Chapter One:
Concerning Brethren, Whether Lost or All Too Present
The Florentine Chantry, IIII Id. Mar.
(March 12, 1490 – Equinox
Night)
What alchemy there was in a simple change of light.
The observation came to Lord Gilbert along with the return of
his waking senses. On other nights, this was the one room in
his chantry that could hope to pass for ordinary: the walnut
table in its center was solid, comfortable, almost mercantile;
a chair and stools all cushioned with wine-red velvet accompanied
it; and the opposite wall presented a fresco in trompe-l'oeil,
the illusion of a deep wide window opening onto a Tuscan garden
under afternoon sun, painted with a faithful tenderness that
nearly camouflaged the lack of a real window anywhere within.
The apprentices liked to read here.
Tonight, however, only the tabletop – or rather, the glow
reflected in its dark polished surface – was visible of
all the sedate appointments. Five acrid-smelling candles sat
flickering upon it, outlining an intricate sigil traced in salt.
The tone from the chime that Gilbert had just struck lingered,
piercingly high and pure. Nor were the men assembled here to
be mistaken for mortal guests. Their faces were too pale, their
eyes too bright.
Those eyes returned Gilbert's gaze, and he saw his own concern
mirrored there. After all, the empty chair was a bad omen. Superstition
had nothing to do with it. No Tremere could doubt the numerology
of the thing. Eight was the correct, the auspicious number for
these gatherings: one superior and seven inferiors. It had taken
centuries of labor to arrive at that number. Then there were
the entirely practical considerations.
"What could have happened?" blurted one of the Regents.
"Taliesin's not an incautious man," agreed another.
Gilbert held up his hand.
"There's no need to panic yet," he said. "We have
scried as widely as we can, and no sign. That is disturbing,
yes. But my brothers, the reach of our senses is hardly infinite.
He could simply be too far away."
"But why did he not send word?"
"To miss the Equinox, it's unprecedented."
"I will look into the matter," Gilbert assured them.
"His apprentice should be waiting for him back in Milan.
Perhaps he knows something."
"Alexander? What would he know?"
"Surely he would have reported to you by now if he knew
something were amiss."
"Unless he's disappeared too," one of them put in darkly.
"Well, let's not conjure up things to worry about."
Gilbert stood and doused all but one of the candles. "It
is time to end the conclave, my brothers."
He picked up the remaining candle and raised it high. It illuminated
his face, etched with lines – not just the ordinary ones
of age and care, but also a fine cross-hatching of scars that
gave him a grimmer appearance than he perhaps realized. He said
a few words in the polyglot cant of the old Hermetic wizards.
Then he lowered the candle again, holding it out to his Regents.
Knowing their part, they each took up a slim, red, unlit taper
and joined the wicks together with his, lighting all their candles
in the one flame.
"As our flames join, seamlessly, combining their heat and
light, so may we be one in our intent, in our Art," intoned
Gilbert.
"Let it be so," the Regents murmured. They withdrew
their tapers.
"And as you each take away your own portion of the common
flame, so may you, who partake of the power of our brotherhood
here, go forth to share it with those under your care, that in
time we may all grow strong."
"Let it be so," they echoed again.
"One House, one Clan, one Blood."
They rose to their feet. Walking from corner to corner, Gilbert
dispelled the circle of enchantment that surrounded and protected
them. As they filed out, each magus blew out his taper and carefully
stowed it somewhere in the folds of his ceremonial robe, since
his own blood had gone into its making and it would not do at
all to lose it. Then they all hurried off to their quarters.
Dawn was approaching.
Another magus stood waiting just outside the conclave doors.
He had a slim handsome face crowned by a fountain of black hair
that curled over his shoulders, a close-trimmed beard, and a
brow whose youthful clarity was troubled only by the tiny thought-wrinkle
which eternally hovered on it. A stranger would have placed him
in his twenty-fifth year, but in reality, as Master Gilbert's
first Florentine pupil, he had already seen five times that many.
He bowed low.
"Any word from him?" Gilbert wanted to know. "Any
sign?"
"No, my lord – no word, no sign. Is the conclave ended,
then?"
"It is, Antonio. This is a bad business with Taliesin, and
it will have to be looked into."
"Yes, my lord."
"Be ready to assist me an hour after sundown."
Antonio bowed again.
The Florentine Chantry, XVI Kal. Apr.
(March 17 – St. Patrick's Feast)
Etienne stood in the doorway, looking down the corridor.
"How are they tonight?" he asked the keeper.
The keeper heaved out of his chair. "How are they?"
he returned. "Fine, of course. They are succulent and well-fed.
I attend to my little charges."
Etienne followed him in.
Two long cells lined the sides of the narrow passageway, each
holding about a dozen human beings. Pride had obviously colored
the keeper's assessment somewhat. His prisoners lived comfortably
enough, for prisoners – they were given straw pallets, even
a few chairs to sit on, bread and hot stew every day. Nonetheless,
they all had the wan, withered look of plants left under an upturned
bushel. Those who survived the bleedings would eventually die
from lack of sun and air. The Tremere saw no reason to allow
privileges they themselves could no longer enjoy.
As the men and women in the cells caught sight of Etienne, a
piteous stirring moved through them. They sat up; eyes shining
with hope sought to capture his own.
"My lord, please –"
"My lord, have mercy –"
"Choose me –"
"Shut up!" snarled the keeper. "The lot of you.
The lord shall choose as he pleases."
They subsided reluctantly.
"Well, my lord?" the keeper invited Etienne. "Which'll
it be tonight?"
Etienne considered and spurned several pleading glances.
"I don't know."
"Don't none of them please you?"
"No, it's not that. I know they're all delicious,"
said Etienne politely. It was only half a lie; he knew how most
of them tasted by now, but the memory did little to whet his
appetite. The keeper had delicate feelings on the subject of
his pantry, however, and it was best to humor them.
"Ah. Perhaps that's the trouble, is it?" The keeper
scratched his head. "My lord has an exacting palate and
it craves variety. I understand. My lord, if you'll look to the
far wall, there is a new acquisition."
Etienne tried to look where the keeper directed, but the prisoners
actually moved to block his view, crowding against the rusting
bars. He rose up on his toes, and at last he caught sight of
the newcomer. She was a young woman, full and plump, with frizzy
brown hair. She huddled alone in the back corner of the cell;
hers was the only face turned away.
"She was brought in just last night," the keeper went
on. "Very delicious, very clean and healthy for a common
whore. Can't have been at it long, poor pet! My lord Gilbert
sampled her himself and was quite pleased."
"I see. Let me in, I want a better look."
"Of course, my lord."
The keeper's scourge forced the others back while Etienne went
over to the girl. She recoiled from him, drawing up into a little
ball of warm flesh.
"Don't touch me," she whispered.
"Don't be frightened," said Etienne.
He reached out to her. She slapped his hand away. At this a chorus
of protest erupted from the others, only to be harshly silenced
again.
"Snake," hissed the girl.
He stood wooden for a moment, absorbing the too-apt insult. Then
he crouched next to her on the dirty straw. Her anger had brought
her back to life: a sweet, instantaneous expiration of female
sweat greeted him as he drew in a breath to speak, and the scent
of blood rushing up to flush her skin. He could just see the
vein that traced over the curve of her breast, down toward the
nipple barely hidden under her drooping blouse.
"Come now. Fighting won't help." That he could still
be so wretchedly subject to this hunger even when the place,
the manner, everything about it was clumsy and squalid –
that was the really bitter thing. That she hated him as well
was mere accumulation. His body moved forward of its own will,
eager, voracious; it did not care.
"Even if I spared you tonight, someone else would take you
tomorrow," he added, dispensing with the last of his platitudes.
"Why don't you use one of them?" she fired back. She
glared at the knot of people coiled around them now, keeper and
kept all equally dazed with mortal lust. "They want
you."
It was a fair question.
"Etienne?" A voice drifted down from the end of the
corridor, and was soon followed by Antonio's wiry form.
Worse and worse. Etienne struggled to collect himself as his
senior brother stopped just opposite him and leaned against the
bars, glancing idly down at the prisoners who crawled over to
begin a new litany of pleading.
"Lord Gilbert wants to see you."
"Just a moment."
"Well, hurry it up."
Hurry it up indeed, thought Etienne.
For all his long years as a solitary vampire, the drinking of
blood had been his darkest secret – a furtive act, never
spoken of to anyone, let alone done in another's sight. The Tremere
pantry, however, did not admit privacy. Nor did anyone else in
the chantry seem bothered about it. Antonio's eyes studied both
him and his victim with bored detachment, apparently an utter
stranger to shame.
"Hurry it up," he repeated aloud to himself, as though
that would gird his resolve.
She flinched at his words. He took hold of her chin.
"Look at me."
"No!" She twisted her neck, desperately searching out
floor, straw, ceiling, anything that might prove neutral territory.
The keeper readied his whip for a blow. Thinking quickly, Etienne
seized the girl's right hand with his left, bringing it up so
she was put off-balance; almost in the same moment, he gave it
a vicious squeeze, grinding knucklebones against each other.
She cried out and, true to instinct, turned to look at the source
of the injury. In that instant he caught her with his gaze.
"Look at me."
Her face and body froze, then reluctantly slackened; her pupils
dilated.
"Hold still, madamina. Still and quiet. That's it."
The circuit between mind and mind closed, bringing in a new awareness
of her as spirit as well as flesh – and both delectably
captive to his whim. Even their uninvited audience finally receded
in his attention as he concentrated on shaping her thoughts.
"Hear only my voice, see only my eyes. You're going to stay
still and quiet, so that I needn't hurt you at all. I am like
the touch of a mist, light and gentle, just here." He kissed
the translucent skin of her wrist, as chastely as he could bear
to. "No more than that. You see? There'll be no pain."
"He's always got to talk to 'em, that one," the keeper
remarked. Antonio silenced him with a rhetorical throat-clearing.
Hurry it up. Etienne sprung then; fangs that had been
achingly taut with the need to pierce skin did so and immediately
released, bringing back with them an intoxicating flow of nourishment.
The keeper had spoken true. There really could be no comparing
this with the whey from the others' veins. The girl watched listlessly
– she gave a tiny moan when his teeth entered her, but other
than that, his command for quiet held. As he drained her further,
he began to taste a change in her blood, a slight tang of euphoria
that never quite overcame the sharper flavor of terror. Her free
arm moved to cover her breasts.
She couldn't be bled too deeply so soon after Gilbert. For one
black moment he was tempted to go on regardless and finish her,
preserve her, keep anyone else from having her as he had...but
such extravagance would never be forgiven. He stopped well short
of sating himself. After it was done and her wound healed with
a touch of his tongue, he let her go. She stared back at him
joylessly, then curled her pallid arm into her chest and buried
her face sideways in her knees – as though he were some
nightmare apparition that could be canceled out of existence
simply by being ignored.
She was unchanged. Perhaps a few more months in the larder would
reduce her as it had the others, but for now, the pleasure he'd
troubled himself to give her meant nothing against the stark
truth of the assault. A little shaft of self-hatred stabbed him,
then, as he rose, the warmth and color of her blood spreading
through his cheeks and hands.
"Does she please you?" The keeper was back at his side
immediately. "My lord – how is she?"
"Exquisite," he replied. "That'll be all for now."
"Such an epicure," Antonio commented as Etienne joined
him for the walk back up to the main level (the 'cloister,' some
chantry wag had long ago dubbed it). "Do you always drink
so slowly, or only when you're being summoned?"
Etienne stole a glance down at his doublet – no stains;
there rarely were, but one had to check regardless. "I prefer
to be cautious, brother," he answered brusquely. "We
can't very well afford to waste vessels. Is this about Master
Taliesin?"
"Taliesin and Alexander."
"Why, what's happened to Alexander now?"
"That's precisely the question." Antonio clasped his
hands behind him. "He should have reported back night before
last. He was only supposed to ride out to our villa on the Ticino
and find out whether Taliesin made it that far. Well, Lord Gilbert
and I just scried for him again, and no luck."
"I see. And now someone else needs to be thrown down the
same hole after him, is that it?"
"As you say." The other Tremere smiled indulgently.
They stopped before the door to Gilbert's study, a well-tended
artifact of carvings and scrawls and bright silver fittings and
aged layers of wax polish. Antonio raised a palm up to it, sending
a ripple through the ward that hummed invisibly along its surface.
"Come," answered the hoarse voice from inside. The
door unlatched and opened. Etienne let his senior brother precede
him, then entered himself, bowing low before the old man who
sat at his writing desk, chewing on his own thin upper lip.
"My lord. How may I serve?"
"In several ways, I fancy." Gilbert set down his parchment.
"Has Antonio explained the present trouble to you?"
"Not in great detail, my lord, but yes."
"Here's the sticky thing, Stefano my lad." Gilbert
motioned for the two of them to rise. Etienne noted the Italianization
of his name with a pang of foreboding. The old magus only ever
used it as a gruff jest, and what was he trying to make light
of by using it now? "We're all but certain now that our
brother Taliesin is dead. The same can't be said for young Alexander,
but if his master didn't survive, that doesn't bode well for
his fate either."
"No, my lord. But if I may ask –"
"Whatever you like."
"Only 'all but certain'?"
"I know what you're thinking," said Gilbert dryly.
"Let us simply say that steps must be taken in the prudent
order, and that's why I express myself as I do. In any case,
the Council has good cause for its conclusions. You may rely
on that."
"Yes, my lord."
"But that's not the sticky thing," Antonio interjected.
He absentmindedly cleared off Gilbert's ritual table as he listened
in, knocking ash out of the brazier and folding the mirror up
in soft cloth.
"No. The sticky thing is the matter of Ruthven."
Etienne nodded. "I know. Or at least, I've heard your lordship
congratulate Master Taliesin on every visit for making it past
the Signor's domain in one piece."
"A shame how luck never holds out," Gilbert grumbled.
"Now in theory, the Cainites of Florence have a treaty with
the Milanese, including Signor Ruthven. But I daresay you can
guess what his word is worth to us."
"No more than that of any other Tzimisce, I'm sure."
"Far less than that of any other Tzimisce, lad. He
may not have bloodied his name here yet as he did in Hungary,
but we cannot allow ourselves to be lulled."
"Hungary, my lord?"
"Yes, Hungary. Surely I'm not first with that news."
Gilbert glanced at Antonio. "You've even more discretion
than I gave you credit for, my boy. Can it be that you've never
gossiped about Ruthven to the others?"
"I imagined they would be told when it became their business
to know, my lord." Antonio straightened his shoulders in
response to his master's roundabout praise.
"Yes. Well, it's just become his business, so be sure he
learns the tale. After all, you'll have to ride by the same way.
The two of you are to retrace what should have been our brothers'
steps...or as near to them as you can get...and discover their
fate. Rather, Antonio must accomplish that task. Your
task, Etienne, will be to assist him."
"I exist to serve, my lord. – Forgive my ignorance,
but you mentioned a treaty just now; and I'm afraid I have no
idea what the terms of such a treaty would be like. Does it address
our clan specifically, for example?"
Antonio threw Etienne a look. A practical Florentine to the core,
he believed that conversations should be like a Roman road, arrow-straight
with no meandering en route to the destination. "There's
a copy of the treaty in the library, Etienne. Honestly, if you
must have all the political details, I can give them to you later.
There's not that much to tell anyway."
"Not much that directly bears on your purpose," Gilbert
agreed. "And indeed I shall leave it to you, Antonio, to
prepare your brother. All the same, this will be your first visit
to the Milanese domain...and Etienne's first, for all intents
and purposes. Unless you were presented to his Highness,
and you've simply never bothered to inform me of it?"
"No, my lord," Etienne answered. "I hadn't any
inkling of vampire courts when I arrived in Milan, and Master
Taliesin sent me on to Vienna the very next night. I never so
much as heard Prince Ercole's name until I came here."
"Ah. In that case, I should arrange to have you both speak
with one of our Princess' counselors before you leave. You know
what court affairs are like if anyone does, Etienne. In such
matters, scientia est potentia, and I would have you forearmed
with as much information about the vipers in that particular
nest as possible."
"Indeed, my lord."
"Good. Which also reminds me, Antonio, there are a few spells
I must show you, the formulae to open the Milanese chantry and
suchlike. Tomorrow, eh?"
"Yes, my lord," Antonio replied eagerly.
Gilbert handed Etienne the parchment he had had at his fingertips.
"Here. Take a look at this bedeviling thing, would you?"
Etienne took it. It was a letter addressed to Ercole, Prince
of the Kindred in Milan. His quick eyes leapt from sentence to
sentence, and he mumbled bits of phrases as he read.
"May I be frank with my lord?"
"Go ahead," muttered the old wizard, "tell me
what's wrong with it."
"Well. Bear in mind I've never met his Highness of Milan,
but if he's anything like most potentates, mortal or immortal,
more flattery will be required. – A lot more flattery, if
you can stomach it."
"Bonisagus' beard, Etienne, I'm not asking to marry his
childe!"
"My lord, kings writing to fellow-kings employ more gilding
than this." Etienne looked up and caught another hostile
glance from Antonio. Well, what of it? Gilbert always consulted
him on matters of protocol. "For instance, the opening.
It's not enough to acknowledge him Prince of Milan – no
one disputes that. You've also got to say how marvelous he is."
"Well, what would you start with?"
"Oh...I don't know. Something like: To Ercole, his most
gracious, puissant, and sovereign Highness..."
Milan, IX Kal. Apr.
(March 24 – Gabriel's Feast)
| "....Kindred Prince of Milan and Lord of all its subject states; from his servant Gilbert, Florentine Regent and Lord of the Northern Italian States for House and Clan Tremere; humble greetings." |
Messer Tivaldi cleared his throat and looked to his employer, the said sovereign and puissant Highness, for permission to continue. Ercole granted it with a grave nod.
|
"Inasmuch as your poor
servant has been most remiss in tendering a proper declaration
of the admiration and goodwill which I and indeed all my brethren
of the Tremere bear your Highness and your Highness' fair realm,
I must lament that my first feeble attempt to make amends does
not come under more auspicious circumstances; also that I must
further impose upon your Highness' generous tolerance by bringing
a difficulty of mine to your attention and praying your assistance
in the matter. Be assured that I would not trouble your Highness
were it not also a matter which concerns the Cainites of your
city, your subjects who are fortunate to look to your Highness'
august protection. "I will be brief. Our brother Master Taliesin, Regent of the Milan Chantry, failed to arrive in Florence as expected for an important appointment some nights ago, and now his apprentice Alexander, whom I immediately sent to inquire into the matter, has disappeared as well. I greatly fear that they have encountered some mishap; as your Highness is no doubt aware, Master Taliesin is not of a frivolous or forgetful nature. Accordingly, my superior, the most wise Etrius of our Clan's High Council (who naturally takes a close and concerned interest in the well-being of his younger brethren) has directed me to investigate the problem with all speed, to determine the whereabouts of our two clansmen and whether they be in some difficulty which might require assistance or, Heaven forfend, rescue. "I therefore crave permission of your most noble Highness to send a few of our Tremere to your city, that they might carry out this mission as swiftly and with as little trouble to yours or ours as possible. Messer Antonio shall be chief among them, should your Highness allow them to come; he is my most trusted pupil, and I am certain that he will most eagerly tender the warm regards and heartfelt reverence which I would hasten to bring to your Highness personally, did not duty regretfully forbid me. I can only lament again that such misfortune should occasion the young man's first journey to Milan, which would otherwise be an unadulterated pleasure for him as well as a privilege. "I beg your Highness, as one who has always shown a most fitting and virtuous benevolence toward your fellow Ventrue as well as toward your subjects, to have compassion for your poor servant's desire to fulfill my duties toward my own brethren whom I am sworn to support and defend. "I await your Highness' reply. I have been importuned by my lady Princess Lucia Magdalena to include with my letter her most earnest and affectionate regards, which she proffered in words so touching that I could never hope to do them justice. I pray that this finds your Highness and all your splendid court prosperous as always and in good spirits. Ex Florentia XVI Kal. Apr. MCCCCXC. Your humble devoted servant, Gilbert, Regent of Florence, Lord of the Northern Italian States for House and Clan Tremere, etc. |
"The courier begs leave, my lord, to await a reply as
to your Highness' pleasure," Messer Tivaldi concluded.
Ercole picked up the letter, blue eyes flicking over the written
words to the seals below, and handed it back to Tivaldi. "The
courier may wait," he said, "until it is our pleasure
to answer. Send a runner to fetch Captain Federigo immediately.
I will have the truth of this matter before allowing any more
of that lot inside my walls."
Scant minutes later, the summons was answered. Federigo da Siracusa
came into the audience room, striding purposefully like the condotierre
he had been in mortal life, and bowed low before Ercole.
"Ever at your service, Highness."
Ercole waved at his secretary. "Read the letter again."
Tivaldi obeyed. Federigo listened, his dark brow contracting.
"The wizard's done a disappearing act, has he?" he
said when the recitation was finished. "And his mewling
apprentice with him? Are you quite sure, my lord, that Signor
Ruthven has not simply eaten them both?"
"Given Master Taliesin's disposition, I should think such
a meal would give even our hardy Tzimisce a sour stomach,"
Ercole replied dryly. "Look into it. Make sure the wizard
hasn't just holed up with some new moldy manuscript and forgotten
his prior obligations. Before I grant permission for more of
that brotherhood to enter my city, I want to make sure there
is a legitimate reason to do so – if we can solve their
little problem for them, so much the better. Check the roads
and canals all the way out to the river, and have young Benedio
stop at that house of theirs here in town, to see what he can
find out."
"As your Highness wishes," Federigo said, bowing once
again.
| The Dragon's Masque | Cainites of Milan, 1490 | The Chronicle |