The Golden (17 page)

The illogic that
buttressed these words muted Beheim’s anger. “What could
you possibly hope to win from such a contract?”

“Why . . .
the woman, lord. You see, I believe by the time we reach the
Patriarch’s chamber, you will have realized that I can be of
far more value to you than she. Though my uses, I admit, will surely
be less pleasurable.” He favored Giselle with a discolored,
gap-toothed smile. “What is your name, dear heart?”

“Pig!”
she said, clinging to Beheim. “He will butcher you for this!”

“Will he,
now? My lord can always find another bitch from which to guzzle. But
help in a time of need? That is the rarest of commodities in Castle
Banat.” Vlad, seeming almost merry, made a scuttling run deeper
into the tunnel; he wound a strand of hair about his forefinger and
gave it a yank, causing his head to bob like that of a puppet as he
peered at Beheim. “Have we a bargain?”

“To this
degree,” said Beheim after a pause. “You will lead me to
the Patriarch, and then, if I deem it wise, I will punish you.”

“Michel,
you can’t—” began Giselle, but Beheim drew her into
an embrace and said, “I would never sacrifice you. Surely you
must know that?”

Vlad chuckled.

“He’s
mad! How can we trust him?” Giselle tried to engage Beheim’s
eyes, but he was gazing at Vlad over the top of her head, giving
thought to a new consideration. What if the man proved correct in his
assumption? Who could say what might happen on reaching the
Patriarch’s chamber? In circumstances like these, the
assistance of an expert on the geography of the castle might mean the
difference between life and death. Again he recalled Alexandra’s
contention that soon he would discover how little Giselle meant to
him. He wanted to put the lie to her words, but now was riddled with
doubts.

“Oh, I
am
mad,” said Vlad. “Never doubt it. I am mad as morning
light. One must be mad to dwell in Banat. We are all mad here, even
the greatest among us. Is that not so, lord?”

Beheim gave the
merest hint of a shrug.

“But,”
Vlad went on, “mad or no, I recognize the intrinsic functions
of my place and time. I once served the Patriarch himself. Did I tell
you that? Well, I did . . . and served him well. I
understand the needs of the Family, I know their hearts and minds. In
matters concerning them, my judgments are ever sound.”

“Listen to
me,” Beheim said to Giselle, keeping an arm about her waist.
“If he leads us astray, he will die. That he knows. Then I will
simply find another guide. If he leads us truly, that will change
nothing for you. I must put my case before the Patriarch. And soon.
This is our best hope, perhaps our only one. I believe we should
chance it, but since your fate is also in the balance, I Will leave
it for you to decide.”

Her lips parted
as if she were about to speak; then her face clouded; after a second
or two she lowered her eyes, rested her brow against his chin.

“I cannot
decide this,” she said. “I must trust to you. How can I
do otherwise?”

“Are you
certain?”

A nod.

Beheim smoothed
down her hair, felt her heart beating against his chest. Once again
he stared at Vlad, who remained smiling at Giselle, shifting his
feet, looking—with his snarled hair and beard, his snappish
eyes—like someone halfway through a transformation into the
animal.

“Betray
us,” said Beheim flatly, “and I will visit upon you the
torments of Hell. Do you understand?”

Vlad might not
have heard. “What is the good lady’s name?” he
asked. “I wish to know her name.”

Giselle ducked
her head onto Beheim’s shoulder. Beheim remained silent,
exploring the possibility that the man’s show of instability
might be part of an attempt to make him incautious. It did not seem
likely that Vlad—devolved and living like an animal in constant
fear of the raptors high above—would be capable of this
subtlety, yet the entire castle was a world of false appearances and
clever deceits, and in such a world even the rats might wear
disguises.

“No
matter,” said Vlad, moving deeper into the tunnel. “I’ll
name her myself. Something classic, something Latin. Lavinia. Or
Calpurnia. Portia. That’s it! Portia! Such a round, buxom name.
A name so palpably fleshy it stiffens the tongue.” He let out a
whinnying giggle and beckoned. “Come, my lord! Perhaps you are
in no hurry, but I am eager for my reward.”

Chapter
Fourteen

F
or twenty minutes or thereabouts they followed Vlad through a system
of narrow unlit passages, through patches of evil stench and cloying
dampness. The man must have known every turn by heart, for the
absence of light appeared to bother him not at all. He capered ahead
as they groped their way along, unable to see their hands before
their faces, now and again calling back to Giselle, offering
salacious endearments and then apologizing profusely to Beheim,
explaining that he was not to be held responsible, as his heart had
been stolen by the beautiful lady. The confidence that Beheim had
felt prior to meeting him began to dissipate and he grew less secure
with his decision. Though they were ascending, it was gradual in the
extreme—he doubted they could have climbed more than seventy or
eighty feet from their starting point. He had lost all real sense of
where they stood in relation to the upper reaches of the castle. And
it was becoming apparent that Vlad was not the expert guide he
claimed to be, or else he had some hidden purpose.

He should have
heeded Giselle, Beheim told himself; it was evident that his own
instincts had been badly eroded. Any number of times he thought to
menace Vlad, to demand resolution; but on each occasion he realized
he could not trust the man’s reactions. If deranged, he might
in panic lead them further astray; and if he was attempting to
confound them, then how could Beheim depend upon anything he said or
did? No, the best course was continue on, to be watchful. Another
half hour. Then he would reconsider. High above in the aeries of
Castle Banat, men and women to whom the bloodiest of violences was as
casual an act as the swatting of a fly might even now be planning his
fate. He could not hope that they would stay their hand much longer.

At length they
came to a wall that blocked their path, but Vlad told them there was
a stone pipe sunk into the base. They would have to crawl along it,
he said, for some considerable distance.

“Is there
no other way?” asked Beheim, uneasy with this prospect.

“Not
unless we retrace our steps and start anew,” said Vlad. “I
chose the shortest route, lord. It is not the easiest to negotiate,
but there is none more direct. None more hidden from prying eyes.”

Beheim had no
choice but to accept this. And so, with Vlad leading and Giselle
bringing up the rear, they set forth.

The pipe was
scarcely wide enough to admit them; from the fecal stink and sticky
surfaces, Beheim assumed it to be part of a drainage system. The air
was warm, and the sound of their breathing caused the heat to seem
more oppressive yet and the darkness to seem tarry, like black glue
clotting Beheim’s nostrils and lungs. He kept close behind
Vlad, so close that now and again his hand would brush one of the
man’s feet, but the farther they went, the less attentive to
their guide he became. His thoughts whirled in desolate orbits. To be
reduced to this! Crawling like a bug along a crack in a world he had
once dreamed of ruling. Hate expanded in his skull with such tangible
force, he imagined his body inflating, filling the channel,
conforming to its shape, being molded into a bullet that would be
spat forth into the brains of his enemies. Hatred became a kind of
brilliant perception, and he saw how he would exact revenge for this
humiliation. He had been too much in awe of his cousins, too
impressed by their physical superiority to dare challenging them; but
he realized now that their penchant for games and deceits led
straight into his strengths. He was not afraid to match wits with
them; in that sort of contest, it might be they who were outmanned.
And, oh, what a game he would devise for them! What a cunning
sequence of misdirections! Of course it would all depend upon his
first impressing the Patriarch and gaining his confidence. He needed
a perfect lie, something that incorporated the truth—whatever
fragment of the truth he knew—and embroidered it with
implication, delivering nothing of substance, yet making it seem that
his intuition had forged a track to the heart of the crime. Once the
lie had done its work, he would draw his enemies into the web it
created. Agenor, Alexandra, and whoever else came to pose a
difficulty. They were all his enemies in this. And despite his moment
of enlightenment that had come upon hearing the song of his blood,
even those of his branch were suspect. That, he realized, was the
nature of the Family: it was a league of mortal enemies, a trait that
sometimes proved both its most profound weakness and greatest
strength.

His thoughts
were interrupted by a choking noise behind him, a rustle, the sound
of something being dragged away. Then a grinding, a thud, as of a
heavy weight being slid down along a track.

Alarmed, Beheim
tried to turn and struck his temple on the side of the pipe; pain
blinded him for an instant.

“Giselle!”
he said, clutching the injured place.

“So that
is the lady’s name,” said Vlad. “I like it.”

“Where are
you, Giselle?”

“Beyond
your clutches, vampire.”

Vlad was
speaking from a goodly ways off, and Beheim realized he must have
scrambled on ahead.

“What have
you done with her?”

“She is no
longer your concern,” said Vlad, his words betraying none of
their previous eccentricity. “I suggest you now give thought to
your soul. If you have one.”

Beheim
recognized that Vlad would never have addressed him with such
disrespect unless he had some powerful form of defense at hand, and
so he did not rush forward precipitously. He edged toward the sound
of the man’s voice and, despite his growing anxiety, essayed a
laugh.

“And what
of
your
soul, Vlad? What will become of it when I have done
with you?”

“You have
no power over me. You’re a dead man. A dead thing. In a moment
all your murderous days will be done.”

“ ‘Thing,’
is it?” Beheim edged a little closer, straining to see Vlad in
the blackness. “Yet you once yearned to be such a ‘thing,’
did you not? Perhaps you still are servant to that yearning. Perhaps
you still long for judgment.”

Closer, closer.
Inch by inch.

“It is
true,” Vlad said. “Once I longed for power and life
immortal, but I became frightened and fled my office. From fear,
however, I have learned much, and whatever I may have lost, I have
more than gained its equal in the restoration of my humanity.”

“Indeed?
Then why remain in Castle Banat, why not go back to the world of
humankind?”

“Life here
has poisoned me. I can never go back to the place that bore me. But I
can kill you, vampire. That should firmly establish my human proofs,
don’t you think?”

“Others
will come. They will exterminate you all.”

“You
already hunt us. Why should we fear you more than we do already? And
I doubt under any circumstance there will be a call for our
extermination. There are dangers for your kind in these depths. We
would not be easy to ferret out. It is likely that the Patriarch does
not wish us to die. We cannot threaten him, and he may decide that
our little community provides an intriguing danger against which he
may test his subjects. In fact, I would not doubt that he has already
assessed the situation and chosen to maintain the status quo. He has
an affinity for such ironies as our existence here comprises. At any
rate, if your cousins come to avenge you, I will hope to kill them,
too. That will, in some small way, repair the wrongs done in my days
of evil service.”

Judging by
Vlad’s voice, Beheim estimated that he was no more than half a
dozen feet away. He gathered himself, preparing to lunge; but before
he could move, Vlad said, “Think on this as you die, vampire.
Tonight I will have of your beautiful lady all those pleasures you
have tasted. And more besides.”

Another grinding
noise, another thud. Beheim scuttled forward and met with a barrier.
A stone slab had dropped down to block his path. It was immovable,
though he pried at it with all his strength. He scooted backward,
knowing that he would find another barrier behind him, yet hoping,
hoping, his heart constricted by claustrophobic terror, his mind
reddening with panic.

There was, as he
had guessed, a second barrier.

He was trapped
in a space not much larger than a coffin, encysted in an immeasurable
tonnage of stone.

For a moment he
was unable to breathe. He sucked at the dead air, tasting blackness
and decay. He could hear the drumming of his heart, feel it swelling
in his chest. Then a scream burst from his throat, and he began to
kick at the walls, to beat upon them with his fists. His fear was so
animal and despairing, he might have gone on in this fashion for some
time, but no more than a minute had elapsed before a section of pipe
swung open beneath him, like the dropping of a trapdoor, and he went
sliding feetfirst into a second pipe, hurtling downward at a steep
angle, snatching at the slick, damp stone, trying to find a crack, a
projection, anything with which to slow his progress, bumping his
head with blinding force. Then he was falling free, screaming,
flailing at the air . . . but not for long. A second
or two, no more. He landed on his back, the impact sending pain
lancing through his limbs, shocking him into unconsciousness.

When at length
he opened his eyes, dazed and aching, something was tickling his
cheek and nothing he saw made any sense. Overhead was an expanse of
smeared, sickly blue, like a poorly painted ceiling, daubed here and
there with tendrils of white and splotches of dark green, and figured
also by a glowing yellow and purplish mass, all diffuse and cloudy,
as if he were gazing at it through a volume of water. There was a
sighing noise. Wind, he thought, it sounds like the wind. The thing
tickling his cheek feathered across his lip; annoyed, he plucked at
it, held it to his eyes: a slim curve of brownish green. Slick and
cool to the touch. Unidentifiable. He blinked, trying to clear his
vision. A bit of definition appeared in the green splotches above.
Pine needles? Couldn’t be, he told himself. He sat up,
painfully, dizzily. He lowered his head, closed his eyes to clear the
cobwebs. His thoughts moved slowly. Rudimentary, childlike thoughts.
This hurts, that hurts. What’s this on my hand? Dirt? He
wondered what he should do next. Find Giselle? Head for the
Patriarch’s chambers? He had no idea of where he was—how
could he hope to find anything or anyone? He opened his eyes again
and was relieved to discover that his vision had returned to normal.
There were rips in his trousers, his knees were abraded. Grass blades
all around him. Winter grass, sere and dry. That made no sense,
either, that there would be grass growing inside Castle Banat. He was
just beginning to worry about this when he glanced up and stared
directly into the sun.