Traveling With The Dead(40)

Zardalu laughed, a soundless gapping of the rubber mouth. His fangs were long and pointed, like a wolf’s.

“So who are you in truth, Englis?” he asked softly. “And who is he whom the Bey thinks will risk himself to come to you? Since the waning of summer he has said, ‘Find him and kill him.’ Now he says, the one who comes to the Englis, bring that one to me.”

He gestured around him at the crumbling turbes, the steles with turbans—or stylized veils—carved on them leaning every which way, as if a giant child had randomly stuck a thousand thousand enormous matchsticks in the unkempt grass. “Are you his servant? Or is it some secret that you know?” The blanched eyes, dirty ice in the starlight, seemed for a time to be the eunuch’s only reality, the rest of him a thing of smoke and dreams. Asher felt on his mind the narcotic pressure of the vampire’s power, an almost impossible weight of sleep.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Who is this interloper, Englis? And what has it to do with the dastgah and the silver bars that guard the way to the crypt?”

With an effort, Asher pushed the soft cloudiness away. “If your master is going to punish you for asking,” he said, “I think it would behoove me not to answer.”

Zardalu flung up his hands in an exaggerated mime of amusement, but his anger was palpable. “Behold the wise man!” he cried, soundless as the night wind. “Now all he needs is a little bell, like the goat they tie to summon the tiger.”

Asher felt the grip of his mind and tried to throw it off again, tried to follow where the tall vampire went, but could not. It was as if he woke suddenly again, standing alone in the frost among the rotting tombs.

They were all there somewhere, he thought. Zardalu and Jamila Baykus; Haralpos and Habib and Pelageya: watching him. An ambush. A trap. Anthea had told him of the strange condition, a sort of mental spell she sensed over the city, that prevented her from feeling the presence of any other vampire—the work, she had said, frightened, of a great master or masters.

As he walked cautiously among the tombs, groping where the somber cypresses blotted even the wan glow of the sky, he sought to absorb as much of this landscape as he could. Had Anthea fled their lodging after his disappearance to hide in such a place?

Or had his encounter with the men of the Sultan’s guard, who had picked him up in the courtyard of the Mosque of the Bajazid, been engineered to leave her unguarded?

Then why kidnap him less than an hour after his release, before he had even returned to her? Why use him, as he was being used now, as bait?

Was it for her, even, that the trap was set?

He stopped to rest on the low flat tomb of some prince or noble, like a marble bench inscribed in flowing Arabic script and terminating in a narrow stele surmounted by the figure of a turban. The turban signified a man. The fact that it was depicted as tilted to one side meant the dead man had been strangled by the Sultan’s order. The marble was starred white where bullets had struck it when the army came through here to their final battle with the Sultan’s forces in July.

And that final battle, he thought, had abruptly terminated whatever power Olumsiz Bey had held in the Sultan’s court— almost certainly financial, since the entire country was in pawn. With Abdul Hamid’s imprisonment in Yildiz while the Committee of union   and Progress thrashed out how to get a Parliament elected and bring the empire into the twentieth century from a standing start in the sixteenth, the Bey had needed to find someone else to send to England, to conduct Ernchester here.

For whatever reason he wanted the earl here in the first place.

Something moved among the black trees, but strain his eyes as he would, he could make out nothing. A rat or a fox—though if rats fled the smell of Anthea’s hair upon her bonnet, it was unlikely they’d venture close to the silent watchers among the trees.

He slipped off the tomb and moved on.

Tombs clustered all the length of the land walls, from the seven-towered gate of the Yeni Koule to the mosque at Eyoub. People came here to pray in the daylight, but the turbe themselves were undisturbed.

Somewhere close dogs howled.

His personation of a goat in a tiger hunt lasted for what he calculated was almost two hours, judging by the moon’s progress among the clouds. From the dark city the muezzins’ final cries ascended, that deep, haunting wailing that is like no other sound on earth. In time, across the water, a church bell answered from Pera, small and clear.

Was it Anthea they thought would appear? Or Ernchester?

Or just possibly someone else?

By what Zardalu had said, Asher wasn’t sure they knew exactly who it was they expected to trap.

Anthea, he thought, fly this place. Go away.

Then Zardalu was walking toward him, across open ground with the ashen grass surging around his pantaloons. When he bound Asher’s wrists again and wrapped the scarf over his eyes, his hands were warm.

“You serve a heartless master,” said the eunuch. “Or maybe by this time he’s found himself another servant, clever or no. Did he promise you everlasting life, James? They all do, you know.”

“Even the Bey?”

“Ah. An impudent infidel, no less.”

Asher could hear the smile in Zardalu’s sweet whisper. “Just curious.”

When they passed the city walls this time, there was no sound in the streets, save the crying of the gulls. Zardalu kept one hand on Asher’s elbow, the other on the back of his neck, and the smell of fresh blood and the reek of death drowned out both the smell of the muck underfoot and the vampire’s perfume.

Only when they were, Asher estimated, coming over the Second Hill again did he hear other voices and steps drawing near. A man mumbled, “Beloved… beautiful fairy…” in harsh-sounding Romaic Greek, and on the air, like the vapors of poisoned flowers, Asher heard the silvery flicker of vampire laughter.

“She’s found a treasure, our Pelageya,” Zardalu’s voice breathed in his ear. “How is it, sagir sayyaP. Did you find a strong bullock to trap in your nets?”

The Russian girl laughed, a soft, thick tickling that, in spite of himself and all he knew, went straight to his groin, as if the woman leaned naked in his arms.

They stopped. There was the sound of a key in a lock, impossible to tell what kind of key—the man with them muttered drunkenly, swearing eternal love, promising feats of ecstasy that would have his newfound adored one crying out with gratitude, and all the while around him Asher heard the whisper of unholy mirth—Haralpos, Habib, the Baykus Kadine. Their voices were a fleeting susurration, now before, now behind, as he was guided through a doorway and down long uneven stairs, worn in the center and incredibly deep, to a place that smelled of water and stone.

“That little beggar Habib’s got won’t be missed, but what of that bullock of yours? He looks well-fed.”

“And if he is? He’s an Armenian, she found him in the Kara Geumruk. The Sultan is quicker to avenge Gypsies and Jews than such folk…”

“But is he sober enough to give us sport?” Zardalu’s drawling voice was petulant. “Well enough to steal sleeping beggar children for El-Malik, but after a night sitting in a graveyard, with only one wretched tramp sleeping behind a tomb, I want a little sport.”

“El-Malik entertains his infidel makaniki!” He could almost see the Russian girl’s lazy shrug. “I can smell the coffee from the street. This one will waken enough.”

El-Malik. The master, the king. The Master Vampire of Constantinople. And while they were talking, a sharp turn at the bottom of the stairs, two of his own steps, and the brush of a curtain against his face, right turn, wildly uneven brick underfoot and the sudden throat-catching stink of ammonia and chemicals, and a blast of cold.

And far off, inarticulate with agony and horror, muffled as if behind some barrier of wood and iron, the sound of a man’s voice.

“I came on one of the makaniki the other night, as I was returning early,” Zardalu was relating lightly, turning, Asher thought, so that his hand slid from neck to shoulder. Had it not, he thought the vampire must have felt the prickle of the hairs at the sound of that horrible, distant despair. “A fat little infidel like an asure pudding, with spectacles on his nose, so… He backed against the wall by the rear gate, holding his little hammer out like this, staring around squeaking, ‘Who is that there? I hear you… You cannot get away. Come show yourself and I will not hurt you…’ ” while the unfortunate Armenian youth mumbled endearments and Asher measured in his mind a narrow stair that wound around itself three times, then the echoes of some open room, and more stairs. Cobbly pavement of small stones underfoot, then of bigger ones, like cannonballs, in an open space where grass grew between blocks. Right, and a locked door…

They stopped, suddenly, in a room with a bare wooden floor. By their silence Asher knew why.

“Nothing?” The voice was brown velvet, roses, and gold.

By the shift of Zardalu’s grip, Asher knew that he bowed. “Nothing, Lord.”

In his blindness he heard the dense rustle of silk, but only when it was close enough that he could smell coffee, incense, ammonia… blood.

“Yet you have done passing well. Habib, my sweet, is that sarigi burtna for me? What a dirty little thing she is. And ah, Pelageya…” Asher could almost see him bow, and there was a momentary scuffle, the swish of clothing and a stifled grunt of terror as the young man suddenly, belatedly, realized that he stood in the presence of smiling death.