Beautiful Blood

by Lucius Shepard

  The wind kicked up, clouds with dark swollen bellies rushed in from the east, and a few drops fell. Rosacher hurried along, arriving at the ledge scant minutes before the drizzle turned into a torrential downpour, drumming on the wing overhead and driving the birds to roost. Instead of addressing his problems, he let the sound of the rain lull him to sleep. When he woke, the overcast still held above Griaule, but there was a sunbreak to the east, a beam of light spraying down like a ray focused through a gigantic crystal, as if God or someone were using a magnifying glass to incinerate a portion of the coast. Birds flew out from their nests, testing the air, then returning to squabble briefly before flying off in search of breakfast. Water dripped from the cartilaginous edges of the wing. The whole of creation seemed to have been renewed by the rain—things crawled, scuttled, hopped and soared, creating the impression of organic unity that so fascinated Rosacher, that he had come to prize, even to depend on for its soothing effect. And he wondered, not for the first time, at the clear duality posed by the view from this side of the dragon and the sheer gracelessness visible from the western slope, the former being, he assumed, the idyllic albeit savage world of Griaule’s origins, and the latter representing the world into which he had been thrust, a savage place also, but betraying no sign of tranquility or unified function, reflecting the erratic, the inconsistent, the poisonous delirium predicated by the human contaminant. Yet was not Griaule in part responsible for that delirium? Rosacher had spent his formative years in a Prussian village, his university days in Berlin—both places had seemed orderly and firmly regulated. The dysfunctional condition of Teocinte and environs might be the product of a torment visited upon it by Griaule. Or perhaps Prussia was not as orderly as he recalled. He decided that he would have to travel more widely and observe other cultures before reaching a conclusion.

  His mind continued to run this course for a time, pushing about the notion of Griaule’s duality, and he was considering whether or not to write something on the subject in order to organize his thoughts when a man’s voice hailed him. Looking behind him, Rosacher saw two men standing atop the dragon’s ridged spine, one holding a long-barreled rifle. The shorter of the men waved and began scrambling down the slope toward him; the other shouldered his rifle and remained in place. As the man drew near, Rosacher recognized him to be Councilman Breque, a much greyer version of the Breque he first met. He came up to a knee, suddenly wary, casting about for an escape route. When Breque reached the ledge, he stood for a moment with hands on hips, catching his breath and gazing out over the valley.

  “Lovely spot,” he said. “A touch precipitous for my taste, but it’s truly spectacular.” He pointed to a section of scale beside Rosacher. “Do you mind?”

  “Don’t see no sign stopping you,” said Rosacher, affecting his country accent.

  Breque lowered himself and, after he was settled, said. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “A long time since we’ve spoken. It must be nearly a decade.”

  Rosacher scratched behind his ear. “I don’t reckon I understand what you’re getting at.”

  Breque’s mouth twitched, as if he were suppressing a smile. “I know who you are, Richard. You can drop that ridiculous accent.”

  Rosacher kept silent, thinking that he could bolt deeper in under the wing and perhaps elude pursuit among the folds.

  “If you believe I’m here to harm you,” Breque went on, “let me assure you that is scarcely the case.”

  “It might be more persuasive if your man were to put his rifle down.”

  “Don’t concern yourself with him. He’s here to safeguard me, not to menace you.”

  “A fine distinction, that,” said Rosacher. “Since one seems a corollary to the other.”

  Breque gave an exasperated sigh. “I’ve known where you were for almost the entire time you’ve been missing. Mister Honeyman’s death and the absence of a body to counterfeit your own…I always suspected you were alive, though Ludie insisted otherwise. I think it was wishful thinking on her part and, once I found you, I saw no reason to disabuse her of her belief. Anyway, I’ve been keeping an eye on you all these years.”

  A freshet of rain pattered on the scales, diminishing almost instantly to a sprinkle.

  “For what purpose?” Rosacher asked.

  “You’re a clever man, Richard. That’s reason enough. Who can say to what ends your cleverness might be directed?”

  “I have no plans to move against you. I wish to be left to my own devices. Nothing more.”

  “Well and good,” said Breque. “I’m relieved to hear you bear me no malice. But the point I’m making is this—if I had wanted you murdered, I’ve had ample opportunity to accomplish that goal. I consider you a valuable resource. In fact, I have treated you as such in your absence from the business and continued to pay a percentage of our profits into your accounts. And I have allowed you to siphon off however much product you required for the functioning of the House.”

  Startled by this, Rosacher managed to maintain a neutral expression. “I purchase mab from…”

  “From the Bornish Brothers in Port Chantay. You pay less than cost, a token amount, because the Bornish Brothers Trading House is owned by you…or rather by your proxy, Samuel Mountroyal.”

  Rosacher did not care for the fact that Breque knew his business and he presumed the reason Breque had enlightened him was to make him aware that he was no longer in control. “Why have you come here?” he asked.

  “I wish my visit could have been made under happier circumstances,” said Breque. “Though I realize your relationship with Ludie must have been strained, to say the least, I imagine there likely is some residual emotional attachment.”

  “Get to the point, won’t you?”

  “She’s dead,” Breque said. “She went riding on East Crescent Road yesterday evening. Apparently she took a fall and split her head open on the rocks.”

  It was as if Rosacher’s head had been enfolded in a warm cloth that muffled his senses. Moods swirled about him. At one moment he felt sorrowful, distressed to the point of tears, and the next relieved that she would no longer be a problem.

  “Ludie?” he said. “Ludie’s dead?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Who was with her?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, she was alone. In recent years her drug use had increased to reckless proportions. Opiates, mainly. On several occasions, I’m told, she fell asleep while riding and took a tumble. I suppose that’s what happened in this instance.”

  Anger flooded him, replacing the cold that had begun to hollow out his bones. “I don’t give a damn what you suppose! Who stands to profit by her death? Has her will been read?”

  “No, but I was a signatory to her last will a year or so ago,” said Breque. “She may have had it reworked since, but I’m not aware of it. There were a number of small bequests, and she expressed the desire that her holdings in the company be placed in a public trust that would benefit the citizens of Morningshade.”

  That shocked Rosacher, being a breach of the agreement he had made with the Church in twenty-five years. “Who is to administer the trust?”

  “A law firm. Lawrence, Behrens, Ecclestone and Associates. Are you familiar with them?”

  Rosacher started to respond angrily, to say that this was the same firm who had handled his agreement with the Church, and to say further that the Church must have grown impatient; but caution threw up a flag. Had Ludie revealed the existence of the agreement to Breque? It was not inconceivable. If so, how did this play into Breque’s visit? The Church was a patient monster—they had less than ten years left to wait and it would have taken an extreme provocation for them to break the agreement. While it was possible that Ludie had wanted to thumb her nose at the agreement between Rosacher and the Church by making such a will, it was highly unlikely that the firm that had drafted the agreement would have written such a will. All this led him to
suspect that Breque was dissembling in some fashion. He felt suddenly heavy of limb and heart, a physical reaction not only to the news of Ludie’s death, but to the realization that he was being pulled back into the drug business.

  “The truth,” he said. “Why have you come here today? What do you want?”

  “Ludie died without revealing the process by which the blood is refined.” Breque stretched out a leg and wiggled his foot, as if working out a kink. “We have enough mab on hand to satisfy our customers for two weeks or thereabouts. I need your assistance in making more.”

  That Ludie had kept the process—or rather the lack thereof—secret surprised Rosacher and muddied the waters further; but it had no bearing on what he needed to do to ensure his survival. He pretended to mull over the question and finally said, “I’ll make more of the drug for you, but I have conditions.”

  Breque nodded. “I assumed as much. Proceed.”

  “Firstly, I want to see Ludie’s will. Secondly, I am to be left alone in the treatment room. Under no circumstances will you or any of your agents seek to spy on me. If you violate this article of our pact, I will walk away and leave you to deal with thousands of unhappy addicts.”

  Breque started to speak, but Rosacher waved him to silence and continued: “Any attempt to extract information regarding the process by chicanery or force will set in motion certain mechanisms that will destroy the business. These mechanisms have been in place since the beginning of our relationship, and I have complete confidence in their efficacy. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Breque. “But I hope…”

  “Thirdly, I believe your expansionist policies imperil the business. Therefore I wish to be consulted on all matters of foreign policy, particularly those relating to your attempts at expansion, whether in Temalagua or elsewhere. Should you fail to convince me of the rightness of your course and, despite this, continue along it, I will cease assisting you in the production of mab.”

  Incredulous, Breque said, “You’re asking for a veto over any decision I make?”

  “As they relate to foreign policy, yes. I’m assuming that you intend to expand in more than one direction and that you will need money to prosecute these conflicts. A great deal of money. I would be a fool not to want a voice in these decisions. I have a right to safeguard my investment.”

  “You leave me little choice,” said Breque after a moment.

  “Oh, you have options, but only one of them is worth your attention: the option of persuading me that you are choosing a direction that promises success. I have nothing against pursuing an expansionist foreign policy; however, I demand that it be done judiciously.”

  “You’ve made me wealthy…and powerful as well.” Breque smiled, as though attempting to lighten the impact of what he said next. “I’ve little to entertain myself apart from dabbling in regional politics. A prudent soul might suggest that by thwarting me you’re playing a dangerous game.”

  “If you’re a fool, then you are correct—I am. But I don’t believe you’re a fool.” Rosacher paused to allow a response. Breque blew out air through his lips, making a perturbed noise.

  “One last thing,” Rosacher said. “I imagine you must have operatives in places such as Alta Miron and Mospiel, men and women capable of clandestine investigations.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll need two of them for a period of…let’s say three months. That should do the job. Preferably a man and a woman. I have no desire to conscript your best people, but I would welcome competence.”

  “How do you intend to use them?”

  “You’re an intelligent man, Jean-Daniel. Surely you can hazard a guess?”

  “I’d say you’re planning to look into Ludie’s death. But why not use your own operatives?”

  “I have no operatives, merely eyes and ears on the street. Your people are bound to be more efficient than anyone in my employ.”

  Following an exchange of patently fraudulent pleasantries, Breque left Rosacher to contemplate the view, but his contemplative mood was broken. He felt agitated, ill at ease. No matter how hard he tried he was unable to enfold himself in the landscape, to sink into it and become part of a harmonious whole. None of the particulars of his life seemed properly aligned. As he sat and stewed over a variety of trivial issues, he recognized that although it appeared that Breque had been neutralized, the councilman would continue to be a significant problem because he had fallen in love with power and Rosacher knew from experience that nothing, not even the threat of destruction, would discourage him from seeking more.

  12

  Until his meeting with Breque, Rosacher’s days had been relatively undemanding. He would spend a few hours handling logistical issues at the House and, once he was assured that things were running smoothly, he would pass the remainder of his time in reflection upon his newfound faith, an imperfect thing that he examined in various lights, trying alternately to shore it up and pick it apart. On occasion he was summoned back to the House to deal with some crisis, but these instances grew more infrequent as the men and women he had trained to be his aides grew more competent. Following the meeting, however, he was forced to spend hours each day in the treatment room, located beneath the amphitheater, there pretending to work some magic with the blood to make it suitable for human consumption. Since no one was permitted to oversee this process, he initially whiled away the hours by daydreaming and playing mental games; but he wearied of these pastimes and took to writing down his thoughts. Sitting in a wooden chair beside a ceramic-lined tub of Griaule’s blood (which, against logic, gave no sign of congealing), staring at the black cryptograms that materialized upon its golden surface, then faded and vanished, it was hardly surprising that his thoughts were of Griaule—insights into the dragon’s intent, meditations on man’s place in relation to Griaule and other like topics. Soon he began to organize these thoughts into essay form and, after several months of pruning and polishing, he read one of the essays, an examination of Griaule’s influence upon the history of Teocinte entitled “On Our Dragon Nature,” delivering it by means of a speaking tube that carried his raspy whisper throughout the amphitheater. The reaction was overwhelming, outstripping his expectations—the gift shop was besieged with requests for printed copies of the essay and also with inquiries as to when the next “sermon” would be read. It seemed that a tremendous audience had been waiting for just such a preachment to give shape and substance to their inarticulate feelings, and so Rosacher was encouraged to construct a second essay. As he searched about for an appropriate topic, he cast his mind back to the beginning of his involvement with the dragon, to his study of the blood and the peculiar lapses in time (as if, he imagined, he had been skipped across the river of time like a flat stone across an actual river) that had marked the dragon’s efforts to thwart that study. Viewed in retrospect, it was an unwieldy tactic. It would have been much easier for the dragon to arrange his death—he’d had ample weapons at his disposal. Yet instead of letting flakes or enemies or some other element of the natural world do his bidding, Griaule had imperiled Rosacher time and again only to save him for some mysterious purpose, perhaps the very purpose he was now serving, the deification of the dragon. It was as if through his interaction with humanity, Griaule had adopted a human means of problem-solving, a haphazard empiricism, trying this ploy, discarding another, rummaging through innumerable potentials until he had winnowed them down to a single promising thread, one that embodied an immortal perspective on mortal circumstance…and thus was Rosacher led to write the essay entitled, “Is The God I Worship The God I Cause To Be?”, which elicited a more enthusiastic response than had his first attempt at theological discourse.

  While visiting with Meric Cattanay on his tower one sunny, blustery afternoon, he brought up the subject, asking the artist if he had ever thought much about it. Cattanay was belted into a sturdy chair atop the platform, dabbing paints onto blank pages in a sketchpad, mixing colors together and adding l
inseed oil, then gauging the effect. He had aged markedly during the previous decade—his hair had gone from mostly gray to mostly white, the lines on his face had deepened into seams and his movements were stiff and halting, so much so that whenever the tower creaked in the wind, Rosacher would imagine the creaking issued from Cattanay’s joints. He required assistance in order to ascend and descend from the tower—thus the chair. “I used to think a great deal about things of that sort,” he said, wiping off a brush with a rag. “I never got anywhere with it. Too busy, I guess. And now I don’t have the time. If the mural’s going to be finished before I die, I’d better work swiftly.”

  “You’re being overly dramatic,” said Rosacher. “You’ve long years ahead of you.”

  Cattanay dunked the brush into a jar of cleansing solution. “I wish I could believe you, but I listen to what my body tells me…and it’s telling me I don’t have much longer. Both my parents were dead by their early sixties. Unlike yours, I’d wager. The years have been extremely kind to you.” He selected a finer brush. “When I used to wonder about Griaule, whether he was a god, all that, I concluded that of course he was. What else could he be? He’s the most godlike being I’ve ever run across and if there’s a consensus about the question, which there seems to be, who am I to argue? I’m a simple craftsman and not a deep thinker—I’ll leave that to you and Breque.”