Chapter 272 - Last Rites part 3

I arrived in Getvar at about ten o'clock in the evening, the moon riding high over the encircling hills, the swirling chiffon clouds limned in its silvery light. I was on horseback, as I had failed to find a coach that would take me to the besieged village. Already, rumors of their "vampire problem" had spread to the neighboring villages, ensuring that Getvar was even more isolated than it normally was, forsaken in her time of need.

The town looked as if it had been struck with the plague. The streets were deserted, the houses shuttered and dark. All was silent but for the wind hooting forlornly in the eaves and the chirruping of the night insects. I rode to the inn, a two-story daub-and-timber construction sitting at the far end of the village, and roused the stable boy to see to my steed. Our brief discussion woke the livery master, who rushed out to look after the boy's safety, tugging up his breeches. The stable master was wearing a large old crucifix—his mother's once, or his grandmother's, I am sure. Christ impaled, muscles straining in torment. I'm not sure which of the stable minders stank of fear the worst, the boy or his master—the contest was too close to call.

"See that she's well cared for," I said to the frightened peasants, and was extra generous with my coins. I patted the horse's rump as they led her into the barn.

I paused on the stone pathway that joined the stables to the inn and sniffed furtively at the night air. Would that I had Zenzele's mysterious Eye I could have searched for the revenants with my mind, ascertained if there were, in fact, rogue vampires at large, but I did not, and I was not able to detect the scent of any degenerate blood drinkers.

It did not mean they were not there, only that I could not smell them.

There were two soldiers posted at the entrance of the inn. I think they were the village's night guard, but if so, they were unwilling to abandon the little light afford by the lantern beside the entrance.

They challenged me nervously, gripping the pommels of their swords as I approached.

"Who goes there, and what business have you in Getvar?" the bolder of the two men barked.

"My name is Gyozo Vastag," I answered in a soothing voice. "I am a scholar, sent by Duke Bokor to investigate the trouble that has befallen your village of late."

"Duke Bokor, huh? Never heard of him."

"He is a Hungarian nobleman," I said helpfully. "He rules a small fief many days journey from here."

"And why is he curious about us? You've not said why you've come—I mean, not really."

I smiled and inclined my head a little. "We've had our own… troubles recently," I replied. "I have been sent to ascertain the methods your people use to remedy such troubles. We have heard they are most effective." It was the cover story we generally used to conceal our true motives from mortals.

"Is that right?" the soldier said, glancing toward his partner. "We've not had much remedy around here, unless a fellow needs remedied of a good night's sleep."

"That's unfortunate," I said. "Well, if you don't mind, I'd like to see to a tankard of mead and a warm bed before I begin my investigation for Duke Bokor on the morrow. I've had a long journey, and I don't know if I'm more thirsty or more tired. Perhaps I could purchase a tankard for both of you? I confess, I find the idea of armed guards standing watch near my bed a reassuring one. This village has a dread atmosphere, if you don't mind my saying."

"I don't mind—your saying or a tankard of mead," the bolder soldier said, and he even laughed a little, a quick snort. He glanced up and down the road then, as if he feared reprisal for his momentary mirth.

They shuffled out of my path and I pushed inside.

Smell of unwashed mortal flesh. A smoky fireplace. Roast mutton and mead. I would have expected the inn to be crowded, even at this hour, but the common room was sparsely populated. There was a small knot of men standing close together in the far corner of the room, gathered around what looked to be a Roman Catholic monk, but no one else save the innkeeper, a large breasted redhead with a waxy complexion washing dishes behind the bar.

"Sit where you like, sire," she called. "Plenty of tables open tonight."

I took off my cloak and hat and hung them from some hooks beside the door, sensing the eyes of the mortals crawling over my back. I was dressed in the modest clothing of a country lord—doublet, slashed leather jerkin and padded hose, and knee-high riding boots. My hair was tied back with a silk ribbon and a large leather satchel hung from one shoulder. I had powdered my face and hands so that my ossified flesh did not glint in the candlelight. Though I sensed the mortals were disquieted by my unexpected arrival, I did not smell alarm in their body odor. They did not suspect I was anything other than a normal—albeit wealthy—mortal traveler.

"Will it be food or drink, or perhaps both tonight?" the innkeeper asked.

"Just a tankard of mead, and one apiece for the night watch guarding your doorstep," I said, one corner of my lips bowed up. I placed my bag on a table and sat. "I'm afraid I'd have nightmares if I ate anything so late at night. I normally retire much earlier than this."

The men in the far corner had fallen silent at my arrival. Their conversation did not resume when I sat, as I had expected. They stared as the innkeeper brought me a tankard of ale, and continued to stare while the innkeeper waited on me, their eyes narrow and glinting.

I thanked the woman and took a sip, concealing my distaste for the mortal beverage. I could drink it. I could drink it all if I had to. I had trained my immortal body to tolerate mortal food. It was a necessity if one intended to move in the world of living men, but it was not pleasant, and I had my limits. Too much, and it would come spewing from every orifice—and quite spectacularly. Think Linda Blair in that American dark comedy The Exorcist.

"Will you be needing a room tonight, my lord?"

"Yes. Your finest accommodations."

"I have a bed with a nice goose feather mattress. You'll think you've died and gone to heaven."

"That sounds wonderful."

The innkeeper lingered. "So what brings you to the lovely village of Getvar, m'lord? If you don't mind my asking."

"Oh, I think you know what brings me. I've been sent by my liege lord, Duke Bokor of Hungary, to document your vampire troubles."

I think it was my matter-of-factness that caused her to step back more than any mention of the undead. Her eyes went wide and she glanced toward the knot of men in the far corner. They glanced back at her, then resumed their staring of me, their faces grim.

"I'm sorry, my dear," I said, reaching out to soothe the woman. "I didn't mean to upset you. It's just… Getvar has become rather famous in recent weeks because of these fantastic rumors. We had a similar case in Hungary just this past winter. Duke Bokor dispatched me to learn as much as I can about these… creatures, so that we might deal with them more effectively the next time it occurs."

"Oh, um, yes, m'lord. No need to apologize. I was merely taken off guard. You see, you're not the first to come today inquiring about the demons that have plagued us. In fact, there's another sitting right over there. Come all the way from Italy, he did."

The crowd of men in the corner of the room parted then, like the curtains of a stage, and Justus Augustin nodded at me with a smile, quill in hand.

"Hello," he said. "Would you care to join me?"