Beautiful Blood

Come morning, showered and, for the first time in weeks, clean shaven, armed with a hunting rifle, General Aldo’s notebook and a pair of binoculars, he set forth on horseback, riding a bay gelding belonging to the House. He skirted Griaule’s fearsome mouth and passed onto the plain, keeping his distance from the dark green cliff of the dragon’s side, its true contours obscured at the base by mounded earth and grass, and higher up by vines and moss and epiphytes, most of the blooms pale lavender in color, but some few a lurid reddish orange that stood out from their surround like points of flame. His expectations of locating Cerruti were not high, yet as he rode his mood grew less oppressive. Though it was not yet nine o’clock, the sun was a dynamited white glare that cooked a strong scent from the stands of palmetto and broke a sweat on his back and shoulders. He went slowly, stopping now and again to scan the plain with his binoculars. When he drew near the haunch, he searched the landscape more carefully, but saw no house. Oddboy had likely moved on, but Rosacher wanted to be thorough and it was good to be out in the air after such a lengthy sequestration—he decided to continue searching. By mid-day he had traveled the length of the dragon, arriving at a place where the tail was completely buried beneath earth and grass, and there he tethered the bay and made a lunch of cold pork and grapes. It had been years since he’d ventured out on the plain and he had forgotten how extensive it was. Due to the clarity of the air, the low hills that encircled the valley appeared close at hand, yet he doubted he could reach them before nightfall. A fitful breeze stirred the tall yellow grasses, occasionally blowing with sufficient force to lift a palmetto frond, but otherwise everything was still—but it was an ominous stillness. The air seemed to hold a rapid vibration, the sum of the thousand heartbeats of the predators, great and small, that watched him from hiding. While digesting his lunch, he peered through the binoculars, tracking across thorn trees, acacias, more palmettos, shrimp plants, and then was brought up short by the sight of a pair of legs clad in coarse, dirty cloth. Dropping the binoculars, he scrambled to his feet. A man stood barely ten yards away—he was tanned, lean, with brown hair falling to his shoulders, and was shirtless, wearing sandals and a pair of ill-used canvas trousers. In one hand was a game sack figured by reddish-brown stains, and in the other a long-bladed knife. Before Rosacher could react, the man closed the distance between them. He was not so young as Rosacher had thought. Gray threaded his hair and deep lines scored his face, which had not been a pretty sight to begin with—long and horsey, with a hooked nose and squinty blue eyes, the sclera displaying a faint yellowish tinge. The nose had been broken more than once, and a ridged scar ran from the corner of his left eye and down onto his neck. His mouth worked as if he were trying to rid himself of a bad taste, and when he spoke it was in a nasal twang that was pitched an octave higher than Rosacher had anticipated.

“Man could get himself killed out here,” he said. “You after getting killed?”

“No, I’m…I’m looking for someone.”

“Must be someone real important, because you’re taking one hell of a risk.” The man’s mouth worked again. “You’re that Rosacher, ain’t you?”

“You know me?”

“Seen you around. How’d you get your face fixed? Once a man gets burnt by flakes, he generally stays burnt.”

“I’m not sure,” Rosacher said. “It may be…it’s difficult to explain.”

The man grunted. “I suppose it is.” He waved at the plain with his knife. “I was you, I wouldn’t stay out here much longer. Something’s liable to bite you in half.”

He started to walk away, but Rosacher said, “Wait! I need to speak to Bruno Cerruti.”

The man turned. “What for?”

“Are you Cerruti?”

“Ain’t much point denying it. What you want?”

“Did a man named Aldo visit you recently.”

“Man was out here a few weeks ago with some soldiers. Don’t recall his name, but those soldiers scared the hell out of Frederick. It was a chore holding him back.”

Rosacher didn’t understand the reference to Frederick, but let it pass, sensing from Cerruti’s truculent manner and clipped speech that he had a limited amount of time in which to make his inquiries and state his business. “What did Aldo want with you?”

“That’s between me and him.”

Sweat rolled down Rosacher’s back, beaded on his forehead. “That’s no longer the case. Aldo’s dead.”

“Huh. Too bad. Seemed like a nice little fellow.” Cerruti spat out a brown wad of, Rosacher assumed, tobacco. “He was right took by Frederick. Said he had somebody needed killing. But the soldiers got Frederick excited and I advised him to leave. He said he’d come back later and we’d finish discussing the matter.”

Rosacher wiped sweat from his eyes. “Is there someplace out of this heat where we can talk?”