Beautiful Blood

After a while, a very long while, it seemed, he smelled meat cooking. He crept along, uncertain whether he would find friend or foe, and shortly after that, he saw up ahead an embankment atop which an enormous tree had fallen, creating a natural shelter. Beneath it sat the king, shirtless, yet still wearing his riding trousers. Rosacher felt a measure of bitterness on seeing him so at ease. Relative to Rosacher, he was the picture of contentment—he had made a fire of branches and twigs, and was roasting the spitted carcass of a smallish animal. The prospect of warmth and food enticed Rosacher, but he hesitated to approach, mindful of how he would be received. Carlos carved a slice of meat from the animal’s haunch with a skinning knife and laid it on some leaves to cool…and that was too much of a temptation for Rosacher. He started forward and, glancing up from the fire, Carlos said, “Richard! I thought you had drowned.”

Rosacher dropped down beside the fire. His teeth still chattered and Carlos built the fire up, adding twigs and leaves until Rosacher’s body had soaked up sufficient heat to allow him to think and speak. “What was that thing?” he asked, accepting a strip of meat that Carlos extended on his knife tip. The meat was greasy, but good.

“It’s nothing I’ve seen before.” Carlos sawed at the carcass. “I don’t suppose you’ve encountered any other survivors.”

Rosacher shook his head, No, and his teeth began to chatter again. Carlos urged him to rest and spread his clothes by the fire so they could dry.

Once his chill had passed, Rosacher had a second bite of the meat. “This is good. What is it?”

“Agouti.” Carlos nibbled and chewed. “No one at court cares for the meat—they think it fit only for peasants. But I’m quite fond of it.”

After Rosacher had finished his first piece of meat, the king carved him another. Rosacher had a bite and then, recalling why he had come to Temalagua, he asked Carlos if he knew what had happened to Cerruti.

“I can’t be sure,” Carlos said. “It was too dark to see clearly, but I think he was the one the beast decapitated.”

His response started Rosacher to wondering why Cerruti had gone into the water. Had he been moved by instinct or had he been pushed? And if what Carlos told him was true, what did that say about the relationship between Cerruti and Frederick? His head was spinning and he was incapable of focusing on these questions, so he asked how Carlos had made his escape.

“I saw you go underwater and followed your example.”

If Carlos said more, Rosacher was not aware of it, for he lapsed into unconsciousness. On waking, he discovered that the king had covered him with his doublet. He made to give back the garment, but Carlos refused to accept it, saying, “You’re suffering from exposure. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

The rain had been reduced to a drizzle and Rosacher’s trousers were almost dry—he put them on and asked if Carlos knew where they were.

“About an hour east of Chisec, I believe. I haven’t hunted this part of the jungle for years, but if memory serves, we follow this trail for about a half-hour and it intersects with something approximating a road. That should take us to the village.” The king patted him on the shoulder. “Are you up to a little walk?”

“Give me a few minutes.”

“We’ve plenty of time. It’s not yet noon.” Carlos added twigs to the fire. “I should be able to get word to the palace tonight. By tomorrow afternoon you’ll be resting in comfort and I can get about organizing another hunt.”

“You’re going after that thing?”

“If there are no other survivors, I reckon it’s killed more than twenty people. Allowing it to run free would be criminal.”

“But how can you hope to destroy it?”

“If we can isolate it, hem it in against some natural barrier and trap it there, we may be able to set fires around the perimeter and burn it.” Carlos spat into the fire. “I haven’t given the subject much thought, but tomorrow I’ll gather my huntsmen and we’ll come up with a scheme. Something with alternatives in case things go awry.”

However great a narcissist Carlos was, Rosacher thought, one couldn’t fault his courage, though his judgment might be called into question. Once again he tried to put his commitment to the mission into perspective and once again he found himself testing the principles underlying its every facet—his concerns for the business, his quasi-loyalty to the disloyal Breque, and the idea that everything in his life had been a reaction to some fraudulent stimulus. When he first arrived in Teocinte, it seemed he’d had a plan, but he most certainly had not had one since then; he had been coerced and manipulated into every action, and now, understanding this, he wasn’t able to assign a priority to any future action, least of all the murder of a king.