Free Communion Blood by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

himself.
    The grey mare was glad for the attention he gave her as he brushed down her coat and combed out her mane and tail. As he picked out her hooves, he realized she would need new shoes in a fortnight at the very latest; he would have to refit the smithy before then. He patted her flank, haltered her, and led her out of her stall, looping her lead to a large ring secured in the pillar in the center of the aisle. Then he went to fetch his tack, choosing a wide fleece saddle pad to help keep her warm. He politely declined the stable- hand’s offer to tend to the chore, enjoying what was usually grooms’ work, talking to the mare as he buckled on her breastplate and tightened her girths. The current fashion in double-bitted military bridles he disdained, using, as he had done for two thousand years, a simple snaffle. He brought the reins back over her head and swung up into the saddle, spreading out his cloak to cover her rump and securing his broad-brimmed hat with its braided cords in a knot under his chin. Then he nodded to the stable-hand. “Open the end door, Lo- tario. Grazie.”
    The young man hurried to obey, holding the door against the insistence of the wind as Ragoczy passed out of the stable and into the storm.
    Responding to the wind, the mare frisked her way up the drive, dancing around mud-puddles all the way to the main gate, minced through it, then steadied down to a well-disciplined trot for the three- league journey to Senza Pari. As he rode around the northeastern flank of Roma, Ragoczy kept a careful eye on the countryside around him, wary of any danger that might be present. After a quarter of an hour the mare slowed to a walk, and continued on at that pace all the way to Senza Pari.
    As he dismounted at the door of Olivia’s villa, Ragoczy handed his mare to the groom who hurried forward. “Wipe her down, if you would; loosen her girths, keep her warm, give her water when she is cooled—not before.”
    The groom bowed as he led the mare into the shelter of the stable, leaving Ragoczy to find his way into the villa, searching for Niklos and finding him eventually on the second floor, in the guest room over the kitchen. “Good afternoon,” he said, making a leg in case any of the servants were watching.
    “Good afternoon,” said Niklos grimly. “I am glad you have come. We must talk.”
    “Dear me, what can have happened?” Ragoczy asked with the air of one much astonished. He surveyed the room without changing his stance, and satisfied himself that they were not observed. Abandoning his grand manner, he began to speak, this time in the Greek of Byzantium. “I take it there has been some trouble.”
    “Yes,” said Niklos bluntly. “Two of my servants are gone, and no one knows where—or if they know, they are not willing to tell me. Whether the Inquisitors came for them in the night—which is what the cook thinks—or they have fled for fear of what may come of this suit, I don’t know.”
    “But you are rightly troubled that there could be a Process against you. Very wise. Once Inquisitors start asking questions, no one is safe,” said Ragoczy.
    “You know that better than I,” said Niklos, and began to apologize for his impertinence. “I did not mean to make light of your imprisonment, Saint-Germain; I did not think—”
    “No; you are right to say so, and these servants have every right to worry. Right now it would serve your opponent’s purpose very well to have your servants under suspicion of heresy, since heresy can be committed in thoughts as well as deeds.” Ragoczy shook his head. “If this is the ploy and it is intended to intimidate your supporters and allies, I must suppose it will be successful.” He looked directly at
    Niklos. “You will have to be very careful, or you could place yourself at even greater risk than you already have.”
    “How?” Niklos demanded, scowling. “Unless they already suspect me, and are trying to get confirmation through my