Dark of the Sun (49 page)
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Vampires, #Transylvania (Romania), #Krakatoa (Indonesia), #Volcanic Eruptions
“As soon as you decide where you want to rest, I’ll hunt.” Rojeh tied his last knot. “We should take this rope with us when we go.”
Ragoczy Franciscus nodded as he went back into the marshaling yard. He stood, undecided, for a short while, then went toward the watchtower that stood next to the gate. The sagging door was wedged closed, and it took two powerful kicks to open it. Carefully, he stepped inside the marshaling room at the base of the tower, making note of everything he saw: two small stools, a bucket, a pail, some spears with their points rusted away, a cooking tripod—without a cauldron—to fit into the long-cold fireplace that stood on the east wall, and on the west a large rack of various weapons, most of them crumbled or rusted. He paced off the size of the room—eight strides east-west, almost eleven north-south—and decided it was as good a place as any. He went back across the marshaling yard, taking the time to study the sky before he ducked into the dark of the stable; the clouds were starting to tatter, and the snowfall had diminished to an occasional random flake. Already a glary brightness marked the place of the sun as it climbed the morning sky, and Ragoczy Franciscus could feel a little of its pull, not as he had done two years ago, but enough to tell him that it was gradually regaining its power.
Rojeh was stacking their chests and crates and boxes; he had set aside the chest of Ragoczy Franciscus’ native earth and was inspecting the thick leather straps on the box containing their spare clothing; he recognized the purpose in Ragoczy Franciscus’ stance and said, “You have found a place that will do.”
Yes,
Ragoczy Franciscus signaled.
We carry.
Ragoczy Franciscus signaled.
We carry.
“Of course,” said Rojeh, going to the chest of native earth. “If I take the wood from those wrecked stalls, we could build a fire.”
Ragoczy Franciscus considered his answer, finally gesturing,
No. Attention.
No. Attention.
“You mean you think this place could be under surveillance?” Rojeh said as he and Ragoczy Franciscus hefted the chest between them; the tablet and stylus rested on top of it.
Since he could not shrug or signal, Ragoczy Franciscus was unable to respond. He kept walking steadily toward the marshaling room, trying to find some way to express himself.
“You are concerned that this place could serve as a trap. Whose? Look at it. Cobwebs everywhere. No doubt the chimneys are full of rats’ nests and mice, possibly birds’ as well.” They were almost to the marshaling room, and Rojeh faltered as the shadow of a large bird crossed over him. Peering upward into the shattering morning light, he could just make out a raptor soaring against the brilliance; then the darkness of the tower blocked bird and sun from sight, and a few steps later they put the chest down in front of the unused fireplace. “Oh. I found a cistern behind the stable. It has water.”
Ragoczy Franciscus signaled,
Good,
as he sat down on the chest and picked up the tablet and stylus, but did nothing with them as he stared at the opposite wall with extreme blankness, his thoughts more distant than the Yang-Tse River.
Good,
as he sat down on the chest and picked up the tablet and stylus, but did nothing with them as he stared at the opposite wall with extreme blankness, his thoughts more distant than the Yang-Tse River.
Rojeh studied him, saying at last, “You’re losing flesh again.” He turned his attention to the fireplace. “I suppose it would smoke if I tried to lay a fire.”
Putting both hands to his throat, Ragoczy Franciscus mimed coughing.
“Well, neither you nor I are much troubled by cold—that’s useful,” said Rojeh, searching for something to sit on; he found an old stool and tested it by putting his foot on it and transferring half his weight onto it; the stool held.
Good,
Ragoczy Franciscus signed, and stretched his arms above his head, arching his back.
Ragoczy Franciscus signed, and stretched his arms above his head, arching his back.
“You’re tired. So am I,” said Rojeh. “You rest first, and I will rest after you wake. While you sleep, I’ll see if I can find something to eat.” His expression clouded. “How much longer before your throat is healed enough to take sustenance? If hunger is enervating to me, it is debilitating to you, for more than your body is compromised.” He sank down onto the stool. “I’ll go hunting shortly, when the sky is finally clear.”
Ragoczy Franciscus moved the tablet and stylus to the end of the chest near where he intended to rest his head. As he stretched out on the leather-strapped wood, he signaled Rojeh,
We will talk.
We will talk.
“Later,” said Rojeh. “When we’re both more rested.”
Lying on his back, Ragoczy Franciscus almost seemed laid out for burial, so completely still was he. His light olive skin was lunar-pale and his eyes were sunk in dark sockets. Had Rojeh not seen this state before, he would have been troubled by it, but being familiar with Ragoczy Franciscus, he saw this stillness with relief, for it meant that Ragoczy Franciscus would be imbued with the power of his native earth when he woke, which would sustain him until he was able to seek more living nourishment. “No wonder he wants to go back to the Carpathians,” Rojeh whispered as he went out to hunt, returning shortly before sunset with a brace of pigeons hanging from a thong over his shoulder. He went to the marshaling room to see how Ragoczy Franciscus fared, and to improvise a table where he could eat. During his hunt, he had decided he needed to make a small fire to boil water so he could scald the pigeons to make plucking easier. He searched out an old tin pail in the far recesses of the stable, which he went to fill with rainwater from the cistern at the rear of the stable. Gathering up bits of old planking, and other scraps of wood, he found a sheltered place in the marshaling yard and began the tedious business of lighting the fire. As soon as the first tiny plume of smoke rose, he added more kindling to the pile and soon had a small but serviceable blaze going. This he framed with stones and set the pail on top of them, then shoved a few more lengths of wood in through the gaps in the stones. Satisfied that this would bring the water to a boil, he went to lead the horses and mules to the cistern to drink, then returned them to their stalls. He took grain from the case of it and measured out enough for the mash, and returned to the fire in time to add another broken plank to the fuel.
The scrape of the door being thrust open caught Rojeh’s attention; he turned to see Ragoczy Franciscus standing just outside the marshaling room, his demeanor much restored. “You’re awake.”
Yes,
he signed.
he signed.
“You look rested.”
Yes,
again.
again.
“Good. If you sleep once more before we go on, you should be able to—”
Ride long. Ragoczy Franciscus pointed to the scalding pigeons.
Help you?
Help you?
“No, I can manage,” said Rojeh, surprised at the offer. “But if you will bring my heavy knife from my personal case in the stable?”
Ragoczy Franciscus nodded and went off with easy, crisp strides to the stable, only to return shortly with the long, slender skinning knife Rojeh used to prepare his food. He handed this to Rojeh, who was busy plucking feathers from the pigeons; he sat in a flurry of gray and white as if he had been caught in a miniature snowstorm.
“Thanks,” said Rojeh as he took the knife in his befeathered hand. “When I’ve finished my meal, perhaps then we can talk—or you can write and I will talk,” he added. “Are there any oil-lamps in this place?”
Not find
, Ragoczy Franciscus gestured.
We have.
, Ragoczy Franciscus gestured.
We have.
“In the blue chest, yes, we do. Lamps and oil to power them.” Rojeh sluiced slightly bloody water over one of the pigeons, showing it had been completely fletched; he went to work finishing the other while Ragoczy Franciscus went to the stable to bring the oil-lamps and the oil-jar from the blue chest, along with flint-and-steel.
While Rojeh cut up and ate his two pigeons, Ragoczy Franciscus set about filling and lighting the oil-lamps in the marshaling room, finally providing enough illumination to make reading what he wrote on the wax tablet possible.
“I’m finished,” Rojeh announced from the door. “The guts and bones are buried, and the fire has been drowned.”
Good,
Ragoczy Franciscus gestured, and pointed to the stool that Rojeh had found earlier.
We talk.
Before Ragoczy Franciscus could begin to use his stylus, Rojeh suddenly got up and went out into the marshaling yard to where he had made his fire. Bending down, he selected three sticks of blackened wood, then carried these back to Ragoczy Franciscus, pausing as he went to stare at the vivid and glorious sunset that ornamented the western sky with a range of colors from crimson to persimmon, purple to lilac; the sun itself was a disk of brilliant red, splendid as anything Justinian, Emperor of Byzantium, ever adorned himself with or used to aggrandize his Empress or his court. Breaking away from the impressive celestial display as from a transfixing spell, Rojeh shook himself and went into the marshaling room and the soft glow of the oil-lamps. “Here. You can write on the floor with this,” he said, handing the charcoal to Ragoczy Franciscus.
Ragoczy Franciscus gestured, and pointed to the stool that Rojeh had found earlier.
We talk.
Before Ragoczy Franciscus could begin to use his stylus, Rojeh suddenly got up and went out into the marshaling yard to where he had made his fire. Bending down, he selected three sticks of blackened wood, then carried these back to Ragoczy Franciscus, pausing as he went to stare at the vivid and glorious sunset that ornamented the western sky with a range of colors from crimson to persimmon, purple to lilac; the sun itself was a disk of brilliant red, splendid as anything Justinian, Emperor of Byzantium, ever adorned himself with or used to aggrandize his Empress or his court. Breaking away from the impressive celestial display as from a transfixing spell, Rojeh shook himself and went into the marshaling room and the soft glow of the oil-lamps. “Here. You can write on the floor with this,” he said, handing the charcoal to Ragoczy Franciscus.
Very good
, signaled Ragoczy Franciscus, setting aside his tablet and stylus and getting down on one knee to wipe a section of the floor free of dust and the small detritus of the vanished occupants. When he had a stretch of pale-gray stone exposed, he looked at Rojeh.
Ready,
he gestured.
, signaled Ragoczy Franciscus, setting aside his tablet and stylus and getting down on one knee to wipe a section of the floor free of dust and the small detritus of the vanished occupants. When he had a stretch of pale-gray stone exposed, he looked at Rojeh.
Ready,
he gestured.
“You said you would explain why you set Dukkai adrift.” There was a faint hint of accusation in this reminder, as if Rojeh wanted the complete answer, and not some simple abstraction. When Ragoczy Franciscus hesitated, Rojeh prodded, “Well? Why did you do it?”
Ragoczy Franciscus held up his hand, a request for patience; after a long moment, he began to write with the longest of the three charcoal sticks.
I hoped that by setting her adrift as I did that she would vanish by the time the rest of her clan awoke.
I hoped that by setting her adrift as I did that she would vanish by the time the rest of her clan awoke.
“The boat probably sank,” said Rojeh.
I would assume it did. If the clan did not see it, they would not know what had become of her. As a shaman, vanishing would restore her reputation, and it would permit the rest of her family to remain with the Desert Cats. Dukkai is dead, and nothing can change that. But her death need not be a defeat.
Ragoczy Franciscus wiped another swath of stone and prepared to go on.
The Desert Cats are at less than half their strength and numbers than when we first encountered them, and they are still losing people. Fever, hunger, cold, age, all have depleted their ranks and will continue to do so for as long as the sun remains weak. To lose their shaman shamefully adds a burden that many of them cannot endure. If they have no one to speak to the Lords of the Earth, they will be in danger of fragmenting, and if that happens, most of them will die.
Ragoczy Franciscus wiped another swath of stone and prepared to go on.
The Desert Cats are at less than half their strength and numbers than when we first encountered them, and they are still losing people. Fever, hunger, cold, age, all have depleted their ranks and will continue to do so for as long as the sun remains weak. To lose their shaman shamefully adds a burden that many of them cannot endure. If they have no one to speak to the Lords of the Earth, they will be in danger of fragmenting, and if that happens, most of them will die.
“Do you think having Dukkai vanish will keep them together?” Rojeh was puzzled, and he leaned over the answer as Ragoczy Franciscus wrote.
I trust they will believe her magic took her to the Underworld Judge, and that she will become one with the Gods of the Smoke. This could not happen if they found her body.
Rojeh read the last answer twice. “Why do you care what becomes of them? Dukkai cut your throat and was prepared to offer your life to her gods.”
For the living, life is so very short, and the dead slip away so quickly. I have the luxury of time—centuries and centuries of it; how can I live among living humans and not do what I can to make their brief lives less precipitous? I will be here far longer than any of them, and I must not abuse my long life, for if I did, I would lose all claim to humanity; I have worked much too hard to maintain it to want to relinquish all I have sought.
“How long do you think you have to make up for the years you hunted men as fodder, as vengeance for the slaughter of your family?” Rojeh asked with more bluntness than he intended.
That is so far in the past that I doubt I could. What I do now I do because I know the souls of people through the intimacy I have with—
His charcoal stick broke. Dusting his hands on his thick leather leggings, Ragoczy Franciscus rose to his feet and pointed toward the chest, gesturing,
You. Sleep.
His charcoal stick broke. Dusting his hands on his thick leather leggings, Ragoczy Franciscus rose to his feet and pointed toward the chest, gesturing,
You. Sleep.
Knowing it was useless to pursue this any longer, Rojeh took a deep breath. “We should travel at first light. Will you wake me before dawn?”
Yes,
Ragoczy Franciscus gestured, moving over to the stool to sit guard while Rojeh slept.
Ragoczy Franciscus gestured, moving over to the stool to sit guard while Rojeh slept.
Text of a letter from the Roman merchant Antoninus Octavianus Stellens in Ostia to the merchant Lucius Valentius Gnaeo, expected in the port of Salonae, carried by merchant ship and delivered on the nineteenth of May.
To the renowned merchant Lucius Vatentius Gnaeo, at his warehouse in Salonae, the greetings and good wishes of Antoninus Octavianus Stellens, presently in Ostia, on this, the twenty-fourth of February in the year 537 of the Pope’s calendar, with thanks for your communication of last autumn, and the hope that your ventures have prospered since then, that your family has suffered no further losses, and that no contract you have entered upon has been compromised.
I am pleased to tell you that I have come upon a supply of raisins and dried plums from a peasant living to the north of Roma. He has kept four barrels of each in reserve and has started to offer them for sale. He also grows the apples of Api, which can be stored much longer than most of that sort of fruit, and he has a few trees that are bearing still in his orchard. He has named a price that I, by myself, would find hard to meet, but if you were to go shares with me on the purchase, I believe that both of us would profit from the transaction. If this holds any interest for you, notify me as quickly as you may, and I will tell him that he has found a buyer. I hope the storms of winter will abate in time for you to receive this and make your decision.
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