Beautiful Blood (16 page)

Rosacher had neither heard nor seen any exhange 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 whatver 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.”

Cerrutti beamed. “Now I’m your man where wine is concerned.”

“I knew you would be,” Rosacher said.

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.”

“We’d be leaving Teocinte unprotected,” said Breque. “If they were to launch a counter-offensive, it would be unopposed.”

“The circumstance in which we find ourselves necessitates a certain amount of risk,” said Makdessi. “There is no certain way to accomplish our aims, and to be conservative at this juncture would be to guarantee failure.”

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” said Rosacher.

“Precisely.”

After a silence Breque said, “I think it would be best, Colonel, if you gave us an hour or two to discuss the situation. You may rest assured that we will give due consideration to all your recommendations.”

When the door closed behind Colonel Makdessi, he said, “What do you think?”

“I’d watch that one if I were you,” said Rosacher. “His ambition is likely aimed higher than the rank of general.”

“My chief concern at the moment bears upon the question of whether he’s capable of being a general. I’ll worry about his ambition later.”

“His plan seems reasonable given the circumstances.”

“Did you think so?” Breque rubbed his cheek with his thumb. “I’m not sure.”

The councilman’s calm demeanor, the casual way he seemingly glossed over his duplicity, pricked Rosacher’s anger again. “Is there anything else you have omitted telling me? Anything I should know before we decide this matter?”

“Damn it, Richard!” Breque spanked the table. “I apologize. It was an oversight for which I…”

“Oh, I very much doubt it was an oversight,” said Rosacher. “You concealed from me the existence of a force whose primary function was to attack Mospiel. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had engineered the entire situation, risked thousands of lives, just to fulfill your dreams of glory.”

“You’re one to talk about engineering situations!” Breque said, and would have said more, but Rosacher outvoiced him.

“I can see it now! Statues everywhere! Portraits, busts of Breque the Conqueror! Breque the Deliverer! Breque the All-Powerful!”

“Before this degenerates…”

“Who knows? Maybe even Saint Breque. Little schoolchildren will sing of your generosity and caring.”

Breque, red-faced, mastered himself and said in a strained voice, “Before this degenerates into a shouting match, let me remind you that we have a decision to make. We need to set aside personal differences and act in accordance with our best judgment.”

Rosacher bit back his response and sat glowering at Breque.

“I would like to hear more about this monster of yours,” said Breque stiffly. “Do you really believe it’s the same creature that lived for centuries beneath the wing?”

“What I believe has no bearing on its capacity for killing,” said Rosacher. “But I have no reason to doubt the story. Nor would you, if you had seen it.”

“It’s made of a gelatinous substance, you say?”

“I said it appeared gelatinous, but I could just as easily say it appeared to be made of obsidian. What passes for its flesh is mutable in form and density. Once it seemed about to assume a fully defined shape, but…” Rosacher absently pushed papers around. “It is one of Griaule’s creatures and thus we cannot hope to comprehend it. All you need to know is that it literally ripped my horse in half and that its speed is incredible. In the confined spaces offered by the jungle, Carlos and his men won’t be able to stand against it.”

“Interesting,” said Breque. “That Griaule would choose such a flawed man to be his agent. That is, if Cerruti’s story is true.”

“All men are flawed.”

“Yes, but not as terribly as this one.”

“It strikes me that Griaule is adept at selecting the right man for the job. A deviant, a murderer…he becomes Griaule’s guard dog. I assume that was Frederick’s position before he became Cerruti’s pet. And I’m certain Griaule saw some quality in you that, when nourished, would make you an efficient bureaucrat.”

“That’s a horrid compliment!” Breque punctuated the sentence with a barking laugh. “Of course it goes without saying that he must have seen something similar in you.”

Rosacher shrugged.

“How much did you offer Cerruti?” Breque asked.

“Five thousand and free lodging at the House whenever he desires it.”

“So little?”

“And a hundred horses for Frederick.”

“I would have thought he’d ask for more.”

“I told him that if Mospiel succeeded in their aggression, they would expand into the plain and make life difficult for him and Frederick. That engaged his patriotism.” Rosacher placed his hands flat on the table, as though preparing to stand. “If there’s nothing else, I have much to do before I depart.”

“We haven’t even begun our discussion of Makdessi’s plan,” said Breque.

“What is there to discuss? Every element of the plan works together in a way that promises the hope of success. A slim hope, perhaps, yet we can expect no more.”

“But he’s leaving the city undefended!”

Rosacher got to his feet. “The sole difference between Makdessi’s plan and a plan that leaves a force to defend Teocinte is that, in the second instance, there will be more bodies piled up below Haver’s Roost and our own attack will be commensurately less efficient. You know that as well as I.”

“So you’re comfortable with the rest of his design?”

“We might be able to put together a better plan, but how long would that take? How many opinions would we have to seek, how many consultations would we need to validate our conclusion? We cannot afford to mistrust our instincts. You’ve told me that Makdessi is the best available man to lead our troops. Very well. Let him lead.”

“Of course you’re right,” Breque said after a pause, and sighed. “You’ll be leaving in the morning?”

“Tonight, if possible. I’ve sent riders on ahead to spread rumors of a dangerous beast terrorizing a specific area of the jungle not far from the palace. I hope that by the time we reach that area, Carlos’ interest will have been engaged, so that when Frederick’s attacks begin, he’ll be primed to come after him.”

Breque nodded. “Good.”

The councilman’s tone of voice was dispirited, but Rosacher was in no mood to buck him up. “One more thing,” he said. “We have a sufficient stock of mab to survive a two week lapse in production. I should be able to return by then. But if I do not…”

“We’ll be fine as far as production goes no matter when you return.”

“How can that be…unless you have succeeded in spying upon me and secured a knowledge of my process?”

“There is no process,” said Breque. “I’ve been aware of that for years.”

Rosacher sat back down.

“Ludie told me,” Breque continued. “She yielded all your secrets before she died. She was not your friend…certainly not at the end.”

Breque appeared to take no pleasure in this revelation—his glum countenance did not reflect the slightest joy or satisfaction.

“If that is so,” Rosacher said, “why tell me? Why am I alive?”

“Why am I telling you?” Breque shook his head, as if bewildered by the question. “There was a time when I longed to tell you, when I wanted you to know who really was the master of our mutual circumstance. I wanted to tell you that day when I informed you of Ludie’s death, but chose not to because I felt you would be easier to manage if you believed you were in control. But how I felt at that time is irrelevant. As I’ve told you, I’ve come to recognize your value as a resource and a friend.”

“How could you ever perceive us to be friends? You’ve lied to me for decades.”

“I understand that is how you see things, but though I had little respect for you in the past, and less love, my lie became a benign form of duplicity, a means of preserving the friendship. Your lies, on the other hand, have been funded, without exception, by your self-interest.”

“Is this confession intended to persuade me to lower my guard where you’re concerned? If so, I must tell you it has achieved the opposite effect.”

Breque gestured to the heavens—he might have been importuning a deity. “I’ve always thought of myself as a ruthless politican, a skilled manipulator. Now that we are both facing the possibility of death, I felt that honesty might prove a comfort to us both. As I’ve grown older, I’ve softened my stance, but even in my salad days, I could never match you as regards ruthlessness and manipulation. You are relentless in the practice of those arts. Perhaps the fact that you don’t appear to have aged…perhaps it is not merely appearance. That might explain why you have failed to grow more understanding of other men’s frailties.” He stood. “At any rate, there it is. You have regained the advantage over me. I have no cards left to play.”