Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Saint-Germain, #Inquisition, #Women Musicians - Crimes Against
States of Grace (18 page)
“Because the Church became dissatisfied with the books he produced,” said Saint-Germain.
“That is what happened.” Christermann was becoming defensive.
“I am certain of it,” said Saint-Germain. “I know Gilpin Purviance, at least by reputation; he is known to be reliable and intelligent. I was pleased to hear that he had got out of Liege, but sorry that he has had to go so far to be secure. Still, he is free, which many another printer is not.”
For several minutes Christermann said nothing; then, “Gilpin Purviance is my brother-in-law, it is true.” At last he looked at Saint-Germain, but could not make out his expression, for the light behind him obscured his features. “What more do you know?”
“I know you agreed to sign an admission of wrong-doing before you fled, and that in Liege there is a price on your life, as there is on Purviance’s, since you did not, as it turns out, actually sign the admission. I know you were considered an audacious fellow for turning against your wife’s brother, and that the Guildmaster was advised to sanction you, but did not. Officially the Spanish and the Church may pronounce the
Anathema
on you without any protest from the Guild, although they did not expel you. With the Holy Office seeking you, finding work must be extremely difficult.” Saint-Germain let Christermann reflect on this before going on. “I did not recognize you at first, if that is what you think, but I knew enough of what happened in Liege to be able to deduce who you must be when you had told me about your work. Printing and book-making is a very small community, for all the leagues it covers, and little goes on in it that all the publishing world does not know of it.”
Anathema
on you without any protest from the Guild, although they did not expel you. With the Holy Office seeking you, finding work must be extremely difficult.” Saint-Germain let Christermann reflect on this before going on. “I did not recognize you at first, if that is what you think, but I knew enough of what happened in Liege to be able to deduce who you must be when you had told me about your work. Printing and book-making is a very small community, for all the leagues it covers, and little goes on in it that all the publishing world does not know of it.”
Christermann sighed. “Then you will not engage me.”
“Have I said so?” Saint-Germain rose as Ruthger returned with a well-laden tray in his hands. “First, eat. Then we must talk. But you must not withhold information, for that makes both of us vulnerable.”
“The pork-and-turnips is cooking,” Ruthger said as he put the tray down. “The dish will be ready shortly.”
Christermann seized the wire cheese-slicer and set to work, sectioning off three irregular slices with a speed that demonstrated his hunger.
“I am pleased to hear it,” said Saint-Germain, then added, “Will you send the steward on an errand for me?”
“Bogardt van Leun is just now setting up the wine-cellar,” said Ruthger. “Would you want him to complete that task before—”
“I am sure the cook can supervise the servants,” Saint-Germain replied. “I want information from the Printers’ Guild.”
“So!” Ruthger exclaimed. “I see why you want an Amsterdamer to go.”
“It is hardly surprising, given how insular this city can be,” said Saint-Germain, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes, and added, “The Guild has provided me only the most minimal information.”
“What is van Leun to do there?”
“Inquire about the standing of this Mercutius Christermann,” said Saint-Germain, his eyes snapping in the direction of the middle-aged man who was starting to devour a slab of new bread thickly buttered with a small wooden paddle, and a wedge of cheese.
“Is there anything you want to know beyond the usual information?” Ruthger inquired.
“No; unless there is something the Guild wishes to pass on to me, something that may have bearing on Christermann’s standing in the Guild. Otherwise I know enough of his history to have a good notion of what dangers he may present.” He motioned Ruthger away, adding, “Tell van Leun sooner is better than later.”
“Certainly, my master,” said Ruthger with a slight shift in expression that might have been a smile.
“You understand me too well, old friend,” Saint-Germain murmured as Ruthger withdrew and closed the door. He stood still for a moment, then returned to the chair with its back to the window.
“This is very good,” Christermann said as he wolfed down another thick slice of bread.
“I should trust so,” said Saint-Germain, watching Christermann eat, aware that the man was now a little flushed.
When he had finished a second wedge of cheese and drank down half the pale, shining beer, Christermann wiped his mouth with the long strip of linen provided. “A foreign touch, this cloth; some of the French use them in Liege. Most of us use our cuffs.” He studied the black smudges his hands left on the linen. “I apologize for that, but it can’t be helped.”
“It is the badge of your trade, and one I am inclined to honor,” said Saint-Germain. “Now tell me: have you ever printed music books before, or are you limited to texts? You need not explain the difference to me; I am familiar with them. I want only to know your experience.”
Christermann accepted this readily, answering as if reciting from memory. “I have done a music book only once, and it was a very difficult process, that I will say, through no fault of the music. It’s amazing that the book ever was finished, what with the composer changing his mind every few days and demanding that whole lines of notes be reset. We altered more than twenty-six pages to his order, and even then he wasn’t satisfied.” He cut another slice of cheese, taking care to peel off the rind before biting energetically into it. Chewing, he said, “I know how the pages are set for music, but I prefer that I stay with words.”
“There are always hazards,” said Saint-Germain. “You are fortunate if setting new pages is the worst of them.”
“
Anathema,
for instance? or prison?” Christermann looked away. “Hazards: you call them that?”
Anathema,
for instance? or prison?” Christermann looked away. “Hazards: you call them that?”
“Why, yes, as I would call a severe storm, or a bad winter, or a famine, or a plague a hazard,” Saint-Germain said with hard-won tranquility as his long memories roiled.
“What of war and slaughter?” Christermann challenged. “For surely such are coming.”
“I fear you are right,” said Saint-Germain. “They are hazards, too, and the more unfortunate because many of them are avoidable.”
Christermann laughed out loud, with a total disregard for proper social conduct. “You are a foreigner, and from what I have heard, an exile, and you can still say that?”
“I most of all,” Saint-Germain responded quietly.
Giving a shrug, Christermann shifted on the settee and reached for the glass-sided tankard of beer. “Then you are a more reasonable man than I am.” With that, he drank all that was left in three large gulps. “Most men in your position would not be so … reasonable.”
“I am somewhat more experienced than most, perhaps,” said Saint-Germain with a deferential nod.
Christermann leaned back. “Will you employ me?”
“That is a very blunt question for a man in your position,” said Saint-Germain at his most genial, refusing to be pressured.
“It is my position that makes me blunt,” said Christermann, studying the contents of the tray as if trying to determine what he ought to do about the remaining food. Deciding, he took the last of the cheese and bit into it, pursing his lips as he chewed.
“Do not worry,” said Saint-Germain. “You will not go hungry here.”
Caught off-guard, Christermann managed a chagrined-but-muffled chuckle. “No doubt you have the right of it; you have been most generous so far.” He swallowed hard and added, “Don’t think I am unaware of the courtesy you are showing me.”
“It is the least I can do for you,” Saint-Germain said, noticing how cautious Christermann was under his air of bonhomie.
“Out of hospitality,” said Christermann.
“At the least,” Saint-Germain agreed.
The silence that settled between them was only superficially comfortable, and could not long be sustained. “I am willing to work, Grav, and I will be loyal,” said Christermann.
“I have no doubt that you have excellent intentions,” said Saint-Germain, not adding his own reservations as to what those intentions might be.
“Then why do you—” He stopped as Ruthger again came into the parlor, this time carrying another, heavier tray with a covered dish upon it, and a larger pitcher of beer.
“The rest of the meal,” said Ruthger, setting this down and removing the first tray with a proficiency that seemed almost magical.
“Very good. And when you have a chance, bring a pot of China tea and a jug of fresh milk.” Saint-Germain nodded toward Christermann. “I hope this is to your liking.”
Christermann had reached for the deep spoon set on the tray and then pulled a knife from his wallet, using the latter to cut the pork. “Very tender,” he approved. “And very moist. Pork so often dries in the cooking.” As if to make a point, he jabbed the point of the knife into the largest of his slices and held it up, juices running down the blade and onto his fingers.
“Enjoy your meal,” Saint-Germain said, then gestured Ruthger to come to his side. “While you are out, I have a second errand for you.”
“Tell me what it is,” said Ruthger, in Byzantine Greek.
“Call at the house by Holy Trinity Church. You know the one I mean,” Saint-Germain said, still speaking the Amsterdam dialect. “Ask the man there if he will call here tomorrow.”
Ruthger bowed slightly. “As you wish, my master,” he said, still in the Constantinopolitan tongue.
“Thank you; let me know as soon as you have returned.” He dismissed Ruthger, then looked back at Christermann. “When you are finished, we will conclude our business.”
Christermann managed to grin as he chewed. “I am at your disposal, Grav.”
“That is very good of you,” said Saint-Germain, wondering if Christermann would be so sanguine if he were aware that the house where Ruthger would call after he spoke to the Guildmaster of the Printers, following van Leun’s introduction, belonged to the most formidable advocate in all of Amsterdam—the house of Rudolph Eschen.
Text of a letter from Basilio Cuor in Amsterdam to Christofo Sen in Venice, written in secular Latin, carried by private courier, and delivered ten days after it was written.
To the highly esteemed and most puissant secretary of the Savii agli Ordini in la Serenissima Repubblica Veneziana, Christofo Sen, the greetings of your most devoted servant Basilio Cuor, from the dismal city of Amsterdam, from Het Bouw Tavern hard by Saint Stephen’s Church.
Say what they will about the canals, this place is no more like Venezia than it is like the distant ports of Araby—perhaps less, for here it is cold, and the merchants are like clergymen in appearance and manner. Never would Tiberio Tedeschi be permitted to wear his gaudy silk robes here, and the good burghers are not the sort of men to ceremonially marry the North Sea as the Doge does the Adriatic. But it is a city built on trade, they have that much in common with Venezia, and at the canal-side taverns you may hear languages from across the world spoken. Last night I had a bottle of Alsatian wine with two sailors from Poland, and a white-haired devil from Denmark. Sailors are much like sailors the world over, I would guess. From China to the barbarians of the New World, sailors face the same perils for the same purpose, and that makes them more similar than dissimilar. They all told stories about the Lisbon earthquake, saying that more than ten thousand are dead from it, and each trying to best the last with tales of more horrors.
Franzicco di Santo-Germano is indeed here in Amsterdam. He has two trading companies I am certain of, and a publishing business called Eclipse Press. He calls many of his businesses Eclipse for his heraldic device. From what I have learned, he is prosperous, and although they call him Grav and not Conte, and Saint-Germain instead of Santo-Germano, he is clearly the same man, and he has the same manservant he kept with him in Venezia. I know di Santo-Germano has been to Bruges and Antwerp, and apparently is returning to Antwerp shortly.
I have been able to intercept five letters from Venezia sent to di Santo-Germano, three from his mistress. I am pleased to tell you that he knows nothing of her present plight, and with a little ingenuity, I should be able to continue my efforts for another month or so. At present, with di Santo-Germano so much a foreigner here, I am able to pass myself off as one of his household, at least to the satisfaction of the various couriers who come here, since they keep very regular hours, which makes my tasks much easier.
Nothing di Santo-Germano has done so far has made me believe he is doing anything contrary to Venezian interests. His most outrageous activity is book-making, and that is known to local authorities as well the Spaniards who serve here on behalf of the King of Spain, and the Catholic Church. There are rumors that his press may be seized, but so far, nothing of that sort has happened to him; however, one of his pressmen has been summoned to the local tribunal to answer some questions. I am going to drink with the soldiers from Spain tonight, and I will try to learn more when I do.
I hope your nephew’s scheme to drive di Santo-Germano’s business agent into ruin will succeed. Relying on gambling as a means of fortune, good or ill, is undertaking more risk than I would advise, and your nephew would not appear to have the resolve to keep to his intentions. I am not there to help you, and so far, your nephew has been unable to compromise Pier-Ariana Salier, as well as drive Emerenzio to the kind of desperation you require. Perhaps if La Salier could be proven a harlot, then Emerenzio would not have to resort to embezzlement to gain control of di Santo-Germano’s fortune. A pity the Conte will have to lose his lady and his money, but what can an exile expect?
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