Commedia della Morte (29 page)

For several seconds Roger could summon no words to comfort him. Finally he said, in da San-Germain’s native tongue, “Then I will do all that I can to assist you, and her.”

“I’m grateful,” said da San-Germain, with utter sincerity.

“You’ve done as much for me, in restoring me to life, all those centuries ago,” Roger said, his manner reserved as ever.

“If we start comparing obligations, we’ll be here all day, at the least,” da San-Germain remarked, and looked about him. “We’ll be moving in an hour.”

“And you’ll speak with Madame about—” He gestured toward the smallest wagon where the two sick men lay.

Da San-Germain put his small hand on Roger’s shoulder, and nodded once. “I’ll look in on Hariot and Aloys shortly.”

“Yes, you told me you would,” Roger agreed. “I’ll get the tincture out of your case now, administer it, and come back for the sovereign remedy before we depart from camp.” He stepped into the larger cart and opened a carved-wood case that was strapped atop a clothes chest, removed a glass jar filled with a yellow-green liquid, and slipped it into the outer pocket of his coat, then closed the case again, and returned it to its place atop the chest. As he got out of the cart, he said, “I’ll attend to them now. In ten minutes or so, they should be ready for your examination.”

“Very good. If their flux worsens, or fever increases, inform me at once.” He watched Photine rise from her seat on the bench near the fire and go to Enee’s side, only to be rebuffed by him. “He has learned nothing.”

“He’s young and he’s frightened,” said Roger.

“Neither is a sufficient reason for him to behave so; he’s churlish to no purpose,” said da San-Germain, pulling the covering down over the back of the cart. “Not that you or I can alter that. Go attend to the men.”

“I will,” said Roger, walking away as he spoke.

Da San-Germain stood still for nearly a minute, then went to the remuda line where the horses and mules were tied. He pulled open the back of the wagon next to them and pulled out armloads of hay, which he distributed among the animals, then closed the wagon once more. He was about to leave when he heard approaching footsteps.

“How are Aloys and Hariot? Still feverish?” Feo asked as he came around the end of the wagon, his face shiny from shaving, his long muffler hanging loosely around his neck, his coachman’s cloak over his arm; he gave da San-Germain a nod, adding as an afterthought, “Good morning, Ragoczy.”

“And to you, Feo,” he responded; he studied the coachman for a brief moment. “Tell me, do you ever drink water from horse-troughs?”

Startled by the question, Feo stared at him, then said, “Not since I was very young. My father beat me when he caught me doing it—I must have been six or seven—and I haven’t tasted any since then. Not that it’s very tempting. Why?” He ambled over toward the larger cart and leaned against its body, one leg crossed over the other.

“Roger has seen both Hariot and Aloys do it.”

“It is unwholesome,” said Feo.

“Have you seen them do it?” da San-Germain asked.

“I saw them at Montalia, when I reprimanded them for drinking it. That doesn’t mean they’ve stopped.”

“No, it doesn’t,” da San-Germain agreed. “And that is likely the cause of their illness. Have you noticed any of the others drinking from horse-troughs?”

Feo shook his head. “I would have spoken to anyone who did. There’s no telling what is in those troughs.”

“That, at least, is hopeful news,” said da San-Germain. “If you learn of anyone doing that, will you inform me?”

“Certainly, if you wish it,” said Feo. “You still haven’t said how—”

“—Aloys and Hariot go on? No, I haven’t, for I haven’t seen them this morning. Yesterday they both appeared a bit recovered, but from what Roger has said, that’s changed.” He looked toward the smallest wagon, frowning slightly. “And if what you and Roger have told me is true, and they are suffering from an infestation of animacules in the water of the horse-trough at the Cheval d’Argent, then the medicaments I have should treat their illness in a few days. If they are the only ones who drank that water, and if that is truly the source of their illness, then there is no chance the infection will spread.”

Feo shrugged, more from discomfort with disease than any lack of concern from its two victims. “Unfortunate for Hariot and Aloys, lucky for the rest of us. How soon will you know if their condition is an infestation?”

“By noon; the treatment they’ll receive will either improve them or they will remain ill, in which case I will know it is something other than an infestation of animacules. Since no one else has shown symptoms they have, I believe that the condition is confined to them, and whatever the cause of their illness, I will do my utmost to treat it, rather than leave them to the care of strangers.” He read doubt in Feo’s eyes. “Traveling should do them no harm; it hasn’t done so yet, and there is good reason for the troupe to keep moving. By the noon halt, when I will be able to assess the state of their illness, we should be at least three leagues from this place—perhaps four.” There was a tone to da San-Germain’s voice that discouraged argument.

“We move out when breakfast is done?” He reached into the wagon and brought out a collection of pails. “I’ll go down to the river and bring water—assuming you say it is safe?—and then start grooming and harnessing the horses.”

“You’ll need two trips with the pails; there should be no danger to the horses,” da San-Germain added a warning. “And be careful; the bank is slippery.”

“No doubt.” He sauntered away, whistling scraps of a melody.

Da San-Germain watched him go, thinking as he did that Feo was a steadier fellow than he had first given him credit for being. He decided to go to examine Aloys and Hariot while the rest of the troupe finished breakfast. The smallest wagon stood a short distance from the cluster of wagons and carts, a yellow fever-flag pinned to the canvas covering; da San-Germain approached, calling out, “Roger,” to announce his presence.

“What do you want?” came from the wagon; after a moment, da San-Germain realized that the hoarse sound was Hariot’s voice.

“It’s Ragoczy. I want to see how you are faring.”

“We’re sick. That’s how we’re faring.” Hariot sounded not only ill, but rancorous.

“No doubt you would like to be better,” said da San-Germain, lifting the canvas flap and looking into the wagon.

“Yes. I don’t know if we will be if we have to drink more of that vile liquid your man just gave us.” He was lying on one of the three beds in the wagon; Aloys was on the second, and the third was still tied up against the side of the wall.

Ducking his head and bending over, da San-Germain climbed into the wagon, his head almost brushing the canvas top, his dark-seeing eyes unhampered by the dim interior. He bent over Aloys, who was moaning softly, his eyes half-closed, the heat of him palpable; his breath smelled of rotten meat. “How long has he been this way?”

“I don’t know,” Hariot muttered. “I didn’t notice until an hour or two ago.”

“So three hours at the least. Did he drink the tincture Roger gave him?”

“Most of it.” Hariot rolled onto his side. “What do you think? Is he going to die?”

“We’re all going to die,” said da San-Germain. “But possibly not just yet.” He touched Aloys’ neck, taking stock of his pulse. “Fast and thready.”

“Not good,” said Hariot.

“It could be better,” da San-Germain said. “But not dire, either.” He adjusted the blanket so that it was higher on Aloys’ chest. “He needs to stay warm.”

“Why? He’s burning up as it is.”

“I would like his fever to break.” Da San-Germain turned to Hariot. “You, on the other hand, seem to be on the way to recovery.”

“I hope,” said Hariot recalcitrantly. “My guts feel as if I’ve been eating thistles, but what comes out is more liquid than solid.”

“Not surprising,” said da San-Germain. He dropped down on one knee next to Hariot. “Both chamber pots are empty.”

“Your man did that when he brought us the stuff to drink.” He hesitated. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me lower my blanket?”

“I wouldn’t advise it. You have a fever, though not so great a one as Aloys.” He studied Hariot a little longer. “When did you last eat solid food?”

“I think two days ago. It wouldn’t stay down. Your man has given us broth and water, but that’s the whole of it except for the concoctions you have provided.” He sighed abruptly. “I’m not hungry.”

“I should think not.” Da San-Germain got to his feet. “You should be improving in a day or two. Aloys will take longer.”

“And by then we’ll be in Lyon,” said Hariot. “Your man told us that.”

“We should enter the city tomorrow afternoon. Then we’ll have to seek out a place to perform the play, and an inn where we can lodge.” He paused. “We may need to make separate arrangements for you and Aloys, at least until you are on the road to recovery.”

“That’s to be expected,” Hariot growled. “Revolution or not, cities still want to keep the sick away.”

“Do you blame them? Haven’t the cities got trouble enough without disease running rampant?” A brief, intense recollection of Avignon during the Black Plague four hundred years earlier took hold of him; he shook it off, knowing that the illness that had claimed these two men was nowhere near as catastrophically deadly as the Plague had been.

Hariot’s answer was an incoherent mumble, and a sour look.

“When we stop at noon, I will check on you again; before we leave this morning, Roger will provide you with another … concoction to drink, which should lessen your fever and help rid you of the infection you have taken.” He moved back from Hariot’s bed and was about to take a last look at Aloys when he felt hot fingers on his hand.

Hariot was staring at him. “Tell me honestly. Will I recover?”

“I expect so,” said da San-Germain. “And from now on, I would not drink from horse-troughs, if I were you.”

“It is sufficient for the horses,” Hariot protested.

“You are not a horse. You don’t eat hay, do you?”

On his narrow bunk, Aloys moaned and wrapped his arms across his abdomen, bending over as far as the narrow bunk would allow.

Hariot glanced in Aloys’ direction, worry and fright in his eyes. “He’s worse off than I am.”

“Yes.”

For more than a minute, there was silence in the wagon; then Hariot grumbled, “Bring on your potions, then.”

Da San-Germain nodded. “I will return when we halt to eat.” He gave a small nod, then, still bent over to accommodate the low top, backed out of the wagon and out into the brightening morning. He noticed Feo brushing down the horses, Roger working along beside him; he calculated how long it would take them to have the horses and mules harnessed to their vehicles, and decided they would need an hour yet, with just the two of the men working at the task. He decided to come back to lend a hand when he had talked with Photine.

Crepin and Valence were busy putting out the fire as da San-Germain walked up to the three long benches where the troupe sat. Tereson was packing up the remainder of the wheel of cheese, and Constance was gathering the cups, setting them in their places in the crockery case. Olympe had a broad broom and was using it to push any stray sparks and clinkers back toward the dying fire. Photine had the large pot in her hand, wiping it out with a rag. There was no sign of Enee. As she saw da San-Germain approaching, she raised the rag in greeting. “Ragoczy. I was wondering where you were.”

“I have been attending to Aloys and Hariot,” he answered.

“And how do you find them?” She did her best to keep the worry from her voice.

“Hariot is improving, little as he may believe it; Aloys is not yet through the crisis.”

Photine’s expression was eloquent with worry. “Should we keep clear of him?”

“There is no reason; the illness the two of them have is not passed from person to person.” He took one of her hands as a gesture of reassurance. “They have drunk tainted water and have become infested with animacules. Only those drinking such tainted water will become ill, and so far, no one else shows signs of the sickness.”

“How appalling, to be … infested,” Photine exclaimed, as if the very word were a contamination. “How did they manage to do that?”

“By drinking from horse-troughs, from what I have learned,” said da San-Germain in as calm a voice as he could. “They were reckless, but as far as I can determine, none of the others shared their folly.”

“Reckless?” She pulled away from him. “They’ve put us all in danger.”

“No,” he said. “They haven’t. The disease cannot spread from them to any of you.” He indicated the bench. “Sit down, and I’ll explain it to you.”

She hung back. “Are you certain you aren’t telling me this simply to get us to travel on to Lyon? Can I rely upon you to put our welfare on balance with your kinswoman?”

“You can,” he promised her. “What benefit would it be to Madelaine if she were to sicken and die as a result of our attempts at deliverance?” This was stretching the truth more than he liked to do: no vampire, being undead, could succumb to any disease, no matter how fatal.

“I suppose there is something in that,” Photine conceded.

“Of course there is,” he said, and wondered if he had overplayed his hand.

The last of the fire hissed out under the deluge from three large buckets of water poured on it; pale steam arose to blend with the morning mists.

“Are you willing to continue to treat Aloys and Hariot while we travel?”

“That is certainly my intention,” da San-Germain told her.

“Do you think they will improve by the time we reach Lyon?” She studied his face, searching for any trace of mendacity.

“Hariot may be; Aloys is likely to take a little longer.”

“Then what if we’re refused entry to the city?” Photine asked, anxiety sharpening her tone.

“Then we’ll have to make arrangements to house Hariot and Aloys outside the walls until they are recovered, and have them come to us then. We’ll face that when, and if, we must.” He kissed her hand, smiling wryly. “It’s unfortunate that the Revolution has closed so many of the monasteries: the monks would have been willing to look after the two men for a donation; as it is, we may have to deal with an innkeeper or farm wife, which could mean less attentive care and a higher cost.”