Traveling with the Dead

"Thursday." Lydia stared blankly at the newspaper by the glare of the station lights. "Thursday night. We were still in Paris."



Margaret whispered, "Oh, my God," through hands pressed to her mouth.



"I thought... I thought I'd have a little more time to catch up with him. That things wouldn't happen so quickly."



Ysidro reappeared at their side, trailed by a laconic individual in a Slovak's baggy white britches who, at his command, loaded Ysidro's trunk and portmanteau, Margaret's satchel, and Lydia's voluminous possessions onto a trolley that he pushed away in the direction of the doors. The vampire tweaked the newspaper from Lydia's hands, and read.



DOCTOR PERISHES IN SANITARIUM FIRE Early yesterday evening the well-known sanitarium "Fruhlingzeit" burned to the ground in a conflagration of epic proportions, claiming the life of the man who had made it his life-work and monument. The body of the most distinguished English specialist in rejuvenatory medicine, Dr. Bedford Fairport, whose work has contributed to the comfort and healing of hundreds of men and women in Vienna over the past eighteen years, was found in the smoking ruins by police constables and firefighters in the early hours of Friday morning. According to the Vienna police, foul play is suspected.



The bodies of a coachman and a laborer were also found.



No patients were present at the sanitarium when it burned, Dr. Fairport having temporarily closed the premises last week. The distinguished Herr Hofrat Theobald Beidenstunde, of the Imperial-and-Royal Austrian Coal Board, undergoing treatment for a nervous condition at Fruhlmgzeit last week, states that Herr Professor Doktor Fairport requested that all patients return to their homes due to repairs on the foundations of the main building. Complete financial recompense was made to all patients so affected.



It is believed that the fire started in the laboratory where a generator was positioned too dose to stores of kerosene, and later spread to the main villa. However, since all three bodies bore marks of violence, arson is being considered as a possibility. Further investigation by the Vienna police is under way.



"Behold an Englishman," murmured Ysidro. "The good Hofrat Beidenstunde should thank his stars he was reimbursed. The old Queen would never have approved such request for funds." He folded the newspaper and bestowed it in the pocket of his cloak.



"Victoria?" Margaret Potton asked in surprise.



"Elizabeth. There is nothing there which proves your husband's fate, mistress. This way."



The Slovak was waiting for them in the square outside, on the seat of a gaily painted wagon. Ysidro helped the two women in-lifting Lydia with unnerving ease from the pavement-and without wasted words they proceeded into the winding network of high-walled ways that made up the most ancient part of the Altstadt. "Who- besides Fairport-would Jamie seek out in Vienna?"



"Three years ago it was a man named Halliwell." Ysidro turned his head, as if listening for some sound below or between the myriad voices and threads of stray music that clamored all around them on the bustling streets. "I have no more recent knowledge than that, nor am I sure where the Department has its headquarters these days. The embassy would be the place to inquire. Say that you seek your husband, that you wish to speak with Halliwell."



"They won't be there on a Sunday," Margaret pointed out worriedly.



"At least we can rent a carriage and go out to the rums of the sanitarium."



Lydia brought the newspaper up close enough to her nose to make out something other than vague blocks of gray. "It may not say anything about Jamie, but considering it was Fairport I came to warn him against, the coincidence is a little marked. I expect we could find the address in a city directory."



"I expect every jehu in the town will know its location," Ysidro remarked. "From what I know of human nature, the place will have been trampled by curiosity seekers ere the ashes cooled."



Palaces crowded them on all sides, the darkness patched and painted by a thousand glowing windows whose reflections gilded the scrollwork of doorways with careless brush strokes of light, the faces of the marble angels rendered curiously kin to Ysidro's still, thin features as the vampire turned his head again, seeking whatever it was that he sought.



The wagon drew up before a tall yellow house in the Bakkersgasse, like an excessively garlanded wedding cake in butter-colored stucco. Ysidro accompanied the two women inside, watching as the Slovak unloaded Lydia's trunks, portmanteau, satchel, and hatboxes, but when that was finished, he returned to his own luggage, still on the cart, and drove away with it into the darkness. An hour later he returned, afoot and uncommunicative as ever, for picquet in a salon that was a miniature Versailles above a shop selling silk.



"I made arrangements ere departing London," he said, shuffling the cards. "It is necessary to know the existence of such places, which can be had in any city for a price. You will find a cook and chambermaid at your disposal in the morning, though they speak no English and little German. Still, I am assured that the cook is up to the most exacting of standards. Certainly, for English, she will suffice."



Margaret said, "It's too good of you..."



"Assured by whom?" Lydia wanted to know. Ysidro picked up his cards. "One whose business it is to know. You are the elder hand, mistress."



Ysidro's estimate of human nature proved a distressingly accurate one. When Lydia and Miss Potton arrived by rented fiacre at the smoke-stained wall around what was left of Fruhlingzeit Sanitarium the following afternoon, they found at least five other carnages there, the drivers seated comfortably on the low stone wall across the road chatting among themselves, and a large number of fashionably dressed men and women prowling around the trampled weeds or engaged in argument with a couple of sturdy gentlemen who seemed to be guarding the gates.



"I do not see that you have the authority to turn us away," a slim man in an overemphatic waistcoat was saying as Lydia hesitantly crossed the road. "I do not see this at all."



"Can't do anything about that, sir." The sturdy gentleman pushed back his flat cloth cap and remained blocking the entry. Even through the comforting blur of myopia, the glimpse of blackened rafters and fallen-in walls was horrible, and the smell of cold ash lay thin and gritty on the chill air.



"I shall write to the Neue Freie Presse about this."



"You do that, sir."



Lydia stepped forward hesitantly as the slim man stormed away to rejoin his party by the carriages; the sturdy gentleman fixed her with a jaundiced eye and said, in not-very-good German, "Nobody allowed in, ma'am."



"Is... is a Mr. Halliwell here?" asked Lydia. If Dr. Fairport were officially an agent of Britain, it stood to reason the burning of his sanitarium would not go uninvestigated by the Department. It only surprised her they'd still be at it three days later. She saw the man's stance shift at the sound of the name and said, Could you tell him a Mrs. Asher is here to see him? Mrs. James Asher."



Without her spectacles, Mr. Halliwell proved to be a magpie behemoth, a series of circles of blacks, whites, pinks, and gleaming reflections that resolved itself at four feet into a heavy, pug-nacious face and brightly humorous green eyes behind small oval lenses. A big damp hand gripped Lydia's while a second patted it moistly; the little clusters of would-be sightseers across the road glowered at this favoritism.



"My dear Mrs. Asher!"



"My friend, Miss Potton."



Halliwell bowed again, an awesome sight.



"Strange business. Deuced strange business. Your husband didn't send for you, did he?" He glanced down sidelong at her from his height, but she noticed his voice was barely above a whisper.



She shook her head. "But the telegram he sent me on his way here gave me reason to believe that he might be in trouble. He... he wasn't here when this happened... was he?"



The green eyes narrowed. "Why would you think he was?"



"Because..." Lydia took a deep breath. In broad daylight and in front of half a dozen argumentative Viennese, she thought, they couldn't very well drag her away in a closed carriage. She said, very softly, "Because he said he was coming to Dr. Fairport. And because I have reason to believe Dr. Fairport was in the pay of the Austrians."



His glance flicked across the road, then to Miss Potton- discreetly out of earshot- and back. "You don't happen," he said equally quiet, "to have mentioned this to anyone else?"



"No. Not even to Miss Potton," she remembered to add, mindful of her companion's safety. "But I think it's true. I take it," she went on slowly, "that you haven't spoken with Dr. Asher on the subject."



Halliwell fingered his short-clipped beard, studying her as if matching the eggplant taffeta of her gown, the mint and ecru frills of her hat, against other things. Lydia wondered how James could possibly have played at spies for as long as he had: This business of not knowing what to say or whom to say it to was both wearing and unnerving. Presumably, Ysidro would come to her rescue if Halliwell were a double agent also, provided Margaret had the wits to run for it...



But if Margaret had been foolish enough to believe Ysidro's farrago about previous lifetimes, goodness knew what she'd do in a crisis.



"I'm inclined to agree with you," the fat man said abruptly. "And I was starting to think so before you turned up. Just the fact that the Kundschafts Stelle hasn't let us into this place until this morning tells me there's something fishy, though of course we can't come out and say the man was working for us." He glanced again at the loitering tourists across the road. "Would you ladies be so good as to meet me for dinner at Donizetti's on the Herrengasse this evening at eight? We'll be able to talk there." He nodded back toward the burnt-out shell of the house, where another man could be seen slowly picking his way through the mess of collapsed beams and bricks. "I can tell you now no one's found any trace of your husband... and what we have found is not anything a lady should see."



"God knows what the Kundschafts Stelle found before they let us in." Halliwell's small, rather womanish mouth pursed as he removed his gloves. In the saffron- drenched Renoir of color that was Donizetti's without spectacles, he seemed to fit in, becoming curiously invisible in a way that he hadn't in the unfamiliar environment of open air and bare woods. He reminded Lydia rather of some of her uncles, who grew like fleshy pale pot plants in their London clubs and never emerged into the light of day.



"I'll tell you the truth, Mrs. Asher-if your husband were at Fruhhngzeit when it burned, nobody's said anything about it to us. They've had the place closed off for two days. It was twenty-four hours before they even let the police in.



Typical. When the Emperor's son blew his brains out twenty years ago, taking a seventeen-year-old girl with him for reasons best known to himself, the original story was that he'd died of 'heart failure.' Government agents and the girl's own uncle propped her corpse into a carriage with a broom handle up her back to keep reporters from learning two bodies instead of one were found at the scene.



"How did your husband know this Farren fellow, and how did you find out about Fairport?"



At this point the table captain appeared again, waiter and boy in tow, and a long and Byzantine discussion ensued concerning the concoction of Tafelspitz and how the canard Strasbourg was prepared this evening, and the relative tartness of the sour cherry soup. Rather to Lydia's surprise, Margaret, who had all day been her tongue-tied self, plunged into the conversation with the absorbed interest of a fellow gourmet, winning the approval of both Halliwell and the table captain-the Herr Ober, Halliwell called him-with her opinions on capers and beurre brule. It was, Lydia reflected, an entirely new side to her traveling companion than she had so far seen.



Only when the little train of servitors was gone did Halliwell turn back to her.



Lydia, after a moment's pause to collect her thoughts, sketched a bowdlerized version of the telegrams she had received, the articles they had prompted her to read, her realization that Fairport would certainly be interested in Ernchester's pathology and almost as certainly would be working for, or with, Karolyi. "I don't know what, or how much, of Farren's abilities are connected with his belief that he is a vampire," she concluded carefully. "But I know Dr. Asher considered him a very dangerous man, dangerous enough to warrant his dropping everything to pursue him to Paris to keep him from selling his services to the Emperor."



"Hmm. For which he got small thanks from old Streatham, I daresay. How did you know to come to me? Asher didn't know my name until he arrived."



"A friend of my husband's," Lydia said, not sure whether she was telling the truth or not.



"Your husband had dinner with me in this cafe Tuesday night," said Halliwell.



"There'd been trouble in Paris, one of our operatives was killed. Your husband seemed to think this Farren had done it, but word got to the police that your husband had something to do with it, even before the French police sent for him. Karolyi's work, of course. Asher spent the night in jail, which isn't as uncomfortable as it would be in London, and was going to stay the night at the sanitarium after he'd had a look around the Altstadt Wednesday. That was usual- the place was a safe house. Your husband had stayed there before."



"And did he?" She picked a little at the delicate crepe on the plate before her, her appetite gone.



"I gather he didn't. Fairport showed up at the firm in the morning asking if Asher had been heard from."



"That might have been a blind."



"I don't think so." Halliwell dabbed his mouth with the delicacy of a maiden lady. "He sniffed around for information, which I don't think he'd have done if he'd had him under hatches. He wasn't that clever. Later in the afternoon he came back saying Asher was wanted by the police, which I knew already, and why didn't I go talk to them? He hung about and wasted my time and asked a thousand questions and went with me to the station, which is just what he'd have done if he were a double and waiting for Asher to try telephoning, though that may be hindsight on my part. If I were Karolyi, I would have shot him for it.



Personally, I never thought old Bedbugs had enough red blood in him to work a double game. At about seven that night Ladislas- the Herr Ober-came to my table and told me a Herr Asher was on the telephone for me, that it was urgent. By the time I got there, the line was dead. About two hours later we got the first reports of the fire."



"Oh," Lydia said slowly. "I see."



"Do you?" The green eyes glinted sharply at her. "I don't. None of us do. You're thinking Asher might have started the fire..."



"Well," Lydia pointed out, "my husband always said that one should burn the place down after killing someone..."



She regarded Halliwell with startlement when the fat man burst into delighted laughter. "It's true," she protested. "It isn't as if there were other houses around to be damaged."



"My dear Mrs. Asher," he chuckled, "I can see why old James married you."



"Well," she said, "it wasn't for my domestic talents. But I don't think, if James had started the fire, anyone would have found enough of two bodies to identify them. He's usually much more efficient than that."



"No." Halliwell's round face grew suddenly grim. "And I can't picture your husband killing them the way these men were killed."



He glanced apologetically across at Margaret-digging her way happily through a towering castle of chocolate and whipped cream-and lowered his voice. "According to our sources in the Kundschafts Stelle, they were... horribly wounded. Bled almost completely dry of blood. They must have been cut in the house itself and later dragged into the open. I can't imagine your husband, or any sane man, doing that."



Lydia was conscious of Margaret putting down her fork, her hand suddenly shaking.



Halliwell went on, "And there were more than three bodies found. There were at least five, two of them so badly burned they couldn't be identified; and they haven't even finished digging out the building where the kerosene blew up. Bedbugs had a room underneath it, which we used for a hiding place for whoever was inconveniently connected with the local socialists or anarchists or Serbian nationals. If Asher was a prisoner, he'd have been held down there."



Lydia looked again at her untouched dessert. She felt cold inside. She'd been a fool, she thought, not to guess that the newspaper would lie. She'd been a fool to think she could overtake him in time to prevent disaster. She said again, "I see."



"We found plenty of evidence of the kind of man Farren is, if he could take out five men like that, as well as evidence of what he thought he was. Fairport had fitted up a safe room with silver bars-vampires are supposed to hate silver, aren't they? But we haven't found any trace of your husband."



She took a deep breath. "And Farren?"



Halliwell shook his head. "No sign of him, either. Our connections in the Kundschafts Stelle tell us they were watching the Bahnhof for your husband all evening- the police really were looking for him that day-so it's doubtful that he left town that way."



He reached out and clumsily patted her arm. "That doesn't mean he's come to harm," he said. Lydia looked quickly up at him



"For all I know, they're still looking for him. God knows what Karolyi told them about him. I've asked, and they're being damned cagey. And he could have left town on the Danube ferries or taken a tram and walked to another station. Anything. It may be he's simply hiding out."



"Maybe." Lydia remembered one of James' digressions on how easy it was to get out of a town that had become temporarily too hot.



Then she thought about the burned skeleton of the sanitarium and the stink of charred wood still hanging in the chilly air, and her heart sank, as if with sickness or shock.



"In the meantime, you can do me a favor, if you would, Mrs. Asher. Your husband said you were a medical doctor?"



She nodded. "I have a medical degree, yes, but I mostly do research on endocrine secretions at the Radcliffe Infirmary. The few women with practices all seem to go into what they call 'women's medicine'-and still have trouble making a living at it, I might add. And I've never been terribly interested in what my aunts referred to as 'the plumbing.' Did you need something looked at?"



He mopped up the last of his Sacher torte and gazed regretfully at the polished white porcelain plate. Then he propped his glasses, frowning. "None of the laboratories survived-they were all directly over the kerosene stores-but we do have Fairport's notebooks from his study. The place was pretty badly charred, but those we managed to recover. He was a British citizen and be damned to who paid the rent on the sanitarium. I suspect the Kundschafts Stelle's going to want to see them eventually, but if you'd be good enough to have a look through them and tell us anything that it might be worthwhile for us to know, I'd appreciate it. I have them here."



He held up a battered leather satchel, overloaded and strapped together with rope where its buckles would not hold. "We'd like to know what he was working on. If you still have your list of his articles..."



Lydia nodded. "Aging," she said. "Blood. Immortality." Halliwell grunted. "No wonder he fell for Farren."



"Yes," Lydia said quietly. "No wonder."



In light of the articles she had read, Fairport's experiments-with blood, with saliva, with mucus, with the chemistry of the brain and the glands-came into crystalline focus.



The man who seeks to live forever, Ysidro had said.



He was right, she thought, turning over the cryptic notes while Margaret dozed in a welter of crocheted snowflakes. He was right.



Bedford Fairport was quite clearly a man possessed with the fanatic



determination to discover whence came the deterioration of age, and an even greater determination to learn how to reverse its effects.



In the article in which he had mentioned Ignace Karolyi's donation of the sanitarium and funds, Fairport had spoken of his own "premature aging." Lydia had encountered reports of such progeria dating from the sixteenth century, and was of the opinion that some unknown vitamin deficiency or breakdown was responsible. She pushed up her spectacles on her forehead, rubbed her eyes. Of course he would grasp at rumors of immortality.



A glance at the reagents and vitamin solutions told Lydia that his experiments had been appallingly costly. He'd used orangutans as subjects two dozen times in the past few years, and Lydia knew from her own experiments how expensive the animals were. Unnecessary, too, she thought. In most experiments with deficiency syndromes, pigs seemed to work just as well. A double check showed her that he used orangutans to repeat experiments done on pigs, refusing to take what were, to her eye, quite clear failures as anything more than individual variations in data. Toward the end he'd taken to rerunning additional tests on everything, insistently investigating smaller and smaller points, like a man clutching at straws. Even if Fairport had private funds, he'd have to be staggeringly wealthy to continue such work as long as he had.



And she knew that if he had family money-if he'd been connected to one of the wealthier families in England-her aunt Lavinia would have steered her toward him at some point in her own Oxford days as a potential reference, partner, or colleague.



He'd betrayed James. Taken him prisoner. They haven't even finished digging out the building where the kerosene blew up... If Asher were a prisoner, it would have been down there...



James might have gotten out of town, she told herself defiantly. The police were looking for him. He could have taken a tram, as he always said was best, or a ferry.



Bled almost completely dry of blood...



Tears fought their way to her throat, and grimly she forced them back. We don't know anything yet. We don't know.



"An entire notebook of the historical and folkloric."



The soft voice nearly startled her out of her chair. Looking up, she saw Ysidro sitting opposite, a green cloth-bound ledger open before him. Past the vampire's shoulder the mantel clock was visible, and Lydia was mildly surprised to see that it was now close to three in the morning.



"I hadn't got that far." She reached back to twist her heavy braid into a less schoolgirlish knot. The cook-an excellent woman of broad smiles and a completely incomprehensible language-had left Sacher torte, bread and butter, and a succulent bunch of Italian grapes, should either dziewczyna suddenly find herself in peril of starvation before morning light, and the smell of the coffee warming on the little primus stove was heavy in the room. "And folklore would only be speculative. Even so-called 'historical' personalities-rumors about Ninon de l'Enclos and Cagliostro and Count What's-his-name in Paris..."



"Scarcely speculative at the end." Ysidro turned the ledger, slid it across the table to her, hands like old ivory in the lamplight.



Old man who lived to be a thousand, related the wandering script. Brzchek Village. Woman who lived to be five hundred (wove moonlight). Okurka Village.



Woman who used moonlight to make herself beautiful forever. Salek Village. Man who made a pact with devil, lived forever. Bily Hora Village. Woman who bathed in blood, lived five hundred years. Brusa, Bily Hora, Salek.



She looked up, puzzled. "It sounds like the sort of thing James does-talking to storytellers and grannies and old duffers at country inns."



"I expect Fairport observed the way James went about his questioning and turned it to his own usages." He tilted his head, moved the pile of invoices so he could read the top sheet. His pale eyebrows flexed. "One can, in any case, see the trend of his mind. But orangutans? I have spoken to those who saw James leave this city."



Her breath drew sharply; Ysidro watched her in stillness for a moment, his head a little to one side, like a white mantis, and again his eyebrows flexed, though it was impossible to read the expression in his eyes.



"Walk with me, lady." He rose and held out to her his hand. "The Master of Vienna has given me leave to hunt in this city, if so be that I am circumspect. Should he see us in company, he will know you as a sojourner, and think us chance- met and you harmless prey."



Lydia glanced back at Margaret's snoring form as Ysidro handed her her coat.



Even through the gloves he drew on, and the kid that covered her own hands, his flesh was icy. Automatically, though no one would see her, she removed her spectacles, slipped them in her pocket. The card games had broken her of the habit of hiding her eyeglasses in Ysidro's presence; he had seen her, she reflected, at her four-eyed ugliest and did not appear to mind. Perhaps it was only that he had seen many others worse than she.



He led her down the gilt and marble staircase and through the bossed bronze of the inconspicuous door to the pavement outside.



"You saw the Master of Vienna, then?"



"Count Batthyany Nikolai Alessandro August-and his wives. He has ruled Vienna, and indeed the greater part of the Danube Valley, since the days when men still fought the Turks on the banks of the river. As well that he and I are both conversant in the old French of the courts, for German I know only from books. It was not, you understand, a language spoken by anyone of breeding in my day; one reason that I made a point of being elsewhere until the Kings of England learned a more civilized tongue."



Lydia hid her smile. She'd heard him speak German to the Slovak and to the cook. One thing she had learned about Ysidro in the past few days was the depth of his snobbery.



Around them, Vienna slept, a drowned Atlantis at the bottom of a lightless sea. Shutters of wood and glass accordioned over the bright cafes, and even the dormers of the servants, high at the tops of the canyon walls, were closed eyes sealed in dreaming.



"Your husband injured Batthyany's youngest wife," Ysidro went on as they walked.



"He did well to leave Vienna. He was seen at the train station boarding the Orient Express for Constantinople..."



"Constantinople?" Lydia said, startled.



"Even so. A most curious choice."



"But who... who saw him? If it was one of this Batthyany's vampires..."



"Another wife," Ysidro said smoothly. "Who perhaps had reasons of her own for wishing ill to the fair German beauty who had-until James evidently burned her face with a handful of silver-been the count's fancy. The German beauty-Grete, her name is-slew at least two of the groundsmen at Fruhlingzeit in the hopes that their blood would speed the healing of her wound, but it will be some time before she is anything but hideous. Indeed, for some time to come Batthyany's coterie must hunt with the greatest of care, for fear of attracting notice by the police-another reason it is as well that your husband left Vienna when he did. Count Batthyany spoke of revenge, but his eldest wife-Hungarian, as he is- seemed pleased."



They turned a corner, coming clear of the tall walls to a cobbled expanse where the cathedral rose suddenly before them, like a black and white fish skeleton in the wintry moonlight. Mist lay thin about its feet, stirring with their stride; the air stung the inside of her nose when she breathed.



"Was it the vampires who killed Professor Fairport, then?"



"Of course." Ysidro's head turned at some small sound across the pavement. A young girl emerged from the cathedral's porch and hastened across the square to the concealing dark of the lanes beyond, drawing her shawl over her head as she went. The Spaniard watched her, speculatively, out of sight.



"Batthyany was enraged, you understand, at any other's fledgling entering his domain," he said, turning back to Lydia. "And doubly, that any would ally himself with mortal governments, and so bring such governments into knowledge of the vampires. He considered the burning of Fruhlingzeit-and the death of the men involved- sufficient warning. His intent was that Ernchester die too in the conflagration, but says that the earl has departed also from Vienna. According to his eldest wife, your husband was accompanied on the train by a female vampire whom they found upon the premises, who claimed that she had been kidnapped and held prisoner by Fairport. Indeed, Batthyany and his countess helped this woman take horses from the stable and load into the wagon her traveling coffin, by the light of the burning house. With horse and wagon she would have easily returned to Vienna in time to be on the train."



"Anthea?"



"It would seem. And my guess is that your husband lay alive in that coffin. He could not have escaped, else."



Lydia kept her face from showing the inner shudder she felt at the thought, but even as it went through her, another part of her mind was busy piecing together implications. Around her in the blanched moonlight the whole city seemed to lie in a drugged dream of mist and shadow, still with a stillness like death. Ysidro's world, she thought. The fag end of nighttime. The sense of being the only one left alive.



"That means-it must mean-Ernchester has gone to Constantinople."



"Even so," Ysidro agreed. "According to Batthyany's countess, Anthea claimed that she had been used as hostage to force Ernchester to the will of Karolyi and Fairport. It implies, of course, that Ernchester did not come to Vienna of his own accord, and so they hunted him no further."



"But James saw him get on the train with Karolyi of his own accord," Lydia said, puzzled. "After Karolyi was dead and Ernchester freed, why would he flee?"



"The fact that Charles got on the train of his own accord," Ysidro said softly, "does not mean that he did so of free will. And it would explain what has troubled me from the start. Ernchester is not a politician's choice-that slut Grippen has lately got in St. John's Wood is stronger to the hunt and the kill than Charles. But someone knew enough about him to know that he could be ruled. That a threat against Anthea would bring him. That to hold her would be to guarantee his conduct."



"Would Karolyi know that?"



"Evidently."



They had reached the house in the Bakkersgasse again. Unwilling, perhaps, to give up possession of those dark streets that were their sole dominion, Lydia and Ysidro sat as if by unspoken agreement side by side on the marble rim of the small fountain before the house. The gaslight wavered on the surface, made watching pits of the eyes of the bronze emperor above the water and touched the lower half of Ysidro's face, giving the effect of a carnival mask through which fulvous eyes gleamed like marsh fire as he spoke.



"Will you return to London, mistress? The trap here is sprung."



Lydia hesitated, feeling for one minute the overwhelming desire for the comfort of the things she knew, the world of research circumscribed by the university's walls. But she knew perfectly well, as the thought of it formed in her mind, that only a trap had been sprung.



"It isn't... it isn't over yet, is it? Whatever started this. Not anywhere near it."



"No."



Frightening as it had appeared in the beginning, Vienna hadn't been so bad.



"Would it be of help to you for me to go on to Constantinople? Because that's what I would prefer to do," she added, seeing the swift thought behind the Spaniard's eyes.



"It would be of help in finding Ernchester, yes." He frowned, as at some unexpected thought. "I would not have you undertake unnecessary risk-yet you know your husband's thought, and the legitimacy of your inquiries will help in the search for the heart of this matter."



He paused again, considering, and there was, Lydia thought, just the smallest trace of surprise in the enigmatic eyes.



"Curiously enough," he went on, "Charles has been in Constantinople. This was many years ago, but there might be some there who knew him when he-and possibly they- were living men."



"But it doesn't make sense-" Lydia pulled her collar closer about her face. "-if vampires are all as-as jealous of interlopers as the Count Batthyany is. That is... are they?"



"Mostly," said Ysidro. "Burning Fruhlingzeit as a warning was one of the milder expressions of displeasure I have encountered. Master vampires are not to be jested with when they conceive their territories in threat. Yet only a vampire could have summoned Ernchester to Constantinople. Only a vampire would know the threat that would bring him. Only a vampire would know that, of all the vampires I have met, Ernchester is one of the few capable of love."