Clan Novel Assamite - Book 7 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Gherbod Fleming

  “That is not freedom. It’s just a longer chain,” Lucita said.

  There. Monçada smiled inwardly at her defiance. That was the daughter he knew and loved above all others. “It may be as you say, but I have been without you for so long. But,” he began to rise and turn away from her, “if you do not wish the choice of a longer chain…”

  “I will stay in the city,” she said grudgingly.

  Monçada settled back down onto his haunches. “I know you will…until you regain your strength. But we will discuss the matter in more detail before then.” He reached to brush the hair back from her face, but Lucita turned from him. Already her spirit was growing strong again. It would be interesting to see how long his hold of blood held her near this time.

  Monday, 27 September 1999, 4:04 AM

  Plaza Moreria

  Madrid, Spain

  The unmarked delivery truck, though it took up almost the entire street, barreled along Calle de la Redondilla heedless of stray dogs, trash cans, or young lovers. The intimate whispers of the couples suddenly became curses hurled at the passing driver. The crowded buildings in this part of the city were relatively young, sprung up in the last one or two hundred years, but the steep and twisting streets were no more suited for motor traffic than they would have been centuries ago when the old Arab medina had occupied this section. Still, for the driver to have proceeded at a safe speed would have been completely out of character and would have aroused suspicion, rather than merely the consternation of his victims.

  Just beyond the plaza, the truck came to a sudden stop with much creaking of metal and shifting of cargo. Within a tiny shop, Anwar threw on a shirt. The night was cool, and there was no need for curious neighbors, who might have been awakened by the truck’s arrival, to see a bare-chested stranger assisting with the unloading.

  “Rafael!” screeched Pilar, the tiny rug vendor, rushing out into the street in her nightgown. “You are supposed to deliver in the morning!” Her shrill voice echoed from the cobbles and cement, achieving such a pitch as to pierce the deep rumblings of the truck’s engine easily and destroy all hopes of her neighbors for a peaceful night’s sleep. “Is it dark or is it light?” she berated the driver, raising her hands to the sky.

  “It is morning,” said Rafael, not the least discomfited by her scolding. He kicked the inside of his door, and it whipped open and slammed against the side of the cab with a resounding crash.”May God and the saints watch over imbeciles—it is the middle of the night!” Pilar lamented. “And why don’t you fix that door?”

  “It is better that it doesn’t open while I am driving,” Rafael said.

  “¡Ay caramba.” She clutched her head in her hands. “Get down from there and help unload these rugs. But do not breathe on my boys—estupido might be contagious.”

  Anwar, Mahmud, and three other men hurried out of the shop and began unloading the rolled rugs, Pilar chiding them and Rafael all the while. By the time Rafael in his truck roared off into the night—or morning, depending on one’s perspective—the rugs were neatly stacked in a crowded storage room. All the rugs save one, which was carried down to a basement room. Pilar’s three “boys” returned to the streets of Madrid and certain duties that awaited them. Anwar and Mahmud unrolled the final rug while Pilar expertly removed the fabric plugs at each end that protected the center, and its occupant, from accidental exposure to sunlight.

  Fatima lay perfectly still until she was completely unrolled, and then remained on her back until Mahmud and Anwar each offered her a hand and helped her to her feet.

  “Ah, Fatima,” Pilar crooned, brushing the two men aside to hug the new arrival. The old woman came up to Fatima’s shoulders, and Fatima was not tall.

  Fatima lifted her arms and accepted the old ghoul’s greeting in a stiff but not unfriendly way. “It has been many years,” Fatima said.

  “Too many years,” the wrinkled old woman said, stepping back and wagging her finger. But then she shrugged, and all reproach vanished from her voice and manner. “But I understand why you do not visit often. It is enough that you are here now. You are hungry after your travels?”

  Anwar was almost affronted that Pilar had offered nourishment to neither he nor Mahmud upon their arrivals; but they were not her favorite, and taking offense would serve no purpose at any rate. The old woman ruled the roost here. If the master of Alamut was the Old Man of the Mountain, in Madrid Pilar was the Old Woman of the Hill. She had served faithfully, maintaining operations for the children of Haqim for hundreds of years in this city, despite the overwhelming Sabbat presence. Her “boys,” ghouls to a man, were expert at picking off the stray Sabbat Cainite and reclaiming his blood before the victim knew he was surrounded. They never took Cainites of consequence, or dignitaries in the city to pay respects to Cardinal Monçada, who sat weaving malice from the center of his web. Madrid, like any Sabbat city, was always full of strays, most of whom were never missed. But there was always vitae on hand for important visitors to Pilar’s shop.

  “Thank you, but no,” Fatima said. “My hunger drives me.”

  Anwar puzzled at this, which couldn’t be true. Since the curse of the vile Tremere had been broken and the children of Haqim made able again to take Cainite vitae, feeding had merely served to heighten rather than sate his hunger. The taste of blood long denied was compelling. No longer were he or his brethren forced to feed on mortals or the contrived elixir of the amr. Cainite blood drove the assassin to seek more Cainite blood—so much so that, more than in the past, stories were circulating of rafiq surrendering to the inner Beast, to the corruption of Caine. Was Fatima so strong that she felt none of this? Or did she prefer a clear head to passion? Did she fear that she might do her job too well?

  Pilar did not appear offended at Fatima’s refusal. The old woman nodded deferentially, and turned to Anwar. “You,” she smacked the back of his hand lightly, “bring that rug up when you come.” Then she was gone, back up the stairs.

  “Come,” said Fatima, not wasting any time. She led them to a smaller room where she seemed to know that the maps would be spread out. Anwar followed dutifully. The frustration he’d felt with Mahmud was drowned beneath the wash of expectation now that Fatima had arrived. The time of attack must be close. Pilar’s personnel could have performed routine surveillance. Fatima would not have brought Mahmud and himself to Madrid without reason.

  Fatima studied the maps intently. Anwar watched as her eyes took in every detail, every note that he and Mahmud had made. He could almost see her forming a strategy, sorting the plethora of disparate facts: points of access to Monçada’s lair, building locations, hours of use, occupants, verified defenses….

  The target, Anwar decided, must be Monçada. Why else would Fatima be here herself? There was no other mortal or get of Khayyin of sufficient standing—unless she were going after Lucita. But when Anwar and Fatima had spoken in New York, he had formed the impression that she did not expect Lucita to be in Madrid. Fatima certainly had not hinted that the cardinal’s childe would be present.

  “What is this location?” Fatima asked.

  It was the question Anwar had been awaiting. He glanced deferentially at Mahmud, but Mahmud merely nodded. “That is the house where Lucita went tonight,” Anwar said.

  Fatima’s hands, which had been tracing different streets and routes across the maps, were suddenly very still.

  “I saw her enter the church three nights ago, San Nicolás de las Servitas,” Anwar explained. “Tonight, she walked out the front door and went to this place. She took no pains to disguise herself or stay out of sight.”

  “She would have no fear of the Sabbat in the city,” Mahmud said, “if under the protection of her sire.”

  “I think she wouldn’t fear the Sabbat regardless,” Anwar said. Lucita was antitribu, she had turned against her clan—disloyalty, another failing in Anwar’s eyes. But there were few among her erstwhile clanmates, or the entire Sabbat for that matter, that would pose her serious threa
t. This week was the first that Anwar had laid eyes upon her, but she didn’t strike him as the type to be compelled by fear to hide. “She strolled along the street in plain view. I don’t understand how she has survived so long.”

  Fatima still leaned over the table and looked at the maps, but she did not actively see them. Rather, they happened to be there before her, and she had not moved. “She did not realize you followed her?” Fatima asked, still not looking up.

  “I did nothing that let my presence be known,” Anwar said.

  The three assassins stood silently for several minutes. Anwar did not take his eyes from Fatima, and she in turn did not shift her gaze from the maps. From upstairs came the slidings and thuds of Pilar arranging the new rugs.

  “Make sure that she is watched,” Fatima said at last.

  “Do you object to having one of Pilar’s teams watch her?” Mahmud asked. “Or would you prefer one of us do it?”

  “Pilar’s people are our people. They will suffice,” Fatima said.

  That was the answer Anwar had expected. Unless Lucita actually were the target, there was little reason to busy one of them keeping track of her. So his impression that Fatima had not expected Lucita to be in Madrid, that Fatima had not come here to destroy Monçada’s childe, seemed to be confirmed.

  Mahmud quietly turned and left the small room and made his way upstairs to see that the arrangements were made for Lucita to be watched. Anwar stayed. He stood and watched Fatima staring at the maps. He did not look away even when she finally looked up and met his gaze. He wanted to know what was going on in her mind. What was the great Fatima thinking? Her intellect, her killer’s instinct, was completely engaged. Anwar could see that much, but as in New York, exactly what was taking place behind those dark eyes was hidden from him. How were her preparations different from—superior to—his own?

  “Monçada,” Fatima said without preamble, interrupting Anwar’s thought.

  “The target?”

  Fatima nodded.

  Anwar’s mind shifted at once to the details of the cardinal’s lair, to the information that Fatima had presented him and that which he had gathered additionally over the past few nights. Of the half-dozen entrances they knew about, which would be the most accessible without raising an alarm? The Alfonzo V was not a strong possibility. The hotel often hosted Monçada’s guests, and security there would no doubt be tight. The opera was more promising, with the number of people coming and going at all times of the night and day. There was always the church itself….

  The problem, Anwar knew, was that even their most current knowledge was limited to externals. Easy and secret access did not necessarily combine with lax security once an assassin entered Monçada’s lair. On the contrary, if the cardinal were worth his salt—and he would not have survived this long in the dog-eat-dog Sabbat if he weren’t—the most accessible entrances would also possess the most impenetrable internal defenses.

  All of these factors, which Anwar began to comb through, were underscored by the pleasant surprise that Fatima had revealed to him the target. She had confided in him. It was a detail he did not yet necessarily need to know in order to perform his duties. Obviously, she thought that he might provide some insight—that he was worthy to possess that all-important knowledge. Or, he thought with a bit less self-congratulation, she might have assumed that he had already guessed the identity of the target, which he had, and she sought to sharpen his mind by removing the vagaries of speculation.

  Either way, Fatima had confided in him. She had displayed her confidence in him. Anwar did his best not to puff up too broadly, not to play the part of the appreciative, awed novice.

  “Mahmud speaks highly of you,” said Fatima.

  Anwar nodded sharply in acknowledgement and returned his attention the maps, more dedicated than ever to helping this woman who had paid him such tribute, and whose success would bring him boundless glory.

  Thursday, 30 September 1999, 1:42 AM

  Cava de San Miguel

  Madrid, Spain

  Madrid was an old city wearing young clothes. Fatima stood below the Plaza Mayor. She was near but apart from the vibrant humanity that filled the row of tapas bars. Mortals made their way from one establishment to another, drawn by the lure of food, drink, and music. Of the obvious tourists, young Europeans were predominant. The older Americans and Japanese, all awkwardness and blinding flashbulbs, had retreated to the safety of their rooms hours earlier. Many native Madrilenos graced the night as well. They sauntered joyfully along the sloped avenue.

  For Fatima, however, the ripples of celebration did not conceal an undercurrent of struggle and death. The bars themselves, so gaily acquitted, spoke to that past. The storefronts were built into the retaining wall of the plaza above. The weathered stones were the same that had looked out over the street centuries before, when Christian had killed Moor, and Moor Christian. The modern trappings, like the newer sections of the city, belied the tragedy of the past. Humanity’s memory was short, lest conscience smother life altogether.

  And mixed among humanity were the monstrous and inhuman. Some better than others upheld the charade, pretending that they were like the mortals they hunted. For although they disavowed the Masquerade of the impotent Camarilla, the Sabbat followed similar tenets—granted, loosely at times—out of sheer necessity. Cainites of the Sabbat might consider mortals no better than cattle, yet the fact remained that mortals alarmed en masse would destroy the undead. Thus even among the ravers, a de facto Masquerade was enforced, despite the excesses of the young and impulsive. Ironically enough, in Sabbat cities where a powerful elder held sway, as did Monçada in Madrid, the undead population was kept in check and the neonates monitored closely. The distance between Camarilla and Sabbat was less than many in each sect liked to believe. To Fatima, they were interchangeable. In the end, all Cainite blood would be reclaimed by Haqim, he who was made immortal by his own hand.

  Fatima was thankful that there was much to occupy her. She’d spent much of the evening re-verifying information that Mahmud and Anwar had already confirmed. Mahmud she had long known to be dependable. Anwar was also proving his worth. Fatima had not needed to correct any of the observations made by the two assassins or by Pilar’s experienced team of ghouls. Not that Fatima had expected to need to do so. Her following behind the others was a redundancy, a safeguard that, were speed more vital, she would abandon. She moved the mission forward at such a deliberate pace for one overriding reason: Despite the cache of knowledge the Assamites had gathered about what obstructed entrance to Cardinal Monçada’s haven, neither she nor the others knew exactly what to expect once past the outermost defenses.

  Three options for dealing with this deficiency availed themselves to Fatima. The first involved spies. Parmenides was not the only member of the brotherhood who might come across such privy information. Al-Ashrad had approved Fatima’s suggestion that word go out for those with Lasombra or Sabbat connections to press ahead with the most delicate of inquiries. It wouldn’t do to have her target widely known, but the childer of Haqim were expert in finding answers without anyone being aware that the questions had been asked.

  The second, and to Fatima’s thinking preferable, option was torture. Here again, the children of Haqim were no strangers to learning what they must. Where a spy’s report must be judged second- or third-hand, a Cainite feeling the first pinprick burns of the morning sun often spoke with authority regarding matters with which he or she was intimately familiar. The difficulty was finding a suitable subject who would not too soon be missed. There were Cainites who had visited with Monçada in his lair, though not many. The cardinal was an insular soul. He took little risk with guests. Here again, Assamites across the world were investigating possibilities.

  The final option, which was all that would be left Fatima if the other two failed to produce results, was blind infiltration. Though she needn’t move against Monçada this night or perhaps for several more following, al-Ashrad had made it a
bsolutely clear that the cardinal must be destroyed soon. It was one of the few points on which the amr had been absolutely clear.

  Fatima would wait as long as she felt she could, but if no more of Monçada’s secrets were forthcoming, she would proceed nonetheless. Over the years, she had penetrated the fortresses of warlocks and wizards; she had bypassed the defenses of kings and queens and other leaders of state. She had destroyed Cainite elders from every clan, princes and archbishops, in their deadly lairs. But none of them had been a cardinal of the Sabbat. Not one had been Ambrosio Luis Monçada. No one else was Lucita’s sire.

  Fatima shook her head. She’d been keeping busy, not thinking about Lucita—thinking, in fact, about anything else but Lucita. But there was a practical question the Dark Rose’s presence raised. Had Lucita compromised the mission? Fatima had faced Lucita, had told her of the upcoming attempt on her sire, out of emotional need—out of weakness. Pragmatism had not entered into the decision. Did Lucita hate her sire enough to help? Was her fundamental loyalty to him such that she would warn him? Fatima had known the possibilities existed, yet she had ignored them. They seemed so remote. Exactly how she had expected Lucita to respond, Fatima wasn’t sure. Probably to head off pursuing some agenda of the Lasombra assassin’s own—as she had always done—and ignore the matter completely.

  What Fatima had not expected was for Lucita to journey to Madrid, to visit her sire for, as far as Fatima knew, the first time in nearly a century. Which was exactly what Lucita had done.

  Thus Lucita became the final piece of the puzzle, the final clue to the riddle beyond what spies or torture uncovered. Before the attempt could be made, Fatima would have to learn whether or not Lucita had warned her sire. Against her will, Fatima found the thought of another meeting tantalizing. It was, above all else, what she most wanted, what she least wanted.