Free Communion Blood by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

servants.”
    “You realize this may have nothing to do with the Inquisition,” Ragoczy said in the same unruffled calm. “The servants may be frightened and have run off for fear, or they may have been bribed to leave, in order to throw your household into disorder.” He waited for Niklos to consider this. “If that is the case, and the servants are not in the hands of the Inquisition, then you will have to be particularly careful in how you deal with the development, so that your opponent, emboldened by his success, does not take it into his head to try something even more outrageous.”
    “What would that be?” The sarcasm in Niklos’ voice caught Ra- goczy’s attention.
    “Anything that would discredit you; he has already shown himself capable of peijury and fraud; I cannot think he would stop at suborning witnesses,” he answered with a composure that was tinged with reserve. “And that could prove more troublesome than the demands of this ludicrous suit. As you have pointed out, neither you nor I would befit from close scrutiny.”
    Niklos made himself smile, but it was a brittle effort. “I am stymied, it appears.”
    “That appearance is useful for you. I would advise you to maintain it as long as you can.” Ragoczy saw the disgruntled expression in Niklos’ handsome features. “There are times, and this is one of them, when you will find a patina of confusion or ignorance will serve you very well, for as long as your opponent is certain he has flummoxed you, he will not be as attentive to your actions as he would be if you appeared clear of purpose, and he may do something foolhardy and overstep himself; he might expose his mendacity through such foolishness. Let him underestimate you—and me—so that he will not prepare as he should.” He gave a bleak smile.
    “Yes. Yes, I know it is a wise thing to do,” Niklos said in weary resignation. “Many times in the past I gave Olivia just such advice. I did not understand why she found it so galling. Now I do.”

Ragoczy nodded. “I agree it is a blow to pride to do this. But rather a blow to pride than a disaster, which is what Rothofen is seeking.”
    “I know,” said Niklos shortly. He paced a short distance from Ragoczy, then shrugged and came back. “All right. You are protecting me, I am aware of it. But it is most vexing to be saved from myself in this manner.”
    “I am familiar with the problem, as Rugerius would tell you.” Ragoczy laid his small, gloved hand on Niklos’ shoulder. “I must add one more unwelcome recommendation to my irksome list—that you be patient while I undertake to discover how great a fabrication Rothofen has achieved. I realize I have tried to impress the need for patience before, but I must reiterate it, for both our sakes. We must tread very carefully, but not so carefully that we attract unwanted scrutiny, for that would redound to your discredit. Patience is essential if we are not to expose ourselves to God’s Hounds”—just using this unflattering nickname of the Dominican Order could be risky— “for their questions are more stringent than any magistrate’s. When we have a better notion of what he proposes to use to establish his claim, we will be able to decide how to deal with him.”
    Niklos folded his arms, his jaw tight. “I will promise to make an effort. I may not succeed.”
    “Do your utmost,” Ragoczy advised, his dark eyes stem. “Or you and I could lose far more than six of Olivia’s estates.”
    This severe reminder brought Niklos up short. “Of course,” he said; his single nod was pledge of his compliance.
    Text of a letter from Alessandro Scarlatti to Ferenc Ragoczy, Conte da San-Germain; delivered to the Villa Vecchia by Celestino Bmschi.
    To Su Eccellenza il Conte da San-Germain, Ferenc Ragoczy, the greetings from Napoli of Alessandro Scarlatti, with his gratitude for the kindness il Conte has shown in approaching me for the purposes of engaging my services.
    If it