“Luciel. Kariel. Oriel.”
I gave the middle sister a second, harder knuckle rap. The faintest thrum of note sounded in reply.
“Tickles,” observed the girl. Her voice familiar. Had I not dreamed that voice speaking to a raven? Perhaps I dreamt now. Heart shaped face, sunlit smile devoid of mystery. She leant over the void to better view all the tapestry of the world, else a particular dog on the street.
“Sun is getting on,” Kariel observed. “Hadn’t you best get on as well?”
“You know where I go?”
“Off to kill a vampire, hear tell.”
“From whom? The bells? The birds? The clouds?”
“Some do talk,” admitted the woman. “But all the lot are horrible gossips, and you’ve begun to interest the busier bodies.”
No telling what lot she meant. Useless to ask. I sighed, considered our Olympus view of the streets.
“How fun to see all the labyrinth, while creatures wander lost within the choices. Do you perch here watching lost folk scurry left and right, shaking your head for their wrong turns?”
She cocked face toward me. No anger in eyes or mouth. “I do so no more than you or any soul, Rayne Gray. I stumble about in my own turnings, meeting others puzzling out their path. We stop then and share what wisdom we have for which path seems wise. And oft as you, I watch some poor body scramble at a choice and think ‘that won’t end well’; and I must settle for hoping it yet will.”
She turned back to the cityscape. Sun’s glow turning the dreariest roofs to magic vision of an eternal city. A world of infinite possible joys, not inevitable sorrows. Dawn: the original light of wonder, feebly imitated by lightning and arc-lamp. Kariel thumped heels against the cathedral, as if stirring horse to speed along.
“I dislike tormenting poor bodies with wise looks, hints of what they seek. I’d tell you flat out what you need to know, man. But it would do naught good. You’d forget before you reached the street.”
“Then write it down, dammit. I’ll take it with.”
“Ach, I did,” she sniffed. “I wrote the essentials nice, wrapped it ‘round a brick and tossed it through your window.”
“What? Why?”
She put hand to mouth to smother laugh. Soon as smothered, she tossed hair defiant for the right to laugh.
“I’d never thrown a brick through a window before,” she admitted. “Wonderful fun. Like dropping a big rock into a puddle. And don’t tell me you can’t afford to fix it. Besides, it stimulates the economy. Some poor glazer gets a bit of work, passes the wages on to the grocer, who feeds his dog on the profit.”
“Hell with glazer and grocer and dog,” I shouted. “Why not just walk up to me and explicate? Why not simply speak sense?”
She tilted head to show the smile one grants a child puzzled at life.
“Because a body believes a mysterious message. At least enough to think upon. Should some tomfool just knock upon your door and explain forgotten wives and sorcerers in smoky glasses, then ha! You’d slam the door, all the hardened against the truth waiting outside.”
“My head hurts.”
“It cannot be the better for standing next a lot of clanging metal,” she observed. She sighed, stretched arms high. I had a vision of her reaching wings out just so, tips brushing stars. She stood, shaking wrinkles out from the dress.
“To my mind, Master Rayne, you took a wrong turn leaving your new wife, to come kill old friends,” she declared. “A disservice to life and love.”
A sudden pang to heart. That taste of loss again. And yes; part of the sorrow had been remorse. Whatever I now lacked, I’d left behind. What had I left? No: who?
“I am a striker,” I whispered. “One cannot put aside duty because something more pleasant calls.”
She nodded. “That may be. I’m not saying what I calculate, summing this act and that decision into some wise total. Only what I feel. Yours was the decision, yours the consequence. But sure an’ the ripples spread. Your wife fell to fears you’d left for good. The Harlequin seized upon you both, as they never could were you together.”
She gave a last measuring look to the dawn; nodded to show she thought it on the right path for the moment, then turned and stepped to the trapdoor. I followed after, head ringing, heart thumping.
“You use stairs?” I asked. Somehow I expected her to exit stage by a sudden-winged leap into the sky, else merge shadow-like into the third bell.
She turned pitying look upon me again. “My da is carillon master,” she explained. “Named me and my sisters for his bronze darlings, the sweet man. I come up a’times to get above the fog. Were you thinking something more fanciful?”
I shrugged a dignified ‘Of course not’. She laughed, raced on ahead past the spiral bend. I felt no urge to hurry after.
“Remember all the message, Rayne Gray!” her voice shouted. “Recall the last bit!”
What bit was that? I wondered. What message? Oh, that. Brick. Window. I reached into pocket, found the folded paper.
‘Sir you have ben enspelled by the folks in smoky glasses. Remember your wife she’s a drinker of blood but good-hearted you love deep…”
Bah. The clanging bells held more sense. I stood on the stairs, pondering the threat of the last line: ‘BEWARES lest they trick you to perdition.’
I shook head, crumpling the note, dropped it. Enough of that. I continued spiraling down the steps, resolved. I would break this circle of puzzle and part, hint and shadow. I had serious work to do for law and kingdom. But first, I’d find the damned vampire and kill it.
Chapter 16
Of Rivalry and Rabbit
A flaming elephant blocked our road. One could not see this wonder. One took the word of those farther ahead. Phineas explained it so, when I complained of the slow pace. The long parade of carts and carriages passed on the news: a burning elephant stood in the crossroads.
“This seems unlikely,” observed Green.
“We journey to find a vampire asleep in a crypt,” I pointed out. “The world’s dice no longer feign sane tosses. No doubt we will be delayed by wonders till sunset. Arriving just as crypt doors open to greet us.”
Green shuddered. Hell, I shuddered. While Father Bright sat reading, displaying the concern due a delay to parish tea. I glanced at the title. Not bible nor prayer book. Nor even ‘Vicar of Wakefield’. No it was ‘Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner’. Strange choice upon such errand. I could not help but recite.
“Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold.
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.”
I did not wish to see an undead Black. A dead man returned is a wonder, I suppose. Clearly not all wonders better the world. Yet at heart I hoped to see her again. Naked, wild, mad, blood smeared. Eyes empty as two jagged fragments of mirror reflecting the moon. That hair…
“She was beautiful,” I whispered. Green raised eyebrows. I explained. “In a nightmarish and unholy manner, of course.”
“Ah,” said Green. “Well, that is part of the vampiric mythos. They possess a siren-like magnetism to overpower the mind.”
“Quite right,” said Bright, not looking up from book. “Thus the need to hunt these beings by day’s light. As they sleep, ‘tis simple matter of striking off the head. By night the creature would seek to entice you. Overthrowing your mind with lust, with fascination. Even with pity.”
Surely he had the right of it. No matter. I disliked him, and so his wisdom. “Strange advice from one holding Coleridge. No fear we’ll slay the albatross?”
He smiled. Had he not hid eyes behind tinted glass, I’d have known what the smile meant.
“And why would any sign of hope be resting in a grave?” he replied.
“I can think of no better place,” countered Green. I puzzled at his easy acceptance of this magic theatre. I understood my acceptance. I
was mad. But the creature in the garden last night was no shadow cast by madness. She was the thing itself.
Enough. Thinking upon last night returned ache to head. All said, all done, she’d been sent by Black. To entice and confuse. Exactly as he had set Elspeth into my life. Curse the man alive or dead, and his every taint upon my life. I turned to Green.
“You said you’d tell of why Jeremiah Black came to hate me,” I reminded. “Journeying to his crypt, I feel a need to know.”
Green considered. Stared out the window. Just as I decided he’d keep silent, he began.
“It was when you gave over being striker, rebelling against officers, high command and the angels of heaven. It fascinated all, including Jeremy. Myself as well, though I took a more balanced view. No one liked the strikers. But one is not supposed to like war. One simply serves. And yes my boy, I say it before you shout it: Black and I were not serving as soldiers. Merely civilian aides to the army. Black as commissary clerk. His family held titles; he could have had a commission. But while he was enthusiastic to see war, he remained uncertain he wished to join the players on the field. I clerked as secretary to old Rumdrum, who spent the war drunk in his tent. Sensible man. He emerged at the final peace hung over and puzzled, surprised to find all battles over, all bottles empty.
“You were younger than us. Too young, no business wearing uniform for all you loomed to shadow a regiment. There was talk of sending you home, but the Commander stood fixed to send you to glory. I observed his pleasure as he rolled tongue about, tasting some new order to bequeath you. And everyone would shake heads, grant our rebel striker a farewell toast. You wouldn’t, you couldn’t return. Not with those orders.
“And then dawn’s light would reveal you in the mess tent, feet on table, bloody and alive, calling for eggs and bacon. The Commander would congratulate you, then retreat to his tent. And all the camp knew of your return by the sound of his crockery smashing. Black enthused. He wagered on your every return. Ha. He first christened you ‘Seraph’.”
“Black began that?” I asked. Astounding. I’d thought it the lower ranks.
“Indeed. You’d been ordered to hold the regiment colors by the cannons,” Green recalled. “A target beloved of snipers. But there you stood all the battle, through volley and thunder. Flag waving in the sun. So we heard. A vision inspiring all.”
“What sun?” I demanded. “It was a hell-floor of smoke. Good thing, too. Once the cannonades began I propped a corpse upright on a fence post, gave him my jacket and the flag. I spent the battle lying on the ground with arms over my head. The noise alone was a horror.”
Green blinked. “Is that quite heroic?”
I issued myself excuse. “They placed the light cannon on a damned hill. No reason with such close lines. It was all show, suicidal as waving a flag. I counted a hundred holes in that jacket. The poor corpse held more lead than a church roof. The cannon crew fell like skittle pins. I’d not have lasted two minutes.”
“Well, Black bet you’d last the battle. As he pocketed his winnings, he waxed on the Angel of Death finally meeting a stronger seraph. When you came in wearing your bloody jacket, we greeted you with your new title.”
Strange, strange to recall such by another man’s words. I put hands to face, wondering. All that came to memory was the agony of ears turned to tolling bells, jangling, humming. Every face moved lips meaningless as fish mouths swallowing flies from a lake surface. I’d wandered deaf and desperate searching for the surviving cannon crew. The gunners, the waggoneers. I wanted to buy them beers. Couldn’t find a one. Perhaps none survived. They’d targeted the enemy cannon, and got back tenfold in reply. Ordered not to, but of course cannoneers will fire away at one other anyway. Ignoring the regular battle entirely. Cannon duty is a horror. Give me a sword and a suicide charge any day.
Green sighed. “Jeremy became enthused to perform some Seraph-worthy feat. God, we were young. He began accompanying the supply wagons. Pistol and sword at side. Do you remember that French encampment atop that mountain pass?”
“Not really mountains. Steep hills, I grant.”
“His waggoneers were ambushed there. Not by regulars. French camp followers. Vivandieres and cohue wearing bits and pieces of uniform, waving every kind of weapon.”
Shudder. “I remember those creatures. Used to eat who they could catch in winter. Worse than wolves.”
“Exactly,” agreed Green. “Jeremy sat in the back of a wagon while the captain negotiated with these French cannibals. It would have ended with an exchange: free path for a few barrels of pork. But young Master Black asked himself the terrible question: what would a Seraph do?”
“Keep quiet and head down,” I declared. “Why die for half a cart of grocer’s goods?”
Green disagreed. “Not in young Master Black’s vision. No, he decided there’d be fire and brave deeds. He emptied lamp oil onto a barrel of pork and set it alight. Then shouted it was powder about to blow’.”
I blinked. “What? That’s insane.”
“It worked fine. To a degree. Masters of self preservation, the camp-followers ran for the trees. Alas, so did our English waggoneers. French and English peeked from shelter together, kindred briefly reconciled. While Jeremy seized the cart reigns and hurried down the road, pork and wagon ablaze. The leader of the rag-tag realized the ruse, chased after. He leaped into the burning cart. Jeremy turned and shot him, one hand directing the horses. If he’d held knife in his teeth it would complete the picture nicely.”
It wasn’t impossible to picture. So many mad things happen when one delivers pork in war. “I don’t recall Black ever telling this story.”
Green laughed, long and loud. “And there is why Jeremy hated you, Rayne.”
“What?”
“He returned to camp with a flaming cart, a dead Frenchman and a heroic heart. Burst into the mess tent and there you sat, surrounded by all. Lapin upon your knee, giggling while you recounted taking down the French placement on the cliff by climbing through the guarderobe.”
I tried to recall. French placement? Lapin? Rabbit? Oh, her. Ah.
“You’d eliminated the encampment at the top of the pass. A fort perched on a cliff.”
“Hardly fort,” I corrected. “Just a house, a wooden wall. I spent hours studying that placement. Over the wall was death. Ah, but the outhouse poking over the cliff… I followed the smell of mierde, climbed rocks, wiggled through a wooden throne and there I stood in the heart of the French fastness. Cut a sleeping guard’s throat, opened the gate, signaled friends and searched for someplace to bathe.”
“These tales grow with the telling,” admitted Green. “But what is memorable is how you laughed covered with blood, shit and admiration. Lapin upon your knee. You’d stolen all storm and thunder from young Jeremy Black. He’d coveted Lapin. After that, he eyed you as rival to surpass, not friend to equal.”
I shook head. It seemed trivial. “Rivalry doesn’t need equate to hatred.”
“It does when pride is involved.”
“So proud a thing, to be us,” sighed Father Bright, putting down book.
“Sounds a quote,” declared Green. “One I don’t recall.”
Familiar tasting to me as well. Not Blake or Shakespeare. Certainly not Voltaire. Swift perhaps. Bright put head out the window.
“Rumor proves true,” he frowned. I opened the carriage door, stood half out to see. Carts and carriages, riders and walkers streamed best they could past a flaming behemoth marching in stately circles. A long trunk, back humped higher than a horse. The trunk raised and lowered exact as metronome. The wire-frame ears flapping enthusiastic. Obvious to all, the thing enjoyed its walk, the day, the warm flames.
“It is a mechanism,” I declared. And to confirm hypothesis appeared two gentlemen in high hats, tinted lenses and worried looks. Zeit-Teufel’s people. They rushed with buckets from horse trough to burning automaton, tossing brief splashes of water upon the vision. Bystanders cheered this effort; not to be c
onfused with aiding the effort.
“What is happening over in the Common?” asked Bright, pointing to the opposite side of the river. “I see tents. Wires on poles. A tower of some sort. Damned lot of workers.”
I glanced across river. Clearly the mechanical elephant had wandered across the bridge from Echoing Common. Which reminded me; in the haste to hunt a vampire I’d yet to explain to Green how I’d arranged for our final Charter rally to be unique. A fair of wonders. Snake people, Lightning Spiders. Bronze dragons. Flame Carillion’s, whatever they proved to be. Planetary Cannon…
“I have no idea,” I insisted, retreated into the carriage again.
Phineas coaxed skittish horses past the blazing automaton. For one second it trundled beside the carriage, glancing within. Raised its trunk, croaked a smoky greeting. Then the horses skittered past.
“We shall go faster now,” declared Green. “No doubt there shall be time to stop for lunch.”
I fired a planetary cannonade of disapproval against the suggestion. Green shrugged, brought forth snuff box, took ostentatious sniff to say we shall see. We waited for the carriage to begin rumbling forwards, horses at gallop, bouncing us about. But no. We sat becalmed in a hot leather-stenched box that ticked down the road with all the speed of the hour hand wiping tedium from a clock-face.
I leaned out the window. “What is the delay now?” I demanded.
Phineas shouted to those ahead. We waited. There came shouted words I could not catch, then from Phineas: “A wolf and tiger menace the road ahead, Master Gray.”
“Are they aflame?”
Again a delay, more shouts. “Not noticeably.”
I sat fulminating. Green idly considered the view. Bright leafed Coleridge.
“No,” I declared to Green. “That can’t have been all there was to Black’s hatred. Rivalry and some girl named Rabbit? The man feigned friendship for years, arranging for me to rescue Elspeth, bring her to my house. When he came to my cell the night of the riot – “
The Harlequin Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans Page 14
