Borne in Blood by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Read Free Book Online Page A

front of the fireplace. “My hands feel like marble, and they smell of wet mule and old leather.”
    “Dietbold will bring you the basin.” On that assurance, he withdrew from the room and sought out Dietbold, who was busy in the main dining room, applying beeswax to the table. He passed along his orders before returning to the kitchen to assist with preparing a tray for the messenger.
    A few minutes later Dietbold appeared carrying a good-sized metal basin; he went to the cauldron in front of the massive castiron stove where water was kept hot, ladling out a generous amount. “Shall I take a towel from the linen chest?”
    “One of the older ones,” Balduin recommended. “The man is very muddy, and there’s no reason to ruin a good towel on his account.”
    “Of course,” said Dietbold, and made his way to the linen chest in the supply room between the pantry and the laundry. He selected a towel with worn spots and a few minor stains, then went to the back parlor. He knocked and entered the room, remarking as he did, “I trust you are getting warm.”
    Gutesohnes half-rose. “I am. Danke.”
    “I’ll take the basin and towel when you are finished with them,” said Dietbold, handing them over to Gutesohnes, who had seated himself on the broad, upholstered bench behind the low table in front of the fireplace. “Your knuckles are chapped; they must be sore.”
    “They’re more stiff than sore.” Gutesohnes set the basin on the table and sank his hands in the warm water. “Much better,” he said as he rubbed them together vigorously.
    “Do you require anything more?’ Dietbold asked.
    “Not for the moment,” said Gutesohnes, drying his hands.
    “Then I will leave you. The Comte will be down directly.” He inclined his head, picked up the basin and towel, and left the room.
    Rogier encountered him in the corridor. “How is he?”
    “The messenger? Well enough.” He was about to continue on when Rogier stopped him.
    “What has he said?”
    “About what he carries? Nothing.” Dietbold prepared to depart.
    “All right,” Rogier said, moving aside. He stood still as Dietbold went to the side-door and tossed out the water in the basin, then continued on to the kitchen. When he was sure he was unobserved, he let himself into the parlor. “Good day to you.”
    “Comte?” Gutesohnes stood up.
    “No; his manservant. He asks you to take your ease for a little while longer.”
    “Manservant.” He studied Rogier. “Treats you well, does he?”
    “I have served him many years,” Rogier answered, deliberately oblique.
    “Then he must be a good master, or a rich one.”
    Ignoring that remark Rogier took in the man’s general appearance, and said, “Carrying messages: is it easier than driving a coach?”
    Gutesohnes blinked in surprise—how had this man discerned his former occupation?—but responded readily enough: “Most of the time it is. I was worn to the bone driving coaches. But in hard weather it is more dangerous to be a messenger; you must set out long before coaches are expected to.” He saw Rogier gesture to him, and sat down again.
    “Do you often come to Geneva?”
    “Three times a year, on our current rounds; we serve over fifty subscribers,” said Gutesohnes. “It may be four times this year, with the demand for our service increasing.” When Rogier said nothing more, he went on. “I wanted the Italian routes—milder weather, better hostels, wonderful food, and only two circuits a year—but I was assigned to the Geneva, Bern, Basel, Zurich, Bern again.”
    “Has that been so disagreeable?” Rogier asked.
    “Given the weather, it hasn’t been easy, but still better than driving a coach.” He studied Rogier. “Why do you ask?”
    “My master is considering employing his own courier, a private one, not a service. He has tasked me to find suitable candidates for the job.” He said it calmly enough so as not to create expectations in the young man.
    “And you think he