Come Twilight (45 page)

“This is annoying,” said Rotiger as he hauled his horse and mules over the stream and up to where Ragoczy Germainus and his animals stood. “The road will disappear by summer if something is not done.”

“Another will be made,” said Ragoczy Germainus as he remounted at last. “We have some time until dark. We should keep a lookout for shelter.”

“A village, a camp, what?” Rotiger asked as he climbed back into his high-canteled saddle. He pulled the lead up so that the mules had to follow closely.

“A place that is safe enough to pass the night without having to defend it,” said Ragoczy Germainus as he tapped his mount with his heels.

“From whom?” Rotiger asked, repeating the question when he received no reply.

“I do not know: that is what troubles me,” said Ragoczy Germainus.

Rotiger studied the rugged landscape for a little time, then ventured, “It isn’t just Moors you’re fretful about, is it?”

“No,” said Ragoczy Germainus. “Not just Moors.”

“But surely you cannot think that Chimenae has made more of her kind? Not after what we saw?” He was alarmed by the notion. “If she has done anything so foolish, the others would—”

“Exactly. The others would not accept it. It would be divisive.” He held up his hand to show his predicament. “Moors are not my only concern. Nor are the villagers, though their lives have been disrupted by what the Moors have done to the forest.”

“They must have enlarged their flocks,” said Rotiger doubtfully. “Do you not think they have?”

“It is possible,” said Ragoczy Germainus without conviction. “Chimenae’s clan would prey upon flocks, the larger the better.”

They went on a way in silence, their attention held by the miserable condition of the road; the daylight began to fade as the shadows lengthened, then disappeared, leaving the barren slopes eerily silent but for the steady sound of their horses’ and mules’ feet.

“Up ahead!” Rotiger shouted in relief and surprise. “Is that an inn? Here? Surely it cannot be a farm—there are no fields or pens. There are no watch-towers, so it cannot be a fortress.” He rose in his stirrups for a better look at the place. “It is right next to the road. It must be an inn.”

“It may be,” said Ragoczy Germainus, his enthusiasm less than Rotiger expected. “If there is anyone still in it.”

“There is a lamp burning in the window.” Rotiger pointed at the three squat buildings that looked so much like the rocky hillside around them that they might have been mistaken for an outcropping of stones. “There, on the building nearest the road, on the corner window.”

“I see it,” said Ragoczy Germainus. “And perhaps you are right. We will stop there for the night.”

Rotiger was well-aware of Ragoczy Germainus’ reluctance, but he was not willing to accept it unquestioningly. “You are not pleased to have shelter for the night?”

“I am not certain it
is
shelter,” he said, his voice distant. “I wonder at a place in so desolate a location that still offers a haven to travelers.”

“Oh,” said Rotiger, chastened. “You are remembering Baghdad.”

“I am puzzled that you are not,” said Ragoczy Germainus, no hint of reproach in his tone. “There are so many similarities.”

Now that Ragoczy Germainus had reminded him, Rotiger was very much struck by them. “A remote place, the only building for thousands and thousands of paces, and the land empty around it. I do see why you—” he stopped. “Do you think we should go on? We might find a place to make camp beyond the next ridge.”

“No,” Ragoczy Germainus said after a short silence. “No, I think we might as well stop here. We cannot travel much farther today, in any case; our animals won’t stand for it. We might as well make do with this place as with a camp of our own.”

Rotiger was now apprehensive. “How do you wish to deal with this?”

“I assume we should ride up to the door and ask for a night’s lodging, as any traveler would.” He looked back at Rotiger. “There is no point in putting them on their guard, particularly here.”

“No,” agreed Rotiger, and settled into the last of their day’s ride.

The three buildings were almost wholly undistinguishable by the time they reached the door of the one with the light; only a faint glow in the west provided any light to the land, and it was vanishing.

“Landlord!” Ragoczy Germainus called out as he dismounted. “If anyone is here!”

There was no response for a short while, and then a second light was struck inside the stone building, and there was the sound of the bolt being drawn back. Then the door swung open and a youth just on the verge of manhood stepped out, bending over in welcome. As he straightened up, he stared, then swore in the old tongue of the region as he kicked at the door in a display of petulance and aggravation. “What are you doing here, Sanct’ Germain?”

Ragoczy Germainus recovered quickly from his shock. “Aulutiz,” he said. “Is this place yours, then?”

“You haven’t answered my question.” Chimenae’s son went to stand in the doorway, arms folded, legs apart. “And it is Olutiz now,” he added, the subtle difference in pronunciation another reminder of the time that had gone by since they had seen each other.

“No, I have not answered your question,” Ragoczy Germainus conceded. “Nor have you answered mine.” He made a gesture to show he had meant no offense. “It was not my intention to come here, but circumstances have brought me. I must suppose that you were hoping for—” He walked around the front of his horse, pulling the reins over his neck and leading him forward with him.

“There are travelers enough on this road to keep us from starving, if that’s what you mean.” Olutiz glowered at the two arrivals. “You have horses and mules. That’s something.”

“I am afraid that we need them,” said Ragoczy Germainus. “If we must make some arrangement, let us discuss it first.”

“Why should we not take what we need?” Olutiz asked, his posture insistent.

“Because you are not a fool,” said Ragoczy Germainus as he came to stand directly in front of the door. “Consider: you have lost the element of surprise. If I must, I will have Rotiger stay in the stable. He will not permit any of your numbers—and there cannot be too many of you in this remote place—to harm our animals. If you make it necessary, I will join him.” He paused, letting Olutiz think about what he was saying. “On the other hand, we will take nothing from you.”

“You must be hungry,” said Olutiz, suspicion making him snap.

“Yes, I am, but it is nothing I cannot endure,” said Ragoczy Germainus.

“You would have to fight us for any blood.” Olutiz pointed directly at Ragoczy Germainus. “You know that.”

“It will not come to that,” Ragoczy Germainus said calmly.

Olutiz shook his head. “There are six of us here. Do you think you could defeat us?”

“Do you think I would not?” Ragoczy Germainus let the question hang between them, then went on in a more affable manner, “You are a long way from Chimenae’s stone house.” Ragoczy Germainus pointed to the building. “You have made one of your own.”

“She!” He swore again. “She has banished us. More than twenty of us.” He spat to show his disdain for her. “A few she killed, as an example.”

“How long ago?” The question was kindly asked, without any suggestion of inculpation.

“Years. Many years.” He shrugged and relented. “You might as well come in.”

“We have animals to attend to first,” said Ragoczy Germainus firmly. “If you will tell me which of those two buildings is the stable?”

Olutiz snorted in self-mockery. “That one. I’ll tell Dorioz to leave you alone. We had a goat last night. He shouldn’t mind too much. Have your man lead them there. You will not need to guard them.” He held out his hand in greeting. “You may come in while your man takes your horses and mules to the stable; they will be cared for.”

“No doubt, but I will ask Rotiger to remain with them, I think,” Ragoczy Germainus said as he paused on the threshold, reins and lead in his extended hand and called back to Rotiger, “Stay with our animals. I will come to speak with you shortly.”

“That I will,” said Rotiger with purpose as he reached down for the reins and lead Ragoczy Germainus had been holding out to him. “And I will not sleep.”

“Nor will I,” said Ragoczy Germainus, his eyes never leaving Olutiz’s face.

“So you say,” said Olutiz, not very graciously. “You are determined to watch, then we must be satisfied.”

“Very wise,” said Ragoczy Germainus as he stepped into the front room of the inn. It was an unprepossessing place, small, with a low ceiling supported by sagging beams with a fireplace built into the western wall. There was a counter where barrels of wine sat, and a few rough benches set out, offering a minimum of comfort to the traveler. “A most . . . simple place,” he said as he looked around.

“Well, it is the only inn for ten thousand paces in any direction, and the monastery no longer takes in travelers: the Moors collect a tax on them if the monks feed them.” Olutiz went to stand in front of his fireplace, his head held up at an arrogant angle as he called out, “Dorioz!”

Almost at once the boyish creature appeared, bright eagerness in his cynical old eyes. “Yes?” He stopped still, seeing that Ragoczy Germainus was in the room. “Gods of the horses!” he swore.

“Yes,” said Olutiz. “He has returned. His man is taking care of his horses and mules. You are to leave them untouched.” He added, more forcefully, “Do you understand me?”

“You are ordering me to go hungry,” said Dorioz, a defiant edge to his voice.

“Or find a goat,” said Olutiz. “Just leave this one and his alone.”

Dorioz glared at Olutiz, then turned and left the room without another word.

“He may not like it, but he will obey,” said Olutiz. “He does not want to hunt alone.”

A number of questions burgeoned in Ragoczy Germainus’ mind, but he kept them all to himself, aware that Olutiz was enough like his mother to resent inquiry; he contented himself with saying, “Thank you.”

Olutiz ducked his head once in acknowledgment, then once again met Ragoczy Germainus’ gaze. “What are you doing here?”

“I am on my way to Asturica; I have been delayed,” said Ragoczy Germainus. “It was not my intention to come by the Septimania Pass, but as it turned out, I was unable to use Roncesvalles. I had hoped to be in Asturcia within the month.” He went to the longest bench and sat down on its far end. “There are those who will suffer if I fail to arrive in Asturcia, and in good time.”

“That is supposed to move me?” Olutiz asked.

“Apparently not,” said Ragoczy Germainus dryly.

Olutiz raised his voice. “Or am I to assume you expect me to help you because of it?”

“I want you to know why I am here; it has nothing to do with you, or your mother.” Ragoczy Germainus put the tips of his gloved fingers together. “She is not with you.”

“No,” said Olutiz, his mouth surly. “Not she.”

“Because she banished you.” He nodded. “You were not telling tales when you said she and you had fought.”

“I was not.” He folded his arms.

“Are the others with you?” Ragoczy Germainus inquired as he looked around the empty room.

“A few—six are here now. Many of them scattered. Some were caught and killed by the Moors, and some by the monks. Perhaps there are a dozen of us still on our own.” He frowned, recalling the things he had seen. “Even Edic came with us, in the end, for he did not like to see her prey on Moors. It was bad enough that she made three of them of our blood, but when she ordered us to hunt their logging parties, we refused, saying we would not hunt slaves, and she . . . she would not tolerate it.”

“But that was an old dispute among you, whom to hunt,” said Ragoczy Germainus patiently. “Why did it worsen?”

This time Olutiz did not answer as readily. He tapped his fingers on the barrel nearest the fireplace. “I see what it is. You want to draw me out. You want to make me tell you what I know.” He was about to leave the room when Ragoczy Germainus’ answer stopped him.

“Of course I do,” he admitted openly. “I have not been in this region for thirty years and it is much changed; the forest is gone, and the road is dilapidated. It would appear that there have been other changes as well, ones that are not so visible as the ravaged forests, and I want to know what they are. I must travel through the region. Were you in my position, you would do the same thing.” He sat still while Olutiz made up his mind. “You do not have to say anything, but eventually I will hear something from one of your number. This is an opportunity for you as much as for me.”

“You say you want to know what happened?” The challenge was as much hopeful as belligerent.

“Yes, I would.”

Olutiz paced to the fireplace, then stood there for a while before pacing toward Ragoczy Germainus. “It had to come. Everyone knew it. After you left, it became worse with her, as if she had to keep control of all the region, villages, Moors, and all. She would brook no opposition from anyone. Her demands increased, and she required more cups of blood and more two-legged goats.” He was talking more readily now, as if glad to have someone to listen to him. “She also forbade us to make others of our blood. She said any such vampire was to be killed; that had been her rule from the first, but now she was more adamant than ever, as if she suspected the rest of us were going to raise a clan of our own to stand against her, or to challenge her for . . .” He sought for a way to express his emotion. “I did not agree with her, and I said, if she had done so much to preserve us, and that I, as her son, would rule after her, that I should be permitted the chance to make a company of my own.”

“So you defied her,” said Ragoczy Germainus, thinking how inevitable that was.

“Well, I had to,” he said. “There was no bearing it.” He slapped his hands on his thighs. “She wanted almost to be worshiped. How could I go along with her demands when they were so outrageous?”

“And so demeaning,” Ragoczy Germainus suggested.

“Yes, that as well.” He stared into the fire, then roused himself once more. “But not only for me; she belittled us all, particularly those who had been with her the longest. She held them all in contempt for their devotion to her.”