Bloodborn (30 page)

Ulrika turned towards the window, visions of death and vengeance filling her head. She could kick through the shutters and leap down amongst the mob. She could put Lotte out of her agony with a single blow, then kill as many of that hateful pack of filth as she might before the sun and the flames of the pyre burned her to death. It would be a good end, a grand end, but it would be an end all the same. Was she ready to be done with her life? Was she ready for what was to come after? If what Gabriella had told her about what happened to vampires when they died was true, the pain Lotte was suffering would be nothing compared to that which awaited her. Could she face that, for the life of a maid?

Ulrika dropped to her knees with a sob. ‘I am weak,’ she rasped. ‘I am a coward.’

Gabriella knelt beside her, putting her arms around her. ‘You are stronger and braver than most of us, dear heart, and more compassionate. Most wouldn’t even consider it. Most would call you a fool, but I love you for it. A vampire must sometimes kill to live. It is our nature. But it is when we do so without regret, without conscience, that we are most a danger to ourselves. If you can hold on to this affection for humanity without letting it rule you, you will live long and grow great among us.’

Ulrika hugged her and nodded against her breast. ‘Thank you, mistress,’ she mumbled. ‘I will try.’

‘I know you will,’ said Gabriella, then paused before speaking again. ‘Though I fear you have already failed at least once.’

Ulrika frowned, confused, then lifted her head. ‘What do you mean, mistress?’

Gabriella looked down at her, her face set and cold. ‘Tell me of this young witch hunter who singled you out at Mathilda’s place. How does he know you? How does he know you are a vampire?’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

MASQUERADE

Ulrika looked at Gabriella with widening eyes. All the warmth had gone from her voice, and all the sympathy from her gaze. It was as if a door had closed.

‘Don’t make me pull it from you,’ she said when Ulrika did not speak.

‘No, mistress.’ Ulrika hung her head. ‘I won’t. I… I met him while chasing the warlock in the sewers. He was after him too.’

‘You didn’t mention him before,’ said Gabriella.

‘I… I didn’t think it was important,’ Ulrika stammered.

Gabriella raised an eyebrow. ‘No?’

‘I tricked him,’ said Ulrika. ‘I made him think I was a vampire hunter, and we parted ways with him none the wiser.’

‘He seemed wiser today.’

‘Yes, I…’ Ulrika dug her nails into her palms. ‘We met again. He was at the plague house when I discovered the place of Mistress Alfina’s death there. I… I used him. He knew that the robes I found were those of a priest of Morr, and I let him interrogate the priests and lead me to the graveyard and the crypt where I believe the killer hides.’

‘How very Lahmian of you,’ said Gabriella coolly. ‘But your mask must have slipped, yes?’

‘We were attacked by ghouls,’ said Ulrika. ‘They were going to kill him. I… I let my claws out to save him.’

‘And he saw this,’ said Gabriella.

Ulrika nodded miserably. ‘He called me a monster and tried to kill me.’

‘Yet you did not kill him.’

Ulrika shook her head. ‘I could not. He… he is a good man.’

‘And our mortal enemy.’ Gabriella sighed and pulled Ulrika close again. ‘Beloved, I understand. It has happened before. In this strange instance you find yourself on the same side as this man, and he is stalwart and brave, and from the little I saw of him, not unhandsome. You fight side by side with him and, as you are a warrior born, you are loath to let a comrade die. But he is
not
your comrade, and you cannot think of him that way.’

She lay back against the mound of skins and drew Ulrika down with her. ‘You are not human any more, my dear. Though you look it, and sometimes may feel it, you are not. You cannot have normal relations with them. There are only four options when dealing with men: fool them, kill them, enslave them or give them the blood kiss. A human who knows what you are and is not bound to you cannot be trusted – and a witch hunter least of all – as you have learned to your regret today.’

‘I’m sorry, mistress,’ said Ulrika. ‘I won’t let it happen again.’

Gabriella squeezed her hand. ‘It is a hard lesson to learn, I know, but it must be learned. You will have nothing but misery and pain otherwise. I speak from experience in this.’ She curled against Ulrika. ‘Now come, rest your head. There is nothing for us to do but wait until dark. Then we will cross the river and speak to Hermione.’

Ulrika closed her eyes, but the shouting of the mob and the crackling of flames from out in the square made it hard for her to sleep.

After the day’s mad frenzy, the setting of the sun brought a frightened, unnatural silence to Nuln. As Ulrika and Gabriella crept through them, the chilly streets of the Industrielplatz were dark and deserted except for the blackened debris of the day’s excesses. Even the forges, which usually roared day and night, had gone cold and quiet. Everywhere they saw shattered windows and broken tools and clubs, and the sign of Sigmar’s hammer painted crudely on the fronts of businesses and workshops as a ward against the undead.

The witch hunters were still on guard at the great bridge, stopping every coach and questioning every woman who crossed it, so they turned about and trudged a weary mile back the way they had come to the bridge of the Iron Tower, but that too was watched.

‘They will undoubtedly have our descriptions,’ said Gabriella, drawing back into the shadow of a foundry to think. ‘And may be carrying silver or garlic or daemonroot to test us. I don’t care to risk it. They will not be so polite here as they were in Hermione’s parlour.’

‘Can we take a boat?’ asked Ulrika. ‘There must be some fisherman willing to take us across.’

Gabriella shuddered. ‘An open boat is too dangerous. Vampires are not partial to running water. No. I have a better way, I think.’ She turned south and started walking back towards the Faulestadt, the warren of filthy streets and tottering tenements they had fled only that morning. ‘A Lahmian way.’

‘Slumming, m’lady?’ a leering fellow in printers’ sleeves asked Ulrika. ‘Tired o’ weak Altestadt wine, and lookin’ fer strong Faulestadt beer?’

‘They wearing it short north of the river?’ chimed in his mate, a fisherman by the smell of him, who was grinning at Ulrika’s hair. ‘We wear it long down here!’ he said, and slapped his leg near the knee.

‘Her ladyship is waiting for a gentleman of the watch,’ said Gabriella in a prim voice that matched the maid’s uniform that she still wore, ‘who has asked her to come to this establishment and identify the men who stole a necklace and her wig from her.’

The men’s eyes widened at this, and they suddenly found they had business elsewhere.

Ulrika let out a sigh of relief.

‘Thank you, mistress,’ she whispered. ‘I did not know what a lady would say.’

‘Call me Gabby, here, m’lady,’ said Gabriella, still in her maid’s voice. ‘And a lady would let her maid answer for her. Men of that sort are not to be spoken to by a woman of your stature.’

They were sitting at a corner table in the Pitcher and Ramrod, a tavern of the sort that ladies of quality did not enter, with or without escort, and were therefore garnering their fair share of odd glances and dirty remarks as they watched the vulgar customs of the boisterous clientele.

‘This is why the streets are quiet!’ said Gabriella, raising her voice to be heard over the din. ‘They’ve all come here!’

Ulrika nodded. It was true. At the trestle tables under the low smoke-blackened beams, jostling crowds of bravos and bashers and begrimed foundry men drank and laughed with feverish energy, while painted strumpets teased money and drink from them and sometimes took them upstairs. Other men babbled loudly about vampires and burnings and bragged of their part in the day’s happenings, and with each telling, the fangs got longer and the claws more cruel. Ulrika shook her head, bemused and disgusted. They huddle together around the fire like savages scared of the dark, she thought.

Gabriella seemed to pay no attention to the stories or the men who told them. She only watched the comings and goings of the harlots as they sashayed around the room, plying their trade, while Ulrika waited, stiff and ill at ease. It wasn’t the place that made her uncomfortable, though the burgeoning panic that bubbled beneath the chatter and cheer did set her teeth on edge. She had been in rougher taverns than this many times – the White Boar in Praag, for instance – and had happily mucked in with soldiers and ruffians all her life. It was what Gabriella meant to have her do that didn’t sit well with her.

‘Mistress,’ she said at last, leaning in to speak in Gabriella’s ear. ‘I see how this ruse will work for you, but I… I have never played the bawd before. I don’t know how to do it. I fear I will ruin your game.’

Gabriella turned to her and looked her up and down, then smiled slyly. ‘It’s true. Your height and strong bones give you a certain solemn beauty when you are dressed as a lady, but you will look a clown in harlot’s fripperies.’ She frowned for a moment, then laughed. ‘Ah! I have it. You shall wear breeches again – as you are most comfortable that way – and play my drake.’

Ulrika raised her eyebrows. ‘What is a drake?’

Gabriella grinned. ‘You are not familiar with the term? Strange. A drake is a gentleman of the female sex, a companion and protector of ladies of easy virtue who don’t trust men. They watch their backs and make sure they are paid for their work.’

Ulrika blinked, flustered, as she took in the meaning of the words, and Gabriella laughed. ‘Fear not, child. The part will require little from you. You must only look sullen and dangerous, and you have accomplished that already.’

Ulrika looked away, embarrassed.
A gentleman of the female sex?
To her, her mannish clothes had always been a matter of pragmatism. She was a warrior, raised by a warrior. Therefore, she wore a warrior’s clothes, and had come to find them comfortable. She had never associated them with anything else, or worried what others might construe about her because of them. People could think what they might, for she knew who she was, and what and whom she found attractive. Strange then that the idea of pretending to be what she already appeared was so discomforting, but it was so.

At last she shrugged. She might not care for it, but Gabriella was right. It was a role she could play – certainly better than she could play a flirt.

A little while later, Gabriella put a hand on Ulrika’s arm and nodded across the room. ‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘A perfect pair for our necessity.’

Ulrika followed her glance. A tall, thin young basher, roaring drunk, was staggering after a smirking harlot who was leading him by the belt towards the stairs. Ulrika wrinkled her nose. The man might be the right height and build, but his clothes were both garish and grimy, and the grease from his lank, black hair had darkened his collar. She shuddered at the thought of the vermin that no doubt infested him.

The couple stumbled up the stairs to the first floor. Ulrika looked to Gabriella. The countess waited until they were out of sight, then stood.

‘Come, m’lady,’ she said, sniffing. ‘We will wait upstairs for the gentleman. I will not have these ruffians’ eyes upon you.’

Ulrika stood and followed her as she started up the steps. A few eyes followed them, and a few knowing grins, but most were too busy with their own debaucheries to notice.

They reached the first floor just in time to see a door closing halfway down the candle-lit corridor. Gabriella padded ahead swiftly and Ulrika hurried behind. From all around them came giggles and amorous moanings and groanings. They stopped at the door and Gabriella began mumbling a spell.

‘Do we kill them, mistress?’ asked Ulrika.

‘Shhh!’ said Gabriella, and kept mumbling.

Ulrika looked back down the hall, uneasy, listening while from behind the door came the voices of their quarry.

‘Ger it off, then,’ slurred a male voice. ‘I wanna see da goods.’

‘All business, are ye?’ replied a coarse female voice. ‘Right then, here you are. Don’t get many of them to the pound, do ye?’

Gabriella finished mumbling and rolled her eyes. ‘Ah, the sweet poetry of seduction.’ Her left hand was clenched around a squirming black shadow. She reached out with her right and turned the latch. It was locked. She turned harder and the lock snapped.