Traveling With The Dead(65)

To his enormous surprise, he made it to the door on his feet. The house below was soundless. They’d probably break in on the other side, through the crypt where the ice was delivered. If he met them in the crypt, they’d quite possibly kill him out of hand before they realized he wasn’t a vampire himself.

Descending the stairs left him dizzy, but he didn’t fall. The thing in the crypt hadn’t been able to drink much of his blood, though a good deal had been lost. He felt desperately thirsty. Down in the courtyard the sound of the mob didn’t penetrate, and it was hard to disregard the voice in the back of his mind that argued that he certainly had time to lie down on the nice, comfortable pavement and rest a little…

He took the vigil lamp from its niche and continued. In the Turkish part of the house the mob’s fury sounded closer, a heavy sea surge that would stop at nothing.

The tiled room. The overgrown court. The Roman baths. The long stair and the stench of ammonia, of wet brick…

Of decay.

The leopard glimmer of the lamp suddenly outlined the dark form standing before him. The light gleamed in the citrine eyes and on the silver blade of the halberd, and Asher, leaning panting on the wall, knew he had lost.

He hadn’t even the strength to turn and flee; the Bey would pull him down like a staghound a crippled fawn. Throwing the lamp would buy him seconds, but…

“God sent you,” the vampire said softly. “Help me. I beg you.”

He stepped forward, holding out one hand with its steel talons and winking jewels. “The others have fled. I have to get him someplace where the mob will not find him, have to get enough ice there, that he will live through the night.”

In the corridor behind him, when Asher moved the lamp, he could see the wet diamond glint of ice where it showed through the oilskin in which it was wrapped. Masses of it, far more than a living man could carry. But even with a vampire’s strength, he could not make it more wieldy. He couldn’t carry it, and a body as well, up those twisting stairs.

“Please,” the Bey said. “After that you may do as you will. I have the keys to the outer doors, you are free to go. On my honor, by the Prophet I swear it. But help me get him to safety. Please.”

Asher set down the lamp. “Is he able to walk at all?”

The Bey stepped forward, some of the terrible tension lifting from the set of his shoulders, the angle of his shaven head. His snake-colored eyes seemed suddenly old, filled with the weariness of uncounted years alone. “With support, I thmk. We weigh not so heavy as living flesh.”

Asher touched his arm, staying him as they edged between the ice blocks and the wall, to the silver bars that guarded the corridor to the crypts. The last time they were eye-to-eye had been here, with the Bey’s claws lodged deep in his throat. Those wounds throbbed under a dressing of sticking plaster every time he spoke.

“You know it’s not going to do you any good.” He spoke, not in triumph, but in a kind of matter-of-fact compassion, for the creature beyond the bars was clearly beyond hope even if, by some miracle, Ernchester or some other vampire could be found to complete his transformation to the vampire state.

He half expected the same rage that, earlier in the night, had almost killed him, but the Bey only shook his head.

“If he can get through the night,” he murmured. “If he can last through another day… The… transformation… of the flesh, when it takes place, is little short of miraculous. I have seen sere and aged crones return to the beauty of their girlhood once they have the power of the vampire mind. The flesh returns to the form that is in the mind. And in any case,” he added, still more quietly, “though what you say may be true, I cannot leave him. He is… dear to me.”

The body that the Bey brought forth from the crypt was wrapped in a sort of shroud of oiled silk, with oilskins on top of that. Still it stank, a limp and filthy thing in the tall vampire’s arms, its wet black curls glistening between the bandages, its dangling fingers dripping brownish fluid. Asher flinched back from it, remembering the slimy lips mumbling at his arm, as the Bey set it on its feet beside him; his shoulders cringed from the limp arm the Bey laid over them. Then the bandaged head lolled, like a drunken man’s, and the livid eyelids, almost black in the gloom, rose to show dark eyes flooded with agony, horror, and dumb pleading for relief.

The thing lived.

“He was beautiful,” whispered Olumsiz Bey. He bent, gathering the corners of the oilcloth around the ice. He had laid down his silver halberd to carry the thing from the crypt, the first time Asher had seen him let it out of his hand. Now he slipped it through the knot of the oilskins, the haft where he could grip it at once. There must have been several hundred pounds of ice, but he lifted it easily, for it was only the awkwardness of it that had prevented him from bearing both it and the boy leaning, weaving drunkenly, on his shoulders. At close range the smell was suffocating, and he tried not to think about the consistency of the arm that held so desperately to his neck. He himself, with his cracked ribs sawing like broken bamboo within him, could barely keep his feet.

“Beautiful,” the Bey said, “and more beautiful still in his heart. He was ardent as fire, my Kahlil. A young warrior, and loyal to me to the bottom of his soul.”

It was as if he heard Asher’s thought, And you repaid him thus? But Asher did not speak it, so there was no anger in the vampire’s quiet reply.

“He would have been one of my living servants, here in this house. This was what I had planned.” The shouting of the mob was very near, the sky above the tall Turkish roof—usually so dark—smoldering with the flare of torches. Smoke and rage burned the air.

“This was hard for me. I wanted to make him as I am, to keep him by me in his glorious youth forever. But I knew this was no longer possible for me. Fifty, sixty years ago, in the days of Abdul Mezid, when my friend Tinnin was killed, I tried to make a fledgling. Though that youth’s mind stayed alive, a burning flame in mine through the death of his body, when I returned that flame to the flesh, there was no change, no alteration in the flesh itself. The fledgling rotted as he lay until in mercy I struck off his head. This had happened… once, maybe twice before to me, long ago. But afterward all was well. This time—after Tinnin— the power did not return.”

He laughed soundlessly, bitterly, a tall figure in robes mottled like a tiger’s in the shifting light. The jewels he wore threw back fire from the reddish glare of the sky, echoes of it catching in the ice he carried like some monstrous, Sisyphean gem loaded onto him by hilarious gods.

“I tried three, perhaps four times since that time, and I knew there was little chance of bringing Kahlil across to the vampire state. And I knew this was God’s mockery of me: that having found the one I could trust, the one who could help me, I had squandered my gift of dark immortality on such as Zardalu and the Baykus Kadine, and that cobweb witch Zenaida who hides in the old harem, only because I needed those I could command to do my bidding.

“And then the interloper came.”

The stairs from the old bans court were the worst. Where it had been silent, now the shouting was clearly audible, and drifts of smoke swirled harsh in the air. Asher abandoned the lamp to its niche again, his own injuries stabbing him as he struggled to help the shrouded form up the long flights, the Bey at his heels with the huge, unwieldy burden of dripping ice.

“Golge Kurt,” said the Bey’s soft voice, almost as if it were in his ear, while beneath the bandages Kahlil made soft, broken noises of pain. “The Shadow Wolf. God knows where he came from, or how he came to be vampire. Some Greek witch, no doubt, whom he later escaped… But he is a Turk of the new Turks, this upland peasantry that they’ve given guns and delusions of rule. I saw him first just after the coup, when all the city was in confusion. He had made a fledgling already—as easy as spitting—to challenge my power. I killed the fledgling—but I could not kill him. And after that I had no choice.”

They reached the long upper chamber. Asher sank, hand pressed to his side, onto the divan, the wrapped and shrouded living corpse beside him. While the Bey unfurled his oilskin to let the ice clatter down, filling the dry tiles of the fish pool, Kahlil, instead of lying on the divan, remained sitting beside Asher, clinging to him, as if frantic for the comfort of a living touch. Stinking, rotting, horrible within the bandages, but Asher could not thrust him away.

The Bey came back, tenderly lifted the boy’s body and carried it to the ice. Watching them in the juddering orange flare of the lamps around the walls, Asher wondered bitterly how many men fell back on that phrase, I had no choice, when it came to what they wanted—even when it did that to those they loved.

Ernchester, when he had killed Cramer.

Karolyi, certainly, if he thought at all.

He himself.

Olumsiz Bey knelt on the steps of the basin, holding the putrefying bundle that had been the boy’s hand.

“So you tried to make him vampire,” Asher said quietly. “Even though you knew.”

The Bey nodded, once.

“And when you saw that though his mind survived, his body was beginning to rot, you sent for Ernchester.”