The Golden

by Lucius Shepard

  Chapter FIVE

  Other rooms of the upper levels, like the cavern and the marble plain, came complete with occupants whose presence seemed a function of design, or who at least appeared to be on display. In one of these they encountered a pitiful old man chained to a wall, surrounded by scraps of gristly meat and piles of feces, who would break into a merry nonsense song whenever they came within ten feet of him, and would abruptly cease his singing when they moved farther away than ten feet, as if an internal alarm were triggered by this exact proximity. In another they found a black mastiff with a medallion of red gold about its neck who stared at them and panted; in another a lion slept beneath a rose tree whose petals were green glass and whose blooms were carved of carnelian. In a room with a long rectangular pool filled with bright water and murals on the walls depicting pale violet skies and distant snow peaks and graceful buildings with Doric columns and peristyles, there were three beautiful women so involved in a Sapphic tryst that not even Beheim’s shouts could gain their attention. In a small chapel, its ceiling decorated with frescoes in the style—if not by the hand—of Michelangelo, a bearded man lashed to a cross spoke in a lectoral tone in a language that Alexandra identified as archaic Hebrew; now and then he would burst out laughing. In what had once been an aviary, a room littered with broken screens and rusted cages and birdlime, thousands of carrion beetles were feasting on the carcass of a huge and unidentifiable animal. In a room whose walls and ceiling were tented with black silk, a grossly fat woman lay naked on a canopied black bed, playing a game whose counters were tiny bones with ornate silver inlays; her opponent was a swarthy, emaciated man no more than eighteen inches tall, who sat on the edge of the bed, for the most part gazing in horror at the pack of little yapping white dogs that stood on their hind legs and pawed at the coverlet, trying to get at him.

  There were, Alexandra said, dozens of such rooms, perhaps hundreds. Beheim would have liked to investigate them all, for he thought they might yield clues that would illuminate hitherto uncataloged facets of the Patriarch’s character and thus serve to increase his comprehension of the Family; however, time was short, and they proceeded on past these rooms toward one in which Alexandra believed they would find Mikolas de Czege, the younger brother of Buka de Czege, who was patriarch of that branch. As the Valeas and the de Czeges were feuding, she was leery of confronting Mikolas, not because she feared him—she claimed she did not—but because she did not want to exacerbate the feud. “Don’t let him bait you into anger,” she cautioned him. “You’ll never learn anything that way.” Given the reputation of the de Czeges, Beheim himself was none too eager to interview Mikolas; but once he had passed this test, he thought, the worst would be behind him, and so he went forward with, if not confidence, then something of a hopeful frame of mind.

  One wall of the long, narrow room where they found Mikolas was gray, with strips of peeling wallpaper hanging down and set with tall, narrow windows; behind the glass of each were powerful lanterns from which chutes of chalky counterfeit sunlight spilled onto the rough wooden floor. Like winter light, it pointed up the general disrepair and made the space it lit seem emptier, more desolate. Three children, two boys and a girl dressed in rags, all with dirty blond hair, listless and pale, all approximately eleven or twelve years old, were sitting beneath the window farthest from the door, staring into nowhere; beside them was a solitary straight-backed chair upon which some clothing and a towel were heaped. The other walls, also peeling and gray, were windowless, and from pegs thereon were suspended a variety of weapons: swords, whips, maces, spears, daggers. At the center of the room was a black pole with two buttons mounted on it that ran up into a box of white metal on the ceiling, and a man-sized dummy of pale, heavily grained wood with a saber bolted to its hand. Its head was a long faceless oval, pointed at each end, something insectile about the shape, and it attached to a thinnish neck; its body was scarred and nicked; a red heart was painted on its chest, and wires ran from its limbs to a complex arrangement of cables and tracks that converged upon the box on the ceiling and permitted the dummy to move about the room, even into its farthest corners. Whenever Mikolas attacked, the dummy would parry and then make a rickety-looking yet effective counterattack. After watching from the doorway for a while, studying the box and the wires, Beheim could not determine how the mechanism worked. There must be, he concluded, a device within the metal box that translated Mikolas’s thrusts and parries into appropriate reactions on the dummy’s part, but such a device would needs be of unheard-of sophistication, and he could not begin to imagine its essentials.

  Mikolas was a short, burly man, apparently in his middle twenties, with blacksmith’s arms and a brutish, heavy-jawed face; thick stubble shadowed his cheeks. His black hair, which was cut like a monk’s, was for the moment hidden beneath a studded metal cap, and he wore a padded tunic and leggings. Each time he swung his sword, he emitted a piggish grunt. Sweat poured down his reddened face. As he circled the dummy it seemed he must have spotted Beheim and Alexandra standing in the doorway, but his concentration was so fierce as to admit no other sight apart from his mindless opponent, for he did not notice them until Alexandra, growing impatient, called out his name. He looked toward them, startled, then ducked away from the dummy’s slash, receiving a glancing blow on the side of his metal cap that sent him reeling. He leaped to the pole, pressed the top button, and the dummy came all disjointed and hung limply.

  “Trying to kill me, Alexandra?” Mikolas laughed and walked a few swaggering paces toward them; he removed his helmet, sailed it across the room in the general direction of the three children, none of whom stirred or in any way reacted to the noise. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  She gave no reply.

  “Who’s that with you?” Mikolas asked, peering at Beheim; he began unbuttoning his padded tunic.

  “My name is Beheim. I’ve been sent—”

  “Oh, right! I’ve got no time for this shit!” Mikolas shrugged out of the tunic, revealing a massive chest as thickly furred as a bear’s; he started to unsnap his leggings. “I didn’t do it, all right? Not that I wouldn’t have enjoyed a drink or two from the blond bitch. But I never had the chance. Maybe next time.” He shucked off the leggings and stood naked before them, grinning apishly at Alexandra. “What do you think, cousin? A hell of a man, aren’t I? Come on home with me, and I’ll give you a fuck you won’t forget.”

  Alexandra regarded him with unalloyed malice. “You’d best put your toy away,” she said. “It appears all that exercise has made it shrivel.”

  “Oh-ho!” Mikolas shook his head as if in an excess of mirth. “Damn if I don’t wish things were different between Felipe and Buka! I’d be knocking on Felipe’s door, trying to arrange a marriage.” He winked at Beheim. “She’s got a pretty pair of tits, doesn’t she?”

  “I’m afraid I have to ask you some questions,” Beheim said.

  Mikolas scowled at him; then, in mocking imitation, said, “‘I’m afraid I have to ask you some questions.’” He snorted in amusement. “I’ll just bet you’re afraid. Maybe if you stopped hiding behind the Giraffe’s skirts, you’d learn to act like a man.”

  Beheim restrained himself, examined his notes. “You claim to have gone hunting with your brother the night of the murder. Exactly where did you hunt?”

  Mikolas’s scowl deepened; but after a moment he made a petulant noise and said, “Hell, I’ll answer your questions. I’ve got nothing to hide. Come on.” He led the way toward the chair and the seated children, his hairy buttocks jiggling. “We went hunting in the depths of the castle. That’s where I picked up these three.” He gestured at the children with his sword. “Make a nice set, don’t they?” He propped his sword against the wall and began toweling himself dry. “I like them so much, I’ve given them names. This one”—he indicated the smaller of the boys, who looked to be asleep—“is Breakfast. This one here”—he tapped the second boy on the top of the head, causing it to loll to the side—
“is Lunch. And this one”—he lifted the girl’s chin; she gazed at him dully—“is my favorite.” He smacked his lips in a parody of appetite. “Supper.”

  They were, despite their slackness of expression, pretty children; their necks all bore dried bloodstains. Beheim’s revulsion was overwhelming, but he forced himself to disregard the children and kept his eyes on Mikolas. The man’s face was the image of unhealthy excess. His skin was blotchy. A red line was indented on his brow from the pressure of the metal cap. Mad black eyes tucked into fleshy folds. The thick, cruel lips of a sensualist. A web of broken capillaries spread across his boxer’s broad, flattened nose, and the lobe of his left ear was ragged and discolored; it appeared to have been bitten off.

  “Is there anyone else who can testify to your whereabouts?” Beheim asked.

  “Certainly.” Again Mikolas pointed to the children. “Question them if you wish.”

  “I scarcely think they will make credible witnesses.”

  “Well, you can ask anyone if these three were with me before that night. And then you can ask the children what happened and how long we took in having our fun. We had a wonderful time.” Mikolas pulled on his trousers and leaned close to Beheim, enveloping him in an aura of acidic sweat. “Ever taste a virgin’s blood? Quite a treat. I’d offer you some now, but sad to say, she’s no longer a virgin. Active little bitch, she was. Flipped about like a fish out of water.”

  “You incredible pig!” said Alexandra.

  “Now look what I’ve done! I’ve made the Giraffe jealous.” Mikolas slipped into a red wool shirt, beaming at them.

  “You know,” Beheim said to Alexandra, his control faltering, “I’ve just had a splendid idea. There’s no point in continuing the investigation. We’ll probably never be able to unmask the actual culprit, but we don’t have to. We have the perfect candidate right here.”

  Mikolas said, “What in hell’s name do you mean by that?”

  “You’ve no real proof of your whereabouts,” said Beheim. “There’s not a soul who wouldn’t believe you capable of such an obscene act. All I have to do is dredge up one or two of your enemies who’d be willing to testify against you. Manufacture a few pieces of evidence. I believe the Patriarch would be delighted to have all this resolved so tidily.”

  Mikolas’s expression was a cipher; he finished buttoning his shirt. “Bear with me a moment,” he said. Then with one hand he lifted the taller of the two boys, pushed his head to the side, and drank from the vein in his neck. The boy’s eyes showed in crescents of white beneath his drooping lids. His left hand trembled. Breath whistled in his throat. As Mikolas gulped down the blood he stared at Beheim and Alexandra through a fringe of the boy’s hair.

  Beheim felt Alexandra’s hand on his arm, but he needed no restraint. The children were dead already, and whatever compassion he had felt for them had been overborne by his loathing for de Czege. And perhaps, he thought, he had never felt any compassion. Perhaps all he had felt had been regret for feeling nothing.

  “There now,” said Mikolas, depositing the boy roughly on the floor. “Much better.” He wiped a smear of blood from his mouth and gave a sigh of satisfaction. “I think I’ll tell you a story. A de Czege story.”

  “Spare us,” said Alexandra.

  “No, really! You must hear this.” He settled his pants about his hips, rotated his head to ease some stiffness. “There once was a man, a man very much like myself, as a matter of fact. A rough bastard who took what he wanted and dared the world to spit in his eye. Now, he was no admirable character”—Alexandra laughed at this; Mikolas paid her no mind—“but he’d never aspired to be an admirable character, so that didn’t bother him. The only thing he’d ever wanted to be was as brave a man as his brother. And that was uncommonly brave, for his brother was counted among the bravest men in the country. Well”—he picked up his sword and laid the blade flat against his palm—“one day his brother told him that he’d been bitten by a vampire. He’d managed to escape, but he was sick, afraid that the vampire would be able to control him. This was a very long time ago, back in the days when vampires were taken as a matter of course, so the man had no qualms about believing his brother.”

  Mikolas went half a dozen paces out into the center of the room. “Do you know what the hero of my story did? He decided to kill the vampire.” He glanced back at them over his shoulder. “Don’t you think that was brave of him?” he asked mildly. “Knowing what a vampire was and still having the courage to confront it. You see, he realized he would never be able to find where the vampire slept, at least not before he could pose a further danger to his brother. He would have to visit the vampire’s dwelling place that night and kill him while he was awake. He was afraid. Oh, he was terrified! But fear was a goad to him, and so without delay, he went to the vampire’s house and hid in a closet, and when the vampire appeared, accompanied by two sickly ladies, he stepped out from his hiding place. He had a sword in his hand. Like this one. A saber. The vampire laughed and laughed. He knew a sword could do him no permanent harm. But instead of attacking, the man drew the edge of the sword across the palm of his own hand, making a deep cut. Like this.”

  As he had described, Mikolas laid open the palm of his hand. Blood trickled down his wrist.

  “Now, this was an extremely stupid vampire,” he went on. “Extremely vain. He believed his overpowering charm was responsible for the man’s act of courage. And so he did not weaken the man with his eyes before taking blood. He lapped at the man’s hand, almost playfully, and then he struck into the man’s neck. The man was dizzy with the rapture, but he maintained his resolve, and he pulled out an oak stake that he had secreted in his belt and pierced the vampire’s heart while he was feeding. The women attacked him, but they were weak, disoriented by their master’s death, and he was able to elude them.” He wiped his bloody hand on his trousers, examined it. “A happy ending, you might think. But there’s an irony involved. The man rode home to tell his brother, only to find that his brother had died, and that in dying he had gained life immortal. Before he could give him the news, his brother judged him. And thus it was that the de Czege branch was born.”

  Mikolas stared at them, his face tightening. “Do you really believe that I could fear you?” he said, his voice thick with rage. “That I could fear anything?” He swung his sword in a windy arc. “If it’s threats you want to play at, here’s one for you. I’m going to cut you into goddamn pieces and see how long it takes for you to grow whole again.”

  He closed on them in a series of quick steps and slashed at Beheim’s head. Beheim darted away, pushing Alexandra ahead of him. He evaded another charge by Mikolas, lunging to the right, then sprinting off past the windows, fetching up against a sidewall, where several dozen weapons hung from pegs. As he turned he saw Alexandra knocked to the floor by a blow from Mikolas’s fist. She lay without moving. Beheim snatched down a sword with an ornate guard and unsheathed it.

  Mikolas’s laugh was exultant. “Ah! A contest!” he said. “I wondered if you were a man, and now it appears you are. Not much of one, perhaps. But enough for the business at hand, eh?” He bowed, made a flourish with his saber. “I accept your challenge.”

  He stepped forward a pace, wary now, but before he could advance farther, Beheim launched a desperate attack, driving him back into the center of the room, close to the black pole and the fencing dummy. For more than a minute they fought in a fury, exchanging dozens of blows, the ring of steel on steel making a bright counterpoint to their grunts and exclamations. Beheim grew in confidence. The sophistication of his attack was offsetting Mikolas’s superior strength. But his confidence soon eroded as Mikolas began to fight defensively, forcing Beheim to spend his energies, seeking to wear him down. Sweat trickled into the corner of his eyes. His breath came shallowly. Through the weave of their swords he saw Mikolas’s smirking. The light of the false sun was affecting his vision, flashing on the blades, dazzling him.

  “I’m going to cut off your basta
rd head,” Mikolas said, and parried. “I’m going to”—another parry, a probing attack—“put it in a hatbox. I’ll feed it rats.” He lunged, thrust, slashed, then retreated. “I wonder what will happen. Will it grow a new body? Will the body grow a new head? What do you think?” His shoulder brushed against the fencing dummy, and he shoved the thing aside, sending it into a jittering dance. Beheim was struck by an idea. He was not at all certain it would work, but he was absolutely certain of what would happen were some new element not added to the equation.

  He spent the next minute or so convincing Mikolas that he had grown more fatigued than in actuality he had, until at the end of that time he was in full retreat, leading Mikolas a chase throughout the room, passing closer and closer to the pole. At one point he was almost too convincing in his portrayal of weakness, and the tip of Mikolas’s saber drew a hot stripe of pain across his upper thigh; but he could feel the wound beginning to heal almost immediately, and it did not cause him even momentary inconvenience. Mikolas continued to taunt, to threaten, and by this gauge, Beheim was able to measure the increase of his arrogance. Finally, with Beheim’s weariness becoming a real liability, he threw himself toward the pole, hoping that he had chosen the correct angle of approach. Mikolas followed him, having to shoulder past the dummy once again, and Beheim punched the top button on the pole.