The Geomancer (11 page)

“So if you're so wise, tell me, after the clan lords fall, what next?”

“We return to the night, as we were before the Great Killing.”

“And the humans?”

“They return to the day. They thrive. We feed. As it always was.”

“Happily ever after?”

Kasteel narrowed his gaze in confusion. “I don't understand.”

“You believe the humans will suffer to be our food source?”

“Some may, like your humans in Scotland. Ultimately it doesn't matter. We will take what we need from them. We need not rule them to do it. That only corrupts us. They'll live their lives as they wish. So will we.” The rebel eyed Gareth, sure this conversation was merely another test of his interpretation of the philosophy.

Gareth lifted his face upward and watched small snowflakes drift down like stars dropping from the sky. “That's one dream you can have, I suppose.”

“It was King Dmitri's dream too, wasn't it?”

Gareth felt a jolt run through him at the mention of his father, but he didn't look away from the sky.

Kasteel dropped his shoulders, his voice despondent. “Baudoin always admired Dmitri. I feel as if I don't really understand his legacy. Perhaps I never will. But I wish to.”

“You have a safe place in Paris?”

“Yes,” Kasteel answered eagerly. “We have already found a few new brothers there. Lothaire's rule creates open minds. Honore's not as much.”

Gareth gave the rebel a warm smile. “Very well. Gather the most trusted you have. I may need you in Paris after all.”

Kasteel clenched his fists in triumph. “Yes, my lord! I would die for you!”

“Good. Just don't do it until I tell you.”

Kasteel kicked off and sailed into the air. He rolled away on the wind and vanished behind a clock tower. Gareth shook his head. He appreciated enthusiasm because it was such a human attribute, but he was wary of it too—because it was such a human attribute. Kasteel's type of focused hero worship was very questionable, particularly since Gareth was intimately acquainted with the failings of the rebel's hero.

He stared down at the icy canal and saw the chaotic traces in the light snow that Kasteel had made. He glanced around for anyone who might be watching. He felt an odd surge of exhilaration, similar to his early days donning the Greyfriar costume. Childish, he knew. Gareth climbed down the sheer stone wall. Just before his foot touched the frozen canal, he stopped himself. The ice had seemed solid enough when Kasteel had been on it. Gareth had no desire to fall through.

Grasping the rocks of the canal wall, he let his toes touch the ice. Then slowly he put his weight down. The ice creaked, but stayed firm. He went to stand free. His left foot slipped and flew up. Strong fingers crunched into the stones to keep him from falling. Then the right leg jerked aside. He desperately clung to the wall to keep his balance. Gareth pulled himself up and lightened his frame a bit. Once his feet were again planted, he straightened. A quick pause for balance and he pushed off.

It was a strange sensation floating across the surface of the canal. He barely felt the ice under his feet. It was like flying. As he made a slow glide, he raised his arms in front of him and fell into a crouch for no particular reason. Then he went into an unplanned spin. His back slammed against the opposite wall, and he grasped thick rooted vines covering the stones. His feet flew out from under him, but he held himself up.

Pleased with his first attempt, Gareth shoved off again with a cavalier kick. The ice seemed more hospitable now. This wasn't difficult at all. Suddenly he crashed onto the ice with an undignified grunt and skidded along the canal with his legs splayed around him.

A rhythmic sound rose over his breathy muttering. He saw a figure standing at the railing laughing.

Adele.

He collided with the bank near her. She stood with a brilliant smile and one foot up on the low stone curb overlooking the canal.

“That was very graceful,” she called down.

Gareth tugged on his cuffs and wiped snow from his legs. “It's what I wanted to do.”

“I have no doubt. It was beautiful. You could have a career in the ballet.”

He rose, slipped down again, but then dragged himself to his feet. “I suppose you are skilled at this, as you are at everything,” he said, a gentle challenge in his tone.

“Don't be cross.” Adele pulled her scarf up over her nose, obscuring her amusement, except for her bright eyes.

Gareth reached up. “Here. Let's see.”

“No. I'd kill myself down there.”

He remained motionless with his arm extended up to her.

“Gareth, stop playing games. I'm not going to . . . Gareth, seriously, I'm sorry. I wasn't making fun of you . . . listen . . . I'm from the desert . . . Fine. Fine. But if I break my leg, you'll have to carry me home.” Adele dropped awkwardly and clambered down the jagged frosty wall, kicking snow as she went. Gareth took her hand and helped set her feet on the glassy ground.

Adele waited breathlessly for disaster. She stood frozen, as still as a statue with her eyes wide and hands outstretched. When she spoke, she whispered, as if even the motion of her jaw would throw her off balance. “Will it hold both of us?”

Gareth drew her close.

Adele slipped and she clutched him tight. “Whoa! Don't just move without warning me.” She looked down at their feet and hesitantly inched one of her boots. Then she brought it back. She chortled like a child, pressing her forehead against his unmoving chest. “You know what you're doing, right? You've done this before.”

“Not at all.” Lightened by the clean ring of her laughter, Gareth pushed off suddenly with Adele in tow. “Shall we!”

Adele let out a shriek before clenching her mouth shut. Her legs quivered as the ice flashed beneath them. She squeezed Gareth around the waist, his solid frame steadfast despite their perilous glide. High walls of stone and the wooden sides of abandoned houses flashed past. Snowflakes swirled around them.

Gareth spun out in front of her and took the brunt of the impact when they bounced off a bank. Despite the bump, they remained upright and continued skating along the glistening surface.

“Are you cloaked?” he asked.

“I think so.” Adele let out another peal of laughter. “I was anyway, before this started.”

They left their world behind, flying across the canal, and in this moment, it was just the two of them, free of obligations and moralities. Gareth turned to her and found her bright gaze upon him, sheer joy written upon it.

Adele hesitantly released her death grip on Gareth's body. They moved apart slowly. She drifted out until the length of their two arms, fingers entwined, separated them. They glided down the center of the canal, crouching to pass under a bridge and then back out into the open.

Gareth laughed too, wondering at the spectacle any vampire was witnessing. A madman skating with a nonexistent partner. While human watchers might only suspect two lovers stealing a dangerous moment on the ice.

Adele gave a spirited snort and kicked off to increase their speed. Gareth let her pull him faster down the canal. He watched her cutting the snow in a crystalline swirl about them. The flakes landed on their dark attire and sparked like gemstones. Her intense eyes were not looking at her feet any longer; they were focused ahead. She was bent slightly at the knees, luxuriating in the wind and cold and speed.

A dark wall loomed up suddenly. Gareth moved quickly and swept them into a precarious right turn. Adele moved with him. Together they each leaned wildly onto one leg. They managed stay up and kept racing down the ice.

Adele crowed with exhilaration. She came back to his side and he looped his arm around her waist again, pulling her close. She sighed as his warmth encircled her. “Did Kasteel find you? He went looking for you.”

“Yes. He is coming to Paris with us.”

“He is? Are you starting to enjoy having disciples?”

“Hardly.”

Adele let her head rest against his shoulder. She reached out and let her fingertips patter along the wall to slow them to a walking pace.

Gareth said, “I've grown immune to pointless admiration. Whether ridiculous stories about the Greyfriar or now misplaced confidence in Prince Gareth. Humans and vampires can both create a figure in their mind and make it mean what they wish.”

“You're wrong.” Adele clutched at the stones and brought herself to a stop while Gareth continued slowly on and made a wide loop to return toward her. “Kasteel respects you as a leader of your people. And, my God, you know how humans love the Greyfriar, and it isn't for nothing. You did great things.”

Gareth stared into her questioning eyes and sighed. “We should go back.”

“Fine, but I wasn't the one who started this skating party,” Adele reminded him, climbing toward the street. “Maybe seeing Lothaire will cheer you up and remind you of better days.”

“The only better days are the ones with you.”

“Oh, don't put the whip to your gallantry now. It's not finishing this race.” She labored onto the street and brushed the snow off her coat.

He took her shoulders, making her look up at him. “The truth is the truth.” His lips brushed hers, warming her with his breath. Her eyes closed and her arms encircled him under the drape of his cloak. The embrace did not last long, in case someone spied them. They parted reluctantly. The fire in Adele's eyes had shifted from irritated to something decidedly more passionate. She adjusted her coat and sauntered off. Gareth smiled and drifted up into the air, floating just above her all the way back to their once-grand lodging.

C
HAPTER 11

General Mehmet Anhalt walked across the large public square toward Victoria Palace. Lines of carriages streamed through the ornate gate leading to the palace grounds. The crowds in the square showed many combinations of long white thobes or grey morning suits, full gowns or embroidered jalabiya, top hats and fezzes and hijabs. Greetings and close conversations swirled in English, Arabic, Swahili, Hindi, and various other languages from around the Equatorian Empire.

Anhalt was short but powerfully built, dark and grim of face, with the solid military bearing of a Gurkha. He walked with a cane and carried a heavy leather attaché. His general's uniform caused no great stir here near the palace where generals were plentiful. Most of the other officers striding the area were bedecked with glittering chests full of medals and citations, but Anhalt's tunic was plain except for his emblems of rank. Still countless officers and enlisted men recognized him and saluted. He struggled to return the greetings as he limped along.

“Good morning, General!”

A carriage halted beside him. An older man, cadaverous and whiskered, appeared at the coach window above the embossed emblem of the sirdar, supreme commander of the Imperial Army. It was an emblem that Anhalt once had on his carriage, a carriage that he had never used.

“Would you care for a lift, Mehmet?” Sirdar Field Marshal Maxwell Rotherford opened the door.

“I am enjoying my walk, but I thank you.”

“Come now. It's unseemly for the former sirdar to be afoot.” Field Marshal Rotherford stroked his impressive mustache.

Anhalt noticed that the carriage's horses were stopped in the palace gate. Already, impatient coachmen around them were shouting and heads craned in search of the blockage.

The field marshal slid his lanky form away from the open door. “I insist.”

Anhalt sighed and climbed into the carriage. As he sank into the soft leather seat, the door was slammed shut and the coach rattled into the courtyard and stopped almost immediately. It settled into the arrival line for the palace only a hundred yards away and continued to inch forward. Anhalt could have beaten it on foot even with his hampered stride.

The field marshal held up a newspaper. “Have you seen this?”

“I have, yes.”

“Too far! They've gone too far!” Rotherford read:
“Young men, far from their balmy homes and warm families back in Egypt and Tanganyika and Bengal, tighten their threadbare coats and choke down their miserable cold meals. Their eyes strain ever skyward with the failing of the sun, knowing that the dark hordes will soon sweep down on them. Many of them will not see the spring. Their very dying blood will feed the war machine of an enemy as invisible as the night, as numerous as the stars, as invincible as the cold itself.”

Anhalt nodded appreciatively. “Not bad writing.”

“I call it treason! Invincible! Threadbare coats! He makes it sound as if we're rounding up a schoolyard full of boys and tossing them into a meat grinder with no training or support. It's unpatriotic!”

General Anhalt remembered very similar nights in the frozen trenches below Grenoble. He remained silent and gazed longingly at the palace.

“No opinion, Mehmet?” the field marshal insisted. “We must drive the monsters to extinction. I shall take Paris in the springtime. And likely Vienna by mid-summer. We're exploring a fresh alliance with the Americans and talking to the Japanese Empire about an Asian offensive.” He threw the newspaper across the carriage. “But judging by the papers, you'd think my army had been pushed off the Continent!”

Anhalt felt the man staring, and he knew what was coming.

Field Marshal Rotherford pointed out the window toward Victoria Palace. “There is no coordinated rebuttal from the Court. Honestly, Mehmet, in your personal opinion, just between us, don't you believe it would be better if the empress were here in Alexandria? Why is she still in Britain? She's been there since it fell to our forces last year.”

The general straightened his aching right leg, wincing at the effort, a wound that he acquired crashing an airship into Buckingham Palace. He nodded just to show he was listening.

“Mehmet, there's no secret of the depth of your admiration for the empress,” Rotherford continued. “Your years as the commander of her household guard bound you to her. That's understandable. We all agree she is a remarkable figure. Her handling of Lord Kelvin's coup was extraordinary. Of course, she had precipitated the crisis in the first place by running off rather than marrying Senator Clark, but that's neither here nor there. I'm sure I'm not telling you anything you haven't heard before.”