“Don't!” Goronwy snapped. “There's a ship full of bloodmen nearby. I shouldn't like to order them into town.”
The geomancer grew passive again; no one should suffer on his account. “Where are you taking me?”
“My boy, you're going to London. To see the king.”
The stench of urine, sweat, and offal hung in the air. Selkirk was chained to a wall inside a dank cell with nothing but long hours alone to consider his mistakes.
London. The vampire clan capital.
Selkirk had been in the great corpse of a city just a few months earlier, after receiving an emergency message via Mamoru's network of couriers. It was the only time he'd been contacted in all his time in Britain. Even deep in vampire Europe, word could still travel from the civilized south, although with great difficulty. Selkirk had penetrated London to locate Princess Adele, using the ley lines to go unseen by vampires. But even with that great skill, he was always a slip or an accident away from being discovered and killed.
Landing in London earlier today, through the wet air of early morning, he'd seen the towers of Westminster and the Bridge, so he knew he was south of the Thames River. But this part of the city was unknown to him.
The geomancer had been manhandled toward a hulk of a mansion, reddish grey brick covered with ivy and topped by a once-impressive dome. Two vast wings sprawled off a colonnaded portico with countless windows, some broken and most barred.
Goronwy had called it Bethlem. Or Bedlam. Before the Great Killing, it had been a madhouse. Now, the vicar claimed it was a research institute dedicated to understanding the spiritual and earthly arts. But a madhouse it remained.
Selkirk now found himself an inmate in that asylum. Cold air seeped through the stones, leaving him damp and freezing. He had lost track of the interminable, miserable time. Moans and screams echoed in the dust-filled building. A distant heavy door creaked open and admitted Goronwy, escorted by two bloodmen. The old man put an arm across his nose, grimacing at the stench.
“Ngh. I always forget the smell of science when I'm away.”
The man smiled at Selkirk through the bars of the cell. Gone were his previous modest clothes of a vicar. Now he was draped in a long silk dressing gown and a soft cap with a tassel. He smelled of flowery soap. He carried a large book with obvious pride. The bloodmen unlocked Selkirk's cell and chains from the wall, leaving the manacles around his ankles. He was dragged before the man he had once called a friend.
They all climbed the stairs out of the dungeon. As they passed through a long empty corridor, a soldier approached. He was clean and straight, not hunched and cowed like most of the bloodmen Selkirk had seen. This officer was fully in command of his faculties. He didn't act hypnotized or dazed. He even had a smug grin as he looked Selkirk up and down.
Goronwy asked, “What do you want, General Montrose?”
“Message from the palace. Cesare wants you and the spy there. Now.”
The vicar exhaled in disgust. “I've just arrived from Trellech. Surely I may eat.”
The general snorted a laugh. “I'm only a messenger, Doctor. Do you wish me to tell the prince you'll attend him after you've had a leisurely meal?”
The Welshman watched the soldier without obvious emotion. “I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, General. I am the witchfinder-general, not one of your fanatical Undead. I should hate to mention to Prince Cesare that you have certain faculties that require close study here.”
The bloodman officer shrank noticeably and lost some of his swagger.
With the upper hand retrieved, Goronwy resumed a professional respectfulness. “Please tell Prince Cesare, if you'd be so kind, that I will appear at the palace at my earliest opportunity.”
“But he seemed—”
“At my earliest opportunity.” The Welshman shifted the book, finished with the conversation.
General Montrose departed, leaving the vicar smiling. With a gentle shake of his fatherly head at Selkirk, he said, “I apologize for that unpleasant scene. General Montrose is rather full of himself. Typical of the Undead. They act like they drink blood.”
“The Undead?”
“Just part of Cesare's genius. He took a myth and turned it into an army. The vampires feed from them, and then the Undead will do anything to die in their masters' service, so they can be resurrected.”
“That's crazy,” Selkirk snapped angrily. “This whole thing is crazy.”
“Of course it is. No educated man believes vampires are undead humans. The Undead serve our lords because they're crazy. I do it because I'm a scholar.”
Selkirk couldn't find words to reply to such insanity. He wondered briefly if he was dreaming, still asleep in Goronwy's cottage in Trellech. However, that was too simple to be true. They continued on to a large chamber lit with candles. Plates and glasses were set on a long wooden table as if it were a banquet hall in the heart of Alexandria and not hellish London. The bloodmen led Selkirk to a chair. Goronwy sat opposite him, then dove into the lavish meal with relish. Selkirk recognized Goronwy's book with a start. It was al-Khuri's On Concentrative Reflexes. There were only two like it in the world, and they belonged to members of Mamoru's cabal. Selkirk trembled at the implications. The al-Khuri book was a singular text for geomancy, and its presence here in clan England was inexplicable.
“We're sitting on a circle here,” the Welshman said, through a mouthful. “You sense it, no doubt. This place is on what you Alexandrian scholars call a rift. I don't think the power resonates a great deal, but the vampires still don't like coming here. What is your opinion?”
Selkirk stared around like a lost child. This couldn't be happening to him.
“You're confused, I know. It's all strange to you now, but you'll come around. We'll do great things together, you and I.” The old man produced a long pipe and a battered tin of rancid tobacco. He offered a second well-chewed pipe to Selkirk, who merely closed his eyes in refusal. Goronwy put a flaring candle to the stuffed pipe and puffed clouds of vile smoke with the sigh of a contented squire. “Cesare is so keen for knowledge, I have carte blanche. Bethlem will become a renowned place of scholarship, lad. I will become the greatest man of the realm. With your help, of course.”
Selkirk sought some bit of focus. “What does Cesare care about your spiritualism? Those practices are anathema to his kind.”
Goronwy shrugged. “Cesare has vision. It was only a year ago that he sent his old war chief Flay to snatch me up in Wales. He'd heard of me, as a practitioner of religion. Of course I thought I was a dead man, but as it happened, he wanted to tap my expertise. He wanted to create an institute of spiritual advancement and chose me to direct it. I have the authority to seek out all other practitioners in the realm and bring them here for examination.”
“Examination? Or extermination?”
Goronwy merely puffed his pipe.
“You're a traitor,” Selkirk said.
“A traitor? To whom?”
“Humanity.”
“Bah.” The old man blew another cloud of smoke and crossed his slippered feet. “What do I care for some vague notion of humanity? I live in Britain.”
Selkirk sat forward. “But you're hunting the enlightened and bringing them to Cesare for slaughter. They are the only salvation humanity has against the vampires. You're helping him destroy them!”
“No, no, no. You misunderstand. I merely do research. I uncover principles. Just as you do.”
“You call yourself witchfinder-general.”
“Ah. Just a bit of drama awarded by Cesare. That's a political office. My scholarly title is Doctor of Comparative Spirituality. Here in London, I prefer the title doctor. Among the herds, I use reverend. Town and gown, you know.” Goronwy waved his hand with an impish grin. “You don't understand. You've been conditioned by the Equatorians to believe lies about the north. You'll see. With time, you'll see.”
The sound of a commotion reached them. Voices shouted for Goronwy. The old vicar stood
slowly, his pipe clamped in his teeth, annoyed at the interruption. When the office door swung open, General Montrose stormed in and moved to one side.
Prince Cesare entered.
Goronwy jerked with surprise. “My lord! I was just planning to depart for the palace.”
“You miserable goat!” The vampire's face was like white marble with sharp edges. His blue eyes almost steamed. His taloned hand grabbed the witchfinder by the throat. “How dare you force me to set foot in this wretched place. Tell me why you should still be alive when I stop talking.”
In Cesare's grip, Goronwy managed to croak, “So that I may present my latest colleague, Dr. Selkirk of Alexandria, a renowned and illustrious geomancer.”
Cesare eyed the captive with sudden interest, shoving Goronwy back in his chair. The vampire could tell by the dejected southerner's appearance that he was no local bog priest. Selkirk, in turn, couldn't take his eyes off the fearsome, legendary vampire as he approached.
The prince said, “So, this is one of Constantine's spies. Is he important? Or a nobody?”
“Imminently important, my lord. He is the very one sent to London in the early spring searching for Princess Adele.”
Selkirk's heart pounded, terrified now as Cesare growled, “You? You walked into London and helped the princess escape? You must be dear to the court of Alexandria. Excellent.” The vampire turned back to Goronwy. “I want to know everything he knows. Everything!”
“Of course, Prince Cesare. We've had many useful conferences and seminars already. For instance, I can tell you of a village that hasn't seen a vampire in many years, which practices vigorous religious rites. It's called Hawkshaw.”
Selkirk buried his face in his hands, trembling.
“Yes? Perhaps we can arrange for them to see a few vampires shortly.” Cesare fussed with his coat in mild agitation. He was growing perturbed in the troubling air of Bethlem. “Break him, Witchfinder. Turn him into something I can use. And if you keep me waiting again, I'll choose another witchfinder from among the wretches in your cells. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, indeed, Sire.”
Prince Cesare swept from the room. General Montrose grinned and followed at some distance.
Goronwy inspected his cold pipe without great concern. “You see? Cesare values me greatly. And he'll come to value you as well. I'm very excited about our future collaboration.”
“Collaboration!” Selkirk cried. “What are you talking about? You just spew words like colleague and institute as if they had meaning. You pretend to be some sort of scholar instead of what you are, which is a slave. Don't you understand where you are?”
“On the contrary. I think it's you who doesn't understand where he is. But you soon shall.”
I T WAS A long, hot coach ride to Giza. Adele saw snatches of green fields and palms rolling past, surrounded by the turgid waters of the Nile delta crowded with barges pumping smoke into the air as they churned through canals. The riverbanks were crowded with warehouses, factories, and homes born of Alexandria's southern sprawl. She chatted amiably with Mamoru, who sat across from her in the spacious steam carriage, about numerous topics—geology, botany, mineralogy—but they never touched on politics or the wedding, much to Adele's relief.
They passed the narrow green boundary between southern greater Alexandria and northern greater Cairo. Steam-driven cargo carriers moved up the Nile. Trains whipped past, trailing smoke and cinders. Camel caravans wandered in and out of the morass, fearlessly driven by Bedouin merchants. The traffic crushed the carriage to a crawl, and Adele found herself staring at the sharp bulk of the Great Pyramid as it appeared through the haze. Mamoru seemed inordinately impatient, craning his head out the window, clucking his tongue at the driver's inability to penetrate the phalanx of traffic.
“Relax,” Adele said to him. “Giza isn't going anywhere. If you'd wanted speed, we should've made this an official visit and cleared the roads.”
The teacher tried to look calm. “No, no. There's no great hurry. We don't want to attract undue attention. But I don't want to be late. My colleague is expecting us.”
“Sir Godfrey Randolph? Surely it can't be such an emergency for him to confer with me on vampire issues?”
“No, but he's eager to speak with you. Your reports on the north have circulated throughout the Imperial Academy.”
“Really?” Adele leaned forward with excitement. “I was wondering. I hadn't heard much since I wrote them.”
“They've been read by serious scholars. Sir Godfrey is very interested.”
Adele wondered at how best to approach her next observation. “Sir Godfrey has a reputation as…an odd duck.”
Mamoru didn't remove his gaze from the distance. “How so?”
“Well, he's a gifted surgeon. Wealthy. Respected. Then he became a vampirist and an occultist. Wrote several books, didn't he?”
Mamoru nodded.
Adele thought back to the book she'd seen in Greyfriar's possession months ago in France. It was Sir Godfrey's Treatise on Homo Nosferatii—a massive folio of plates depicting anatomized vampires. She had been eager to secure a copy upon her return so she could compare the anatomy of vampires to humans, and she found them quite similar in most ways, reassuringly so. She had wanted to meet Sir Godfrey since her return and tell him how his book was in the possession of the great Greyfriar, but she had decided to remain evasive on the swordsman whenever possible. The less said about her time with Greyfriar, the better. Lies had a way of unraveling.
She said, “I know he's your colleague, but surely you've heard the stories of his decline in favor. They say his home is full of stuffed vampires posed in terrifying tableaux.”
Mamoru glanced at her with an indulgent smile.
“Does he have them?” Adele blurted.
“Not that I've seen. But I haven't been in every room.”
“Surely you've heard these things also. Everyone says he's something of a crackpot.”
“That's what they say about me too,” Mamoru replied, and then he thought, And about you as well. “Sir Godfrey is a genius. He is the finest surgeon in Egypt. A man of vision.”
Adele sat back, not wanting to offend. “Of course. You know how stories get started.”
“I do. We're here.” Mamoru seized his walking stick and said, “Your veil, Highness.”
Adele wore a traditional robe with a headscarf, which she draped across her lower face. It seemed odd, but no doubt Sir Godfrey desired discretion. The carriage rocked to a stop and sat humming as if impatient while the driver opened the door. Mamoru was quickly out and handing Adele down the kick step. He led her on his arm across the sidewalk, now cast in late-afternoon shadow, and up the steps to a townhouse stoop. He had barely reached to knock when the door swung open and a butler bowed them inside. From the way he looked at her, Adele could tell he knew her identity, but he didn't speak as he collected Mamoru's hat and stick.
“Welcome! Welcome!” came a booming, jovial voice. A large, rotund, red-faced grandfather surged down the hall at them. He paused on the tile foyer and bowed deeply before Adele. “Your Highness, I am honored.”
Adele removed her scarf and bid him rise. “Thank you for your invitation, Sir Godfrey. I'm delighted the Imperial Academy has taken an interest in my papers.”
The bewhiskered doctor raised his eyebrows, eyeing Mamoru briefly. “Oh, indeed we have. You are now Equatoria's leading vampirist, Your Highness.”
“After yourself, of course.”
“You've surpassed me by a long shot. I've written a few books on the topic, but I've never traveled north of Alexandria, except for a brief jaunt to Cyprus on vacation. Have you ever been to Cyprus? It's quite lovely. I can recommend a nice restaurant, if it's still in business. I was there over twenty years ago.”
Adele laughed as they entered a beautiful library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Tables were covered with books and oddities, large crystals, busts, unidentifiable pieces of creatures, Egyptian washab
ti, and Chinese porcelain. There was a sumptuous buffet laid along one wall, with several servants standing by. A string quartet in a shadowy corner began to play Mozart.
Mamoru asked, “Would you care for a bite to eat, Highness? Or would you rather get down to business, and then relax later?”
Sensing her mentor's anxiety, Adele said, “If the food will keep, I'd prefer to get to it, gentlemen.”
“Excellent.” Mamoru turned to Sir Godfrey. “Shall we repair to the operating theater?”
Operating theater, Adele thought with unnerved excitement. An anatomy lesson, perhaps? How gothic. And what to think of a man with an operating theater in his own home?
Sir Godfrey took a deep breath and extended his arm. Leaving the soft strings behind, they went through a door and down a staircase. With each creaking wooden step, Adele felt a gruesome chill. She pictured the taxidermied scenes she might see below with glass-eyed vampires frozen in permanent, terrible melodramas. Another door led to an open room, this one with high ceilings and hissing gas jet flames in sconces that provided light. Two chairs stood against the wall. Adele felt hot, but there was something strange about the heat. Her heart began to flutter and she flexed her hands.
Mamoru said, “Are you unwell, Highness?”
“No.” Adele shook her head and breathed out heavily. The warmth piled up inside her. It was reminiscent of Canterbury. She smiled at the comforting throb in her chest. “It's the…the heat. I'm fine.”
Mamoru and Sir Godfrey exchanged glances, and the teacher nodded to his old colleague before the surgeon moved to the middle of the room where there was a long table covered with a sheet. Without fanfare, he reached out and yanked the sheet away to reveal a vampire strapped to the table. The creature gnashed his teeth at Sir Godfrey, who immediately stepped back.
The Rift Walker Page 6