I will look forward to your next letter. If I learn anything that may be useful to you, I will send a message to you as soon as I may, if the roads are not still so muddy that the courier would risk ending up in a quagmire. I will hope that the spring is kind to us all, and that you and your monks are spared more tragedies than you have suffered already, that our crops become bountiful once again, and our livestock flourish. I thank you for the good service you have rendered me, and I trust that in time, the service I render you will prove of equal worth.
Atta Olivia Clemens
2
Emrach Sarai’af scratched his beard and contemplated the sheet of parchment on the table in front of him. “You say this is written in the Byzantine tongue? You know the language, do you?” he asked Rojeh suspiciously. He was reclining in a padded-leather chair, but not at rest.
“Yes, it is in Byzantine Greek. Ask Patriarch Stavros if you doubt me. I would offer to read it, but I suppose you would prefer your translator be a disinterested party,” Rojeh answered blandly. He had dressed in a long paragaudion of a deep green shade with a Romanstyle abolla of heavy, rust-colored wool hung artfully around his shoulders, giving him a somewhat formal appearance for this occasion. His Persian leggings were a deep brown, almost the same shade as his boots.
“Perhaps tomorrow; I have too much to attend to today,” said Emrach, stretching out and staring off into the distance. “The last storm was the worst so far—more than a dozen houses have been destroyed and all the builders are busy, as is most of the town. Who knows when we will have such a break in the weather again? I must see as many of you foreigners as I can until the next storm comes.”
Rojeh preserved an unperturbed manner, continuing, “My employer would appreciate knowing what your final disposition will be in regard to this—”
“What can it be? I am powerless in this situation. It is a Jou’an-Jou’ an matter, surely?” Emrach asked with an elaborate shrug. “The Jou’an-Jou’an are camped outside the walls, where I have no authority.”
“You could admit her to the town,” Rojeh said patiently; he saw the obstinate set of Emrach’s jaw, and he strove to keep his tone level. “If my employer can pardon her for her attempt on his life, surely you can let her into the town. Otherwise she is likely to die.”
“But your master is just the problem, don’t you see?—she made an attempt on his life, and that would mean I could be permitting a would-be murderer to enter our gates, which would not be accepted by those whose town this is. You are a foreigner, your master is a foreigner, and you will soon be gone, and what would we do with the woman then? With the prison burned down, we have no secure place to put her, and her people have already forbidden her to shelter and eat with them. It would not be wise for me to allow her to come into Sarai, for not only is she dangerous, she might not want to leave, and what then?” He shook his head. “No. No. If the Jou’an-Jou’an have decided to be shut of her, why should I countermand their decision?”
Rojeh sighed. “You have made up your mind.”
“I have,” said Emrach with vast satisfaction. “I think it is fitting that you should bear in mind the obligation I have to all Sarai, particularly to those who live here, for as Master of Foreigners I must answer for what the foreigners do. Your Jou’an-Jou’an woman is no different than the rest. If she is allowed inside the walls, she might well begin to attack the people of the town, and that would not do. You have said that in this account, your master pardons her. I must not be guided by leniency, but by the strictures of my position.”
“My employer is willing to vouch for her,” Rojeh persisted. “He would offer her a place but—”
“Exactly. But! He cannot take so bloodthirsty a creature into his house.” Emrach held up an admonishing finger, clearly enjoying the exercise of his authority. “You say your master has no fear, and that may well be true, but he cannot be allowed to conduct himself in such a lax manner.”
“He is able to protect himself; the staff has been sufficient for his needs. There is no need for guards,” said Rojeh, for the first time feeling the pluck of fear in his viscera.
“And who is he that I should pay him any mind?” Emrach challenged, his black eyes brightening.
“He is a man of vast experience who has been about the world for most of his life. He has witnessed things you and I can only imagine—and I say it, though I have been with him for a time.” Rojeh tried to be as accommodating as possible, but he was having difficulty keeping his annoyance from his demeanor.
“Do the Jou’an-Jou’an think so?” Emrach asked, appreciating his power tremendously. “How can you tell me they have a high regard for him if they permit one of their own to—”
“My employer is not a man to demand satisfaction of those who do him injury, but he seeks a just resolution to disputes. Even the Jou’an-Jou’an woman has said she is deeply saddened about what her gods demanded of her,” Rojeh pointed out. “She cannot long survive without shelter, let alone food.”
“No, she can’t.” Emrach slapped his hand on the arm of his chair. “And why should your master offer to provide either food or shelter for her, considering what she has done? Is it his own pride, or is it truly his idea of justice, to permit an offender to go free?”
“My employer explains that in his report,” said Rojeh. “He has said that she was forced to make a decision that redounded badly—”
“And you expect me to heed his request in regard to the woman Dukkau?”
“Dukkai,” Rojeh corrected. “That is the reason I am here.”
“Yes, so you said at the beginning,” said Emrach. “Do you think the Jou’an-Jou’an master—what do they call him?”
“Kaigan. His name is Neitis Ksoka,” Rojeh supplied.
“Terrible names,” Emrach declared. “Would the Kaigan see it as your master does?”
Rojeh sighed, unwilling to argue. “This is my employer’s account: I am ordered to leave it with you.”
Emrach sighed his gratification at such an acknowledgment. “If that is what Ragoczy Franciscus has told you to do, then you have fulfilled your mission. I will assume he is giving a truthful report, and I will make a decision shortly.”
“If I may ask, why are you so reluctant to extend mercy to this woman?” Rojeh asked.
“Ah, you see, Sarai is a funnel, and everyone traveling on the northern routes comes here one way or another. For that reason I must maintain order here that will extend protection not only to the town, but to anyone living within the walls, whether or not it is to their liking. Otherwise Sarai would be visited by more scoundrels than you can imagine, and no one in the town could maintain order.” Emrach’s smile was wide and shallow. “I am sure your master will understand when you explain it to him.”
“This woman will not endanger that,” Rojeh said.
“Perhaps not, but the next one might. And there is always a next one.” Emrach laid his hand on the parchment. “I will speak to Patriarch Stavros later today and ask him to read this to me and assess what has been asked of me. That much I assure you I will do.” He coughed delicately. “Your master must know that I have a duty to the town before any I have to foreigners.”
Rojeh reverenced him. “Then I am most appreciative that you are willing to receive me at all.”
“Very gracious—just what I would expect from your master.” Emrach sighed and pointed to the side door. “I fear I must attend to the next petitioners. I have three Armenians to deal with, and they would not be pleased that you got here before them.”
“As you wish,” said Rojeh, not at all certain this was the true reason for Emrach’s ordering him to leave in this atypical fashion. The door opened onto a small corridor, which led to a door opening onto an alleyway. Rojeh closed the door and stepped out into the street, walking with care on the rough paving stones covered in slushy snow.
“Ehi! Foreigner!” a scrawny youth called from the wall of the nearest house and, before Rojeh could respond, shied a rock at h
im. “That’s for taking our food!” He scrambled out of sight, his derisive laughter echoing along the stones of the alley.
Rojeh inspected his shoulder where the rock had struck, using his fingers to ascertain how much harm he had sustained; satisfied no real damage had been done, he continued on as the path curved and twisted among the buildings, some of which had been damaged by fire and smoke, but most of which were still fairly sound. As he walked, he realized he had lost his sense of direction and now had no idea where the alley would take him.
A mangy, emaciated dog slunk across the road a short distance ahead of Rojeh. Its hair was patchy, but what there was looked matted. There were rat bites half-healed on its shoulders and flank, and its tail had been broken and now hung at a disconsolate angle. It growled miserably and slipped away through a gap in a blackened wall.
Rojeh was feeling distinctly edgy; he considered retracing his steps and trying the other direction from Emrach Sarai’af’s house. He listened closely to the mingled sounds that the walls magnified and melded to a roar like a waterfall. The pale winter light provided little more than shadows, so narrow was the path among the buildings. Now Rojeh was glad he had slipped a dagger into his sleeve, for although it was forbidden to carry weapons into meetings with the Master of Foreigners, he had not been searched and now was ready to face any unexpected opponent he might encounter, he told himself as he pulled the dagger out. The alley made a jog to the right and ended abruptly at a little square near the east wall of the town, where a small knot of men stood about a fountain-trough, leading all manner of animals to drink: horses, ponies, donkeys, mules, camels, goats, and two pair of oxen. Sliding his dagger back into the sheath buckled to his forearm, Rojeh looked about for a wide street that would take him to the Foreigners’ Quarter.
“The Westerner is lost,” scoffed one of the men at the trough, a Volgaman by the look of him.
“I believe that will take me to the Foreigners’ Quarter,” said Rojeh calmly, pointing to one of the two broadest streets entering the square.
“Anyone who ventures into the Crooked Lane has to be lost,” said another of the men, this one a Uighur with a string of shaggy ponies.
“that’s what it’s for,” said a man with a string of goats.
“Do you still have all your fingers and toes, or were they taken from you?” This from an Armenian with oxen.
Rojeh laughed as much because it was expected of him as from amusement. “It is a strange byway.”
“It doubles back twice,” said a Sarai native with a pair of skinny horses. “How did you come to take such a route?”
“I mistook it for another alley,” said Rojeh. “I must have misunderstood the directions I was given.”
This time the laughter was less jeering, and the Armenian nodded emphatically. “It is always thus. In a place like Sarai, only the true natives can find anything.” He waved at the road Rojeh had decided to take.
Rojeh went up the street toward the Foreigners’ Quarter, all the while wondering what sort of prank Emrach had played on him. By the time he reached Ragoczy Franciscus’ house, he was torn between deepening worry and mild exasperation with the Master of Foreigners. He found Thetis and her children in the kitchen, watching Dasur prepare their midday meal; jointed fowl lay in a heap along with onions, two tiny cloves of garlic, and a small cabbage.
“These all go into the pot. If we had any, I would add slices of pork and lentils and use olive oil to give it body, but none can be found in the markets, so we make do with this and be thankful for it. It would also be tastier if we had pepper.” He opened a jar of rough wine from Edessa. “This is almost the last of what I could buy. It will make the food taste better—wine and salt, to bring out the flavor. It’s a pity about the wharves; there is not much fish to be had since all fishing has been confined to the shore and to the smallest craft, ones that can be launched into the streams of the Delta.”
“I would like fish,” said Aristion wistfully.
“So would we all,” said Thetis in a tone that discouraged complaint.
Dasur caught sight of Rojeh and became much less genial toward the widow and her children. “This meal will be ready on time, not that you will notice.” He tittered. “The Master of Foreigners has sent two men to this house. They are in the slaves’ room”—he cocked his head in the direction of the room behind the pantry—“for now.”
“Two guards,” said Rojeh, deciding that he understood the reason for sending him the wrong way out of Emrach’s headquarters. “When did they arrive?”
“Not long ago. The fire Aethalric started for them has only just begun to burn, and he is putting the room in order.” Dasur fidgeted. “I will have to feed them, I suppose.”
Rojeh ignored the intended barb. “Since I have told you that I fend for myself, and my master cannot yet eat anything, providing food for the guards should not be a problem. Failure to do so could make for trouble for all of us.” He came a few steps farther into the kitchen. “Whatever Ragoczy Franciscus and I might do, the rest of you are entitled to a proper meal twice a day, and cheese or bread to break your fast in the morning.”
Dasur heard him out with an air of long-suffering patience. “Speaking of your meals, I was able to purchase a duck for you. It’s alive and in the side-passage to the herb-garden.” Dasur stared in Rojeh’s direction, not quite daring a direct confrontation.
“That was good of you,” said Rojeh, paying no heed to the cook’s rancor, which had been increasing since Rojeh had refused his help in nursing Ragoczy Franciscus. “I will deal with it a little later.” He looked about the kitchen. “So: Aethalric is busy with sweeping the slaves’ room for two guards to use, and Chtavo is still mucking out the stalls?”
“So far as I know,” Dasur said stringently.
“Sinu is making a new talaris for me,” said Pentefilia, unable to contain herself in silence any longer. “My old one is too worn, and Ragoczy Franciscus provided beautiful cloth—”
Hrisoula began to wail, her face screwed into a grimace. “I want a new talaris,” she complained, and began to weep noisily, glaring at her older sister as her sense of injustice increased.
“Stop it,” Thetis said. “At once. This isn’t the time.”
The two girls glowered, Pentefilia smugly, Hrisoula pouting; Aristion seemed to want to be invisible, staring down at his feet and refusing to meet the eyes of any of his relatives.
“And Herakles?” Rojeh asked as if he was not aware of the disruption.
“He is at my husband’s house, trying to find anything that may be useful: cloth, utensils, food, anything.” Thetis cleared her throat. “So that we may, at least in some small part, repay the generosity of your master, while we may.”
“I will inform him, but he does not expect such considerations.” Rojeh then addressed Dasur. “The duck is in the side-passage, you said?”
“Sitting on an old reed mat when I left her,” Dasur said, and returned his full attention to his cooking. “I gave her a handful of grubs from the edge of the stable sweepings, and she ate them greedily.”
“I will claim her shortly,” said Rojeh. “For now I must go to my master.” He left the kitchen accompanied by the quarrelsome sounds of Hrisoula and Pentefilia talking about their clothes, with occasional admonitions to stop from Thetis, and punctuated by Dasur’s efforts to restore peace. The dispute was so wonderfully ordinary that he found himself relishing its commonplaceness as he climbed upward.
Ragoczy Franciscus sat at his small writing table, his long, black-silk kaftan flowing around him, swathing him in a scrap of night. He had a broad, dark-red scarf of Chinese silk wrapped around his throat, which was held in place by a silver fibula embellished with his eclipse sigil. His dark hair was neat, his face unusually pale, and although he needed a shave, he presented a good appearance. As Rojeh entered the room, he looked up from the map spread before him, moving with deliberate care, and gave a slight nod of greeting.
“Are you sure you’re
ready to be up?” Rojeh asked, making no mention of his surprise at seeing Ragoczy Franciscus off his bed. “Your sinews are just beginning to knit again.”
Ragoczy Franciscus put his hand to the scarf and reached for his improvised wax tablet and stylus, writing in Latin in his small, precise hand, I need to be doing something.
“More than you know,” said Rojeh darkly. He went to the fireplace and shoved a negligent small branch back into the flames with his toe. “There are two guards posted to this house, ostensibly to protect you.”
From what, or whom? Ragoczy Franciscus held up the wax tablet.
“They say, from Dukkai, or perhaps one of her clan. Emrach seems to think that a single act of leniency will bring every rogue on the trade-routes that converge here down on Sarai in an unruly pack.”
Ragoczy Franciscus made a palms-up gesture of incomprehension.
“It is the excuse he is using to send guards here.”
But they are spies, Ragoczy Franciscus wrote.
“I think so,” said Rojeh, and described the trick Emrach had played upon him. “I think he used the time to dispatch the guards. I thought at first it was only meant to irk me, but once Dasur told me about the guards, I knew I had been subjected to a diversion. He wanted no opposition to his posting.”
What did Emrach say? Ragoczy Franciscus wrote in the wax.
“I doubt he is going to permit Dukkai into the town. He told me that Sarai is a funnel and implied that every traveler must eventually come here. If he knows Sarai survives on trade, he managed to give no indication of it,” said Rojeh, pursing his lips in disgust; Ragoczy Franciscus got up from the desk and went to the fireplace to take the smoothing iron from the hob, placed it on the wax to make an unused surface, then set the tablet on the mantel so that the wax could cool enough to use again. He tapped his stylus on the stone ledge of the mantel and shook his head in futility. “It is inconvenient, your not talking,” Rojeh agreed. “But you will heal and your voice will be as it was.” He took a turn about the room and came back to the hearth. “I believe you may have more to fear from the guards than Dukkai when it comes to possible attack. For that reason, you are safer with her outside the walls than in.”
Saint-Germain 18: Dark of the Sun: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 41
