'- What evidence?'
'Eh? Why, her absence — the missing flyer!'
'Ah! That evidence.' Karl fingered his chin, studied Radu intensely.
And for the third time Radu's shrug, now absolutely genuine in its bewilderment. 'But… what other evidence is there?'
Karl nodded again, and sighed deeply. Then, apparently changing the subject, he said: 'Do you know, the other Lords see me as a dolt?'
'What, you, Lord?' Radu's attempt at astonishment was less than convincing. 'I cannot believe it.'
'Oh, you can, you can! You've heard it said, I'm sure.'
'Never, Lord! Why, if ever I heard such a…'
'… And yet I fancy,' Karl stopped him short, 'that among my ancestors was a scryer of considerable skill. An oneiromancer, perhaps, and one of great power! Which is why I cannot sleep — because of my dreams.'
'Dreams, Lord?'
'Of treachery, aye!'
Radu said nothing, but waited. For after all, a dream of treachery is still only a dream. And in a while, Karl continued: 'Do you see that skin there, on the table? That chart of Turgosheim and all the lands around?' He pointed to a table close by. 'Look at it closely. For I have marked it.'
Radu stepped to the table, checked the chart, and his eyes were drawn irresistibly to a certain secret place — but secret no more, for Karl had ringed it with a line of black dye! Radu staggered back a pace, regained control of himself as best he could, and said: 'I… I see your mark.'
'Come,' Karl crooked a finger, beckoning. 'Come here, where I can look upon your face.'
Radu stood before him.
And Karl's voice was very soft as he said, 'Now admit it to me: that you have buried her there, as I saw in my dreams.'
Stunned, Radu opened and closed his mouth but said nothing. So that Karl warned him: 'Better if you tell me with your own tongue, while still you have one.'
Radu remained dumbstruck.
Karl sighed and spread wide his arms, as in a gesture of defeat. 'Then, Radu my would-be son, we must go and dig there, you and I. And all of my thralls and trogs to boot, digging in a certain blocked cave. Until we have dug up what you put down. Then, if my dream has not lied to me… you shall replace her there in the cold, cold earth, forever. But if you'll be brave and tell me with your own lips how it was, and so save me the trouble…?'
'But…!' Radu's dam had cracked at last.
'Oh?' Karl cocked his head and looked at him, looked into him. But Radu only hung his head. It was an admittance of sorts — but not good enough.
'Very well,' said Karl, in a voice which was softer yet. 'Then go to my bed and bring me the sharpest of those crossed swords from where they decorate the wall. Alas, they are not very sharp, but sharp enough in a strong hand. The one is of iron and the other silver. I dislike silver as well you know, but its grip is of bone and it is the sharpest, and the other hangs there red with rust. So bring me the silver sword.'
Radu looked, saw the dull glimmer of gaslight on ancient Szgany weapons. 'Swords…' he said, tonelessly.
'Do it now,' said Karl.
Radu brought the sword. And as he returned with it to Karl many thoughts passed through his mind. To leap on him and kill him… hah! — what madness — try killing a warrior! To kill himself, then, which was far more feasible. Or… perhaps he should try to brazen it out; for surely Karl knew nothing for a fact, not yet, and all of this was a trial by nerves. Later, if it came to the worst, Radu could always make a run for it. That is, if there was to be a later…
By then he was back in front of his master's chair, and the time for action, perhaps even for thinking, was past. Karl reached out a hand. 'The sword,' he said. 'Put it down.' Radu did so, and his master took it up — but carefully — by the bone hilt.
Then Karl stood up, and Radu backed off. But: 'If you so much as think of running,' Karl warned, 'I shall take you down into the bottoms and let the warriors fight over you. Now kneel beside the stool there.' That was easy, for Radu's knees were giving way. 'Good!' said Karl. 'And place your hands behind your back, and clasp them. Then lower your neck across the stool. Even so…'
'Master, I…!' Radu's eyes bulged where he stared at the stone floor.
'Aye?' Karl's inquiry was almost casual.
'If I say nothing, I lose my head,' Radu gabbled. 'And if I speak the truth — even though I have done nothing for myself but everything for you — still I lose my head! Where is the justice?'
'Tell me the truth,' Karl said, 'and I swear that I shall not harm you in the slightest degree. Neither myself nor any man or monster in all Turgosheim.'
Radu knew better than to try bargaining, not with his neck across a block. And now his dam broke and the words flooded out of him. 'It is… as you have dreamed it! But she was Szgany filth; she was not good enough; she made your bed a mire!'
'Ahhhh!' said Karl.
Radu heard the swish as the sword went up, and screamed, 'Master! Your word, not to harm me: neither yourself nor any man!'
'Indeed,' said Karl.
Sensing in that final moment the presence of some other, Radu's eyes swivelled up — even as Wratha's silver sword came slicing down. And in the instant of death, still Radu didn't believe who he saw standing there…
Then it was done, Wratha's way, and in every instance but one Karl had stood by his word. For neither himself nor any man of Turgosheim had killed Radu Cragsthrall.
But a monster…?
II
Some hours after his meeting with Wratha, Karz Biteri, Historian to the Wamphyri, thrall to Maglore of Runemanse, reported to his master in one of his several workshops and recounted the occurrences of the day. But not in every detail.
When Karz was done, Maglore looked up from his examination of stretched, rune-inscribed skins (the bleached skins of trogs, mainly) and various fragments of carved bone, and said, 'Continue.' Simply that. A man of words, he nevertheless knew how to use them sparingly. And the implication of this single word was that he already knew there was more to be known.
Maglore was one hundred and sixty years old. By Wamphyri standards he should be in his prime, but he looked old. He and certain others of the Lords and Ladies — mainly the so-called 'high-caste' of the Wamphyri — were modern disciples of Turgo Zolte: so far as possible, they followed Zolte's olden ascetic die-turns. These were simple and all based upon one ideal: To fight vampirism throughout life and undeath, even including the ultimate condition of vampiric contagion, which is to be Wamphyri! To deny oneself — and therefore one's parasite — those things which are the fuel of all evil works: blood, the carnal lusts of the flesh, suspicion and hatred of one's fellows, and the pride which comes before a fall. In short, to be Shaitan's opposite, or as much opposed to him and his ways as possible. It had been a losing battle for Turgo Zolte and all his followers ever since, but still they tried. And it accounted for Maglore's shrivelled aspect; for as he'd learned well enough, though still he would deny it, the blood is the life.
Yes, Maglore looked old, but Karz knew that he didn't need to. On those infrequent occasions when he called for his woman, then he would appear young again, and the Historian would know that he had taken the blood of a man.
'Continue, master?' Karz looked blank, and for all that he should know better wondered what Maglore was thinking.
'My thoughts are mine alone!' the Mage told him at once, in a voice that rustled. 'Unlike yours, which are to me like scenes in a shewstone, except when I'm not given to exertion and would prefer to hear them from your mouth — such as now! Or perhaps you'd have me look more deeply inside your head? That can be arranged, though it might cause you some small pain. Yet I admit to temptation; for who knows how many other secret things I'd find in there, kept back from me, eh? Now, stop playing the fool and tell me about Wratha: what else did she say and
