Darker Jewels (52 page)

In that regard, you inform me that you have considered knouting Rakoczy, but fear that it might be interpreted as an insult by the Polish king. Istvan Bathory is a virtuous man, and as such he will not countenance malfeasance and mayhem in one of his mission. Were he here himself, lam convinced that he would not deem that severe lashing inappropriate to the many injuries Rakocxy has inflicted, for we have learned that should a Rus noble commit such reprehensible acts, he would most surely be decapitated.

If a sentence ofknouting is your decision, then I implore you to order a great number of blows, not a merejive or ten administered by a Kremlin Guard, but twenty or thirty, with the knout in the hands of a Don Cossack. This Rakoczy is no ordinary miscreant, and his deeds demand suffering commensurate with the suffering he has caused. He must not be permitted to trade on the good-will of the people of Moscovy, nor on the favors he had extended to the nobility. If there is any justice in the world, then it requires that Ferenc Rakoczy be made to answer for his many transgressions.

I pray God will send you wisdom and His Angels to guide you in your decision, and I beg you to recall that those who excuse crime participate in it as surety as if they were the ones who wielded the knives.

In respect and reverence, in the Name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Casimir Pogner, Society of Jesus Embassy of Istvan Bathory of Poland to the Court of Czar Feodor July 9, by the new calendar, in the Year of Grace 1585

7

The beating had stopped sometime before but the pain of it was unrelenting; Rakoczy, chained over an ancient brewer’s barrel in the barracks’ courtyard behind the Cathedral of the Virgin of the Intercession, faded in and out of consciousness as night came on. Vermin of every description had sought out the feast of his

mauled flesh; insects and rats competed for every tom scrap of skin and muscle, and for every drop of blood. Ravens lingered around the courtyard, one occasionally swooping low over him to snatch some prize morsel from the rest. Rakoczy could feel the passage of their flight in agonizing licks of air over the ruin of his back. He had bled very little, given the damage the knout had inflicted. In two places his ribs showed through the lacerations, and his shoulders were so tom that it appeared he had been held in the talons of a gigantic bird of prey. What little was left of his clothes hung in tatters. He despised his helplessness and he could not move.

There was a smell of death in this courtyard, a deeper stench than the spilled blood and bowels. He knew it well; he had come to recognize it in Babylon and Thebes, and since that time had encountered it in more places than he cared to recall. The sullen summer heat carried it like distant thunder.

In the blur of pain he thought of Tamasrajasi. Of those he had been remembering, only she would be drawn to this, would seek to embrace it and sup on it, this heat and misery and death. She had drowned more titan three hundred years ago, but Rakoczy could still wince at the thought of her, and find her echo in the corruption around him.

The weight of his body pulled relentlessly against the manacles, and now the iron dug into his wrists; although he could not see them, he knew his small hands were swollen and dark for he could no longer move his fingers but he could feel them press into each other, and the knuckles ached from stretching. Shackles held his legs far enough apart that his knees were aching from strained ligaments. Even if he could free himself, he thought distantly, it would likely be impossible for him to escape, for his legs would not be able to support him. The soldiers had taken his boots, and each foot had been given a single blow of the knout; his feet were as bruised and swollen as his hands.

He was supposed to die. The thirty blows with the knout that had been ordered were more than sufficient to kill living men. That heavy cable lash could strip skin off the bone without the iron ring at the end, let alone the weights that were attached to it. They had used the second-largest weight on him, an iron bauble nearly the size of a hen’s egg. He had come close to biting through his lower lip when the weight broke his rib.

In the Cathedral of the Virgin of the Intercession the priests were singing the praises of God’s mercy, their rich harmonies vying with the flies and mosquitoes and rats for his attention. Tiie ravens were gone, and the rosy glow in the western sky. He realized that it was growing late, that sunset Mass was long over, and this must be the Slumber Mass, as the people called it, sung at the time most Moscovites were preparing to go to bed. He had lost another two or three hours since day’s end.

They would be expecting to find a corpse in the morning, he told himself, trying to concentrate against the torment of his wounds. If they did not find one, there would be greater trouble for him, and suspicions that would bring him more anguish than the knouting had. And that would lead to far greater difficulties than the ones he endured now. So often in stories those who were not properly dead gained magical abilities; they could change into wolves or birds or bats and escape from their pursuers. They could command the elements and those around them to assist them. It was a fable of power he wished were true, though he suspected that even a new shape could not travel far with the injuries he had received. All his death had given him was durability and strength far beyond that of the truly living, a degree of control over animals, superior night vision, and one specific thirst. The rest—the skills, the learning, the music, the compassion—he had acquired for himself in many long and painful lessons.

He realized that the priests were no longer singing, and that the torches outside the barracks fronting the courtyard had been extinguished. How long ago had that been? One hour? Two? What time was it? He wished for his Dutch watch, knowing he would be unable to hold it or read it. He squinted up at the sky, but thin, ruched clouds obscured the stars and he could not reckon the time accurately; the effort to hold his head up was too painful for him to continue it for long. Splinters from the old barrel dug into his cheek as he lowered his head.

Not far off dogs growled and whimpered, whining as they strained at their iron-studded collars. Whether they sought the rats or Rakoczy himself, he did not know. Outside the courtyard walls a few tradesmen shouted and called as they hurried for the protection of their homes.

The next thing Rakoczy was aware of—he had lost another unknown amount of time—there were soldiers coming back to the barracks, well after hours, all drunk. A few of them were singing, finding it hard to get the words out and straying from the tune. They came from the stables, footsteps unsteady and direction uncertain; they boasted of their prowess at whoring, swore they were the greatest cocksmen in the world, and blundered away to their beds, accompanied by the complaining shouts of their less adventurous comrades.

Rakoczy listened intently; the poignance of the brevity of their lives struck him as his own hurt had not, and wrung his soul. He could offer himself the equivocal anodyne of his long centuries of living. But those soldiers were all no older than thirty, and most of them would never see fifty. By the time Rakoczy had been on the earth for fifty years, he had been dead for seventeen.

The soldiers were gone and now some of the rats were fighting. The battle raged around him, chittering and slashing in the dark. Occasionally a furry body would brush against his legs, and once he felt claws sink into the mangled flesh of his shoulder, and he screamed, though the sound was no louder than the shrieks of the rats, which he loathed.

And then, from the wall near the cathedral, there was a noise, a soft, stealthy noise, a noise that was not supposed to be heard.

At once Rakoczy was alert, forcing himself out of the lethargy that had enveloped him. He battled the pain as he raised his head, staring into the darkness and seeing only the curve of the barrel and the movement of fleeing rats. He could feel the abrasions on his face start to bleed once more.

Now there was a footfall, and another.

Two men approached him, walking gingerly, not speaking. Rakoczy listened intendy and cursed his chains that immobilized him. He wondered if they had come to help him or to give him the true death at last.

Then someone knelt by his feet and unfastened the shackles.

Rakoczy cried out as his legs gave way and his arms were more cruelly pulled. Only his damaged feet were numb.

“Not yet,” hissed Boris Feodorovich Godunov, as he went to unfasten the manacles. “Hold him.”

“His back’s—” protested Benedict Lovell, hesitating to touch Rakoczy now that he was somewhat aware of the hideous damage that had been done.

“It won’t be better if he falls,” muttered Boris, and undid the left manacle.

Rakoczy moaned as his battered muscles were wrenched afresh. He feared he was being racked again, and his long memories ran together for an instant, so that he was not only here in Moscovy, but in a dungeon in Toledo, in a secret chamber in Trebizond, under the Flavian Circus in Rome, in the bear pit in Chotin. He choked back a scream as Lovell grabbed him to hold him up; his vision clouded and he drifted into unconsciousness.

“Just as well; it’s less difficult for all of us,” said Boris as he struggled with Lovell to support RakocZy upright between them. “It’s a wonder he’s alive at all.”

Lovell did not answer at first, and when he did, he spoke very softly. “I’ve seen men beaten before, but not like this. If this is half as drastic as I fear—” He indicated the darkness. “I am afraid of what I will see.”

“The knout is intended to punish,” said Boris, dismissing the observation as they started back toward the narrow side door. He was testy, fearing discovery in spite of the late hour. “Don’t let his feet drag.”

“Of course not,” said Lovell, and hitched his shoulder more firmly under Rakoczy’s side.

Rakoczy groaned and his head lolled as he came out of his faint. The pain of his release melded with the agony of his beating, consuming him. Supported between the two men, he had the continual sensation of falling, which left him dizzy and apprehensive as consciousness faded and sharpened.

“Almost there,” whispered Boris as they neared the door. “I hope he hasn’t left a trail of blood.”

“I think most of it has clotted,” said Lovell. “It appears it has.” He fingered the shredded remains of Rakoczy’s dolman. “It’s tacky, not wet.”

“Well enough,” said Boris heavily. “We don’t want them following us.”

“No,” agreed Lovell.

Slung between them Rakoczy swallowed hard to contain the nausea their movement caused. How strange it was, he thought in a still and distant part of his mind, that he of all men should feel nausea. His senses lurched with every move his rescuers made, and he could not hold his attention on anything for more than a few seconds because of the dark current washing through him borne on pain. Suddenly he shuddered and would have fallen had not Lovell seized his hair to hold him upright. Gradually the spasm passed and his senses grew less disordered. He turned his will to keeping silent; he was remotely aware of the great risk of discovery they ran.

They reached the door and paused while Boris edged near enough to glance out into the deserted street. He signaled to Lovell to move forward, and between them they managed to get Rakoczy out of the courtyard. As Boris turned to close the door and secure it again, he whispered, “If anyone should come upon us, brandish your dagger, and swear like a boyar. Say that this servant will not steal from you again. No one will dare to interfere with us.”

“Except perhaps another boyar?” suggested Lovell dryly.

“You would do well to pray that no boyar finds us, for if he does, we will have to kill him.” Boris glanced at Lovell once, to measure his reaction. In his short riding kaftan of dark leather he looked more like a seasoned officer than a guardian of the Czar. “No one can know of this, not if we are to save him, and ourselves.”

Lovell nodded once. “Then I will pray,” he assured Boris.

Feeling was returning to Rakoczy’s hands and feet, and with it came greater pain, as if knives were being shoved under the tendons of each finger. It had been centuries since he had been so severely damaged; he would need long rest to recover and heal. He tried to move his fingers and only achieved more anguish for his efforts.

“Be still,” Lovell whispered to Rakoczy in English as they started along the street. “Make no sound.”

Rakoczy wanted to assure Lovell of his silence, but could not trust himself to speak without giving voice to his hurt. In order to distract himself he wondered where they were taking him. Where in Moscovy would he be safe?

“I don’t like having to touch his back,” Lovell said to Boris in Russian. “It sickens me.”

“And it sickens him, I’d wager,” said Boris brusquely. “Watch. Be quiet.” He was apprehensive as they reached the edge of the Beautiful Market Square, standing eerily empty at the ebb of night. “We must hurry now,” he warned Lovell, and began to walk faster.

Slung between them, his useless arms draped over their shoulders, Rakoczy clamped his jaw tight. He was riddled with agony that increased steadily.

Lovell was panting by the time they reached the wide street angling away toward the north. He gasped out “Stop,” as they turned away from the Beautiful Market Square and the mass of the Kremlin. “I need time to recover my breath.” Reluctantly he shifted his grip on Rakoczy, flinching as he heard the soft moan his burden made. Anxiety as much as effort had taken its toll of him and he fought now to regain not only his strength but his nerve. He was determined to master both before they set out again.

“Do not take long,” warned Boris, looking from one end of the street to the other. He stifled a nervous, incomplete yawn and then got a more secure grip on Rakoczy. “We should not linger. We must reach the warehouse before the apprentices are in the streets.”

“I know, I know,” said Lovell, preparing himself for the second and more crucial stage of their rescue, and went on, “Do you think he will live?”

It took a short while for Boris to form his answer. “I think it is a miracle he is not dead now,” he admitted and went on unhappily, “And if fever doesn’t kill him, I don’t know if his sinews or bones will knit again. He may yet curse us for what we are doing.”