Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Vampires, #Transylvania (Romania), #Krakatoa (Indonesia), #Volcanic Eruptions
Dark of the Sun (33 page)
“I do,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.
Vermakrides blinked. “What might it be?”
“Four Ferghana horses of my choosing,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, “and one full measure of gold.”
“That is a substantial amount,” said Vermakrides.
“So it is,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “The bone is unique.”
Vermakrides pulled at his lower lip, twisting his beard as he did. “Three horses and a three-quarter measure of gold.”
This was a larger counteroffer than Ragoczy Franciscus had been expecting; he covered his surprise by saying, “Four horses and a three-quarter measure of gold.”
Fiddling with his beard, Vermakrides set his cup aside and took a short time to ponder. “That is a very tempting proposition,” he admitted, and gulped down the last of his wine while Ragoczy Franciscus waited calmly for the Byzantine merchant to decide.
Vermakrides gave him a careful look. “I will not offer a higher price than the one we have discussed.”
“Let me see the horses before I decide.” Ragoczy Franciscus gestured toward the door. “We will fix the matter shortly.”
Rising, Vermakrides smiled. “I can see you are a careful man,” he approved, and led the way out of the inn to the horse-market to conclude their transaction.
The three horses Ragoczy Franciscus chose were young, strengthy animals: a copper-dun mare, a black-and-white-spotted stallion that Rojeh favored, and a splendid blue roan mare that Ragoczy Franciscus had selected as his own. The ponies—now each carrying lighter loads as their burdens were spread over more backs and some of the crates and barrels were growing lighter as the food and water they contained was depleted—were able to pick up their pace. They made rapid progress along the Kushan Road toward the Volga Delta at the north side of the Caspian Sea.
“I estimate our speed at nineteen thousand paces yesterday and this morning,” said Rojeh as they broke camp in midafternoon.
Ragoczy Franciscus was gathering up their bedding and setting it in place on the pack saddles, using heavy hempen nets to hold all in place, when he allowed himself the luxury of a single chuckle. “What a strange trophy to want.”
Rojeh realized Ragoczy Franciscus meant the Byzantine merchant. “What sort of an exhibit do you think he will make of it?”
Ragoczy Franciscus considered his answer. “I have no idea.”
“Didn’t he say he wanted to display it and charge for people to see it?” Rojeh could sense Ragoczy Franciscus’ disinterest. “When he took it, he said he would show it as a giant’s bone, or a dragon’s.”
“Yes, he did. An odd notion.”
“That Byzantine merchant may succeed in his plan, if he can bring the bone to Trebizond without mishap. Who knows what people may make of it if he actually displays it?” With a quick, tight smile, Rojeh went to work on the riding horses. “You took sustenance from the copper-dun, did you?”
“Yes. Two nights from now it will be a pony I drink from, and then, two nights later, my blue roan, and after that, the cinder-brown pony, then the black-and-white. I have adhered to that routine since we left Tok-Kala.” He patted his mare’s neck. “It is sufficient to keep me alive, but it puts no flesh on my bones.”
“So I see,” said Rojeh, reaching into their grooming box and handing a stiff-bristled brush to Ragoczy Franciscus.
“Just as well, being a bit gaunt just now. A man with abundant flesh in these times would become the object of envy and suspicion.” He looked at Rojeh, his face unreadable.
Rojeh, nonplussed, began to groom the copper-dun, his austere features showing little of his thoughts. Finally, as he started brushing their ponies, he remarked, “Have you wondered at all about what has happened in Yang-Chau since we left? You haven’t said much about it.”
“There is little to say. With such harsh weather along the Silk Road, if the ports of China and India were not badly compromised, they would be bringing foodstuffs and other necessities with them, for there would be handsome profits to be made, if such things were available.” He squinted up at the sky. “Though it shines, the sun is still veiled—I can feel its lack of power as I have since shortly after we crossed the Crane River. It may be that wherever the sun shines, its weakness has taken a toll.” He got his saddle.
“But Yang-Chau is very far away,” said Rojeh, pulling out saddle pads for their riding horses, and handing one to Ragoczy Franciscus.
“And we have come a great distance without finding the sun any stronger, and there is evidence everywhere that the last year has been unusually cold and stormy everywhere, judging from what we have heard. There are no accounts of good harvests or flourishing land,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as he finished securing the girths.
Rojeh began to saddle his black-and-white stallion, remarking as he did, “I hope the mares will not come into season anytime soon.”
“And I. But they may not, since they have been on short rations for so long,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “Hunger delays such things.”
“Truly,” said Rojeh as he tightened the girths on his Jou’an-Jou’an saddle. “We will have to replace the foot-loop straps soon. They are showing too much wear.”
“I agree,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as he took his bridle from the tack trunk. He slipped the headstall over the mare’s ears and reached for the throat-latch to buckle it. “I may have to fashion new foot-loops; the iron of these is beginning to rust. When we reach Sarai, perhaps I can arrange something. There must be at least one smithy there where I may work.” He put his foot into the iron foot-loop and stepped up into his saddle.
It was sixteen days later that they saw the many mouths of the Volga glistening ahead, and the expanse of the Caspian Sea beyond, flat and glossy as a shield of polished brass. A few small ships moved upon it, but there was a lack of activity that boded ill for the people of the stone-walled town of Sarai, which stood on the last rocky spit of land in the delta; it rose steeply from the sea’s edge to a crag. A single, steep road led up to the gate, midway up the slope, an approach that discouraged attackers. Beyond the high stone walls, the town was surrounded by marsh, the waterways marked with reeds and occasional low docks where boats were tied. There was a quantity of islands created by the river, which just now were filled with tents of all sorts, from small cloth tents of the wandering beggars to the skin-covered tents of the clans and peoples from as far away as the Atlai Mountains and the expanses of the Gobi Desert. A maze of fords and low bridges connected the islands to the approach to the town. A faint odor of decay hung over the marshes, and a low, clinging mist was just beginning to rise from the profusion of waterways, sinister in the glistening midday light. There was very little activity in the various encampments, which added a second apprehension to the appearance of the delta islands.
“Look. Some of those tents are Jou’an-Jou’an; goat-hide over a wooden frame with horses painted on them, and horse-tail standards,” Rojeh remarked as he came up to Ragoczy Franciscus, who, this day, was on the copper-dun mare. Both men wore heavy silken Byzantine paragaudions—procured from Vermakrides—over thick, Persian leggings of wool, and tooled-and-heeled Scythian-style boots. The day was warm enough that neither man had bothered to don a cloak or a sen-gai.
“So they are,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “But that might not be significant.”
“I didn’t mean that the Desert Cats are here,” said Rojeh quickly.
“They may be,” Ragoczy Franciscus allowed. “And perhaps, if we are taken into the town, I will come and see which clans are among those gathered on the islands. If we must pass on tomorrow, then—” He shook his head once.
By midafternoon they had climbed the road to reach the gates of Sarai and had been admitted, but with immediate restriction, imposed upon them by a single guard who confronted them immediately inside the gates. “You must remain over there, you and your animals,” the officer who let them in ordered, pointing to a large pen to the side of the gate. He spoke an outlandish tongue that was the regional language with an admixture of Silk Road Greek and Persian. His weapon was a long, menacing spear with a hook where the point should be, in contrast to the guard, who carried a Persian shimtare and a mace.
“We will; but why?” Ragoczy Franciscus asked in Byzantine Greek.
“Our Master of Foreigners must speak with you,” said the officer, annoyed at having to answer. “Emrach Sarai’af has been notified of your coming. He will decide if you may be admitted, and how long you may stay, if you are.”
“I understand and accept these terms,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, his manner distantly polite.
The officer coughed. “From where do you come?” He was spared more inquiry as a large, bearded man in Byzantine clothing approached in a chariot of western design. He hailed the officer as his slave halted the pair of horses drawing the vehicle. Seen at this nearer vantage, his height was impressive and there was a deep scar running from his forehead, through his eyebrow, to his cheek, disappearing into his beard; his nose was aquiline and his mouth was wide. He stepped down from the chariot and came toward the officer. “What is it you want? The Volgamen haven’t arrived yet, have they?” His Byzantine Greek was reasonably good, but his accent would have been laughable in Constantinople.
“No, not the Volgamen,” said the officer. “This merchant and a traveling companion have come.”
Ermach Sarai’af stalked up to Ragoczy Franciscus, making the most of his size, his hands on his hips to make his shoulders look bigger. Yet loom as he would, his usual intimidation had no effect on the foreigner in the black paragaudion. Flustered, he walked around Ragoczy Franciscus, glaring at him. “I am the Master of Foreigners. All strangers here are here on my sufferance.”
Ragoczy Franciscus remained unperturbed by this scrutiny. “I am Ragoczy Franciscus; he is Rojeh. My companion and I have come from China. We are returning to my home in the Carpathian Mountains.” His demeanor was deferential but cool; he reverenced Ermach Sarai’af. “My companion and I seek permission to stay here for a month, if we may, to recuperate from the rigors of our travels.”
“How much can you pay?” The question came abruptly and without finesse. “We cannot have anyone here who cannot pay,” said Ermach Sarai’af.
“I have some gold, and some silver,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “What amount would do?”
“If you have a tent, the amount would be less; you could claim a plot at the rear of the town. If you take a house in the Foreigners’ Quarter, the amount would be greater, and separate from any arrangement you may make with the owner of the house.” Ermach Sarai’af folded his big arms and made another attempt to hector Ragoczy Franciscus. “You must pay for the right to be inside these walls for the night.”
Ragoczy Franciscus gave a single nod. “I am willing to pay the amount if I have enough gold and silver with me.”
Perplexed, Ermach Sarai’af paced around Ragoczy Franciscus one more time, then declared, “I will have to receive two Byzantine bars of gold if you, your companion, and your animals are to remain here for—How long do you plan to remain here, again?”
“A month,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “Perhaps more.”
“The two bars of gold will be paid for a month. If you stay longer, I will have the same again from you, whether you remain here a month or a day.” Ermach Sarai’af stopped directly in front of Ragoczy Franciscus, challenging him.
“It is a large amount,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.
“If you cannot meet it, then—”
“It is a large sum,” said Ragoczy Franciscus affably, waited a moment, then added, “And if you would direct me and my companion to an inn where we may spend a few days while choosing a house in the Foreigners’ Quarter, I would be most grateful.”
Emrach Sarai’af, who had been expecting a long wrangle over the amount he was charging the foreigners, snorted. “You must have had a very profitable journey, to be so accommodating.” After a brooding silence, Emrach Sarai’af said, “The Birch House will have rooms for you, and paddocks and stalls for your animals.”
“Excellent,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as if he were actually delighted. “If you will tell us how this inn is to be found, we will go there at once and expect you shortly before sunset.” He signaled to Rojeh. “The Birch House. We will go there at once.”
“I will be along before sundown to collect your money,” Emrach Sarai’af warned before turning on his heel and striding back to his waiting chariot. “If you do not pay the amount due, the guards will escort you out of the gates, and you will not be allowed to return, not for double the price.”
“Yes; I understand,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as he swung around to face Rojeh. “Are we ready?”
“If you are, so are we all,” said Rojeh, mounting his stallion again and preparing to lead the other animals.
“Excellent,” Ragoczy Franciscus repeated. “I will have money waiting for you shortly,” he added to Emrach Sarai’af as he mounted his blue roan.
Text of a letter from Tsa Tsa-Si, professor of calendars and geography at the University of Yang-Chau to his brother Tsa Wa-Tso at Chang’an, carried by courier and delivered ten months after being written and two months after Tsa Tsa-Si’s death.
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