Borne in Blood (10 page)
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Guardian and Ward, #Vampires, #Nobility, #blood, #Paramours, #Switzerland
There is so much to learn, and I know I will not have to limit myself for the demands of years. Still, learning creates a trail that may prove too easily followed, especially if I take my lovers among my colleagues. You were right to warn me about choosing my knowing partners with care. I have kept your admonitions in mind with every new encounter, and so far have revealed myself only twice. You, of course, understand my predicament, and I feel you can comprehend my ambivalence without jealousy or a desire to approve my decisions. I know that you and I seek life before all else, since it is the one thing we lack, and that neither of us would deny the other the fulfillment that is the very core of existence for us. I am pleased to hear that you have made a friend of Hero von Scharffensee, for she truly needs friends. As the daughter of Attilio Corvosaggio, I know she is a woman of good education and well-trained mind, but I also know that her father is not of a temperament that would incline him to take her in, and her four children. All his purpose is set upon scholarship and the discovery of antiquities. On those occasions when I have met him, I have been struck afresh with the singularity of his devotion.
So you have the comfortable life and companion you seek, and I have my explorations, and we are able to live with the knowledge that all of our undead lives will make this demand of us—that we must sustain ourselves on the passions of the living, not our Blood Bond with each other. You have much more experience of this than I, yet I can sense your feelings for me are as enduring as you yourself, no matter what your feelings for others may be.
I astonish myself at how reasonable I am; I realize this may be my own inclination to avoid any hint of animosity from you, which would be unbearable, or it may be acceptance of our natures, but whichever it is—or something else entirely—I am relieved to know that no matter what may come, the love and the Bond we share will remain unbroken from now until time loses all hold upon us. And before I become maudlin, I will end this by wishing you a pleasant good-night from the city of Varna, a place that stinks of low tide and fish.
Now and forever
Your Madelaine
Herr Perzeval Einlass stood aside so that Ragoczy could examine his new coach, a modified Berlin but with elements of a Parisian landau, an attractive, modern carriage that would command attention for its elegance anywhere in Europe. It occupied the sunniest part of Herr Einlass’ courtyard, immediately adjacent to his warehouse; half a dozen craftsmen lingered in the warehouse door, waiting to hear what the Comte would say. “All the modifications you requested are complete: eight elliptical springs, just as you required, Herr Comte,” said Einlass. “The box has its own set of springs as well, so that the driver need not fear that he will be thrown from his place. As you see, the box is placed deeper in the body of the coach, as you requested, and there are braces on either side of the driving-box. The wheels are lip-rimmed and the spokes are reinforced, as are the axles.”
“Yes,” said Ragoczy, squinting a little in the bright morning. “And the interior done with padded arms for the passengers to use? Long hand-straps as well?”
“Of course. And in your servants’ coach, as you stipulated. My men will fit it out as soon as you have the coach brought down to my warehouse: all the modifications we made to your coach but the device that turns the seats into a bed. It will take less than a day to make the changes.” He paused. “Most men wouldn’t do so much for servants. You are catering to their comfort as much as you are accommodating your own.” His expression showed that he considered this to be a bit too much indulgence for servants. He strode the length of the shiny new vehicle. Heavily burled Alpine fir was setoff by panels glossily black with lacquer, and the windows had black-leather curtains. “I could still arrange for your device to be painted on the door-panel, Comte,” he suggested. “It would be a handsome addition to a handsome vehicle.”
“Very generous, but I think not,” said Ragoczy. “In these republican days I think it is prudent to keep titles unannounced. No matter how nations are led, their people are now deciding their course, and it may not always include recognizing nobles.” He had a brief, intense recollection of the crowds in Lyon, and the narrow escape he and Madelaine had had, thanks to the de Montalia device on her traveling trunks. The howls of the mob seemed to sound in his ears again, and he said more firmly, “The coach is elegant as it is, and suits my purposes.”
Hero, who was standing a few steps away, her parasol raised against the August sun, now came up to Ragoczy, saying, “I think Gutesohnes will like it.”
“The balance should please him,” said Ragoczy, once more inspecting the tiered springs. “We should have less sway and more comfort over rough roads.”
“I have made the changes you wanted in the seats,” said Einlass.
“The device you have contrived is a clever one, and I would imagine many another traveler would be glad of such improvements in his coach. Many would pay well for these improvements. It could make travel more pleasant for those who wanted your modifications, Comte.” His implication was plain—that Ragoczy could make a profit if he would license Herr Einlass to provide these modifications for others.
“Let me test them out on my journey to Amsterdam,” said Ragoczy firmly but without loss of geniality. “If they perform as I anticipate, then perhaps we should have a discussion.” He regarded the coach-maker for a long moment, seeing something crafty in his demeanor. “You, of course, would not provide my modification to any others without securing proper contracts first, would you?”
Einlass’ eyes flickered. “No, Comte. Of course not.”
Ragoczy shook his head. “Tell whomever you have offered my modifications to that you will not be able to provide them for yet a while. They have not yet been rigorously tested, and until they are, it would be premature to offer them to others.” His voice was cordial but there could be no mistaking his purpose.
“Yes. I will. Of course,” said Einlass, all deference. “It is just that your innovations are so … so …”
“Practical?” Ragoczy suggested; in the two centuries he had been adding such modifications to his coaches, he had been able to refine them to a state of utmost utility. “Advantageous?”
“Exactly!” Einlass enthused. “Those clips you have for the curtains, top and bottom, they are also a most pragmatic addition for the traveler. Do they need to be tested?”
“Another thing we can discuss later,” said Ragoczy as he held out his hand to Hero. “Would you like to inspect the interior?”
“Yes, please,” she said; she closed her parasol and allowed him to assist her into the new coach.
“The upholstery is just as you required, Comte,” Einlass assured him. “The colors are the colors you chose.”
“Because this is the cloth I supplied. You would be hard-pressed to find it anywhere in Europe.” He stood in the open door. “Are you comfortable, Madame?”
“I am,” she said. “So many windows, and such well-padded seats.” She ran her hand over the rich damask silk that covered the seats, walls, and ceiling of the interior. “You’ve thought of everything.”
“Probably not, but I have anticipated most problems, or so I hope.” Ragoczy moved out of the doorway and gave his attention to Einlass. “I will send my coachman tomorrow morning with the team and the harness.”
“Grays?” Einlass asked, knowing the Comte’s penchant for gray horses.
“No: matched liver sorrels,” he answered. “Very elegant animals, all four of them, from the same sire; sixteen hands with strong forward action. I had them from a breeder near Verona.” Although it was more than two hundred years since Olivia had died the True Death, he never missed her more than when he was buying horses.
“They are at the château; they arrived just eight days ago,” said Hero in a carrying voice as she prepared to emerge from the vehicle. “Very fine animals. Their coats are so dense a brown they are almost purple, and their manes and tails are pure flaxen. They will set off this coach admirably.”
“Will you take them all the way to Amsterdam?” Einlass asked. “You keep teams at inns along the road, I know.”
“It will depend on how we do. If we go straight through, then we will need to change teams on the way, possibly at Liège and Saarbrücken, or Zemmer. If, however, we spend a day or two along the road to allow the team to rest, then I may not change them until Amsterdam.” Ragoczy helped Hero to come down from the coach. “Do you think you will enjoy the journey?”
She nodded. “Oh, yes. This will be much easier than traipsing about after my father.”
“Very likely,” said Ragoczy with a nod to Einlass. “Be ready for my coachman—Otto Gutesohnes is his name.”
“Your courier?” Einlass was a bit surprised.
“Hochvall is recovering from an injury; Gutesohnes is driving for me while he does,” said Ragoczy.
“I had heard something of the sort,” Einlass admitted as if he rarely listened to gossip. “Very well. Everything will be ready after eight o’clock.”
“I assume the payment I provided was sufficient to your supplies and labor?” Ragoczy asked, well-aware that the sum he had advanced Einlass was more than sufficient for the work he and his men had done.
“You have a credit with me, one that I will provide in my accounting at month’s end.” Einlass bowed, then wiped the sweat from his forehead, doing his best to keep a determined smile on his face and reminding himself that all patrons should be as forthcoming and generous as Comte Franciscus.
“Thank you,” said Ragoczy, and started across the courtyard to where his calash was waiting, two striking gray horses harnessed to it. The top was down, so as Ragoczy lowered the steps he gave Hero his arm to assist her into the carriage, lending her his stability as she mounted the narrow steps. When she was settled Ragoczy climbed into the driving-box, took the reins and the whip, loosened the brake, and put his pair in motion. As he tooled the calash out into the street, he said over his shoulder, “Would you like to stop for dinner, or would you prefer to return directly to the château?”
“How long will it take to reach the château?” she asked, her parasol open and her face in its shadow.
“Just over two hours, I should think,” said Ragoczy.
“Two hours,” she repeated. “The horses are not too tired in this heat? They would not be worn down?”
“Not too exhausted, no. And they have been watered and walked while we saw the coach.” He could feel the pair pull on their bits as he kept them to a strict walk along the cobbled streets; they were ready to return home.
“I think I would prefer to go back to the château, then,” she said after a brief silence. “I wouldn’t like to be on the road in the late afternoon. They say that robbers are attacking travelers, and there are more abroad after sundown.”
Ragoczy, who carried a primed pistol in the deep pocket of his four-caped driving-coat, said only, “Robbers can rob at any time of the day or night.”
“But they more often prowl at night,” said Hero, frowning a little. “Darkness aids them, light works against them.”
“Probably so,” said Ragoczy, expertly threading his pair through the confusion of wagons, carriages, carts, buggies, traps, and coaches that filled the streets of Yvoire. At the market-square where potters displayed their wares, Ragoczy pulled his horses in to a slow walk, saying to Hero, “These wares are fragile. I would not like to damage any in a rush to leave the town.”
“No doubt the potters know what they can afford to lose,” said Hero, then sat up, chagrined by what she realized sounded like callousness. “I didn’t mean that, not entirely. I meant that they know not to put their most valuable work where it could be broken.”
“I should hope so,” he said, and edged the calash past a large wagon laden with haunches of smoked meat.
As they went along the edge of the market where fruits and flowers were sold, Hero said, “It looks as if there will be more fruit this year again.”
“Wise housewives will still make preserves and comfits, and put up berries in brandy, in case the cold returns,” said Ragoczy.
“Or there is another war,” added Hero as she heard a distant roll of thunder from the clouds piled up against the mountains. “We will be late for dinner, won’t we?” Without waiting for an answer, she settled back, and said nothing more until the town was behind them and the horses were moving at a steady trot down the dusty road. As they passed over a narrow stone bridge, she said, “There seems so much to do before we depart. Do you truly plan that we should leave for Amsterdam at the end of this week? That is only three more days.”
“Yes. I can see no reason for more delay, and after the first full day of travel, we will be glad to have a day to rest.” He noticed movement at the side of the road and saw a fox sitting in the bushes, calmly unimpressed by the calash.
“There is so much to do.” She stretched out one hand as if to try to gather in everything that had to be dealt with.
“Inform Rogier of your needs, and he will make sure the maids have all your things ready. Take what you would like—the coach can carry a fair amount of luggage.” He checked the grays as they came to the turn-off for the château. “This won’t be like following your father into the desert, or preparing for an expedition to distant ruins, you know. Amsterdam is a proper city, and you need not fret—anything that you may wish to replace, you will be able to find without trouble.”
She laughed. “I know that. The habits of my youth stay with me; I never travel but I believe I must take provisions of all sorts for a year, and everything that I might need in any circumstances, no matter how unlikely.” She leaned back on the squabs once more, then asked, “Do any habits of your youth linger, after so long?”
“Other than my nature?” he inquired. “There may be a few, faint echoes. I always remember that I was born at the dark of the year, during the five days of the Solstice. It was the time of my birth that selected me to join the priests of my people, and to be one with them upon my death.”
“The Solstice is a single day,” she said, a bit startled that he should make such an error.
“In these enlightened times, yes, but I was born almost four thousand years ago; the priests who protected my people had to measure the long nights by the burning of measured amounts of oil; this could not be precise to the exact day, but it could show the five days that were dark the longest.” His dark eyes were distant. “For some reason, I cannot, even now, fail to count the years.”
“Does that sadden you?” she could not keep from asking.
“Occasionally. There was a time—many centuries ago—when such reckoning only served to bring me pain, for it reminded me of what I had lost, and I could not yet comprehend how much I had gained. I had only loathing and dread around me, and no means of learning, since I knew only a few words of the languages of my various captors. I found a barbaric justification in my ferocity then. That was before I understood that the blood is touching, and that touching nourishes more than this un-dead body, which is beyond nourishment of that kind: intimacy restored my humanity and brought me to value all life for its uniqueness and its brevity. If you decide to rise at your death, you will learn these things for yourself. Unless you plan to die the True Death at the end of this life, you will have my life, and will have to learn what I have learned. You needn’t decide now, but before you die, you will need to choose what you will do.” In the silence that followed this warning, he reached the gate to his château, reined in the pair, set the brake, and jumped down from the driving-box to unlatch the gate and swing it open. He secured the gate, returned to the calash, drove through the gate, halted the horses, got down to close the gate, then climbed back onto the box and drove the last tenth part of a league to the stable. “Clement!”
Other books
Bondage Ranch 5: His Little Treasure by Sindra van Yssel
Anatomía del crimen. Guía de la novela y el cine negros by Mariano Sánchez Soler
The Mysterious Ambassador by Lee Falk
When Smiles Fade by Paige Dearth
Hell's Pawn by Jay Bell
Kellan by Sienna Valentine
Timeless Mist by Terisa Wilcox
Her Favoured Captain by Francine Howarth
Famous Last Meals by Richard Cumyn
Raced by K. Bromberg
