The Golden

by Lucius Shepard

  Chapter SEVEN

  Felipe Aruzzi de Valea’s apartments were located, as were those of all the lords of the Family, behind a doorless wall set at asymmetrical points with octagonal windows—like crystals scattered randomly in dark ore—that overlooked an immense drawbridge stretching between two towers with curious boxy bay-windowed enclosures atop them, rather like fortified cottages. An iron lantern half the size of a cottage itself hung high overhead, casting shadows from the statues that lined the bridge; the stonework was crusted with a millennium of pigeon droppings, and on either side, the view from the bridge was daunting: a vertiginous drop into a labyrinth of stairways and arches and flying buttresses and ornate stone piers, all so like one another it seemed the vista must have been contrived from the mirror images of a handful of originals. To gain access to the passages that ran inside the wall, one was forced to cross the bridge and enter a spreading crack that appeared to be the result of an earthquake or some structural flaw, but in reality was an intentional effect, disguising a winding stair; and as he and Giselle hurried across the bridge, fearful of being spotted from above, Beheim—though to some degree preoccupied with the task ahead—continued to puzzle over all that had happened to him with Alexandra, the things he had felt with her, the things she had said, the dangerous path she had set him on.

  Though there were other matters that related more to the business at hand, or that might ultimately have more significance, Alexandra’s declaration that he was, essentially, an unfinished work came to dominate his thoughts. It was not that he disagreed with her. He knew he had much to learn, much to experience. But he had assumed that his growth would entail a deepening, an enrichment of the qualities and characteristics already integrated into his personality, whereas she had implied by her use of terms such as metamorphosis and turbulent and storms that the changes he was to undergo might be far more wrenching. Despite the ambivalence of his feelings toward a variety of subjects—the conflicts of which Alexandra had spoken?—he was comfortable with the man he was, and her suggestion that he was ignorant of his own nature seemed ludicrous. In large, he thought, he had remained the man he had always been: quiet and retiring; passionate in his inner life, but shy and somewhat tentative as regarded his relationships with both men and women; studious, a bit of a bookworm; methodical in all things, careful in his diet, temperate in use of alcohol. True, since his judgment, brighter colors had been added to that dreary scheme, and many of the acts he had committed in his new life repelled him, even though he delighted in the potency that afforded him the license to commit them. And he would admit that at times his personality appeared to consist of two incompatible halves, one capable of gentleness and sympathy, the other madly calculating and violent. But was not this contrariness identical to that which invested the human condition, and would not—as was the case with similar human variances—the disparate halves of his being eventually cease their warring and grow together? On sounding his depths, testing himself for any taint of self-delusion, he found no flaw in this interpretation. He was changed, surely. What man would not be who had tasted blood and seen the prospect of eternity open before him? Yet he was still moved by many of his old reflexes and desires. He must learn, he told himself, not to give so much weight to the words of his new brothers and sisters…or at least he would have to learn to balance what they said against what they wanted. Perhaps Alexandra had only been trying to unnerve him, he thought, trying to direct his attention away from some more pertinent matter by drugging him first with words and then with kisses. And perhaps she had succeeded more than she might have intended, for he was unable to forget the desire with which she had infected him. That single encounter put to shame all that he had known with other women, not so much in the clinical aspects of the act as in its emotional richness, the tenderness Alexandra had inspired in him; and for some reason this made him uncomfortable with the conclusions he had reached in his brief self-appraisal.

  The supports of the bridge terminated in cubes of black stone, which in turn supported crumbling granite statues some fifteen and twenty feet in height. The figures were grotesque yet startlingly lifelike, all posed in attitudes of exhaustion: there was a potbellied troll with fangs and bugged eyes, its slumped body robed in rumpled folds of sculptured stone, notched sword dangling from one taloned hand; a gargoyle with a grievous slash in its side, head lolling, eyes closed, the claws of its left hand englobing a ravaged human head; an imp with pointed ears, slit-pupiled eyes, and a long-chinned, weasely face, sitting hunched, its entire posture expressive of defeat and dread. Nearly two-score of these grisly eminences lorded over the bridge, and as they passed beneath each Beheim grew disquieted. The statues possessed a preternatural solidity, as if imprisoned alive within a sphere of powerful gravity, and it was easy to picture them—the survivors of a beaten satanic army—shrugging off some centuries-old enchantment, an evil glow returning to their blind eyes, their granite chests heaving, their rock-thewed thighs bunching, crumbs of stone and falls of dust sifting from their ancient joints as they stepped down from their pedestals to complete some interrupted slaughter.

  Giselle, too, cast an anxious eye at these malefic presences. Dressed as was Beheim in loose-fitting cloth trousers and a man’s peasant jacket, her hair pinned up, she had the look of a pretty child, and her frailty in the midst of this oppressive and mutant geometry had never been more evident. Though he had not wanted to involve her in the search, he could trust no one else to be his accomplice, and this facile disregard for her well-being caused him to think that Alexandra might have been right, that his concern for Giselle would soon be outweighed by other imperatives. As they slipped through the crack in the wall and began climbing a torchlit stair, he considered sending her back to wait for him, but he could not bring himself to risk entry into Felipe’s apartments without having someone to stand watch, and so he led her along the corridor at the top of the stairs, past the locked brass-bound doors behind which the pale hierarchy of the undead were taking their ease.

  It was cold and damp in the corridor; licks of torchlight cut the tarry shadows. Walking along the narrow passageway, feeling the worn declivities in the stone beneath his feet, Beheim felt he had left behind the civilized present and entered a barbarous past. Why, he wondered, did the lords of the Family risk naked flames for light when lanterns would have shielded them from the possibility of a mortal accident? Some dread nostalgia, perhaps, or a statement of their disdain for peril, their confidence that they could overcome any menace, even those self-imposed? Beheim himself shrank from the torches. The crackling of the flames seemed to express a language of threat.

  Once he had opened Felipe’s door, he stood listening a moment. Beyond the alcove was a hallway leading off to the right. From beyond the closed door at its end issued the gasps and cries of strenuous lovemaking. He instructed Giselle to take one of the torches from its iron socket on the wall outside and stand at the entrance to the corridor.

  “If anyone comes,” he whispered, “flee to Lord Agenor. He will protect you. Use the torch against anyone who seeks to harm you. Do you understand?”

  Her chin quivered, but she nodded.

  “Don’t hesitate if you are threatened,” he said, perceiving that she was not concentrating on the matter at hand, but was weakened by sentiment and concern for him. “If anyone tries to harm you, burn him. Then find Agenor. You will be safe with him.”

  “But you,” she said, “what will—”

  “Be quiet!” he hissed, angry both at her weakness and at himself for taking advantage of that weakness, for using her so after having betrayed her with another woman…though he refused to consider it a true betrayal. If anything, he thought, he might now consider the act of making love to Giselle a betrayal, a show of disrespect for something of greater import and sweeter potential.

  She recoiled from his show of anger, biting down on her lower lip, a gesture that again lent her the aspect of a sexually precocious child.

  Like Beheim’
s quarters, Felipe’s living room contained heavy, dark furniture and lanterns and ancient, almost indecipherable tapestries; the shadows cast by the dim lighting were mere smudges on a faded Persian carpet with a pattern of indigo and rose and brown. Though he did not know what to look for, though he took pains to make no noise, knowing that Felipe’s ears were sharp, he went hurriedly about the search, more exhilarated than afraid, like a boy who has accepted a dare. He fumbled through the contents of a writing desk, a mahogany cabinet, and a small oak chest, but could find no evidence of the Valea leader’s complicity in the murder. A search of the servant’s bedroom, too, yielded nothing, as did a cursory examination of a third and last room—a study—which did not appear to have been occupied in some time, all the furnishings and the large globe and the book-lined shelves being furred with gray dust. Layers of cobwebs overlaid the hatbox-sized blocks of stone that composed the walls.

  Disappointed, Beheim stood in the doorway of this third room, straining his ears. He heard breathless gasps and fey melodic exclamations, punctuated by grunts and the squeaking of bedsprings. Felipe and the Lady Dolores were still at it, but he did not want to press his luck. Yet he was reluctant to abandon his only lead, and he did not believe that Alexandra would have steered him in this direction were there not solid evidence to be had…unless, of course, by persuading him to folly, by engineering his capture, she hoped to bring dishonor upon Agenor. But if this were the case, would she not have already given the alarm? No, he told himself, her motives would not be so easily graspable. There must be something here.

  He let his gaze swing one last time about the dust-covered study. The books had apparently gone untouched for years, and it was odd, he thought, that Felipe, given his scholarly disposition, had not been moved by curiosity to examine at least one or two of them.

  More than odd.

  And then he noticed something odder yet.

  Except for a strip along the walls of the room, there was no dust on the floor, making it apparent that a carpet had recently been removed.

  It was possible, Beheim thought, that this had been done for cosmetic reasons prior to Felipe’s arrival; but if the carpet had been removed because it was dirty or worn, why then had it not been cleaned or replaced?

  He dropped to his hands and knees and, as he had done atop the turret, began a careful inspection of the stones. At the center of the room he discovered a section of five stones whose edges were worn smooth. He pried at them and detected a slight shift. There must be a lever, he thought, some sort of mechanism that would move them. He sprang to his feet, went to the bookshelves, and began feverishly pulling out books one by one, but soon he realized that he might save time by giving the problem calm consideration…though judging from the noises issuing from the bedchamber, he had no need to rush.

  He spent the next few minutes pulling out combinations of books that he selected according to title or color or subject; there was no depression or crack that could hide a switch, and he thought that if, indeed, there was a trapdoor, a secret room, the books must either conceal or themselves be the mechanism that would open it. But no combination he tried had any effect, and finally, angry with himself, with Alexandra, he gave the globe a frustrated slap and set it spinning.

  Without a sound, the section of five stones swung downward to reveal a stairway.

  Beheim remained frozen in an expectant and fearful attitude, certain that Felipe must have heard the slap he’d given the globe. The noises from the bedroom had ceased. A moment later, however, the lovers started up again with a rustling of sheets, an exchange of soft endearments, with sweet exhalations and profound sighs, all signaling, he assumed, a shift in position, a pianissimo movement in their lustful symphony. His chest began to ache, and he understood that this was because he had been so gripped by tension, he had stopped breathing.

  With infinite caution, he descended the stairs—there were no more than a dozen—and entered a dark corridor reeking of dampness and mold, so cramped he was forced to go in a crouch. He went along it for a considerable time, groping his way blindly, feeling the spidery fingers of claustrophobia tickling the back of his neck; at last, on turning a corner, he spied a chute of silvery light illuminating the corridor’s far end, the beams as distinct as those cast by a magic lantern. Moonlight. Spilling through a slit window into a tiny room furnished with a rough wooden table and chair. Still wary, he edged forward. The view was of an uninteresting slice of moonlit Carpathia: pale clouds, black hills with a glittering river winding through them. A dead cigar lay on the table—thin and black, a villainous accessory. Felipe, Beheim recalled, was in the habit of smoking an occasional cigar. And there was further evidence that the Valea leader had spent time here. Ashes strewn about the floor. Some papers covered in a bold script, tucked into a leather folder. A penknife with an engraved V on the blade. In addition to the table and chair, an unvarnished cabinet was set flush against one wall. Beheim opened it. On the lower shelf stood a pitcher of water. And to his great surprise, on the uppermost shelf were three flasks and three small perfume bottles with antique silver caps, all filled with liquid—pale yellow, Beheim decided after holding one of the bottles up to the window—and a large tumbler containing perhaps a quart of this same liquid. A scrap of paper was tucked beneath one of the bottles, and on it was scribbled a list of measurements like those appropriate to medicinal dosages.

  He sat at the table, sifted through the papers, which proved to be a portion of a travel journal written in both French and Italian, random jottings, how Felipe felt about various of the Family whom he had seen at the Decanting for the first time in years—he was less than kind in his opinions—and so forth. He stopped on spotting the name Agenor and read the pertinent passage:

  …Agenor continues to demand that I be swift. I understand his urgency, for his claim that we may be in the last days of our kind does not strike me as wholly unreasonable. Yet I must be certain before I approach the Patriarch. I know Agenor wishes to make a dramatic presentation during the Decanting, but I refuse to be rushed and will continue to rely on my own judgments. He will not coerce me into a precipitate disclosure, nor will I allow him—or anyone else—to take matters into their own hands. Another few weeks, perhaps, and I will be prepared.

  Prepared for what? Beheim wondered. He read on, but after skimming through the remainder of the papers, though his Italian was not expert, he was disposed to think that there was no further mention of the two men’s business.

  He removed one of the bottles from the cabinet and unscrewed the silver cap. A harsh acidic odor. The same that had clung to the bottle cap he had found atop the turret. He put a drop to his lips. The taste was vastly superior to the odor. Similar to overly tart lemonade. Judging by the partially filled tumbler and the list of dosages, Felipe had been drinking the liquid, and thus Beheim felt no compunction about trying it himself—what poison, after all, could harm a vampire? If he could identify it, he thought, he might be closer to proof positive concerning Felipe’s involvement in the murder. He tipped back the bottle and downed a hefty swallow. Palatable, though too bitter by half. Medicine of some sort, apparently. He could discern no immediate effect. Whatever the nature of the liquid, the bottle cap and the odor made it apparent that someone with access to the secret room had been on the turret on the night of the murder. This alone was sufficient to place Felipe at the head of his list of suspects, but it was scarcely incontrovertible proof of murder. Still, the evidence was worth bringing before the Patriarch; it might provide a lever with which Beheim could force the representatives of the various branches to remain at the castle long enough for him to conduct a proper investigation.

  Realizing that he could not depend upon Felipe’s sexual prowess for much longer, Beheim pocketed the bottle and headed back along the corridor to the stair, eager to collect Giselle and be gone. But on mounting the stairs, he realized that this might not be so easily achieved. The sounds from the bedchamber had stopped. Cursing his incaution, he eased to
ward the study door. He held his breath, listened, but heard nothing. Not a whisper, not a hint of Giselle’s presence. No telling what had happened to her. There had been too much stone between them for even his sharp ears to pick up her movements. She might already have fled, and Felipe would be waiting for him at the door. Or else the lovers might have fallen asleep.

  That must be it, he decided. What he had assumed to be a mere lull in their lovemaking, those sighs and whispers, must have signaled an end to their passion, an exchange of endearments preparatory to sleep.

  But as he stepped out into the living room, his heart sank and weakness fettered his limbs, for there, at the entrance to the alcove, dressed only in a pair of trousers, stood Felipe Aruzzi—a blond youthful-seeming man of more than four centuries in age, lean and fit, pale arms and chest banded with muscle, yet with bloodshot eyes and a glabrous complexion, his face warped by an expression of contemptuous rage. Clad in a green robe, her black hair tumbling about her shoulders like smoke made solid, the Lady Dolores stood beside him, lovely in her disarray. She bared her fangs and started toward Beheim, but Felipe caught her arm.