Darker Jewels (53 page)

Rakoczy wanted to tell them both that he would recover, that he would be whole, that there would be no lasting impairment, no cicatrices from the lash. But he could not hold the thoughts together and resist his excruciation. His vision wavered and faded.

“But we could not leave him there,” protested Lovell. “Not in that courtyard. The rats alone would—”

“No, we could not,” said Boris, and glanced down the street again. “We had better move quickly. There will be pilgrims stirring soon, to be at dawn Mass.” He was growing more nervous as he spoke, his inactivity sapping his reserves as much as it restored Lovell’s. “Neither you nor I can afford to be seen with him.”

“No one would know him, the way he is,” said Lovell. “And how many pilgrims would recognize me, or you?”

“It would only require that one knew me, or you, and we would be discovered. We must not let anyone observe us, not if we are to remain unknown. We Rus are persevering, and the Guard are tenacious. One accurate description and our fate would be sealed.” He indicated an old beggar sleeping in the shadows. “With enough incentive, the Guard will question all those poor wretches who sleep in doorways, and if any of them—” He broke off. “And we cannot kill them all to silence them. That would be worse still.”

“It is night,” said Lovell. “What could they say? You are not dressed according to your rank, and I am not. And Rakoczy is hardly dressed at all. Who would suppose that an English scholar and a Russian noble were harboring a foreign criminal? Even if they saw us, what could they say, those beggars?”

“They could say they saw three strange men,” whispered Boris fiercely. “And that they might have been well-born, because of our accents.”

“Three well-born men on the street at night—it could be any three of hundreds,” said Lovell, thinking more of London than Moscovy. “Surely—”

“Perhaps you and I would not be noticed. If it were just the two of us, it would be litde hazard. But how many men are like him? If they see him, they will remember, won’t they? especially if they see his back?” asked Boris, and wiped his forehead with his free hand. “Who else would they suspect of helping him but me? And I must not be suspected. Are you ready?”

“All right,” said Lovell, readying himself for the long walk.

Rakoczy steeled himself for the jolting that was coming, but was not prepared for the disorientation the night would add to his torment. Movement made him dizzy. His breath hissed through his teeth as Boris and Lovell set off at a brisk pace, holding him with what little care they could; Rakoczy sought for a focus that would keep him from succumbing to vertigo. He attempted to count the steps his bearers took but after half a dozen lost track as his mind reeled under the assault of his deliverance.

By the time they reached the warehouse, Rakoczy was semiconscious, hanging limp in the grasp of the two men who had saved him. Rothger admitted them through a stout wooden door, an oil lamp held up to guide them through the greater darkness of the building.

“I have to rest,” muttered Lovell as Rothger opened a second door, this one much smaller than the first.

“Let me take him from you,” said Rothger, and moved swiftly into position before Lovell could object.

The room where he had brought them was not very large. The walls were lined with shelves filled with locked leather boxes of spices and herbs; their odor was penetrating, ginger and pepper predominating. In the center of the room there was a long table where the spice merchant’s clerks measured out their orders, but tonight the scales had been removed and a simple linen quilt spread out upon it where Rakoc
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y was laid down prone.

“He’s badly hurt,” said Boris in a steady way. “I don’t think he will be fit to travel for weeks, not with such wounds.” He looked away. “If he recovers at all,” he added.

Lovell rubbed at his shoulder, swinging his arm to ease the ache in it. “He will have to until we make arrangements to get away,” he said, then paled as he had his first look at Rakoczy’s back in the lamplight.

Livid, tom, swollen muscles were revealed the length of his back where the skin had been ripped away by the knout. His small hands, hard as sausages, were mottled purple and black; his feet were bruised and the arches broken, large scabs forming where the knout had struck. His face was starkly pale, his eyes shadowed and sunken. His ears, his fingers, and the edges of his most severe wounds showed the vicious serrations of rat bites.

Boris crossed himself as Rothger brought a second lamp.

“Jesus Lord and Christ’s Fish,” whispered Lovell, appalled. “They’ve mutilated him.”

Boris was not as distressed as the Englishman. He studied Rakoczy, his head to one side. “He’s very strong,” he said at last, speaking to Rothger.

“Yes, he is,” said Rothger, his expression revealing nothing as he began to strip away the tatters of his master’s clothes. He was efficient and gentle, doing as little damage as possible as he worked.

Lovell found it difficult to watch. He half-turned away, saying over his shoulder, “Is it possible he will be able to travel in two days? The arrangements for travel were already made and we cannot change them now. The English train will have to start in two days. No one warned me that he might be so . . . We have to leave then, you know, with or without him.”

“I know,” said Rothger. “He will travel,” he added, thinking of the three chests of Rakoczy’s native earth that had been installed as his bed in the wagon that would carry them north.

“Pray God he will,” said Boris. “I have arranged to send the Guard after him toward Poland, but they will not continue for many days if there are no reports of your passage. And once they return, they may well seek him in the north, and I will not be able to stop them.” He clapped his hands once. “Those Jesuits will howl for him more loudly than Nikita Romanovich and Vasilli Andreivich combined.”

“I fear you are right,” said Lovell. There was a sour taste at the back of his tongue; he hated the smell of blood.

Rothger regarded Boris levelly. “He will be ready to travel. The wagons are being prepared, just as my master instructed. They will be leaving with the English wagons, bound for Novo-Khol- mogory, as Doctor Lovell has arranged. No one will pay attention. We will not be discovered.”

Boris nodded several times as if trying to convince himself; then he said, “Look at him. How can he go anywhere in such condition? You cannot save him.”

“He will travel,” Rothger repeated with calm certainty; once resting on the annealing bed of his native earth, Rakoczy would begin to recover. Rothger had seen him restored in that way four times in the past, although he had to admit that he had never seen Rakoczy injured so severely.

Although he could not believe Rakoczy would live much longer, Boris was willing to dissemble in order to get the foreigner beyond the grasp of the Romanovs and Shuiskys. “Very well, he will travel,” he said, gesturing his resignation. “May God be merciful.” He looked around the room once more. “Does anyone know you are here? Is there someone who might report your presence?”

“The owner of the warehouse is here,” said Rothger truthfully, indicating Rakoczy. “No one thinks anything of his coming, for he had been here often before, and the Russian merchants who serve him know he is frequently here at night, to tend to his own projects. My master is an alchemist who deals in herbs and spices as well as gold and jewels. Who is to remark on his presence in his own warehouse?”

To Rakoczy, lying face-down on the table, the voices of Boris and Lovell sounded a very long way off. He could make out the words but not the sense of what they were saying; he yearned for the revalescent presence of his native earth, and the remedy of sleep. He wished he did not have to breathe, for his broken rib marked every inhalation with a pang deeper and sharper than the rest of his tortured body. He could feel Rothger’s ministrations but dimly through the enormity of his pain.

Boris accepted this unhappily. He could not refute the claims Rothger made, but he took no consolation from them, either. He crossed himself again. “This man is in great danger every hour he remains in Moscovy, and will be in danger for as long as he is in Russia.”

“We’re doing what we can to protect him,” said Lovell bluntly. “Boris Feodorovich, I know you are taking a very great chance, aiding Rakoczy this way, and I know that it would go hard for you if it were ever learned that you aided his escape. But I do not intend to tell anyone, and Rothger will not, so you have no reason to fear us.” He gestured to Rakoczy, flinching at what he saw in spite of his determination to remain composed. “You could not have left him where he was, could you?”

“No,” said Boris quietly. “Not after he had done so much.” He stared at the labels on the leather boxes, reading one after another very carefully. “And there is little I can do for him in return. I cannot stop the damage to his reputation, not now. Later, if I am free to act, I might be able to salvage his name. But I have arranged for Xenya Evgeneivna to leave for the country estate of Nikolai Grigoreivich Danilov, near Vladimir. That’s little enough but better than nothing. They are distantly related and he is not interested in politics, mine or Romanov’s or Shuisky’s. His wife has agreed to have Xenya Evgeneivna live there, in a separate house with servants. She will not be troubled there. That, at least, I can do for Rakoczy: protect his wife. Her position will be secure. She will never want for money; that is certain.”

Rothger heard him out. “My master would thank you.”

Boris shrugged. “It isn’t necessary,” he said, with such genuine feeling that Lovell was surprised. “I regret only that I cannot discharge all my obligation now to him and remove the stigma from his name at this instant.” He studied Lovell’s face. “It is not Rakoczy’s struggle, the battle that is fought constantly between Russian nobles. Yet he was dragged into it and made to answer for it, some of it on my behalf. And that is an affront to me.”

Lovell motioned agreement. “Yes; a question of honor.”

Rakoczy tried to speak but the effort hurt him and he made only a soft mewing sound. When he tried to move his arms great agony welled in him; his consciousness faded into a twilight state where both pain and sense were banished.

Rothger tossed away the last rags of Rakoczy’s dolman and paused to decide on how to remove the codpiece and leggings. It was obvious to him that he must not draw them over his master’s wounded feet. That meant they would have to be cut off. He looked around the room for the place where the shears were kept.

“If ever I discover certain proof who has acted against Rakoczy, I will do all that I can to see he pays for it,” Boris was saying to Lovell, as if he expected the scholar to record his vow. “I do not want to go to God with this against me.” He was increasingly restless, taking short, urgent turns about the small room, his brow darkening. “The bells will be ringing soon, and I must return to my palace before that hour.” He tapped Lovell’s arms. “And so must you, English. You must not let any questions be asked about you or you could endanger him.” He turned his hand in Rakoczy’s direction. “And yourself.”

“I will be careful,” said Lovell.

“Then I will wish you God’s blessings and leave you. Do not contact me again unless I send a messenger to you—a messenger carrying my little ikon of Saint Mamas of Cappadocia. If the messenger does not carry the ikon, keep away. And do not send anything to me, no matter how urgent. Is that understood?” Boris fidgeted with the bloodied end of his sash.

“It is understood,” said Lovell.

“Mercy and grace be on you, and on him,” said Boris with a last nod toward Rakoczy before he hurried from the room. His footsteps were soft as he crossed the laiger part of the warehouse; then the heavy outer door swung open, closed, and Boris was gone.

Rothger watched Lovell, a degree of speculation in his steady blue eyes. “He gave you excellent advice, Doctor Lovell,” he said to the Englishman in Latin. “It is less dangerous for my master as well as for you if you leave before you can be seen.”

Lovell accepted this. “I know. It would be a bad thing if he were discovered, and I realize it is a mistake to wait any longer.

Dawn is no more than an hour away. But I am afraid that—” He stopped himself before he made the unthinkable admission.

“You are afraid that he is going to die,” said Rothger with unflustered sympathy. “He will not.”

“I wish I could be as certain as you are,” said Lovell quietly as he made himself look at Rakoczy one last time. “His back is wreckage. He has been so badly beaten . . . how can he live.”

“He will,” Rothger promised. “He has survived worse than this. But you might not if you are apprehended. So leave us. I will tend to him.”

Slowly Lovell capitulated, bowing a little before going to the door. “It is still quite dark. That’s something in our favor,” he said to Rothger.

“Yes it is,” said Rothger.

“Tomorrow I am supposed to bring my chests to be stowed. I will speak with you then. As soon as the wagons are ready, I will . . .” He ran out of words; with a short, impatient sigh he pulled the door closed behind him, leaving Rakoczy to his manservant’s care.

Rothger worked swiftly and competently, setting about the unpleasant task of cleaning Rakoczy’s hideous injuries with dispatch. He was not distracted by the occasional groans that shuddered through the Transylvanian exile, though his austere features hardened when he assessed the extent of the damage; Rakoczy drifted in and out of consciousness, finally succumbing to the lure of sleep as Rothger wrapped him in soft clean linen to cover his wounds and his nakedness.

The first of the morning chimes had rung from the Kremlin bell towers when Rothger finished his task. Very shortly the apprentices and merchants would arrive, and before then he had to put Rakoczy into the larger of the two wagons being readied for the journey north, atop the chests that contained his native earth. With care he slung Rakoczy over his shoulder, and walked carefully out into the warehouse, moving steadily toward the two wagons.

A noise in the dark comer near the thick outer doors halted his steps. He listened intently, inhaling through open lips so as not to be distracted by the sound of his own breathing. Taking a firmer hold of Rakoczy’s legs with his left hand, Rothger reached for his short-sword with his right, calling out as he did, “All right, whoever-you-are, show yourself.”