Borne in Blood by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

not halt until I prepare to dismount. I’ve had him sink to his knees in mud and continue on—annoyed but not halted. Same with snow.” He bit into the sauced bread.
    “A good animal, then,” said Ragoczy.
    “An excellent animal. The messenger service has a dozen such animals. We buy from the same breeder for all our mules.” He had more eel, his eating slowing down a bit.
    “A fine arrangement, no doubt,” said Ragoczy, beginning to see what Rogier had perceived in this young man.
    “Herr Waldenstadt has established high standards for his messengers, and a regular schedule to which we must adhere; that way we can give superior service. He insists that we account for all our time while traveling, to justify his charges.” He said it dutifully enough, but with real purpose. “If we cannot prove more reliable than the post, why should anyone spend the money to subscribe?”
    “Why indeed,” said Ragoczy. He watched Gutesohnes drink more of the cognac, then said, “How long have you worked for Herr … Waldenstadt?”
    “Two years. I was a coachman out of the Frederich in Basel before that.” He began on the pickles. “Herr Waldenstadt brought me to Bern.”
    “And how long did you drive a coach for the Frederich?” Ragoczy inquired calmly.
    “Three years. I had learned from my aunt’s husband, who took me in after my father died.” He picked up the napkin and wiped his mouth.
    “I suppose you read and write?” Ragoczy pursued.
    His German accent grew stronger. “I was taught for five years in the local school. I know French, a little Italian, a few words in Polish, and some Czech. I can write in French as well as German, but the others, no, not really. I know Russian and Greek when I see them but I cannot read them.” He dropped the napkin back in his lap and screwed up his courage enough to say, “Your manservant said you might want a private courier of your own: is that true?”
    “It is,” said Ragoczy, remembering Yrjo Saari, who had said the same thing over a century ago.
    “And that is why you’re asking me these questions?” He looked at Ragoczy directly, making no apology for doing this.
    “That,” said Ragoczy, “and curiosity.”
    Gutesohnes flushed again, feeling increasingly awkward. “Comte …”
    “Would such a position interest you?”
    “It might,” said Gutesohnes, doing his best to regain his composure. “What do you offer, and what duties would it entail?”
    “I have businesses in many cities throughout Europe, and it is important that I be able to send various contracts and similar instruments to those businesses promptly and with a modicum of privacy, which inclines me not to use the post. Confidentiality is necessary in the conduct of honorable business—would you agree?” Ragoczy put his hand to the silver watch-chain swagged across the front of his waistcoat. “I would like to have my messenger be willing to travel on short notice, to keep what he carries secret, and to return promptly with whatever responses are entrusted to him. In exchange for this service, I will provide housing, meals, horses and mules, three new suits of clothes each year, and a salary double what you receive now—assuming you and I decide that this would be acceptable to us both.”
    “I admit I am interested, providing you don’t expect me to ride into Russia, or set sail for the New World.” He had another pickle and finished his cognac.
    “At present, I would have no such requirements to make of you,” said Ragoczy.
    “At present?” Gutesohnes repeated skeptically.
    “Who can say what the future may bring?” Ragoczy suggested gently.
    Gutesohnes thought this over. “All right.”
    “Think of the two hard winters we have had,” Ragoczy went on, his thoughts casting back more than twelve centuries to the dreadful Year of Yellow Snow, when all the world seemed to be locked in perpetual winter. “Had the weather taken such a turn in 1812, the losses Napoleon suffered in