its backdrop. Thus your political involvement
intrigues me. As far as I can determine, you have until lately held
yourself apart from this sort of issue. Certainly there has never
been any love lost between you and Agenor, and yet now you are his
ally. A political alliance founded on mutual self-interest? Perhaps.
However, I would be a fool if I did not examine the possibility that
there is more to it than that.”
“I cannot
think how this leads you to suspect me of murder.”
“ ‘Suspect’
is too strong a word. I have no real suspects. Because of limitations
imposed upon me by time and circumstance, I must concentrate my
energies on those who display what strikes me as uncharacteristic
behavior. As yours strikes me. It may appear that I am grasping at
straws, and indeed I am. But investigations of this sort rarely
proceed along logical lines. A slip is made, a secret is whispered,
an accident of fate occurs. And suddenly the whole thing is revealed.
As for my part in things, I’m casting my net in murky waters,
hoping that a shark will see my legs and seek to take a bite,
thinking I am merely clever.”
Alexandra gave a
soft, pleased laugh, and Kostolec’s eyes cut toward her; for an
instant his features were concentrated into a venomous mask. Then he,
too, laughed. He nodded to Beheim. A civil nod. “Will you
pardon me?” he said, and with a prodigious leap that carried
him to the foot of the stairs, he then raced up to the landing
directly above them. Beheim heard a cry, sounds of a brief struggle.
Seconds later Kostolec reappeared, dragging behind him a terrified
young man dressed all in black, with ragged brown hair and a thin,
long-jawed face; a fresh crop of pimples straggled across his
forehead.
“Who is
this?” Alexandra asked, and Kostolec said, “A creature of
the Vandelores. Aren’t you?” He lifted the man up by the
collar, holding his head close to the lantern, and swung him so that
his knees smacked against the railing. “This disgusting wretch
is the third spy they’ve set on me since my arrival.”
“My lord,
have pity!” said the man, clutching at Kostolec’s wrist
to prevent himself from swaying back and forth. “I meant you no
harm.”
“Thank
God!” said Kostolec mockingly. “I was afraid for my
life.” His stare was as unwavering and black as that of an old
reptile. “Who sent you?”
The man wet his
lips; his eyes darted to Alexandra, then to Beheim. “Marko,”
he said. “It was Marko. Lord, I did not willingly—”
“Be
silent!” said Kostolec; he glanced at Beheim. “Do you
understand now why I react with such enmity to your questions? Day
and night, I am beset by the Vandelores. How can I tolerate this
constant interference in my affairs?”
“What
could the Vandelores want of you?” Beheim asked, watching the
man trying to swallow, half-choked by his tightened collar.
“They
want,” Kostolec said, enunciating each word with studied
precision, as if aiming and firing them at Beheim, “to know my
secrets.”
He forced the
man’s face close to his and kissed him on the lips. The sight
of the two faces pressed together, the smooth skin of one being
nuzzled and sucked by a pale, wrinkled beast in a fan of ruddy light
in the midst of an immense darkness, bred a strange distance in
Beheim, as if he were peering into a dimension in which every
constant had been rearranged, where animals walked about in men’s
forms, and true men were handled like sheep, where the physical world
was a cave filled with gilded symbols and dust, and life was a
sinister, wasted value, death an exalted goal.
Kostolec broke
off the kiss, studied the man dangling limply from his hand. “Tell
Marko that if this ever happens again, I will pay him a visit.”
He appeared to be mulling something over; his owlish eyebrows hinged
in the middle, his lips pursed. “On second thought,” he
said, “I’ll tell him myself.” And looking straight
at Beheim, with a casual flick of his
intrigues me. As far as I can determine, you have until lately held
yourself apart from this sort of issue. Certainly there has never
been any love lost between you and Agenor, and yet now you are his
ally. A political alliance founded on mutual self-interest? Perhaps.
However, I would be a fool if I did not examine the possibility that
there is more to it than that.”
“I cannot
think how this leads you to suspect me of murder.”
“ ‘Suspect’
is too strong a word. I have no real suspects. Because of limitations
imposed upon me by time and circumstance, I must concentrate my
energies on those who display what strikes me as uncharacteristic
behavior. As yours strikes me. It may appear that I am grasping at
straws, and indeed I am. But investigations of this sort rarely
proceed along logical lines. A slip is made, a secret is whispered,
an accident of fate occurs. And suddenly the whole thing is revealed.
As for my part in things, I’m casting my net in murky waters,
hoping that a shark will see my legs and seek to take a bite,
thinking I am merely clever.”
Alexandra gave a
soft, pleased laugh, and Kostolec’s eyes cut toward her; for an
instant his features were concentrated into a venomous mask. Then he,
too, laughed. He nodded to Beheim. A civil nod. “Will you
pardon me?” he said, and with a prodigious leap that carried
him to the foot of the stairs, he then raced up to the landing
directly above them. Beheim heard a cry, sounds of a brief struggle.
Seconds later Kostolec reappeared, dragging behind him a terrified
young man dressed all in black, with ragged brown hair and a thin,
long-jawed face; a fresh crop of pimples straggled across his
forehead.
“Who is
this?” Alexandra asked, and Kostolec said, “A creature of
the Vandelores. Aren’t you?” He lifted the man up by the
collar, holding his head close to the lantern, and swung him so that
his knees smacked against the railing. “This disgusting wretch
is the third spy they’ve set on me since my arrival.”
“My lord,
have pity!” said the man, clutching at Kostolec’s wrist
to prevent himself from swaying back and forth. “I meant you no
harm.”
“Thank
God!” said Kostolec mockingly. “I was afraid for my
life.” His stare was as unwavering and black as that of an old
reptile. “Who sent you?”
The man wet his
lips; his eyes darted to Alexandra, then to Beheim. “Marko,”
he said. “It was Marko. Lord, I did not willingly—”
“Be
silent!” said Kostolec; he glanced at Beheim. “Do you
understand now why I react with such enmity to your questions? Day
and night, I am beset by the Vandelores. How can I tolerate this
constant interference in my affairs?”
“What
could the Vandelores want of you?” Beheim asked, watching the
man trying to swallow, half-choked by his tightened collar.
“They
want,” Kostolec said, enunciating each word with studied
precision, as if aiming and firing them at Beheim, “to know my
secrets.”
He forced the
man’s face close to his and kissed him on the lips. The sight
of the two faces pressed together, the smooth skin of one being
nuzzled and sucked by a pale, wrinkled beast in a fan of ruddy light
in the midst of an immense darkness, bred a strange distance in
Beheim, as if he were peering into a dimension in which every
constant had been rearranged, where animals walked about in men’s
forms, and true men were handled like sheep, where the physical world
was a cave filled with gilded symbols and dust, and life was a
sinister, wasted value, death an exalted goal.
Kostolec broke
off the kiss, studied the man dangling limply from his hand. “Tell
Marko that if this ever happens again, I will pay him a visit.”
He appeared to be mulling something over; his owlish eyebrows hinged
in the middle, his lips pursed. “On second thought,” he
said, “I’ll tell him myself.” And looking straight
at Beheim, with a casual flick of his
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