“By Allah-the-All-Seeing,
you are despicable,
” Yamut ibn Rabi yelled, but whether he addressed Chimenae or Marid ibn Ali was impossible to guess; his condemnation was punctuated by a swath of lightning in the eastern sky.
“How good of you to rail at me,” said Chimenae, once again caressing his brow. “You take away any doubts I might have in my plans for you.” She pointed to San-Ragoz. “Do not tell him that.”
“What is the she-swine saying?” Yamut ibn Rabi demanded when San-Ragoz did not speak to him.
“She is giving you compliments you would not like, as she intends you would not,” said San-Ragoz, solving his conscience with the inner conviction that this was near enough to the truth. He looked at Chimenae as she touched Marid ibn Ali’s hands and was rewarded with a faint, pathetic smile; thunder drubbed in the distance as if to underscore her actions. “Yes. Oh, yes. One day,” she said dreamily, “very soon, Yamut will be as appreciative of my attentions as Marid is now.”
Instead of translating Chimenae’s toying with him, San-Ragoz said, “Your anger only tempts her to be more outrageous. You are goading her, and she is gratified when she can respond as keenly as your fury permits her. If you contain your emotions, she will not tease you as much. Believe this, for I am telling you the truth as if I held the
Qran
in my hand.” He saw the astonishment in Yamut ibn Ali’s eyes, and he added, “Say something derogatory to me—quickly.”
Baffled, Yamut ibn Rabi blinked, then called San-Ragoz the spawn of afreets and vultures.
“Very good,” San-Ragoz approved, telling Chimenae. “He thinks I am lying to intimidate him. I have said I am not; I doubt he is persuaded.”
“Why should he think that?” Chimenae asked, her eyes shining like steel. “What have you been telling him?”
San-Ragoz answered indirectly. “Among his people, women do not lead. Csimenae. Women are supposed to devote themselves to their fathers, their husbands, and their sons. When they do, the men reward them by affording the same treatment they give their dogs: they keep them all together in a fine kennel and give them eunuchs to guard them.” He recalled the women he had seen in Africa, who starved themselves so that their men might eat, and the women of the harem, who were kept in ignorance and idleness so that they could serve the whims of the Emir’s son.
“That cannot be true,” Chimenae burst out. “It is false. I know it is false. You are saying this to mislead me.”
Recalling Charis, and the wives of Numair ibn Isffah ibn Musa, San-Ragoz shook his head. “No, I am not. I want you to know why he does not believe you, and why he cannot understand what you say.” He looked down at Yamut ibn Rabi, saying to him, “You cannot frighten her with threats and curses. You can only give her pause if you take the time to respond sensibly.”
“Sensibly!” Yamut ibn Rabi jeered. “Why should I do so much for her?”
“It is the only thing she will respect,” San-Ragoz said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper.
This time when Yamut ibn Rabi cursed, it was under his breath.
“What is he saying?” asked Chimenae asked, disappointment turning the corners of her mouth down. “You have to tell me, Sanct’ Germain.”
“He says he is not afraid of you,” said San-Ragoz. “He is afraid for his comrade.”
Chimenae nodded once. “That will change,” she said. “You had best go outside, Sanct’ Germain. Marid is going to going to make his last offering to me.” She paused, then said with deliberate provocation. “A pity that I have tasted this Yamut’s blood as much as I have. It is too late to make him one of mine; I have too much of him in me now. It is a pity.” She shrugged. “Still, I might make an exception for him, if he will become as much my ally as he is my foe. Tell him that.”
Before San-Ragoz could speak lightning struck again, much brighter, showing vividly in three of the four windows, and followed almost at once by an eruption of thunder that bludgeoned the air.
Marid ibn Ali made a feeble effort to reach out to Chimenae, but he had no strength to sustain his exertion.
Very quietly and steadily, San-Ragoz translated for Yamut ibn Rabi, adding, “She may well do it.”
“I could never surrender so to a woman.” He squirmed as much as his restraints would allow so that he could see Chimenae. “You do not have the authority to bend me to your uses. I am above your threats, even death. Nothing you do could change that, for I am a follower of the Prophet of Allah.” Then he looked at San-Ragoz. “You may tell her what you wish. I do not care if it is a lie or the truth.”
San-Ragoz translated the first and last part of what Yamut ibn Rabi said, but omitted his condemnation at the middle. He gave Chimenae a long stare. “Do you still want me to go?”
“Of course,” she said impatiently. “Unless you are curious enough to want to watch.”
“I think not,” said San-Ragoz, unable to mask his aversion. “Am I to remain nearby or may I depart for the night?”
“Hunt awhile if you like, but come back before dawn, for the spoils,” she said at her most magnanimous.
San-Ragoz did as she told him, and saw as he shut the door that Wembo had come back to watch over the stone house.
“The lightning struck a way up the slope; there are trees burning,” he said to San-Ragoz, as if that accounted for his presence. He kept his hand on the axe hanging from his belt.
“It may come again,” San-Ragoz said, his thoughts in turmoil. Was Chimenae testing him once more, or had she already concluded he would never be part of her singular world and was prepared to be rid of him for all time? Was she informing him that she would not allow him to leave her region, that he would ally with her or die the True Death? She was capable of such finality, and her ambivalence was strong enough to impel her to kill him. Was she waiting for him to try to run, so that she could give her orders and justify them to everyone, including herself? Was there any way he could bridge the gulf that yawned between them without driving her to attack him? He did not like the way his ruminations were tending, but he could not ignore the likelihood that Chimenae would reach a point where she would demonstrate her authority over her vampires by killing him, for she wanted no ally who might prove a rival; his death would be a potent object lesson for those of her blood who had become restive. In the next few days he would have to leave or risk becoming a victim of her dreads and ambitions.
Finally the clouds gave up their burden in a display of rain, lightning, and thunder that shook the mountains even as the ground ran, carrying loose debris into freshets and rills, promising a gathering flood at lower elevations. The rain was dense, falling without wind in a direct line from the heavens, battering through the trees and soaking everything.
San-Ragoz’s clothing was saturated almost at once, becoming heavy and clinging; he told himself that at least he would be cleaner when the rain stopped. With that philosophical observation for consolation, he started back the way he had come, letting the rain pour over him, not minding when it sapped a little of his strength. Giving himself a short time to hunt, he went past another of the improvised cup shrines located in a grove of trees where he noticed a few of the cups had been overturned and left; San-Ragoz could not determine if this had been deliberate or accidental, but it left him with an uneasy feeling that bore down on him with the rain as he continued up the slope toward the barren ridge and Chimenae’s stone house.
Half a dozen of Chimenae’s vampires had already arrived; they were prowling about the stone house seeking shelter from the misery of the rain. None of them spoke to San-Ragoz or to one another. As San-Ragoz hung back, a jagged blade of lightning gashed through the clouds, striking the largest of the cups and reducing it to misshapen slag while thunder pummeled the ridge.
Achona arrived in the yawning silence that followed. She did her best to swagger, but she could not hide the desperation that came from her like a stench. Staying a short distance away, she paid no attention to the rain or to the others as they came to the stone house.
Finally Aulutiz strode out of the woods and onto the exposed ridge. He had a stag slung over his shoulders; the animal was stunned but still alive. “Wembo!” Aulutiz called out. “Take this.”
Wembo emerged from the shadows of the stone house and came to do as he was bid. “A fine animal.”
“He had been running in fright. The storm panicked him. I brought him down without effort.” Aulutiz was boasting and his boast was calm, confident.
“Are we all here?” Aulutiz asked nonchalantly as he gave the deer over to Wembo.
“Two are missing,” said Wembo, taking up the stag.
Aulutiz was about to ask who they were when the door of the stone house opened and Chimenae stepped out. “There is a dead Moor to be disposed of in the mountains. This storm should make that an easy task.” She looked about her. “Who shall do this thing for me?”
There was a clamor of voices, and one or two were bold enough to step forward to offer their services.
Chimenae motioned the impetuous volunteers back. “Tamosh,” she said. “You and Ennati will do this. Make sure you choose a remote place. No one is to find any of the Moors for at least two generations.”
Tamosh ducked his head. “I will see to it.”
“And Blaga, you will bring the two-legged goat tomorrow. It must be this next night. Take Ennati with you.” She pointed to the copper-haired man standing beside Blaga. “Tell them, Dorioz; tell them in the village what we demand. Go now, so you can speak to the guards. Make sure that they understand it must be ready by nightfall. I will accept no delays.” Chimenae moved quickly to Aulutiz’s side. “You have brought a stag, my son. That is good of you.”
“You saw me?” He was startled, and disappointed with himself for being taken unaware.
“Certainly, Aulutiz. You should not doubt me.” She walked away from her son, only to turn back to him. “Remember who I am.”
“Yes, Matra.” He scowled at her, to which she chuckled.
“Chimenae,” said Edic, coming forward. “You must consider. You cannot continue to hide bodies in the forest.”
“Edic,” said Chimenae with exaggerated patience, “you are too timorous. Who is going to find them, but wolves?”
“I say you are growing too reckless. We have gone unchallenged for many years, and it has made you complacent. You have not been vigilant, thinking that you will not be tested by the villagers now that the Moors have come; that is foolhardy. You are no longer protected as you once were. These times are not as safe as twenty years ago.” He shook his head. “You will draw attention to our presence, and the villagers will not protect us. They will be glad to be rid of—”
“Our kind,” she finished for him. “Yes, yes, yes. You have said this before. And if it gladdens you to know, San-Ragoz agrees with you.” She dismissed him abruptly. “You have heard my orders. That is the end of it.”
San-Ragoz could see that Edic was disconcerted; he tried to form a protestation but decided it was useless. He shook his head in defeat and turned away.
“The storm may last through the morning, so choose your resting places with care, away from running water,” Chimenae reminded them all. “Ennati and Tamosh, come with me. Blaga, Cossadin, Merez, you are to patrol the forest until dawn. Be vigilant. I will want your account at dusk. The rest of you, go with Aulutiz and feed on the stag. See that Mont Calcius is given the body, to remind them why they must give us our two-legged goat.”
A few of her tribe attempted to catch her attention but to no avail; the downpour soon drove them off the ridge toward the place Wembo had taken the stag. San-Ragoz went off toward the place where his native earth was hidden, grateful he had not been asked to translate anything more for Chimenae that night.
By noon the clouds had passed and the sky was bright and hot; sunlight streamed down on the hollow where San-Ragoz had taken shelter, waking him from his stupor with the burning sting of its touch. He sat up, listening and alert, and wishing he had a change of clothing, for his garments were damp, ragged, and the hems were smirched with mud. The ground beneath him was slightly damp, cooling him enough to make him able to bear the impact of the sun. Rubbing his face, he felt the slow-growing stubble emerging. If he could find a weapon with a proper edge, he might risk shaving, but without such a tool, he knew the wiser course was to wait. He frowned, considering all that had taken place the night before, and again he wondered if it might be prudent to leave and take his chances being hunted. But he suspected that as long as Yamut ibn Rabi was able to speak, Chimenae would want him to translate for her, which gave him a few more days in which to plan.
With many hours of daylight still ahead of him, San-Ragoz felt at loose ends; he had none of his usual occupations available to him—he had no provisions for making medicaments beyond gathering herbs, and no place to store them once he had them; he had no books to read and no vellum or ink that would make it possible for him to write; he had no instruments on which to play; and worst of all, there was no companion with whom to talk. He had long valued his friend and bondsman, the ghoul Ruges, and not primarily for his service and attendance, but for his comprehension, his experience of long, long life. In the centuries since San-Ragoz had brought him back from death, they had been nearly constant companions; this separation of years had never weighed more on San-Ragoz than it did that day.
Finally making up his mind, San-Ragoz left his hidden native earth and began making a rapid trek through the forest, searching out tracks and trails that led upward and that could guide him out of the region without recourse to the few roads traveled by men. He came upon two more groves with offerings of cups of blood set out on stones or in ancient niches; he noticed that the blood was coagulated, and so the cups had to have been set out some time before. These remote groves served to provide him a rough estimate of how far Chimenae’s region extended, and to gauge the distance he would have to travel to be out of the reach of her and those of her blood; it was an impressive range, and one he knew it was prudent to extend beyond the groves. To be safe, he decided he would need to be at least ten thousand paces beyond such shrines. He found it repellent to think of them as being of his blood as well, although he knew they were. It distressed him to think what might become of them, for clearly, they could not continue as they were. With the increasing acrimony and invidiousness, there would be a point where their rancor could no longer be contained, and when that occurred, San-Ragoz suspected that in spite of her strength of will, Chimenae would be unable to maintain the control she had contrived to exercise thus far; he did not know if she was appraising her tribe’s devotion, but he reckoned if that were the case, she would fail. He realized that warning her would do no good, for it had not succeeded before now, yet he could not rid himself of the gnawing uneasiness that rebellion would be more catastrophic for the whole tribe than Chimenae’s tyranny had been.