Borne in Blood by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

took a long slow breath. “I don’t quite know. It may be that something about him reminds me of Hercule,” he admitted at last.
    “Truly.” Ragoczy regarded Rogier contemplatively. “In what way?”
    “It is a question of manner.” He said, choosing his words carefully. “He doesn’t look like Hercule, he isn’t injured, he is not so old nor so burly as Hercule was, but you know how Hercule was willing to drive through fire? Well, this young man has some of the same quality about him.”
    “Does he. Most interesting. I will bear that in mind.” Slowly Ragoczy opened the door, saying nothing as he took stock of Otto Gutesohnes, who was cutting into the broiled eel with gusto. He stood still, a figure in dignified black but for his dove-gray silken shirt and the shine of his watch-chain; the austerity of his clothing served to display their richness. Finally he allowed the door to close behind him, its sharp click announcing his arrival to the messenger.
    Gutesohnes looked up, nearly dropped his utensils as he shoved himself to his feet. “Comte. You must be he.” He stared at the man, taking in everything about him; Gutesohnes was struck by the self-possessed presence of the man, his quiet air of elegance and position, and how, although he was a bit less than average height, he had the manner and comportment of a tall man.
    Ragoczy bowed slightly. “I have that honor.” He indicated Gutesohnes’ food. “Do not let me stop you enjoying your meal.”
    Somewhat awkwardly Gutesohnes sat down. “If you permit, then I thank you.”
    “I know what it is to be hungry. Please.” He moved a few steps farther into the room and studied Gutesohnes in silence while the messenger continued to eat. “I understand you have something for me?”
    “I do. It is in a sealed box, which I have in my dispatch-case, along with the other items I am delivering in Geneva. If you want, I can get it out for you now.” He began to reach for the leather bag at the side of the bench. “This might be a good time to … I am ordered to hand you the box myself, so I can vouch for its delivery.”
    “It can wait until you’ve finished your meal,” said Ragoczy with an unconcerned wave of dismissal.
    “You are not eating?” Gutesohnes said, indicating his tray.
    “Not just at present. But do not let my abstaining stop you from completing your meal.” Ragoczy gave a single, slow nod.
    “Danke schoen.” Gutesohnes thrust his fork into another section of broiled eel and applied his knife to the meat; the piece he stuffed into his mouth was fairly large. “This is very good,” he said around his chewing.
    “I’ll tell my cook,” said Ragoczy without a trace of sarcasm.
    Gutesohnes colored to the roots of his hair. “I did not mean to over-step … It’s not my place to … to—”
    “It is a compliment and I will deliver it to Uchtred. He deserves to know his work is appreciated.” Ragoczy pulled one of the four straight-backed chairs away from the wall and sat down.
    “Would you prefer … ?” Gutesohnes asked, meaning the upholstered bench upon which he sat.
    “No, thank you anyway. I am comfortable where I am, and you have been in the saddle since dawn, unless I am mistaken, and therefore that bench must be very welcome.” Ragoczy offered a swift, easy smile.
    “Yes. I was off at sunrise from the Leaping Trout. Do you know it?” He picked up the cognac and sipped the hot liquid through the cream.
    “More than three leagues from here, on the main road, about two hundred years old, with a tavern and an inn.” He considered the distance. “You must have kept your mount at a steady walk to arrive here at this hour.”
    “Um. That’s why I ride a mule—a big one, to handle whatever we may have to contend with.” He broke a section of bread and wiped it through the herb-sauce on the broiled eel. “This one can walk for hours through mud and snow and rain, never mind how mired the roads are. He gets tired but will