Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Vampires, #Transylvania (Romania), #Krakatoa (Indonesia), #Volcanic Eruptions
Dark of the Sun (31 page)
“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.
“Certainly a long time,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, remembering the first time he had gone into these vast plains and mountains; then he had taken the Amber Trail into India, to the lands of Oshaka; that had been three centuries before he had journeyed into Gaul with Gaius Julius Caesar and his Legions. It had been a long, arduous journey, but no more difficult than this current crossing had been. He vaguely recalled the Stone Tower fortress where merchants carried out their exchanges, the occasional lush meadows, and the many small towns that marked the route: Kokand was just one of many.
“This is Kasha’s house,” Ourisi said as she stopped in front of a small wooden door. “You can bring your pony into the courtyard if you—”
“—pay for the privilege,” Ragoczy Franciscus finished for her. “I am prepared.” He fingered three more strings of cash on his arm and was glad they were wrapped in bands of cloth so they would not jingle.
Ourisi tugged a rope by the door, and a chorus of camel-bells sounded. “Someone will come,” she said.
“So I expect,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, trying to decide how best to approach Kasha when he came to deal with the man. He was deep in thought when the door was pulled open and a youth of no more than twelve shoved the door open and glared out.
“Qasashi, open the door,” said Ourisi as she saw the outraged youngster.
“It is you,” he responded, making a sign against the Evil Eye. “If you had any wisdom, you would stay away from this house.”
“It is where my master lives, and I must stay here unless he shuts me out,” said Ourisi wearily. “Open the door and let us in.”
For the first time, the young man noticed that Ourisi was not alone. He frowned at Ragoczy Franciscus, saying, “You should not have come here.”
Ragoczy Franciscus did not object to being so bluntly confronted; he regarded Qasashi steadily. “If you would let me in, I may be of use to you and your family.”
“We have little money, and not much food, so there isn’t much to steal,” said the youngster defiantly.
“Qasashi,” Ourisi said with the authority born of exhaustion. “Let us in.”
“My father will be displeased,” Qasashi predicted, but held the door to admit Ourisi, Ragoczy Franciscus, and his pony to the small courtyard that fronted the house.
Ourisi held out four silver coins from the string Ragoczy Franciscus had given her. “Not with this,” she said, and sank onto a plank bench near the door.
“Silver!” Qasashi exclaimed, all suspicion vanishing. He snatched at the coins, but could not wrest them from Ourisi’s closed fist.
“That is for Kasha,” said Ourisi.
“You mean he will buy you and take you away with him?” Qasashi asked with unabashed enthusiasm.
Ourisi drooped in her place, but anything she might have said remained unuttered as a large, painfully thin man burst out of the house, cursing and waving his fists.
Ragoczy Franciscus stepped forward and began his mentally rehearsed explanation, all the while aware that his chances of winning Kasha over were much lower than he had assumed; he could not decide how to assess the blank expression on the man’s face and remained puzzled until Kasha turned suddenly to Ourisi.
“Your boy died. I’ve given him to the guards for burial,” he announced, ignoring the dreadful wail with which Ourisi received the news. “Just as well,” he said to Ragoczy Franciscus. “A simple boy like that—why waste food on him?”
To his inward surprise, Ragoczy Franciscus heard himself say, “Then let me reduce your burden still further: what do you want for Ourisi’s freedom?”
Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens in Bononia on the Via Aemilia in Italy to Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus in Yang-Chau, written in Imperial Latin and filed as unreadable when delivered four years later.
To my most-dear, most-aggravating friend, Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus on the far side of the world, the greetings of Olivia on this the thirteenth day of May in the 1,289th Year of the City, or the 536th Pope’s Year, since so many monks are keeping records now. I have only a single sheet of parchment and so must be more terse than I would like to be.
As you see, I have left Lago Comus and am now bound for Roma, and a return to my estate, as well as the direct care of yours. The entire Comus region has been mired in cold, and the sun has been unable to bring enough warmth to the earth to end the chill. All of last year we had frost, and that, while less consistent this spring, is still enough to cause profound worry amongst the farmers and peasants working the land. I have granted access to the Lago Comus property to the local growers and forgiven them their rents-in-kind for the next five years. I am sure you will not object to such measures, for if you were here, you could see for yourself what a dreadful hardship this cold has been. It has been worse to the north of the Alps, for they say that they are going to have another year with almost no harvest, and they also say the boars and aurochs are dying in the forests, for want of food, so only the vultures and the wolves have fared well.
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