Beautiful Blood

The assassin sprang for him, a nightmare of flapping robes and an empty cowl. Rosacher was bowled over by the attack, but succeeded in grabbing the man’s knife-arm, securing his wrist, and they went rolling across the carpet at the foot of the bed. For an instant Rosacher gained the upper hand, straddling the assassin, but the man whipped him onto his back—effortlessly, it seemed—and came astride him, forcing the dagger toward Rosacher’s throat. The point of the blade scored his jaw. He cried out, a desperate shout, and sought to dislodge the assassin by bucking with his hips, directing his remaining energies toward diverting the blade. Light still issued from the gemstone fallen to the floor, but he could see nothing of his attacker’s face. The assassin shifted his grip on the hilt of the dagger, relaxing downward pressure for a split-second, and Rosacher seized the opportunity to cry out again. The dagger nicked him twice more, once in the shoulder and once on the collarbone. He suffocated in the mustiness of the man’s woolen robe, in the pepper-and-onions scent of his last meal. With a surge of energy, realizing he had no chance fighting from his back, Rosacher brought his knee up hard into the assassin’s back, driving him forward, and scrambled from beneath him, regaining his feet, panting, gulping in air. The assassin came up into a crouch and feinted with the dagger…and then the door burst open, lantern-light cut the dimness, and three of Rosacher’s servants rushed into the room. Hesitating but a moment, they leaped at the assassin and bore him to the floor. Arthur appeared in the doorway, pistol in hand, clad in a nightshirt that fell to his bony knees. Drained of his reserves, Rosacher staggered to the bed and sat. The assassin lay without struggling in the grip of the three men, one of whom had received a slash across the arm. His cowl had fallen back, revealing him to be a mere boy of sixteen or thereabouts, towheaded and with a baby-ish face. He seemed to be praying, his eyes shut, lips moving silently. Rosacher watched him without pity.

“It’ll take more than prayer to bring you through this night,” he said.

The boy’s eyelids fluttered, but he continued to pray.

“Are you injured?” Arthur asked.

“Not badly.” Rosacher pointed to the gemstone on the floor. “Here. Hand it to me.”

Arthur scooped it up. “It’s one of the Church’s baubles.”

The gem was warm to the touch, about the size of a peach, faceted on its uppermost surface. It no longer shone. After a cursory examination, Rosacher tossed it onto the bed.

“What are you doing here?” he asked Arthur.

The giant adopted a sheepish expression. “I was induced to stay by your new kitchen girl. Good thing, as it turned out.”

“Where’s Ludie?”

“I don’t think she’s back from her ride. She said she’d be gone ’til tomorrow.”

A maid peeked in the door and Arthur told her to fetch bandages and ointment. Still unsteady, Rosacher stood and clung to the bedpost for support. Arthur asked once more if he was all right. Rosacher ignored the question and waved at the assassin. “Take him to the cellar and question him. And send someone to the barracks. I’ll need a force of twenty men.”

“What’ve you got in mind?”

“Just get them! And make certain they’re men we can trust. Have them dress in civilian clothes.” Rosacher indicated the three servants who were hustling the assassin from the room. “See that they get some money.”

Once Arthur had gone, he went into the bathroom and lit the wall lamp. Memories crowded into his brain, new ones mixing with old, slotting into their rightful place, aligning with events, times, locations, and even before he looked into the mirror he knew that he had suffered a second and more substantial lapse of time. Six years! No, seven. Seven years. He was surprised by how greatly he had changed. His head was no longer shaven, his hair flecked with gray, curling down over his neck. His face was leaner, harsher, with deep lines beside the mouth and eyes. An imperious face, unadmitting of emotion. He found much to admire in that face. A new firmness was seated there, reflecting a pragmatic cast of mind—that must explain why he was not so disoriented as he had been on the previous occasion. He had grown more adaptable to change, though he could not adapt to the idea that years were being ripped away from him.