Beautiful Blood Page 4

  “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 m
y 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?
”

  5

  Shortly after eight o’clock that evening, Rosacher arrived at Ludie’s apartments. He hesitated, debating whether or not to knock, ultimately deciding that since he was attempting to restore intimacy, he should behave as would an intimate—he opened the door. The room was dimly lit by a single ornamental floor lamp in a corner, its flame turned low, and the windows held rectangles of purplish dusk. Walls and ceiling were draped in swaths of billowy, diaphanous cloth—pastel shades of green, yellow and blue that shrank the enclosed space and was intended to make the room appear to be the interior of a tent. Beneath this canopy, pillows and rugs were arranged about a teak table on which a cold supper was laid. The decor represented an ideal of luxury in Ludie’s homeland, or rather what she presumed to be an ideal—she had been born into poverty and sold at the age of six to a brothel-keeper from Peppertree; he in turn had sold her to the Hotel Sin Salida.

  Rosacher collapsed amidst the pillows, closed his eyes and was assailed by nagging concerns relating to business. Attempting to quiet his mind, he sank deeper into a morass of petty entanglements, expenditures, collections and whatnot. When he succeeded in pushing these matters into the background, the question of his three-year lapse arose, and that so disturbed him, he abandoned the idea of resting, opened his eyes and saw Ludie standing above him. She was dressed to match the décor, wearing a gauzy peignoir that revealed the voluptuous contours of her body; yet in opposition to the seductive image she presented, her expression was one of poorly concealed distaste.

  “I apologize for being late,” he said. “I…”

  “How did you fare with the council?” She reclined beside him on the opposite side of the table and popped a slice of orange into her mouth. “It must have gone well or else you would have been too preoccupied to come at all.”

  He told her in brief what had been said within the council chamber and she said flatly, “Congratulations.”