Beautiful Blood

 The tower that Meric Cattanay had erected so he might observe the progress of his great work was a rickety affair some eighty feet high, so hastily carpentered of boards and poles that a strong wind would sway it, threatening to send it crashing down onto the rooftops and smoking chimneys of Morningshade below. From a platform at the summit, it afforded one an unimpeded view of the painting on the dragon’s side (albeit one complicated by scaffolding and the dozen or so artisans currently occupying it) and of the painting—it appeared to Rosacher’s eyes as a blotch of gold a few shades lighter than the dragon’s natural color, spreading from the middle joint of the foreleg around the curve of the side. Other colors were beginning to emerge from the blotch, but gave no hint of the image that would one day be presented. Also visible against the gray morning sky were the enormous vats that had been constructed atop Griaule’s flat forehead. In these, the raw materials that produced the poisoned paint were distilled. Smoke rose from beneath them at every hour of the day and night, making it seem that the dragon was venting frustration through his skull.

Rosacher had climbed the tower in order to be alone (an ambition thwarted when he discovered Cattanay, bearded and bedraggled, sketching on the platform) and to gain perspective, though not on the painting. He had taken to sleeping as little as possible, doing everything in his power to stay awake, yet some sleep was essential and he had woken that morning to discover he had lost another four years—at this rate he calculated that he had at best another week or so to live, and he hoped this elevated position would lend itself to a fresh comprehension of the problem. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Cattanay, who seemed as perturbed by Rosacher’s presence as was Rosacher with his, returned to his sketching, and Rosacher sat on the lip of the platform, dangling his legs off the side, staring at the golden blotch. His thoughts were in disarray and resisted all attempts to marshal them. He kept coming back to the panicked recognition that he was now, as best he could determine, forty-three years old, and that the better part of sixteen years had been stripped from him. The obvious thing to do would be to stop moping and get to work on his study of the blood and hope that it led to an insight into his current difficulties. He had built a laboratory in his factory and nothing stood in his way…unless it was Griaule. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that he must have been close to achieving a breakthrough, one detrimental to the dragon’s health or contrary to his schemes, for Griaule to have intervened and set his life upon such a different course. This inspired him to go forward with his researches, but the idea that Griaule might thwart him at any second neutered the impulse. And, too, he wondered if he still retained the discipline to stare for hours into a microscope. Ludie was probably right—he made a more successful criminal than he did a scientist.

Boards creaked behind him and, turning, he saw Cattanay sitting cross-legged, unwrapping a sandwich from a packet of brown paper. Glancing up, he offered half to Rosacher, who declined. Cattanay took a bite, chewed with gusto and swallowed. He made a contented sound and brushed crumbs from his beard.

“This cheese is excellent,” he said. “You should try it. Allie, my companion, soaks it in an infusion of berries. Quite tasty.”

Again Rosacher declined. He watched the artist eat for several seconds and then, feeling awkward with the silence, he asked how the work was going.

Cattanay shrugged. “It goes and it goes. I’ve been unable to manufacture a proper magenta. The color changes so much on the scales…” He gestured with the sandwich. “We’ll get it right sooner or later.”

“I meant to ask if you had any idea of how long Griaule can survive?”

“Haven’t a clue. Sorry. I suppose he could pop off any old time. You need to ask an expert in dragon physiology…if there are such. You were a doctor once, no? You’re more qualified than I to give an opinion.”

Pigeons perched on a beam beneath the platform began to squabble. The wind shifted, bringing a burning smell from the vats. Rosacher realized he’d become so accustomed to the dragon that most of the time he paid it no more attention than a rock—whenever he spoke about Griaule, he did so in the abstract, as if he were referring to an idea, a principle, something other than the dragon’s monstrous reality

“How’s business?” Cattanay asked.

“Manageable. We make plenty of missteps, but one learns to adapt.”

“It’s the same with me. Always something. Loggers haven’t returned with wood to keep the vats going or someone’s taken a fall. I’ve delegated responsibility, yet it’s a rare day when I’m not called away to deal with some trouble.”

“At least when you’re done you’ll have a monument to commemorate your labors.”