Beautiful Blood

11

This incident marked for Rosacher the beginning of his conversion, although an observer might have said it had begun long before. It was a subtle process, a gradual ascension into a state of faith, of unquestioning belief. Over the next several years (years actually lived, not skipped over and half-remembered), as he constructed the foundations of his religion and the temple that would house it, he could not put from his mind the serenity of the view from Griaule’s eastern side. Time and again he visited the ledge where he and Jarvis had stationed themselves and let that serenity pervade and inspire him, filling his head with odd thoughts and insights that would drift about in his brain for days or weeks until it became clear how they applied to some issue at hand.

The greater part of these insights consisted of refinements to the design of the religion and the temple…which was disguised as that most typical of Morningshade businesses: a brothel, one that opened its doors three years before the building had been completed. Rosacher saw no reason why fleshly pleasures could not be used to enhance the ecstasies of religion—it would, to his way of thinking, only create a stronger bond between celebrant and an objectified god. He recruited women (and a goodly number of men) not from Teocinte, but from towns along the coast, the only requisites being that they were beautiful and willing to learn the scripts he wrote for them. He didn’t worry whether or not they were dependable sorts, knowing that an addiction to mab would sublimate their wilder impulses and cause them to believe in the words they spoke to the patrons. Using the funds he had secreted, a massive sum, and operating through proxies, he bought the Hotel Sin Salida, then tore it down and initiated the construction of a much larger and more splendid establishment, the House of Griaule. When finished (the House, as it came to be known), resembled half an eleven-tiered wedding cake buttressed by the dragon’s ankle and foreleg, and topped by twin spires, its shape reminiscent of a gothic cathedral. Yet the building’s various conceits—ornate trims, Asiatic accents done in garish colors, a profusion of lanterns encased in ruby glass, hundreds of carved wooden dragons coated in gilt placed here and there about the façade—detracted considerably from this impression. Thus the immediate effect was of an immense bawdy house, while the subliminal effect was of a house of worship, which was precisely Rosacher’s intent.

The four bottom floors were of granite block quarried in the hills surrounding the Carbonales Valley and contained offices, dressing rooms (patrons were required to wear robes of white linen), an extensive kitchen, banquet rooms, security rooms in which miscreants were dealt with by a highly efficient force, storerooms where stocks of wine, viands and mab were kept, etc…but the majority of the space was occupied by a vast amphitheater furnished with sofas and chaise lounges into which patrons were ushered and there welcomed by beautiful women in white silk robes and men in silk trousers, all emblazoned with the image of a golden dragon coiled around a miniature sun. The function of this space was to introduce patrons to the variety of pleasures and pleasure-givers available to them, but it was also here that their conversion began. At the bottom of the amphitheater lay a stage dominated by a marble-and-gold bas relief of Griaule beneath which dancers clad in gauzy costumes performed erotic ballets to the tune of a small orchestra (strings, flutes, French horns, and guitars), a soft music audible throughout the enclosure, yet due to the acoustic perfection of the space, this in no way impeded the conversations between patrons and the men and women of the House. These conversations were, of course, flirtations that led inevitably to sexual activity in one or another of the rooms above the fourth floor, but into each the ministrants injected portions of the homilies that Rosacher had written for them, ruminations on Griaule’s nature, paeans to his magnificence and so forth…and this stratagem (for such it was) continued to be used in the bedchambers, where every sexual act, however deviant, was preceded by a prayer to an image of Griaule mounted above the headboard.

Rosacher’s idea was to create a fantasy religion that wedded the sybaritic to a faux-spirituality, one that skirted the edge of sacrilege and would eventually transition to the status of a “real” religion. Since the population of the Carbonales already half-believed in Griaule’s divinity, it took little persuasion to push them over the brink of faith—yet even tourists having no familiarity with Griaule or mab came away from the House wearing souvenir dragon necklaces or bracelets embedded with pieces of scale (sold in the gift shop) that they were prone to touch during stressful moments, and their speech was peppered with catchphrases and fragments of litany that had been whispered in their ears during their stay. Seeing how easily people surrendered their wills to the embrace of his scheme, Rosacher envisioned Teocinte as a mecca to which pilgrims from Houses of Griaule spread around the world would flock to celebrate their god; but that was a dream that would only come to fruition if he succeeded in negotiating the hazards that confronted him.

Early in the proceedings, when the top three floors were still unfinished, but the House was already open for business, a functionary of the Church, a cardinal sent from Mospiel, visited the offices and asked to speak with the person in charge. Instead of steering him to one of Rosacher’s proxies, a young office worker, knowing no better, escorted him into the fourth floor laboratory, a windowless room whose walls of unfinished stone resembled those of a prison, where Rosacher (working in the House pseudonymously) was engaged in his study of Griaule’s blood. The cardinal was a fleshy man with an aquiline nose and thick gray hair and the beginnings of a double chin, wearing on his ring finger a huge gemstone of the sort set above the cathedral atop Haver’s Roost, and clad in a black robe trimmed with silver. He wandered about for a time without acknowledging Rosacher, his gaze lingering on the vials and alembics and other scientific apparatus that cluttered the several countertops. Only after completing his inspection did he address Rosacher, who had hovered all the while. He first surveyed Rosacher, taking in his shabby clothing, the scarring on his face and hands, and then with a haughty air, said, “I asked to speak with the person in charge.”

“You’re after seeing Mister Mountroyal, I reckon,” said Rosacher, affecting a country accent. “He’s not here. You’ll have to speak to me or one of the other administrators.”

“I’ll wait,” the cardinal said. “I would like to meet with him today, but tomorrow in the morning will do.”

“I don’t suppose I made myself clear. Mister Mountroyal lives across the water on Saint Cecilia’s Isle. Take him the best part of a week for to get here. Longer if he’s occupied elsewhere.”

The cardinal let out a petulant sigh. “If I must wait, I will wait. Prepare accommodations for me and my assistant.”

“Perhaps…” Rosacher pretended to falter, to be ill at ease. “Perhaps Your Eminence should consider finding more suitable quarters. The rectory on Haver’s Roost, for instance.”

“I’ve dwelled among the sinful all my life,” the cardinal said pompously, as if this were a unique accomplishment. “Nothing that occurs here will have the slightest effect upon me.”

We’ll have to see about that, Rosacher said to himself. He went to the wall and pulled on a bell rope. Momentarily another office worker appeared and Rosacher instructed him to ready two rooms, and to make certain anything that the cardinal might find offensive was removed.

“No, no! I am here to observe the normal functioning of your establishment. Leave everything in place.” The cardinal spotted a wooden chair in the corner, went to it and settled himself, spreading his robes beneath him as might a woman. “I wish you to convey a message to your Mister Mountroyal,” he said, addressing himself to Rosacher. “Tell him Cardinal Chiano has come from Mospiel to question him about the objectionable tone of his business. I will not leave until I have met with him. Can you manage that?”

“I can.” Rosacher walked to the door, but paused with his hand on the knob. “Would Your Eminence mind if I asked a question?”

Chiano gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

“What did you mean by ‘objectionable tone’?”

“Surely it’s obvious. In every aspect of your business, you appear to be mocking the Church.”

Rosacher feigned amazement. “Why, that’s not so. If anything, we’re mocking the folks who think Griaule is divine.”

“Griaule may well be divine. The council appointed by the Church has not yet made its determination.”

“Well sir, I’m sure there are wiser heads on your council than me, but I’ve lived close by Griaule my entire life and I’m here to tell you, that pile of stink behind us ain’t nothing more than a half-dead lizard. A whopping big lizard, but a lizard all the same.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“If Griaule was a god, you think he would have let us drill into his hide so as to stabilize the biggest whorehouse in the country?”

“You actually drilled into the beast?”

“Mister Mountroyal figured what with the size of the place, we couldn’t rely on cables like the old hotel that stood here did.”

Chiano pursed his lips. “You may have a point.”

“People in these parts are crazy for religion. We didn’t have the Church until recently, so folks worshipped what there was to worship. If Griaule wasn’t around, you could stick an empty wine bottle up on a rock and someone would say a prayer to it. When you get right down to it, the House is doing the Church’s work by associating the lizard with, if you’ll pardon my language, a nice piece of fish. It causes folks to see their superstitious nonsense in a new light.”

“It’s an interesting point of view, I’ll hand you that,” said Chiano. “What’s your name?”

“Myree,” said Rosacher, suspecting that he had said too much and thus sparked the prelate’s interest in him. “Arthur Myree.”

“Well, Arthur, perhaps we’ll have the opportunity to chat again.”

As Rosacher made to leave, the cardinal waved at the countertops and asked what was the purpose of all this equipment.

“It’s Mister Mountroyal’s hobby. Ever fooling around with chemicals, he is. He taught me a few tricks and when I have a spare minute or two, I like to come in here and fiddle.”

Rosacher excused himself and, once alone in his office, seated at his desk, he pondered the problem that the cardinal presented. Not that the problem was severe. Over the years he had discovered that the Church’s state of decay was greater than he had assumed and he doubted they had a taste for a military engagement with a militia very nearly the equivalent of their own—there were other areas into which they could expand with little or no resistance. They might make a show of force and send more fat-assed emissaries to admonish and threaten, but as Rosacher read the situation, that was all they would do. Still, the cardinal’s presence posed an opportunity for Rosacher to strengthen his position. It would take less than a day to prepare the actor who played the fictitious Mr. Mountroyal to deal with Chiano, but Rosacher intended to delay the cardinal’s departure as long as he reasonably could, the better to explore the possibilities. After thinking the matter through, he summoned the office worker who had shown the cardinal into his laboratory.

“I believe Mister Mountroyal told you never to bring visitors to me,” Rosacher said. “Some people find my disfigurement off-putting.”

“Sorry, sir,” said the office worker, who was still in his twenties and already bald on top except for a smattering of pale red strands combed across his scalp. “I was flustered. I’ve never been so close to a cardinal before.”

“And how did you find it?”

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“Being so close to him. Was it thrilling? Did it cause you to feel faint? Did it have a transfiguring effect? Has your faith in the Church been restored?”

“Oh…no, sir.”

“Something must have triggered your reaction.”

“I suppose…”

“Yes?”

“The size of his ring, sir. The stone. I suppose that was what did it.”

“Nothing else influenced you. No other impressions?”

“Well, sir, the main thing I noticed he breathed heavy when he walked…and he had a most peculiar body odor.”

“The odor of saintliness, no doubt,” said Rosacher. He slapped his desk, a decisive gesture. “All right. Try not to let it happen again. Now…” He leaned back and put his feet up on the desk. “I want you to see to Cardinal Chiano’s needs. Keep a record of everything he orders from the kitchen, what he drinks, and how he passes his time. If you do a good job, I won’t report your error in protocol to Mister Mountroyal.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.”

“One thing more. I want you to assign our most attractive available male escort to be the cardinal’s personal servant for the duration of his stay.”

“A man, sir?”

“It’s just a feeling I have,” Rosacher said.

+

During the construction of the House and for several years thereafter, a period in which the business of the place began the transition from prostitution to actual religion, Rosacher maintained his living arrangement in Hangtown with Martita; but as time passed he spent more and more time away from home. Though he still found Martita attractive—and how could he not?—he did not love her, nor she him. While mab was a great leveler, all but eliminating jealousy among its users (why should one covet another woman, a bigger house, finer clothes, when one already possessed perfection?), it could not counterfeit or induce strong emotion. And thus, the bonds of infatuation having weakened, Rosacher and Martita took other lovers, yet continued to cohabit on an intermittent basis and remained great friends.

One morning, as Rosacher prepared to walk out to the ledge to contemplate and perhaps find a solution to a pressing problem, he stood before the mirror, adjusting his hat so that it shadowed his ravaged face, a habit he rarely shirked, even in Hangtown where such injuries were common…on that morning, then, Martita came to stand at his shoulder and said in a glum voice, “You know, you haven’t changed a bit since you got here.”

He laughed, gesturing at his scarred cheek and neck. “You’re not serious?”

“Aside from that, you look the same as you did the day you walked in. What’s it been? Nearly ten years? And here’s me, turning into an old woman.”

He offered reassurances about her looks and, after she had gone off to pack him a lunch, he examined himself in the mirror. The scars made it difficult to judge, but it seemed to him that the unaffected area of his face was relatively unlined and his hair did not appear to be appreciably greyer. Odd. He imagined that the lack of stress had much to do with it. The drug business had been nerve-wracking, whereas the construction and organization of the House was something he looked forward to each and every day, difficult, but a joyful challenge, and not in the least stressful. At the end of a working day he would be tired, but not on edge, unable to sleep, his mind occupied with paranoid fantasies, some of which proved not to be fantasies.

He strode along Griaule’s western slope to reach the ledge and on glancing down he saw, stretching out from the southern perimeter of Morningshade, a plain upon which infantry and mounted troops rushed back and forth, raising clouds of whitish dust that curtained the air. The militia making ready for a sortie against the neighboring country of Temalagua (a dangerous course, in Rosacher’s view), a reprisal for what had been countenanced as “Temalaguan aggression.” The incident in question involved a hunting party from Teocinte that had strayed across the border and been slaughtered by the primitives who lived in the rain forest—it was generally viewed as an excuse for the council, now entirely controlled by Breque, to initiate a conflict that would result in the annexation of Temalagua’s northern province, long the subject of dispute between the two governments. The fact that the province was rich in minerals and had a thriving seaport with a much deeper draft than that of Port Chantay was, of course, merely a coincidence. He stood watching the ugly chaos of the scene for a moment, wondering if he would have to intervene and listening to the disharmonious noises issuing from below, faint hammerings and crashes, and then went on his way.

The wind kicked up, clouds with dark swollen bellies rushed in from the east, and a few drops fell. Rosacher hurried along, arriving at the ledge scant minutes before the drizzle turned into a torrential downpour, drumming on the wing overhead and driving the birds to roost. Instead of addressing his problems, he let the sound of the rain lull him to sleep. When he woke, the overcast still held above Griaule, but there was a sunbreak to the east, a beam of light spraying down like a ray focused through a gigantic crystal, as if God or someone were using a magnifying glass to incinerate a portion of the coast. Birds flew out from their nests, testing the air, then returning to squabble briefly before flying off in search of breakfast. Water dripped from the cartilaginous edges of the wing. The whole of creation seemed to have been renewed by the rain—things crawled, scuttled, hopped and soared, creating the impression of organic unity that so fascinated Rosacher, that he had come to prize, even to depend on for its soothing effect. And he wondered, not for the first time, at the clear duality posed by the view from this side of the dragon and the sheer gracelessness visible from the western slope, the former being, he assumed, the idyllic albeit savage world of Griaule’s origins, and the latter representing the world into which he had been thrust, a savage place also, but betraying no sign of tranquility or unified function, reflecting the erratic, the inconsistent, the poisonous delirium predicated by the human contaminant. Yet was not Griaule in part responsible for that delirium? Rosacher had spent his formative years in a Prussian village, his university days in Berlin—both places had seemed orderly and firmly regulated. The dysfunctional condition of Teocinte and environs might be the product of a torment visited upon it by Griaule. Or perhaps Prussia was not as orderly as he recalled. He decided that he would have to travel more widely and observe other cultures before reaching a conclusion.

His mind continued to run this course for a time, pushing about the notion of Griaule’s duality, and he was considering whether or not to write something on the subject in order to organize his thoughts when a man’s voice hailed him. Looking behind him, Rosacher saw two men standing atop the dragon’s ridged spine, one holding a long-barreled rifle. The shorter of the men waved and began scrambling down the slope toward him; the other shouldered his rifle and remained in place. As the man drew near, Rosacher recognized him to be Councilman Breque, a much greyer version of the Breque he first met. He came up to a knee, suddenly wary, casting about for an escape route. When Breque reached the ledge, he stood for a moment with hands on hips, catching his breath and gazing out over the valley.

“Lovely spot,” he said. “A touch precipitous for my taste, but it’s truly spectacular.” He pointed to a section of scale beside Rosacher. “Do you mind?”

“Don’t see no sign stopping you,” said Rosacher, affecting his country accent.

Breque lowered himself and, after he was settled, said. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Beg pardon?”

“A long time since we’ve spoken. It must be nearly a decade.”

Rosacher scratched behind his ear. “I don’t reckon I understand what you’re getting at.”

Breque’s mouth twitched, as if he were suppressing a smile. “I know who you are, Richard. You can drop that ridiculous accent.”

Rosacher kept silent, thinking that he could bolt deeper in under the wing and perhaps elude pursuit among the folds.

“If you believe I’m here to harm you,” Breque went on, “let me assure you that is scarcely the case.”

“It might be more persuasive if your man were to put his rifle down.”

“Don’t concern yourself with him. He’s here to safeguard me, not to menace you.”

“A fine distinction, that,” said Rosacher. “Since one seems a corollary to the other.”

Breque gave an exasperated sigh. “I’ve known where you were for almost the entire time you’ve been missing. Mister Honeyman’s death and the absence of a body to counterfeit your own…I always suspected you were alive, though Ludie insisted otherwise. I think it was wishful thinking on her part and, once I found you, I saw no reason to disabuse her of her belief. Anyway, I’ve been keeping an eye on you all these years.”

A freshet of rain pattered on the scales, diminishing almost instantly to a sprinkle.

“For what purpose?” Rosacher asked.

“You’re a clever man, Richard. That’s reason enough. Who can say to what ends your cleverness might be directed?”

“I have no plans to move against you. I wish to be left to my own devices. Nothing more.”

“Well and good,” said Breque. “I’m relieved to hear you bear me no malice. But the point I’m making is this—if I had wanted you murdered, I’ve had ample opportunity to accomplish that goal. I consider you a valuable resource. In fact, I have treated you as such in your absence from the business and continued to pay a percentage of our profits into your accounts. And I have allowed you to siphon off however much product you required for the functioning of the House.”

Startled by this, Rosacher managed to maintain a neutral expression. “I purchase mab from…”

“From the Bornish Brothers in Port Chantay. You pay less than cost, a token amount, because the Bornish Brothers Trading House is owned by you…or rather by your proxy, Samuel Mountroyal.”

Rosacher did not care for the fact that Breque knew his business and he presumed the reason Breque had enlightened him was to make him aware that he was no longer in control. “Why have you come here?” he asked.

“I wish my visit could have been made under happier circumstances,” said Breque. “Though I realize your relationship with Ludie must have been strained, to say the least, I imagine there likely is some residual emotional attachment.”

“Get to the point, won’t you?”

“She’s dead,” Breque said. “She went riding on East Crescent Road yesterday evening. Apparently she took a fall and split her head open on the rocks.”

It was as if Rosacher’s head had been enfolded in a warm cloth that muffled his senses. Moods swirled about him. At one moment he felt sorrowful, distressed to the point of tears, and the next relieved that she would no longer be a problem.

“Ludie?” he said. “Ludie’s dead?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Who was with her?”

“To the best of my knowledge, she was alone. In recent years her drug use had increased to reckless proportions. Opiates, mainly. On several occasions, I’m told, she fell asleep while riding and took a tumble. I suppose that’s what happened in this instance.”

Anger flooded him, replacing the cold that had begun to hollow out his bones. “I don’t give a damn what you suppose! Who stands to profit by her death? Has her will been read?”

“No, but I was a signatory to her last will a year or so ago,” said Breque. “She may have had it reworked since, but I’m not aware of it. There were a number of small bequests, and she expressed the desire that her holdings in the company be placed in a public trust that would benefit the citizens of Morningshade.”

That shocked Rosacher, being a breach of the agreement he had made with the Church in twenty-five years. “Who is to administer the trust?”

“A law firm. Lawrence, Behrens, Ecclestone and Associates. Are you familiar with them?”

Rosacher started to respond angrily, to say that this was the same firm who had handled his agreement with the Church, and to say further that the Church must have grown impatient; but caution threw up a flag. Had Ludie revealed the existence of the agreement to Breque? It was not inconceivable. If so, how did this play into Breque’s visit? The Church was a patient monster—they had less than ten years left to wait and it would have taken an extreme provocation for them to break the agreement. While it was possible that Ludie had wanted to thumb her nose at the agreement between Rosacher and the Church by making such a will, it was highly unlikely that the firm that had drafted the agreement would have written such a will. All this led him to suspect that Breque was dissembling in some fashion. He felt suddenly heavy of limb and heart, a physical reaction not only to the news of Ludie’s death, but to the realization that he was being pulled back into the drug business.

“The truth,” he said. “Why have you come here today? What do you want?”

“Ludie died without revealing the process by which the blood is refined.” Breque stretched out a leg and wiggled his foot, as if working out a kink. “We have enough mab on hand to satisfy our customers for two weeks or thereabouts. I need your assistance in making more.”

That Ludie had kept the process—or rather the lack thereof—secret surprised Rosacher and muddied the waters further; but it had no bearing on what he needed to do to ensure his survival. He pretended to mull over the question and finally said, “I’ll make more of the drug for you, but I have conditions.”

Breque nodded. “I assumed as much. Proceed.”

“Firstly, I want to see Ludie’s will. Secondly, I am to be left alone in the treatment room. Under no circumstances will you or any of your agents seek to spy on me. If you violate this article of our pact, I will walk away and leave you to deal with thousands of unhappy addicts.”

Breque started to speak, but Rosacher waved him to silence and continued: “Any attempt to extract information regarding the process by chicanery or force will set in motion certain mechanisms that will destroy the business. These mechanisms have been in place since the beginning of our relationship, and I have complete confidence in their efficacy. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course,” said Breque. “But I hope…”

“Thirdly, I believe your expansionist policies imperil the business. Therefore I wish to be consulted on all matters of foreign policy, particularly those relating to your attempts at expansion, whether in Temalagua or elsewhere. Should you fail to convince me of the rightness of your course and, despite this, continue along it, I will cease assisting you in the production of mab.”

Incredulous, Breque said, “You’re asking for a veto over any decision I make?”

“As they relate to foreign policy, yes. I’m assuming that you intend to expand in more than one direction and that you will need money to prosecute these conflicts. A great deal of money. I would be a fool not to want a voice in these decisions. I have a right to safeguard my investment.”

“You leave me little choice,” said Breque after a moment.

“Oh, you have options, but only one of them is worth your attention: the option of persuading me that you are choosing a direction that promises success. I have nothing against pursuing an expansionist foreign policy; however, I demand that it be done judiciously.”

“You’ve made me wealthy…and powerful as well.” Breque smiled, as though attempting to lighten the impact of what he said next. “I’ve little to entertain myself apart from dabbling in regional politics. A prudent soul might suggest that by thwarting me you’re playing a dangerous game.”

“If you’re a fool, then you are correct—I am. But I don’t believe you’re a fool.” Rosacher paused to allow a response. Breque blew out air through his lips, making a perturbed noise.

“One last thing,” Rosacher said. “I imagine you must have operatives in places such as Alta Miron and Mospiel, men and women capable of clandestine investigations.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll need two of them for a period of…let’s say three months. That should do the job. Preferably a man and a woman. I have no desire to conscript your best people, but I would welcome competence.”

“How do you intend to use them?”

“You’re an intelligent man, Jean-Daniel. Surely you can hazard a guess?”

“I’d say you’re planning to look into Ludie’s death. But why not use your own operatives?”

“I have no operatives, merely eyes and ears on the street. Your people are bound to be more efficient than anyone in my employ.”

Following an exchange of patently fraudulent pleasantries, Breque left Rosacher to contemplate the view, but his contemplative mood was broken. He felt agitated, ill at ease. No matter how hard he tried he was unable to enfold himself in the landscape, to sink into it and become part of a harmonious whole. None of the particulars of his life seemed properly aligned. As he sat and stewed over a variety of trivial issues, he recognized that although it appeared that Breque had been neutralized, the councilman would continue to be a significant problem because he had fallen in love with power and Rosacher knew from experience that nothing, not even the threat of destruction, would discourage him from seeking more.