Beautiful Blood

He offered reassurances about her looks and, after she had gone off to pack him a lunch, he examined himself in the mirror. The scars made it difficult to judge, but it seemed to him that the unaffected area of his face was relatively unlined and his hair did not appear to be appreciably greyer. Odd. He imagined that the lack of stress had much to do with it. The drug business had been nerve-wracking, whereas the construction and organization of the House was something he looked forward to each and every day, difficult, but a joyful challenge, and not in the least stressful. At the end of a working day he would be tired, but not on edge, unable to sleep, his mind occupied with paranoid fantasies, some of which proved not to be fantasies.

He strode along Griaule’s western slope to reach the ledge and on glancing down he saw, stretching out from the southern perimeter of Morningshade, a plain upon which infantry and mounted troops rushed back and forth, raising clouds of whitish dust that curtained the air. The militia making ready for a sortie against the neighboring country of Temalagua (a dangerous course, in Rosacher’s view), a reprisal for what had been countenanced as “Temalaguan aggression.” The incident in question involved a hunting party from Teocinte that had strayed across the border and been slaughtered by the primitives who lived in the rain forest—it was generally viewed as an excuse for the council, now entirely controlled by Breque, to initiate a conflict that would result in the annexation of Temalagua’s northern province, long the subject of dispute between the two governments. The fact that the province was rich in minerals and had a thriving seaport with a much deeper draft than that of Port Chantay was, of course, merely a coincidence. He stood watching the ugly chaos of the scene for a moment, wondering if he would have to intervene and listening to the disharmonious noises issuing from below, faint hammerings and crashes, and then went on his way.

The wind kicked up, clouds with dark swollen bellies rushed in from the east, and a few drops fell. Rosacher hurried along, arriving at the ledge scant minutes before the drizzle turned into a torrential downpour, drumming on the wing overhead and driving the birds to roost. Instead of addressing his problems, he let the sound of the rain lull him to sleep. When he woke, the overcast still held above Griaule, but there was a sunbreak to the east, a beam of light spraying down like a ray focused through a gigantic crystal, as if God or someone were using a magnifying glass to incinerate a portion of the coast. Birds flew out from their nests, testing the air, then returning to squabble briefly before flying off in search of breakfast. Water dripped from the cartilaginous edges of the wing. The whole of creation seemed to have been renewed by the rain—things crawled, scuttled, hopped and soared, creating the impression of organic unity that so fascinated Rosacher, that he had come to prize, even to depend on for its soothing effect. And he wondered, not for the first time, at the clear duality posed by the view from this side of the dragon and the sheer gracelessness visible from the western slope, the former being, he assumed, the idyllic albeit savage world of Griaule’s origins, and the latter representing the world into which he had been thrust, a savage place also, but betraying no sign of tranquility or unified function, reflecting the erratic, the inconsistent, the poisonous delirium predicated by the human contaminant. Yet was not Griaule in part responsible for that delirium? Rosacher had spent his formative years in a Prussian village, his university days in Berlin—both places had seemed orderly and firmly regulated. The dysfunctional condition of Teocinte and environs might be the product of a torment visited upon it by Griaule. Or perhaps Prussia was not as orderly as he recalled. He decided that he would have to travel more widely and observe other cultures before reaching a conclusion.

His mind continued to run this course for a time, pushing about the notion of Griaule’s duality, and he was considering whether or not to write something on the subject in order to organize his thoughts when a man’s voice hailed him. Looking behind him, Rosacher saw two men standing atop the dragon’s ridged spine, one holding a long-barreled rifle. The shorter of the men waved and began scrambling down the slope toward him; the other shouldered his rifle and remained in place. As the man drew near, Rosacher recognized him to be Councilman Breque, a much greyer version of the Breque he first met. He came up to a knee, suddenly wary, casting about for an escape route. When Breque reached the ledge, he stood for a moment with hands on hips, catching his breath and gazing out over the valley.

“Lovely spot,” he said. “A touch precipitous for my taste, but it’s truly spectacular.” He pointed to a section of scale beside Rosacher. “Do you mind?”