The Golden (3 page)

Their breathing
slowed, the flush receded from Giselle’s face. Beheim rolled
out from between her legs and lay on his back, feeling at once uneasy
and triumphant.

“Michel?”

He made a
noncommittal noise.

“This is
how it’ll happen, won’t it? My judgment. It’ll
happen when we’re making love.”

“Perhaps.”

“It almost
happened just now, didn’t it?” she asked after a pause.

“I’m
not sure.”

He did not want
to turn to her, fearful not of what he might see, but of how he might
see her, uncertain as to which half of his soul might then be peering
out through his eyes.

Giselle pressed
against him, her breasts flattening against his arm, the clammy
wetness of her thighs making a sticky patch on his hip and causing
him an instant’s revulsion. “How wonderful!” she
said with what struck him as a kind of prurient exaltation. “To
have you inside me and to be so near the Mysteries all at the same
time.”

He was not sure
how to take this, being on the one hand appalled by her lack of
innocence and on the other delighted by her comprehension of the
sickly sweetness of life, the decaying nuances of the intellect and
the blood, by her newly awakened connoisseur’s delight in the
world of the senses. One second he imagined himself as a powerful
man-shaped vileness in a black box with iron closures, and the next,
as a kindly soul poisoned by an unholy kiss. Full of contrary urges
and opinions, weary of ambivalence, of doubts and demons, wanting
only to sleep, he rested his eyes on the tapestry draping the far
wall. It depicted a deep wood pillared by gnarled trunks and tangled
with vines, where pallid indefinite monsters skulked and a stag was
running, its head turned back to search the shadows for pursuers. The
coarse material appeared for a moment to ripple, to flow across the
wall, as if it were fabricated not of thread but of thousands of
insects cunningly interlocked and writhing, making it seem that the
room was itself in motion, a slow vessel set on an inexorable course,
and that the tapestry was a port opening out onto the turbulent
process of a dark and unforgiving world.

Chapter
Three

T
he next evening Beheim received a visit from Roland Agenor. It was a
visit he had been dreading, and as the old man settled into a chair
beneath an iron-shuttered window, Beheim made as if to offer an
intricate apology and explanation for his previous night’s
behavior, one he had spent more than an hour in preparing. But before
he could fully develop the points over which he had labored, Agenor
gave a wave of dismissal and said, “A problem has arisen.”
His eyes were bloodshot, the normally serene planes of his face
haggard, and the tiered lines upon his brow were etched more deeply
than before.

He smoothed down
his shock of white hair, leaned back, crossing his legs, and favored
Beheim with a look of concern. “I have done something, my young
friend,” he said, then dropped his eyes and thereafter was
silent for quite some time, as if overborne by recriminations.
Finally he went on, saying, “Something that may afford you an
opportunity for great influence, but that will place you in equally
great peril.”

Beheim was
perturbed by his mentor’s uncharacteristic distraction. Looking
at him, recalling the night they had met, his terror at the
revelation of Agenor’s true character, succumbing to the bite,
the years of service prior to judgment, how terror had been
transformed into respect and love, all this put Giselle’s
dilemma into a nice perspective and, for the moment, caused Beheim to
soften his attitudes toward her . . . and toward
himself. “I have always trusted in your guidance,” he
said to Agenor, seeking to encourage him.

Agenor let out a
rueful laugh. “I pray you’ll continue to hold to that
opinion.” He shot his cuffs, drew a deep breath, and released
it forcefully. “I’ve just come from an interview with the
Patriarch. As I’ve said, a problem has arisen, one with which
we are ill-equipped to deal. Or rather, one with which most of us are
ill-equipped to deal. You, however, are qualified in the extreme to
resolve it, and I have suggested as much to the Patriarch. He has
chosen you to direct the investigation.”

“What sort
of investigation?” said Beheim, intrigued.

“There’s
been a murder.”

“The Devil
you say! One of the Family?”

“The
Golden.”

Beheim was
incredulous. “How could this have happened?”

“That,
dear young friend, is the question you must answer for us all.”
Agenor stood and walked to the window, gazed up at the iron shutter
as if contemplating a work of art. “There was no guard set on
her room. Such a crime was considered unthinkable. She did have a
companion, of course. An old servant woman. But there’s no sign
of her. The Golden was found two hours ago by the Patriarch’s
servants. Completely drained. Mutilated.” He gave a sniff—of
disgust, Beheim assumed—and said, “I imagine the
culprits, whoever they are, had themselves a rare time in the
imbibing.”

“Why do
you say ‘culprits’?”

“Simply an
assumption. There would be more than enough blood to go around.
Especially in the case of such an intoxicating vintage.”

“I don’t
understand.”

“The
Decanting, for all its surrounding pomp, is not the Holy of Holies
it’s made out to be. In reality, it’s little more than an
old-fashioned drunk . . . for those few permitted to
drink. Or so I’ve been told. It might as well be straight
whiskey. A chemical agent acts as an intoxicant. Now if you listen to
those who’ve participated in the rite, they’ll claim that
a mere sip imbues one with powerful insights, just as though it were
an Illumination.”

“The
Golden . . . it, too, induces clairvoyance?”

“No, no!
Death by Illumination is our only avenue to the future. Their claim
concerning the Golden is simply a justification for debauchery. I
admit I have no experience in any of this, but I know the truth of
the matter.”

“You’ve
never taken part in a Decanting?” Beheim asked in surprise.

“I have
enemies who’ve sought to deny me the honor.” Agenor
turned from the window. “Now”—his voice broke, and
this show of emotion startled Beheim—“I no longer wish to
participate. It’s a barbarous practice, though there’s no
real harm done. One virtue of the blood is that the Golden never
fails to pass judgment and so becomes part of the Family. However, in
this instance, drained as she was, well “There’s no
returning from that.”

“Perhaps
there is more to the Decanting than you realize,” Beheim said.
“I don’t mean to seem impertinent, but as you’ve
had no experience of it, perhaps . . .”

“I’ve
seen them after they’ve tasted the Golden,” Agenor said.
“Believe me, there’s nothing transcendent about the
experience. On the other hand, I have witnessed numerous
Illuminations, and despite the fact that those who undergo the ritual
have been condemned for crimes against the Family, there is an
inherent nobility to the act. In the surrender of one’s life so
as to answer questions concerning the future. I believe that the
condemned understand this, that they must gain some profound joy from
their sacrifice.”

While he spoke
these words, a distant, almost beatific look came over Agenor’s
face, as if he were contemplating his own saintly immolation. Once
again Beheim was unsettled by the old man’s erratic behavior,
but he chose to ignore this and concentrate upon the more imminent
problem. He took a seat on the edge of the bed, placed his hands flat
on his knees, and studied the pattern on the patch of carpet between
his feet.

“What are
you thinking?” Agenor asked.

“I was
wondering why anyone would risk such a crime.”

“You of
all people should understand the Golden’s allure.”

Beheim ignored
this reminder of his intemperate behavior. “I refuse to believe
that anyone would have done this merely for a taste of blood.”

“You may
be overestimating some of our number. The de Czeges, for example.”

“I doubt
even the de Czeges are capable of committing a crime with so
uncomplicated a motive. Perhaps to make a statement of some sort,
perhaps as an act of rebellion. But not for blood alone.”

“Well, I
won’t argue. After all, it’s your job to decide the
issue.” The older man crossed to the bed and rested a hand on
Beheim’s shoulder. “And you’d best set to it at
once. The Patriarch will not be able to hold everyone here for more
than a few days.”

Beheim nodded,
yet felt no enthusiasm for the work, his fascination with the crime
dimmed by an intimation of the difficulty of the task before him.

“Perhaps I
should not have volunteered you,” Agenor said.

“No, no,”
said Beheim, hastening to reassure him. “I’m—”

Agenor commanded
him to silence by holding up a hand. “For the sake of our
friendship I should not have volunteered you. It may eventuate that
by doing so I have sacrificed you, for you will meet with great
danger, and though you have the Patriarch’s support, many will
perceive your investigation as a gross indignity. And should you
unmask the culprits, they will doubtless defend themselves to the
death rather than undergo an Illumination. But there is far more at
stake here than friendship.” He went a few paces into the
center of the room and stood facing away from Beheim, hands clasped
behind his back. “Should you succeed, you will gain tremendous
influence with the Patriarch and those who have his ear. More
influence than I could ever bring to bear. It’s possible this
may be the event that turns the tide of opinion in our favor, that
adds the one necessary voice to the chorus of reason so we will be
able to guide the Family, to guarantee that it will thrive and
consolidate its power. So”—he wheeled about—“I
have done what I have done. But let me assure you, my friend. You do
not stand alone. If you fall, I fall with you. I would not put your
eternity in jeopardy without sharing the risk.”

Beheim felt
awkward and enfeebled, fully apprehending now the potential for
disaster attaching to the case. “I will try to justify your
confidence,” he said, but the words sounded empty to his own
ears; then, in a shaky voice: “I scarcely know where to begin.”
He came to his feet and rubbed a finger along his cheek. “With
so many suspects, it will be impossible to interview them all in a
few days.”

“As to
that,” Agenor said, “it’s possible to narrow the
field. For one thing, I’ve formed an alliance only this evening
that may bear fruit before long. And further I’ve taken the
liberty of sending servants to every Family member, requesting they
supply you with information concerning their movements. Some may
refuse to comply out of arrogance, and some will lie rather than
compromise a rendezvous or some other intimate matter. But for all
our power, we are the most predictable of creatures, and I believe
that certain of my cousins will surprise me with their candor. We may
be able to eliminate a majority of our suspects in one fell swoop.”

“Even so,”
Beheim said, “even if we eliminate all but ten, say, it will be
a monumental chore to discover which of them is guilty. Our best hope
is that the body will provide a telling clue.”

“Then let
me take you there at once.”

“With all
due respect, lord, while I greatly appreciate your assistance and
will doubtless ask you to aid me during the course of the
investigation, I would prefer to operate without anyone looking over
my shoulder. I will be less distracted as a result.”

Agenor inclined
his head. “Very well. But I insist on being apprised of your
progress . . . for your protection and my own.”

“I’ll
do my best to—”

“No,
you
will
keep me apprised, Michel. I demand it.”

Though the old
man’s instruction had been merely stern, Beheim could have
sworn he detected desperation and a hint of pleading in the set of
his face, and that perplexed him—never before had he seen
Agenor so unsteady, even when under personal attack.

“If there
is more to this than you have told me,” Beheim said, “it
is my right to hear it now.”

Agenor’s
patrician features tightened with anger, but only for an instant;
then his flesh seemed to sag away from his skull, the long years of
his unnatural life becoming suddenly apparent. He stared hollow-eyed
at Beheim as if confused by what had been asked of him. At last he
said once again, “I have done something.”

Beheim waited
for a disclosure, but none was forthcoming.

“Yes?”
he said. “You have done something?”

Agenor’s
head twitched, he blinked at Beheim, as if just awakened to his
presence. “The alliance I spoke of . . . I felt
I had to make it in order to give you some advantage, yet I cannot be
sure whether it will in the end help or hinder you.” He let out
an exhausted sigh. “We will have to wait and see.”

“And the
nature of this alliance?”

“I would
rather not reveal it at this time.”

Beheim knew the
hopelessness of pressing the issue. “I would ask that a number
of servants be put at my personal disposal,” he said after a
bit. “I will, of course, employ Giselle as my agent, but
because of the scope of the investigation, I’ll need more help
than she can supply.”

“Whatever
you wish.”

Beheim came to
his feet, still a bit weak in the knees, but beginning to feel
something of the old eagerness for the chase that he had known during
his days in Paris.

“Remember
what is at stake,” Agenor said. “No matter what you find,
no matter how highly connected you discover the culprits to be, you
must not falter in your resolve to bring the truth before the
Patriarch.”

“I’ll
do everything in my power not to fail you.”