I felt confident of being able to follow my brother’s thoughts—even though I was not yet aware that Radu already had the cabinetmaker Duplay secretly preparing a wooden guillotine-blade. That fact I learned later, when it was too late to do anything about it.
As I saw it, the main problem in rescuing Radcliffe lay in protecting him, indefinitely, against the evil machinations of Radu. In the course of nature, the young American might easily live another forty or fifty years. And if he were converted, Radu would be forced to abrogate his vow to drink the young man’s blood—either that or poison himself. Radcliffe’s blood would be safe from drinking, but the time in which I might be required to defend him from other forms of attack would very likely stretch out into centuries.
Another reason to simply kill Radu. But no, my oath blocked me immovably from that course of action.
* * *
Radu was ready to try any means by which he might succeed in catching Vlad in some kind of trap. Preferably fatal.
And yet, when he really thought about it, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to kill Vlad.
He mused aloud: “No, I can be perfectly satisfied with less than that … no, rather, his mere death is not enough. I want more.”
The more Radu thought about the situation, the more it seemed to him that he would derive greater satisfaction from forcing Vlad to break a vow than he would from killing him. If only it were possible to torment him so that he would be driven to suicide … that would be a perfect consummation.
But in his heart Radu knew that to be a futile dream. Even if he could somehow force Vlad to fail to keep a solemn vow. Neither brother was one to direct violence against himself.
* * *
My little brother had also, through frequent visits, acquired a better knowledge of prisons than almost any breathing person in the world, even among those whose daily work lay in the fields of torture and incarceration. Both my brother and I were well aware that such establishments in general were anything but escape-proof, no matter how they might be advertised. Escape-proof prisons, like unassailable fortresses, exist only in theory. In the real world, such institutions are never any stronger than the weakest human in possession of a key. Bribery was far and away the most common means of getting out of one type of stronghold or into the other.
But true fanatics were exceptionally prevalent among the guiding spirits of the Terror. Many of these revolutionaries qualified. Once a man or woman had fallen into their hands, bribery became much less dependable, and even dangerous. These sans-culotte jailers feared for their own heads, and spies were everywhere. Almost every official, high and low, was fearful of being charged with accepting the gold of Pitt, and being a part of the great ongoing conspiracy. There were a number of fanatics around who cared very little about money. A great many officials, fearing for their own necks, would refuse even to listen to business propositions, and even should they accept one they might think better of it and refuse to honestly stay bribed.
* * *
Radu had his minions on watch, vigilantly trying to detect any attempt by Vlad at bribery of prison guards and officials. If any such plot were hatched, Radu intended to make sure that it was betrayed.
Radu rubbed his bony hands together, enjoying the game immensely. He considered the possibility that he’d lose touch with Radcliffe, that Vlad could successfully get the young American out of prison and then spirit him away.
But the more Radu considered that possibility, the less he was concerned. He was very confident that he would be able eventually to catch up with his victim again, no matter to what lengths Vlad went to protect him.
* * *
It was at this time that Radu swore, or at least claimed to have sworn, his own great formal oath to drink Radcliffe’s blood, and also to see that the American’s head was cut off. How well he was able to keep it, we shall see. Oaths in themselves, of course, have never meant anything to that scoundrel; the only real purpose of this one, I am sure, was to mock me and irritate me further. Therefore he had to be sure that I knew about it. I could hear him in my imagination, expostulating in mock horror: “Do you want me to break my solemn oath, my brother? Whatever would our beloved papa say to that?”
Naturally any serious blood-drinking would have to be accomplished before Philip’s execution.
* * * * * *
Convincing the Terrorists that Radcliffe had been officially beheaded—with all the necessary paperwork in good order— meant that they would not be looking for him after his escape. He would still need forged papers, of course, but in a new identity.
“Do you suppose he could pass as a Frenchman?”
“I have little doubt of that.”
I was discussing these matters with Constantia—because at the moment I had no more rational conversational partner available.
“Suppose that, once Radcliffe’s been turned vampire, we were to let him be beheaded. No metal knife would be able to take his life; that has been already proven. Eventually—there need be no hurry—head and torso could be grafted back together. Long ago, as you may remember, I myself passed through much the same process; though my execution was not as clean as the one that Citizen Sanson will provide.”
“A bit hard on his sensibilities in the meantime, though, don’t you think?” Constantia often felt genuine sympathy for attractive people. “I mean, he’ll have to ride the tumbril, mount the scaffold, have his hands bound behind him, look through the little window—then I suppose he’ll be able to hear the blade, sliding in its grooves, as it begins to fall—” She gave a pretty little gasp of horror.
I studied her through narrowed eyes. “I understand your meaning perfectly, my dear. But I expect the real reason for your objection is that, once he is nosferatu, his blood will no longer be tasty in your mouth.”
I had meanwhile considered and rejected another possible method of releasing a prisoner by trickery: I myself as a last resort might play the role of Radcliffe, and allow myself to be guillotined.
“Did you observe what happened in Barney’s cell the other day?” Constantia commented when I mentioned this. And she giggled at the thought.
“No, I did not. Does it have the least relevance to our own difficulties?”
“I don’t know. Some stupid Englishman—Barton or Garton, some name like that—I suppose he was really tired of living—took the condemned prisoner’s place—quite willingly!—without the guards catching on, and it seems they got away with it.” She provided more details than I cared to hear. “Barton, or whatever his name was, said it was the best thing that he had ever done, or some such nonsense.”
I thought it over. “It has seemed to me for some time that most English are quite mad; I really must visit there someday.”
But the day for such a journey lay far in my future. At the moment, I had more urgent matters to think about. One trick could be to convince Radu that we were relying upon a stratagem similar to the one which had saved Darnay—ultimately, to convince my brother that Radcliffe, vampire or not, had had his head chopped off by a wooden knife, his blood perhaps already spoiled by death.
“So it will seem to Radu,” I brooded, “that neither he nor I have been able to fulfill our respective oaths.”
“I didn’t know that you had sworn one.”
“He will assume I have. And whether I have or not, it is still an affair of honor. Unless Radu’s oath is limited to forcing me to go back on mine…”
Constantia, losing patience with what she called my Machiavellian habits of thought, flounced out, declaring she had more interesting things to do.
I had considered yet another plan: I might carry in the dead body of a man who resembled Radcliffe, waving an impressive-looking written order, announcing the necessity of a certain prisoner’s identifying this body.
“And we cannot very well bring the prisoner out to do so,” I would tell the guards. “Though if you would prefer that—?”
Of course not.
Then the dead body wo
uld be left in the cell, dressed in Radcliffe’s clothes, and Radcliffe in the habiliments of the corpse would be carried out … but there were too many things that could go wrong.
* * *
Suffice it to say that in the end there were many plans, and variations upon plans, but that necessity decreed that one be quickly chosen.
I decided that it would probably not be wise to fully explain the finally chosen plan to the man it was designed to rescue. In the first place, the most crucial stages of my scheme, as it was finally formulated, did not require any active, intelligent cooperation on his part. In the second place, I doubted there would be time enough to explain convincingly; and in the third, I could not predict the young man’s reaction if he did understand. There was a possibility that he would even refuse to cooperate with any design so daring and outrageous. Rather I preferred to have him fed on vague reassurances in which the hope of salvation was emphasized.
With all these possibilities in my mind, my closing words of encouragement, on my last visit to Radcliffe’s cell, were somewhat ambiguous.
“Listen to me—do not despair. Even at the last moment, when it seems to you that no earthly power could possibly help you, it will not be too late. Even when you hear the knife begin to fall, repeat to yourself: In three weeks I can be in London.”
* * *
No doubt Radu had also heard of the Englishman Darnay’s escape. My brother could be counted on to block our move, if we should try something along the same line. Similarly he foresaw that the prisoner might be converted to vampirism, and he had his countermeasure ready for that ploy as well: his plan to arrange with the executioner Sanson, or one of Sanson’s helpers, to substitute a wooden blade for the metal one.
* * * * * *
Radu, unlike his older brother, generally enjoyed playing games, verbal and otherwise, with people he soon expected to kill, or at least to terrorize. Vlad as a rule obtained no intrinsic satisfaction from terrorizing anyone; it was basically the concept that justice was being done that gave him pleasure. Nor did he enjoy conversing with those for whom he felt contempt.
But Radu, irresistibly attracted by suffering and despair, which in a way drew him more strongly than mere blood, could hardly resist the temptation to sneak into the prison from time to time. He found the atmosphere there, of despair and fear and hatred, almost as much to his liking as the sight and feel of the sharp physical blade, redolent of raw blood.
Radu would want to drink Radcliffe’s blood before the execution, if he was ever going to do it at all. Doing so immediately after death, in broad daylight, would probably be impossible to accomplish, and later the effort would be futile and disgusting; in fact downright poisonous. Would he be satisfied to see the execution without drinking the blood? Evidently.”
Would he be able to distinguish Radcliffe’s blood from that of some other man? Probably not.
* * *
Constantia, doing a favor for her old friend Vlad, and having some fun at the same time, announced herself ready to make repeated visits to the prisoner Radcliffe. Maybe even one visit would be sufficient to achieve his conversion, if it was handled properly. He would have to drink deeply of the vampire’s blood, as she did of his.
No matter how strongly the breathing youth was devoted to someone else, Constantia considered that the task of seducing him lay well within her powers.
Connie was visualizing the scene for Vlad: “And when his dead-looking body was discovered—then excitement! Turmoil, uproar! The prisoner has taken poison, committed suicide in his cell. Unusual but by no means unheard of.
She began to argue for some form of the conversion scenario. “A little searching by Philip’s friends among the day’s fresh corpses in the cemetery, and his head and body could be found and reunited, with the result that he’s as good as new.”
“Some might say better.”
“Should we try fitting his head on backwards? I wonder what would happen…”
Vlad scowled. “My object is to repay a good turn, not to confect a monstrous joke.”
But maybe Radcliffe, on regaining his consciousness and understanding, wouldn’t look at it that way. If Constantia had, accidentally or playfully, fitted the young man’s head on backwards, probably it would, in time, work itself around to the proper position through the natural malleability of the nosferatu physiology. Or could be put in place with a hearty wrench exerted with the strength of some friendly vampire. A temporary interruption of breathing would not matter in the least.
Constantia and Vlad would no doubt feel insulted when their client, for whom they were doing so much, complained to them about having been converted, or protested that he did not want to be.
Vlad might feel somewhat affronted, but at least he would not be surprised to discover such an attitude in a breather.
Vlad to Constantia: “You have told him too much, and at the same time not enough.”
She sulked. “Maybe you should do it then. Or get someone else.”
“Come, come! No one can do such things any better than you, if you will only concentrate on the job at hand.”
Vlad and Constantia assured their worried client that a man once changed to a vampire could never be changed back.
“That will not happen in this world.”
Radcliffe, gritting his teeth and about to undergo his fate, murmured some heartfelt prayers for the safety of his dear Melanie.
Did he fear that he, as a vampire, would be condemned, compelled by his own nature, to do harm to the woman he loved?
* * *
I considered one rescue plan after another, running each one through, in my imagination, to several possible conclusions. And then, when I felt that we were running out of time, I made my choice.
Chapter Twenty-Two
There came a time, on what Phil Radcliffe calculated was either the third or fourth day of his and June’s captivity—they were beginning to lose track—a time when Graves had been gone longer than usual.
Philip had gotten nowhere in his attempts to guess or learn where the chief kidnapper went during these absences, or by what means of transportation. Vaguely the young man had the idea that Graves couldn’t be going very far, for there were never any sights or sounds of vehicles departing or arriving. The small landing strip had remained unused since their arrival.
Of course he had tried asking. “Where does he go? Graves?”
That’s no secret.” Connie tossed her head. In keeping with her seeming determination to keep people off balance by her behavior, she had just come in through the window, unlocking the barred grating from outside and then swinging it tightly closed behind her on its heavy hinges.
“Why don’t you tell us, then?”
“He’s looking for a way to save your little … neck.” The gamine smile again. “I almost said, save your ass. But in this case, ‘neck’ is really the right word.”
Today Mr. Graves’s chief assistant was carrying with her a plastic garment bag, too thin to contain more than a dress or other single change of clothing. It crunched and crackled faintly when she tossed it down on one end of the sofa. When she saw her captives looking at it, she smiled and told them it contained some of the earth of her homeland.
The couple exchanged looks. “Why do you carry that?” June asked.
“It lets me sleep. I really can’t sleep without it.”
“Where is Graves today?” Phil tried again. “Come on.”
This time the question was a little more successful. Maybe Constantia’s thoughts, as usual, were tending to drift away from the matter on hand. “He goes out looking for his brother. He thinks Radu will be not too far from where you are!” And she giggled, touching the tip of Radcliffe’s nose with a playful forefinger.
“Does he drive? I never see or hear any traffic, any engines starting up.” In fact the silence here, after dark particularly, struck Radcliffe as eerie.
“Sometimes he does. Sometimes he flies.”
“You mean a plane
lands and picks him up? But we never hear that either.”
No answer, except a smile.
“Have you ever met his brother?”
“Yes. I have.” Connie gazed off into the distance. For the first time that Philip could remember, she looked sad.
Somehow Radcliffe hadn’t been expecting an affirmative. “Well, is there any truth in what Graves says about him? I mean, what’s this Radu really like?”
For once Connie seemed at a loss for words. “Please, stay here,” she urged after a time. “Do what Mr. Graves tells you.”
Shortly after dawn, Constantia’s eyelids were evidently growing heavier and heavier. Looking more than ever the part of the gypsy girl, she slumped down with her crackling plastic garment bag beneath her slender body.
Looking as if she were about to yawn, but not quite doing so, she closed her eyes, folded her hands across her denim-clad tummy, and announced that she was tired and deserved a rest.
Phil pointed toward the bag. “You say this is earth of your homeland? Where’s that?”
“Far, far away.”
“And your carrying this bag around is supposed to prove to us that you are a vampire?”
Constantia’s eyelids opened halfway. Her voice was drowsy. “Oh, I could show you, sweetie. Trust me, I could show you very convincingly. But I’d better not.”
“Show us?” June demanded. “How?”
But Connie only smiled and closed her eyes again, relaxing with a kind of snuggling motion.
* * *
As Radcliffe sat watching her, the idea suddenly came to him: This woman’s on drugs. He whispered his insight to his wife, who nodded in agreement.
She must be, he thought to himself again. Drugs, or simply booze. Though, now that Phil came to think of it, neither he nor June had ever seen Connie or any of the other guardians drinking or smoking anything. Probably they were trying to keep alert while on guard duty, but now Connie had slipped up.
A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9) Page 24
