The Golden

by Lucius Shepard

  “You will understand soon enough, and in your own way. It’s not my place to influence you.” A wry smile. “Not in such intimate questions, at any rate.” Suddenly brisk, she moved toward the door. “I must go now. But I will give you all the help I can. And…Ah! I nearly forgot.” She came back to him and pressed something into his hand. “A key to Felipe’s apartment.”

  “Why should I bother to search Felipe’s rooms. They’ve already been searched.”

  “By servants,” she replied. “Surely you consider yourself a more reliable functionary than they. What choice do you have? I suppose you could retire from the case. Of course, then not only will you be subject to Agenor’s displeasure, but also to that of the Patriarch. Scarcely an enviable position.”

  Beheim turned the key between his fingers. “You seem very sure of how I’ll act.”

  “It’s as I said: you have little choice. And not because it’s your only hope of solving the murder. The risks of the game will compel you. You are in some ways cautious, as are we all, yet it is also in your nature to hazard everything on a single throw of the dice.”

  Beheim’s annoyance swelled into anger. “I’ve become rather weary of people claiming to understand me better than I do myself.”

  “Then you must grow in understanding, mustn’t you?”

  “Perhaps you expect me to change my mind concerning Lord Agenor’s proposals.”

  She made a gesture of dismissal. “You will be who you must, cousin. I expect nothing of you…at least nothing you would now be able to comprehend. Truly, I would be a fool to have expectations of you, for it is not yet clear whether you will survive your own investigation. You are quite out of your depth. And yet…” Her voice dropped in pitch, becoming heatedly familiar. “Listen, Michel. Perhaps I am being overbold in saying this, but I have seen in you the promise of great substance and great heart. I pray you will be able to avoid certain of the difficulties that I encountered when I was new. You are laboring under a number of misconceptions, many of which are likely to lead you into folly. One in particular is dangerous in that it may retard your development, and that is your affection for the thing you sent to my apartments. I’ll wager that before this investigation is through, if all goes well, you’ll discover how different is the character of your relationship from what you now believe to be true. And perhaps you will also discover uncommon worth where now you see only menace.”

  With a quick step forward, she drew him into an embrace, her hands pressing against the small of his back, and kissed him—a forceful kiss upon the lips that stimulated him hardly at all, seeming more an attempt to seal a bargain than to arouse; but just as he was about to make a comment to this effect, he was overcome by a spell of vertigo and a sudden dimming of his vision. Against a backdrop of undulating green, as of some watery deep—the same color as her eyes—there he saw the naked person of Lady Alexandra swaying with the gentle grace of kelp in an ebb tide, her arms and hands inscribing hypnotic figures, easing closer and closer, like a dream taking form before a drowning man. He tried to fight off the vertigo, but his mind was entangled in a soft, warm net, his thoughts cluttered and helpless like silver fish in fine mesh, and instead of reacting in fear, he marveled at the exotic character of her beauty and wondered how he could ever have thought her other than beautiful. With her pear-sized breasts and lovely legs, the long thighs delicately flexing, stems supporting the bloom of her belly, she was a miracle to his eyes, tinder to the fire of his senses. With every passing second, her sensuality became more affecting. He could smell her sex. Her blood. Her face was so near, he could no longer make out its shape. Her crimson mouth opening, her pink tongue licking forth slowly like sea life. And then it ended. All sensation, all feelings of intimacy and wild blood sheared away. Stunned, unsteady, he found that she had disengaged from the embrace and was standing several feet away, watching him with an expression that while not devoid of calculation, seemed also to embody a measure of both fondness and confusion.

  “What now?” she said in a small voice, appearing to be speaking less to him than to her inner self. Then her features were tightened by a resolute look, and she said in a firmer tone, “I believe I will stay with you awhile. To assist you. But you must send that—” She broke off, paused a second. “You must send your servant away. This Giselle. Put her to some other use. I will not tolerate her company.”

  Beheim, still wobbly, muttered something to the effect that he needed no assistance.

  “That may be,” Alexandra said. “But you do need to be convinced that the key I have given you is your best hope in all this. I will stay with you until you have matured in that conviction. At the very least, my presence will afford you added protection while you continue your interviews.”

  He could not deny that, but was troubled by this sudden shift in her intentions. “Why do you want to help me?”

  “As I told you, it is in my interests.”

  “And there’s nothing more?”

  “Oh, cousin!” she said, giving a lilt to the words that made them seem to have the resonance of a quiet, wistful laugh. “There is always something more.”

  Chapter FOUR

  The brooding quiet of the Castle Banat had been overborne to some extent by an atmosphere of emotional turbulence. Most of the Family were keeping to their rooms, but a fair number had taken to prowling about the upper levels and engaging in arguments, even brief scuffles; their shouts and clatter echoed throughout, faint as the cries of birds and the scuttlings of squirrels, but nonetheless startling to hear in all that funereal hush. Among them were several men and women whom Beheim intended to interview personally. He came to wonder if their agitated movements might not disguise a desire to avoid being interviewed, for had Alexandra not been with him, he would have had the devil’s own time in tracking them, and when he finally did manage to beard them, they were none of them cooperative, but presented either snarling or stony faces. Elaine Vandelore, whom they found reading by candlelight in the servants’ pantry, hurled her book at him and answered his questions in icy monosyllables. Hermann Kuhl they discovered seated in an armchair in an abandoned quarter of the castle; he responded to Beheim with haughty indifference, interrupting his answers to give erotic instruction to the female servant who knelt between his legs all the while. Georg Mautner, occupied in a game room with Lupita Cascarin y Miron, half sister to the Lady Dolores, amused himself by skewering a mouse with a dart and then favoring Beheim with a glance of hostile significance. The only one whose behavior might be characterized as in any way responsive was Ernst Kostolec, a political ally of Agenor’s, though scarcely his friend, and an elusive sort whose wizardly reputation caused even the most powerful of the Family to tread lightly around him. They located him in the Patriarch’s library, less a room than a great circular stair sunk through the center of the castle, more than a mile in depth, its walls lined with books, many so ancient that to open any one of them would be to transform it into hundreds of scraps of yellow paper that would then flutter down into that dark well like the brittle ghosts of a swarm of butterflies. It was one of the few rooms in the castle, at least of those in common use, where lanterns, not torches, provided the illumination—it seemed the Patriarch cared more for his books than he did for the safety of his children.

  Kostolec, a man of Agenor’s apparent age, but far more decrepit in aspect, stooped and wrinkled and vulpine, with tufted eyebrows and a few strands of fine white hair floating above his mottled scalp like wispy clouds above the surface of a dead planet, was standing on one of the landings, an octagonal space some twenty-five feet wide, hunched over a lectern, peering through a magnifying glass at a large leatherbound book open to a page covered in florid script. Rays of orange light sprayed out into the center of the well from a lantern with five panes suspended above the lectern, but they did not illumine the opposite wall. A look of annoyance crossed his face when he saw them on the landing directly above him, and he slammed his book shut, expelling a puff of dust from b
etween the covers; the gilt inscription on the front of the volume was in Portuguese and beneath that lay the ornament of a gilt palm surmounted by a crescent, and on the spine was the symbol of a crown and a leaf. Beheim noticed that the front of Kostolec’s gray silk shirt was thick with dust, evidence—perhaps—that he had slammed shut other books not so long before. A sign of frustration, possibly. But as they approached he smiled in a pleasant manner. Pleasant, at least, in contrast to the general run of smiles with which Beheim had met. And so, for all his anxiety over questioning so formidable a figure, Beheim was put somewhat at his ease.

  “Ah, excellent! Our little policeman,” said Kostolec, wiping his hands on his trousers, which were also gray; the emptiness around them caused his voice to carry a slight reverberation, and his words seemed to stir a little something in the central darkness of the well. “How droll! I feel I’ve been transported into the midst of a traveling theatrical company.” He cast an arch glance toward Alexandra. “And what part are you playing this day, my dear? Not the fluttering ingenue, I trust.”

  “For purpose of this scene,” she said dryly, “you’d do best to consider me a spear carrier.”

  “Such nice menace. I approve.” Then, to Beheim, who was shuffling through the loose pieces of paper on which he had made his notes: “Be wary of her, Mister Policeman. She has a talent for self-delusion which serves all the better to obscure her actual motives.”

  Beheim ignored this. “Your servant Jules,” he said, “has stated that he was with you in the library on the night of the murder. You were both here the entire night?”

  “Did not Jules so state?”

  “Yes, but I—”

  “Then I would not doubt him. He is a gentleman of exceptional character.” Kostolec leaned against the lectern, not the stiff movement of an old man, but giving an impression of supple strength. “He hunts books for me. It saves time to have him run them down.”

  “And why is he not assisting you now?”

  Kostolec laughed. “Something more important has come up. He is at present scurrying about Banat, asking questions and running fool’s errands. On behalf of some policeman, I believe.”

  “For that, my apologies,” Beheim said, and again shuffled through his notes. “Jules has also indicated that you are embarked upon a lengthy study. Might I ask what is the subject of your researches?”

  “That is irrelevant to your investigation.”

  “It may well be,” Beheim said. “But I’m afraid I must be the judge of that.”

  “Your imperatives are not mine,” said Kostolec, anger edging into his voice.

  “True, I cannot force you to answer. I can only note that you do not. However, it’s possible that your researches have some relevance of which you are unaware. And even if they are irrelevant, why not settle the matter?”

  Kostolec was silent for a long moment; nothing about his posture or expression gave a clue to his mood. Beheim gazed down over the railing at the corkscrewing stairway beneath. Beams of light struck into the center of the well from a number of lower landings, given distinct form by the dust suspended in the air; bindings gleamed in the shadows like seams of ore. Far below, a glowing orange dot bobbled like a firefly in the grainy darkness. Probably another scholar ascending with a lantern. A faint creaking noise came from the landing above, but Beheim saw no one there. The structure settling, he supposed.

  Finally Kostolec said, “I’m certain you have taken into account the insult implicit in your questioning.”

  “Obviously I regret the necessity—” Beheim began, but Kostolec cut him off.

  “On the other hand,” he went on, “I must take into account your inexperience and the impossible position in which you have been placed. Therefore I will answer your question.”

  A bland smile etched the lines deeper on his withered face, and Beheim, shocked by this display of rationality, murmured his thanks.

  “I am studying the future,” Kostolec said.

  Beheim waited for a further explanation, but none was forthcoming. He glanced at Alexandra; she lifted one shoulder in an almost imperceptible shrug. Kostolec continued to smile.

  “Would you care to be more specific?” Beheim asked.

  “No, I would not.”

  “Very well.” Beheim paced to the edge of the landing, glanced down again into the well. Another faint creaking noise came to his ears. “It seems that the future, at least your conception of it, is somehow related to the records of the Royal Portuguese Botanical Society. The book you were examining appears to contain some of their colonial journals. The palm tree on the cover indicates to me that the work concerns a tropical land. The crescent”—he spread his hands—“perhaps refers to Islam. A tropical Portuguese colony with an Islamic population? I am not familiar with the history of the Portuguese expansion. However, certain sections of Africa spring to mind. Or perhaps a colony farther east. What do you think? Since the Orient is the focus of a discussion that has recently occupied our attention, I would hazard a guess that you may be searching for a site in the Far East that would be suitable for our relocation.”

  “I once had a dog who could stand on his hind legs and bark,” Kostolec said. “A clever little fellow. Most entertaining.”

  “I’m pleased to have awakened your nostalgia,” said Beheim.

  “But mere cleverness can achieve nothing, and that is precisely what you have achieved by discerning the subject of my study. What relation could there be between my bookish pursuits and the murder of the Golden?”

  “None that I can see,” said Beheim. “And yet this question of our migration is a color that tints the entire investigation. At least I have a sense that it does. Few of our interrelations are simple affairs. Whatever the sequence of events, whatever the superficial justification for those events, the actions we take seem to resonate on many levels, to draw together a variety of concerns into the mechanisms of a single passion. I believe it would be foolish to take a simplistic view of the crime, to attempt to separate it, in my consideration, from its backdrop. Thus your political involvement intrigues me. As far as I can determine, you have until lately held yourself apart from this sort of issue. Certainly there has never been any love lost between you and Agenor, and yet now you are his ally. A political alliance founded on mutual self-interest? Perhaps. However, I would be a fool if I did not examine the possibility that there is more to it than that.”

  “I cannot think how this leads you to suspect me of murder.”

  “‘Suspect’ is too strong a word. I have no real suspects. Because of limitations imposed upon me by time and circumstance, I must concentrate my energies on those who display what strikes me as uncharacteristic behavior. As yours strikes me. It may appear that I am grasping at straws, and indeed I am. But investigations of this sort rarely proceed along logical lines. A slip is made, a secret is whispered, an accident of fate occurs. And suddenly the whole thing is revealed. As for my part in things, I’m casting my net in murky waters, hoping that a shark will see my legs and seek to take a bite, thinking I am merely clever.”

  Alexandra gave a soft, pleased laugh, and Kostolec’s eyes cut toward her; for an instant his features were concentrated into a venomous mask. Then he, too, laughed. He nodded to Beheim. A civil nod. “Will you pardon me?” he said, and with a prodigious leap that carried him to the foot of the stairs, he raced up to the landing directly above them. Beheim heard a cry, sounds of a brief struggle. Seconds later Kostolec reappeared, dragging behind him a terrified young man dressed all in black, with ragged brown hair and a thin, long-jawed face; a fresh crop of pimples straggled across his forehead.

  “Who is this?” Alexandra asked, and Kostolec said, “A creature of the Vandelores. Aren’t you?” He lifted the man up by the collar, holding his head close to the lantern, and swung him so that his knees smacked against the railing. “This disgusting wretch is the third spy they’ve set on me since my arrival.”

  “My lord, have pity!” said the man, clutching at
Kostolec’s wrist to prevent himself from swaying back and forth. “I meant you no harm.”

  “Thank God!” said Kostolec mockingly. “I was afraid for my life.” His stare was as unwavering and black as that of an old reptile. “Who sent you?”

  The man wet his lips; his eyes darted to Alexandra, then to Beheim. “Marko,” he said. “It was Marko. Lord, I did not willingly—”

  “Be silent!” said Kostolec; he glanced at Beheim. “Do you understand now why I react with such enmity to your questions? Day and night, I am beset by the Vandelores. How can I tolerate this constant interference in my affairs?”

  “What could the Vandelores want of you?” Beheim asked, watching the man trying to swallow, half-choked by his tightened collar.

  “They want,” Kostolec said, enunciating each word with studied precision, as if aiming and firing them at Beheim, “to know my secrets.”

  He forced the man’s face close to his and kissed him on the lips. The sight of the two faces pressed together, the smooth skin of one being nuzzled and sucked by a pale, wrinkled beast in a fan of ruddy light in the midst of an immense darkness, bred a strange distance in Beheim, as if he were peering into a dimension in which every constant had been rearranged, where animals walked about in men’s forms, and true men were handled like sheep, where the physical world was a cave filled with gilded symbols and dust, and life was a sinister, wasted value, death an exalted goal.

  Kostolec broke off the kiss, studied the man dangling limply from his hand. “Tell Marko that if this ever happens again, I will pay him a visit.” He appeared to be mulling something over; his owlish eyebrows hinged in the middle, his lips pursed. “On second thought,” he said, “I’ll tell him myself.” And looking straight at Beheim, with a casual flick of his wrist he tossed the man over the railing.

  He seemed to twist at the center of the well for an instant, his mouth agape, eyes white with fear, as if held aloft by the rays of lantern light that touched him redly, then—as Beheim made a futile lunge toward the railing—he tumbled down head over heels into the darkness, trailing an abandoned, throat-tearing scream. Beheim watched him fall, watched him vanish, the sight conjuring a queasy chill in his belly. He whirled about, ready with a violent question, but his outrage was quelled by the sight of Alexandra and Kostolec standing face-to-face, tense and furious, the tall, beautiful woman in her nightdress and the predatory old man—like otherworldly raptors. He expected them to run at each other, to tear and punch and bite. But instead they relaxed from their aggressive poses, and Alexandra, in a calm voice, said, “That was badly done!”