Kloszowski got up and thumped the table. Cutlery rattled. Ambrosio stopped his still-full wine goblet from falling over.
'I don't think you understand,' he said. 'This man is dead. Murdered.'
'Yes?' Schedoni seemed puzzled by his outburst.
'Someone must have killed him.'
'Indubitably.'
'Aren't you going to find the murderer? See that he, or she, is punished?'
Zschokke and two servants brought an old curtain to carry off Ravaglioli in, and a maid with a bucket and mop appeared to tidy up the quarter of the room that had been splattered.
Schedoni shrugged. 'Of course, murderers are always exposed, always punished. But first we should finish our meal. The habits of Udolpho will never be disturbed by something as crude as a mere killing.'
Everyone at the table appeared to agree with the old man and so, feeling foolish, Kloszowski sat down. Not only was this family the epitome of the parasite classes, they were all mad.
Christabel, piqued because her father's death had interrupted her recital, returned to the table, and took her seat. Ambrosio made a grasp at her bottom but she brushed his hand away.
Ravaglioli's chair was tipped back and he was lifted onto the sheet, and quickly wrapped. The maid wiped up.
'Put him in the cold storage room,' Dr. Valdemar instructed the steward. 'I shall examine further later. There may be much we can learn.'
'Perhaps our guest might say a blessing for the dead,' suggested Vathek the lawyer. Everyone looked at Kloszowski, and he resisted the urge to look behind him.
He kept forgetting he was a cleric of Morr.
Kloszowski mumbled something and made gestures in the air, vaguely trying to imitate clerics he'd seen at funerals. No one questioned his impersonation, and the coffee arrived in several steaming pots.
'I must tell Old Melmoth,' Vathek said, addressing himself to Schedoni. 'This will affect the will. Ravaglioli was in the direct line of succession.'
'No he wasn't,' snapped Flaminea, between thirsty little sips at the boiling black coffee. 'I was.'
Vathek scratched his bristle-covered cheek.
'My late husband married into Udolpho. I am the direct heir, am I not, father?'
Schedoni shook his head, as if unable to remember.
'I thought father was grandfather's son,' said Christabel, 'and that you, mother, married into the family.'
'That was my impression,' said the lawyer.
'Well, your impression was wrong,' snarled Flaminea. 'I have always been the heir. Father Ambrosio will confirm the truth, won't you, uncle?'
Ambrosio, who was dividing his attention between Antonia's thighs and Christabel's breasts, applied himself to the question.
'I'm not your uncle,' said the father, 'I'm your father. Before I entered the cult of Ranald, I was married to my cousin Clarimonde. She was abducted by the banditti and never heard from again, but she left me with a daughter.'
Ambrosio's hand had dipped below the table, in Christabel's direction. He winced, and brought it up again. Christabel still had her meatfork.
'Uncle, you are confused,' said Flaminea. 'You are a father, not my father. Surely, you concede that Christabel is your grand-niece, not your grand-daughter.'
Ambrosio drank his coffee, the prong-marks red against the white skin of his hand, and said, reasonably, 'I believe Christabel is Pintaldi's sister, is she not?'
'Christabel?' said Flaminea, eyes glowing blue.
The dark girl shook her head, and said, 'It's nothing to me.'
Outside, the thunder had receded to a dull rumble every few minutes, and the main noise was the steady tattoo of the rain against the walls, and the rattling of the windows. Inside, Kloszowski's head was beginning to ache. 'More coffee?' asked Schedoni, courteously.
X
She had lost track of time, and could not tell how many years she'd been imprisoned. Her life before she came to Udolpho was a distant, vague memory. She had been married, she thought, and had children. She had lived in a city near the sea, and her husband had been a mariner, eventually the owner of his own boat, his own shipping line. Then, she'd travelled, and come, during one of these damnable thunderstorms, to Udolpho.
Her captors called her Mathilda, but that wasn't her name. Her real name was
Mathilda.
No. It was
She couldn't remember.
Zschokke, the tall man with the twisted face who brought her her meals, could not speak. But he was often accompanied by a bent, mad old man named Schedoni, and he always called her Mathilda. He spoke to her as if she was pitiably altered, but there was nothing wrong with her.
She was not a victim of warpstone. She was a normal woman.
She tried to lift her head, but the weights Zschokke fastened around her skull while she was asleep were too heavy.
There had been a slit window once, but it had been bricked up.
She could never tell whether it was day or night but she knew when there was a storm. She could hear the thunder, and the stones of the ceiling would become wet, occasionally dripping on her.
She didn't know why she was held prisoner. At first, she'd begged for her release, then for an explanation. Now, she didn't bother. They called her Mathilda and were sorry for her, but they'd never let her free. She would die in this room and be buried under a slab carved with the name of Mathilda Udolpho. That was to be her fate.
Once she had secreted a chicken bone from one of her meals, and snapped it, making a sharp tool. For months, she'd scraped away at the mortar between the stones, loosening large blocks. She'd rested her head against the cold wall while she worked away with her bone-trowel, and had flattened a part of her face.
In the end, Zschokke had caught her. She had tried to sever the vein in his throat with the sharp bone, but it had just broken on his skin. He didn't abuse her for her attack. But she'd eaten filleted meat and fowl ever since.
She tried to remember her real husband, her real family. But she could only picture the face of Schedoni Udolpho, and recall the names of the children he repeatedly told her they'd had together: Montoni, Ambrosio, Flaminea
She tried to stand, but couldn't. Her head was heavy as a cannon-ball, and her neck had long since withered away. She could draw her knees up and crouch but her head stayed anchored to the floor.
She dragged herself, pulling with her hands and pushing with her feet, across the floor of the room, the carpet bunching up under her. One day, Mathilda would get out. And then they'd all be sorry.
XI
Zschokke stopped and grunted, tapping d'Amato on the chest. The water merchant staggered back as if he'd been dealt a weighty blow.
The huge steward pushed open a door. It creaked, of course. Zschokke shoved d'Amato through it. Then, he lifted up his candle, and proceeded down the corridor.
Kloszowski didn't know where they were within the house. They had been led a long way away from the great hall, through passages and up staircases. They could be either deep in the depths of Udolpho, or high up in one of the towers.
They had passed through a derelict part of the building, and he had imagined that Zschokke was a little afraid, casting too many careful looks about him, flinching away from the holes in the walls and the screened-off rooms. Kloszowski hated to think what might put a fright into the giant brute.
These were the guest apartments.
Antonia was trying to smile, and talking to the steward, asking him questions about the family, and about the house. Zschokke interjected a few groans into his grunts.
'This reminds me very much,' the dancer was saying, 'of the daemon-blighted inn of von Diehl's The Fate of Fair Florence; or: Tortured and Abandoned.'
They came to another door, and Zschokke pushed it open. There was a fire burning in a grate in the room beyond, which was decorated in the Cathayan style, with silks and low tables and pieces of porcelain. The steward pointed a finger at Antonia.
'For me?' she said. 'Thank you. It looks lovely.
Very homey.'
Kloszowski was in the room next door, a tiny cell with a bare cot, a single candle, and a thin blanket. This was what they thought fitting for a cleric, obviously. Next time he was forced to take a disguise, he'd pick something likely to win him better accommodation. Zschokke slammed the door behind him, and he was alone.
There was a thin window, and the rain steadily spattered against it. Kloszowski peered through, but couldn't see anything beyond the trickles of water.
He stripped off his habit, and got out of the novice's boots. His feet were still filthy from the forest mud. The rest of his clothes were ragged and grimy from his spell in the dungeons of Zeluco. He undressed, tearing his britches to pieces, and unpicking the rags of his shirt from his chest and arms.
There was a basin of water by his bedside. He remembered d'Amato's Yellow Ague, but assumed that up here in the mountains they wouldn't be buying from a bloodsucker like him. Obviously, they had enough rain to fill their own butts. He washed himself thoroughly, and felt better than he had in months.
Oddly, there was a full-length mirror in the room, the one non-ascetic touch of the furnishing.
He stood naked before it, and held up the candle.
The dungeon hadn't been good for him. There were bruises on his wrists, ankles, back and chest, and he had scabbed-over wounds on his knees and hips. He could see his bones too clearly through his skin, and his face was more haggard than romantically gaunt.
Still, that particular ordeal was over.
Then, his image in the mirror shook, and distorted, as if a ripple were travelling across a still pond. The frame lurched forwards, and the mirror swung open like a door.
Kloszowski tried to cover himself with a towel. His heart beat too fast. Something came out of the dark space behind the mirror, and seized him by the neck, pulling his head down.
XII
There was nothing for it but to do the deed herself. Vathek was too spineless for the business. And, in any case, she would never have trusted him to carry it through.
In the months since she had first seduced the lawyer, Christabel Udolpho had learned many things. She knew now that there was not one will, but many different, mutually irreconcilable wills. Old Melmoth Udolpho changed his mind daily, and insisted on newly-drafted testaments. Some he would sign, some he would abandon.
She dressed carefully, in tight riding britches and a loose blouse, then pulled on her soft leather boots and spent some time braiding her hair. Vathek watched her, chattering about nothing, going over and over the plan. He was confused about the details, but she had them down cold.
The lawyer touched her neck, and let his thin fingers creep into her hair. She felt a thrill of disgust, but suppressed it and gave him a winsome smile in the mirror.
Vathek was a vile creature, hirsute all over his body, and given to sweating. There was some animal in his soul, she was sure. A pig, or a bear. But he wasn't strong, not in his limbs or in his mind. He was easy to lead.
Christabel touched the furred back of Vathek's hand, and rubbed her cheek against his arm.
Soon, it would all be over. Soon, all the fortune of Udolpho would be hers. Then, she could take lovers for herself, gratify her own wants. Aleksandr, the cleric of Morr, had seemed interesting in a reedy, sly sort of way. And she'd heard the maids talking about the giant, Odo Zschokke, and how his manly parts were in proportion to the rest of him. A tiny flare of desire raised her hackles.
Her hair crackled with electricity, and expanded a little, giving Vathek a slight shock. He withdrew his hand, and tried to laugh.
'Be sure to finish him,' he said. 'You must be sure.'
Christabel smiled as she pulled the falconer's gloves on. They were fine leather, and felt good on her hands. She had strong hands, from hours of practice with harpsichord and duelling sword.
After the fortune was disposed of, and the Black Cygnet's treasure found, she would have to turn her attention to Lawyer Vathek. Perhaps an accident might be arranged. A fall from the south wall. An encounter with wolves.
She stood up. She was taller than the lawyer, and he had to look up to meet her eyes. His smile was shaking. He was afraid, of what they were about to do, afraid of her
She patted his shoulders.
She had dictated the final will, naming herself sole heir to the house and fortunes of the family. Old Melmoth, the blind fool, had signed it, imagining himself to be dealing with a minor business matter. All the other wills were bundled up in scrolls in Vathek's office, waiting to be burned.
Melmoth could not live much longer. Not without Dr. Valdemar's infusions to keep him going.
Christabel opened a drawer, and pulled out a ball of copper wire. It was supposed to be for the harpsichord. She unravelled a length and held it up before Vathek's face. His eyes wavered.
She bit through the wire, and held up a loop of about four feet, the ends tied around her thick-gloved hands.
She pulled the loop tight, and it straightened with a musical twang. It would do the job.
'I'll be back,' she told Vathek, and stepped out into the dark hallway, moving silently through the gloom towards the doctor's rooms.
Very soon, she would be very rich. And then they'd all tremble.
XIII
At least, the last surprise had been relatively pleasant.
'I knew there'd be a secret door, somewhere'
They were cramped on his cot, but after weeks in a dungeon, Kloszowski was not about to complain. Antonia was soft, and expert. Being a dancer gave her a lot of control. She wore bells on her anklets, and they had tinkled amusingly as her legs wrapped around him, ankles crossed tight against the small of his back. His neck was cricked as his head was propped against the headboard, but the enjoyable warmth of Antonia's body, pressed close to his own, made up for that.
'I searched my room, and found some levers by the fire. I didn't want to be alone in this place.'
Kloszowski wondered if Antonia would be a convert to the cause. She evidently had an attachment to that bloated bourgeois exploiter d'Amato, but it could hardly be very strong. After all, she'd sought out his company.
'You're not really a cleric, are you?'
He admitted it. She snuggled closer, settling her head on his chest.
'I knew it. No one is what they say they are.'
'Are you really a dancer?'
'And an actress. Not now, I admit. But I was. The city fathers closed down the Miragliano playhouse, and I had to find something to do. And there was Ysidro, lolling about in the street with his purse clinking'
'What about d'Amato? Is he what he says he is?'
She pouted. 'He's running away from the city fathers. The Yellow Ague is his fault. He poisoned everyone.'
He had been right about the water merchant.
'Coins are all he cares about, Aleksandr. Coins, and the things they can buy. Things like houses and horses and clothes and statues. Things like me.'
She rubbed a warm knee up his leg, exciting him again.
'Don't worry,' she said. 'This is compliments of the management. Selling it never got me anywhere but into trouble. Even dancing is better than that. Ysidro took me to a municipal ball once, before everyone started foaming yellow and dying, and all the city fathers' wives ignored me. There was this one woman, Donna Elena, who was a real cow, and made jokes behind her fan that set all her hen-friends off on that horrible pretend laughing. I wanted to kill them all, scratch their eyes out. Donna Elena's husband, Don Lucio, was a commissioner of public works. Ysidro wanted him to grant him a city contract, to provide water for the watch stations. After the ball, Ysidro told me to go to a waterfront inn with Don Lucio and let him do what he wanted.'
'Did you enjoy it?'
'Not it, itself. There wasn't much to Don Lucio, if you get my meaning. But I kept thinking of Donna Elena, and her fan and her laugh. She'd sold it too, but for life. I was only stuck with Don Lucio for the night. She had him forever, and good luck to her too, the slag'
>
'There's injustice in the world, my love.'
'Too bloody true,' she said, rolling on top of him, flicking his neck with her tongue. 'But forget that for now'
He did.
XIV
Genevieve couldn't sleep. She only really felt alive at night.
In her nightgown, she paced her room, listening to the noises of the night. There were creatures in the storm, calling to her.
Her room was modest. She had no mirrors.
Above her mantel was a portrait of Flamineo, her father. He had looked much like Flaminea, his twin, but had been wild where she was puritanical.
A flash of lightning lit up her father's face, making his eyes glow blue. He was painted standing on the mountainside, with the silhouette of Udolpho in the background, and tall trees all around. Sometimes, people imagined they saw things moving in the trees in the picture, bright-eyed and sharp-clawed things.
Her father had been a huntsman, an associate of that famous devotee of the chase, Graf Rudiger von Unheimlich. He had died of a fall during a hog course. He had been obsessed with dangerous game, and had even been known to set out after creatures with near-human intelligence×werewolves, goblins, elementals. No wonder he was dead.
Genevieve couldn't remember him. He had the Udolpho face, but so did everyone else she knew.
There was more lightning. She looked at the portrait, and it was a landscape. The trees were there, and the hillside and the silhouette. But her father was missing.
It had happened before.
XV
Her strangling wire before her, she crept down the passage.
Vathek had told her these were the corridors haunted by the Bleeding Baron, a houseguest of Smarra Udolpho who had been stabbed by his sons but refused to die.
She kept to the shadows, trying to stay silent.
Christabel thought of what she'd do with the fortune when it came to her. First, she would expel her relatives from Udolpho and cut them loose in the world. They wouldn't last a month apiece. Then, she'd dismantle the house, stone by stone, until she had the Black Cygnet's treasure. Then, the wealthiest woman in the Known World, she would return to the great cities×of the Empire, of Bretonnia, of Kislev×and make all men her slaves. Countries were hers for the taking.
Warhammer - [Genevieve 02] - Genevieve Undead Page 15
