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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  At the Fair Winds, the most appealing of the travelers’ inns available, Ragoczy Franciscus and Rojeh were ending their three-day stay, preparing to take the ferry over the Don. It was a long crossing, and the river was running high and fast, making the innkeeper, a Donman using a Greek name for the sake of Byzantine business, caution the two foreigners, “Make sure you lash everything down, and put two leads on your animals.”

  “We will,” muttered Ragoczy Franciscus, handing over two gold coins, a most generous settlement of their account.

  “Well, you are the sort of travelers I want to see back again,” said Leandros, winkling the coins out of sight. “Assuming anyone travels again.”

  “We must hope that they will,” said Rojeh.

  “They say there has been fighting far to the west. The Byzantine Emperor is striving to increase his empire,” said the innkeeper.

  “We have no argument with the Byzantine Emperor,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, who had overheard Leandros’ remark. “I hope it will not adversely affect your business.”

  “What business? If men like you are not carrying merchandise from the East, what is left for me? Just monks and other religious,” scoffed Leandros. “They expect to be housed for nothing, as a recognition of their holy work.”

  “That is unfortunate for you,” Rojeh sympathized, and looked over at Ragoczy Franciscus, who nodded once and glanced out into the courtyard. “The mules are loaded and the horses saddled. We have only to take them and depart. I have copper coins for the grooms.”

  “Good,” Ragoczy Franciscus said; his voice was husky but improving from what it had been. He made a point of using it with Rojeh. “And feed?”

  “They’ve sold us a sack of grain, and they say that in Donrog, they have more grain for sale—or they have had. A sack on this side and another on the far side of the crossing, and we should reach the Dnieper without running out of grain.” Rojeh pointed to the sack on Ragoczy Franciscus’ mule’s saddle. “They’ve shifted your chest of earth to my mule, and the clothes case to yours, as well. It makes a more equitable distribution of loads.”

  “So long as the weight is even,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, and went to mount his blue roan.

  “The ferry is at the foot of the Red Wharf,” said Rojeh as he took his stallion to the mounting block and swung into the saddle. “They said they only have three other passengers—local fur traders.”

  “I imagine they have delivered their hides and are returning to their hunting grounds,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.

  They rode out of the courtyard and along the end of the market-square, their horses walking briskly, and the mules, for once, willingly keeping pace with them.

  Turning toward the Red Wharf, Rojeh reminded Ragoczy Franciscus, “We’ve paid our passage already. If they ask for more, I will remind them.”

  “Yes. Good.” He was already hoarse and so welcomed the chance to remain silent until asked to identify himself at the loading end of the slip.

  The ferrymen were thick-bodied, their shoulders made massive by their work, and their hands hard as planking from constant exposure to salt spray; they were dressed in wide-cut paragaudions belted in broad bands of leather, with fur leggings and northern-fashion boots; they all had short thwarts to sit upon to ply their oars, and poles to use in shallow water. They got the two men and four animals aboard their ferry with minimal fuss and helped to tie the double leads so that the horses and mules would not be moving about the deck of the wide-beamed boat.

  “Is there somewhere we can sit during the passage?” Rojeh asked, seeing Ragoczy Franciscus turn pale. “Donrog is a distance away.”

  “Of course,” said one of the men. “At the edge of the hold. There’s a wide lip on the hatch.”

  “Very good,” said Rojeh. “Is there much cargo in the hold?”

  “Enough for ballast,” said the man, and laughed.

  “What about their cargo is amusing?” Ragoczy Franciscus asked as he sat down, taking hold of the rim of the hold with both hands.

  “Probably nothing,” said Rojeh. “You know how men of this stripe are.”

  Ragoczy Franciscus rubbed his newly trimmed, very short beard and remarked, “The fur traders are not aboard yet.”

  “No. But they will be shortly. I heard one of the ferrymen mention it,” said Rojeh, who could sense Ragoczy Franciscus’ discomfort more than he could see it. “Unless something has changed from last night, we should then be off for the northern shore.”

  “Doubtless the fur traders have business to attend to, and that delays them,” said Ragoczy Franciscus a bit distantly; he stared out across the swirling water to the far shore, and he calculated how long their crossing would be. “This may be difficult.”

  “So I thought, said Rojeh. “I have your seat-cushion for you. It is filled with your native earth.”

  “That will help,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, and waited where he was while Rojeh went to take it from their clothes case. “Thank you, old friend. I apologize for being surly, but—”

  “You are hungry. I know. You need not explain.” Rojeh sat down beside Ragoczy Franciscus and handed him the cushion. “Anyone fasting as long as you have may be expected to be querulous from time to time.”

  “Yes. Lamentably, I am that. It is wearing upon me, these months of no nourishment.” He took a deep breath and went on, “In a few days, when you get your meal, let me try the blood before you kill it, if you would.”

  “Do you think you’re ready?” Rojeh asked.

  “I will know soon enough,” said Ragoczy Franciscus a bit grimly.

  “All right. Tell me when you want—” He stopped as the ferry lurched; three fur-clad men were coming aboard. All three carried a considerable array of weapons associated with fur traders—knives, bludgeons, scrapers, hatchets, awls, and pikes—and all three looked eager for a fight, for they swaggered up to the tillerman and confronted him with crossed arms, their stances promising bellicosity.

  “I’ll fight you for passage,” a fur trader grumbled, his head lowered as if to charge the tillerman.

  “No, you will not,” said the tillerman, unaffected by this demonstration of pugnacity. “You will pay as all must pay.”

  “Are you afraid to fight me?” the fur trader challenged.

  “No. I am afraid to damage my hands,” said the tillerman. “That should make you careful about fighting me, since you want to reach Donrog.”

  “We can hold it on course,” said the fur trader pugnaciously. “You, Tszandi. You’re strong enough.”

  “I may be,” said the third fur trader. “But I know nothing of these waters.”

  “You see, fur traders, if you know the course, you can steer it, just as he observed,” said the tillerman in a very rational tone: clearly he had had such encounters in the past. “But the Don is treacherous, and the tide is turning.”

  Grumpily satisfied, Bahkei stepped back and slung his arms around his two companions’ shoulders, saying, “If he is so worried about his precious fingers, then let’s leave him to it.”

  The men strutted away as if they had bested the tillerman in a contest; they took up positions in the bow of the ferry, braced on the rise of the hull at the loading plank, elbows resting on the wale, facing the water they were bent on crossing.

  “Powerful men, those three,” said Rojeh.

  “And ready to be away,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, adjusting his cushion against the vertiginous pull of the river.

  In a very tittle time, the ferry shoved away from the Red Wharf and started across the expanse of the Don’s mouth, the ferrymen poling the boat out as far as they could before sitting down to row the rest of the way. Beneath the boat, the water churned and contended, tide against current, making eddies of froth along the way. The ferrymen knew their jobs well, and the boat made good progress toward the northwestern shore, passing groups of fishing boats and small open craft in which one or two men pulled up nets of fish and crabs. They were somewhat more than halfway acros
s when the wind kicked up, bringing spitting rain and blustery gusts that rocked the ferry and made the crew strain to keep at their work. As the ferry continued to bounce toward the far bank, the horses and mules grew restive and struggled against their cross-ties. Rojeh and Ragoczy Franciscus went to tend to the animals, making every effort to calm them with reassuring words and gentle pats, but in spite of such attention, the horses sweated and pawed in dismay and the mules kept their heads up and eyes rolling.

  “Knock them on the head,” one of the fur traders recommended while Bahkei and Tszandi leaned over the prow as far as they could next to the hoisted landing plank, to mark their progress through the water.

  “It would only make matters worse,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as calmly as he could. “They have a long way to go yet today.”

  “A hide that color, it could be worth a lot,” the fur trader said.

  “She is worth more as a living horse,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.

  The fur trader laughed and went back to his place in the bow; he spoke with his companions and elicited laughter from them as well. The men made loud, derogatory remarks about foreigners, but gave it up when neither Ragoczy Franciscus nor Rojeh bothered to respond.

  Gradually the far shore grew nearer, and as if to make the passage more memorable, the ferry was increasingly the plaything of the wind, skidding and wallowing on the capricious waves. The horses neighed in distress and strove not to fall; the mules became more refractory, striking out with their hooves and teeth when the boat pitched too vigorously.

  Rojeh came up to Ragoczy Franciscus and raised his voice to be heard. “This is very hard. They’re overexcited and that makes for problems.”

  “We will have to rest the animals on the other side,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as loudly as he could.

  “Is there anything you can give them?” Rojeh asked.

  “I have no more syrup of poppies, or pansy infusion.” He cocked his head toward the fur traders. “If there were beer aboard, they would have consumed all of it by now, I should think.”

  “They would like beer,” Rojeh agreed.

  “Keep with your horse and your mule. Between us, we should be able to quiet them.” There was more hope than certainty in this remark, and as Ragoczy Franciscus spoke, an especially treacherous wave sent a cold spray over everyone on the ferry; the horses tried to bolt and the mules brayed their outrage. He, himself, was feeling the stress of the water, and as he moved about the deck, he had to hold on to lines and braces to keep from succumbing to the queasiness that had possessed him since the ferry had struck the confluence of tide and current.

  The tillerman bellowed instructions to the men at the oars, and the ferry began to turn into the waves, riding up and down in a more regular rhythm, but making steadier progress. They kept on this angular course until the northern shore was looming ahead, and then they turned to starboard and made for the slip that was their port; three large docks flanked it, and four ships were tied up at them, sailors busy dropping fenders over the sides to keep these ships from being damaged by the rising storm. Maneuvering among these trading vessels, the ferry slid into the slip, the ferrymen pulling their oars just in time to avoid splintering them on the pilings that marked their berth.

  A half dozen men on the dock had come running and were now shouting for lines to secure the boat in its slip, making way for the landing plank to be lowered. Amid a chorus of shouts, the plank came down, the guardrails were secured, and the tillerman swung the tiller up and lashed it in place. “You may disembark,” he shouted, and directed his attention pointedly to the three fur traders.

  Rojeh had taken a short, Roman crop from the chest of horse supplies, and he held it securely as he went to unfasten the leads of the mule, expecting resistance; he was not disappointed—the mule planted his feet and prepared to withstand any attempt to move him. Rojeh flicked the crop lightly on his rump and tugged lightly on the lead, then repeated the process: a tap followed by a pull. He did not yell or beat the animal, but kept up the steady routine, all the while aware of how Ragoczy Franciscus was getting his horse and mule off the ferry. Ragoczy Franciscus had untied all four leads, then mounted his horse and brought the mare next to the mule, using the nearness of the larger horse to force the mule to walk forward or risk being driven up against the hull of the boat. Once the mule started forward, the blue roan, used to being in the lead, walked up the landing plank, all but dancing on her forelegs in her relief to be returning to solid ground. The mule kept pace with her, and both strained as Ragoczy Franciscus stopped them at the end of the dock, where he waited for Rojeh to get the mule going.

  “We can pull him for you,” said Bahkei as he and his two companions sauntered toward the landing plank.

  “He’ll move soon enough,” said Rojeh, administering another tap-and-pull combination.

  “Ignorant foreigner!” the third fur trader shouted, and laughed angrily. “Doesn’t want our help.”

  Suddenly the mule, tired of the constant repetition, took a step forward and seemed willing to continue. Rojeh loosened the leads holding his stallion and scrambled into the saddle, reaching for the mule’s leads and bringing him up behind the spotted horse as they made their way off the ferry and into the streets of Donrog.

  The town was smaller than Sarkel, more of a way station than a village, with only one market-square and a clutch of thatched-roof inns that were little better than the stables behind them. Most of the buildings were within the double stockade that provided a degree of protection to the inhabitants of Donrog; the few beyond the walls appeared to be part of a small compound constructed around a domed church with an Orthodox cross atop it. Even now, at midday, no official met the new arrivals, but a swarm of youngsters came running to surround the newcomers, blocking Rojeh’s and Ragoczy Franciscus’ progress as they begged for money and food.

  Ragoczy Franciscus opened his wallet and took out a handful of copper coins, which he tossed some distance away, opening a path for him and Rojeh to approach the market-square. “We need more grain.”

  “Yes, a sackful at least, if we can find a peasant selling any.” Rojeh did a quick scrutiny of the market-square and pointed to the far end. “There. That stall.”

  “I see it,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.

  “The price is likely to be—”

  “—high,” Ragoczy Franciscus finished for him. “I assumed that would be the case. And we are in no position to refuse to pay.”

  “Need I remind you that we are getting low on funds?” Rojeh asked.

  “I’m aware of that, too; at least we still have a handful of jewels. If we can find a merchant who knows their value, we should have sufficient to cover our expenses between here and the Carpathians,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as he rode up to the stall in question. A short-bearded peasant sat in one corner of the cloth-walled stall, a small knife in one hand working away on a length of wood in which he was carving leaves, flowers, and the faces of animals. He looked up as Ragoczy Franciscus halted and dismounted, then gestured a greeting, adding in dreadful Byzantine Greek, “Sacks of feed. Two sizes. Good for horses and other draft animals.” He reached over and patted the remaining sacks as if approving of a pet dog.

  “How much?” Ragoczy Franciscus asked. “For the larger.”

  “Six silver coins—Angels, if you have them.” His eyes were sunk in deep wrinkles that gave the impression of goodwill and amusement; only strict business was in his voice.

  “That is almost as much as an ox,” said Rojeh, who had stopped behind Ragoczy Franciscus.

  “I have grain. You have animals. You need feed, and I have a family.” He went back to carving.

  “Twenty coppers. Persian coppers” was Ragoczy Franciscus’ counteroffer.

  “Perhaps, for a smaller sack,” said the peasant.

  “For the larger sack,” Ragoczy Franciscus insisted. “And the sack’s contents emptied from those hempen ones into a linen sack, to be sure it contains only grain, and to keep the
grain from leaking away.”

  “What do you take me for, a foist?” the peasant grumbled.

  “Grain is scarce and money is also.” Ragoczy Franciscus leaned forward in the saddle. “Twenty Persian coppers for a large sack.” Something about his manner made an impression on the peasant, for he sat back, startled by his sudden willingness to consider the offer.

  “Let me see the coppers,” he said, looking away from the foreigner in the black paragaudion edged in dark-red silken cord. He stared down at the gloved hand that contained eight large coins. “Are they all the same?”

  “Every one of the twenty is the same,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. After a short silence, he said, “If you do not wish to sell, then we will look elsewhere.”

  The peasant stumbled to his feet. “No. No. I will take twenty Persian coppers for a large sack, and I will show you it has only grain in it.” He was surprised to see Ragoczy Franciscus dismount and go to his mule to take a sack from the wad of cloth behind the pack saddle.

  “You may use this sack,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, handing it to the peasant.

  Knowing better than to protest to a man of such bearing, the peasant took the sack and went to open the largest sack of grain; he used a scoop to bring out the contents, transferring them into the linen sack, saying as he did, “Three years ago, you could have got two large sacks of grain for three Persian coppers, for grain was plentiful and the travelers came through Donrog in droves. Now grain is costly, and there is little to buy. Not even the rats are thriving.”

  “It is thus all through the world,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, watching the scoop carefully.