ZITCHI - CHAPTER 22

Hungary, 1591

Gáspo Thurzó is nobody's cousin, although everyone claims he is theirs. One such cousin is Taligás the carter, the one with the ruined thumbs. How his thumbs got ruined is another tale, but after he sold the cart to Erzebet's henchwomen he made but one more, remember? He would never starve, for now he sells stories - the kind of stories people pay him not to tell.

Unlike Gáspo Thurzó, Taligás has many cousins who are quick to deny him. Brothers, too, and he would have a wife, but her name is better left unsaid. He said it himself once, into the wrong ear. Now she is dead.

Gáspo Thurzó hates no one, but if he did, Taligás would be top of his list. Instead, whenever he is forced to think of him he shakes his head.

Gáspo Thurzó has a profoundly rich, deep, singing voice, like rocks sliding away from lazarine tombs.



It's ironic, thinks Thurzó, as he looks down at the top of the greasy head of the snivelling creature before him. "No," he says, "I will not give you any money."

"Oh, but Master, you see the information I have will benefit you greatly!" and he rubs his thumbless hands together in anticipation of coinage.

"I am not your master, nor anyone's. What makes you think I have not seen this knowledge already?" He immediately regrets the question, for it prolongs the time he has to spend in the snotbag's company.

"Oh, but Mas - but, Your Worship, you cannot have, and see, I have proof!" He rummages around in his trousers, produces a piece of tallow candle with toothmarks in, assorted fluff (grey), and is searching for more but seemingly, in vain.

Thurzó banishes him. Since this has no effect and the denizen of the abyss is still there, Thurzó leaves his own chambers and heads for the marketplace. He chooses some food, enough to fill a massive sack. Considers having his beard trimmed, but discards the idea as purespun nonsense. He knows that Taligás will, at this moment, be riffling through his things, but this does not bother him needlessly. He hefts the sack over one shoulder and strides off in the direction of the river.



"Uncle Gáspo!"

"My, how you have grown, Yosjka! You were only this big - now you are just like your father."

"Ah, and with the same worries..." Yosjka looks over his shoulder, grins affably. "But - how long has it been?"

"Your mother was still alive, I remember. I was a young man myself then."

There is pain in Yosjka's eyes, but he says nothing of it. "Ha! You were never young, Uncle. Come and meet the tribe," and he slaps Thurzó on the arm, turns away quickly.

"Wait," says Thurzó, and hands him the sack, "No, it's not much. You may as well have it, it was going to waste."



In the centre of the group of caravans, the women are making gruel. They fall upon the sack like wolves upon white-tailed deer. There is even a haunch in there. One, a handsome woman with shiny hair, comes forward to clasp his hands. "Thank you," she says, looking up at him, then she drops her eyes.

"You're welcome, Aliz," he says.

"How did you know my name?"

"I remember you. You're about Yosjka's age, aren't you? Are you married yet?"

"No," she blushes, "And you flatter me. I'm older than him. I remember you too, but then, everyone remembers you, Uncle Thurzó." She seems embarrassed from such a long speech. She turns, continues helping the other women prepare the food. When she thinks he's not looking, she steals a glance at him, at his straight back, his tangled beard.

He sees her looking, but to spare her blushes, he pretends he doesn't.




Thurzó has to go back into town, he says, to sort out some business, but first, Yosjka says, he must meet his brother.

"This is Raoul".

At first, Raoul scowls, won't meet Thurzó's gaze. Instead, he carries on working on the cymbalom, says nothing. He seems to be repairing a tenon joint and tightening some strings, and for a time, Thurzó stands there in silence, watching. There is something in the younger man which the older recognises, understands. After a time, he goes over to the cymbalom, places a forefinger where a knot is being tied.

After another time, he leaves.

"Tonight," calls Yosjka behind him, and "A party - you will come?"



Once more to the market, this time for skins of Egri Bikaver - bull's blood wine. Then, various matters of the day, the lowest of which is Taligás and the mess he will likely have left at Thurzó's dwelling. Thurzó is rarely surprised, but this time he is; everything is tidy as a pin, just as he left it. All his papers in order. Not that there were any to interest the scumball, but... Hmm, he thinks, and now he is slightly suspicious. What is he planning? He looks closer, and realises that he was mistaken; there is something missing after all. But what?

He claps his hand to his forehead. Of course. But that was some while ago, last year anyway, and came to nothing. What on earth would the carter want with Fredek Agaroz Ecsed?

He sighs. It is too late in the day to set out for Lesethe, or to expect anyone else to. Tomorrow then. Though he is reluctant to line the pockets of a worm, he supposes he will have to get the letter back. It is a trifle though, and he quickly puts it out of his head.

It is rare for anyone to be a step ahead of Gáspo Thurzó.