“And where might that be?” Vermakrides. asked, annoyed that he had to press for information.
“In the Carpathians,” said Ragoczy Franciscus in a formidably polite tone that discouraged more inquiry. “Very high in the eastern crook.”
“Have you been gone long?” Vermakrides realized he was pushing his luck to ask, but the habits of his trading were too strong to be broken.
“More than a decade,” said Ragoczy Franciscus; he did not mention that his absence from his homeland would be correctly calculated in multiple decades—nine of them since his last visit there.
“A considerable time,” said Vermakrides, prepared to embark on more conversation.
But Ragoczy Franciscus cut him short. “If you will excuse me?” He sketched a reverence to Vermakrides and went to where Rojeh was standing, next to the enormous bone. “Have you found a place for the night?”
“The inn at the corner of the market? The one with the blue shutters? It is called the Wayfarers’ Refuge. The innkeeper has taken our animals into his barns and is preparing a room even now.” He spoke in the language of Egypt, fairly certain that only Ragoczy Franciscus would understand him.
“For a price,” said Ragoczy Franciscus drily in a slightly older version of the same tongue.
“Naturally for a price, luckily one that can be paid in silver,” said Rojeh; he paused a moment and finally broached a matter that had been niggling at him. “I hope the bar of silver you gave Ourisi will be enough to keep her safe.”
“So do I.”
“Will she survive?” Rojeh persisted.
“Will any of us? At least with silver and her freedom, she has a chance, unlike she would have, had she remained with Kasha. There was nothing more I could do: she was too ill to travel.” He reached down and touched the stone bone and said in Persian, “Hire some of the marketplace men to help you move this to the stable at the inn. Speaking of silver, give them a silver coin each—that should help to encourage them.”
“I will,” Rojeh said loudly enough to be overheard. “One silver coin each.”
Ragoczy Franciscus began to walk toward the inn, but stopped and turned back to Vermakrides, who was exchanging jokes with a group of camel-drovers from the south. “Why are you interested in the bone?”
“It is a wonder. I would like to display it,” said Vermakrides promptly. “Many would pay to see it, I think.”
“Pay to see it,” Ragoczy Franciscus echoed. “What a notion.” He paused. “I will consider it.”
“Well and good; I will come to your inn after supper, to make you an offer; you are at the Wayfarers’ Refuge, are you not?” said Vermakrides, and turned back to the camel-drovers.
“Yes; come there when you like,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, and continued on his way.
The interior of the Wayfarers’ Refuge smelled of smoke and wet leather, with a hint of slightly rancid cooking oil. The innkeeper—a man who had once been rotund but was now so thin that his flesh hung on him like an inner garment and whose face was so sunken that he resembled the Chinese fighting dogs—reverenced Ragoczy Franciscus, indicating the flight of stairs behind him. “Be welcome, Man from the West. Your servant has already prepared your quarters.”
“That is very good of you,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.
The innkeeper set a scale on the counter and waited. “Do you want feed for your animals, Man from the West?”
Ragoczy Franciscus considered for a moment, then said, “Yes.” He saw the greed in the innkeeper’s eyes and asked, “Has my traveling companion paid for our accommodations yet?”
“He has given me the initial payment for the rooms. Anything else must be paid when requested.” The innkeeper looked narrowly at Ragoczy Franciscus. “You have come from far to the east, your man told me: they say that the clans from the east are coming in greater numbers now. What have you seen?”
“Why do you ask?” Ragoczy Franciscus inquired.
“Travelers who stop here ask for advice; I want to have good information to provide them, for their sake. Traders pay well for such news.”
“Of course. They pay.”
“You do not give your goods away, foreigner,” said the innkeeper brusquely. “News is as valuable as goods in this town, and more so now, the last year and a half being so hard.”
“I will tell you as much as I can, for the protection of other travelers.” Thinking back to the Desert Cats, Ragoczy Franciscus answered carefully, “I would reckon that if the clans are on the move, it is because their own regions can no longer support them.”
“But where will they go? There is nothing for them here, and Ferghana is already overrun by clans looking for horses to steal.”
“The scrub is dying, giving way to moving sands,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, reporting what he had learned from Baru Ksoka as well as what he had seen. “They cannot survive on sand.”
“Nor can anyone,” said the innkeeper. He pointed to the window. “The wastes between the seas are doing much the same thing, the grass and scrub drying up and giving way to shifting sands. At least we have the Amu Darya to give us water, or we might have to abandon our homes, too. We are fortunate to have the river.” He glowered, his head down. “As it is, many of us have starved already.”
“It is much the same everywhere we have been,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “Starvation and its companions—illness and desperation.”
“We gave foals and kids to the gods, and when they did not suffice, we gave sons and daughters. It has not been enough.” The innkeeper looked at Ragoczy Franciscus. “What have you lost, foreigner?”
“All my family,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, accurately but misleadingly.
“I have only one wife and two children left. I could not bear to part with any of them,” said the innkeeper in a sudden burst of overwrought emotion. “Those coming from the West say that there the sun remains weak and the cold is everywhere.”
Ragoczy Franciscus took money from the string of cash in his sleeve. “Here are coins enough for the food, the feed, and something extra so you may make other offerings to the gods.”
The innkeeper took the cash and did his best to smile. “This is most generous.”
“May it bring you what you seek,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, ducking his head before going off toward the stairs. “Which rooms are assigned to my companion and me?”
“The two at the end of the north arm.”
“Thank you,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as he began to climb. “Oh,” he said, stopping on the third riser, “there is a Byzantine merchant coming later in the evening to talk with me.”
“It will cost you to receive him,” said the innkeeper automatically.
“Of course it will,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, resuming his climb to the unusually wide corridor that led to the north arm of the building.
Some little time later, one of the slaves came up to Ragoczy Franciscus’s room to announce, “There is a Byzantine merchant waiting in the visitors’ room.”
Ragoczy Franciscus tapped on Rojeh’s door and said he would return shortly. “He and I may strike a bargain.”
“For the bone,” Rojeh said incredulously.
Vermakrides. was waiting in the visitors’ room, seated on a pile of cushions near the newly lit fire. He had a cup of wine in his hand, and he nearly spilled its contents when Ragoczy Franciscus came through the door. “May the Saints be praised!” he exclaimed.
Ragoczy Franciscus reverenced Vermakrides. “You said you wanted to discuss the bone I brought to—”
“To the point. Yes. Yes, I do,” Vermakrides said impulsively. “I very much want to discuss the bone. You say you came upon it in a landslide?”
“I did,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.
“You said this was in Ferghana?” Vermakrides persisted.
“Yes. On the road from Kokand and Tashkent.” He regarded Vermakrides for a short while. “Do you plan to look for the place?”
“It had occurred to me,” the Byzantin
e admitted.
“I will hope you have good fortune, if you try,” Ragoczy Franciscus said cordially. “There was a second landslide shortly after my traveling companion and I removed the bone, and all that had been uncovered by the first was buried again by the second.”
“If what you say is true—” Vermakrides began, and stopped short as he glanced at Ragoczy Franciscus.
“Why should I speak false? If I wished to conceal the place I found the bone, there are many easier ways to dissemble. I could have claimed to have found it anywhere from here to China, on another branch of the Silk Road.” His voice remained genial, but there was something in his eyes that held the attention of the merchant.
“It could be that your account is fanciful,” he said cautiously.
“It could be,” seconded Ragoczy Franciscus, a slight emphasis on could, “but as it happens, I am telling the truth. You will have to take my Word for it.”
“If I must, I will,” said Vermakrides. “I will also accept that I might not be able to find it.”
Ragoczy Franciscus shrugged. “You may find other bones, if you decide to look for them.”
Vermakrides tapped his fingers on the rim of his wine cup, and then looked up, startled. “I should have offered as soon as you came in: let me buy you a cup of wine.”
“Thank you; it is a most gracious offer, but I do not drink wine,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.
There was a brief silence between them, then Vermakrides coughed and said, “About the bone? Do you have a price in mind?”
“I do,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.
Vermakrides blinked. “What might it be?”
“Four Ferghana horses of my choosing,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, “and one full measure of gold.”
“That is a substantial amount,” said Vermakrides.
“So it is,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “The bone is unique.”
Vermakrides pulled at his lower lip, twisting his beard as he did. “Three horses and a three-quarter measure of gold.”
This was a larger counteroffer than Ragoczy Franciscus had been expecting; he covered his surprise by saying, “Four horses and a three-quarter measure of gold.”
Fiddling with his beard, Vermakrides set his cup aside and took a short time to ponder. “That is a very tempting proposition,” he admitted, and gulped down the last of his wine while Ragoczy Franciscus waited calmly for the Byzantine merchant to decide.
Vermakrides gave him a careful look. “I will not offer a higher price than the one we have discussed.”
“Let me see the horses before I decide.” Ragoczy Franciscus gestured toward the door. “We will fix the matter shortly.”
Rising, Vermakrides smiled. “I can see you are a careful man,” he approved, and led the way out of the inn to the horse-market to conclude their transaction.
The three horses Ragoczy Franciscus chose were young, strengthy animals: a copper-dun mare, a black-and-white-spotted stallion that Rojeh favored, and a splendid blue roan mare that Ragoczy Franciscus had selected as his own. The ponies—now each carrying lighter loads as their burdens were spread over more backs and some of the crates and barrels were growing lighter as the food and water they contained was depleted—were able to pick up their pace. They made rapid progress along the Kushan Road toward the Volga Delta at the north side of the Caspian Sea.
“I estimate our speed at nineteen thousand paces yesterday and this morning,” said Rojeh as they broke camp in midafternoon.
Ragoczy Franciscus was gathering up their bedding and setting it in place on the pack saddles, using heavy hempen nets to hold all in place, when he allowed himself the luxury of a single chuckle. “What a strange trophy to want.”
Rojeh realized Ragoczy Franciscus meant the Byzantine merchant. “What sort of an exhibit do you think he will make of it?”
Ragoczy Franciscus considered his answer. “I have no idea.”
“Didn’t he say he wanted to display it and charge for people to see it?” Rojeh could sense Ragoczy Franciscus’ disinterest. “When he took it, he said he would show it as a giant’s bone, or a dragon’s.”
“Yes, he did. An odd notion.”
“That Byzantine merchant may succeed in his plan, if he can bring the bone to Trebizond without mishap. Who knows what people may make of it if he actually displays it?” With a quick, tight smile, Rojeh went to work on the riding horses. “You took sustenance from the copper-dun, did you?”
“Yes. Two nights from now it will be a pony I drink from, and then, two nights later, my blue roan, and after that, the cinder-brown pony, then the black-and-white. I have adhered to that routine since we left Tok-Kala.” He patted his mare’s neck. “It is sufficient to keep me alive, but it puts no flesh on my bones.”
“So I see,” said Rojeh, reaching into their grooming box and handing a stiff-bristled brush to Ragoczy Franciscus.
“Just as well, being a bit gaunt just now. A man with abundant flesh in these times would become the object of envy and suspicion.” He looked at Rojeh, his face unreadable.
Rojeh, nonplussed, began to groom the copper-dun, his austere features showing little of his thoughts. Finally, as he started brushing their ponies, he remarked, “Have you wondered at all about what has happened in Yang-Chau since we left? You haven’t said much about it.”
“There is little to say. With such harsh weather along the Silk Road, if the ports of China and India were not badly compromised, they would be bringing foodstuffs and other necessities with them, for there would be handsome profits to be made, if such things were available.” He squinted up at the sky. “Though it shines, the sun is still veiled—I can feel its lack of power as I have since shortly after we crossed the Crane River. It may be that wherever the sun shines, its weakness has taken a toll.” He got his saddle.
“But Yang-Chau is very far away,” said Rojeh, pulling out saddle pads for their riding horses, and handing one to Ragoczy Franciscus.
“And we have come a great distance without finding the sun any stronger, and there is evidence everywhere that the last year has been unusually cold and stormy everywhere, judging from what we have heard. There are no accounts of good harvests or flourishing land,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as he finished securing the girths.
Rojeh began to saddle his black-and-white stallion, remarking as he did, “I hope the mares will not come into season anytime soon.”
“And I. But they may not, since they have been on short rations for so long,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “Hunger delays such things.”
“Truly,” said Rojeh as he tightened the girths on his Jou’an-Jou’an saddle. “We will have to replace the foot-loop straps soon. They are showing too much wear.”
“I agree,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as he took his bridle from the tack trunk. He slipped the headstall over the mare’s ears and reached for the throat-latch to buckle it. “I may have to fashion new foot-loops; the iron of these is beginning to rust. When we reach Sarai, perhaps I can arrange something. There must be at least one smithy there where I may work.” He put his foot into the iron foot-loop and stepped up into his saddle.
It was sixteen days later that they saw the many mouths of the Volga glistening ahead, and the expanse of the Caspian Sea beyond, flat and glossy as a shield of polished brass. A few small ships moved upon it, but there was a lack of activity that boded ill for the people of the stone-walled town of Sarai, which stood on the last rocky spit of land in the delta; it rose steeply from the sea’s edge to a crag. A single, steep road led up to the gate, midway up the slope, an approach that discouraged attackers. Beyond the high stone walls, the town was surrounded by marsh, the waterways marked with reeds and occasional low docks where boats were tied. There was a quantity of islands created by the river, which just now were filled with tents of all sorts, from small cloth tents of the wandering beggars to the skin-covered tents of the clans and peoples from as far away as the Atlai Mountains and the expanses of the Gobi Desert. A maze of fords and low br
idges connected the islands to the approach to the town. A faint odor of decay hung over the marshes, and a low, clinging mist was just beginning to rise from the profusion of waterways, sinister in the glistening midday light. There was very little activity in the various encampments, which added a second apprehension to the appearance of the delta islands.
“Look. Some of those tents are Jou’an-Jou’an; goat-hide over a wooden frame with horses painted on them, and horse-tail standards,” Rojeh remarked as he came up to Ragoczy Franciscus, who, this day, was on the copper-dun mare. Both men wore heavy silken Byzantine paragaudions—procured from Vermakrides—over thick, Persian leggings of wool, and tooled-and-heeled Scythian-style boots. The day was warm enough that neither man had bothered to don a cloak or a sen-gai.
“So they are,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “But that might not be significant.”
“I didn’t mean that the Desert Cats are here,” said Rojeh quickly.
“They may be,” Ragoczy Franciscus allowed. “And perhaps, if we are taken into the town, I will come and see which clans are among those gathered on the islands. If we must pass on tomorrow, then—” He shook his head once.
By midafternoon they had climbed the road to reach the gates of Sarai and had been admitted, but with immediate restriction, imposed upon them by a single guard who confronted them immediately inside the gates. “You must remain over there, you and your animals,” the officer who let them in ordered, pointing to a large pen to the side of the gate. He spoke an outlandish tongue that was the regional language with an admixture of Silk Road Greek and Persian. His weapon was a long, menacing spear with a hook where the point should be, in contrast to the guard, who carried a Persian shimtare and a mace.
“We will; but why?” Ragoczy Franciscus asked in Byzantine Greek.
“Our Master of Foreigners must speak with you,” said the officer, annoyed at having to answer. “Emrach Sarai’af has been notified of your coming. He will decide if you may be admitted, and how long you may stay, if you are.”
“I understand and accept these terms,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, his manner distantly polite.
The officer coughed. “From where do you come?” He was spared more inquiry as a large, bearded man in Byzantine clothing approached in a chariot of western design. He hailed the officer as his slave halted the pair of horses drawing the vehicle. Seen at this nearer vantage, his height was impressive and there was a deep scar running from his forehead, through his eyebrow, to his cheek, disappearing into his beard; his nose was aquiline and his mouth was wide. He stepped down from the chariot and came toward the officer. “What is it you want? The Volgamen haven’t arrived yet, have they?” His Byzantine Greek was reasonably good, but his accent would have been laughable in Constantinople.
Saint-Germain 18: Dark of the Sun: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 28