“Certainly,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, beginning a series of little tongue-flick nibbles along the same route his fingers had just taken, making his way down toward the hardening nipple of her breast.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered, shivering blissfully as her body awakened to the transports to come. “That’s …” Her sigh expressed her increasing arousal. She tried to hold her breath so that she could feel the whole of what he did without the distraction of breathing; she finally had to inhale, and as she did, his mouth touched her breast, creating another surge of sensitivity that left her superbly weak, and each subsequent breath renewed the coursing thrill of his skillful caresses. As he continued to feel his way along the rises and curves of her flesh, Thetis began to succumb to the rapture that welled from the inmost part of her. She could feel her body gather as if readying for release. “Not yet, not yet,” she murmured as he reached the seascented recesses at the apex of her thighs. “Not yet; not yet.” This time she was a bit more forceful. “I am not ready.”
“Then I will explore farther afield,” he said, the musical quality of his voice as enticing as what his hands were doing to her hips.
“If I had more flesh, you would be better pleased,” she said as she glanced down at her body. “I am all bones and sinew.”
“That does not matter, so long as you are fulfilled,” he said, stopping his expert ministrations. “It is your delectation that signifies, not how your body is formed.”
She closed her eyes. “I will imagine I am voluptuous as a Tunisian dancing girl,” she said. She had seen one once, when she was still unmarried in Constantinople; then the woman’s luxurious black skin and ample curves had seemed unimaginably sensual, opulent and enticing, a feast for the senses and sensations; now, the memory provided her with an unhappy comparison to her current state.
To her astonishment, he said, “No. Do not yearn for anything but for yourself. It is you, as you are, that I seek. That is the reason blood is so important to our touching: nothing is as uniquely you as your blood, and nothing else is so truly alive.” He bent and kissed the sharp rise of her hip. “This is you, and your hands are you, and all your skin is you, contains you.” He resumed his tantalizing stroking of her flanks and legs, causing tingles wherever he touched.
“Why does this gratify you?” She was growing curious, and her excitement added to the urgency of her question. “You could demand so much more.”
He moved up her body and kissed her; it was a long, complex kiss, calming and inflaming at once, bringing both tranquillity and ecstasy to her; the restlessness that had been increasing within her was replaced with serene anticipation, and a feeling of equanimity that she had not known since the birth of her first child. When they finished the kiss, he moved back just far enough to be able to speak. “It gratifies me because you accept what I can give to you. You permit me to know a quality of your soul, not simply a spasm of the flesh.”
Her lips formed words, but no sound came until she began to weep. “I didn’t understand. I thought I did, but I didn’t.” There was a kind of anguish in her that she could not express and it made her crying worse. Kissing the tears from her face, he sheltered her in his arms, his whole attention on her; he held her until her sobs abated and she clung to him with more ardor than misery, and her heartbeat once again revealed a return of sensual rapture. Gradually, he began to stroke her as he had before, and to ignite the many fervid responses he had discovered in her; she wakened quickly to the promise of answered need. “Yes,” she exulted as he finally moved between her legs, using his tongue to set off minute explosions of ineffable transports that suddenly burgeoned into a pulsing release that amazed her with its intensity as much as its vastness. It took her a short while to come to herself, and when she did, she felt Ragoczy Franciscus’ mouth still on her throat. “Remarkable,” she said slowly.
“Yes, it was,” he said, rolling onto his back and giving her his chest to rest upon.
“I never felt anything like that,” she said a bit later. “I didn’t know I could—did you?”
He kissed her forehead. “I hoped,” he told her.
“Oh,” she said, closing her eyes for a brief rest while the last of her excitation faded from her body. When she opened her eyes again, the room was awash in pallid sunshine and Ragoczy Franciscus was fully dressed in a kandys of black silk topped with a curly, black-shearling shuba. She sat up quickly, pulling the blanket about her. “I must have fallen asleep.”
“You did,” he said, his eyes affectionate. “I sent word to Sinu that you had come into this withdrawing room to get warm. There is a very cold, high wind coming out of the northeast.”
Her alarm increased. “Do they know … anything?”
“You mean about our time together? I doubt it. Rojeh has taken good care that any speculation is quashed at the outset; I am sure he has offset most suspicions.” He indicated a woolen talaris laid over the back of a rosewood chair. “I asked Sinu to bring your clothes here. I told her you would want to have her help dressing when you awoke,” he went on. “It is your usual custom, and she would think it odd if I had not asked.”
“I have done something reckless, coming to you as I did, and the falling asleep where I could be found by anyone in the household,” she muttered, preparing to get up. “You had better leave me alone or the servants will talk, no matter what your Rojeh does.”
“He laughs at any suggestions that there is any unbecoming conduct in this house. He boasts of my remoteness and my inclination to hold apart from foreigners. So far, your servants, and mine, are persuaded.”
She glared at him. “You had best leave, then, or no one will—”
He started toward the door. “I will ask Sinu to assist you, and to bring you your breakfast. I am sorry that we have only millet-loaf and butter for you to eat, but food is growing scarcer as the year winds down.” Saying this, he slipped out into the corridor, where he found Pentefilia waiting, her thin arms crossed and a sharp expression in her hazel-green eyes. “Good day to you” was his unflustered greeting.
“You shouldn’t be alone with my mother,” she criticized.
“I was worried that she might have taken ill,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “She was cold in the night and went into the withdrawing room to make the most of the fire there.”
“Still, you shouldn’t be with her. She’s a widow, and you are not my father. Patriarch Stavros says that it could lead to temptation and torment.” Her expression did not soften, nor did she show any inclination to move from her post. “I saw you go into the withdrawing room, just after Sinu left.”
“I have a jar of lamp-oil I keep there, and I wanted to refill the lamps so that your mother would have a pleasant scent to waken her.” He could see that Pentefilia had no intention of departing, so he said, “Do you know where Sinu is? Your mother wants to get dressed.”
“I am not leaving,” said Pentefilia defiantly. “You cannot make me leave.”
“No. I do not suppose I could do that,” said Ragoczy Franciscus mendaciously but with an accommodating smile. “That is why I plan to seek her out.”
“Sinu is in the washing room, doing our clothes,” said Pentefilia as if parting with a military secret.
“Thank you,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, adding as he turned away, “You may want to knock on the door and assure yourself that all is well.”
“I will,” said Pentefilia.
Ragoczy Franciscus made his way down to the lowest level of the house; in the kitchen he ordered Dasur to heat up a wedge of millet-loaf and prepare a pot of mint tea. “She is finally rising.”
“Just as well. Herakles is fretting, and not just because his hip is giving him pain.” Dasur gestured to the shelves across from the open hearth. “Look at that! It is almost as bare as a stork’s nest in winter.”
“I can arrange for a goat or two from the Jou’an-Jou’an camp,” Ragoczy Franciscus offered. “It is not much, but as there has been no market for ten days, everyone is s
hort on food.”
“Will the Jou’an-Jou’an give you any?” Dasur asked. “Most of those camped around the town keep their food and their livestock for themselves.”
“I have been treating their horses for cracked, peeling hooves; they have lost nine head to the condition and I hope they will not lose more. So long as the herd improves, I doubt they will begrudge me a goat or two,” he said with a slight raising of his brows.
“Then take them,” said Dasur.
“I must go to the Jou’an-Jou’an camp today, and I will fetch a goat or two.”
“The goats will hardly be fat, but it is better than nothing but millet-cake and cheese.” Dasur took a tray from the plateboard. “How much longer will the Jou’an-Jou’an remain?”
Ragoczy Franciscus nodded. “They meant to move on before now, but many of their ponies cannot walk, and that has kept them where they are. As soon as they can do so, I know they will leave.”
Dasur went to get the millet-cake. “Then I must look for another source of meat, against their going.” He cut two deep wedges from the round loaf. “The widow’s breakfast will be ready shortly.”
“Then I had best summon her woman,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, and left the kitchen, finding his way through the dim, narrow corridors without hesitation. He had almost reached the washing room when he heard a commotion beyond the walls of the house, and a rising chorus of shouts. Pausing, he tried to make out what he heard and realized that people in the street were crying, “Fire! Fire!” Quickly he retraced his steps to the kitchen, demanding, “Where is Rojeh? Where is Aethalric? Chtavo?”
“They are with the mason at the widow’s house, with Herakles,” said Dasur. “Is something wrong?”
“I fear so,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “I want you to put one of the children to watch in my study”—it was the highest room in the house—“and then I want you to ready a cart, in case you have to leave.”
“Why should I leave?” Dasur asked.
“Because there is a fire somewhere in Sarai,” said Ragoczy Franciscus bluntly. “Do not wait until you see flames at the door: leave if the fire turns in this direction.”
Dasur paled visibly. “I will do as you order.”
“Good. I will return when I can, but I must rely upon you to protect the people in this house. Do you understand?” He saw Dasur duck his head. “Good.” With that, he rushed toward the stable-yard and, after a swift glance around to be sure he was not seen, vaulted over the high wall and into the side-yard of Eleutherios Panayiotos’ house. A quick glimpse of the sky told him that the fire was still some distance away, for the smoke sliding on the brisk wind was not dense enough to indicate close proximity. He rushed through the yard toward the house itself, calling to Rojeh and the others as he went.
“My master?” Rojeh answered, stepping out of a partially demolished shed where workmen’s tools were stored.
“There is a fire. We must go help fight it,” he said curtly. He pointed toward the sky.
“So that is what the clamor is all about,” said Aethalric. “I wondered why the din—”
“A bad thing,” said Herakles. “It could damage fishing, being down toward the docks.”
“So it might,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as the others came up to him. “I will provide two silver pieces for any of you who decide to help battle the fire.”
At that Aethalric grinned. “I would cross the Serpent Sea if the pay was good enough,” he announced, and surveyed the others. “What about you?”
Chtavo rubbed his hands together. “I am with you.”
“Those of you who want to come, come. If you would rather stay here, then guard the widow and her children, and protect her house,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, heading for the main gate. “Bring buckets and rakes.”
The mason, a powerful, squat man with spatulate hands and a much-broken nose, spoke up. “I have my wagon behind the house. It has all manner of tools.”
“Very good,” Ragoczy Franciscus called over his shoulder. “Bring it and all you have.” As he reached the gate, he pulled back the bolt and shoved it open. “Hurry.”
The sound of urgent voices was rising, becoming a howl in counterpoint to the wind; in the south, smoke was billowing out over the high stone wall of the town, roiling along the two long piers, and hugging the shore of the sea beyond. From all over Sarai people were running toward the smoke, creating confusion in the street and the first stirrings of panic in the town’s inhabitants.
“Is there anyone in the house?” Aethalric shouted as he came to the gate, rake in one hand, bucket in the other.
“There is no one that I know of,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “I will offer to help fight the fire.” He disliked fire intensely and had to steel himself to face it; fire had licked most of the skin from his body two centuries earlier, and the experience was still fresh in his memory; had it taken hold of him then, he would have died the True Death: for a time after it happened, he wished he had, so agonizing was the damage it did. He set his teeth and called out to Rojeh, “Fetch me pails.”
“I will, my master,” Rojeh answered, and came from the shed carrying an array of buckets, pails, and a small barrel. “Which do you want?”
“Leave the barrel, give the two metal buckets to me, and find me a rake,” Ragoczy Franciscus said as Chtavo and Herakles hurried out the gate, armed with pails and shovels.
Rojeh appeared with a long rake and an ax. “We may need both of these.”
“Give me the ax. You keep the rake,” Ragoczy Franciscus said, moving aside as the mason and his apprentice moved the donkey-drawn cart through the gate.
The apprentice nodded, his young face showing stark dread. “Famine a dying sun, and now this. The world is ending.”
“Then you will have nothing to worry about when this is over,” snapped the mason, and all but shoved the young man into the street; the donkey and the cart lurched after him.
Satisfied that no one remained at Eleutherios Panayiotos’ house, Ragoczy Franciscus motioned Rojeh out into the street, stepped out beside him, and pulled the gate closed behind them. “I think the Street of the Water Temple would be the quickest. Not too many will use it.”
“And it goes directly to the waterfront, and the Fishermen’s Market,” Rojeh said, agreeing. “If that square isn’t burning yet, it is a good staging area for fighting the fire.”
Ragoczy Franciscus hefted the ax so that the handle lay on his shoulder and taking the bucket in his other hand, he set out at a rapid walk. “Be careful as you go.”
As they started down the narrow, ancient street, they saw people teeming out of their houses, many with valuables clutched in their arms, some with children around them clinging to their clothes. Women struggled with infants in their arms, and older children tugged along younger ones, all of them making for the western gate of the town, which was the farthest away from the fire. In amongst them ran men with chests and other booty in their arms; which were rightful owners salvaging treasure and which were thieves making off with plunder was impossible to determine. Everywhere shouts and wails of alarm created an incomprehensible din, and the confusion increased steadily as Ragoczy Franciscus and Rojeh made their way toward the ominous clouds of dark-gray smoke.
From a side street, a man in Armenian clothing came running, arms windmilling, his face contorted in a rictus of fear. He careened into Ragoczy Franciscus, cursed, shoved himself free, and went on at a more frantic pace, shouting incoherently as he went.
“He is frightened,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as he brushed himself off. “More than I am.”
They reached the livestock-market square and found that this was the main staging area for those willing to fight the fire. Emrach Sarai’af was standing to one side, shouting for foreigners to come to him. His big arms were crossed over his barrel chest as if to help him shout more loudly. As he caught sight of Ragoczy Franciscus, he pointed to him. “You are here! I have sent your servants to the bucket line.”
“Very good. Would you like me to join them?” Ragoczy Franciscus assumed a sang-froid he did not feel. “My manservant and I are at your disposal. What is burning, and how far has it spread?”
“One of the wharves is burning, and the warehouses next to it. They contain furs and wood, which also burn, which makes it much worse,” said Emrach. “A few of the smaller buildings adjoining the warehouses have also started to burn, and sparks are setting small fires near the main blaze. At least the wind is not blowing the flames deeper into the town. That is something in our favor.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you think you could help take down the small houses between the fire and this square? We are going to pull down as many as we can. Most of them are poor and made only of wood.” His eyes narrowed. “Well? It has to be done quickly.”
“Whose houses are they?” Ragoczy Franciscus asked.
“The dockworkers and other laborers. Don’t worry about damaging them. They are poor folks’ houses, and those who live in them haven’t much to lose.” He glared at the foreigner in black. “Do you say it should not be done?”
“No,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “But I regret the necessity. When you have little, it is a terrible thing to have that taken from you.”
“Oh, I realize that. With winter coming, it will be hard on those workers who have lost houses.” Emrach pointed toward a small cluster of shacks. “If you want to start there?”
“Very well,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “With whom will we work?”
“For now, you and your man are on your own,” Emrach declared, and looked past Ragoczy Franciscus to a group of Volgamen who were approaching. “You men. Go down to the wharf that isn’t burning and see that the boats there are safe. If they have to be towed out to sea, you must arrange that.”
Realizing that he had been dismissed, Ragoczy Franciscus signaled to Rojeh. “Let us start.”
“Are those houses empty?” Rojeh asked.
“I sincerely hope so,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, and trudged toward the huts. “Rough planking like that burns easily,” he said as they reached the rickety structures, seeing how they leaned together for support. “For the safety of the town, they should be razed.”
Saint-Germain 18: Dark of the Sun: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 36