The Golden

by Lucius Shepard

  He stationed himself behind two men at the rear of the gathering, some twenty feet from Giselle. She was chained so that her head obscured the crotch of one of the huge, pale cartoons on the wall, making it appear that her face and hair were a clever form of pubic decoration. She moaned and tried unsuccessfully to lift her head. Drugged, he supposed. Seeing close at hand the full extent of her bruises, imagining how she had been used…this hardened his anger. How these things stank! Their blood was a vile carrion fluid, their bones were black sticks mortaring a spoilage of poisons and stringy meat. They were brutes, animals, incapable of anything other than the grossest of perceptions, the most rudimentary judgments.

  There were whispers and rustlings as Vlad turned to Giselle. Then silence. He spoke softly to her, gave her a light slap. Her eyelids fluttered, but remained closed. Vlad grinned at his audience and shrugged—in his manner, he reminded Beheim of the buffoonish, third-rate illusionists who had sometimes appeared during intermissions at the Opéra Comique. His canines, too, were fitted with a pair of metal fangs, and in a show of mock ferocity, he clicked them together and let out a hissing exclamation. The audience tittered; several of the women pretended to be shrinking away from him in fright. He turned again to Giselle, stroked her hips as might a lover; then, with another sidelong, grinning look at the onlookers, he sank his counterfeit fangs into her neck. She stiffened, her fingers splayed; yet she did not wake. A line of lovely ruby-colored blood escaped his lips, eeled down her neck and onto her breast.

  Afraid for her, but feeling mostly a sense of proprietary violation, Beheim placed his hands on the necks of the two men in front of him, squeezing gently as if in affection. As they turned to look at him, their faces betraying puzzlement, he squeezed harder. There was a grating sound, like gravel being crushed beneath the wheels of a cart: the vertebrae at the bases of their necks grinding into a rubble of bone. He stared at them fiercely, wanting to stain their last seconds with his hatred. They quivered like rabbits in his grasp. Borne along by the momentum of turning to his left, freed of skeletal constraints, the head of one of them made nearly a complete revolution, so that—as his eyes rolled up—his final sight was of a corner of the ceiling to his extreme right.

  Beheim flung the bodies aside and confronted the others, who had fallen back to either side of Vlad and Giselle. The room was so narrow, barely a few feet wider than his outspread arms, they had no hope whatsoever of escaping him. As they huddled together, clutching at one another and making puling noises, they seemed as foul and anonymous as roaches. In some basement of his thought he recalled who they were and knew that—although pitiable—they were not very different from himself; but that knowledge was meaningless, rather like the knowledge one might have of the principles of combustion when one strikes a match, intending to burn down a house full of sleepers. What he chiefly knew was that they were his enemies, that no quarter should be given them. He had grown beyond them in every way, most particularly in the refinement and scope of his emotions, and it seemed his fury could no longer be gauged in terms of human reaction, but was an evolution of anger, a monstrous flame of an emotion that filled his brain as light might fill the glass sleeve of an oil lamp. It was so grand, such a symphonic sweep of feeling, he could scarcely contain it. He imagined how he must look to them, taking the Lady Dolores for his model, picturing his own mouth stretched wide, linkages of saliva strung between his fangs, and he preened before them, letting his breath hiss out, wanting them to experience fear in all its subtle increments, to anticipate the richness of pain, waiting for them to become desperate and attack.

  It was a paunchy, heavyset man with a sallow complexion who finally tried Beheim, snatching up one of the torches from the wall and swinging it at him with a great whoosh and flurries of sparks. Beheim knocked the torch aside, caught him by the throat and drew him close. Curiously enough, the man relaxed. His eyes ranged across Beheim’s face with an innocent, awed curiosity like that an infant might display when straining to see a dim figure leaning over his crib. Beheim had never experienced such a raw feeling of presence. The man’s essence seemed to billow about him like a rising fog, damp and turbulent and rife with clammy secrets. He was ordinary looking, with grizzled cheeks and unhealthy dark pouches of skin beneath his eyes and a scatter of inflamed eruptions mapping his chin and neck; yet at the same time he was wonderfully vital, aglow, as if every ounce of life were being sweated out of him by the pressure of the moment. Beheim was, for a brief moment, fascinated. Then fascination gave way once again to disgust, and he slung the man headfirst into the wall, crushing the top of his skull. He could feel the suddenly created absence of the death, like a tunnel punched through the air into a dimension of slow reverberation, and silence like a chill fluid welling out into the breach. And the scattered energies of those things that could not be sustained beyond death, the petty colors of the ego, the scant, last-remembered things, all the excess baggage of the man’s life, these he felt on his skin as barely perceptible flutterings, like ashes on a hot wind.

  For a matter of seconds the others remained motionless, uniform in their horrified expressions, watching the limbs of their dead companion spasm on the stones, dark blood pooling wide as a table beneath his burst head. Then they crowded away from Beheim; they turned to the walls, trying to climb out of reach, to use the shoulders of their fellows for ladders, prying at cracks, milling together, surging this way and that like rats in the bottom of a barrel. One of the women screamed, then a second woman, and Beheim screamed, too, taunting them in part, yet the cries ripping out of his chest almost as if in sympathy, making a natural counterpoint to their singing. Another man, a gangly sort with a crop of gray stubble on his cheeks, snatched up the torch that the heavyset man had dropped; but before he could take aggressive action, Beheim struck the torch to the floor and drove his fist into the man’s face: three short, powerful punches that obliterated all feature and dappled the robes of those nearby with gore. He kept hold of the man’s robe, letting him dangle, limp and lifeless, as inconsequential as the corpse of a game hen. His right hand was gloved in blood, and he displayed it to the others as if it were a sword, wanting them to comprehend the sharpness of the edge, to anticipate its bite. He was shivering with eagerness and hate. It grew quiet in that glistening, black room. The white creatures of the murals appeared to be trembling in the unsteady light; the crackling of the torches and sobbing breaths were the only sounds. One of the men began to weep. Vlad remained standing beside Giselle. His eyes darted to the left, the right; his lips were wet and scarlet, stupidly parted, like a clown’s.

  Beheim pictured himself moving among them, plucking out hearts, tearing limbs, shattering bones. But recalling the greater circumstance of his peril, he found the capacity for restraint. He herded the survivors against the side wall and crossed to Giselle. When he spoke to her, her eyes opened, but she did not appear to see him. He wrenched the bolt anchoring her shackles from the wall and caught her up in one arm; with his free hand, he caught Vlad by the front of his robe and lifted him. Vlad’s mouth worked, and he made an unintelligible noise that had the flavor of an entreaty. He made a second try at speech and succeeded in asking, as he had done on their initial meeting, for mercy.

  “Mercy is not always a kindness.” Beheim smiled thinly. “But if you insist, I will be merciful.”

  He laid Giselle down against the wall, well apart from the rest, all the while maintaining his hold on Vlad. She had lapsed into unconsciousness; her breathing was labored and her pulse ragged. When he turned from her, some of the survivors sank to their knees and began to plead with him. It was easy to ignore them, yet he found that he no longer enjoyed the sight of the dead, that feelings of self-loathing were beginning to color his thoughts. Nevertheless, he refused to accept the full measure of guilt for what had happened. They had violated Giselle and tried to murder him. He had acted in the interests of their survival.

  “This”—Beheim gave Vlad a shake, extracting a squeal—“this has t
ried to kill me with the sun. And he has failed. Do any of you wish to try me further?”

  They were silent.

  “Good,” he said. “For it would serve you nothing. I am the first of my kind to have no fear of light or fire.”

  “Not the first, my lord,” came the voice of a young woman standing to his immediate right. Quite an attractive piece, he noticed. Pretty in a country way, with generous features and fair skin and straw-colored hair. A mole like a drop of ebony figuring the corner of her mouth. Though she was far more buxom, her face coarser by a degree, she bore a striking resemblance to the Golden. Beheim was put off by her attempt to curry favor, but he could not help admiring her resourcefulness and courage. He told her to come forward, and once she had obeyed, stopping less than an arm’s length away, he asked her to tell him what she had seen.

  “Nothing, lord. At least not with my own eyes. But a man was seen yesterday outside the castle while the sun was high. He was no servant…or so I’m told. He was of the Family.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “That he was of the Family? It is not something any of us would mistake, lord.”

  The girl’s eyes were a brilliant, almost chemical blue. Her blood scent, also reminiscent of the Golden’s, was remarkably complex. Beheim found himself growing hungry. And more than a little aroused. She had not, he recalled, been one of those outfitted with metal fangs. An evidence in her favor. Until Giselle regained her strength, he would need someone to serve him, and this girl, with her strong spirit and her forthrightness, might just do.

  “What is your name, child?” he asked.

  “Paulina.”

  “Who told you of this, Paulina?”

  She pointed to the corpse of the gangly man. “It was he, lord. And another who is not here.”

  “They told you nothing more?”

  “Only that the man was very tall. And that he wore a wide-brimmed hat and spectacles with tinted lenses. He was interested in the body.”

  “A body?”

  “Yes, lord. An old woman fell from the heights of the castle just the other morning.”

  Morning, thought Beheim. A term that, when used by one of the Family, might refer to any time after midnight. But when used by a mortal, might it not refer strictly to a period of daylight before noon?

  “After sunrise,” he said. “She fell after sunrise?”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Did anyone else see this man?”

  There was a muttering negative consensus.

  “My lord,” said Vlad. “If you will permit me, I will send my agents throughout the castle and inquire of—”

  Beheim shifted his grasp to Vlad’s neck, choked him into silence.

  Spectacles with tinted lenses. A wide-brimmed hat. Signs, Beheim thought, that whoever it was had been practiced at walking in the daylight, prepared for its terrors. Felipe, perhaps. Searching for the body of the Golden’s servant, concerned lest it provide a clue that would reveal his identity. And yet this explanation did not sit well with him. If Felipe had murdered the Golden, he would have boasted of it while tormenting Beheim. To maintain silence and secrecy, to deny himself an opportunity for gloating, that would have been completely out of character. No, it had not been Felipe.

  For another thing, Felipe would never be described as tall.

  But Alexandra, that creature of secrets, she was tall, she was capable of all this misdirection and subtlety.

  Her specific motives were still a mystery to him, but given the rumors concerning her ambition, her connections with Felipe and Dolores, given the general furor concerning the Family’s possible migration to the East, there was potential motive aplenty. In light of what he now knew, Alexandra’s intervention in his investigation and in his life was more suspect than ever, whether or not it had come as a result of an alliance with Agenor.

  Could she have killed the Golden?

  It would be foolish to doubt it, Beheim decided. After all, who of the Family was not capable of violence? From what little experience he had of Alexandra, he would not have thought her prone to such an excessive nature as was evidenced by the mutilated body of the Golden. But what rule did logic have over the matter, anyway? He was dealing with creatures whose hearts were mad, whose natures were governed by the need for lavish brutality and wild failures of the spirit. Even the most reasonable among them were infected with madness, and though he could be certain of nothing, he was tempted to conclude that Alexandra was the one he sought. Had she not more or less told him that her intervention was purely self-serving? In retrospect, he saw that her analysis of how he would be manipulated by the Family members stopped just short of being a confession. And as for the rest of their involvement, who could say what it had meant? Perhaps some honest emotion had been involved, but essentially it had been part of a game, perhaps a game that he had also wanted to play. The fact that he had allowed himself to become involved with her at such a critical time might be a symptom of his own madness, an expression of an unconscious urge to flirt with death. The thing to do, he realized, would be to test his hypothesis at once. If the deaths of Felipe and Dolores had not been discovered—what the odds on that were, he could not guess—he might be able to perform a valid test. If he were proved right, there might yet be salvation for him. If wrong, he would not have long to regret his error.

  “Listen to me,” he said to the little group of survivors. “For this man’s recklessness”—he gave Vlad another shake—“some of you have paid a dear price. If you think you can resist me, then take the torches and come at me now. But if you wish to live beyond this day, I urge you to enter my service. After I have done what I must, I will set you free.”

  He studied them a moment, watching their reactions; once he had satisfied himself that they were thoroughly cowed, he turned his attention to Vlad.

  “Lord, I have secrets!” Vlad said, squirming in his grasp. “Valuable secrets. I can give you blood to drink that will—”

  “The torments of hell,” said Beheim. “Do you remember?”

  He took one of Vlad’s metal fangs between thumb and forefinger, and snapped it off, bringing with it a tooth and its bloody root.

  Vlad howled, he twisted and jerked. Crimson juice flowed down his chin, matting his beard. Beheim held him aloft by the hood of his robe, and after a short while Vlad hung limp and groaning. Then Beheim slammed him against the wall, stunning him, and pulled back his head to expose his throat. Most of the others were watching with what seemed renewed interest. One bloodletting, Beheim thought, was doubtless as desirable as another from their debased point of view.

  “Think of your soul,” he said to Vlad, and sank his fangs into the man’s neck. The sinewy tissues were reluctant to part; Beheim had to worry at the flesh in order to penetrate the vein. His mouth flooded with a bitter taste, and when the blood spurted forth, it was too sweet, the basic flavor fouled by a gamy undertone. He pulled away and spat a red mouthful into Vlad’s face.

  “Drink that,” he said, “if you wish to imitate your betters.”

  Still taken with the rapture of the bite, Vlad stared foggily at the wall. To enliven him, Beheim snapped off the second metal fang, and as Vlad writhed in pain he spoke to the others, saying, “I must reach Felipe de Valea’s apartments unobserved. And after that, the Patriarch’s chamber. Is there a safe passage by which you may lead me? Answer carefully. I will not tolerate betrayal.”

  Several assured him that there was such a passage. Paulina met his eyes and nodded. She seemed less frightened of him now, her fear replaced by an anxious curiosity.

  “Very well. Lead me there, and I will reward you. Otherwise”—he closed a hand on Vlad’s face, his palm covering the mouth, the thumb and fingers gripping the sides of the jaw—“otherwise, you have no hope at all and only this for a reward.”

  He began to squeeze Vlad’s head, gradually increasing the pressure, all the while staring into his eyes, trying to probe to the center of the man’s little rat soul, hoping
to add a generous serving of humiliation to his agony. Vlad attempted to fling himself away. He kicked, clawed, his heels battered the stones, his squeals muted by Beheim’s palm. His eyes widened, and soon thin crimson rims began to show around the whites. His entire body was alive with vibration.

  “Does it hurt?” Beheim asked in a tone of mock concern. “I imagine that it must.”

  Vlad’s arms flailed. A shrill keening leaked out from the muffle of Beheim’s hand. With a crack like a pistol shot, his jawbone fractured. His eyelids slid down, and he appeared to lose consciousness. Beheim continued to squeeze. First one eyelid began to bulge, then the other. They were being slowly forced open by the protruding globes of the eyes themselves. He gave Vlad a light slap to revive him and then covered his mouth again. Vlad’s neck inflated with a choked-back scream. A cheekbone shattered, his limbs shuddered. Bulging crescents of white became visible beneath the lids. His face felt like a sack of broken tiles, and when at last Beheim dropped him to the floor, he sat there like a great baby with his legs spread, his arms outstretched, his head rolling, and his breath making a windy, shrieking noise in his throat.

  “There,” Beheim said, wiping spittle and blood from his hand. “I have been merciful. Live if you can.”

  Vlad toppled onto his side, feebly groping for purchase on the stones. His eyes were open now. Red-rimmed, leaking bloody tears, they bulged like hard-boiled eggs from their sockets; his eyelids were stretched across the upper portions of the globes. Judging by the way he probed for the edges of the stones, Beheim believed that he must be blind. He turned his gaze to the other survivors, who were cringing back against the wall. Only Paulina had succeeded in maintaining her poise.

  “Take the clothing of your dead,” he told them. “Tear them into strips and make ropes. Lash yourselves together. I will hold the end of the rope, and you will walk alongside me into the castle. When I have won through to the Patriarch, I will reward you. Is that clear?”