Darker Jewels (16 page)

Boris turned and looked at him, surmising his thoughts. “The one the Polish priests sent: that Polish officer. Hrabia Zary. He is supposed to accompany you, because you carry valuable gifts to the Czar. At least, that is what Father Pogner informed us two days ago. He worried that such jewels would be a great temptation, and that the Court must know that the men of Istvan Ba- thory know the worth of these gifts.” As he reported this, his frown deepened. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” said Rakoczy, a bit too quickly, and added, “I wasn’t aware that Father Pogner was so concerned about the jewels.” He did his best to make light of it, all the while wondering what Father Pogner hoped to gain by this sudden concern. “It seems that I do not hold the beryl in sufficient reverence for the Jesuit’s good opinion.”

“Why is that?” Boris put the question sharply.

This time Rakoczy was prepared to answer. He smiled. “I suppose because I make them.” His tone was still conversational, but there was a change in his enigmatic dark eyes. “I care more for them in the making and less in their . . . reputation.”

Boris considered this answer. “And their reception?”

Rakoczy was able to dismiss the question. “There is so little I can do. They are received as they are received.” He held out the pale-green chalcedony box that contained the beryl. “Czar Ivan treasures his jewels, but not as many others do. He does not want them for wealth or adornment, but for the power he believes they hold. Speak to anyone at this Court and each will have a different reason to want jewels, and a different response to them; where one might accept a donation like this with happiness, another might accept it with fear, another with anger, and another with lust.”

“You speak as if you had seen all that,” said Boris, his black eyes narrowed and measuring as he looked at the chalcedony box.

“And more,” Rakoczy assured him in a manner that did not encourage more questions.

“■What are the carvings on the box?” asked Boris, knowing better than to ask to examine the box himself.

“An ox, a lion, an angel, and an eagle,” said Rakoczy, pointing to the sides. “A twelve-pointed star on the lid.”

“The Evangelists and the Apostles,” Boris approved, not quite able to conceal a sigh of relief. “Excellent choices, all of them. The Little Father will like your conceit.”

“I trust he will.” He took a turn about the small red room, stopping before the two medallion ikons of Saints Boris and Gleb. He crossed himself and studied the long-nosed, narrow- chinned faces. “I have seen Greek ikons, in Adrianopolis, and some in my native land, but these are not quite the same.” He did not add that he had seen the Greek ikons eight hundred years before, or that he had owned many when he had lived in Trebi- zond on the Black Sea while it was still a Byzantine city.

“Unlike the Christians in the west we know the importance of ikons here,” said Boris sharply, then looked up as Hrabia Dariusz Zary came through the door, adjusting his ankle-length gold- colored wilczura so that the short wolf-fur cape fell properly around his shoulders.

“They took my lance,” he complained without greeting Ra- koczy or Boris Godunov. “Just took it away from me. They said it wouldn’t be needed.”

“No one carries weapons,” said Rakoczy before Boris could speak. “It isn’t allowed at Court, for anyone but the Guards.” Had they been alone he would have told Zary to master his ill-humor before any of the Rus noticed; with Boris in the room with them, such a warning was futile.

“Well, that’s a stupid idea,” said Zary, his mouth hard with disgust. “What kind of escort doesn’t carry a weapon?”

“One inside the Palace of Facets,” said Boris, and made a formal bow to Zary as if to bring the young Pole back to his senses. “Where you are very welcome, for yourself and for your King Istvan.” He spoke as if Zary had stepped through the door and presented himself in form. “This is a most auspicious time for the Czar, and for you here at the behest of King Istvan. You have the opportunity to heal old wounds and forge new bonds. It is almost the hour to begin. Let me give you your instructions now, so that there will be no error in the reception hall.” He saw Zary stiffen.

Rakoczy intervened in what was about to become an argument. “Boris Feodorovich knows the way of the Court, Hrabia. Neither of us is above learning from him. You may be prepared for this, but I am not, and I seek his instruction.”

“God of the Prophets,” muttered Zary.

Boris went on as if the young Hrabia was cooperating. “When you are summoned, you will walk three paces behind on the right of Rakoczy. You will bow when he does and will remain no more than five paces from him until the Little Father dismisses you.”

“If that is the way it’s done,” said Zary, making no attempt to disguise his disapproval of the arrangements.

“It is the way we have done it for centuries,” said Boris, permitting his pique to show. “Say nothing, and speak only to Rakoczy if he addresses you.”

Hrabia Zary shook his head. “I might as well be a servant.”

“You
are
a servant,” said Boris sternly. “All of your embassy are servants, to your King and to Czar Ivan. Let your conduct reflect that.” He looked toward Rakoczy. “It is not long. Listen to the footsteps on the stairs. Most of the Court has arrived.” Rakoczy had been aware of the lessening of footsteps for several minutes, and he took advantage of the opportunity Boris provided to say, “I suspect Hrabia Zary is as nervous as I am. This simple gift has become an occasion of state importance. Czar Ivan has surprised us. None of us were quite prepared for it.” He motioned to Zary to bow.

Boris acknowledged the bow, and returned the one Rakoczy gave him with greater courtesy. “You do not strike me as a man who is nervous, Rakoczy.” He cleared his throat. “And if you are, it must not affect your appetite. Custom must be observed.” He smiled with practiced enthusiasm. “This is a great occasion, and the Czar is marking it with every distinction. At the banquet, you must eat everything served. Otherwise the Czar may decide you are afraid of poison, and he will be deeply insulted.”

There was a moment of silence, then Rakoczy said, “Your pardon, Boris Feodorovich, but I thought I had told you that when I make jewels, I fast.” He had spent the greater part of an hour with Boris only a few days ago, and had tried to explain then that he had special requirements in regard to food. “I assumed you understood: I cannot eat.”

“Yes, when you are making jewels. That was very clear,” said Boris, sensing there was more at stake. “But you are not making jewels now.” He waited, standing as if listening for whispers instead of Rakoczy’s words.

The qualms that shook him were ignored. Rakoczy spoke steadily, knowing how much might depend on his explanation. “It appears I did not make myself clear. There are disciplines that are demanded of the alchemist if the jewels are to remain true. If I end my fast too quickly, the jewels become cloudy and dull,” said Rakoczy seriously, for there were many alchemists who taught such things as truth. “It could mean that the beryl would no longer have the single spear of golden light through it, or there would be more, and the beauty would be gone.” He glanced at Hrabia Zary. “Surely he is a worthy deputy for King Istvan. You do not want me to risk such a change in the stone, do you?”

Boris shook his head at once. “No. I would be a fool to do that.” He paced around the antechamber once, looking from Rakoczy to Zary and back, one hand stroking his beard. Suddenly he stopped, his face set. “I will do what I can, but it may not be much. So much depends on the ... demeanor of the Czar tonight.”

“Truly,” said Rakoczy, who had seen Ivan fall to the ground in a fit, his mouth foaming like a mad dog’s. That had been a week ago.

Boris bowed again. “I will do what I can,” he repeated before he left the antechamber.

“I don’t trust him,” Hrabia Zary said as soon as Boris was gone.

“You had better,” warned Rakoczy, his dark eyes giving weight to his words. “He is the only possible ally we have tonight.”

There was a crisp order given from outside the room, and both Rakoczy and Zary looked up.

“Our summons,” said Zary sarcastically. “Three paces behind you on the right, he said. I will take up the position now.”

Rakoczy nodded, and stepped out of the room, bowing slightly to the Guard who had called them. “May God show you favor,” he said, and started toward the staircase, not looking to see if Hrabia Zary was obeying Boris’ orders. As he climbed the stairs, he sensed the Guards watching him, not with the hard look they reserved for the Rus but with a grudging curiosity mixed with awe.

Court was assembled on a grander scale than when Rakoczy had been there previously. All the chairs around the tremendous chamber were occupied; on three walls the majesty of the Court was assembled, and at the far side of the hall the women were seated, the current Czarina at the front of the splendid gathering. They were flanked by a squad of Guards. The foreigners— English, Polish, German, and Greek—were required to stand, and their place was near the main staircase, which was the greatest distance from the Czar. They, too, were surrounded by Guards.

Czar Ivan no longer waited at the end of the chamber but was seated in his gem-studded ivory throne at the foot of a great gold-and-red pillar decorated with the double-headed Byzantine eagle that Ivan III had adopted as his own. He held the jeweled mace of state and was crowned with the filigreed-gold-and- turquoise crown of Kazan. His kaftan was cloth-of-gold with red lacings and garnets; his collar was studded with a fortune in diamonds.

Rakoczy walked directly to the throne, stopped six paces from Ivan, and dropped to one knee, as if to King Istvan, instead of prostrating himself as the Czar expected. He was black-and- silver in a hall of gold-and-red. “God show you favor and bring you victory, Czar,” he said, pitching his voice to carry throughout the huge room.

Czar Ivan gazed at Rakoczy, his blue-green eyes brilliant as if with fever. “It is for your honor that you are welcome here, Rakoczy of Saint-Germain. You have provided many reasons for recognition. Word will be sent to your King of your accomplishment. He has shown good judgment in sending you.” He looked around as if unable to remember what he had to do next. “I will write of this myself. You”—he pointed the mace at Hrabia Zary—“will carry the message for me, and report its truth. At once. Before nightfall tomorrow.”

Zary looked shocked. “Great Czar, it is almost winter,” he blurted out from where he knelt, three paces behind Rakoczy.

“You will carry the message,” said Czar Ivan in a tone that brooked no opposition.

“Bow, you idiot,” whispered Rakoczy in Polish. “And agree.”

It took a moment before Zary was able to say, “It is more honor than I deserve, Czar.”

Ivan nodded. “Yes. Yes. But Istvan Bathory will know that, and he will see that I am magnanimous. He will know that I will not prevent messages from reaching him, even messages from his Jesuits.” He returned his hungry stare to Rakoczy. “You have something to offer me, alchemist.”

“Yes,” said Rakoczy, holding out the chalcedony box as he went on. “The jewel and its container are both gifts to you, Czar, to show that the position of Czar and the man Ivan are both held in highest esteem by my lord. They also demonstrate that religion is the haven of the soul. They are freely given as tokens of respect presented to you by King Istvan of Poland through me, his deputy in Moscovy.” It was a formal, rehearsed speech, and it made a good impression on most of the Court.

A shine of spittle was on Ivan’s mouth; he gestured to Rakoczy. “You may bring them to me. On your knees.”

Awkwardly Rakoczy did as Ivan ordered, the hem of his dolman catching under his knees so that he had to stop and tug the silver fabric free before reaching Czar Ivan on his ivory throne. When he was close enough to reach Ivan’s outstretched hand, he stopped. “Accept this gift, O Czar.”

Ivan leaned forward and took the chalcedony box, holding it up to ex
amin
e it. “Is this your work, as well?”

“It is, O Czar,” said Rakoczy.

“You have rare abilities, alchemist,” said Ivan, his expression suddenly guarded and suspicious. He held out the box to Rakoczy. “You made it. You must open it.”

There was a concealed gasp in the Court, for such an order meant that the Czar was afraid of treachery. At his place along the wall, Anastasi Shuisky turned to the old blind war hero Piotr Grigoreivich Smolnikov and very softly told him what had happened.

“A bad business,” muttered Piotr. “It is a direct insult to Istvan of Poland.”

“Yes,” hissed Anastasi, as much to quiet Piotr as to concur.

If Rakoczy was aware of the affront, he gave no sign of it. He took the box back into his hands and held it up so that Ivan could watch him open it. “The lid has the Apostles’ Star,” he explained. “If you place a candle behind it, the color will change so that the star will glow like an ikon.”

Czar Ivan leaned farther forward in his throne, his hand tighdy closed around the mace. “I will see that done,” he vowed.

Rakoczy offered the lid back to the Czar and tipped the box so that he could see the contents before he lifted the tiger’s eye out. “The beryl, Czar. Saint Mikhail’s Sword.” He had decided to give the gem a name just two days ago and now he saw that his impulse had been wise. Holding the tiger’s eye out to Ivan, he added, “It is light in the darkness.”

Czar Ivan grasped for the jewel, staring at it with an expression bordering on awe. “It is very powerful. Very powerful. No woman could touch this jewel, and no unclean man.” He opened his fingers in order to stare at it. “There is more dark than light, but the light is the greater because of that.” His words were sing-song and he paid no attention to anything but the stone. “It is the enigma of the soul, where all is dark, but for the mercy of God.” He looked up suddenly. “It is well that it is the sword of the Archangel. A jewel of this power, with such darkness, would be a mighty tool of damnation if it were not given to holiness.” He lifted up the beryl, holding it so the light caught the single pale-gold flash through it. “There is passion here, with purity. With this jewel a man could read the human heart. If his heart were without sin.” With that Ivan howled, clutching the tiger’s eye, tighdy pressing it to his forehead under the fur rim of his crown. He began to sob, his whole body shaking with each breath.