Dark of the Sun (41 page)
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Vampires, #Transylvania (Romania), #Krakatoa (Indonesia), #Volcanic Eruptions
“I have been treating their horses for cracked, peeling hooves; they have lost nine head to the condition and I hope they will not lose more. So long as the herd improves, I doubt they will begrudge me a goat or two,” he said with a slight raising of his brows.
“Then take them,” said Dasur.
“I must go to the Jou’an-Jou’an camp today, and I will fetch a goat or two.”
“The goats will hardly be fat, but it is better than nothing but millet-cake and cheese.” Dasur took a tray from the plateboard. “How much longer will the Jou’an-Jou’an remain?”
Ragoczy Franciscus nodded. “They meant to move on before now, but many of their ponies cannot walk, and that has kept them where they are. As soon as they can do so, I know they will leave.”
Dasur went to get the millet-cake. “Then I must look for another source of meat, against their going.” He cut two deep wedges from the round loaf. “The widow’s breakfast will be ready shortly.”
“Then I had best summon her woman,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, and left the kitchen, finding his way through the dim, narrow corridors without hesitation. He had almost reached the washing room when he heard a commotion beyond the walls of the house, and a rising chorus of shouts. Pausing, he tried to make out what he heard and realized that people in the street were crying,
“Fire! Fire!”
Quickly he retraced his steps to the kitchen, demanding, “Where is Rojeh? Where is Aethalric? Chtavo?”
“Fire! Fire!”
Quickly he retraced his steps to the kitchen, demanding, “Where is Rojeh? Where is Aethalric? Chtavo?”
“They are with the mason at the widow’s house, with Herakles,” said Dasur. “Is something wrong?”
“I fear so,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “I want you to put one of the children to watch in my study”—it was the highest room in the house—“and then I want you to ready a cart, in case you have to leave.”
“Why should I leave?” Dasur asked.
“Because there is a fire somewhere in Sarai,” said Ragoczy Franciscus bluntly. “Do not wait until you see flames at the door: leave if the fire turns in this direction.”
Dasur paled visibly. “I will do as you order.”
“Good. I will return when I can, but I must rely upon you to protect the people in this house. Do you understand?” He saw Dasur duck his head. “Good.” With that, he rushed toward the stable-yard and, after a swift glance around to be sure he was not seen, vaulted over the high wall and into the side-yard of Eleutherios Panayiotos’ house. A quick glimpse of the sky told him that the fire was still some distance away, for the smoke sliding on the brisk wind was not dense enough to indicate close proximity. He rushed through the yard toward the house itself, calling to Rojeh and the others as he went.
“My master?” Rojeh answered, stepping out of a partially demolished shed where workmen’s tools were stored.
“There is a fire. We must go help fight it,” he said curtly. He pointed toward the sky.
“So that is what the clamor is all about,” said Aethalric. “I wondered why the din—”
“A bad thing,” said Herakles. “It could damage fishing, being down toward the docks.”
“So it might,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as the others came up to him. “I will provide two silver pieces for any of you who decide to help battle the fire.”
At that Aethalric grinned. “I would cross the Serpent Sea if the pay was good enough,” he announced, and surveyed the others. “What about you?”
Chtavo rubbed his hands together. “I am with you.”
“Those of you who want to come, come. If you would rather stay here, then guard the widow and her children, and protect her house,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, heading for the main gate. “Bring buckets and rakes.”
The mason, a powerful, squat man with spatulate hands and a much-broken nose, spoke up. “I have my wagon behind the house. It has all manner of tools.”
“Very good,” Ragoczy Franciscus called over his shoulder. “Bring it and all you have.” As he reached the gate, he pulled back the bolt and shoved it open. “Hurry.”
The sound of urgent voices was rising, becoming a howl in counterpoint to the wind; in the south, smoke was billowing out over the high stone wall of the town, roiling along the two long piers, and hugging the shore of the sea beyond. From all over Sarai people were running toward the smoke, creating confusion in the street and the first stirrings of panic in the town’s inhabitants.
“Is there anyone in the house?” Aethalric shouted as he came to the gate, rake in one hand, bucket in the other.
“There is no one that I know of,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “I will offer to help fight the fire.” He disliked fire intensely and had to steel himself to face it; fire had licked most of the skin from his body two centuries earlier, and the experience was still fresh in his memory; had it taken hold of him then, he would have died the True Death: for a time after it happened, he wished he had, so agonizing was the damage it did. He set his teeth and called out to Rojeh, “Fetch me pails.”
“I will, my master,” Rojeh answered, and came from the shed carrying an array of buckets, pails, and a small barrel. “Which do you want?”
“Leave the barrel, give the two metal buckets to me, and find me a rake,” Ragoczy Franciscus said as Chtavo and Herakles hurried out the gate, armed with pails and shovels.
Rojeh appeared with a long rake and an ax. “We may need both of these.”
“Give me the ax. You keep the rake,” Ragoczy Franciscus said, moving aside as the mason and his apprentice moved the donkey-drawn cart through the gate.
The apprentice nodded, his young face showing stark dread. “Famine a dying sun, and now this. The world is ending.”
“Then you will have nothing to worry about when this is over,” snapped the mason, and all but shoved the young man into the street; the donkey and the cart lurched after him.
Satisfied that no one remained at Eleutherios Panayiotos’ house, Ragoczy Franciscus motioned Rojeh out into the street, stepped out beside him, and pulled the gate closed behind them. “I think the Street of the Water Temple would be the quickest. Not too many will use it.”
“And it goes directly to the waterfront, and the Fishermen’s Market,” Rojeh said, agreeing. “If that square isn’t burning yet, it is a good staging area for fighting the fire.”
Ragoczy Franciscus hefted the ax so that the handle lay on his shoulder and taking the bucket in his other hand, he set out at a rapid walk. “Be careful as you go.”
As they started down the narrow, ancient street, they saw people teeming out of their houses, many with valuables clutched in their arms, some with children around them clinging to their clothes. Women struggled with infants in their arms, and older children tugged along younger ones, all of them making for the western gate of the town, which was the farthest away from the fire. In amongst them ran men with chests and other booty in their arms; which were rightful owners salvaging treasure and which were thieves making off with plunder was impossible to determine. Everywhere shouts and wails of alarm created an incomprehensible din, and the confusion increased steadily as Ragoczy Franciscus and Rojeh made their way toward the ominous clouds of dark-gray smoke.
From a side street, a man in Armenian clothing came running, arms windmilling, his face contorted in a rictus of fear. He careened into Ragoczy Franciscus, cursed, shoved himself free, and went on at a more frantic pace, shouting incoherently as he went.
“He is frightened,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as he brushed himself off. “More than I am.”
They reached the livestock-market square and found that this was the main staging area for those willing to fight the fire. Emrach Sarai’af was standing to one side, shouting for foreigners to come to him. His big arms were crossed over his barrel chest as if to help him shout more loudly. As he caught sight of Ragoczy Franciscus, he pointed to him. “You are here! I have sent your servants to the bucket line.”
“Very good. Would you like me to join them?” Ragoczy Franciscus assumed a sang-froid he did not feel. “My manservant and I are at your disposal. What is burning, and how far has it spread?”
“One of the wharves is burning, and the warehouses next to it. They contain furs and wood, which also burn, which makes it much worse,” said Emrach. “A few of the smaller buildings adjoining the warehouses have also started to burn, and sparks are setting small fires near the main blaze. At least the wind is not blowing the flames deeper into the town. That is something in our favor.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you think you could help take down the small houses between the fire and this square? We are going to pull down as many as we can. Most of them are poor and made only of wood.” His eyes narrowed. “Well? It has to be done quickly.”
“Whose houses are they?” Ragoczy Franciscus asked.
“The dockworkers and other laborers. Don’t worry about damaging them. They are poor folks’ houses, and those who live in them haven’t much to lose.” He glared at the foreigner in black. “Do you say it should not be done?”
“No,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “But I regret the necessity. When you have little, it is a terrible thing to have that taken from you.”
“Oh, I realize that. With winter coming, it will be hard on those workers who have lost houses.” Emrach pointed toward a small cluster of shacks. “If you want to start there?”
“Very well,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “With whom will we work?”
“For now, you and your man are on your own,” Emrach declared, and looked past Ragoczy Franciscus to a group of Volgamen who were approaching. “You men. Go down to the wharf that isn’t burning and see that the boats there are safe. If they have to be towed out to sea, you must arrange that.”
Realizing that he had been dismissed, Ragoczy Franciscus signaled to Rojeh. “Let us start.”
“Are those houses empty?” Rojeh asked.
“I sincerely hope so,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, and trudged toward the huts. “Rough planking like that burns easily,” he said as they reached the rickety structures, seeing how they leaned together for support. “For the safety of the town, they should be razed.”
“But you worry about the dockworkers who live in them,” said Rojeh with conviction.
“There is another hard winter coming,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as he swung his ax down from his shoulder and faced the simple wood buildings. “I will try to find the main beams and the walls carrying the most weight. Once we get those down, the rest should be simple.”
Rojeh knew better than to question this assertion. Ragoczy Franciscus set his bucket down, saying as he did, “There is a water trough near the Christian compound. Fill this and your pail there, and bring them back. We will need water—”
“—if anything begins to smolder,” Rojeh finished, hastening to obey.
Confronting the small wooden houses, Ragoczy Franciscus felt a pang of sorrow for these buildings, so forlorn to begin with, and now given as sacrifices to the advancing fire. Looking about, he realized that the houses were vacant, that the workers who had lived in them had abandoned them some time ago. Reluctantly he swung his ax at the nearest door and felt the planks splinter under his first blow. He tugged the ax free and struck again, this time destroying the door. He went into the small house, making a quick inspection of its interior, noticing a crudely painted Christian icon on the wall over the single window. A swift survey of the two rooms showed him where the weight of the house was centered, and he began his calculations.
“My master,” Rojeh called from outside. “Where are you?”
“In here. I’ve found the trunk of the roof,” he said. “If I bring down the north wall, I should be able to fell the house like a tree.”
“How do you wish me to help?” Rojeh asked.
“Pull the rubble away as I knock down the wall,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, and chopped at the main supports of the wall, hearing the wood crack on his third blow.
The single bell at the Most Holy Dormition was tolling out the call to midday worship when the group of five houses finally collapsed. The fire had come closer, and the air was acrid with smoke. Cinders floated on the rising wind, many of them igniting small fires where they landed, whether on wood, on clothing, or on debris.
“I’ll get us more water!” Rojeh shouted as Ragoczy Franciscus struggled to pull a large beam out of the confusion of the wrecked building at the edge of the square.
“Good!” He was beginning to tire. “And then help me stack all this.”
Rojeh said nothing; he brought the water, saying as he neared Ragoczy Franciscus, “The wharf is not burning any longer. What’s left of the fire is confined to the south end of the town.”
Ragoczy Franciscus nodded to show he had heard. “I hope we did not demolish these houses for no reason.”
“The fire isn’t out yet,” Rojeh reminded him, and took up his rake again to clear away the wreckage. He rubbed his face and left a smear of soot and grime across his forehead and cheek; then he took up his ax and looked about. “Where next?”
“To where the last of the fire is.” Saying this, he turned on his heel and started across the wide market-square through the scudding smoke and the hectic disorder of the afternoon.
Text of a letter from Brother Theofeo in Antioch to Pope Silverius in Roma, carried by pilgrims and delivered at Easter in 537.
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