Taltos

by Anne Rice

  "But did this Taltos say he had no mate?" asked Michael. "If 'mate' is the proper word?"

  "That was plainly obvious. He came here because Samuel told him that a Taltos--Lasher, with you, Rowan!--had appeared at Donnelaith. Ash came immediately from someplace far off, I don't know where. Ash is rich. He has bodyguards, attendants, he travels in a little motorcade, so Samuel tells me. Samuel talks too freely, really, for his own good."

  "But he didn't mention a female Taltos?"

  "No. Both of them gave me the distinct impression that they did not know of the existence of a female Taltos! Rowan, don't you see, the Little People are dying, and the Taltos is damned near extinct. God, Ash could be the only one living, now that Lasher is gone. Imagine it! You see what Mona means to these two?"

  "All right, you want my opinion?" asked Michael. He reached for the coffeepot on the tray beside him and refilled his cup, holding it like a mug, without the saucer. "We've done all we can about Ashlar and Samuel." He looked at Rowan as he spoke. "There is a one-in-ten chance, perhaps, that we can locate them at Claridge's even--"

  "No, you must not approach them," said Yuri. "You must not even let them know mat you are here. Especially not you."

  "Yeah, I understand," said Michael, nodding, "but--"

  "No, you don't understand," said Yuri, "or you don't believe me. Michael, these creatures can tell a witch when they see it, male or female. They know. They do not require modern medical tests to know that you have the chromosomes which are so precious to them. They know you, by scent perhaps, and surely by sight."

  Michael gave a little shrug, as if to say he was reserving judgment, but he wouldn't push this now.

  "Okay, so I don't go over there to Claridge's right now. But it's awfully hard not to do that, Yuri. I mean, you're saying that Ash and Samuel are only five minutes away from this hotel."

  "God, I hope they are gone. And I hope they are not gone to New Orleans. Why did I tell them? Why was I not more clever? Why was I so foolish in my gratitude and in my fear?"

  "Stop blaming yourself for this," said Rowan.

  "The guards are quadrupled in New Orleans," said Michael. His relaxed posture hadn't changed. "Let's just leave the subject of Ashlar and Samuel for a moment, and go back to the Talamasca. Now, we were making a list of the oldest members in London, ones who could either be trusted or must surely have smelled a rat."

  Yuri sighed. He was very near to a small satin chair by the window, one dressed in the same high-pitched moire as the draperies, so that it was scarcely visible at all. He flopped down on the edge of it, putting his hands over his mouth. He let out his breath again slowly. His hair was rumpled.

  "Okay," said Yuri. "The Talamasca, my refuge, my life. Ah, the Talamasca." He counted now upon his right fingers. "We had Milling, he's bedridden, there's no way to get to him. I don't want to call him and agitate him. Then there was ... there was ..."

  "Joan Cross," said Michael. He picked up the yellow pad from the coffee table. "Yeah, Joan Cross. Seventy-five years old, invalid. Wheelchair. Declined to be appointed Superior General due to crippling arthritis."

  "Not the devil himself could subvert Joan Cross," said Yuri, words tumbling faster than ever. "But Joan is too self-absorbed. She spends all her time in the archives. She wouldn't notice now if the members were running around naked."

  "Then the next one, Timothy Hollingshed," said Michael, reading it from the pad.

  "Yes, Timothy, if only I knew him better. No, the one we should select is Stuart Gordon. Did I say Stuart Gordon? I said Stuart Gordon before, didn't I?"

  "No, you didn't, but it's quite all right to say it now," said Rowan. "Why Stuart Gordon?"

  "He's eighty-seven and he still teaches, at least within the Order itself. Stuart Gordon's closest friend was Aaron! Stuart Gordon may know all about the Mayfair witches. Why, he almost certainly knows! I remember him telling me once in passing, last year it was, that Aaron had been near to the family too long. I swear on my soul that nothing could corrupt Stuart Gordon. He's the man we should take into our confidence."

  "Or at least draw out," said Rowan under her breath.

  "You have another name here," said Michael. "Antoinette Campbell."

  "She's younger, much younger. But if Antoinette is corrupt, then so is God. But Stuart--if there is anyone on that list who may be an Elder, and we never know who they are, you see, it would be Stuart Gordon! That's our man."

  "We'll save the other names. We shouldn't contact more than one of these people at a time."

  "So what do you lose by contacting Gordon now by telephone?" asked Michael.

  "He lets them know he's alive," said Rowan. "But perhaps that's inevitable." She was watching Yuri. How would he ever handle a key phone conversation with anyone in this state? Indeed, the sweat had broken out on him again. He was shaking. She'd gotten him clean clothes, but they were already soaked with sweat.

  "Yes, it's inevitable," said Yuri, "but if they don't know where I am, there's no danger. I can get more out of Stuart in five minutes than anyone else I can think of, even my old friend Baron in Amsterdam. Let me make this call."

  "But we cannot forget," said Rowan, "that he may be in on the conspiracy. It may be the entire Order. It may be all of the Elders."

  "He would rather die than hurt the Talamasca. He has a pair of brilliant novices who might even help us. Tommy Monohan, he's some sort of computer genius. He might be of great assistance in tracing down the corruption. And then there's the other one, the blond one, the pretty one, he has a strange name, Marklin, that's it, Marklin George. But Stuart must judge this situation."

  "And we are not to trust Stuart until we know that we can.

  "But how will we know?" Yuri looked at Rowan.

  "There are ways to know," she said. "You're not going to call from here. And when you do, I want you to say certain things. You cannot open up to this man, you understand, no matter how much you trust him."

  "Tell me what to say," said Yuri. "But you realize Stuart may not talk to me. No one may talk to me. I am excommunicated, remember? Unless, of course, I appeal to him as Aaron's friend. That's the key with Stuart! He loved Aaron so much."

  "Okay, the phone call is a crucial step," said Michael, "we've got that. Now the Motherhouse, can you draw a plan of the house, or give me the info and I'll draw the plan for your approval? What do you think?"

  "Yes, that is an excellent idea," said Rowan. "Draw a plan. Show us the location of the archives, the vaults, the exits, everything."

  Yuri was on his feet again, as though someone had shoved him forward. He was looking around.

  "Where is the paper? Where is the pencil?"

  Michael picked up the phone and asked for the front desk.

  "We'll get those things," said Rowan. She took Yuri's hands. They were moist and shaking still. His black eyes were frenzied, darting from object to object. He did not want to look at her. "Take it easy," she said, gripping his hands firmly, thinking Calm, and drawing closer, until he had to look right into her eyes.

  "I am rational, Rowan," he said. "Believe me. I am only ... only fearing for Mona. I made a hideous blunder. But how often does one meet such beings? I never laid eyes on Lasher, not for one moment, I was not there when he told his tale to Michael and to Aaron. I never saw him! But I saw these two, and not in some cloud of vapor! They were with me as you are with me, they were in a room!"

  "I know," she said. "But it's not your fault, all this, that you told them about the family. You must let this go. Think about the Order. What else can you tell us? What about the Superior General?"

  "Something's wrong with him. I don't trust him. He is too new. Oh, if you could have seen this creature Ash, you would not have believed your eyes."

  "Why not, Yuri?" she asked.

  "Ah, yes. Yes, you saw the other one. You knew the other one."

  "Yes, in every sense. What makes you certain this one is older, that he's not trying to confuse you with those easy statements he
made?"

  "Hair. In his hair, two white streaks. Means age. I could tell it."

  "White streaks," she said. This was new information. How much more could Yuri spill if they continued to question him? She lifted her hands to her head, as if to say, Where were these streaks of white hair?

  "No, here, from the temples, the graying pattern of humans. These streaks alarmed Samuel as soon as he saw them. The face? The face is that of a man of thirty. Rowan, the lifespan of these beings is unknown. Samuel described Lasher as a newborn."

  "That's what he was," said Rowan. She realized suddenly that Michael was watching her. He'd gotten to his feet and was standing near the door, arms folded.

  She turned to face him. She blotted all thought of Lasher from her mind.

  "There is no one who can help us with this, is there?" Michael said. He was speaking only to her.

  "No one," she said. "Haven't you known that all along?"

  He didn't answer, but she knew what he was thinking. It was as if he wanted her to know. He was thinking that Yuri was cracking. Yuri had to be protected now. And they had counted more upon Yuri, for judgment, direction, help.

  The bell sounded. Michael searched in his pocket and drew out some pound notes as he went to the door.

  How extraordinary, she thought, that he remembers such things, that he keeps everything going. But she had to get a grip on herself. Lasher's fingers biting into her arm. Her entire body convulsed suddenly and she reached for the place where he'd hurt her again and again and again. Heed your own advice, Doctor. Be calm.

  "Now, Yuri, you have to sit down and draw pictures," said Michael. He had the paper and the pencils.

  "What if Stuart doesn't know that Aaron is dead?" asked Yuri. "I don't want to be the one to tell him this. God, they must know. They know, don't they, Rowan?"

  "Pay attention," said Rowan gently. "I've explained to you before. Ryan's office did not call the Talamasca. I insisted that they wait. The excommunication gave me my excuse. I wanted time. Now we can use their ignorance to our advantage. We have to plan to have this telephone conversation."

  "There's a good-sized desk in the other room," said Michael. "This little Louis Quinze thing will fall apart if we try to use it."

  She smiled. He'd said he loved French furniture, but everything in this room seemed to be prancing. The gilded moldings were bubbling up and down the paneled walls as if they were made of neon lights. Hotel rooms, she had been in so many of them. All she could think of when she'd arrived was, Where are the doors, where are the phones, does the bathroom have a window for possible escape? Another flash of Lasher's hand closing on her arm. She flinched. Michael was watching her.

  Yuri was staring off. He hadn't seen her shut her eyes, and then struggle to catch her breath.

  "They know," Yuri said. "Their newspaper clippers will have seen it in the New Orleans papers. Mayfair. They will have seen it, and faxed the clippings home. They know everything," he said. "Absolutely everything. All my life is in their files."

  "All the more reason," said Michael, "to set to work now."

  Rowan stood still. He's gone, he's dead, he can't hurt you. You saw his remains, you saw them covered with earth when you put Emaleth with him. You saw. She had folded her arms and she was rubbing her elbows. Michael was speaking to her, but she hadn't caught the words.

  She looked at Michael.

  "I have to see this Taltos," she said. "If he exists, I have to see him."

  "It's too dangerous," said Yuri.

  "No, it isn't. I have a small plan. It will take us only so far, but it is a plan. You said that Stuart Gordon was Aaron's friend?"

  "Yes, for years they worked together. You want us to take Stuart into our confidence? You want to trust Ash that he has told us the truth?"

  "You said that Aaron had never heard the word Taltos' until it came from Lasher's lips?"

  "That's correct," said Michael.

  "You can't contact those two, you can't do it!" said Yuri frantically.

  "Michael, the drawing can wait. I have to call Claridge's."

  "No!" cried Yuri.

  "I'm not a fool," she said with a small smile. "Under what name are these odd-sized persons registered?"

  "I don't know."

  "Describe them," said Michael. "Say the name Samuel. Yuri said everyone knew him, they treated him as if he were a jolly little Father Christmas. The sooner we make this call the better. They could have already left."

  "Aaron never knew what a Taltos was, he never read anything or heard anything--"

  "That's right," said Yuri. "Rowan, what are you thinking?"

  "All right. I make my call first," said Rowan. "Then you make yours. We should go now."

  "Don't you want to tell me what you mean to do?" asked Michael.

  "Let's see if we can reach these two. It falls apart if we can't reach them, and we're back to the starting line. Let's go."

  "I don't have to draw pictures?" asked Yuri. "You said something about pictures."

  "Not now, get your jacket, come on," said Michael. But Yuri looked as helpless and confused as he had all morning. Michael took the jacket off the chair and put it over Yuri's shoulders. He looked at Rowan.

  Her heart was pounding. Taltos. Got to make this call.

  Twelve

  MARKLIN HAD NEVER seen the house in such an uproar. This was a test of his talent to dissemble to the max. The council room was crowded with members, but the meeting had not been called to order. No one noticed him as he passed in the corridor. The noise was deafening under the arched wooden ceilings. But this commotion was a blessing. No one seemed to care about one novice and his reactions, or what he did or where he went.

  They had not even awakened him to let him know what was happening. He'd stumbled onto all of this when he'd finally opened his door and discovered several members "patrolling" the hallway. He and Tommy had scarcely exchanged words.

  But by now Tommy had reached Regent's Park and disconnected the fax interception. All physical evidence of the false communications was being destroyed.

  And where was Stuart? Not in the library, not in the parlors, not in the chapel praying for his beloved Aaron, not in the council room, either.

  Stuart could not break under this pressure! And if he was gone, if he was gone to be with Tessa ... But no, he would not have fled. Stuart was with them again. Stuart was their leader, and it was three against the world.

  The big case clock in the hallway said 11:00 a.m., the face of the bronze moon smiling above the ornate numerals. In the noise, the chimes were nearly inaudible. When would they begin formal deliberations?

  Did he dare to go up to Stuart's room? But wouldn't that be natural for him? Stuart was his tutor within the Order. Wouldn't that be the right thing to do? And what if Stuart was in panic again, crumbling, questioning everything? What if Stuart turned on him again, as he had on Wearyall Hill, and he did not have Tommy to help him bring Stuart back?

  Something had just happened. He could hear it in the council room. He took a few steps, until he found himself in the north door. Members were taking their seats around the huge oak table. And there was Stuart, Stuart looking straight at him--a sharp-beaked bird with small, round blue eyes, in the usual somber, almost clerical clothes.

  Dear God, Stuart stood beside the empty chair of the Superior General. He had his hand on the back of the chair. They were all looking at Stuart. They had appointed Stuart to take over! Of course.

  Marklin reached to cover his imprudent but inevitable smile with a curled hand and a muffled cough. Too perfect, he thought, it's as though the powers that be were on our side. After all, it might have been Elvera, or Joan Cross. It might have been old Whitfield. But it was Stuart! Brilliant! Aaron's oldest friend.

  "Come inside, all of you, be seated, please," said Stuart. He was extremely nervous, Marklin could see it. "You must forgive me," said Stuart, forcing a polite smile which was certainly not required and was hardly appropriate. Dear God, he's n
ot going to be able to pull this off! "I have not quite recovered yet from my shock. But you know I've been appointed to take over. We're waiting at this very moment for communication from the Elders."

  "Surely they've answered, Stuart," said Elvera. Surrounded by cronies, she had been the star all morning, the witness to Anton Marcus's murder, the one who had conversed with the mysterious man who had entered the building and asked strange questions of those he encountered, and then coldly and methodically strangled Marcus to death.

  "There is no answer yet, Elvera," said Stuart patiently. "Sit down there, all of you over there. It's time for this meeting to begin."

  At last the room fell silent. The giant table was surrounded by curious faces. Dora Fairchild had been crying, and looked it. So had Manfield Cotter. So had others whom Marklin didn't even know. All friends of Aaron Lightner, or worshipers, to be more correct.

  No one here had really known Marcus. His death had horrified everyone, of course. But grief was not a problem there.

  "Stuart, has the Mayfair family answered?" came another question. "Do we have any more information about what happened to Aaron?"

  "Patience, all of you. I will post the information as soon as it's received. What we know now is that something has gone terribly wrong within this house. Intruders have come and gone. Perhaps there have been other breaches of security. We do not know if all these events are connected."

  "Stuart," said Elvera, raising her voice shrilly. "This man asked me if I knew that Aaron was dead! He walked into my room and started talking about Aaron!"

  "Of course it's connected," said Joan Cross. Joan had been in a wheelchair for a year now; she looked impossibly frail, even her short white hair was thinning, but her voice was impatient and domineering as it had always been. "Stuart, our first priority is to determine the identity of this killer. We have the authorities telling us the fingerprints are untraceable. But we know that this man might have come from the Mayfair family. They do not."