Dark of the Sun (43 page)
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Vampires, #Transylvania (Romania), #Krakatoa (Indonesia), #Volcanic Eruptions
She did not answer at once, then said, “If you would wait a while, we will finish what was begun.”
“I will go back to my animals, then, so you can deal with your people without my intrusion,” he said, starting to turn away.
“Where is Ro-shei?” The question came so suddenly that it stopped him.
“He is at my house in Sarai.”
“You have taken in a family, I am told,” she said.
“A Constantinopolitan widow and her children,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.
Dukkai thought for a long moment, then said, “He knows you have come here.”
“Ro-shei? Yes, of course,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.
“Of course,” she repeated, then looked up as Tokatis came toward her. “Look! A new cauldron, of copper.”
“A fine vessel,” the butcher announced as he inspected the pot. “And a fine omen.” He glanced at Ragoczy Franciscus, then angled his shoulders so that his next remarks were clearly intended for Dukkai alone. “I have some fish and ducks I had not expected. I understand that was your doing.”
“I reminded them of their duty,” said Dukkai, and called out to Ragoczy Franciscus, “I will call you shortly, Zangi-Ragozh, when I will have a task for you. Let me attend to this now.”
Ragoczy Franciscus ducked his head to show he would comply and made his way through the tents back to where his mare and mule stood. He found the Jou’an-Jou’an camp profoundly sad and troubling, for the Desert Cats had lost more than a quarter of their numbers since he had first encountered them in Kumul. He came up to his mare and patted her neck, thinking that her mane needed brushing. Even in her thick winter coat, she was that remarkable shade of dark-blue coat with black mane and tail that caught the attention of all who saw her. The mule was stolid and remote, accepting a bit of dried fruit from Ragoczy Franciscus with the air of boredom his owner had come to expect.
Shouts of children erupted from somewhere within the Desert Cats’ group of tents, the cries nearer shrieks than whoops. This commotion began to move, marking the progress of the children as they rushed from one tent to another, shouting the names of the occupants, and chanting some doggerel about the Lords of the Earth. Gradually they made their way to every tent in the encampment.
“They are excited,” said Neitis Ksoka, appearing out of the mists near where Ragoczy Franciscus waited.
“They are hungry,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, thinking that this young Kaigan was only a few years older than most of those busy children.
“That they are,” Neitis Ksoka said. “We all are.”
“It is the nature of this new age,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, noticing how rapidly the light was fading; at this time of year the days closed in quickly.
“I fear you are right,” said Neitis Ksoka. “I am told you are to be thanked for the copper pot.”
“I hope you find it useful,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.
“You know we will,” he said, and strolled away toward the burgeoning glow of the main fire. He swung around to address Ragoczy Franciscus again, all the while walking backward toward his destination. “The mists will be thick tonight. Can your mare find her way back to her stable?”
“We’ve come here enough that it should not be a problem; she will know the path,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, startled by this indication of concern; he had not expected anything so amicable from Neitis Ksoka. He did not add that for those of his blood, darkness was not a serious impediment to sight.
Neitis Ksoka nodded and continued on his way,
Soon it was obvious that all the Jou’an-Jou’an who were able to had now gathered to watch the preparation of their evening meal. Two large pails of water were brought and poured into the pot, which was then placed ceremoniously on the rack above the fire. Each family head brought forward the contribution he was making to the meal, and Tokatis came forward with a tray laden with gobbets of meat, poultry, and fish. These were ceremoniously dumped into the new pot, accompanied by cheers and the steady beating of a drum—Zumir was at his post again. As darkness thickened around them, and the shine of the mist became a glimmerance over the water, Dukkai began to chant, summoning the Lords of the Earth to attend their feast, promising them a feast of their own. Someone threw bitter herbs onto the fire, and the smoke that rose from them blew toward Dukkai.
“Bring our sacrifice,” she intoned. The drum became louder, and some of the older men droned a two-note chant. “Bring our sacrifice,” she repeated emphatically.
There was a flurry of activity as a number of the young men left the blaze of firelight and hurried off to their appointed collection of the offering.
“It is probably one of the ponies with peeling hooves,” Ragoczy Franciscus said to his mare as if apologizing to her. He was about to lead her and the mule back several paces when he felt a sharp blow to the back of his head. This staggered him, and as he fell, he could feel ropes going around him, and he heard the urgent, whispered instructions his captors gave one another as they fixed their knots and strove to lift him to their shoulders. “Release me!” He squirmed in his bonds, comprehension coming over him so abruptly that he almost feared he had been knocked unconscious and this was his dream. The jostling of the young men bearing him toward the fire warned him that all this was as real as the band of scars across his abdomen. He forced himself to be calm and spoke as evenly as he could. “You must put me down. This is an error. Dukkai has—”
“She told us to bring you, and bring you we will,” said one of the young men, and slapped the rump of the blue roan to set her moving on the road back to the town.
“She told you?” Ragoczy Franciscus wished he were more astonished than he was. He understood now the reasons for Dukkai’s occasional shifts of conversation, her unexpected silences, and her odd explanations: she had known when he arrived that she would make him a gift to the Lords of the Earth. At least, he thought, it had troubled her.
The space around the fire-pit was empty but for Dukkai, who stood, smoke rising around her face, a distant stare in her eyes as if she saw impossibly distant vistas. In her hand was the same knife she had used on the goat.
As the drumming grew louder, the young men put Ragoczy Franciscus down in front of her and then backed away, one of them tripping and almost falling as he did.
Taking advantage of this distraction, Ragoczy Franciscus struggled against his bonds, his strength sufficient to loosen two of the knots, but not enough to break the ropes that held him. He began to twist his confined hands, working at the rope to gain enough purchase to slip free.
“Stand!” Dukkai ordered the youth. “To fall is an ill omen.”
“Yes, Dukkai,” the young man muttered, and slid back toward the shadows of the tents.
Ragoczy Franciscus schooled himself to calm and spoke with patient authority. “Dukkai. This is not going to please the Lords of the Earth. My blood is not worthy: believe this.”
She did not look down. “Lords of the Earth, this is the blood demanded by Tejamksa for your solace and strength. The Gods of the Smoke confirm the choice. This foreigner has been along your veins farther than any of us, and he has seen how you shape the earth. So it is fitting that his blood should be shed for your benefit.” Leaning forward, she sank her hands in Ragoczy Franciscus’ hair and tugged his head back, and in the same notion, slit his throat, taking care not to sever the spine, for such mutilation would render the offering unacceptable. She brought up her hand to protect her face from the pulsing fountain of blood she expected, then stared as only a small amount oozed from the deep cut and soaked into the thick woolen collar of his shuba and kandys.
The assault was so sudden that at first all he felt was a blow; there was little pain. Then the agony hit him and he fell heavily to the side, feeling disoriented and verging on panic. He felt a small amount of blood run down his throat as comprehension burst upon him. In spite of his determination to hang on to consciousness, he began to grow dizzy from shock, and his whole body ached from the insult that had been done to him.
“Look!” someone said in awe. “There is no blood in him.”
“It isn’t right,” said another.
The drumming stopped just before a wail went up from the Desert Cats, and one of the older women screamed, “The offering is refused!”
Neitis Ksoka came up to Ragoczy Franciscus and bent over him. “His eyes are open, and they are moving.” He made a sign against sorcery, then kicked the foreigner in the back. He pointed at Dukkai. “You said the Lords of the Earth wanted him. You said the Gods of the Smoke wanted him. You said Tejamksa singled him out!”
“She … she did,” Dukkai faltered. “It was …”
“It was
what
?” Neitis Ksoka demanded. “What have you done?”
what
?” Neitis Ksoka demanded. “What have you done?”
Even if Ragoczy Franciscus could have drawn enough breath to speak, with his throat cut he could not. He thrashed where he lay, sensing that things would shortly become much worse. With an effort that left him weak with exhaustion, he pulled one hand free from the ropes and felt his neck to determine how much damage had been done. The cut crossed the front of his throat and had sunk slightly more than halfway through skin, muscles, and windpipe, toward his spine, more than enough to be quickly fatal to any living man. To the undead, it would mean many long months of misery while the wounds knitted slowly—that was assuming he was able to get out of the Jou’an-Jou’an camp without further injury and had the opportunity to heal. He lay on his side, fighting to remain alert, his attention fully on Dukkai as Neitis Ksoka continued to rant at her.
“I have done what had to be done,” she said woodenly.
“You have brought disaster upon us. We have come to this horrible place because you said we should find pasture here! It was your guidance that put us on this wretched island, that doomed our ponies to die from ruined feet, that let fever loose among us!” He was being supported by growls of agreement. He strode around the fire. “We had to continue west, you said! The Lords of the Earth required it, or the sun would remain weak and we would suffer!”
Dukkai was backing away from him. “No … I … No.”
“Look at the foreigner! He gives no blood!” Neitis Ksoka pursued.
“Cast him from the camp,” shouted one of the men. “Get him away from here!”
“I will remove him,” volunteered another.
Ragoczy Franciscus, lost in a haze of pain and turmoil, hardly felt the hands that grabbed his arms and legs and scrambled him out of the camp, casting him toward the edge of the marsh. With every jolt and jounce, excruciation engulfed him, so that by the time he landed with this feet in the water among the weeds, he was unaware of anything but agony, and that soon faded as he fell into a torpor that shut out all the world.
Text of a letter from one of the Imperial secretaries, Shai Ho-Jhi, in Chang’an to Hu Bi-Da in Yang-Chau, carried by Imperial courier and delivered nine fortnights after it was written.
To the most respectable senior clerk of the Eclipse Trading Company in Yang-Chau, the greetings from the court of the Most Illustrious Wen Emperor, Yuan Buo-Ju, the Exquisite Wielder of the Vermilion Brush, at the behest of Hse Hsia-Dju, the Minister of Trade and Monetary Transactions, on this the twelfth day of the Fortnight of the Frost Kings, regarding the current disposition of the affairs of the foreigner Zangi-Ragozh, who is your employer, and the owner of ships and master of caravans throughout all the Middle of the World.
Although summoned to this court more than a year ago, Zangi-Ragozh and his companions. have not yet reached this capital nor has any word of them been heard officially since he departed from Lo-Yang. There is an unconfirmed report that he and his personal servant crossed the Great Wall at Holin-Gol, but circumstances in that region have become so chaotic that no reliable information has reached this Ministry concerning this foreigner, and we cannot confirm or discount any intelligence we have. In terms of taxations and customs duties, any caravans of his trading company will be counted against the funds held here in trust for him or his duly appointed heirs.
A copy of this letter will be provided to the Prefecture of Yang-Chau so that there can be no question as to how matters stand in terms of his company, should Zangi-Ragozh return. It is fitting that we do this, for the peace of the Middle Kingdom and the success of our continuing commerce in all parts of the greater world. We ask that you provide this Ministry with accounts of all ships, caravans, and similar trading ventures held by this foreigner, so that no merchant will be taxed unfairly in his name, and nothing of his shall be given away due to lack of information or sufficient records to make a fair assignment of title and worth to such goods as may come through Chang’an from the distant cities of the West.
There are many merchants whose businesses have been reduced to little more than local peddling since the Year of Yellow Snow. With the sun still dark in the sky, there is little hope that trade can resume next spring, or the spring after, if what is said of the state of the trade roads is true, and much of the way has been damaged by floods and other perturbations of nature. For that reason, the Minister, Hse Hsia-Dju, has stated that taxes on merchants may be postponed for a period of up to four years, at the conclusion of which time the principal sum must be paid, although any interests may be defrayed for another two years. If these provisions will in any way help your employer, I ask you to provide me with such accounts as will have bearing on this ruling, along with itineraries of the caravans, when such can be determined, due to the disruption of trade.
Other books
Una noche más by Libertad Morán
Who Pays the Piper? by Patricia Wentworth
Bittersweet by Susan Wittig Albert
Rebel Without a Cake by Jacklyn Brady
Deeper Than Red (Red Returning Trilogy) by Sue Duffy
Kiss of Temptation: The Kavanaugh Foundation, Book 3 by Crista McHugh
In Gallant Company by Alexander Kent
Messy Miranda by Jeff Szpirglas
Dreams of Darkness Rising by Kitson, Ross M.
Terry Odell - Mapleton 02 - Deadly Bones by Terry Odell
