Borne in Blood (31 page)
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Guardian and Ward, #Vampires, #Nobility, #blood, #Paramours, #Switzerland
I am pleased to tell you that the road to your castle above Zemmer is almost finished in its resurfacing. By summer the place should be quite habitable, and I hope I will have the honor of calling on you there before the year is out. I am informed that work on the roof will resume as soon as the weather permits, that the stable is complete, that the creamery is restored and the bakery will be so in another month. Work on the bath-house will begin as soon as the trunks of earth you have stipulated be used in the foundation actually arrive. I have your plans in hand and will deliver them promptly to the workers as soon as the ground may be dug up.
Regarding your travels, I am confident that I can secure time away for you, although it may not be possible to gain you the five to six weeks you requested. My bona fides should make some accommodation possible, and so I believe that you may plan on at least three weeks for your journey to Austria. You may be required to supply a bond, but that, I assume, will not be a hardship for you.
In the continuing pledge of my dedication to your interests, I am,
Most sincerely at your service,
Reinhart Olivier Kreuzbach
Attorney-at-law and factor
Speicher, Rhenish Prussia
HYACINTHIE THERESA KATERINA SIEFFERT VON RAVENSBERG
T
ext of a letter from Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus, at Château Ragoczy near Lake Geneva, Yvoire, Switzerland, to Helmust Fredrich Lambert Ahrent Ritterslandt, Graf von Scharffensee; carried by coachman Otto Gutesohnes and Hero Ioacasta Ariadne Corvosaggio von Scharffensee.
ext of a letter from Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus, at Château Ragoczy near Lake Geneva, Yvoire, Switzerland, to Helmust Fredrich Lambert Ahrent Ritterslandt, Graf von Scharffensee; carried by coachman Otto Gutesohnes and Hero Ioacasta Ariadne Corvosaggio von Scharffensee.
To Helmut Fredrich, Graf von Scharffensee, the greetings of Saint-Germain, Comte Franciscus, on this, the 17
th
day of February, 1818.
th
day of February, 1818.
My dear Graf,
I am devastated to be unable to join you and your grandchildren for the occasion of the visit of your daughter-in-law. It is unfortunate that I should at this time be detained by pressing legal matters which demand an expeditious response. I ask that you excuse me, and I trust that you will understand my predicament and not judge me too harshly for circumstances that are beyond my control. I am confident you will receive her respectfully for her children’s sake.
Your daughter-in-law has with her not only the coachman, but her maid and an escort of two armed men whose purpose it is to protect her from any harm that may threaten her. They will all bring her to Ravensberg, where I will once again meet her at the conclusion of her visit with you. She is carrying a small box of uncut gems that are my present to you, as well as a pair of etchings from the last century showing two perspectives of Salzburg, which is her gift to her children. She herself brings a case of brandy for you.
I hope that this finds you well; may this year bring you good health, good harvests, the good-will of our neighbors, and contentment for all who dwell under your roof,
Most sincerely,
Saint-Germain Ragoczy
Comte Franciscus
(his sigil, the eclipse)
“Nutzen is falling asleep,” Rogier said to Ragoczy as he came into the laboratory shortly after midnight; most of the household had retired three hours ago, and it was not surprising that Romolo Nutzen was inclined to join them, though he had vowed to Magistrate Lindenblatt that he would watch Ragoczy from sunset to sunrise.
“At the top of the stair, or the foot?” Ragoczy asked, not taking his eyes off of the alembic before him. “And Ilel?” He was fairly certain that the daytime guard, Hermann Ilel, was not up.
“He retired with the rest,” said Rogier. “I think he is growing accustomed to life in this household. His curiosity is diminishing. Nutzen, whose name must be ironic, is at the foot of the stairs on the second floor, between the guest rooms, your own quarters, and mine.”
“It has been most inconvenient, having those two determined to find us at a disadvantage.” He moved back on his stool and looked over at Rogier. “At least Hero is bound for Scharffensee. She was more troubled by the Magistrate’s guards than I am. She said they were intrusive. It made her uncomfortable when I spent time alone with her, knowing we might be observed.”
“Do you think we will have to accommodate them much longer?” Rogier asked.
“I hope not.” Ragoczy adjusted the little flame under the almebic. “This should finish distilling in an hour or so.”
“Will you remain here, or are you going to retire?”
“I thought I might go to the library and look at what van der Boom has sent.”
“The new chest that came yesterday, or the chest that Gutesohnes brought?” Rogier cocked his head toward the dying fire. “Shall I build that back up?”
“No reason to,” said Ragoczy a bit distractedly as he studied the alembic and finally adjusted the flame again. “Have you sent off the household accounts to the Magisrate yet?”
“No, not yet. I have to ask Uchtred for his kitchen records—how much of the food came from local farms and how much from your property. And how much from your trading resources.”
“The fruits we had from Italy last summer, for example?” said Ragoczy. “Yes. They will want to know if our supplies exceed our uses, and if they do, what we do with the dispensables.”
“They will also want to verify our purchases and costs,” said Ragoczy, feeling very tired. “If I had some proof regarding the robbers, I would gladly provide all I know to the Magistrate, but, alas, I do not have any dependable information, not that would demonstrate that the rumors are nothing more than malice and worry.”
“Do you have suspicion as to whom the culprit might be?” Rogier looked toward the door and continued in the language of Persia fifteen hundred years ago.
“Nothing that is defensible, or legally convincing; I am not fully convinced of it myself,” said Ragoczy, also in the Persian tongue. “I would like to find a clue that would direct the Magistrate’s inquiry toward those who might bear some responsibility in this situation; it would probably require more guards posted in private homes, but it might stop the outlaws.”
“Would you actually make such an accusation toward anyone in the region?” Rogier asked.
“If I had verifiable evidence, I would,” said Ragoczy. “This atmosphere of misgiving is becoming hard to bear.”
“Then you do think they are being helped,” said Rogier.
“I do. At first I doubted it, but no longer.” He went to his chair by the fireplace and turned it to face the other chair in the laboratory. “Consider what has happened. Two merchants have lost their goods to highwaymen in the last month—this, in spite of the added patrols of Magistrates’ soldiers assigned to those routes kept open in winter. These are men who have braved the elements to deliver their merchandise to market ahead of many others, when the roads are dangerous because of the weather; many of the most frequented roads are not safe for any traveler. Yet they were stopped by the robbers, who had good information on these merchants, and were prepared to attack them in the most precarious parts of the snow-clogged roads. That might be luck once, but twice? I cannot believe that the robbers keep men posted on two different roads all through the winter on the chance they might happen upon a prize.” He shook his head. “So I must conclude that they were told of the merchants, what they carried, and what roads they traveled.”
“It is a curious coincidence,” said Rogier.
Ragoczy made a sound between a laugh and a snort. “Curious indeed. You and I have faced greater dangers over much longer time and have rarely had to deal with highwaymen sent specifically to ambush us. In more than nineteen centuries that has happened—what?—three times? The Baghdad road was the worst.”
“Not that we haven’t been ambushed in the ordinary way occasionally,” said Rogier.
“Alas,” Ragoczy agreed wryly.
The two were silent, then Rogier said, “I take it you are planning to go out tonight.”
“For an hour or two, perhaps,” said Ragoczy. “To walk the northwest end of the grounds, and to observe the road. I may go as far as the horse-pasture. I would rather we not lose any more sheep.”
“Some claim you have given them to the robbers,” said Rogier, his face set in disapproving lines.
“It is easier to think that than to admit the thefts are actual crimes.”
“Will you be looking for the robbers, or will you be taking care of other needs?” Rogier kept his voice low.
“Tonight I will search for robbers. I am not overcome with hunger, not yet, and it is a three-hour walk to Sacre-Sang just now, which would make it likely that the guards would realize I was out of the château; I will need an excuse to go there openly, and tend to finding nourishment before I return. Hero has only been gone three days. In two or three days I should probably find a sleeping woman to visit as a dream, but not tonight.” He started toward the door. “If you need me, you will find me in the library, at least for an hour. After that, I will leave as I have left on other occasions—through the music-room window. I will be back well before dawn.”
“Do you think you might actually rest then?” Rogier asked as he prepared to secure the door behind them; Ragoczy, he knew, slept little, but on those rare occasions he did, he fell into a stupor that immobilized him for a minimum of three or four hours at a stretch.
“I may,” said Ragoczy, and made for the stairs, his crisp footfalls muffled by the carpet. Rogier let this pass. “I will go to my quarters shortly. I will not retire for a while.”
Speaking a bit more loudly, Ragoczy said, “Until morning, then,” he said in French. He pointed to the foot of the flight of the stairs, where Romolo Nutzen was propped against the wall, his eyes closed.
“Yes. Until morning,” Rogier repeated, adding to Nutzen, “If you would like some coffee, I would be pleased to make it for you. You seem a bit drowsy.”
Nutzen shook himself and moved out of the way of Ragoczy and Rogier. “Coffee would be helpful,” he said, his face coloring brightly. He yawned suddenly and reddened more deeply.
“If you will attend to that, old friend,” Ragoczy said. “I will thank you and bid you good-night.” He nodded and went along to the library, closing the door as soon as he entered. He turned up the low-burning oil-lamp by the door and went to light two others, for although his dark-seeing eyes could manage very well in such dimness, reading required a bit more light.
One chest of books—the larger one, carried by Gutesohnes—had been set on the floor, the smaller, delivered yesterday, had been placed on the reading-table. Ragoczy chose the chest on the floor, lifted it almost effortlessly to the reading-table, then unbuckled the broad leather straps holding it closed. Inside were thirty books, six months of Eclipse Press publications, each wrapped in heavy paper, with the title of the book contained printed on the paper. There was also a broadsheet announcing the Eclipse Press titles for the next eight months. Setting this list aside, Ragoczy began to remove the books from the chest, unwrapping each and folding the paper before examining the volume inside. The first was
Hallowed Halls: a history of English public buildings
by E. J. E. Mayfield-Jeffries, its text augmented with engravings by Harmon Dene. Ragoczy skimmed the first fifty pages, then carried the book to its place on the shelf. Next was
Raison d’Etre: pensée et romans,
in which Professeur Durand Oiepied struggled to reconcile the illogical elements of storytelling with rationality. Third was
Blutwissen,
W. G. W. Sieffert, Graf von Ravensberg’s work on the nature of blood. In an hour Ragoczy had unwrapped and shelved nine of the books; only the concern for the contents of his alembic on the floor above pulled him away from this task as the clock over the mantle struck one.
Hallowed Halls: a history of English public buildings
by E. J. E. Mayfield-Jeffries, its text augmented with engravings by Harmon Dene. Ragoczy skimmed the first fifty pages, then carried the book to its place on the shelf. Next was
Raison d’Etre: pensée et romans,
in which Professeur Durand Oiepied struggled to reconcile the illogical elements of storytelling with rationality. Third was
Blutwissen,
W. G. W. Sieffert, Graf von Ravensberg’s work on the nature of blood. In an hour Ragoczy had unwrapped and shelved nine of the books; only the concern for the contents of his alembic on the floor above pulled him away from this task as the clock over the mantle struck one.
This time Nutzen was awake, a deep cup of coffee half-finished on the third stair. “Comte,” he said.
“Guard,” Ragoczy acknowledged. “Is the coffee to your liking?”
“For the most part, yes,” said Nutzen. “I like a bit more cream, but your man doesn’t know that.”
“You must inform him,” said Ragoczy, preparing to move by him. “I have to attend to something above-stairs.”
Nutzen scooped the cup out of the way and stepped aside. “Are you going to be long?”
“Probably not,” said Ragoczy.
“I should stand outside the door, shouldn’t I?” he asked as if suddenly aware of the backstairs that led to the top floor of the château.
“If you would prefer to do so, by all means,” said Ragoczy, keeping all testiness out of his answer.
“The backstairs are uncarpeted,” said Nutzen.
“You would hear me if I should descend them.” Ragoczy waited, knowing pressing Nutzen would only serve to incline him to accompany him. “But you have your duty to do; you might as well come with me.”
After several seconds of mulling, Nutzen said, “I see no need to do that.” He almost smiled. “If you are longer than half an hour, I will have to come up to you.”
“I will keep that in mind,” said Ragoczy, and went up to attend to the alembic and the opalescent liquid that had been distilled from its contents. By the time he came down the stairs, Nutzen had finished his coffee.
“Twenty-three minutes,” he said to Ragoczy. “Are you off to bed?”
“No; I am going to the music room. When I cannot sleep, I sometimes find that caring for the instruments I have collected is a worthwhile and soothing exercise that quiets the mind. I will probably nap on the couch there.” He nodded to the guard as he went on down the corridor and let himself into the music-room, opposite his library. As soon as he had the door closed, he pulled off his coat and flung it over the back of the handsome couch, then gathered together four cushions and piled them on the couch in the approximate shape of a man sleeping, after which he arranged his coat on top of it, and angled the couch so that it could not be fully seen from the door, in case Nutzen should take it into his head to check on him. That done, he opened two cases of viols and lutes, removed a chittarone from one of them and set it out on the top of the closed forte-piano. For more than a quarter-hour he played the chittarone in a desultory way, pausing frequently to adjust its tuning-pegs and drone-strings. At the end of that time, he put the chittarone back on the top of the forte-piano; he had other things to do now.
The bottom drawer in a cabinet containing scores, music paper, replacement strings, horse-hair and rosin for bows had two woodworker’s smocks and a heavy, black-silk Hungarian dolman; Ragoczy removed this traditional tunic and put it on over his white-silk shirt, fastening the frogs carefully. From a pocket in the dolman skirt he withdrew black riding-gloves, which he donned before closing the drawer and going toward the main window at the end of the room. He drew back the thick velvet draperies and levered open the shutter of the end window, then opened it and stepped through into the blowing night. Standing on the roof of the dining room, he closed the window and shutter, making sure he could reach the small niche in the shutter that would allow him to open it from the outside. There was a skittish wind blowing, not hard, but aleatorially; Ragoczy was relieved not to have to deal with a blustery, snowy night. Certain he could return to the music-room without great difficulty, he made his way along the roof to the edge and let himself down along the trellis that in summer sported climbing roses but now could boast only thorns and brittle whips and twigs. Ragoczy climbed down, taking great care not to snag his clothes on the thorns, and to be careful of his gloves. As he reached the ground, he stopped in the angle of the wall with the extension of the dining room and took stock of his surroundings. Finally, satisfied that none of the staff was up, he carefully made his way toward the side of the house away from the barn and the stable; there was no reason to alarm the animals.
Trudging toward the front of the château, Ragoczy was careful to scuffle a confusion of his footprints in the snow, so that it would not be easy to determine if a man or a marten had come this way; there was so little wind tonight, and no snow falling, that any tracks would be clear come morning. He reached the approach drive and kept to the edge of it, going down to the gate to the estate. During the day it was kept open, but at sunset it was closed and the lock put in place. He inspected both the lock and the gate itself, searching for some sign of trespass. Nothing seemed out-of-place, but he took the time to tug a fallen branch near the edge of the road by the old gatehouse, the last remnant of the old Medieval villa Ragoczy’s château had replaced. He reminded himself that this coming summer he would have to have this taken down and a proper gate-house built. But that was for later; a wailing from high up the slope reminded him that wolves were still about.
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