“Was the man he wanted killed named Carlos?” Rosacher asked.
Cerruti answered with his mouth full, shreds of meat falling onto the table. “Didn’t say.”
Had Aldo planned to assassinate the Temalaguan king? Was this his idea of a distraction that would delay an attack by the combined forces of Mospiel and Temalagua? It still made no sense to Rosacher. An ordinary death might cause the day-to-day routines of government to be pushed aside, giving way to the extensive planning and traditional pomp that attended Temalaguan state funerals, and the subsequent period of national mourning; but a political assassination would have the opposite effect, acting to spur on the new king in seeking vengeance. To have the desired effect, the assassination would have to be disguised as something else and, since Carlos would be protected by a sizeable armed guard, Rosacher was unable to fathom how this could be achieved.
He inquired further of Cerruti, but learned nothing more of value and, in order to prolong the conversation, he began asking irrelevant questions, hoping that stalling would give him time to think of something pertinent. Accordingly, one of the questions he asked was, “What happened to your menagerie of pets? I was told you had quite a collection.”
“They didn’t take to Frederick being around,” said Cerruti. “Most of them run off.”
This led Rosacher to think that he at least ought to wait for Frederick to wake up before returning to the House—he might have some intelligence to impart—and asked Cerruti how much longer Frederick could be expected to sleep.
“He’ll be up and about by twilight,” Cerruti said. “He enjoys hunting when it’s cool.”
Rosacher looked to the canvas curtain, behind which he presumed Frederick was sleeping, and was tempted to raise a clatter, a noise of some kind, sufficient to rouse him; but he decided that course of action would not be politic and asked Cerruti if he could wait there until Frederick awoke.
“You’d be putting your horse at risk.” Cerruti chewed, swallowed. “I reckon leaving him out there until night, you’re not going to find nothing but bones and the head. But if you’re willing, it’s all right with me.”
Thankfully, because of Cerruti’s laconic style, Rosacher did not feel it necessary to make conversation and, while his host busied himself with household chores, he tried to work on a plan of attack against Mospiel, given that Temalagua’s involvement could be circumvented. The heat, however, overwhelmed him and he nodded off, drowsing through the long afternoon. He woke late in the day, about five o’clock judging by the rich golden light, and was clearing away the cobwebs, considering how to pass the hours before dusk, when he heard, from near at hand, a vast animal rumbling that raised the hair on the back of his neck. He jumped up from the chair, fumbled for his rifle, and said, “What in God’s name is that?”
Cerruti sat opposite him, sharpening his knife on a whetstone—in the dim light, his hair half-obscuring his face, he seemed for the moment a wildly romantic figure and not an uneducated yokel. “Don’t get all lathered up,” he said. “That’s just Frederick having a dream.”
Rosacher let this sink in. “I thought Frederick was a man.”
“He is. ’Least he says he is. You can make up your own mind.”
Warily, Rosacher took his seat, but did not fall back asleep, his mind racing, alert to every noise. At twilight there came a renewed rumbling from without, louder and more extensive than before, and the sound of something big moving through the grass. Once again Rosacher shot to his feet and caught up his rifle.
“Easy, man!” Cerruti put a hand on his arm to restrain him. “Frederick don’t care for rifles much, so you’d do well to leave it here.”
Full of trepidation, Rosacher followed him out onto the plain, but saw nothing of Frederick. After the staleness of the house, the air felt fresh and cool. The sun was down behind Griaule’s mountainous body and, except for a faint redness in the west, the plain was immersed in a purplish gloom, resembling in that crepuscular light pictures of the African veldt in books that Rosacher had thought exotic as a child, yet now seemed, in conjunction with the scene before him, to prefigure some occult menace.
He scanned the plain, searching for any object or movement that might signal Frederick’s presence and saw in the distance a great dark shape flowing through the high grass, going very fast, much faster than a creature of its apparent size should be capable. It was speed without apparent purpose—the thing ran back and forth, and then in loops and circles, describing a variety of patterns that remained visible thanks to the flattened grass in its wake. Rosacher recognized that there was something playful about its exercise, like the running of a young dog that has been pent up for a while.
“You’re a lucky man,” Cerruti said. “Frederick’s in a good mood. There’s times he’s right intolerant of strangers.”
“That’s Frederick?” said Rosacher, pointing at the dark shape, hoping for a negative response.
“In the flesh.” Cerruti made a choking noise that might have been a laugh. “So to speak.”
Rosacher wondered at the cause of Cerruti’s amusement, but was so mesmerized by Frederick’s to-and-fro dashes across the plain that he failed to inquire further. “I’ll bring him over,” Cerruti said. He did not call out or whistle or wave, yet Frederick abruptly changed course and came toward them at a good clip, growing in the space of three or four seconds from a dark shape a hundred yards away to a black featureless mound half the size of a full-grown elephant that settled in the grass a mere twenty feet away. Rosacher stumbled backward, terrified by the thing, by the chuffing of its breath, loud as a steam engine, and by its size and unstable surface—its substance, the stuff of its body, appeared to be in constant flux, a glossy black like polished onyx flowing across who-knows-what sort of structure, be it only more of the same blackness or a skeleton of sorts or something else, something completely implausible. It put Rosacher in mind of those oddments occasionally thrown up by the sea, a glob of protoplasm, a relic of some obscure life unknown and perhaps unknowable to man, a shapeless fragment broken or bitten off from a greater shapelessness…and yet as its breathing subsided, reduced to the level of a smithy’s bellows, it seemed to flirt with a shape, to verge upon the animal, to assume for a fleeting instant the curves and musculature of an enormous sloth, or a bear with an elongated head and snout, and acquiring, too, a gamey odor that waxed and waned in accordance with the degree to which that shape was realized. Rosacher trembled before this monster, understanding death was near, but Cerruti, calm as ever, said, “Frederick wanted to know if that’s your horse out there by the tail. I told him not to eat it.”
Rosacher had neither heard nor seen any exchange between Cerruti and Frederick. In a shaky voice, he asked how they had communicated.
“I been hearing his voice in here…” Cerruti tapped the side of his head. “Ever since we met, maybe even before. Seems to me now like his voice was what led me to go back in under Griaule’s wing in the first place. I’m right sure Frederick had it in mind to make me his dinner, but when he found out I could hear him and he could hear me, well, I guess you could say we became friends.”
With a heavy exhalation, Frederick looked to sink lower into the grass, losing all hint of animal form, becoming as unstirring as a heap of dirt.
“This is the thing that lived under the wing?” Rosacher asked. “The thing everyone’s been frightened of for so long?”
Frederick rumbled and Cerruti said, “He don’t like you referring to him as a ‘thing’.”
“He understands me?”
Cerruti nodded. “Sure does. But to answer your question, way Frederick tells it, he was a man what lived around these parts back when folks were beginning to populate the valley. He worked the land, had a wife and children, but his true passion was for young girls, girls that had just bloomed. Thirteen, fourteen years old. Now and then he’d snap one up and take her in under the wing and do whatever he wanted. He must have done for a dozen or thereabouts. Came a day when one of
the girls slipped away from him before he could drag her under the wing. She told her family what happened and they spread the word, and soon there was a whole mob searching for Frederick. He hid out under the wing, back in deep to where this kind of glowing moss lit up the space he was in, and there he stayed. Sometimes he’d sneak out at night to look for food, but he started losing his appetite and soon he hardly ever went out. And then he fell asleep. Wasn’t no ordinary sleep. Frederick says that while he slept he could feel his body changing—he could feel his bones splintering, his organs dissolving. He felt every ounce of pain it took to make him into what he is now. How long it lasted, I can’t say—but it was long. When he woke the pain was gone, but he was mad from the memory of it and he lashed out at people. Must have killed dozens…and that’s when the legend got started. People forgot about Frederick and took to believing that there was a dangerous creature living back under the wing. Of course by then Frederick had lost his taste for people and turned to killing animals.”
Rosacher masked his disgust for this murderer of young women, this once-human monster now become a monster in every sense of the word, and forced his attention to the problem at hand, thinking that if assassinating Carlos had been Aldo’s intention, Frederick might well be the proper tool.
“Frederick,” he said. “You can eat my horse.”
The black mound quivered and swelled in volume to half-again its previous size.
“You sure about that?” Cerruti asked. “How are you going to get back?”
“I’ll wait until morning and walk if needs be.” Rosacher waved in the general direction of his horse. “Go ahead, Frederick.”
The blackness swelled even more, nearly assuming an observable shape—giant sloth, bear, something along those lines—and flowed away toward the dragon’s tail. Moments later, the horse screamed, a scream of fear that evolved into one of agony, and then was cut short.
Cerruti gave him an incurious look. “Why’d you do that?”
“I want to learn if the cadaver displays the type of wounds that result from an animal attack.”
“You just wasted a good horse, then. You could have asked me. That horse is going to look like it was tore apart by lions.” Cerruti spat. “Why you want to know that?”
“To find out if Frederick could kill the king of Temalagua and make it seem as though an animal had done it.”
“What good’s that going to do you? Frederick ain’t killing no one without I say so. He’s sure not going to be killing no king.”
+
A sprinkling of stars pricked the indigo expanse above Griaule’s back and a cooling breeze came out of the north, drying the sweat on Rosacher’s face. He felt suddenly confident that Aldo’s intention had been to arrange the assassination of Carlos, and certain, too, that he would divine the next phase of Aldo’s plan…or that he could create a plan equally as effective. He had come to rely on moments of illumination like this, perceiving them as sendings from the dragon, but in this instance, with the fate of the nation in the balance, an apprehension of his foolishness, of the ludicrous posture of faith, undercut his confidence. Still, he had little choice but to trust his instincts.
“Let’s go and see how Frederick is faring,” said Rosacher.
“I told you, ain’t no point,” said Cerruti. “Anyway, Frederick likes a little peace and quiet when he’s eating. He won’t be done for a while yet.”
“Then let’s wait a while and walk over there. Assuming they survived Frederick’s assault, and I think they should have, I packed them quite carefully…I have several bottles of good red wine in my saddlebags. You and I can discuss things over a glass or two.”
Cerruti beamed. “Now I’m your man where wine is concerned.”
“I knew you would be,” Rosacher said.
14
Upon returning to the House, Rosacher busied himself with scheming, studying Aldo’s maps and charts, hoping to construct a strategy for blunting a potential aggression on the part of Mospiel. He made some progress, but deciding that he needed help with the plan, he met the following morning with Breque in the conference room where he had initially proposed an alliance between himself and the council. Also in attendance was Gerald Makdessi, a young colonel who had been on Aldo’s staff and was thought to be a natural successor to the fallen general. He was a tall, punctilious man in his thirties, his close-cropped brown hair beginning to show gray, with a lean face that might have been laid out by a carpenter rule, its features were so standard—straight nose, thin, wide mouth, narrow blue-gray eyes all gathered within a tanned oblong frame. His expression—one of calm, attentive reserve—rarely changed, and then only by degree. As the men sat at the long mahogany table, their voices echoing slightly in the spacious room, the sun shafting through the eastern windows, its beams articulated by motes of glowing dust, Makdessi’s movements were economical, confined to a slight inclination of the head, a gesture with the fingers, and the like. Once Rosacher had finished his presentation, he asked permission to speak.
“The morale of Mospiel’s army is, as you have stated, not high,” he said. “Their discipline is poor and I have been informed that there are influential elements within the command that differ with the prelates on the value of a war with Teocinte. They have no great will to fight, but they nonetheless present a formidable foe due to their sheer numbers. I recommend that we flood the garrison towns along the border with mab. And I recommend we do so immediately.”
“Mospiel has made it clear that they would consider any attempt to introduce mab into their territory an act of war,” said Breque.
“Yet they have permitted a black market in the drug to go more-or-less unchecked,” Makdessi said. “Frankly, I doubt that they would notice the influx of drugs for several weeks, but even if they did, they can prepare for war no more quickly than they are at present. A sudden infusion of a drug that makes self-sacrifice less appealing, that lessens aggression and creates a lack of rigor in their preparation…it can’t help but benefit our cause.” He turned to Rosacher. “As to the city of Mospiel itself, your design is sound as far as it goes, but I have some ideas that may augment your own.”
“Please, proceed,” said Rosacher.
“In my view we should act boldly. We cannot afford to wait to learn if your attempt to assassinate Carlos has succeeded before initiating our attack on Mospiel.” Makdessi cleared away papers from a map of the region and pointed to an area on the northern border. “Mospiel has always felt that the swamps of the Gran Chaco were a barrier against an attack from the north—and they would, indeed, negate the possibility of an army moving upon the city from that direction. But a force comprised of small independent units trained to negotiate that terrain, expert in hand-to-hand combat, a guerilla troop, if you will…that is a wholly different matter. Three years ago General Aldo and I, with the approval of the council, established such a force in the towns along the perimeter of the swamp. We have over eight hundred men and women in eleven separate communities who are often away from home for weeks at a time, engaged in trapping, trading, and other pursuits. Their absence from their homes will not be seen as extraordinary and thus will not be reported on by the operatives of the prelates. We should send this force into Mospiel as soon as possible.”
“Why haven’t I been told about this before?” Rosacher asked, the restraints on his temper starting to slip.
“I saw no great urgency to inform you,” said Breque. “You were preoccupied with other matters…as was I.”
“I was not so preoccupied that I wished to remain ignorant of a possible incursion into Mospiel.”
“I was engaged on several fronts at the time, and thus I didn’t think to notify you of the disposition of every matter. Perhaps I should in the future inform you of every shipment of toilet tissue, every…”
“An act of aggression against Mospiel is scarcely something so insignificant!”
“Gentlemen!” said Makdessi. “This is neither the time nor the place for such an
unproductive digression. The situation is grave and I, at least, have duties to perform.”
Rosacher shot a scathing look at Breque and waved in assent, and Breque said, “This is a trying time. Colonel. My apologies.”
“At the same time we push in from the Gran Chaco,” Makdessi went on, “we’ll pull troops away from the Temalaguan border and march them toward our southern border with Mospiel, a point from which they might logically expect an attack to be launched. And then we strike with our elite cavalry unit farther north, the garrison at Ciudad Flores, with the aim of killing General Teixera and as many of his staff as we can.” He leaned back from the map. “Teixera and his staff constitute the best of their military minds. If we’re able to inflict casualties amongst them, we’ll be well ahead of the game.”
“I don’t understand the purpose of your guerillas in the Gran Chaco.” Rosacher said. “To what end will they be deployed?”
“They will endeavor to occupy the seat of power in Mospiel,” Breque said. “The Temple of the Gentle Beast. That has been their goal from the outset. To occupy the temple and hold the hierarchy hostage.”
“You intend to take the temple with only eight hundred men?” Rosacher shook his head in disbelief.
“I’ll coordinate the attack myself.” Makdessi said. “The Temple Guard are excellent soldiers, but so are we, and we will enter the complex disguised as pilgrims. The element of surprise will be ours. Once the temple is secured, it would take an army to dislodge us, and to do so would forfeit the lives of His High Holiness and the prelates.”
“There are too many moving parts to this plan for my liking,” said Rosacher.
Makdessi said, “We’re in a desperate position. One that calls for desperate measures. We’re bound to take a great many casualties—of that there is little doubt. But the virtue of this plan is that it doesn’t require precise coordination between the various moving parts, as you put it. So long as they occur within a few days of each other, we have a decent chance of success.”
Beautiful Blood Page 15
