Beautiful Blood

4

Rosacher’s second thought on waking the next morning was that someone must have happened upon him lying unconscious in the brush and carried him to their home and there tended to his injuries; yet he could not think of one of his acquaintance with access to such a splendid bedchamber. The ceiling was high and cream-colored, worked with designs of leaves and roses and other flowers from which cunning, childlike faces emerged (his initial presumption had been that he was the prisoner of malefic spirits). Paintings in gilt frames hung on the walls and all the furnishings—chairs, bureau, cabinets—were exquisitely carved and finished. He swung his legs off the side of the bed (wide enough for four; green silk sheets and a golden coverlet; pineapple posts of teak with ivory inlays) and was astounded to discover that he had no aches and pains whatsoever. Either he had been lucky in the extreme or else he had been unconscious for several days, sufficiently long for his scrapes and bruises to mend. He crossed to a window, flung open the drapes, and realized that he must be in one of the mansions that occupied the slopes of Haver’s Roost. Looking eastward across the sun-drenched town, he could make out the low, patchwork roofs of Morningshade a half-mile away and the dragon’s ribcage rising above them, its back mapped by dense thickets and a wood, the rude shanties of Hangtown shadowed by the sagittal crest. The view seemed familiar, yet he could have sworn he had never been at that window before. He wandered about the room, touching picture frames, a rosewood end table, the gold and green rug that simulated a pattern of dragon scales, a leather-covered jewelry box holding cufflinks and coins and a dozen things more, and each object he touched brought to mind a memory, a fleeting association baffling in its familiarity. He stopped in front of a mirror. His hair was no longer a mass of dark curls; it was trimmed to stubble. He wore a gold earring bearing a green gemstone. Touching it, he knew it had been a gift from Ludie. Above his right eye, a scar whitened a portion of his eyebrow, an injury received in his fall from the dragon’s lip four years ago…

This revelation, if revelation it were, if he were not lying unconscious beneath Griaule’s lip and having a dream, rooted him to the spot. He examined the memory, attempting to decide whether it had the heft of the actual, but other memories lurched into his mind, shoving one another aside in their haste to make themselves known, filling his brain to bursting with a flood of trivia (appointments to be kept, problems to be dealt with and so on), from which he distilled the undeniable fact that his plan had worked. He was wealthy. This was his house. Each and every day his factories produced a sufficient quantity of the drug in smoke-able form to supply the addicts of Teocinte and Port Chantay, and he planned to branch out, to export the drug to other towns and develop a pastille that would allow the drug to dissolve in the mouth, suitable for those who did not smoke. Dizzy with this influx of memory, Rosacher dropped into an easy chair and sought a star by which to steer through the sea of information. How was it possible that he could have these memories and yet never have experienced their reality? Was he to believe that he had been operating in a somnambulistic state for four years? There were cases in which a blow to the head caused a temporary condition similar to the one he seemed to have suffered, but in none of them had the patient prospered while enduring that condition. Four years! His memories relating to that time had little flavor or substance. It was as if he lived those years and yet had not lived them, as if he had riffled through the pages of that portion of his life, skipping ahead in his book of days to this particular day and hour. The memories were scraps, pieces of a jigsaw puzzle—fitted together, they assembled a visual image and embodied a related comprehension in each of which a digest history resided…and yet they transmitted almost nothing of the emotional context.

The bedchamber door opened and Ludie walked in, a sheaf of papers in hand. She wore riding breeches, boots, and a loose linen shirt, belted at the waist, and looked scarcely a day older than he recalled, still lovely—but a mask of hard neutrality tempered her beauty. That look, the attitude it embodied, cued another trickle of memories. They had once been monogamous, but as he involved himself more deeply in business, they had drifted apart and now he had his women and she her horses, her daylong trips into the valley where she would rendezvous with lovers, men and women both, and Rosacher’s relationship with her had become a convenience, held together by a shred of reflex intimacy that disguised their fundamental indifference to one another—they were partners (Ludie had helped finance the early stages of the business) and they trusted each other in that way, but trust no longer extended into the emotional realm. Rosacher felt himself slipping into a suit of reactions that accommodated this state of affairs, yet he also regretted that things had reached this pass and struggled to sustain a nostalgic view of her.

She held out the papers to him. “Arthur’s downstairs.”

Rosacher continued to stare.

“It’s the figures you asked for,” she said. “The estimate of next year’s earnings. And the notes for the rest of your presentation.” When he did not take them, she shook the papers at him. “You should look these over before you leave.”

“What are you up to today?” he asked.

A flicker of displeasure—she tossed the papers onto an easy chair. “I’m going for a ride.”

“I’d like to see you this evening.”

“See me?”

“Spend some time with you.”

“I don’t…”

“I hoped we might dine together.”

She folded her arms. “Why? What do you want?”

“Not much. A few hours of your company.”

She started to speak, hesitated, and said stiffly, “If you’ve a problem with the way I’ve been handling the books, I want to hear it now.”

“I want to see you. Can that be so difficult to comprehend? My God! How long has it been since we spent an evening together?”

“I haven’t kept track.”

“Nor I…but it must be months.”

She shrugged. “If you say so.” Then, after a pause: “Very well. I’ll cancel my plans.”

That comment touched off yet another rush of confusing memories, these relating to his presentation, and Rosacher experienced a flash of unease—there were so many details to sort through. “Perhaps I should postpone the presentation. We have a lot to talk about.”

“Are you mad? We’ve been working toward this for nearly five years. Don’t worry. They may have summoned you to receive their reprimand, but you’ll have them scrambling to see which one of them can be your best friend before the hour’s out.”

She said this last harshly, as if it were an indictment, and then went to a closet, selected a white suit and laid it out on the bed. She adopted a thoughtful pose. “Perhaps your green shirt. It’ll strike a flamboyant note. That’s the image you want to present. Those stodgy old men will see you dressed like a parrot, dismissive of their conservative conventions, and they’ll admire you for it. They’ll disapprove of you at first, of course. But they’ll come to recognize that you’re establishing your independence from them. They’ll view your disrespect as the byproduct of a bold personal style, and they’ll respect that in you…so long as you make it worth their while.”

She had grown angry as she spoke or, better said, she had let slip her stoic mask and shown him her normal level of resentment.

“Ludie,” he said helplessly.

“I’ll be in my quarters at eight o’clock,” she said, going to the door. “Try to be punctual.”

After she had gone he wondered if it was possible to restore the relationship. The council summons pressed in on him—he recalled its importance and his mind swarmed with details. He selected a green silk shirt from the closet and laid it beside the suit in order to gauge the effect, concluding that Ludie had been accurate in her judgment. It struck precisely the right note.

+

Arthur Honeyman, the gaunt giant who had broken into Rosacher’s apartment and assaulted him, had changed his outward aspect to a far greater degree than had Rosacher, though Arthur’s transformation was by way of a refinement. Honeyman dressed well these days, given to collarless shirts and embroidered satin jackets that lent him a dandified air ill-suited to his rough-hewn features and bony frame. He smiled incessantly in order to show off his false teeth. They were not white but, thanks to jade inlays, were decorated so as to resemble moss-covered rocks—when he opened his mouth, they gave the impression that you were looking into a forbidding cavern. On the day he had hired Arthur, sitting at the desk in his office, a room adjoining his old apartments, Rosacher made new teeth a condition of his employment.

“The health of your body and that of your teeth are not separate issues,” Rosacher told him. “If you don’t take care of them, sooner or later they’re bound to cause a serious infection and you’ll be of no use to me. Then there’s the consideration of your appearance. I want you to frighten people, but I don’t think it’s necessary to make them giddy with fear.”

“Will it hurt?” Arthur asked.

“Yes. I can do the extractions painlessly, but there’ll be some bruising of the tissues. However, you’ll suffer more living with a mouth like that than you will in losing the teeth.”

Arthur shuffled his feet, glanced out the window. “Why’re you doing this? After what I done to you, it don’t make sense.”

“Everyone in Morningside is afraid of you,” said Rosacher. “I’ve been observing you for several months and you’re not unintelligent, though your methods of intimidation are unnecessarily crude. Most importantly, you’re not an addict.”

“Too right! I’d sooner take poison than smoke a pipe of mab (this the name the citizens of Morningshade applied to the drug, being an acronym for ‘more and better’). I don’t need my view of the world tarted up. I prefer to see things as they are.”

“An admirable trait,” said Rosacher. “One I’ve grown to appreciate.” He got to his feet and came around the desk to stand in front of Arthur. “The past is the past. There’s no need to dwell on it. I can help you and you can help me by dealing with problems that may arise. What I’m proposing is a business relationship pure and simple.” He held out his hand. “Do we have an accord?”

“I’m your man!” Arthur shook his hand gingerly, as if taking pains not to injure him anew. “I’ll deal with your problems. You can trust to that.”

Rosacher was not inclined to extend his trust. For all his coarse exterior, Arthur was no fool and, sooner or later, the instincts bred by his rough-and-tumble existence would turn his intellect in a treacherous direction. Rosacher believed, however, he could find ways to keep him occupied.

Three and a half years later, armed with teeth that were no longer new, grinning fiercely at every passer-by, his huge frame draped in a jacket of cherry-colored satin embroidered in white silk, hair held back from his shoulders by a gay matching ribbon, Arthur accompanied Rosacher to the top of Haver’s Roost. People cleared out of the giant’s path, falling back to either side of the winding street; others came to the windows and doorways of the mansions of brick and undressed stone that lined it, made curious by the passage of this two-man parade. At the summit of the hill lay a cobbled square ringed by buildings of pinkish stucco with ironwork balconies and red tile roofs, open on one end (the opening was due to be closed off by a cathedral, its foundations already laid and a single wall erected). It was toward the largest building, a three-story affair with ornamental iron bars over the windows, that they proceeded.

“I’ve never been up here before.” Arthur sniffed the air. “Don’t smell near as ripe as Morningshade.”

Rosacher mounted the steps. “I think you’ll find the stench more familiar once we’re inside.”

A slender, dark-haired man, appearing to be four or five years younger than Rosacher, sat on a bench in the mahogany-paneled vestibule on the second floor, outside the council chamber, clutching a leather artist’s portfolio, listening as a functionary explained that he would have to wait until Mr. Rosacher finished his business before the council. On hearing this, the young man jumped up and demanded an immediate audience. Rosacher stepped in and said, “Excuse me. Mister…?”

“Cattanay,” said the man, giving the name an angry emphasis, pronouncing each syllable with biting precision. “Meric Cattanay.”

“Richard Rosacher. You have a proposal to put before the council?”

“I’ve been here since yesterday. I’ve come all the way from…”

“Believe me, Mister Cattanay. I understand your frustration. But I think I can assure you that the council will be in a more receptive mood after I have done than they are at the moment.”

Somewhat mollified, yet still agitated, Cattanay expressed doubt as to Rosacher’s claim, but when Rosacher told him that his business involved a considerable financial settlement, he sat down again. And when Rosacher inquired what his proposal entailed, he opened his portfolio and displayed a number of sketches that detailed a scheme for killing Griaule by means of poisoned paint applied to his skin. The idea seemed ludicrous on the face of it, yet Rosacher was forced to acknowledge that the basic notion was ingenious. He asked how long it might take to complete the job.

“I’m not sure,” said Cattanay. “It will take two years at least to organize the project, to build the scaffolding and vats in which to mix the paint. We’ll have to employ dozens of men, perhaps a hundred and more, to supply us with timber for fuel. That’ll require another year or two. Then we’ll have to create the painting and give the poison time to act. The whole process could take twenty or thirty years. Maybe more. I imagine something will go wrong every single day…problems I haven’t envisioned.”

Arthur snorted in derision and Cattanay glared at him. “They’ve run through all the unsubtle methods of killing him and failed,” he said. “You know, burning him, stabbing him, and so forth. Of course now I think about it there’s one method they haven’t essayed. They could hold up a gigantic portrait of this fellow to Griaule’s face”—he jabbed his thumb at Arthur—“and make a loud noise. I expect that might do the job.”

Arthur snarled and reached for the knife tucked into his waistband, but Rosacher put a hand on his forearm by way of restraint and said to Cattanay, “Fascinating! How did you come up with the idea?”

“Some friends and I were in a tavern and we got to talking about schemes to make money. Painting the dragon was one of the schemes. I’ve fleshed it quite a bit since that evening, but the original idea, it was a joke, really. A joke made by a group of friends who’d had too much to drink.”

The functionary, who had vanished into the council chamber while Cattanay described his scheme, returned and told Rosacher that he could go in.

Inside the chamber, an austere, spacious room with thick beams supporting the ceiling and windows overlooking the valley, offering a view of the hills enclosing its eastern reach, five men sat in high-backed chairs at a mahogany table, a ceramic pitcher and glasses set before them. With a single exception, they were fleshy and gray-haired, clad in sober suits, but the bearded man at their center, Wallace Febres-Cordero, possessed a gravitas the others did not and, though Rosacher had not met him until that moment, he divined from this brief observance that Febres-Cordero was the person he would have to sway. He took a seat in a wooden chair (the only one available) facing the table and Arthur stationed himself at his shoulder.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Rosacher said. “I’m Richard Rosacher and this is my associate, Arthur Honeyman. How can we assist you?”

“As you know,” said Febres-Cordero in a mannered baritone, “the council has no authority over you as regards the production of drugs. We have no laws that would apply, yet we may find ourselves obligated to write new law should you continue on your present course.”

“And why is that?” Rosacher asked.

“My God, man!” A thin, balding council member at the end of the table, Paltz by name, brought the flat of his hand down with a smack. “You’ve addicted half the population of Morningshade to your poison!”

“It’s closer to three-quarters, but let’s not quibble,” said Rosacher.

“We’ve had numerous complaints about your activities,” said Febres-Cordero. “Every moral authority is up in arms against you.”

“To whom are you referring?”

“The Church, for one.”

“The Church as moral authority.” Rosacher chuckled. “Now there’s a fresh idea.”

The florid face of the heavyset man sitting on Febres-Cordero’s left, Councilman Rooney, grew purplish and he said, “You come here dressed like a popinjay and attempt to…”

“I think we should give Mister Rosacher the opportunity to defend himself.” Febres-Cordero glanced along the table and then looked to Rosacher.

“Indeed, I would welcome the opportunity to speak,” said Rosacher. “Though not to defend myself, but instead to offer an alternative course of action. Have any of you gentlemen smoked mab?”

“Now you’re being impertinent,” Febres-Cordero said. “I warn you, do not try our patience.”

“I intended no impertinence. I merely wished to know whether or not you were conversant with the drug.”

“We have interviewed a number of addicts and understand its effects.

“Did any of these addicts strike you as derelicts? Were they pale and sickly as with opium addicts, or were they hale and neatly attired? Did they not earn an honorable wage?”

Councilman Savedra, a vulturous, stoop-shouldered man, older than the rest, said, “If the thrust of your argument is to be that the drug causes no physical harm to the addict, it does not touch upon the moral issues.”

“It is an element of my argument, but not its sole thrust. And it’s not the health of the individual that concerns me so much as the health of the community.” Rosacher stood and went a few paces along the table. “Should the council rule against me in this, I will happily move my business to Port Chantay or another of the coastal towns. It will be an inconvenience, nothing more. But before you banish me, I beg you to let me speak without interruption so I can present my thoughts in a coherent fashion.”

“You asked a question,” said Savedra. “I answered. You may proceed.”

“Rhetorical questions require no answer, but never mind. I thank the councilman for his comment, because it brings me round to my next point.” Rosacher moved to a window and gazed out across the valley. “Teocinte is poor. Of all the valley towns, it has—or had—the highest incidence of crime. Morningshade is its least prosperous and most dangerous quarter. The economy of the town is based upon agrarian concerns and a handful of mining operations. These provide an excellent life for a small minority, but the people of Morningshade and the various outlying communities do not fully participate in that economy. Until recently, they have subsisted chiefly by means of preying upon the wealthy and upon one another. Over the past four years, however, the incidence of crime has steadily dropped in Morningshade. When I dwelled there we only saw the constabulary when a crime had been perpetrated against the wealthy. Now, I’m told, they’re scarcely seen at all. There has been a precipitous drop in crime and this is directly attributable to use of mab. I have hundreds…”

“Balderdash!” said Rooney.

“I have hundreds of addicts in my employ,” said Rosacher, ignoring him. “And I expect to employ hundreds more during the next twelve months alone. They none of them exhibit the violent and erratic behavior generally ascribed to those addicted to other drugs. They’re responsible employees who come to work each day, perform their tasks, and go home at night to their pipe and slippers. In this case, their pipe holds a pellet of mab and the woman who brings their supper is more beautiful than the Queen of Astrikhan. The supper she brings, whether porridge or a chunk of salt pork, has a flavor comparable to the finest of viands. They sleep on soft mattresses and scented sheets, not pallets of straw. They live each in their own tiny palace beside which runs not a sewer, but a sparkling stream. Their lives are infinitely better than they were…and all because of mab.

“Unlike other addictive drugs, one does not develop a tolerance for mab. A single dose taken each night lasts until the next night. True, the effect diminishes over the following day, but it makes one’s labors less harsh. Rather than debilitating the addict, mab encourages him to take care of himself, to nurture his body. He now has reason to live, whereas with opium he hopes at best to survive and, truly, places a low value on survival. One might surmise that mab disposes the addict toward this cast of mind. What would you call a chemical compound that achieves those ends? That treats the worst symptoms of a community and causes it to function more smoothly? That makes its citizens content with their lot? Is it a drug, or is it a tonic? I say a tonic. In fact, that is how I’ve begun to market the drug in Port Chantay.”

Councilman Rooney puffed himself up to full bloat and said, “Sir, you are the Devil.”

“The Devil is never far from any of us, sir. Yet I’ll wager I am closer to God than the priests who will soon inhabit the palace you’re building at the end of the square.”

“I’ve had a stomachful of this!” Rooney said; then, addressing the table: “Must we listen to more of his spew?”

A mild voice responded, “Oh, I think we should hear him out.”

From the way the others reacted to the man who had spoken, the youngest of the councilmen, Jean-Daniel Breque, turning toward him like dogs that have heard a piercing whistle, Rosacher understood that he had misread the council’s dynamic. Councilman Breque was a small, sturdily built man with a largish head, a professorial beard shot through by a few gray threads, and wire spectacles. He seemed bemused by the proceedings, but it was evident that his bemusement had less to do with Rosacher’s proposal than with the general reaction to it.

“You make a cogent point,” he said to Rosacher. “But there are spiritual issues to be considered, are there not?”

“If by spiritual you’re referring to the sensibilities of the Church…yes. The Church is a powerful concern. They must be paid their tribute. That said, permit me to ask you this. Where was the Church three years ago? Ten years ago? Fifty years ago? The sole reason for their interest in Teocinte is that it has become worth their while to put a franchise here. Now that there’s an economy they can tap into, they’re suddenly appalled by the sorry state of our souls. My word on it, should you write a law that criminalizes mab, they’ll come to you and say, ‘Let’s be tolerant now. We don’t want the poor to be flung down from their heaven, illusory though it may be. Give us time to work our magic, to wean them from the drug and redirect their loyalties, and we will rid you of Rosacher in due course.’ They’re no different from me. They’re a business that offers consolation as a product…only theirs is an inferior product. They want to be paid and they’ll take the money wherever they find it, even from a competitor. So I’ll pay them and that moral outrage you’re hearing now will be greatly muted.”

“I take it your concern over the Church’s past whereabouts was yet another rhetorical question,” said Breque, and smiled.

Rosacher inclined his head to acknowledge this small joke made at his expense.

“If you believe all of this,” said Breque, “then why respond to our summons? You must have a pressing reason for coming here this morning. Is there something you would have us do?”

“I want you to help protect your greatest resource,” Rosacher said.

“Mangos? Silver? Somehow I don’t think you have either of those in mind.”

“Before I tell you more, I would like you to have a look at some figures.”

Rosacher began passing out the papers Ludie had given him, laying a sheet in front of each councilman. Rooney sniffed and pushed his away.

“As you can see, the figures on the top half of the page reflect my month-by-month profits for the past year.” Rosacher gave them a moment to study the figures. “You’ll note the steady geometric increase.”

“And this figure at the bottom, what does it represent?” asked Febres-Cordero.

“My estimated earnings for next year,” said Rosacher. “Expenses have yet to be determined. They will undoubtedly rise in keeping with expansion.”

“This much?” Savedra looked at him in astonishment. “Surely that can’t be right?”

“My bookkeeper assures me that it’s a most conservative estimate.”

Rosacher noticed that Rooney was now studying his sheet of paper.

“Where do you keep your money?” asked Paltz.

“In a bank at Port Chantay. It’s more secure than the local bank.”

“From this I gather that you consider yourself to be our greatest resource,” said Breque.

“Yes, I do. One of them,” said Rosacher.

“And the other?”

“Griaule.”

“Ah, yes. Griaule’s blood is the active ingredient in mab, is it not?”

“It is,” said Rosacher. “The process by which it is refined is the key to creating the drug, and that process is known only to myself and my partner.”

“And who might that be?” Savedra asked.

“A man who wishes that his name not be divulged,” said Rosacher. “But to the point, gentlemen. I would like you to levy a tax on my business. Say, five percent of my net profits annually. Such a tax would validate my business as a legal entity and grant me the protections of the law.”

“Five percent of your gross would be more persuasive,” said Rooney.

“The precise figure can be negotiated at another time,” said Rosacher. “What I’m after today, if possible, is an agreement in principle.”

He turned to his chair and found that Arthur was sitting in it. The giant made as though to stand, but Rosacher gestured for him to keep his seat and stood behind him.

“There is one more thing I want to propose,” he said. “As you’re aware, Mister Honeyman has organized a security force to safeguard my interests. I would like to expand that force into a militia…with your participation, of course. The day is coming when cities more powerful than ours will grow envious of Teocinte’s prosperity and attempt to pirate my process and take control of the dragon. We need to be prepared against that day. I would be willing to fund the militia, but it would benefit your peace of mind, I think, if you were to share that burden, both as to costs and the constituency of the force. I propose that you appoint someone from your ranks to administer the militia. A general, if you will. He would oversee its functioning, the purchase of materiel and so forth, and would decide matters of policy. A militia further requires a general in the field, someone skilled in the art of war, someone who has the ability to train the men and lead them. I can think of no one more qualified for the post than Mister Honeyman.”

Arthur glanced up at him, but quickly hid his startled expression and fixed the council members with his terrible smile. Paltz, who had appeared on the verge of raising an objection, held his peace.

“It’s an intriguing proposition.” Breque clasped his hands, resting his forearms on the table. “And the picture you paint is a tempting one. A prosperous town, a contented populace, and, if your business continues to thrive, everyone in this room will become wealthy and powerful.”

“You’ve no idea how wealthy,” Rosacher said. “We’ve barely scratched the surface of what is possible. Consider how many other substances helpful to humankind may be found within Griaule’s body.”

“As I said, an intriguing proposal, though one that veers dangerously close to bribery. I have little doubt that you would be capable of achieving your goals under ordinary circumstances, but these circumstances are far from ordinary. When we were elected to the council, we swore an oath whose primary dictate was that we would do everything in our power to destroy Griaule. Now you ask us to protect him. The gap between the two positions is, I’m afraid, unbridgeable. Were we were to accept your proposal, we’d be thrown out of office.”

The faces of the other council members displayed morose agreement.

Rosacher was caught short for a response; he had not predicted this. “Griaule…” he said, and pretended to clear his throat, searching for a logical avenue to pursue. “Griaule has permitted me to draw his blood. This is a certain sign that my purposes are in accord with his.”

“That changes nothing,” Breque said. “It is not the council’s purpose to do Griaule’s bidding.”

“Yet you insist that he controls you, that his will is dominant. If that is true, you do his bidding whether or not you admit to it.”

“For the sake of our dignity, if nothing else, we believe we are allowed a modicum of free will.”

“You can’t base your decisions on a bastardized ontology,” said Rosacher. “Either Griaule controls you, or this notion of the dragon as god is ridiculous.”

Struck by an idea, he once again pretended to clear his throat, stalling while he constructed his argument. Breque inquired whether he wanted a glass of water.

“How long have you been trying to kill Griaule?” Rosacher asked after taking a drink.

“There were countless attempts made before our body was organized, most of them ill-considered, a good many of them harebrained,” said Savedra. “The first official attempt under aegis of the council was undertaken approximately six hundred years ago. Of course in the early days, the council was appointed by a feudal duke and had no real power. But as it’s presently configured, more than two hundred years.”

“I’m forced to assume, then, that Griaule is not ready to die,” Rosacher said. “Or that you’ve failed miserably in satisfying your oath. If I wanted to kill the dragon, I’d cut down the forest in the hills close by him, pile the wood around his sides and set him on fire. Has that been tried?”

“Two centuries ago,” said Febres-Cordero. “A strong wind blew the fire back on the town. They had to rebuild completely. It was an event that coincided with the removal of the feudal duke.”

“We’ve explored every method we can think of,” said Breque. “This explains why we’ve offered a reward and are entertaining more eccentric schemes.”

“Yes, I met one of your eccentrics in the vestibule,” Rosacher said. “A fellow by the name of Cattanay. He intends to paint a mural on the dragon’s side using poisoned paint. Paint with a high lead or arsenic content. His expectation is that it will kill Griaule within several decades.”

Rooney chuckled and Paltz shook his head, as if astounded by this foolishness, and said, “Well, it won’t take several decades for us to deal with him!”

“Cattanay believes the process of painting will be too subtle for Griaule to recognize as an attempt to kill him. And by the time he does, if he does, he’ll be too ill to remedy it. His control will have slipped. I think the plan may have some actual merit, but that’s for you to decide.” Rosacher fixed his gaze on Breque. “More pertinent to the question before you, a plan like Cattanay’s, one that will take decades to achieve a result, would serve our mutual purposes. In thirty years we’ll have made enough money to provide for our heirs to the tenth generation, and—theoretically, at any rate—you’ll have a dead dragon, a booming economy, and a well-trained army. You’ve been at this for six centuries, gentlemen. I suspect your constituents won’t quarrel overmuch with a plan that delays their gratification a few more years.”

“Your argument presupposes that the plan will work,” said Savedra. “What if it doesn’t? Griaule may be capable of sniffing out Cattanay’s intentions.”

“You won’t know that until you’ve tried,” Rosacher said. “However, the signal virtue of Cattanay’s plan is that he’ll need three or four years to map out the project, build scaffolding, and so on. That should give you time to come up with an alternative. In the meantime we will profit and the town will thrive.”

The faces of the men at the table were a comical study in perplexity and concentration. Rosacher made a gesture of finality. “Gentlemen, I’ve stated my case and now I have business to attend. With your kind permission, I’ll leave you to your deliberations.”

“If there are no further questions…” Breque looked inquiringly to the other councilmen. “Mister Rosacher, you have our thanks for making most exhilarating what otherwise might have been a tiresome adversarial experience. You can be sure that we will discuss every facet of what you have said. Give us a few days. You will hear from us by Friday at the latest.” He beamed at Rosacher and gestured toward the door. “Would you mind telling Mister Cattanay to come in? I, for one, am eager to hear the details of his proposal.”

As Rosacher and Arthur strode down the hill, Rosacher’s mind went to the day ahead. There were appointments, contracts to examine, and he had to inspect repairs made to the refrigeration unit at the new factory. He would be fortunate to finish by seven o’clock. The time had come, he thought, to hire someone, perhaps several someones, to manage the business. Now that the council had been dealt with and, from his reading of Breque, he was confident of the result, he needed to get on with his study of the blood. He had been so consumed with the business that he had done pitifully little toward that end, and he looked forward to spending days locked away in a laboratory. But it was difficult to find people who were both competent and trustworthy. He would have to recruit his management staff on the coast and that meant a trip to Port Chantay, rounds of interviews…more time wasted. He despaired of creating a gap in his schedule.

“Pardon me, sir.” Arthur’s face was etched with worry. “What you said back there…that I was an expert on warfare. I don’t know the first thing about it.”

“There are dozens of books on the subject,” Rosacher said impatiently. “You have wonderful instincts as to aggression. I’m sure you’ll be a quick study.”

“I can make out letters and sound some words, but…”

“Don’t tell me you can’t read?”

“Take me forever to read a book, it would. Even then, I reckon I might not make much sense of it.”

“Learn, then,” said Rosacher, a nasty edge on his voice, fuming inwardly over the incompetence with which he was surrounded. “If you don’t learn, Arthur, how will you ever advance yourself?”