempting to arrange. Another hard year lies ahead, and if we are not to collapse into anarchy, you must exercise prudence and call your soldiers back to Chang’an before something truly disastrous occurs.

  Sent this day by courier, the sixth day of the Fortnight of the Dying-Autumn Lanterns, at the order of the Prefecture of Holin-Gol.

  Chu Sung-Neong

  Undersecretary of the Prefecture of Holin-Gol

  (his chop)

  5

  Nine of the Desert Cats and Zangi-Ragozh rode after the furious sounder of boar; seven of the large, wild pigs ran squealing from the galloping ponies and the armed men who straddled them. Baru Ksoka stood in his metal foot-loops and took careful aim with his powerful bow, loosing his arrow as the leader of the boar swung around to rush at him, his tusks foaming. The boar staggered and his furious attack turned to a limping retreat as the Kaigan sent a second arrow into the boar’s flank; the animal tottered, then fell heavily onto his side, his blood spreading through the dusting of yellow snow. The rest of the sounder scattered, the boars keening in fury and dread.

  Imgalas rode up, his arrow notched to the string. “Shall we go after the others?” He sank onto his saddle and pulled his pony to a trot.

  “Try for at least two more,” Baru Ksoka said, and swung around in his saddle to look at Zangi-Ragozh. “Do you want to go with them?”

  “I’ll chase a boar for you,” said Zangi-Ragozh, who carried a Roman boar spear. “I want to see how much better your iron foot-loops let me aim.”

  Baru Ksoka laughed aloud. “You will be surprised,” he promised, and stepped down from his saddle, drawing his curve-bladed Nepalese chilanum to begin the task of gutting and skinning the dying boar. “Bring back a prize.”

  “I will,” Zangi-Ragozh promised as he hastened after Imgalas and the rest. He gathered the cinder-brown pony’s reins in his left hand and raised the spear with his right as he caught up with the other hunters.

  “See you don’t hurt anyone with that … that poker of yours,” Img
alas shouted to him.

  “I would not do such a thing,” Zangi-Ragozh called back.

  “That is a reckless sort of weapon,” Imgalas remarked.

  “No doubt it seems that way to one who does not know how to use it,” Zangi-Ragozh said, trying to maintain a genial demeanor; he spoke the Jou’an-Jou’an language much better now than he had even a fortnight ago. “If you like, I can show you.”

  “A spear against a boar when an arrow is possible? What do you take me for? Foreigners!” Imgalas scoffed, then allowed, “swell, why not? Perhaps you can use it well enough.” He pointed with his arrow, indicating one of the largest of the wild pigs. “You try to bring down that big one with the tattered ear. You can make a good kill; he’ll provide some meat, and enough leather for two saddles.” Waving Zangi-Ragozh away, he ordered the other men to follow him, whooping as they hurtled after a pair of boars.

  Zangi-Ragozh wheeled his pony and hurried after the boar Imgalas had indicated. He did not feel the harsh wind nor the bite of the cold in the scattered snowflakes. All his attention was on the boar, and on getting his pony close enough to throw the spear. Up ahead the ground rose into a low knoll, and the boar headed directly for it, Zangi-Ragozh and his pony steadily closing the distance between them and the wild pig. As he approached the fleeing animal, Zangi-Ragozh rose in the iron foot-loops and steadied himself for casting his boar spear, a risky and crucial preparation for the plunge. He maneuvered his pony close to the boar, held him there at a steady gallop while he prepared to thrust down with the long spear. His downward thrust rocked him, but his aim was true: the boar shrieked and kicked as he fell, and Zangi-Ragozh pulled in his cinder-brown pony to a walk, then guided him back to the boar, where the black-clad foreigner stepped down from the saddle—another benefit of the iron foot-loops—and approached the twitching boar, a long Darjeeling dao held ready for the final, fatal chop at the boar’s neck; the blood that gouted from the wound steamed in the frosty air. Bending down, he drove the blade into the pig’s belly as he drank the fountaining blood, wincing in spite of himself as he recalled the disemboweling knives that had killed him twenty-five hundred years ago.