The Palace (24 page)

The wind that ruffled the trees was heavy with the promise of rain. From the
crest of the hill it was possible to see all of Fiorenza laid out far below
them, like a huge toy. The dark clouds had robbed the buildings of color, which
made it seem more unreal, like the images in a dream.

Demetrice reined in first, her dark green cloak flying behind her. She had
hiked up her wool skirt and was riding astride as Laurenzo had taught her when
they had gone to his hunting lodge. Her high boots were better suited to a boy,
as was the embroidered three-cornered cap that held her rosy-blond hair in
place.

There was the sound of hooves and Ragoczy pulled in his gray beside her roan
mare. Today he was wholly in black: no red or white or silver marred the perfect
ebony of his clothes. From Russian heeled boots to French gloves to soft Spanish
hat, he wore black. It may have been for that reason his face appeared more pale
than usual.

The clouds, purple-bellied, pushed through the sky, blotting out the last of
the sunlight. Demetrice shivered and pulled her cloak around her.

"Are you cold, amica?" Ragoczy asked as he leaned in his saddle to catch the
end of her cloak for her.

Her face had been wind-buffed to a rosy shine, but she said, "No, Francesco.
It doesn't matter." At last she looked down at the city. "It's so small."

"It's the distance," he said in a strange tone. "Distance is deceptive."

She heard the odd note in his voice and turned to him. "What is it,
Francesco?"

He looked away then, saying, "Nothing, amica. It's nothing."

"That's not so," she said gently. "But I won't press you." With a tap of her
heels she set her mare trotting, and did not wait to see if Ragoczy followed
her.

In a few moments he had caught up with her, and there was a certain firmness
in his expression. "It's not safe for you to ride off that way," he told her
when he was near enough to be heard.

"Why do you say that?" She was still watching Fiorenza far ahead. She
shuddered as the city darkened.

"Because it isn't safe for anyone to ride alone. The brigands are raiding
much nearer Fiorenza than they used to. Some of them apparently used to be part
of the Visconti household, for their victims say that they have seen the badge,
silver with a blue serpent devouring a red child. That means they are very
likely organized much as they were when they were part of the Visconti
household. For that reason alone they're dangerous. And renegade soldiers are
not… kind… to women." He held Ms horse near hers, and watched her face.

"You say that, and you're not even armed." She scoffed to disguise her sudden
fright.

"Am I not?" He dropped his reins and crossed his hands to his sleeve cuffs,
drawing two poignards into view. "I'm not quite that innocent."

"No, you're not," she admitted. She looked away as he restored the long
knives to the sheaths in his sleeves. "Fiorenza isn't the same anymore." It was
hard for her to speak of Laurenzo's death, but Ragoczy knew what she meant.

"Yes, it's changed." He studied the city through narrowed eyes. "It isn't
just that, amica. Look at it. It's stopping. The crops have been poor for three
years, there isn't as much foreign trade in textiles as there used to be. The
English market is almost gone, now, and the Arte della Lana is feeling it. And
nothing new is happening. See, there, on the east side of the city? There are
two new buildings that are unfinished and have been unfinished for almost a
year. There are many like that. Fiorenza should be a running stream, not a
stagnant pond. Or," he added as he thought of the religious fervor that was
spreading through the city, "a floodtide. Well, that's for the future."

Demetrice looked up at the clouds. "It's starting to rain. Look at the hills
there. We'll be soaked."

Ragoczy nodded. "Demetrice, I promise you, you have nothing to fear from me."

Until he spoke the words, she had not known he sensed her disquiet. "I'm not
sure I understand."

He sighed. "Yes, we will be wet before we get home." Then he relented. "I
don't know how much Laurenzo guessed about me, or what he told you. But I told
him, and I tell you now, that you are in no danger from me. Or at least, I
myself am not dangerous to you." He saw a loosening in her expression and it was
enough for him. "Come, Donna mia, we'd better race now or we might as well look
for soap."

Demetrice almost smiled as she jabbed her heels into her mare's flanks and
followed Ragoczy down the road toward San Miniato al Monte.

Rain was falling heavily by the time they rattled over il Ponte Vecchio, and
as they made their way through the heart of the city they were already starting
to shiver as their clothes soaked through.

In the stableyard at the rear of Palazzo San Germano, Ragoczy drew in his
horse and came out of his odd lightweight saddle in time to help Demetrice
dismount. As he reached up for her, she smiled down at him. Her cloak dragged at
her shoulders and her clothes were pasted to her body by the rain. From under
her neat wilted cap, her soft hair straggled over her face like seaweed.

"Come," he said to her, and took her by the waist. Although she was almost as
tall as he and burdened with soaked clothes, he lifted her easily and set her on
the flagging beside him.

Her eyes met his for an instant, and there was inquiry in hers, and a
startled pleasure. Ragoczy's dark, enigmatic eyes warmed to her, but he moved
away quickly, and taking her hand, led her toward his palazzo. "You're cold,
amica. I will tell Ruggiero to heat the bath for you. I don't want you to take a
chill."

"And you?" she asked a little breathlessly.

"When you are done, I'll bathe." He glanced at her and the beginnings of
amusement lurked in his wry smile.

"But you're as cold as I am."

He held the door for her to pass through. "It doesn't matter, Demetrice."

She was about to object, but realized that he wasn't listening to her. He
opened a second door and they were in the courtyard. "Stay under the upper
gallery. You shouldn't get much wetter." He had followed his own advice, and
moved under the overhang of the second floor. His boots rapped sharply on the
mosaic tiles, a counterpoint against the sound of the rain. He moved quickly,
like a shadow in the forest, only the sound of his voice and the crisp report of
his heels revealing him. "I will have to go out tonight for a time. Don't be
concerned. Amadeo will see you have prandium soon. If you like, I will have him
prepare a soup as well as a pie. In this weather, you may want it. After that,
use the time as you wish. You're welcome to any book in my library. Don't be
concerned if I am not in until quite late."

Demetrice had followed him, but interrupted him. "San Germano!"

The urgency of her call brought him to a halt, and he came back toward her,
frowning. "What is it, amica? What's wrong?"

Now that she had decided to talk to him, her throat was suddenly quite dry
and the words came out almost cracked. "I would… I would like to learn from
you."

"Learn what?" He was truly baffled.

"Whatever it is you study in those hidden rooms of yours." The words were
out. She waited, trying to hide her apprehension, not daring to look at his
face.

"And what do you know of hidden rooms, Demetrice?"

"I… I have seen you. I have watched." She might as well confess the whole,
she thought, and said in a rush, "I knew that there was some secret to this
place. I knew you had secrets you didn't share with anyone. So I decided to find
out. I stayed up late at night. I followed you in the halls. I have seen you
enter those hidden rooms. There is a door upstairs and one behind the landing of
the grand staircase. I think that there is one on the upper gallery somewhere,
but I haven't found it."

Ragoczy did not look angry. His expression was neutral, but his compelling
eyes measured her. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes." She said this in a small voice and absentmindedly began to twist the
thongs of her wallet that was tied to her belt.

He came nearer, and there was a great deal of gentleness in his face now.
"What is it, amica mia? Don't be afraid of me, I beg you." He did not touch her,
and there was a sense of dread cold in him as he watched her.

The dark under the gallery hid the worry in her face, but she still did not
dare to look at him. "I have watched you at other times."

"Yes?" He was certain now of what she would say, but he knew he could not
stop her, and he knew that he didn't want to stop her. He waited, resigned, for
what Demetrice found so difficult to tell him.

"You went out a few days ago. I remember that you left a lantern lit in your
bedchamber. I kept in my chamber, but I listened for you. It was less than an
hour to dawn when you came back. I saw you walk along the gallery. The light
from the lantern…"—here she finally dared to look at him—"I saw you in the
light, San Germano. There was blood on your lips."

"Ah." It was an effort of will not to turn away from her, but he sensed that
if he did, he would lose her trust and might never again recover it.

"Before he died… Laurenzo told me about you, about what he guessed."

"He didn't guess: he was sure," Ragoczy said, remembering the evening of his
Twelfth Night festa, which had ended so disastrously.

"Yes." Demetrice looked at him apprehensively. "Was he right, San Germano?"

Why was it always so difficult? Ragoczy wondered. Was it that he hated to be
feared? Was it that admitting the truth would set the final seal on his
loneliness? "What did Laurenzo tell you?"

"He said you were more than an alchemist. He said that you were immortal…"

"Not immortal. Not quite." The words were quick, harsh.

"He said you were… are… a vampire." When he gave her no answer, she went on
recklessly, "He said that the Church was wrong, and that your kind are not
demons or cursed of God, that you are not like Satan. He said that you are
something else entirely."

"He was right," Ragoczy said softly. He stood still a moment and listened to
the rain. "Demetrice," he said almost dreamily, "I told you before and I tell
you now that you stand in no danger from me. No danger whatever. No one and
nothing in Fiorenza is endangered by me." He stopped and considered. "Or if
there is harm, it is not my intention."

Before she could stop herself, she said, "But I saw blood…"

"I had it from one who was willing to give it. Beyond the Porta San Frediano."

"Not Donna Estasia, then?"

"No."

Demetrice was surprised by the jealousy she felt as she spoke Estasia's name.
She stopped thinking of Botticelli's cousin as she gathered her courage again.
"What happens? When you… drink?"

He desperately wanted this conversation to end. "Most of the time, very
little. There is a pleasant dream, a sweet satisfaction, and in the morning some
lassitude because a little blood is gone." He recognized the skepticism in her
face. "No, amica mia, I am not the ravenous thing you think me. You could fill
the ruby cup I gave Laurenzo with what I take from the living. But just the
blood is not enough. It will keep me… alive… but it is not enough. So when it is
possible, I have intimacy as well. It is not only the blood that nourishes me.
It is nearness, pleasure, all intense emotions. Only those who come to me
knowingly are… tainted by me. Only those who accept me as I am will be like me."
He turned away from Demetrice.

"San Germano, if someone comes to you, can you give them your life?" Her
voice was very small and filled with anguish.

"Yes, most of the time." He knew what question would follow, and braced
himself to answer it.

"Then
why didn't you save Laurenzo
? Why did you let him die? He was
your friend, San Germano."

"I know." He moved away from her, his eyes closed as the pain of loss welled
up in him afresh. "I didn't save him because I couldn't. There was nothing I
could do."

"You didn't even try?" Her hands were fists now, and her clear amber eyes
shone with anger and tears.

"Demetrice, Demetrice, believe me, if there had been the slightest chance, I
would have risked anything to make him… live, even his eternal hatred."

"But why didn't you?" She was beseeching him. All her anger was gone.

He spun around on her. "
Because I couldn't
!" He steadied himself and
went on with fearful intensity. "Understand that. I could not save him. And
every day he suffered, I searched, hoped for a way. But it was his blood. To be…
changed, the blood must be clean. Laurenzo's was so diseased that it killed him.
Oh, I could have shared blood with him. It would not have hurt me. But it would
have made no difference. None."

The rain was falling harder, making a sound like an army marching in the
distance. The afternoon had grown much darker. In the courtyard the mosaics were
no longer visible through the splashes.

When she could speak, Demetrice said, "I didn't realize." She faltered,
finding the words too trivial. She came through the gloom toward Ragoczy.
Silently she held out her hand.

He looked at her, his dark eyes questioning. Then he took her hand in his,
wishing that he were not wearing gloves. He nodded. "Demetrice, amica, you are
welcome to stay with me. But if you would rather not, I will provide you money
or a dowry. If you stay here, I promise you I will not touch you, will not seek
you out, even as a dream."

"I don't want money, and I don't want a dowry. But," she said, her interest
kindling, "I would like to study with you. I want to learn what it is you do in
those hidden rooms. Will you let me learn from you?"

"Very well." He pulled her nearer, his dark eyes compelling her as much as
his insistent hands. "Be my student, then, and welcome. And be my friend,
Demetrice. Not my lover, my friend."