Then he was thrown aside, striking the wall as if someone had hammered him with a railroad tie, and his mind cleared like shattering glass. Against the reflected lamplight he saw Zardalu hurled sprawling, a bundle of sticks wrapped in a hundred pounds' worth of sequined silk, and the Baykus Kadine backing away, mouth open, hissing, her eyes glittering rat-red. In a swirl of nacreous robes, Olumsiz Bey stood over the Circassian, the silver blade of his halberd cold as a fingernail moon. His bald head swung to and fro, like a savage dog's.
There was blood on his mouth and on his clothing. Zardalu rolled lightly to his feet, face twisted into something Asher hadn't seen outside a Museum of Horrors, fangs glittering in the stretched mouth. But the next moment the younger vampire flinched and turned away, hiding his face in his hands from the master vampire's glare, and Asher felt-guessed-sensed peripherally the cutting agony of Olumsiz Bey's will.
Zardalu made a sound, thin as water twisted out of a near-dry rag. His body bent and bent, knees buckling, hands spreading, fingers stretching, trying to cover his face as his arms came up like the arms of a fractured puppet.
Softly, the master vampire whispered, "Don't be arrogant, little Apricot."
Asher, slumped against the stones of the inner wall, wasn't even sure he heard the words spoken, could not have said what language they were in. Weightless as a giant cat Olumsiz Bey stepped toward the crumpled gaudy form of the eunuch, and the dim lamplight flicked on his outstretched talons, the graceful gesture of the halberd.
"Is this the little Apricot who wept in my arms when he gave up his life? The little Apricot who said to the slave masters, when they came to geld him..."
No... It came out not even as a word, only a sound.
"I remember, you know." The deep voice purled over the words, water over stones, and stronger than the stones. "You put all those memories into my hands, you put your mind, your desires-remember Parvin, your sister Parvin?-everything. And I still hold them." He crouched over his fledgling, silver-blue robes settling over the gay, amorphous clouds of silk, the silver of the blade hovering over the bare, bent neck. It was impossible, thought Asher, that he should still hear the master vampire's voice.
"The way the Kizlir Aga touched you, do you remember that? You were twelve, and you hated him, and yet your whole body responded..." His coarse hand fielded, easily, the vicious flail of Zardalu's claws, and with the haft of the halberd he thrust him to the pavement again, pressing him down into the marble with it, straddling him, whispering, an act more terrible than love or rape, an act of dreadful possession as each memory, each feeling, each most secret terror and need was brought forth.
It gives a terrible power, Ysidro had once told him, in that time-faded voice that denied that such a thing had ever happened to him, that anyone had ever held over his heart such hideous knowledge.
Zardalu had begun to make noises, and silently, sickened, Asher crept back through the shadows to climb at last the long stairs. Looking back, he saw in the lighted frame of the arched passage to the vestibule that the brutish Habib and his one-eyed janissary friend Haralpos were enacting a burlesque love scene with the corpse of the old woman they had brought for the Deathless Lord's supper, to the screams of Pelageya's and the Baykus' laughter.
But it was the master vampire's whispering, rather than the other and louder sounds, that seemed to follow Asher up the black stairs.
Eighteen
She dreamt of the old seraglio again, of wandering through its cramped, lightless cells with a ledger in one hand and a lantern in the other. One of the rooms had been filled with ice, and holding the lantern aloft, she had seen Jamie, frozen in a block of it, like a fly trapped in amber.
It should have been comical, absurd, but it wasn't. His eyes were open, sunken like the eyes of the corpses the workhouse sent, and she saw blood on his neck, staining the open collar of his shirt. The ice flashed like blue diamonds when she raised her lantern, making his eyes seem to move, but she knew he was dead. Her heart twisted, slammed within her, hurting, hurting, knowing he was dead and that she'd have to go home alone.
It was her fault. She hadn't come swiftly enough, been clever enough, been brave enough... She had failed to be adequate, as she had failed all her life. She propped the ledger against the block, trying desperately to find his name in it, but the cold in the room made her hands shake so badly she couldn't read. He can't be dead, she thought frantically, he can't be. He's frozen in the ice, but the ice will keep him alive...
She woke gasping, her hands and feet bitter cold, and heard, from the other room, Margaret saying, "You hadn't found anything there, but she insisted on going anyway! As if she knew more about it than you did! Just because she's got that horrid medical degree, and cuts up bodies, which makes me shudder just to think about, she thinks she knows everything! And she wouldn't even stop when I turned my foot..."
Under the indignation of Margaret's voice there was a brittleness that Lydia recognized as nervousness. Ysidro, she thought.
A moment later the vampire's cool voice responded, "Well, she is worried about her husband, and perhaps that made her careless of your comforts, Margharita? You do not recall which cemetery this was? I would not wish to waken her."
"Um... I can't remember... We went in Prince Razumovsky's carriage, after we visited this filthy mosque and she talked to a horrid old man. And anyway, if you didn't see anything there when you went..."
Lydia fumbled her spectacles from the bed beside her, pushed back her hair and pulled her shawl about her shoulders as she emerged from the bedroom, rumpled, creased, and slightly disoriented, wondering what time it was.
Ysidro was on his feet at once, bowing. "Mistress." The room smelled of lamb and onions. There was an empty plate of very fine red-glazed local ware, and horn- and-steel flatware. Crumbs and droplets at the other side of the table indicated that Margaret had made her meal.
Lydia shook her head, saying, "Later, thank you," when Ysidro moved toward the sideboard.
"Some wine, at least?"
But his own hand was too unsteady to hold the glass.
Margaret took it swiftly from him, poured the black-red fluid like blood in the brazen lamplight. Ysidro flicked aside the napkin from the basket on the table, tore a chunk from the bread inside. "Sop it in the wine," he suggested, holding it out to her. "A jauntering slut I can abide, but a drunken jauntering slut, never."
And Lydia gave him a quick, shaky grin.
He perched on a corner of the table. "Margharita informs me you passed an adventuresome day."
Lydia outlined to him the events of the Blue Mosque and the finding of the turbe and the cravat pin. "I had the most extraordinary sensation that he was there, listening," she said. "I know you've said vampires sleep in the daytime and can't be wakened, but... Would he have heard me-seen me-in dreams? Do vampires dream?"
"Yes and no," replied Ysidro, holding out his hand for the pin. "Sleep is only a term that we use for what happens to us when the sun is in the sky; I do not know another. Dreaming..." He paused, then shook his head, very slightly, and turned the tiny gold griffin over in his hands.
"I doubt not that you have found one of the sleeping places of the intruder, the newcomer," he said after a time. "And havine sensed you in his sleep, I misdoubt he will ever rest in that tomb again. Still, it is worth the visiting, to see perhaps what I have missed. There is a great strength to him, and it is not at all unlikely that he could turn my mind, my perceptions, away from him... And it goes without saying that any place he dominates with his presence at night, Anthea will avoid. It is no chance thing that he haunts the cemeteries, that any coming or going from the city would pass him and be in danger of coming under his sway. Anthea, at least, coming in by train with your husband, would have sensed his presence and taken care to avoid him. Charles..." He shook his head.