The Golden

by Lucius Shepard

  “Come here to me,” he said. “You will not be harmed, I swear it.”

  One set of footsteps retreated, but before Beheim could set out in pursuit, a rusty, quavering voice called out, “Have mercy upon me, lord! I am weaponless against you!”

  Like an image surfacing from a black pool, a thin, angular figure with tangles of iron-colored hair and a prophet’s matted beard, wearing a hooded robe bleached to an indefinite gray, came haltingly forward from the dark recesses of the tunnel. Beneath the brush of whiskers was a hollowed, haggard face, but Beheim saw that the man was not old, as his stooped posture and seamed countenance indicated, only ill-used. The small, closely set eyes were an icy blue, lending an impression of canniness to his features; the neck was unwithered, and the squarish hands callused, powerful looking. Beheim could smell the fearful toxins in his blood, yet he also sensed that the man’s fear did not run deep, that his cowering attitude was at least in part an attempt to hide feelings of contempt.

  “Tell me your name,” Beheim said.

  The man stopped an arm’s length away, averted his eyes, his left shoulder drooping as if preparing to receive a blow. “Vlad, lord,” he said, and then, continuing in a chatty and altogether incongruous tone, “My name is Vlad. Yet I am no impaler as was my namesake.” An unsound laugh that went too high and cracked. “No, no, not at all. An unhappy coincidence, nothing more.”

  “Lucky for me, eh?” said Beheim, and gave Giselle an amused glance, eliciting from her a wan smile. “Where is your companion, Vlad?”

  “Lord, he was afraid. In awe of your magnificence. He could not stand before you.”

  “And you…you are not afraid?”

  “Oh, but I am, lord. I am terrified. My blood”—he pressed a hand to his chest, striking a dramatic attitude—“runs cold. But I am practiced at fear. I have learned to be a witness to my urges, not their slave.” His eyes darted toward Giselle, lingered a moment; then he returned his gaze to the worn stones at his feet.

  “Truly, that is a practiced answer,” Beheim said blithely. “I suppose I believe you.”

  For the briefest of instants Vlad met his gaze, and Beheim had a sense both of the unstable process of the man’s thoughts and of the consolidated principle of his loathing, the product of years spent slinking through the dark, shunning the brilliant presences who ruled the upper reaches of his stone universe, lusting for a power that would never be his.

  “I have heard,” Beheim said, “that you who dwell here below know all the secret ways of Banat.”

  “Perhaps not all,” said Vlad. “Some we know.”

  “I have heard, too, that you travel freely to every part of the castle.”

  Vlad inclined his head in a slight nod.

  “Even to the Patriarch’s chamber?”

  “Even there, lord.”

  “Excellent! I would have you lead me to the Patriarch at once.”

  Vlad hesitated. “You will forgive me, lord, but I must be so bold as to inquire, why do you wish to travel secret paths rather than seeking an audience directly?”

  “That is not your concern.”

  The man gave forth with an unsteady humming noise, like the drone of a drunken bee, and nodded rapidly, as if in agreement with some inner urgency. “It is evident, lord, that you have fallen into disfavor, or else you would not be asking for guidance. This being so, I would be a fool if I did not seek a reward for my service.”

  “Your reward,” Beheim said, barely able to hold his temper in check, “will be to survive this encounter.”

  “For many that would be more than sufficient,” said Vlad, sounding ever more assured despite his subservient pose. “But as for myself, lord, I am plagued with many fears. Death is only one of them, and life”—he gave a dismayed laugh—“life is sweet, but its sweetness has grown of late unsatisfying.” He looked straight at Beheim; his bony, bewhiskered face, gemmed with those glittering eyes, appeared fierce and ratlike; the pink tip of his tongue poked out. “Give me the woman. Your beautiful, beautiful lady. Give her to me, and I will lead you to the Patriarch.”

  Giselle moved behind Beheim, her hand going to his shoulder, and Beheim laughed coldly.

  “Hear me, lord!” Vlad retreated a pace, yet maintained a certain poise, like—Beheim thought—a mongoose withdrawing briefly from the fray to judge a cobra’s weariness. “What will it harm you to make this promise? I realize that your word when given to such as I cannot be your bond. Promise her to me. Then, if it suits you, you may retract your promise. And after I have led you to the Patriarch, you may punish me for my impudence.”

  The illogic that buttressed these words muted Beheim’s anger. “What could you possibly hope to win from such a contract?”

  “Why…the woman, lord. You see, I believe by the time we reach the Patriarch’s chamber, you will have realized that I can be of far more value to you than she. Though my uses, I admit, will surely be less pleasurable.” He favored Giselle with a discolored, gap-toothed smile. “What is your name, dear heart?”

  “Pig!” she said, clinging to Beheim. “He will butcher you for this!”

  “Will he, now? My lord can always find another bitch from which to guzzle. But help in a time of need? That is the rarest of commodities in Castle Banat.” Vlad, seeming almost merry, made a scuttling run deeper into the tunnel; he wound a strand of hair about his forefinger and gave it a yank, causing his head to bob like that of a puppet as he peered at Beheim. “Have we a bargain?”

  “To this degree,” said Beheim after a pause. “You will lead me to the Patriarch, and then, if I deem it wise, I will punish you.”

  “Michel, you can’t—” began Giselle, but Beheim drew her into an embrace and said, “I would never sacrifice you. Surely you must know that?”

  Vlad chuckled.

  “He’s mad! How can we trust him?” Giselle tried to engage Beheim’s eyes, but he was gazing at Vlad over the top of her head, giving thought to a new consideration. What if the man proved correct in his assumption? Who could say what might happen on reaching the Patriarch’s chamber? In circumstances like these, the assistance of an expert on the geography of the castle might mean the difference between life and death. Again he recalled Alexandra’s contention that soon he would discover how little Giselle meant to him. He wanted to put the lie to her words, but now was riddled with doubts.

  “Oh, I am mad,” said Vlad. “Never doubt it. I am mad as morning light. One must be mad to dwell in Banat. We are all mad here, even the greatest among us. Is that not so, lord?”

  Beheim gave the merest hint of a shrug.

  “But,” Vlad went on, “mad or no, I recognize the intrinsic functions of my place and time. I once served the Patriarch himself. Did I tell you that? Well, I did…and served him well. I understand the needs of the Family, I know their hearts and minds. In matters concerning them, my judgments are ever sound.”

  “Listen to me,” Beheim said to Giselle, keeping an arm about her waist. “If he leads us astray, he will die. That he knows. Then I will simply find another guide. If he leads us truly, that will change nothing for you. I must put my case before the Patriarch. And soon. This is our best hope, perhaps our only one. I believe we should chance it, but since your fate is also in the balance, I will leave it for you to decide.”

  Her lips parted as if she were about to speak; then her face clouded; after a second or two she lowered her eyes, rested her brow against his chin.

  “I cannot decide this,” she said. “I must trust to you. How can I do otherwise?”

  “Are you certain?”

  A nod.

  Beheim smoothed down her hair, felt her heart beating against his chest. Once again he stared at Vlad, who remained smiling at Giselle, shifting his feet, looking—with his snarled hair and beard, his snappish eyes—like someone halfway through a transformation into the animal.

  “Betray us,” said Beheim flatly, “and I will visit upon you the torments of hell. Do you understand?”

  Vl
ad might not have heard. “What is the good lady’s name?” he asked. “I wish to know her name.”

  Giselle ducked her head onto Beheim’s shoulder. Beheim remained silent, exploring the possibility that the man’s show of instability might be part of an attempt to make him incautious. It did not seem likely that Vlad—devolved and living like an animal in constant fear of the raptors high above—would be capable of this subtlety, yet the entire castle was a world of false appearances and clever deceits, and in such a world even the rats might wear disguises.

  “No matter,” said Vlad, moving deeper into the tunnel. “I’ll name her myself. Something classic, something Latin. Lavinia. Or Calpurnia. Portia. That’s it! Portia! Such a round, buxom name. A name so palpably fleshy it stiffens the tongue.” He let out a whinnying giggle and beckoned. “Come, my lord! Perhaps you are in no hurry, but I am eager for my reward.”

  For twenty minutes or thereabouts they followed Vlad through a system of narrow unlit passages, through patches of evil stench and cloying dampness. The man must have known every turn by heart, for the absence of light appeared to bother him not at all. He capered ahead as they groped their way along, unable to see their hands before their faces, now and again calling back to Giselle, offering salacious endearments and then apologizing profusely to Beheim, explaining that he was not to be held responsible, as his heart had been stolen by the beautiful lady. The confidence that Beheim had felt prior to meeting him began to dissipate and he grew less secure with his decision. Though they were ascending, it was gradual in the extreme—he doubted they could have climbed more than seventy or eighty feet from their starting point. He had lost all real sense of where they stood in relation to the upper reaches of the castle. And it was becoming apparent that Vlad was not the expert guide he claimed to be, or else he had some hidden purpose.

  He should have heeded Giselle, Beheim told himself; it was evident that his own instincts had been badly eroded. Any number of times he thought to menace Vlad, to demand resolution; but on each occasion he realized he could not trust the man’s reactions. If deranged, he might in panic lead them further astray; and if he was attempting to confound them, then how could Beheim depend upon anything he said or did? No, the best course was to continue on, to be watchful. Another half hour. Then he would reconsider. High above in the aeries of Castle Banat, men and women to whom the bloodiest of violences was as casual an act as the swatting of a fly might even now be planning his fate. He could not hope that they would stay their hand much longer.

  At length they came to a wall that blocked their path, but Vlad told them there was a stone pipe sunk into the base. They would have to crawl along it, he said, for some considerable distance.

  “Is there no other way?” asked Beheim, uneasy with this prospect.

  “Not unless we retrace our steps and start anew,” said Vlad. “I chose the shortest route, lord. It is not the easiest to negotiate, but there is none more direct. None more hidden from prying eyes.”

  Beheim had no choice but to accept this. And so, with Vlad leading and Giselle bringing up the rear, they set forth.

  The pipe was scarcely wide enough to admit them; from the fecal stink and sticky surfaces, Beheim assumed it to be part of a drainage system. The air was warm, and the sound of their breathing caused the heat to seem more oppressive yet and the darkness to seem tarry, like black glue clotting Beheim’s nostrils and lungs. He kept close behind Vlad, so close that now and again his hand would brush one of the man’s feet, but the farther they went, the less attentive to their guide he became. His thoughts whirled in desolate orbits. To be reduced to this! Crawling like a bug along a crack in a world he had once dreamed of ruling. Hate expanded in his skull with such tangible force, he imagined his body inflating, filling the channel, conforming to its shape, being molded into a bullet that would be spat forth into the brains of his enemies. Hatred became a kind of brilliant perception, and he saw how he would exact revenge for this humiliation. He had been too much in awe of his cousins, too impressed by their physical superiority to dare challenging them; but he realized now that their penchant for games and deceits led straight into his strengths. He was not afraid to match wits with them; in that sort of contest, it might be they who were outmanned. And, oh, what a game he would devise for them! What a cunning sequence of misdirections! Of course it would all depend upon his first impressing the Patriarch and gaining his confidence. He needed a perfect lie, something that incorporated the truth—whatever fragment of the truth he knew—and embroidered it with implication, delivering nothing of substance, yet making it seem that his intuition had forged a track to the heart of the crime. Once the lie had done its work, he would draw his enemies into the web it created. Agenor, Alexandra, and whoever else came to pose a difficulty. They were all his enemies in this. And despite his moment of enlightenment that had come upon hearing the song of his blood, even those of his branch were suspect. That, he realized, was the nature of the Family: it was a league of mortal enemies, a trait that sometimes proved both its most profound weakness and greatest strength.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a choking noise behind him, a rustle, the sound of something being dragged away. Then a grinding, a thud, as of a heavy weight being slid down along a track.

  Alarmed, Beheim tried to turn and struck his temple on the side of the pipe; pain blinded him for an instant.

  “Giselle!” he said, clutching the injured place.

  “So that is the lady’s name,” said Vlad. “I like it.”

  “Where are you, Giselle?”

  “Beyond your clutches, vampire.”

  Vlad was speaking from a goodly ways off, and Beheim realized he must have scrambled on ahead.

  “What have you done with her?”

  “She is no longer your concern,” said Vlad, his words betraying none of their previous eccentricity. “I suggest you now give thought to your soul. If you have one.”

  Beheim recognized that Vlad would never have addressed him with such disrespect unless he had some powerful form of defense at hand, and so he did not rush forward precipitously. He edged toward the sound of the man’s voice and, despite his growing anxiety, essayed a laugh.

  “And what of your soul, Vlad? What will become of it when I have done with you?”

  “You have no power over me. You’re a dead man. A dead thing. In a moment all your murderous days will be done.”

  “‘Thing,’ is it?” Beheim edged a little closer, straining to see Vlad in the blackness. “Yet you once yearned to be such a ‘thing,’ did you not? Perhaps you still are servant to that yearning. Perhaps you still long for judgment.”

  Closer, closer. Inch by inch.

  “It is true,” Vlad said. “Once I longed for power and life immortal, but I became frightened and fled my office. From fear, however, I have learned much, and whatever I may have lost, I have more than gained its equal in the restoration of my humanity.”

  “Indeed? Then why remain in Castle Banat, why not go back to the world of humankind?”

  “Life here has poisoned me. I can never go back to the place that bore me. But I can kill you, vampire. That should firmly establish my human proofs, don’t you think?”

  “Others will come. They will exterminate you all.”

  “You already hunt us. Why should we fear you more than we do already? And I doubt under any circumstance there will be a call for our extermination. There are dangers for your kind in these depths. We would not be easy to ferret out. It is likely that the Patriarch does not wish us to die. We cannot threaten him, and he may decide that our little community provides an intriguing danger against which he may test his subjects. In fact, I would not doubt that he has already assessed the situation and chosen to maintain the status quo. He has an affinity for such ironies as our existence here comprises. At any rate, if your cousins come to avenge you, I will hope to kill them, too. That will, in some small way, repair the wrongs done in my days of evil service.”

  Judging
by Vlad’s voice, Beheim estimated that he was no more than half a dozen feet away. He gathered himself, preparing to lunge; but before he could move, Vlad said, “Think on this as you die, vampire. Tonight I will have of your beautiful lady all those pleasures you have tasted. And more besides.”

  Another grinding noise, another thud. Beheim scuttled forward and met with a barrier. A stone slab had dropped down to block his path. It was immovable, though he pried at it with all his strength. He scooted backward, knowing that he would find another barrier behind him, yet hoping, hoping, his heart constricted by claustrophobic terror, his mind reddening with panic.

  There was, as he had guessed, a second barrier.

  He was trapped in a space not much larger than a coffin, encysted in an immeasurable tonnage of stone.

  For a moment he was unable to breathe. He sucked at the dead air, tasting blackness and decay. He could hear the drumming of his heart, feel it swelling in his chest. Then a scream burst from his throat, and he began to kick at the walls, to beat upon them with his fists. His fear was so animal and despairing, he might have gone on in this fashion for some time, but no more than a minute had elapsed before a section of pipe swung open beneath him, like the dropping of a trapdoor, and he went sliding feetfirst into a second pipe, hurtling downward at a steep angle, snatching at the slick, damp stone, trying to find a crack, a projection, anything with which to slow his progress, bumping his head with blinding force. Then he was falling free, screaming, flailing at the air…but not for long. A second or two, no more. He landed on his back, the impact sending pain lancing through his limbs, shocking him into unconsciousness.

  When at length he opened his eyes, dazed and aching, something was tickling his cheek and nothing he saw made any sense. Overhead was an expanse of smeared, sickly blue, like a poorly painted ceiling, daubed here and there with tendrils of white and splotches of dark green, and figured also by a glowing yellow and purplish mass, all diffuse and cloudy, as if he were gazing at it through a volume of water. There was a sighing noise. Wind, he thought, it sounds like the wind. The thing tickling his cheek feathered across his lip; annoyed, he plucked at it, held it to his eyes: a slim curve of brownish green. Slick and cool to the touch. Unidentifiable. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. A bit of definition appeared in the green splotches above. Pine needles? Couldn’t be, he told himself. He sat up, painfully, dizzily. He lowered his head, closed his eyes to clear the cobwebs. His thoughts moved slowly. Rudimentary, childlike thoughts. This hurts, that hurts. What’s this on my hand? Dirt? He wondered what he should do next. Find Giselle? Head for the Patriarch’s chambers? He had no idea of where he was—how could he hope to find anything or anyone? He opened his eyes again and was relieved to discover that his vision had returned to normal. There were rips in his trousers, his knees were abraded. Grass blades all around him. Winter grass, sere and dry. That made no sense, either, that there would be grass growing inside Castle Banat. He was just beginning to worry about this when he glanced up and stared directly into the sun.