huger yet, derelict mountain upthrusts where humans never ventured. Somewhere, high amidst the mountains, a scarf of colour gleamed into life, whirled thrice about a peak of stone, and then was gone. What was it? Something equivalent to the zana, the wild rainbows of Galsh Ebrek? Or something different?
Alfric put it out of mind. Working in accordance with the instructions he had been given, he began to search for the door into the vampire depths, which he located after a long and weary search. This was clearly going to be a night for the long and the weary, and he only hoped his negotiations with the vampires would not prove too protracted.
The door was at the top of a steep flight of steps cut into the living rock of the mountains, so Alfric tethered his horse to a convenient tree, then began to climb.
As Alfric Danbrog advanced upon that door, war-faring men in battledress began to march out of it. Armed with old iron they were, their faces fell and silent. In an access of terror, Alfric clasped his ring-embellished sword and prepared to die — then realized the onmarching men were nothing but ghosts. As they flowed through him and around him, he imagined he heard a ghostly horn calling them to battle.
Then the men were gone, and Alfric Danbrog shrugged off his shock and, single of purpose, strode towards the door to the vampire depths. Striding thus, he tripped over a rock, which almost threw him off balance.
A rock?
On a night like this in a place like this, something which looked to be a rock could be anything. Alfric, remembering childhood tales of Grapter the Wishtoad, kicked at the rock until he had determined it was stone indeed.
A rock, then.
Rock qua rock.
A phenomenological rock?
Perhaps.
Alfric realized he was procrastinating. He willed himself away from the rock which had suddenly become so fascinating, and marched on the stonemade door to the vampires’ lair. Alfric knocked upon that door, but the mountain answered him not.
‘Open,’ said Alfric sternly, ‘or my sword will shatter your soul.’
The door gave no hint of opening, so Alfric swung at it with Chalingrad. To Alfric’s surprise, the arbiter of many deaths splintered against the unyielding rock.
‘Stroth!’ he said.
Then examined the wreckage of the blade with care. Unless he was greatly mistaken, the weapon was made of cast iron. Not for the first time, Alfric began to wonder whether the Wormlord wanted him dead.
As the sword was useless for attack or defence, Alfric cast it aside, and thus was alone and unarmed when the door lurched open. At which stage his courage deserted him, and he would have fainly retired — but it was too late, for the door was fully open.
‘Well?’ said a ratcheting voice, a voice all stonedust and corncrake. ‘Are you coming in or aren’t you?’
‘I am,’ said Alfric.
Then swallowed, and strode into the tunnel which yawned in front of him. The door closed, shutting out the night, and leaving no light whatsoever; but Alfric, his eyes a venomous red, deciphered the blackness at will.
‘Have you come here to die?’ said someone behind him.
‘No,’ said Alfric. ‘I’ve come here to offer you a deal.’ ‘A deal?’
‘Don’t sound so amazed. I’m Izdarbolskobidarbix, a Banker Third Class from the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association. I’m authorized to make you a proposition. I suggest you take me to your Council Chamber.’
‘Not till I know your name.’
‘My name I have given you already,’ said Alfric in irritation. ‘Izdarbolskobidarbix is my name. Some of my peers have taken the liberty of shortening that title to Iz’bix on occasion; I will not resent it if you avail yourself of a similar privilege. ’
‘No name thus tongued was ever bom in Wen Endex,’ said the vampire voice doubtfully.
‘Still,’ said Alfric, ‘it is how I call myself.’
‘Then,’ said the vampire, ‘leaving aside the question of how you call yourself, who are you? Really?’
‘Oh, all right then, if you really must know, I’m Alfric Danbrog, son of Grendel Danbrog and grandson of the Wormlord Tromso Stavenger. You want to hear more? Gertrude Danbrog is my mother and Ursula Major my father’s sister, hence my aunt. My paternal grandmother was-’
‘Enough,’ said the vampire, cutting him off. ‘You have told me enough. Your naming makes you a shape- changer. Thus you are welcome, thrice welcome, ever welcome in the halls of blood.’
Alfric wanted to protest that he was not a shape-changer at all, but thought such objection unwise: hence allowed himself to be escorted to the Council Hall, where fresh blood was served to him while he waited for the Elders to gather.
At first, Alfric indulged his curiosity by scanning the assembling Elders. Under the interrogation of his probing eyes, they revealed themselves to be ancient, their skins clinging very close to their skeletons. Close proximity to the warm-blooded Alfric Danbrog inspired the vampires with appetite. They opened their mouths and drooled. Their teeth were sharp, very sharp, and many. Alfric abruptly ceased scanning the dark and settled back to wait.
At last, the Oldest of the Elders spoke:
‘Greetings, Alfric Danbrog. We hear you have a proposition for us,’
‘I do,’ said Alfric. ‘I come here as a representative of the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association. We wish to do business.’
‘The Bank has rejected our business in the past,’ said the Oldest. ‘Why should it change its mind now?’
‘Policies change when needs change,’ said Alfric. ‘Our needs have changed. We have also grown more… more realistic over the years. The absurd prejudice against bloodfeeding is no longer to be found among our ranks.’
‘What of Yaf, then?’ said the Oldest.
‘Yaf is dead,’ said Alfric bluntly. ‘He’s been dead for a hundred years.’
‘But he can’t be!’ said the Oldest. ‘It was only yesterday that he rebuffed me.’
‘Was it?’ said Alfric. ‘Consult your memories.’
Silence.
Then, from out of the dark, the voice of the Oldest: ‘You are righ t. It is my age. The years are so short after the first thousand or so. Besides, I’ve slept most of that time.’
‘It is a pity that your sleep was not profitable,’ said Alfric. ‘But, with 3 per cent compounding interest, your sleep could be profitable indeed. We would of course be prepared to pay the interest in a form convenient to you, that is, not as gold but as virgin females to the equivalent value.’
‘Details, please.’
‘Interest would be credited to your account annually,’ said Alfric. ‘An initial deposit of 100 talents of gold would be worth 103 in a year’s time. In two years, your investment would have grown to 106 talents plus a 900th of a talent. In three years-’
‘Thank you,’ said the Oldest, cutting him off just as he was getting enthusiastic. ‘I am familiar with the wonders of compound interest. What you propose is similar to what I myself proposed to Yaf when I ventured to Galsh Ebrek.’ ‘I know,’ said Alfric. ‘I have seen the files. You offered Yaf some very good business. He was wrong to turn you down. Future generations have lamented his foolishness.’
The vampires had proposed to make a massive investment of gold with the Bank, then come to the Bank once every ten years to claim their interest in the form of so many virgin slaves. But Yaf had apparently experienced some moral scruples which had prevented him from concluding this bargain.
Why?
Alfric had no idea.
After all, a great many people invest their money in banks, and there is nothing to stop the investor spending the interest thus gained on buying slaves to be slaughtered, or in paying assassins, or in purchasing weapons of war. So surely it makes no moral difference if the bank (on the client’s behalf) makes payments for similar purposes.
‘You do guarantee,’ said the Oldest, ‘that you will be able to pay interest in the form of virgin slaves?’
‘At the standard rate, yes,’ said Alfric. ‘I guarantee it with my life.’
‘That’s no guarantee!’ said the Oldest. ‘Not when you die so quickly.’
