Ancient Appetites

V

Nate stood motionless in the mechanical lift. A teenage boy in a braided uniform hovered in the corner by the door, with his hand on the brass control lever. It was pushed all the way forward. The elevator climbed steadily through the floors. Nate ran his sweating hands down his jacket and tried to loosen his stiff collar. He had told himself many times that there was no real reason to be intimidated by his father. The old man had never hurt him, had never laid a hand on him or brutalized him in the way that some of his schoolfriends had been by their fathers. In fact, his father had paid little attention of any kind to his children. Except for Marcus, of course. But there were no other patriarchs like Edgar Wildenstern. And few other families shared the ruthless Wildenstern traditions.

Few other families tolerated assassination as a means of achieving one's ambitions.

The Wildenstern family valued ambition above all other qualities. It was how they had achieved their success, and how they had accrued one of the largest fortunes in the world. The family possessed more wealth than many a sovereign nation. They were a breed apart, not only in terms of their wealth, but also in the physiology that had helped them attain it.

Wildensterns lived longer, were fitter, stronger and recovered from injury and disease far quicker than the average human being. They were blessed with what was known as 'aurea sanitas'; what their doctors (all drawn from the family itself) sometimes referred to as 'a hereditary resistance to death'. This was bolstered by the effects of gold on their powers of healing. For reasons that were still not fully understood, placing pure gold in contact with their skin increased their healing abilities many times over.

These characteristics were shared by a few of the most powerful families in the world, but were rarely spoken of outside this select company. The families were also careful to marry into one another, to keep these powers amongst themselves. When one was so blessed by God, one had to be careful not to waste His gift on the undeserving.

But with so many of them living so long and producing proportionately large broods of children, there was fierce competition for the control of the resources of these families. And over the generations, a system of traditions had been put in place to hone these conflicts for the good of the families.

The Wildensterns were a perfect example. The eldest son of the family was the Heir, and took over as Patriarch when his father died. If there were no sons, one of the Patriarch's brothers could take his place, but sons always took precedence. The Patriarch controlled the family's resources and distributed the wealth and responsibilities as he saw fit. If the next son in line thought he could do a better job or, more to the point, was greedy enough to try it, he had the right to kill his brother and ascend to the position of Patriarch. The family would see to it that the death was ruled an accident, and no outside authorities would be permitted to involve themselves.

The same went for any male member of the family. If he wanted to improve his position, he could kill his way closer to the top. It was a tradition that had endured for centuries, and was seen as an essential way of honing ambition and ability, and rooting out any of the few weak individuals that arose in each generation.

It was not as straightforward as plain murder; there were some strict rules laid down – the Rules of Ascension – and anybody who failed to follow them would be ostracized – barred from any further contact with the family. Also, every male member of the Wildenstern clan within conceivable reach of the title was trained from birth in the techniques they would need to defend themselves, so it was not as if they would be easy targets. These skills included, but were not limited to, mastering unarmed combat, fighting with a range of edged weapons and firearms, the mechanics of trap-setting and the chemistry of poisons. These were taught with the emphasis on protecting oneself, but Nathaniel had gradually come to understand that if he should feel the need to use his skills to advance his position, the family would understand.

Female members of the family could not hold any positions of importance apart from those of wife and mother, but they were welcome to assist their male relatives as they saw fit. Some also chose to take advantage of the training where they could.

Edgar Wildenstern, Duke of Leinster, was the current Patriarch – and it was expected that he would hold the position for some time to come. At 123 years old, Nathaniel's father had survived countless duels, several assassination attempts – including stabbings, shootings, a house fire, a crossbow bolt, a poisoning and a mathaumaturgical curse – and had outlived three wives (at least one of whom was thought to be every bit as fierce as he was). Apart from his advanced years and growing obesity, he suffered from gout and syphilis, was deaf in one ear, blind in one eye, was missing his right hand, and limped on a twisted left leg. And still he was considered indestructible.

It had been decades since anybody had made any attempt on his life, or on the lives of his remaining children, as Edgar had imposed order on his house with a will of iron. His fifty-year climb to the top had been marked by one of the most bloodthirsty periods in the family's history, during which he had killed two of his brothers, and had been forced to do away with three of his own sons and one of his daughters in self-defence. The remaining two sons from his first marriage had been exiled for breaching the Rules of Ascension and had not been heard of since. He had decided that enough was enough, and had made it clear to the family that there would be harsh punishment for any further transgressions. They would all just have to wait for him to die of old age.

It seemed to Nate that the old man had been in a bad mood ever since. And the recent death of his favourite son would have done little to improve his temper.

'Shall I wait, sir?' the lad asked.

'What?' Nathaniel replied absent-mindedly.

They had reached his father's floor. The lift doors were standing open.

'Shall I wait here for you, sir?'

'No, thank you. I may be gone for some time.'

He stepped forward, turned, and made his way slowly down the gloomy corridor towards the door to his father's study, which faced him at the far end. He rarely came up to this floor. Much of it was off limits to everyone but Edgar and his small cadre of slaves. It was always dimly lit, and the decor was… unsettling. The walls were lined with dark oil paintings of ominous biblical scenes, particularly those of the Old Testament. The design of the carpets and the wallpaper suggested sharp edges and raw flesh. Wildenstern Hall was riddled with hidden rooms and secret passageways, and Nate suspected that this floor had more than most. When they were younger, Nate and Roberto would talk in hushed tones about how they sometimes thought they heard a ghostly wailing from the vast attic above their father's quarters. Nate shuddered at the memory of those sounds.

The door opened as he drew near to it, and a large man in an expensive but tasteless suit, carrying a bowler hat, emerged from the room. His chest and shoulders bulged under the well-cut jacket. His dark, oiled hair was slicked back from his broad face and a neatly trimmed moustache perched on his top Hp. The expression in his eyes was more akin to that a reptile than a human.

'Master Nathaniel,' he smiled, showing a mouth interspersed with gold teeth. 'A pleasure, as always!'

'Mr Slattery' Nate nodded to the man and went to walk past.

The man didn't move out of his way.

'Looks like you've moved up a rung, Master Nate. You'll do well out of this, I expect, eh?'

Nate glared at him. Slattery worked for his father. He was a bailiff, but Nate knew there were other kinds of work he carried out – more secretive work. There was a hardness and a cruelty to the man that unnerved him.

'You're in my way' he muttered through gritted teeth.

'So I am, so I am. Sorry about that.' Slattery stepped to one side. 'Just wanted to pay my respects to your father. He was as sound as a bell, your brother was. A fine fella, and no mistake. He'll be sorely missed.'

Slattery was a Dubliner who'd spent time in Liverpool, and it had given him a strange mix of accents.

Nate nodded again and brushed past him. The bailiff was making his way down the corridor when he stopped and looked back.

'So I reckon you'll be off in his place, eh, Master Nathaniel? You'll remember old Slattery when it's you that's makin' the decisions, eh?'

The nerve of him, the conniving crawler. Nate ground his teeth. Marcus wasn't even in his grave, and the man was already trying to curry favour with the new bosses. Slattery stood at the door to the elevator, looking expectantly at him.

'I doubt I'll be making any decisions that concern you,' Nate snapped at him. 'And I think you'll find the servants' elevator is at the end of the corridor. Good morning to you.'

Slattery's expression froze, and Nate was struck with the certainty that he would be regretting that remark before too long. He put it to the back of his mind. There was enough to be worrying about. Knocking on his father's door, he steeled himself for what was to come.

'Enter!' a voice barked.

And he did.

There was a giant, dark-brown bull mastiff lying just inside the door, and Nate stepped over it gingerly. Two more of the dogs, one tan-coloured, the other black, lay before his father's desk. The room was huge, with a vaulted ceiling supported by carved oak beams. The walls were lined with bookshelves, hunting trophies and paintings, and above the fireplace, a display of arcane weapons from all over the world.

In the corners of the room behind the Patriarch stood two elegant black men – taken as young children from a Maasai tribe in Kenya – each nearly seven feet tall and dressed in the uniform of a footman. Trained from childhood to serve and protect their master, they would wait silent and unnoticed until he beckoned them.

His father's desk was nearly ten feet wide, and made of solid teak. Behind it, dressed in a burgundy waistcoat over a white shirt, a cigar clamped between his teeth, sat the Patriarch. Ensconced in a tall teak and leather chair, his large head hunched over an obese body, Edgar Wildenstern resembled some kind of albino razorback boar, but for the eyes – one startlingly blue, one milky white – that fixed Nathaniel in their gaze. All he was missing, Nate thought, was the tusks. Whiskers swept down his cheeks and joined his sideburns to frame his pale, scarred, wrinkled face in thick grey bristles.

'Father.' He bowed his head.

'Hello, boy,' Edgar uttered in a bass rumble. 'Did you enjoy your time in Africa with Mr Herne?'

'Yes, thank you, sir,' Nate replied after a moment's hesitation. 'Mr Herne sends his compliments.'

'Of course he does,' Edgar grunted. 'I pay for his gallivanting, after all.'

Nate was going to reply that Herne had made the family a great deal of money with his 'gallivanting', but he stayed silent.

'You disrespected the family by running off after you finished your schooling, to satisfy your ill-conceived notions of adventure,' his father continued. 'But I suppose a certain amount of disrespect must be expected and tolerated in one's youth. You, my boy, have well and truly used up your quota.'

Nate's eyes fell on the crab-like claw that took the place of Edgar's right hand. It had been torn from some engimal, and he could open and close it at will, through small movements of his wrist and elbow. Its tips clicked together when he was agitated. Nate had just heard the first click.

'You will take Marcus's place at the head of the company. There is much you have to learn about international commerce and the sooner you start the better. Once you have acquainted yourself with the fundamentals of our business, you will go to America, and when you are deemed to be ready, you will take control of our interests there. You leave in two months.'

Nate's heart sank. He had known this was coming.

'But Roberto is the Heir now-'

'Roberto is a buffoon!' Edgar snapped.

Nate ground his teeth at hearing his brother insulted in this way, but he knew better than to argue with his father. Berto had fallen out of favour long ago; with his kind-hearted, affable nature, he lacked the ruthless qualities valued in a male of the Wildenstern line. Berto hated Edgar, and while Nate had finally rebelled by fleeing the family home, Berto had always sought out more subtle ways of defying their father's will.

But now he was the Heir, and Nate had no wish to usurp his position. Particularly as it was a position he didn't want.

'Roberto will run the estates here,' Edgar told him. 'And I fear even that will stretch his abilities.'

'I have taken a place at Trinity College, sir,' Nathaniel began. 'Engimal Studies, under Professor-'

'There will be no more talk of engimals, safaris, zoology or any of that confounded nonsense in this house,' his father cut in with a growl. 'You will study commerce, economics, law – an education that will prepare you for your future: overseeing the business of this family in the United States.'

'I don't-'

'You will go to America – to Washington and New York – and you will assume your brother's responsibilities. This family's fortune is dependent on the firm control of our dealings with those Yankee dolts, and that is now your duty, God help us.'

'I'm not-' Nate tried again.

'This couldn't have happened at a worse time, what with talk over there of a civil war and a slave revolt – as if the black wretches had the wherewithal to organize a bloody tea party, let alone a revolution-'

'I'm not going!' Nate exclaimed.

He lifted his eyes for a moment, amazed at his own courage. He would never have dared to raise his voice to the old man before. But he couldn't hold his father's fierce glare, and he dropped his gaze to the floor once more. The claw's tips clicked together like a telegraph. He could feel Edgar's eyes bore into his skull. There was menacing silence.

'A bit of time with the savages has given you some nerve,' Edgar growled finally. 'I'm glad; it was sorely needed. You're still not half the man your brother was. I suppose there's nothing that can be done about it; I put it down to your mother's weak blood.'

Nate flinched, but said nothing. Edgar rarely mentioned his dead wife and he had never insulted her before.

'But you are a man now, whatever kind of man that might be. The time for frivolity is over.'

Given that most of his childhood had been divided between his formal education and the family's inevitable self-defence training, Nate felt that he was due a few more years of frivolity yet. But to make such a remark to the old man now would be a step too far.

'You will listen now, boy. Because I will not repeat myself again.' Edgar pushed his chair back and stood up. Even slightly hunched as he was, he stood over six feet tall, and his bulk was still almost as much muscle as fat. 'The funeral is on Saturday. The archbishop will perform the ceremony. Once it is over, Silas will begin teaching you the fundamentals of our business.

'You will learn as much as you can from him. Then you will go to America and take up the reins there. And by the time I shuffle off this mortal coil – and we can only hope that is after you have aged enough to have developed some sense of propriety – you will take over the company that has made this family what it is today.

'Roberto is the Heir, through this capricious act of fate. But given that he is a feckless dandy wastrel with less sense than God gave a giggling dolly-mop, it falls to you to shoulder Marcus's responsibilities. And you will. You will do your duty. Do I make myself clear?'

Nathaniel was trembling with suppressed rage and frustration. It wasn't right. The old man had all but ignored him for most of his life. Everything had always been about Marcus. Edgar had never given a damn about the rest of his children – Nate had never understood why. And now he was expected to step into this role that had been shaped for his favoured brother, and give up all his own hopes and ambitions. It wasn't right.

'Do I make myself clear?!' Edgar bellowed.

The brooding dogs in front of his desk flinched. The two Maasai servants did not.

'Yes!' Nathaniel shouted back, with tears in his eyes. Then, more quietly, he added: 'Yes. Yes, I understand.'

'That will be all,' his father said.

He eased his bulk down into his seat and opened a thick leather-bound accounts ledger.

Dismissed as if he were a lowly servant, Nate stood listlessly for a moment, staring into space. Then he turned and walked unsteadily to the door, stepping over the reclining hound that blocked his path. He glanced back once at his father, but Edgar paid him no more attention, the tip of his crab claw tracing columns of figures in the book.

Nathaniel closed the door behind him. At the far end of the corridor was a window, and he made his way slowly towards it. It faced south, and looking out and down, he saw the grounds: the beautiful gardens, the woods beyond, and the hills that stretched away to the horizon. And far below, the roofs of the surrounding buildings. His eyes fell on the grey slate tiles of the stables, and he suddenly knew what he had to do.