Beautiful Blood (3 page)

“I’m not sure,” said Cattanay. “It will take two years at least to organize the project, to build the scaffolding and vats in which to mix the paint. We’ll have to employ dozens of men, perhaps a hundred and more, to supply us with timber for fuel. That’ll require another year or two. Then we’ll have to create the painting and give the poison time to act. The whole process could take twenty or thirty years. Maybe more. I imagine something will go wrong every single day…problems I haven’t envisioned.”

Arthur snorted in derision and Cattanay glared at him. “They’ve run through all the unsubtle methods of killing him and failed,” he said. “You know, burning him, stabbing him, and so forth. Of course now I think about it there’s one method they haven’t essayed. They could hold up a gigantic portrait of this fellow to Griaule’s face”—he jabbed his thumb at Arthur—“and make a loud noise. I expect that might do the job.”

Arthur snarled and reached for the knife tucked into his waistband, but Rosacher put a hand on his forearm by way of restraint and said to Cattanay, “Fascinating! How did you come up with the idea?”

“Some friends and I were in a tavern and we got to talking about schemes to make money. Painting the dragon was one of the schemes. I’ve fleshed it quite a bit since that evening, but the original idea, it was a joke, really. A joke made by a group of friends who’d had too much to drink.”

The functionary, who had vanished into the council chamber while Cattanay described his scheme, returned and told Rosacher that he could go in.

Inside the chamber, an austere, spacious room with thick beams supporting the ceiling and windows overlooking the valley, offering a view of the hills enclosing its eastern reach, five men sat in high-backed chairs at a mahogany table, a ceramic pitcher and glasses set before them. With a single exception, they were fleshy and gray-haired, clad in sober suits, but the bearded man at their center, Wallace Febres-Cordero, possessed a gravitas the others did not and, though Rosacher had not met him until that moment, he divined from this brief observance that Febres-Cordero was the person he would have to sway. He took a seat in a wooden chair (the only one available) facing the table and Arthur stationed himself at his shoulder.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Rosacher said. “I’m Richard Rosacher and this is my associate, Arthur Honeyman. How can we assist you?”

“As you know,” said Febres-Cordero in a mannered baritone, “the council has no authority over you as regards the production of drugs. We have no laws that would apply, yet we may find ourselves obligated to write new law should you continue on your present course.”

“And why is that?” Rosacher asked.

“My God, man!” A thin, balding council member at the end of the table, Paltz by name, brought the flat of his hand down with a smack. “You’ve addicted half the population of Morningshade to your poison!”

“It’s closer to three-quarters, but let’s not quibble,” said Rosacher.

“We’ve had numerous complaints about your activities,” said Febres-Cordero. “Every moral authority is up in arms against you.”

“To whom are you referring?”

“The Church, for one.”

“The Church as moral authority.” Rosacher chuckled. “Now there’s a fresh idea.”

The florid face of the heavyset man sitting on Febres-Cordero’s left, Councilman Rooney, grew purplish and he said, “You come here dressed like a popinjay and attempt to…”

“I think we should give Mister Rosacher the opportunity to defend himself.” Febres-Cordero glanced along the table and then looked to Rosacher.

“Indeed, I would welcome the opportunity to speak,” said Rosacher. “Though not to defend myself, but instead to offer an alternative course of action. Have any of you gentlemen smoked mab?”

“Now you’re being impertinent,” Febres-Cordero said. “I warn you, do not try our patience.”

“I intended no impertinence. I merely wished to know whether or not you were conversant with the drug.”

“We have interviewed a number of addicts and understand its effects.”

“Did any of these addicts strike you as derelicts? Were they pale and sickly as with opium addicts, or were they hale and neatly attired? Did they not earn an honorable wage?”

Councilman Savedra, a vulturous, stoop-shouldered man, older than the rest, said, “If the thrust of your argument is to be that the drug causes no physical harm to the addict, it does not touch upon the moral issues.”

“It is an element of my argument, but not its sole thrust. And it’s not the health of the individual that concerns me so much as the health of the community.” Rosacher stood and went a few paces along the table. “Should the council rule against me in this, I will happily move my business to Port Chantay or another of the coastal towns. It will be an inconvenience, nothing more. But before you banish me, I beg you to let me speak without interruption so I can present my thoughts in a coherent fashion.”

“You asked a question,” said Savedra. “I answered. You may proceed.”

“Rhetorical questions require no answer, but never mind. I thank the councilman for his comment, because it brings me round to my next point.” Rosacher moved to a window and gazed out across the valley. “Teocinte is poor. Of all the valley towns, it has—or had—the highest incidence of crime. Morningshade is its least prosperous and most dangerous quarter. The economy of the town is based upon agrarian concerns and a handful of mining operations. These provide an excellent life for a small minority, but the people of Morningshade and the various outlying communities do not fully participate in that economy. Until recently, they have subsisted chiefly by means of preying upon the wealthy and upon one another. Over the past four years, however, the incidence of crime has steadily dropped in Morningshade. When I dwelled there we only saw the constabulary when a crime had been perpetrated against the wealthy. Now, I’m told, they’re scarcely seen at all. There has been a precipitous drop in crime and this is directly attributable to use of mab. I have hundreds…”

“Balderdash!” said Rooney.

“I have hundred of addicts in my employ,” said Rosacher, ignoring him. “And I expect to employ hundreds more during the next twelve months alone. They none of them exhibit the violent and erratic behavior generally ascribed to those addicted to other drugs. They’re responsible employees who come to work each day, perform their tasks, and go home at night to their pipe and slippers. In this case, their pipe holds a pellet of mab and the woman who brings their supper is more beautiful than the Queen of Astrikhan. The supper she brings, whether porridge or a chunk of salt pork, has a flavor comparable to the finest of viands. They sleep on soft mattresses and scented sheets, not pallets of straw. They live each in their own tiny palace beside which runs not a sewer, but a sparkling stream. Their lives are infinitely better than they were…and all because of mab.

“Unlike other addictive drugs, one does not develop a tolerance for mab. A single dose taken each night lasts until the next night. True, the effect diminishes over the following day, but it makes one’s labors less harsh. Rather than debilitating the addict, mab encourages him to take care of himself, to nurture his body. He now has reason to live, whereas with opium he hopes at best to survive and, truly, places a low value on survival. One might surmise that mab disposes the addict toward this cast of mind. What would you call a chemical compound that achieves those ends? That treats the worst symptoms of a community and causes it to function more smoothly? That makes its citizens content with their lot? Is it a drug, or is it a tonic? I say a tonic. In fact, that is how I’ve begun to market the drug in Port Chantay.”

Councilman Rooney puffed himself up to full bloat and said, “Sir, you are the Devil.”

“The Devil is never far from any of us, sir. Yet I’ll wager I am closer to God than the priests who will soon inhabit the palace you’re building at the end of the square.”

“I’ve had a stomachful of this!” Rooney said; then, addressing the table: “Must we listen to more of his spew?”

A mild voice responded,“Oh, I think we should hear him out.”

From the way the others reacted to the the man who had spoken, the youngest of the councilmen, Jean-Daniel Breque, turning toward him like dogs that have heard a piercing whistle, Rosacher understood that he had misread the council’s dynamic. Councilman Breque was a small, sturdily built man with a largish head, a professorial beard shot through by a few gray threads, and wire spectacles. He seemed bemused by the proceedings, but it was evident that his bemusement had less to do with Rosacher’s proposal than with the general reaction to it.

“You make a cogent point,” he said to Rosacher. “But there are spiritual issues to be considered, are there not?”

“If by spiritual you’re referring to the sensibilities of the Church…yes. The Church is a powerful concern. They must be paid their tribute. That said, permit me to ask you this. Where was the Church three years ago? Ten years ago? Fifty years ago? The sole reason for their interest in Teocinte is that it has become worth their while to put a franchise here. Now that there’s an economy they can tap into, they’re suddenly appalled by the sorry state of our souls. My word on it, should you write a law that criminalizes mab, they’ll come to you and say, ‘Let’s be tolerant now. We don’t want the poor to be flung down from their heaven, illusory though it may be. Give us time to work our magic, to wean them from the drug and redirect their loyalties, and we will rid you of Rosacher in due course.’ They’re no different from me. They’re a business that offers consolation as a product…only theirs is an inferior product. They want to be paid and they’ll take the money wherever they find it, even from a competitor. So I’ll pay them and that moral outrage you’re hearing now will be greatly muted.”

“I take it your concern over the Church’s past whereabouts was yet another rhetorical question,” said Breque, and smiled.

Rosacher inclined his head to acknowledge this small joke made at his expense.

“If you believe all of this,” said Breque, “then why respond to our summons? You must have a pressing reason for coming here this morning. Is there something you would have us do?”

“I want you to help protect your greatest resource,” Rosacher said.

“Mangos? Silver? Somehow I don’t think you have either of those in mind.”

“Before I tell you more, I would like you to have at look at some figures.”

Rosacher began passing out the papers Ludie had given him, laying a sheet in front of each councilman. Rooney sniffed and pushed his away.

“As you can see, the figures on the top half of the page reflect my month-by-month profits for the past year.” Rosacher gave them a moment to study the figures. “You’ll note the steady geometric increase.”

“And this figure at the bottom, what does it represent?” asked Febres-Cordero.

“My estimated earnings for next year,” said Rosacher. “Expenses have yet to be determined. They will undoubtedly rise in keeping with expansion.”

“This much?” Savedra looked at him in astonishment. “Surely that can’t be right?”

“My bookkeeper assures me that it’s a most conservative estimate.”

Rosacher noticed that Rooney was now studying his sheet of paper.

“Where do you keep your money?” asked Paltz.

“In a bank at Port Chantay. It’s more secure than the local bank.”

“From this I gather that you consider yourself to be our greatest resource,” said Breque.

“Yes, I do. One of them,” said Rosacher.

“And the other?”

“Griaule.”

“Ah, yes. Griaule’s blood is the active ingredient in mab, is it not?”

“It is,” said Rosacher. “The process by which it is refined is the key to creating the drug, and that process is known only to myself and my partner.”

“And who might that be?” Savedra asked.

“A man who wishes that his name not be divulged,” said Rosacher. “But to the point, gentlemen. I would like you to levy a tax on my business. Say, five percent of my net profits annually. Such a tax would validate my business as a legal entity and grant me the protections of the law.”

“Five percent of your gross would be more persuasive,” said Rooney.

“The precise figure can be negotiated at another time,” said Rosacher. “What I’m after today, if possible, is an agreement in principle.”

He turned to his chair and found that Arthur was sitting in it. The giant made as though to stand, but Rosacher gestured for him to keep his seat and stood behind him.

“There is one more thing I want to propose,” he said. “As you’re aware, Mister Honeyman has organized a security force to safeguard my interests. I would like to expand that force into a militia…with your participation, of course. The day is coming when cities more powerful than ours will grow envious of Teocinte’s prosperity and attempt to pirate my process and take control of the dragon. We need to be prepared against that day. I would be willing to fund the militia, but it would benefit your peace of mind, I think, if you were to share that burden, both as to costs and the constituency of the force. I propose that you appoint someone from your ranks to administer the militia. A general, if you will. He would oversee its functioning, the purchase of materiel and so forth, and would decide matters of policy. A militia further requires a general in the field, someone skilled in the art of war, someone who has the ability to train the men and lead them. I can think of no one more qualified for the post than Mister Honeyman.”

Arthur glanced up at him, but quickly hid his startled expression and fixed the council members with his terrible smile. Palz, who had appeared on the verge of raising an objection, held his peace.

“It’s an intriguing proposition.” Breque clasped his hands, resting his forearms on the table. “And the picture you paint is a tempting one. A prosperous town, a contented populace, and, if your business continues to thrive, everyone in this room will become wealthy and powerful.”

“You’ve no idea how wealthy,” Rosacher said. “We’ve barely scratched the surface of what is possible. Consider how many other substances helpful to humankind may be found within Griaule’s body.”