An Embarrassment of Riches (48 page)

“Not your manservant, Comes, a juggler,” said Tahir, climbing up the steps at the side of the vat. He carried a double-bladed misericordia in one hand and a had a spiked glove on the other.

“On what errand, Tahir?” He saw the other three men moving toward him.

“On a mission from Antal of Szousa. I am to deliver a message,” said Tahir with such satisfaction that Rakoczy knew the men had been sent to kill him.

“Why did he choose you?” Rakoczy asked, thinking rapidly.

“Your warder knows me; he let me in. My comrades dispatched him before he could raise the alarm.” He grinned at the cleverness of the plan.

“You wanted to kill him,” Rakoczy said, certain of it.

The tallest of the three men muttered a warning, hefting his battle-hammer.

“Szousa disapproves of your interest in his sister,” Tahir said, making his voice menacing as he took a testing swipe with his spiked glove.

“I have no interest in his sister: she has interest in me.” Rakoczy did not flinch; he knew it was useless to tell the men that he had grown tired of Iliska’s relentless pursuit, and of Antal’s determination to punish him for Iliska’s infatuation, just as he realized that any show of fear on his part might well set Tahir on the attack.

Tahir laughed, his voice harsh. “So you say.”

Rakoczy kept his eyes fixed on Tahir, who was now leaning over the lip of the vat, a fierce shine in his eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why do you think?” Tahir countered. “Because he has paid me handsomely, and vowed to place me in his household.”

“Are you certain he will keep his Word?” Rakoczy asked, knowing that so long as Tahir was talking, he would not attack.

“He pledged on the Cross,” said Tahir, adding, “You won’t turn me from my purpose. If you must waste breath, pray; God might hear you.”

Rakoczy ignored the juggler’s mockery. “What did Antal offer the other three: do you know?”

“They are here to help me carry out our mission,” said Tahir, preening. “He gave me the privilege of killing you.”

Rakoczy saw a flickering look pass among the other three men; he wondered if he should warn Tahir of treachery when he felt a blow on his shoulder next to his throat and saw the two prongs of the misericordia pulled out of his flesh. The pain struck him as water sloshed over the pair of wounds. “You are…” The words trailed off to a groan. He took a breath and added in a soft hiss. “Be wary. Those three will kill you.”

Tahir uttered an incoherent cry of rage and pushed Rakoczy’s head down beneath the water, yelling curses as he did. “You are the Devil’s spawn! Die and go to him!”

Rakoczy coughed as he stopped breathing and sank down in the vat below where Tahir could reach. The remnants of oil-soap stung his eyes but not enough to force him to close them; the pain from the two stab wounds was intense but not spreading, and he was able to resist the urge to place his hand over the punctures. He knew long submersion would leave him weak and disoriented, but he preferred that to having to fight Tahir and his three fellow-assassins, which might result in serious injury, or perhaps the True Death. He made a last, feeble flailing with his arms, then let himself hang in the vat, moved only by the motion of the water.

Tahir remained at the rim of the vat, his spiked glove lifted, ready to strike if Rakoczy should make another movement. He repeated the
De Profundis Clamavit,
as much to be certain that the Comes had been under the water long enough to drown as to implore God to hear him. While he prayed, he thought about what he was saying, his voice faltered, knowing that God might well condemn him for killing Rakoczy, though he did it at the behest of Antal of Szousa. At last he straightened up, noticing for the first time that the front of his clothing was soaked and that there was blood on the sleeve of his chainse. He turned to his three companions. “There—you see? You can tell Szousa that I didn’t need your help.”

One of the three glanced at the other two, gave a nod, and launched himself at Tahir, grabbing him and pulling him from his place on the steps.

Startled, Tahir whispered a protest. “I can get down by mysel—”

The man who held him turned so that the tallest of the three of them could help subdue Tahir with a sharp blow to the abdomen with his battle-hammer.

“What?” Tahir gasped, trying to bend over and get air back into his body, but the leader of the three held him upright.

“Hurry,” said the oldest of the three in the Bulgarian tongue. “There’s been too much noise. Someone will come.”

“The Comes is dead. Szousa told us to leave the juggler’s body with the Comes’,” the tallest whispered.

“Then have done with him,” said the leader, and clapped his hand over Tahir’s mouth as the dwarf began to scream. “He’s strong for a poppet.”

Tahir wrenched and twisted, bucked, kicked, and bit, but aside from getting out a single yelp, he was held securely enough for the third man to drive a falchion two times into Tahir’s broad chest. Blood erupted from the second wound, covering the man who held him with the gory flow. Tahir jerked and managed to free one arm, but when he attempted to batter at his captor with his fist, there was no strength left in him; his blood still pumped out of him, but the amount was diminishing.

“Drop him,” the oldest man snapped. “We must leave. We’ve done our work.”

“And we can claim the rest of our fee,” said the tallest man.

“Ten gold Angels each,” their leader gloated as he released Tahir, letting him fall as he might.

Tahir was distantly aware that he had been betrayed, but it hardly seemed to matter now. He could feel the stone floor beneath him, but it was unimportant. He was vaguely aware that there was something unfinished, that there was a wrong that was unredressed, but it was no longer worth the effort to recall it; he let it go as he let all the world go.

“He’s gone,” said the oldest, going toward the door and pulling it open carefully. “I hear noises.”

“The household at supper,” said their leader, picking up his falchion and slipping it into the scabbard in the small of his back.

“No; listen,” said the oldest, holding up his hand. “Someone is coming.”

“What’s another body?’ the tallest asked, swinging his battle-hammer.

“It’s trouble, and there’s no money in it,” said the oldest. “Come on. Now!”

The other two went to flank the door; the leader stepped over Tahir’s body and slipped out into the darkness.

Lying in the cooling water, Rakoczy had a fleeting, ironic thought that he now had the means to leave Praha.

*   *   *

Text of an edict issued by Konige Kunigunde, Episcopus Fauvinel, and the Counselors of Praha, distributed to all churches throughout the city.

To the people of the city from Konige Kunigunde, with the blessings of Episcopus Fauvinel, and the approval and duty of the Counselors of Praha on this, the 27
^th
day of May in the 1270
^th
year of Grace:

On the occasion of the reception of the notification to the Konige Kunigunde that her royal grandfather Konig Bela has been called to Heaven and the presence of God, for which the Konige’s Court and the people are now to mourn until the season of the Nativity, when the Konige’s Court will celebrate the ascendency of her maternal uncle, Istvan of Transylvania, to the throne of Hungary, there will be one hundred Masses said for the repose of Konig Bela’s soul, and one hundred more for the long and glorious reign of Istvan of Hungary. All residents of Praha will show mourning by placing a black crucifix on their doors and in distributing alms to the poor in the name of Konige Kunigunde. All officials of the Council and the Konige’s Court are to dress in red or black through the period of mourning; any lapse in such demonstrations of respect will require a fine be paid to the Counselors and the Episcopus of three golden Vaclavs for each offense.

No weddings are to occur until thirty days of deep mourning have passed. No music but the chants of monks will be allowed within the city for sixty days. No entertainments such as bear-baiting and cock-fighting will be allowed inside Praha’s walls for sixty days. No dancing or other wanton games are to be permitted for sixty days. All failures to abide by these dictates will be met with fines, and, if repeated, public whipping.

There will be, in honor of the Konige Kunigunde’s grief, a cessation of all executions for a month; all those condemned to be hanged in chains will be kept in prison until the thirty days have passed, at which time their sentences shall be carried out. The sole exceptions to this degree are the three Bulgarians captured by Antal of Szousa and condemned for the murder of Rakoczy Ferancsi, Comes Santu-Germaniu, and the Konige’s juggler, Tahir. These vile assassins have claimed that they were employed by Antal of Szousa, but admitted, under the boot, that they lied when they accused Szousa, which Confession will grant them absolution of their sins and the glories of Paradise.

The Mid-Summer Festival will not be held, nor will any tournaments, until the principal six months of mourning have passed, at which time there will be a civic procession to mark the end of the Konige’s grieving. The end of mourning will also be recognized with dignified demonstrations of thanksgiving and renewed fealty to Konig Otakar, his Konige, and their daughters.

Witnessed and signed in the presence of Episcopus Fauvinel

for Konige Kunigunde

and

the Counselors of Praha

6

Cases and chests stood in the entry hall of Mansion Belcrady, ready to be loaded into wagons for the authorized departure the following day of Rakoczy’s Hungarian household for Santu-Germaniu. Despite the warm afternoon, the sky was glary with high, thin clouds that made the light inside the manse more muted than was usual on a June day. Activity in the household was on-going but muffled, a reminder that they were mourning not only the death of the Comes but the coming end of the servants’ employment; each of the household members had been given generous service payment and the pledge that the Counselors would see that they found new work, but unease hung over them all. As if to punctuate that restiveness, there was an occasional clash of pots and pans as Pacar loaded up the kitchen supplies; the scrape of rakes marked where the rushes were being taken up.

Hruther was occupied among the packed chests with checking off the items on his inventory that were to go to Santu-Germaniu; a second, smaller list was for the things he would need himself. He was dressed in a dark-gray huch of linen over a chainse of black-cotton, with black-velvet bands on his cuffs indicating his mourning state.

“How many more horses do you want me to purchase?” Illes of Kotan asked as he came in through the door; he, too, was in dark clothes with black bands on his cuffs. “I am off to the market shortly; I plan to return before sundown.”

“How much money do you have?” Hruther asked. “How many horses do you plan to buy?”

“I have twenty-five gold Angels and twenty silver Apostles, and a few copper Agnethes,” he answered, fingering the pouch that hung from his belt. “I had planned to buy four or five horses and perhaps a pair of mules, since you are taking three of them. They should be sufficient for our journey home. I might be able to buy another two horses without needing any more money than I have now.” He gave Hruther a speculative look.

“If you see a pair of good riding horses, you may purchase them. I would like to have a pair of remounts at the least.” Hruther made a mark on his inventory, then regarded Illes directly. “How much grain will you need for the journey to Santu-Germaniu? Is there enough in the stable for your journey and mine, or will you need to buy more?”

“I will know when I know how many horses we will have,” said Illes, his tone level. He looked up at the new windows. “Seems a shame to go, with the manse finally finished.”

“Yes. But the Comes’ heir needs to be provided with his bona fides, and to do that, I’ll have to find him first. Until the heir is found, no one can live here; it is protected by the Konige and the Counsel.”

“Do you know where he is?” Illes asked. “I know it isn’t my place to ask,” he added hastily.

“I know where to begin my search.” Hruther looked away from Illes, his demeanor reserved. “I will find him, and in time he will come to claim this fief; I will see to it. Tell Balint that when you arrive in Santu-Germaniu. I will send word to inform Konig Istvan when I have located the heir, and I will notify Santu-Germaniu, of course.”

“Of course,” Illes echoed. He filled in the awkwardness of the sudden silence by making a show of examining the nine chests set out nearest the door. “These are the ones that will go with you? loaded on the mules?”

“Yes.” Hruther glanced up from his inventory. “Those chests and four sacks of grain.”

“Three mules and four horses…” Illes studied the chests. “This big one—you’ll have to use the strongest mule to carry it.”