An Embarrassment of Riches (9 page)

“You’re certain it would come to that?” Hruther asked, and knew the answer as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

“Think of Cyprus, old friend.” He regarded Hruther levelly, recalling seven hundred years before and his three years there, when he had been faced with the increasing demands for jewels from the island’s ruler.

“I take your point,” said Hruther, nodding slowly.

“I would not like to have to make caskets and caskets of jewels every month again; that one time was sufficient.”

“Even though you could do it,” said Hruther with a suggestion of amusement.

“I could,” Rakoczy agreed, “but it would put me in a more difficult position than the one I am in presently, for their demands would be likely to increase.” He paused, his face unreadable. “I cannot rid myself of the feeling that I may need to have the means of paying for a clandestine departure, and in Bohemia, jewels are more anonymous than gold.”

“Then you’re planning to escape?” Hruther was not surprised.

“Not at present, but it may come to that, if I can arrange for the protection of Santu-Germaniu before we go. If only Konig Bela had not quarreled with his son after granting him rule of Transylvania, suspicion would not have been turned on Santu-Germaniu.” He stifled a yawn. “I sometimes feel I am in a vise, with Otakar on one side and Bela on the other, and that between them they will do their best to ruin me.”

“As was tried on Cyprus,” said Hruther.

“I trust not.” Rakoczy offered nothing more as he glanced toward the window. “There will be more rain this afternoon, by the look of it. There are clouds in the distance, and they are towering already.”

“Summer storms,” said Hruther. “At least that will lessen the heat.”

“And the virulence of the current ailment is fading, thank all the forgotten gods,” Rakoczy said. He stretched as thoroughly and gracefully as a cat, then twisted his upper body side to side, which for him was a sign of fatigue.

“Do you think you might rest today?” Hruther asked, a flicker of concern in his faded-blue eyes. “You’ve been out or working all night for the last three days.”

Rakoczy’s smile was more wry than amused. “I am better for having been out last night,” he said. “It restored me somewhat.”

“Did the woman enjoy her dream?” Hruther made no attempt to hide his assuagement. “Are you improved?”

“It certainly seemed she did,” Rakoczy answered, a note of unease in his answer; he changed the subject. “How are the servants? Has their distress ended?”

“All are recovered but two scullions,” said Hruther, adding, “They should both be fine in a few days.”

“Very good.” He touched his small hands together. “We will continue to treat the well-water for another fifteen days, just in case; the Chinese are right about that precaution.”

“Some of the household have complained about the taste of garlic in the water,” Hruther said, his attention on the banded coffer.

“If the animacules in the water are to be killed, they will have to bear with the taste a while longer. And they will have to endure it again next year, when the animacules return.” Rakoczy stowed the coffer in a niche beneath the largest window; though it was heavy, he gave no sign of effort in carrying it. “I’ll want presentation pouches the day after tomorrow; I am asked to make an appearance at the Konige’s Court that day.”

“And besides jewels, what does the Konige want of you—more songs?”

“Very likely. She is receiving one of the von Hapsburg ladies, and she wishes the occasion to be as awe-inspiring as possible, with every sign of wealth and elegance. Given how much Otakar dislikes the von Hapsburgs, the Konige will want the von Hapsburgs to envy her, and Otakar.” He paused, his demeanor thoughtful. “I should probably offer a few jewels to Aurelie von Hapsburg as a matter of courtesy.” He gave a short sigh. “Good stones, but not as grand as the ones I present to Konige Kunigunde, I think. Perhaps the moonstones, and a pair of aquamarines.”

“The emeralds to Konige Kunigunde,” Hruther recommended.

“Of course, and a pair of diamonds along with topazes and amethysts to the Konige as well. I would offend her if I did not give her something remarkable, and failure to do that would displease her grandfather and her husband, which”—he sighed—“could lead to trouble, not only here but at Santu-Germaniu, as almost everything I do can. So long as he can dismantle my estates, Bela has me on a short tether, and we both know it; he can pretend that he is not coercing me, but he knows he can demand my compliance on anything that suits him to requi—” Rakoczy gesticulated his aggravation, swinging his arms then slamming his hands together. “It is always such a dance, such a costly dance, and grows more so over the years,” he exclaimed, then composed himself. “Even in my breathing days, court-ship was as artificial as the smiles of those performing it.” He broke off again, turning to Hruther with an intent expression. “Do you recall that clock in the Santu-Smaragdu monastery we saw?”

“The one that had the tower with the bell-hammers attached to figures of Santu Smaragdu and the Devil?” Hruther saw Rakoczy nod. Curious to learn what had captured the Comes’ attention, he said, “I do remember. What has that to do with—”

“Yes; all they need to ring the bell is a mallet on a spring-hinge and a chain to release the spring when the clock reaches the right hour, but they decided to give their spring-hinges an additional purpose and made the hinges allegorical figures; it is much the same with court-ship, which starts out simply, as a code of conduct for those in authority, uncomplicated and direct. Then, like the bell-mallets, conditions are added, competition begins among those in the Court. Eventually someone will find a way to make the iron figures more elaborate, so that marking the time is only an excuse for grand displays. Court-ship here in Bohemia, like the clocks, will become more complex than it already is. Think of the Court of Karl-lo-Magne, and compare it to this one. There is more display, more grandeur, here. And for most of the courtiers, more to lose.” He fell silent, and after a short while went on in a more tranquil tone, “Pardon me, old friend. I am feeling exasperated, but it is hardly fitting to burden you with my discontent.”

“I don’t mind,” said Hruther. “You listen to my harangues.”

“Infrequent as they are,” said Rakoczy, a rueful cast to his countenance. “I wish I could quell my apprehensions, but I have not yet been able to.” He took a turn about his workroom, his restlessness taking hold of him. Finally he stopped, a frown deepening between his brows. “What have we heard from Balint? His report is overdue.” The steward at Santu-Germaniu had pledged to send monthly reports, but he had not been heard from for six weeks.

“You fear that bodes ill,” said Hruther, aware that concern for his steward and his lands had given rise to Rakoczy’s fidgetiness.

“There is fighting not far from the roads the messenger must travel,” Rakoczy said. “Otakar will have to use all the summer to press his advantage; campaigning in winter is madness.”

“Do you think the Konig might have conscripted your messenger?” Hruther asked.

“It would be like Otakar to do that. Or it could be the messenger is delayed by illness or injury, or taken as a prisoner, or killed, or any number of unpleasant things. I will dispatch a message to Balint, and hope that nothing dreadful has happened.” Rakoczy continued pacing, slowing a little on his fourth pass around the room. “You are right; I am tired. No doubt you’re hungry. If the kitchen is empty, go have your meat while no one can see that it is uncooked.”

“I will—while you lie down for the morning. The household knows you were up well into the night for three nights. No one will think it odd that you choose to sleep in the morning; they might think it odd if you didn’t rest.” Hruther’s implication was clear; he indicated the door. “Two hours on your bed should ease you, my master.”

“No doubt,” said Rakoczy, capitulating. “Two hours it will be. Then off to the Counselors’ Court.” He brought the key to the door out of the wallet hung on his belt. “To keep from tempting anyone,” he said as he followed Hruther to the door.

“Do you want me to call you in two hours?”

“If I have not risen of my own accord, please; since I am summoned to the Counselors’ Court early this afternoon,” said Rakoczy, shutting the door to his workroom and turning the heavy iron key in the lock. “Are the old rushes swept out of the main hall?”

“And the new rushes laid with branches of rosemary. The servants complain that you clear the rushes too often, but they say the manse smells nicer than most, and has fewer rats. The other rooms will be finished by sundown, whatever the weather may bring.” Hruther opened the door to Rakoczy’s private apartments. “And Pacar and I will finish the plans for your banquet. By the time you rise, we will have all the necessary lists made, and we can begin to make the mansion ready. Forty guests and as many more servants—there’s a lot to do to prepare.” He moved aside for the Comes. “Do you need my assistance?”

“Not here; I need your skill at planning. Mid-Summer Eve is the banquet; three weeks away,” said Rakoczy as he went into his outer room. “The shortest night of the year.” He laughed once.

“The nights will lengthen again, my master,” Hruther assured him, and closed the door.

Left to his own devices, Rakoczy removed his thick-soled solers and bleihaut, but kept on his chainse of black-dyed linen. With the shutters closed, the room was dim, and the sleeping-chamber beyond was darker still, and monkishly austere. One large chest stood in the center of the chamber, a thin wool-stuffed mattress atop it, with linen sheets and a single rough-woven blanket to dress it. Rakoczy pulled back the blanket and upper sheet, and got into the bed, pulling the blanket up to his chin as he lay back and lapsed into the stupor which passed for sleep among those of his blood.

It was nearing mid-day when Rakoczy emerged from his personal quarters, dressed in an eclipse-embroidered black bleihaut over a chainse of white cotton, braccae of dull-red linen, and high, thick-soled estivaux; his eclipse device hung from a thick silver collar around his neck. He walked down to the main hall and looked around, generally pleased with what he saw.

Barnon, the steward, lowered his head and snapped his fingers to alert his two underlings to halt their efforts and acknowledge their master’s presence. “Comes Santu-Germaniu.”

“Good day to you, Barnon,” he replied. “I hope I see you well.”

“You do, Comes,” Barnon mumbled. He took two steps back and respectfully averted his eyes.

“Have you had your dinner yet?”

“No; household servants dine in an hour. The grooms and outside servants dine first. They will sit down shortly.” Barnon was quite uncomfortable; no nobleman he had ever worked for had indulged in actual conversation with him.

“I understand you will have spit-turned lamb with turnips and onions today,” said Rakcozy, and saw the astonishment in Barnon’s eyes.

“I … I think so, Comes.”

“Very good,” said Rakoczy, and was about to move on, but stopped and turned to Barnon again. “Do you know where I might find my manservant?”

“I believe he and Pacar aren’t yet back from the marketplace,” said Barnon. “There are only scullions and the under-cook in the kitchen.”

“Ah.” Rakoczy nodded once. “I trust they will return before the rain starts.”

Barnon crossed himself. “All is in the hands of God.”

Rakoczy did the same. “As you say.” Making a gesture of dismissal, he strolled out of the main hall into the entry hall, where two hired men were laying new stones in the floor in a pattern of interlocking chevrons of black and white stone. “You are making fine progress. How long until you are done; do you know?” he asked the older of the men.

“Three more days should do it, Comes, including the marble border,” the man answered, not looking up.

Rakoczy let himself out and went around the side of the house to the stable, calling out for Illes as he did. “I know your dinner is almost ready, but will you be good enough to saddle the dapple-gray for me before you go in to eat?” he requested as soon as Illes appeared.

“Of course, Comes,” said Illes, ducking his head as he turned back into the stable; Rakoczy followed after him. “She’s newly shod, and she’s been given her weekly dose of vinegar-and-oil. Her hooves have been treated with wool-fat and turpentine.” He reached the mare’s stall and whistled softly to her as she pushed her head toward him. “She’s a good girl, she is.” He reached for the halter hanging from a hook on the nearest column.

“Yes, she is,” Rakoczy agreed.

“It’s not my place to ask, but do you plan to breed her?” He buckled the halter and stroked her neck.

“She had two foals already. But she is eight, so I may find a stallion to cover her again.” Rakoczy stood aside while Illes led Asza out of her stall. “In that regard, do you have any recommendations?”

“No,” said Illes, surprised that Rakoczy would put such a question to him.

“If you see a stallion you think would do, will you tell me?” Rakoczy asked, watching Illes brush down the mare’s coat.

After a disconcerting silence, Illes nodded. “If I do, I’ll tell you.”

“Thank you,” said Rakoczy, stepping back as three stable-hands came down the wide central corridor in answer to the summons of the dinner-bell. “Do you miss Domonkos and Zabolcs and Endre?” he inquired when the hands were gone.