by James Moore
Her fingers only scrabbled along cold stone, but then a voice said, “Here now, I knew that door would open up sometime. Come, let’s have a look at you.”
Without a sound, six flames sprang up in the darkness, flickering brighter, the pools of radiance expanding to reveal six candles, then six skulls, then a woman sitting in the middle of them, her legs folded in the lotus position and her hands twisted into sacred muhdras. She crossed her arms once before her face, elbow over elbow, then threw them wide, muhdras coming undone in a grand flourish. All about the room candles flared into brilliance.
The glare was dazzling, but Use knew enough of the gestures to recognize a master of the Lure of Flame when she saw one, and so only had to shade her eyes with one hand. Carl sucked his teeth and murmured, “Hermetics would have a bloody fit if they saw me do something like that.”
The woman unfolded her legs and came to her feet in a fluid motion, her long fuchsia hair almost brushing the candle flame as she bowed. “Welcome to London, blood of my blood and kin of my kin.” She came back up, sweeping her hair back with one black-nailed hand, and took them in as they looked at her in turn.
The woman was Kindred, obviously, her aura pale with the
gray of pain and the blue of intellect, though to judge from her face, she had been taken only in her late twenties. She had a number of gold rings in one ear, and around her neck, sharply contrasting with the black of her sweater, was a magical monad, an elaborate sigil formed with gold wire, held by a silken cord the same color as her hair.
She reached to her belt, taking out a fencing foil with a sharpened tip, and made a quick salute, the blade hissing as it cut the air. She then lowered the point and, with two quick slashes, cut a door in the Hermetic circle in which she had been meditating. Swiftly she stepped through the gap, turning then, and with an even quicker stroke restored the sanctity of the circle, so that it once more lay unbroken on the earth of the floor. She saluted again, then sheathed the blade. “Pardon me, but I was not expecting you this evening.”
“Expect the unexpected," said Carl, glancing about the room.
Ilse did as well, seeing the candles were set on shelves made of slate. Black and white wax pooled onto black stone, and the ceiling was low above them, only inches from Carl’s head, while behind them was a smooth slate wall, like an old-fashioned blackboard, a door sketched in faded chalk, bleeding from the slight moisture in the air.
The woman with the fluorescent hair inclined her head. “This used to be the cold room, back when there was a need for one." She didn't explain any further, but then didn't need to. “I am the Guardian of the Gate, though you may know me as Sarah Cobbler. Welcome to Malmsey House and the Tremere of London. How may I know you?"
“You can know me as Carl Magnuson," the mage said. “That’s the name in the phone book, and if I wanted to keep people from knowing it, it would take a whole load of bother, so I might as well tell you straight off.”
Sarah Cobbler nodded, seeming to accept this, then looked to Ilse.
“You may know me as Ilse Decameron," Use said. “That is the name I have taken for myself since I became a member of this House. I am the childe of the Seven above me, though my direct sire is Houdini.”
“Your fame proceeds you. I have seen your photographs and would be interested to learn your techniques.”
Use placed one hand possessively about her camera. “It is a difficult Path to learn.”
“Few things of value are easy to gain.”
Sarah then seemed to relax, though her violet eyes still held the same somber expression, and it was clear that the time for formalities and pleasantries was over. “Listen, ducks, I’ll tell it to you straight. London is in a bad way for the Tremere right now, though you probably knew that already." She looked directly at Carl.
He looked back at her blandly. “Sorry, love. I just joined up.”
She paused. “Who is your sponsor?”
“Don’t got one,” Carl said, grinning. “I’m mortal.”
It was to Sarah’s credit, or perhaps a testimony to her willpower, that her only reaction was to raise an eyebrow. “A mortal of House Tremere?”
Carl nodded.
Sarah lowered her eyebrow. “I’ll have to inform the Doctor of this. He'll be wanting to know." She paused. “I was going to say that the war’s still on with the Ventrue, but it’s gone cold for a spell, and we’ve officially got a truce. But if this doesn’t throw a conker, I don’t know what will. Come along.” She took hold of an old green brass doorknob set in one of the more battered slate walls, opening the door out into what appeared to be an undercellar. “I’d best make you comfortable and ring the Doctor up."
Sarah took one of the white candles and held it aloft, leading the way through the cellar and up the stairs, going past a well-cared for and obviously well-used wrought-iron gate that Use could only assume led to the crypt. Their path led them through the wine cellar, the brewing room and chambers with bare shelves which had to have once been the greater and lesser pantries, until they went up another flight of stairs and emerged into the kitchen.
It was ancient, with huge butcher blocks and cooks’ tables which had to go back centuries, but also with a few modern amenities, including a new stove, a microwave and three sparkling white refrigerators. Looking into the last of these was the most proper British butler Use had ever seen.
“Mr. Winthrop!” Sarah exclaimed, then quickly blew out the candle. “Thank the gods! Here, you see about getting these two set up in the drawing room. The lady’s kin and so's the man, but he’s mortal. And if you can figure that out, you’ve got one on me ’cause, love a duck, I’m going to have a time of it explaining that to the master." Sarah paused, then looked back at them, her expression once again serious and somber. “Pardon me, but I do leave you in capable hands. Mr. Winthrop will attend to your every need.”
So saying, Sarah tossed the candle on a sideboard, then turned on her heel and rushed out of the room, her fencing foil clanking against the door on her way out.
Mr. Winthrop did not even raise an eyebrow at this, only quietly shut the refrigerator with one white-gloved hand and nodded to them. “It will be a pleasure serving you. How may I be of assistance?"
His voice was cultured, and more British than the Queen’s — Elizabeth's, at least — and he looked quite a bit older as well, steel gray hair receding at the temples from a much lined face.
Carl didn’t seem to appreciate any of this, though from his next comment, Ilse could see why. “You can tell me where the loo is. I’ve been hanging out with these Tremere blokes for half a day, and I think it’s a safe bet that they don’t use them."
Mr. Winthrop smiled, but only with sympathy. “You may use mine, sir. That green door at the far end of the kitchen.” He gestured elegantly, and Carl dashed off towards it.
Well, at least that explained why the mage had been so testy of late. Use looked to Mr. Winthrop who gazed placidly back, giving her his full attention. “I’m just a bit thirsty. Would you...”
Mr. Winthrop put up a hand, signaling her to speak no more. “I must apologize, good lady, that we have no mortal vessels on hand to suit your needs. It is on the master’s orders, due to recent unpleasantness in the city.” He gave no additional explanation, but his tone turned even more regretful, apologizing yet further. “I am also sorry to say that my services do not extend so far as to serve in that capacity. However, we do have libations on hand to suit your need, delivered but hours ago from London General. Would that be sufficient?”
Use was bewildered by the elaborate courtesy and took a moment to figure out what he was saying. “Yes, of course.” Mr. Winthrop nodded, evidently pleased. “Excellent. Would Madame prefer her libations in a glass or the package from the hospital? Cool or warmed, and if so, to any particular temperature? And if I may be so bold, does Madame have any preference as to type?”
Ilse was almost as bewildered as before, but was becoming used to Mr. Winthrop's manner of
speaking. “Warmed, in a glass, whatever else you think best."
“Excellent, Madame. Allow me to escort you to the drawing room, and I will return with your libations shortly. They will take a few minutes to warm in the bain marie, but I find that a much better way to heat the precious fluid than these new microwaves. I’ve been told they affect the flavor, but if Madame feels it necessary, I will use ours, though I do recommend against it.”
“No, no trouble,” Ilse said, then heard the flush from the green door at the end of the kitchen.
Mr. Winthrop remained expressionless, but said, “Perhaps we might wait a moment for the gentleman."
Carl came out a few seconds later, and Mr. Winthrop nodded to him, saying, “I was just about to escort the lady to the drawing room. If you would care to join us?"
Carl gave a longing glance to the refrigerator, and the comer of Mr. Winthrop’s mouth quivered just a twitch. “I will be serving libations to the lady in the drawing room. If there is anything you might care for, you have but to ask. I was just about to prepare my own evening meal, but I could easily make enough for two. Would the gentleman be partial to medallions of pork sauteed with green peppercorns and marsala wine?”
“Sounds wonderful," Carl breathed. “I’m famished."
Mr. Winthrop bowed. “Then if you would be so good as to follow me.”
He led the way out into the hall, holding the door open for them, then escorted them along the way, past a gallery with portraits of elegant lords and ladies, up a spiral staircase covered with red wool carpet woven with interlacing gold threads in the form of the monad Sarah wore around her neck, and through an archway into the drawing room.
The wallpaper was flocked with the same pattern, gold on gold, and the motif was picked up in the carved marble of the fireplace and the hand-done interlace around the edges of the ceiling, in the center of which was a fresco of the summer sky, the sun and its rays picked out in gold leaf in the middle. The furnishings were just as elegant and continued the theme, brocaded fabrics upholstering each chaise lounge and love seat and settee, cushions with the magical sigil embroidered in gold thread thrown in the comer of each. The tables were painted with idyllic springtime scenes, shepherds and shepherdesses, lords and ladies, all of them frolicking in the gold leaf sun.
Carl and Ilse took seats on the settee Mr. Winthrop indicated, and Ilse watched as the older man went silently to a black lacquer cabinet, retrieving a brandy snifter and a crystal decanter filled with pale gold liquid. He unstopped the flask, pouring enough into the glass to cover the bottom, then lifted it with his palm, swirling it once to release the fumes.
With an elaborate bow, he presented it to Carl. “Very special old pale, sir. There are a few casks in the undercellar which the master put by when he did more entertaining than he does now, and they have aged considerably. You should find the flavor exquisite.”
Carl took the snifter, breathing deeply of the fumes, and Mr. Winthrop turned to Use. “If Madame finds the scent of cognac pleasing, I could fetch her a glass as well.”
“No," Use said quickly, “we can share.” She put her hand on Carl’s, her fingertips resting on the glass.
“Very good,” Mr. Winthrop said. “If the gentleman will allow me to take his coat, I will go see about preparing the rest of the refreshments.”
Wordless, Carl let Mr. Winthrop take his overcoat, still folded across his arm, then once the butler had left the room, turned to Use and said, “My, you work fast.”
Use felt a blush rising of its own accord, perhaps bidden by the fumes of the cognac. “I'm sorry. You remind me very much of someone I once knew." She paused, looking away. “He's dead now."
“Well, yes, so you said,” Carl remarked, “but the question is, is he still around.?”
She looked at him sharply, and he suddenly went a shade paler than normal. “I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to be so flip about it. Here now, stop that,” he said, brushing at her eyes. His fingers came away, stained with blood. He looked at them, mouth open, then handed her the cognac and took out his handkerchief, wiping them and handing it to her.
Use dabbed at her eyes, passing back the brandy snifter, and sat up straight, moving away from him. “I’m sorry.”
“No need. That was very rude of me.” He looked at her, his odd eyes holding the same sad look Paul's had when he knew he’d hurt her. “This person I remind you of — the one with the eyes like mine — was he rude like that too?"
Use nodded. “Sometimes. He — Oh, I don’t know." She wiped her eyes again, more of the blood coming. She realized she must look like Smudge, then laughed once nervously, and continued to cry.
Carl set his brandy snifter down on the table with a chime like a temple bell. “Here now, I'm sure it’s not all that bad."
“Have you ever lost someone?”
“Well, not a lover, not like that, but yes, I can see what you mean.” He looked at her seriously, mouth creased in a grimace of worry. “Here, if you’d like my drink, you can have it. It's rather good, but I’m not in the mood for it now.”
He lifted the glass towards her, cupped in the palm of his hand, and she caught both, pulling them towards her. “Please, I need you to hold it. My hands can’t warm the cognac."
“Well, love, you’re not the first woman who’s said that to me. Quite a few women with cold hands, so don’t think it a problem.”
Use just breathed deeply, savoring the rich, heady warmth of the cognac and the feel of his hand, warm beneath her own, both of which she could enjoy, so much so that she was quite giddy by the time Mr. Winthrop brought her vitae and Carl’s dinner.
“Here, love," Carl said, taking the brandy snifter away as she inhaled one last noseful, then in answer to her hands clutching after it, handed her the vitae in a glass cup set in a lacy silver holder and handle.
Ilse giggled and took a sip, realizing but not caring that she’d become completely drunk on the cognac fumes.
“If there will be nothing else?” Mr. Winthrop asked.
“Nah, everything’s just fine,” Carl said, and Mr. Winthrop left as Carl began to attack his pork and peppercorns and whatever else composed the vile stew he’d ordered.
They were thus engaged when a man appeared in the doorway. He was of medium height and elegant build, with tousled brown hair and a beatnik’s mustache and goatee, and dressed in an eighteenth century black velvet coat with matching knee-breeches, heavy lace cuffs and collar attached to the former, robin’s egg blue silk stockings and black shoes with diamond buckles below the latter. He was just in the act of removing a voluminous, gold-lined black wraparound cloak and handing it to Mr. Winthrop.
“That will be all. We will ring if needed.” His voice was old, very old, and colder than the grave.
Mr. Winthrop made a sharp, nodding bow and left. The gentleman in the Goth ensemble entered the room, followed by Sarah Cobbler, her prismacolor hair looking somewhat disheveled, as if she had just stood out in the rain for a moment and had not yet had a chance to fix it.
“Please, remain seated," the gentleman said, coming over by the settee and studying Carl intently, who gazed back at him. “Hmm, yes, definitely the look," the gentleman murmured, then reached out and placed a black velvet-gloved finger under Carl’s chin, tilting the mage’s head up to face him and turning it from side to side so as to gaze upon both eyes. “Definitely of the line...but mortal.” He released Carl’s chin and brought his hand up to his mouth, sniffing the fingertips, then putting out his tongue and tasting them, “And of the sub-line. Hmm, this complicates things badly.”
“Are you going to check my teeth next?” Carl inquired, voice heavy with sarcasm.
The gentleman in black velvet paused, seeming to seriously consider the question, then shook his head. “No, I don’t believe that will be necessary.” He looked off into the air abstractedly. “Problematic. I’ll have to revise my calculations. Most disturbing.”
“What’s disturbing?" Carl asked, at the same moment as Sa
rah rushed up to the gentleman in black and said, “Doctor, oughtn’t you be introducing yourself?"
He looked at her blandly. “Why, Sarah? The man already knows who I am, and the woman will as soon as she recovers from Mr. Winthrop’s cognac.” He shrugged, sitting down on comer of the chaise lounge opposite them. “Why else would I have allowed you to accompany me to this audience?"
Sarah Cobbler seemed to realize that introductions were hers, whether she wanted them or not. “Doctor, these are Carl Magnuson and Ilse Decameron. Carl, Use, this the Doctor."
Carl snorted, “Huh, in that get-up he looks more like the Master." Sarah looked scandalized, but the Doctor ignored the remark entirely.
Sarah laughed nervously then, her accent going pure Cockney. “Well, Doctor, Master, h’it doesn’t really matter which. This is the illustrious Dr. John Dee, who you’ve probably heard so much about.”
“So where’s the TARDIS?” Carl murmured.
Dr. Dee smiled slightly, which Ilse guessed was the closest he ever came to outright laughter, “‘Time and Relative Dimensions in Space.’ Amusing you should mention that,” but explained himself no further.
“Do you ‘ave h’any question for the Doctor?” Sarah asked.
Carl shrugged. “Did Queen Liz really have syphilis?”
“Of course not," Dr. Dee said. “Diseases are a modern invention. A toad made a nest of her hair while a demon lover ate away at her soul. She died of complications of both.”
“Oh," Carl said.
Sarah beamed and leaned on the arm of the wingback chair next to her, and Ilse thought, Score one for the Doctor.
Dr. Dee gazed impassively at the two of them. “We haven’t time for pleasantries or irrelevant questions. Great forces are at work, and we must prepare. I am aware of your mission, Carl Magnuson, and it is imperative that you return to the Order. We will assist you in every way possible. Sarah will work out the details.” He looked directly at Carl as he said this last, and Sarah smiled, fingering her amulet.
