An Embarrassment of Riches (28 page)

Rakoczy fixed his dark eyes on Barnon. “I do not like to accuse you of lying, but I am sure you are avoiding something that troubles you.” His expression softened a little. “Why not tell me what it is so I will not have to bother the rest of the household making inquiries.”

“It will displease you,” Barnon said.

“Then better to do it quickly, and get it behind you. Delay can only make it worse.”

Barnon swallowed hard. “Minek wants a priest. For Last Rites.”

“Send for one. You do not need my permission for that,” said Rakoczy in his calmest voice.

“It’s not so simple,” Barnon said, fretting. “He wants Pader Tomasek, from the Church of the Apostles. That’s well down the hill and it’s likely to be hard going to reach the place. If we went to Sante-Radmille, the priest would be here much sooner, but they are Trinitarians.”

Rakoczy resisted the impulse to dismiss the matter, for he realized that many of these various Orders were as competitory in sacraments as companies of armed knights were in combat. “Are there difficulties between the Redemptionists and the Trinitarians?”

“There are difficulties between the Apostles and Sante-Radmille.”

“Would it be a problem for Minek to receive Last Rites from a Trinitarian?” Rakoczy stepped into the entry hall.

“He is certain there would be,” said Barnon. “I don’t know what to tell him.”

“Offer him the choice of a Trinitarian before mid-day or a Redemptionist by mid-afternoon,” said Rakoczy, wondering if the warder’s condition had deteriorated so greatly since the previous night. “Be sure he understands that most of the streets are not clear of snow, and it will be some time before Pader Tomasek can come here.”

Barnon scowled. “But how can he be sure of God’s Will in this? The cough may have disordered his thoughts. The Devil may be hoping to deny him a good death, so Hell can claim his soul.”

“It is possible, I suppose, but the decision about who is to shrive him should lie with Minek. It is his soul, after all.” Rakoczy read alarm in Barnon’s eyes. “It would not be fitting for you, or for me, to decide for Minek.”

“If you are certain…” Barnon said dubiously.

“Would you like me to ask him myself?” Rakoczy did his best not to make his question a challenge. He went into the main hall, hearing Barnon’s hesitant steps behind him.

“You may be touched by the cough’s miasma if you go to him,” said Barnon after a short silence.

Rakoczy regarded Barnon thoughtfully. “If there is a miasma, it has touched me already, and if there is not, what have I to fear?”

Barnon considered this. “Put your trust in God and His Mercy.”

“As you must do,” said Rakoczy, “when you go to him.” He saw a flicker in Barnon’s eyes. “You do go to him, do you not?”

“I … go to the door to the room where he has been taken,” Barnon said. After a moment he added, in a tone of ill-usage, “If you had slaves, I would assign one to care for him.”

“I see,” said Rakoczy quietly. “Then it must be a good thing that I have no slaves.” He motioned to Barnon. “Go to the door of his room and find out which Order he prefers for Last Rites. Then dispatch one of the housemen to bring the priest. You may tell him that I will attend to him shortly.”

“Yes, Comes,” said Barnon, ducking his head and shifting his gaze away from Rakoczy toward the blaze in the central fireplace.

Very gently, Rakoczy said, “Do it now, Barnon.”

The steward paled and rushed out of the room.

Left to himself, Rakoczy went along to the kitchen and ordered Pacar to prepare a broth with many crushed herbs in it; he selected the herbs to be used from the hanging bundles of dried herbs. “Use these and no others. Heat the broth slowly with the herbs, then put it in an earthenware bowl and carry it to Minek.”

Pacar’s hands trembled. “One of the scullions will do it,” he said, trying to summon up what authority he could.

Rakoczy pressed his lips together, measuring the fear in his cook. “Have it ready before mid-day and I will fetch it.”

“Comes!” Pacar was shocked. “No. You mustn’t.”

“And prepare a venison stew, bread, cheese, and beer for all those working to clear away the snow.” Rakoczy ignored the protests that greeted his instructions. “You need not fear: there is no miasma on them.”

Pacar ducked his head as if anticipating a blow for his insolence. “No, Comes,” he said as Rakoczy left the kitchen, going toward his workroom.

Half-way up the narrow stairs Rakoczy met Hruther coming down. “Have you seen Minek?” he asked in Imperial Latin.

“Not since last night,” said Hruther. “His cough was worse.”

“He has asked for a priest, for Last Rites.”

Hruther looked surprised. “He didn’t seem that far gone to me.”

Rakoczy nodded. “How much sovereign remedy do I have left?”

“After treating the innkeeper at the Red Wolf? Ten vials,” said Hruther. “I suppose it would be useless to remind you that you’re not supposed to treat the sick.”

“Yes,” said Rakoczy with a swift, ironic smile. “It would be useless.”

“I hope you won’t regret it,” said Hruther, continuing downward.

“I would regret more doing nothing,” said Rakoczy, resuming his climb upward, aware that his progress was being watched by Magda.

In his workroom he unlocked and opened the ancient red-lacquer chest and removed a vial of opalescent liquid from one of the drawers; he set this aside, closed and locked the chest, then took a little time to build up the fire and to pull a slim volume from the shelves of books. Then he picked up the vial and returned to the kitchen, where he found Pacar bent over a cooking pot of simmering mutton-broth, a bowl waiting on the cutting block at his elbow.

“The broth is almost ready, Comes,” said Pacar in as conciliating a manner as he could achieve.

“Very good.” Rakoczy turned to the three scullions who were pouring beer into the large cooking cauldron where chopped onions and cabbage lay atop collops of venison. “Make it substantial; the men are working hard in the cold.”

The oldest of the scullions summoned up his courage and said, “That we will, Comes. That we will. And have some ourselves, for our labors.”

Pacar started to ladle the broth into the waiting bowl; he spilled a little of the liquid, and he swore by the Virgin’s tits under his breath, then glanced nervously at Rakoczy. “I will Confess it, Comes.”

“As you wish,” said Rakoczy, and went to take up the ladle and finish filling the bowl himself. “Do you have a cloth so I can carry it without burning my hands?”

Wordlessly Pacar handed him a long strip of quilted linen.

“Thank you,” said Rakoczy, and picked up the bowl. He took the narrow hall to the servants’ quarters and made his way to the rear-most room. The odor of sickness and urine struck him as he opened the door, and he realized that no one had removed the chamber-pot or the basin of mucus on the floor next to the narrow bed for at least a full day. The sound of Minek’s wheezy breath faltered as the sick warder looked up, his features shadowed; the only light in the room came from the torch in the sconce in the hallway.

“Comes,” said Minek, the word ending in a spate of coughing that left him gasping and pale, the fever spots on his cheeks bright. He was clearly very ill, but his eyes were not sunken, nor did he have the smell of death about him.

“I have broth for you, with herbs to help you heal,” said Rakoczy, coming to the side of the bed and setting the bowl on the small chest next to the bed. “And there is a … a remedy that those of my blood have used to treat illness for a long time.” He offered the vial. “Drink it first, and then the broth.”

“It’s wasted on me,” Minek managed to say, then spat into the basin.

“I doubt it,” said Rakoczy, and unstoppered the vial. “Drink this. The taste is not pleasant, but it has much virtue.”

Reluctantly Minek took the vial, sniffed at it, coughed, then drank it, making a face as he did. “It better have virtue,” he muttered.

Rakoczy bent down and without any apparent effort moved Minek into a sitting position. Then he retrieved the bowl of broth and handed it, with the quilted linen cloth, to the warder. “This will take away the taste and should provide you some strength.”

“I am dying,” said Minek, paying no attention to the bowl.

“Perhaps, and perhaps not,” Rakoczy said, unperturbed by Minek’s declaration; he put the cloth and the bowl into Minek’s hands. “Has Barnon spoken to you about a priest yet?”

“He says”—he broke off, coughing—“that Pader Tomasek is”—he coughed some more—“still snowbound.”

“And will be for some while as the Konig’s men work their way down the streets,” Rakoczy said. “Sante-Radmille is open, but I understand you would rather not ask one of the priests to attend you.” He waited for Minek to speak, then went on, “Sant-Norbrech should be cleared of snow in a short while. Do you have any objections to a Servite?”

“I told Barnon Pader Toma—” He coughed so strenuously that some of his broth slopped out of its bowl.

Rakoczy reached to steady Minek’s hands. “As soon as the way is open, Pader Tomasek will be sent for. It may be some little time.”

“He is my Confessor,” said Minek.

“No other will suit you?” Rakoczy asked. “Very well, you shall have him.” He bent to pick up the basin and the chamber-pot.

Minek goggled at him. “Comes. No.” His coughing was tighter.

“It is unhealthful for these to remain with you. They have contagion in them. I will see they are disposed of.” Rakoczy went to the door. “I will leave this open so you will have light. One of the servants will bring you a clean chamber-pot and basin shortly.” With that he sought out the rear door and carried the two vessels to the midden to empty them into the steaming heap of garbage, sweepings, and ordure; the severed front hoof of a deer protruded from the pile, which he shoved back into it with the six-tined rake lying beside it.

One of the mansion’s nine cats went purposefully past Rakoczy, a mouse feebly twitching in its jaws. Rakoczy watched it go, thinking back to his centuries in Egypt where cats were venerated and worshiped, quite unlike the suspicion they aroused now in most of Europe. His reflections were interrupted by Barnon, who emerged from the herb-garden gate, his steaming breath revealing that he was in a hurry.

“Comes. There you are.” He came up to Rakoczy in four long strides. “Counselor Smiricti is here. He desires to speak with you.”

“Does he,” said Rakoczy, and handed the empty basin and chamber-pot to Barnon. “These were in Minek’s room. See they are washed and that he has clean ones.”

Barnon ducked his head. “The Episcopus says that it is wrong to wash chamber-pots over-much.”

“The Episcopus may say what he likes; in this household, vessels of this sort are to be emptied and washed daily—I thought I made that clear months ago.” He swung the herb-garden gate open, going through it ahead of the steward.

“Zenka says she has chilblains from all the chamber-pots you require she wash,” Barnon said as if this settled the matter.

“If she washes the chamber-pots in hot water, there will be no chilblains.”

“Hot water stimulates lust,” said Barnon, dutifully repeating Episcopus Fauvinel’s warnings.

“In a laundry?” Rakoczy laughed once at the absurdity of the notion, and again wondered if he should enlarge the washroom, which was a single, small, stone chamber at the rear of the bath-house where Zenka and her niece Bedriska did the linen and clothes-cleaning for Mansion Belcrady.

“The Devil is everywhere,” said Barnon, following Rakoczy in the side-door. “Counselor Smiricti is in the rear withdrawing room. Pacar is making a plate of bread and sausages for him. I have already given him a tankard of beer.”

“That is good of you,” said Rakoczy, and continued on to the main hall, crossing it to the withdrawing room, where he found Counselor Smiricti in a long huch of marten-fur with a hood he had thrown back; his large ears were red with cold; a tankard of beer stood half-empty on the table in front of the fireplace. “Welcome to Mansion Belcrady, Counselor.” He gave a polite bow.

“And my thanks to you, Comes,” said Smiricti, not bothering to rise. “Your houseman said he would return to build up the fire.”

“I will attend to that,” Rakoczy offered, going to the bin next to the hearth and taking out an arm-long section of log. “This will catch soon enough, and you will be warm again.”

“You wouldn’t think a sunny day could be so cold.” Smiricti pulled off his gloves and vigorously rubbed his hands together. “The beer he brought me is very good—not cloudy or bitter.”

“Thank you,” said Rakoczy, studying Smiricti.

“You probably want to know what brings me out on such a day,” he began, and not waiting for an answer said, “I’m here to extend you an invitation, but it might not be to your liking.” This last he said in a rush.

More curious than circumspect, Rakoczy asked, “An invitation? What is the occasion?” He put the log atop the piled embers of the old fire; sparks flew up like tiny, bright insects.

“The Beggars’ Guild is having a burning of rats in Council Court Square as soon as it is clear of snow. Since the Episcopus has decided in their favor in their suit against the rats, and the Council has concurred, the city’s beggars have been trapping and killing rats in great quantity.” He pursed his lips. “We have been using your poison cakes and trapping boxes in the Council Court, to good effect. We have more than a hundred of the bodies stacked up behind the privy. But doubtless you know that the Episcopus has declared that since the bodies of rats bring fevers and generate wasps and gnats, the bodies must be destroyed or buried a league outside the city walls. The ground is too hard to make a grave-pit, so there will be a fire. The Beggars’ Guild is going throughout the city collecting rats to give to the flames.”