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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “You put yourself in harm’s way at my expense, and that, according to many traditions, makes you answerable to me. It is apparent that you need care and medicaments, and that being the case, if Kasha is your master, I will need his permission to treat you,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “You have a fever, and it may be from injured bones improperly healed, in which case, you are in grave danger.”

  “How can you know that?” Her eyes shone with sudden fright; this encounter was as wholly unlike any she had had in the past that its strangeness was as unnerving as what the foreigner in the black shuba had said about her physical condition. “You cannot know such things.”

  “I am something of a physician; in my younger days, I was trained to treat the injured and the ill,” he said, thinking back to his centuries in the Temple of Imhotep. “There is an odor to such inward hurts as you may have that I came to recognize.”

  “Are you saying I have those inward hurts?” she asked, staring more urgently.

  “I am saying you are not well, and it may be that you have such injuries,” he responded cautiously. “If that is so, then it would explain why you hoped the cart would kill you.”

  “Why is that?” she asked, fascinated and repelled at once.

  “Many of those who have taken a fever see things others cannot—”

  “You mean that are not there?” Her challenge ended with a break in her voice.

  “I mean that only the sufferer can see them,” said Zangi-Ragozh at his mildest; he saw that she was upset and would need reassurance before she accepted anything from him other than what she expected. “who can say what is there and is not there?”

  “It’s the same thing, if no one can see it but one with a fever,” she declared, attempting to disguise her rising fright and to get away from him by taking a few steps backward.

  “No, it is not,” he said, coming after her. “You do need treatment, whatever is the matter with you, especially now, when food is scarce and its quality is bad, for the body cannot heal properly if it is undernourished.”

  The woman looked about, her eyes wild. “Are you going to feed me?”

  “I am worried that you will do yourself harm, since that was your intention,” said Zangi-Ragozh patiently. “Why do you want to die, and why do you need someone to do it for you?”

  She regarded him suspiciously. “Why should you want to know?”

  “If you want to die, surely you must have more certain ways than falling under the hooves of a caravan as small as mine. By the look of you, you have been badly beaten more than once.” He nodded to the side of the road and moved toward it, his pony following close behind, the woman lagging back. “You decided to try to die under the skids and the hooves of my caravan. I still want to know why.”

  “If I took poison, Kasha would know, and my son would answer for it. If he beat me to death, he would still be angry with me. If I am trampled in the market, he cannot be sure that it was a deliberate act—it could be misadventure, and he might think it was an accident, and my son would not have to suffer on my account,” she told him sullenly, moving with him as if compelled by his dark eyes. “I do not want my child to bear any more burdens than he already has.”

  “And what burdens are these?” Zangi-Ragozh asked as he finally moved into the shadow of a stone-fronted building.

  “That I am his mother, and that he does not seem to hear well, or, if not that, he is simple and will be sold to someone needing a fool. I have watched him, and I have observed that he is alert to everything if it happens where he can see,” said the woman as if making a shameful admission; she was puzzled that she should speak so openly with a stranger. “Kasha will not make him his son because of what he requires me to do.”

  Zangi-Ragozh felt a pang of compassion for this woman. “Your child has a very honorable mother,” he said gently. “As to the other, that is unfortunate.”

  “He speaks very little, and I believe it is because he does not hear clearly.” She hunched over as if to conceal a defect.

  “That may be a good reason to suppose he is somewhat deaf; simpleness and deafness are often mistaken, each for the other,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “Your son has how many summers?”

  “The one that is approaching will be his sixth,” she said, stepping into the protection of a jutting angle of the building.

  “It is a bad time,” Zangi-Ragozh agreed, and reached out to pat his cinder-brown pony’s neck. “Tell me about this Kasha,” he prompted. “I will give you silver for your time, so that you will not have to go to Kasha empty-handed.”

  She whispered a curse. “You do not want me?”

  “Not as you mean,” he said with abiding kindness.

  She gaped at him. “What manner of man are you? You are not a eunuch—you haven’t the look of it.” Her face changed, suspicion reasserting itself. “You aren’t one of those Christians, are you? always praising suffering and struggle, and promising perfection in the afterlife?”

  “No, I am not a Christian,” said Zangi-Ragozh.

  “There seem to be more of them every day, praying and proclaiming their salvation because they are miserable, and pestering everyone about their earthly burdens as if they longed for more of them,” said the woman darkly, and went on, more to herself than him, “They keep to their own and say that they will be richly rewarded for all the hardships they have endured. Some try to add to their misfortunes by giving what little they have to others, thinking they will have more and better recompense in Paradise if they do.”

  “But you have no such hope,” he said, seeing the despondency in her expression.

  Her countenance lost what little expression it had, as if the question had taken away her last refuge from the ordeal of her life. “I have my hopes for this world and no other, and I would rather be quit of this world than have to die slowly for lack of food, and money.” She spat.

  Zangi-Ragozh reached into the sleeve of his sen-cha and brought out a string of silver cash. “Take this. I know it is foreign money, but the silver is high quality, and it will maintain its value anywhere silver is exchanged. Keep half of it for yourself.”

  She took the string of cash. “I haven’t brought him so much in a fortnight.” She touched the silver coins gingerly as if she expected them to evaporate.

  “What of his other women? Does he make them go with men as he does you?” Zangi-Ragozh asked.

  “Two of the others, yes, but not Farna. Farna was his first, and she is permitted to remain true to herself, being a true wife, with a dowry.” She sounded more defeated than bitter. “Amanu, Monshu, and I are the ones who must earn our keep. He is most belligerent with Amanu, because she has no sons.”

  “He believes Amanu has affronted him?” Zangi-Ragozh asked.

  “He prefers sons. Farna has two left. Her youngest died last year, in the winter.” She looked away. “He dislikes my son.”

  “That is a pity; at a time like this, he could find comfort and courage in his living children,” said Zangi-Ragozh.

  “He will not own my son, will not even speak his name,” she said, the complaint an inward one.

  “And you are: what is your name?” Zangi-Ragozh inquired politely, holding up a cautioning hand before she could answer. “Not the name you use in the market, please,” he went on as he saw her falter, “the name the other members of your household call you.”

  She hesitated. “Ourisi,” she said at last. “My son is Rialat, named for my grandfather, not for Kasha’s father, since he is unrecognized.”

  “Ourisi,” he repeated. “And Rialat. I am Zangi-Ragozh.”

  Her spurt of a giggle surprised him as much as it startled her, rousing her from her deepening reverie. “It is such a funny name,” she almost apologized. “I don’t think I can pronounce it.”

  “Would you prefer something less cumbersome?” Zangi-Ragozh asked, thinking of the many names he had had through the centuries.

  “If I am to address you beyond foreigner,” she said, anticipating derisi
on at best.

  He pondered a brief moment. “Then, if you would rather, you may call me Ragoczy Franciscus, as I am known in parts of the West,” he said.

  “That is much better,” she said, color rising in her cheeks.

  “Then Ragoczy Franciscus it will be.” He stood between her and the street as a small party of Persians made their way down the street, headed for the main square.

  She watched the camels and asses pass. “Only nine camels and four asses. Usually the caravans from the south have twenty of each.”

  “Perhaps they chose to have fewer animals to feed than to risk all of them starving,” Ragoczy Franciscus suggested.

  “Perhaps they did,” said Ourisi. “That is bad enough.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, and took a chance. “You are in need of treatment of your body: believe this.”

  Ourisi glanced away. “Kasha might refuse.”

  “For so much silver cash, I would think he could not mind too much,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, a note of world-weariness in his words.

  “Yes. He may be persuaded by money,” she said, absently rubbing her arm. “He keeps me for money and swears that if I cannot bring in enough for me and my son, he will throw both of us out of his house.”

  “Does he make similar threats to the other women, or are you the only one?” Ragoczy Franciscus asked, the full force of his gaze on her.

  “To Amanu, he does. She has had three daughters, and that displeases Kasha. The Town Leaders have given him permission to disown her, but she still has some value as a whore. When she has none, he will cast her out, and she will have to beg until she starves, or freezes.” Ourisi gave a short, angry sigh. “Or until she has enough determination to take her own life.”

  “If the caravans remain few, and small, what will become of you?” Ragoczy Franciscus knew the answer; he had seen it often enough before.

  “Much the same as what becomes of Amanu,” said Ourisi. “Kasha must care for Farna—Farna has brothers, who will not permit Kasha to make a whore of their sister. He hasn’t got much, particularly now, except the three of us, to support him and his wife as he demands, so that he will not have to answer to Farna’s brothers. But those of us who are not wives like Farna but his whores, he may keep or discard us as suits him.” She had begun to cry silently, tears on her face unacknowledged and unheeded, as if she were unaware of them. “He cares for his sheep more than us.”

  “And for that, you are angry.”

  A loud jangle of camel-bells announced the arrival of three more Persians, stragglers from the caravan that had entered Kokand a short while ago. The lead camel’s humps sagged, testament to the hard travel from Persia; one of the men walking beside the well-laden camels limped heavily, his ankle swollen and wrapped in layers of cloth.

  “I am not angry,” she said with grim determination.

  “Then I must suppose you are too frightened to be angry,” said Ragoczy Franciscus with abiding kindness. “Take me to Kasha’s house, so I may arrange to treat you.”

  “He will not be pleased that you asked to deal with him,” she warned, noticing for the first time that she had a dense, ringing headache and that she was becoming nauseated.

  “Then he should not have sent you out to the marketplace,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.

  This had never occurred to her before, and she strove to think it through in spite of the intense pain in her skull. “You will have to explain it to him,” she said at last, and sagged against the building. “But do not tell him I want to kill myself.”

  “I will do my utmost to oblige you,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as he reached out to support her with his arm.

  She flinched as if she expected a blow instead of aid. “You have been good to me, Ragoczy Franciscus.” She spoke almost by rote, and she looked away toward the nearest side street.

  Ragoczy Franciscus patted his pony’s neck again. “Do you see the chest secured to the saddle?”

  “Yes.” She looked at the scruffy animal dubiously.

  “It contains my medicaments. I have something more than dead mice and herbs to burn in a brass bowl to cure you,” he said, deliberately choosing the favorite remedy used by traders to treat severe bruises. “I will rub no ashes on your skin and tell you it will improve you.”

  She stared at the chest. “What do you use?”

  “Thai depends upon the nature of the injury, which I cannot yet determine. I have powders and unguents for wounds, poultices to draw infections, syrup of poppies to ease pain, pansy and willow for anodynes, and my sovereign remedy for sickness of many sorts.” He wanted to reassure her, and to convince her that he could offer her some chance of improvement, for as she was she would continue to fail.

  “Kasha will not pay you for any of your medicaments,” said Ourisi with a kind of gloomy satisfaction.

  “That does not concern me. If you improve, then perhaps something may be arranged,” he offered, knowing he would be gone before she could recover, if indeed she would be able to; he could feel the fever in her as he felt the weakness of the sun overhead.

  “Perhaps,” said Ourisi with a great lack of conviction.

  “If you will take me to where you live, I will speak to Kasha,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.

  “He may be angry and take your concern amiss,” she said, looking about nervously.

  “I can be persuasive, when such is needed,” Ragoczy Franciscus assured her. “I would be very surprised if he wants you to continue to sicken.”

  “No; he dislikes having any of us unable to do his bidding,” Ourisi said.

  “Then take me to him, if you would,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.

  She raised one shoulder and glanced away down the narrow street. “If we go this way—” She began to walk, a bit slowly, for she had to concentrate to keep from weaving as she went.

  Ragoczy Franciscus followed her, leading his pony, picking his way through the littered alleyways. “Has there been much famine here?”

  “It is getting worse,” Ourisi said. “There were reserves in the city warehouses, but most of it is gone, and there aren’t caravans enough to replenish them. The animals do not have strong young, and most of the kids and lambs end up in the cooking pots.”

  “It is much the same to the east,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.

  “The city guard collects the dead every morning, and those who can afford to bury their own arrange for it; the rest are put into mass graves.” Her voice caught in her throat. “So many of them are dead.”

  “So many of whom?” Ragoczy Franciscus asked, stepping around a man huddled against the wall, wrapped in a Turkish mababa.

  “The farmers and the merchants. They come into the town and they die.” She stopped suddenly and swung around to look at him. “You won’t die, will you?”

  Ragoczy Franciscus smiled sardonically. “I give you my Word I will stay as I am.” He saw the now familiar look of emptiness in the crooked little street, the lack of children playing, or women calling from windows. “How much of the population here has died?”

  “They say one in three, now. If the local farmers cannot bring in crops this year, then there will be many more.” She spoke as if this meant nothing to her, for the sense of unreality that had claimed her was increasing and she was becoming more and more convinced that none of this was real, that she was dreaming, or lost in the fever-haze that had grown stronger during the last several days.

  “Were there any farmers who had harvests last autumn?” he asked.

  “A few, but their crops were small and the quality was poor, and very little was spared for market.” She stopped walking and turned to him. “There are clans raiding out of the east. They take everything they can and move on, for which we should be thankful, but there is often another clan close behind them.” Suddenly she began to weep as the illusions that had held her suddenly vanished, leaving her with the starkness of her life rushing in on her.

  “Do you know what clans have attacked you?�
�� Ragoczy Franciscus asked, hoping for news—however dire—of the Desert Cats.

  “Who knows? They are all mad barbarians.” She took a long, shaky breath. “I think we will all starve, and only the strongest will be here in the end, to follow the raiders and to kill one another for meat.”

  “That is possible,” Ragoczy Franciscus said with deep compassion and an abiding grief. “But if that should happen, it will mean that more than Kokand is lost.”

  “Do you think it will happen?” She wiped her tears with her good hand and studied his attractive, irregular features. She had not noticed until they were in shadow how dark his eyes were, and how they seemed to penetrate to her very soul.

  “I trust it will not,” he said, and motioned to her to move on. “How far to Kasha’s house?”

  “Not much farther—just another street to go,” she said, and clenched her teeth to stop herself from crying.

  Ragoczy Francisus moved a step closer to her. “Is there a place where you can get water?”

  “There is water at Kasha’s house. It doesn’t taste very good, but he has four barrels of it,” she said, and brought herself under control once more. “There are also two barrels of wine. It’s a little sour, but it’s better than the water,” said Ourisi, pointing vaguely in the direction of the next street. “He will not give you wine or water if you do not pay for it.”

  “I will keep that in mind,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.

  Ourisi felt steady enough to resume walking; she wanted to move a bit more briskly, but found that her energy was insufficient for so much activity. “This way,” she mumbled.

  Ragoczy Franciscus stayed two steps behind her, willing to cover the last distance at whatever pace she chose to set. As they turned into an even narrower alley, he remarked, “The houses here are older than the first we passed.”

  “Yes. These were built many centuries ago, or so it’s said,” she replied. “They say these were here when the Silk Road began.” There was no pride in this revelation, only numb acceptance of the unchanging character of the place.