Genevieve Undead Part 17

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 pa.s.sages and up staircases. They could be either deep in the depths of Udolpho, or high up in one of the towers.

They had pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+rt from his chest and arms.

There was a basin of water by his bedside. He remembered d'Amato's Yellow Ague, but a.s.sumed 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 b.u.t.ts. 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 furnis.h.i.+ng.

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 s.p.a.ce 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 tw.a.n.g. 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 munic.i.p.al 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 a.s.sociate 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 intelligencewerewolves, 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 pa.s.sage.

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 citiesof the Empire, of Bretonnia, of Kislevand make all men her slaves. Countries were hers for the taking.

She heard something, and pressed herself into an alcove, blending with the dark. Something heavy was coming down the pa.s.sage.

She held her breath, and waited. Heavy footsteps sounded out, and there was a metallic creaking. Blue light filtered through from somewhere.

Christabel tried to shrink into a ball, her killing loop ready just in case. A man-shaped thing rounded the corner. It was taller than Zschokke by a full three feet, and had to bend its head to fit into the high-ceilinged pa.s.sage. The apparition was clad in a full set of antique armour. It was burnished iron, with fiery designs inlaid, and moved like an animated statue. It had a species of clanky grace that was almost bewitching.