Magistrates of Hell

Asher shivered at the thought.

Karlebach had grumbled about taking the Japanese attache into their confidence, despite the fact that the Count had seen their attackers clearly last night: better that he know, than that he make inquiries that would touch off other inquiries. Once the gates of Hell have been opened, it may not be possible to shut them again.

Lydia had asked him: was it possible for the Count to arrange for her to see records from the Peking police, about either mysterious disappearances during the past year, or murder in which the victims had been either exsanguinated or torn by what appeared to be animals? She wanted particularly to know about the vicinity of the old lakes of the walled Palace pleasure-grounds, or near what were called the ‘Stone Relics of the Sea’, the two unwalled artificial lakes in the northern part of the city. Given the political unrest that had gripped Peking since the Emperor’s abdication – to say nothing of the Chinese troop riots in February and the roving ‘beheading squads’ which had followed in their wake – Asher guessed it was going to be very difficult to determine any pattern that might point to the appearance of Undead monsters in the city, but agreed to ask.

Peking was quiet now.

He reached the north wall of the Legation Quarter. Wind swirled dust around him, brought him the scent of tobacco from the gates, where the guards sneaked a cigarette. In the open glacis, vendors who dwelled within the Tatar City were taking down their barrows: candied fruit, second-hand shoes, scorpions skewered on sticks and fried in oil. Voices chattered in the brisk sing-song of the Peking dialect. Beyond that – beyond the wide Tung Ch’ang An Street – the roofs of the real Peking rose: the Tatar City that surrounded the Imperial City that surrounded the Forbidden City – more puzzle boxes, each locked behind its massive gates – where the young ex-Emperor still lived among half-deserted courtyards and pavilions going to ruin. And who’s sweeping the dust from his doorstep tonight?

On his way back, Asher turned down the service lane that ran between the Legation wall and the lower wall that defined the back gardens of the line of brick bungalows where the Legation officials had their homes. Through bare branches of garden trees, he made out the roofline of the Eddington house, one lamplit window.

Is Myra Eddington able to sleep yet?

Would I be, if it was Miranda who lay dead?

His heart contracted inside him at the thought of that red-haired child, whom he had left crawling busily around the parlor in quest of the blocks Lydia had hidden everywhere (including in Karlebach’s beard).

Holly Eddington – shrill-voiced, nervous, awkward in her girlish white gown and ready to trick a man into marrying her, for the sake of his money . . . She had been a child like that once.

And so had the girl – whatever her name was – that Grant Hobart had killed because he couldn’t climax any other way.

‘James,’ a voice murmured in his ear. ‘A pleasure to see you well.’

Asher turned sharply.

A trace of wind stirred the vampire’s long white hair, lifted the skirts of his greatcoat. ‘Don’t look at me,’ Ysidro added, seeing his expression. ‘I had nothing to do with the girl’s death.’

‘You heard something in the garden, though, when we spoke at Eddington’s?’

‘I did.’ The vampire turned at once down the Rue Meiji, away from the gate, and Asher fell into step. ‘When interrupted by your so-charming friend I went out and found the girl dead – only by minutes – and the young man in an advanced state of drunken unconsciousness. Had I been such a fool as to taste his blood I couldn’t have found my way back to my own coffin. Does your Professor think me that stupid?’

‘That greedy for blood.’

A line appeared – briefly – at the corner of Ysidro’s mouth, then vanished. ‘When the only thing in your life is a hammer, all problems look like nails. In an unknown city, where the presence of the vampires imbues the very stones, it were madness to drink without leave.’

It was clear, to Asher’s eye, that he still had not fed. There was a look to him, skeletal and a little inhuman, as if he had trouble maintaining the illusion of life that made his victims trust him. The scars on his face were now clearly visible, white ridges over brow and cheekbone. He had gotten them in Lydia’s defense.

‘I suspect,’ Asher said, ‘that Karlebach, for all his studies, doesn’t know as much about vampires as he thinks he does.’ Or I don’t know as much about them as I think I do . . .

‘I have observed before this,’ Ysidro commented. ‘That vampire hunters become obsessed with their prey, to the exclusion of all else: family, friends, the joy of study or of love – everything but the hunt. In this they become like the vampire themselves. Their worlds narrow and focus, until they become a perfect weapon . . . but a weapon is all they are. I take it you did indeed find the Others in the Western Hills.’

Asher raised his brows. ‘If you tell me you were present and didn’t lend us your aid—’

‘Dios, no! The dead travel swiftly, but I had errands of my own last night – which did not prosper, I regret to say. The first I knew of your adventures was when I saw you return to your hotel in the small hours, looking as if you had been to the wars. And this evening in the barracks quarter, your Soldiers Three spoke feelingly of an encounter with the foulest-smelling gang of brigands this side of Hell. Drugged, they said, or practitioners of mysterious techniques, like those of the amuk warriors of the Philippines.’

‘Just as well. The last thing we need is for anybody’s network of gossips to send word of their existence back to the species of bastards who invented phosgene gas.’ Briefly, Asher recounted the events of the previous thirty- six hours as they walked, including the theft of their horses and the behavior of Dr Bauer’s medical specimens when exposed to sunlight. ‘I’d have liked to see the effects of a few drops of silver nitrate on some of those bones, and Karlebach has a whole pharmacopoeia of distillations, though how you’d convince the things to drink them is beyond me. I gather Dr Bauer believes them to be some kind of atavistic survival from prehistory, like the apemen in The Lost World, and hopes to prove this to the scientific community.’

‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ quoted the vampire. ‘It is in fact no less reasonable than to believe in vampires.’

They reached the wall of the Imperial City, black and towering thirty feet above them on the opposite side of the street, its crenellations outlined dimly against the lights of the railroad yard. A street vendor’s voice somewhere on the other side wailed hoarsely the virtues of pancakes and watermelon seeds.

‘What have you learned from the vampires of Peking?’

‘Naught.’ Hands in the pockets of his long black greatcoat, Ysidro was barely visible in the night. ‘Not even their shadows have I seen. Yet their presence hangs in the air like smoke. I promenaded myself along the glacis, and a little distance into the city, listening for their voices. I heard nothing. But when I sleep, I dream of being watched by something I cannot understand. Something terrible, silent, and cold.’

It was the first time Asher had ever heard him speak of dreaming.

The vampire countess Anthea Farren – gone now, burned up in a holocaust of flame in Constantinople – had said to Asher once that it was as if God had chosen, as the punishment for those who killed in order to steal more life, to make them seek every attribute of death except peace. To be vampire was a condition predicated upon always having somewhere to hide; always having inviolable control over one’s environment. Thus as the years passed their un-life grew smaller and more rigid, and they sought to control every atom of the world that might be some threat to them. Most never dared travel. Many ceased to venture more than a few miles from where their coffins were hidden, lest they be somehow caught from home by the unforeseen.

Like that fairy book, she had said, in the darkness of a Vienna night, where a man’s limbs are replaced, one by one, by magic with limbs of tin, until suddenly he realizes he has no heart and is no longer a man. I’m afraid, she had said, and I know I should be more afraid than I am. I could die in moments, just because I don’t know the right place to hide, the right turning to take . . .

Her death, when it came, had not taken moments.

All of this echoed in Ysidro’s stillness.

‘Would it help you,’ Asher asked, with a certain diffidence, ‘if I went with you when you sought them? At least I could speak to them, if they appeared.’

‘You would die,’ said Ysidro, quite simply. ‘Maybe I also, for allying myself with the living. I know not even if speaking to you thus tonight dooms you at their hands. I have no sense of their presence here in the Legation