With the lengthening days curtailing their hours of travel, it took eleven nights for Ragoczy Franciscus and Rojeh to go from Poranache to Olbshe at the mouth of the Dnieper. There, at sunset at the end of their first day in the town, Ragoczy Franciscus, in a heavy black silk kandys with a hood to protect his face, took the last of their gold to a money changer who kept a shop a few steps from the largest market-square in the town.
The money changer was a small, thin man made up of ferocious angles, with the permanent squint of the shortsighted. A Persian by lineage and a Byzantine by inclination, he was suitably impressed with Ragoczy Franciscus’ finery, but said, “Elegant plumage does not mean the meat is wholesome.”
“No, it does not,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, setting down a long bar of gold. “However, this may improve the savor.”
“Oho!” the money changer exclaimed, lifting the bar reverently. “This is from Cathay. Those scratchings are their way of writing, or so I am told.”
“It is the name of the goldsmith—Chou Zhan-Wah—and the seal of his guild-master, and a statement of weight,” Ragoczy Franciscus said.
“Chou Zhan-Wah! Dreadful names they give these foreigners,” said the money changer, who was called Kurush Sadimatsrau. He weighed the gold carefully. “We don’t see much metal from Cathay of late.”
“Travel has slowed,” Ragoczy Franciscus agreed.
Sadimatsrau waggled a finger at the black-clad foreigner. “You must know that I have to be careful. With so much hardship about, many have resorted to all manner of counterfeiting of gold and silver. I have to be sure—you understand.”
“I understand that you do not want to accept lead for gold,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.
“No, I do not,” said Sadimatsrau. “You say you want to be given the worth of this in coins, mostly silver, a few gold, some copper, some brass?” The money changer was already reaching for his strongbox. “I charge twenty-five percent of the worth of this bar of gold.”
“You will charge twenty, as is done in Constantinople, and you will not try to convince me that the value of gold has recently declined, making it impossible for you to assess this at a high rate,” said Ragoczy Franciscus with a polite manner and steely purpose.
“How you merchants like to bargain,” Sadimatsrau muttered, sighing. “This will be the ruin of me, charging so little and agreeing to higher prices than I can recoup.”
“You will do very handsomely,” Ragoczy Franciscus corrected him cheerfully.
“I am not a rich man,” he began, fully prepared to launch into a lengthy self-justification.
Ragoczy Franciscus cut him short. “Possibly not rich, but you will be better off for making this exchange.”
Sadimatsrau flung up his hands. “If you insist, then what can I do but comply?” He opened his strongbox furtively and stood so that Ragoczy Franciscus got no more than a glimpse of it. “Forty silver Emperors, five gold Angels, twenty copper Apostles, and thirty brass Empresses.” He did his best to sound as if this were his highest offer.
“Fifty silver Emperors, ten gold Angels, thirty copper Apostles, and fifty brass Empresses,” Ragoczy Franciscus countered promptly.
“You wish to beggar me,” Sadimatsrau complained, then suggested, “Forty-five silver Emperors, eight gold Angels, twenty-five copper Apostles, and forty brass Empresses.”
“Done,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, disappointing Sadimatsrau, who had looked forward to a good haggle.
“All right,” he grumbled, and began to count out the coins. “The gold bar had better be as pure as you claim. or I will have to ask the Master of Trade to demand recompense.”
“Then satisfy yourself as to the quality quickly, for I am bound to the West in two days.” Ragoczy Franciscus tried not to laugh at the money changer’s dismay.
“If you are not here tomorrow, I will know you have cheated me.”
“I will be here, and I will be pleased to accept your apology for the suspicions you harbor about me,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, and left Sadimatsrau’s shop to seek out a saddlery on the market-square where leather goods, hides, and furs were sold. There he purchased a Persian saddle, with a breast-collar and girth, and carried this back to the Inn of Many Lanterns, remarking to Rojeh as he entered their shared room, “I think the mare will be pleased.”
“Not to have you riding bareback?” Rojeh suggested. “Perhaps. I know you will much prefer having a saddle. It would be better to have your native earth to add to the padding so we could ride in the day.” He regarded Ragoczy Franciscus with determined optimism. “Well, we should reach your mountains more handily with you in a saddle: that’s to the good.”
Ragoczy Franciscus sat down, taking the saddle into his lap and looking it over carefully. “Unfortunately, there is no place to attach the straps for the Jou’an-Jou’an metal foot-loops. The frame has nothing to support them.”
“You are not planning to fire a bow while riding, are you?” Rojeh laughed briefly. “Neither of us has such weapons, and so the foot-loops, metal or not, are hardly essential.”
“Still, it eases the back, having those metal foot-loops.” He put the saddle down, resting it on its pommel and the front of the short flaps. “Later tonight, I am going to see if there are any women I can reach who long for sweet dreams. It will not be much, but certainly preferable to taking more from the horses and the mule.”
“A fine idea,” Rojeh approved, and went on to provide an inventory of their remaining supplies.
It was after midnight when Ragoczy Franciscus left the inn, making his way along the narrow lanes that framed the four market-squares of Olbshe, listening intently to more than sounds; when he returned to the inn shortly before dawn, he was able to tell Rojeh that he had visited a youthful widow in her dreams and was feeling much stronger than he had been.
Rojeh took a handful of coins, announcing, “I will find more grain today, and dried fruit, if there is any to be had.”
“A fine idea,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “If you find good saddle-pads, buy them, as well.”
“I will,” Rojeh promised. “Sleep well, my master.” He let himself out of the room.
Two nights later, they were under way again, taking the road that followed the shore of the Black Sea. They kept on through three nights of high winds and one of spectacular thunderstorms. After eight nights they arrived on the outskirts of Odessus and found a barn in which to sleep for the day, wakening near sundown and preparing to enter the town. It was the first market-day of summer in Odessus and the first major market of the year, for the spring had come wet and late, making roads all but impassable for carts; peasants and travelers alike were reluctant to venture out. Now, with the first spate of clear weather holding for more than three days, the gates of the town had been thrown open at dawn, and men trooped through them with such wares and stock as they thought might be traded or sold. As the day waned, those among the marketers who could afford to dispersed into the inns and taverns for hectic revelry, so that as Ragoczy Franciscus and Rojeh entered the gates, they found a band of men celebrating their day’s dealing by dancing to a tabor and bladder-pipe.
“Where are you bound?” the guard challenged as the dancers and musicians roistered by.
“We are looking for an inn,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “We want a place where we do not have to share beds and the stable has box stalls for our animals. We do not mind paving a bit more for such amenities.”
The guard looked the two strangers over, taking visual stock of them. “There are four inns down that street that should suit your needs; one is much like another, and all are reckoned to be good, if you’re willing to part with silver.” He pointed past the celebrants. “Don’t be put off by them; they may be a bit noisy now, but it won’t last long. They will soon go to the brothels or the taverns or be too drunk to move.” He rested his hand on the hilt of his short-sword. “If they get too frisky, we have ways to calm them.”
“Is there a tax to enter the town?” Ragoczy Franciscus asked.
“Are you selling any goods or planning to buy them?”
“We need feed for our animals and a cask for water,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.
“Those are not taxed. So long as you pay full price at your inn, there is no tax.” He stepped aside to permit them to pass.
They settled on the inn set farthest back from the street, a fifteen-room establishment catering to Byzantine and Roman patrons, the Pelican’s Nest. The landlord was a fellow of practiced joviality, a big-shouldered, square-bearded, once-hefty sort who took the coins Ragoczy Franciscus offered and explained, “We back up to a convent, and sometimes the women chant. If it bothers you, let me know and we’ll move you to a front room.”
Ragoczy Franciscus counted out the sum the landlord required. “Is there any way I might arrange to use your forge? I need to shape toe cleats for our horses.”
“Going into the mountains, are you?” the landlord asked.
“That is our intention,” Ragoczy Franciscus answered.
“The use of the forge for half a day will cost a silver Emperor, and that is if the smith is not working it,” said the landlord, chuckling out of habit.
“Would your smith object to permitting me to fire the forge at night?” asked Ragoczy Franciscus with a genial half-smile to show he was prepared for a negative response.
“I’ll find out,” said the landlord.
The landlord snapped his fingers for a slave to come to escort the new arrivals to their rooms, which proved to be small and neat, each with a Byzantine bed and a stand for cases and chests. An Eastern Rite crucifix hung on the wall in each chamber, the only decoration.
Rojeh looked from his room to Ragoczy Franciscus’ and back again. “Facing northwest—there should not be too much direct sunlight.”
“My thought exactly,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. He moved so another household slave could set down their clothes-chest on the stand in his room. “I think I will go out shortly.”
Rojeh glanced at him. “Should I expect you back shortly?”
“I would hope not,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “It would mean I have not found sustenance.”
“I will see if there are any chickens left in the market at this hour.” Rojeh paused. “I suppose, if I bring one to the cook, he will dress one for me. I doubt the landlord would like me to fletch and gut a chicken in this room.”
“I would imagine you are right.” Ragoczy Franciscus opened the clothes-chest and took out a black-silk abolla and a fibula with which to fix it to his shoulder.
“Any finer and you would become the target of thieves,” said Rojeh, his faded-blue eyes keen.
“I will endeavor to keep that in mind,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as he left the room, closing the door behind him, and went down the stairs. Outside the revelry continued, and an ill-assorted group of sailors and peasants were playing an impromptu game involving groups of runners with linked arms: what few rules there were seemed to be casually enforced; Ragoczy Franciscus gave them a wide berth, making for one of the broader streets that led away from the square. He went at a steady pace, not too rapidly so that he could be attentive to things around him, but not too slowly. Two blocks along he came to a pair of churches, one with an impressive door with brass hinges and an extensive display of crucifixes on the facade, the other, opposite it, small and unadorned, all but the front enclosed in a wall. He stopped and studied the two buildings and concluded the more humble of the two had to be the convent the landlord had mentioned. Standing between the two churches, he was struck by the contrast—one elaborate and impressive, the other self-effacing; he wished he could see them by daylight, but knew that would be unwise. A bit reluctantly he moved on, following the wall of the convent, then crossing a street paved with ancient, cracked stones, going toward a well that stood on the far side, with a bucket for humans and a small trough for animals. As he approached, a small number of rats scattered into the night shadows; the strength of the water that tugged at him told him the well was deep and the water plentiful. He moved into the angle of one of the houses that faced the well and took stock of his situation, doing his best to work out some plan to find a sleeping woman whose dreams he could shape and share. He was so preoccupied that at first he hardly noticed the young woman in the faded, shapeless talaris who came from the side door of the convent carrying a yoke and two brass pails.
Setting down her yoke on the stone rim of the well, she began to draw up the bucket, tugging on the rope with surprising strength for so slight a woman. When finally she had the bucket in hand, she filled one of the pails, then dropped the bucket back into the well, preparing to repeat the process. Her face was set in unresponsive lines, and she stared listlessly about, her hands working as if of their own volition. When she had the bucket in hand again, she filled the second pail and once again let the bucket fall back into the well. Then, instead of shouldering her yoke and bearing the water back to the convent, she sat on the edge of the well and began silently to weep.
From his place in the protection of the housefront, Ragoczy Franciscus watched her, trying to decide if he should approach her; he could not remain indifferent to her distress. “Young woman,” he said as gently as his throat would allow.