Part 14 (1/2)

Wearily, Ravaglioli descended from his perch. He'd been hurt himself during the duel, and was bleeding into his clothes. He couldn't get up the energy to hawk enough phlegm to spit on his slain opponent.

Genevieve looked at him, not needing to restate her complaint. He already knew this family feuding was pointless, but couldn't stop fighting any more than she could stop peacemaking. That was the way of Udolpho.

Why did the blood seeping from his shallow headwound excite her so? She could smell it, taste it. It glistened as it trickled. She felt a thirst she didn't understand.

A forked spear of lightning struck the ground beyond the windows, filling the library with a painful flash. The thunder sounded instantly, shaking the whole edifice of Udolpho.

She supported Ravaglioli, helping him to a couch, and sitting him down. He would need sleep.

Later, she would have to give a full report to Vathek, and he would take it up with Old Melmoth. The will, a much-discussed secret between the patriarch and his lawyer, might have to be altered. The will, the main topic of conversation in the halls of Udolpho, was always being altered, unknown clauses being added, taken out, restored, subst.i.tuted, reworded or rethought. n.o.body but Melmoth and Vathek knew what was in the will, but everyone thought they could guess She walked to the window, and looked out into the night. The library was the heart of the southern wing of Udolpho, a mansion built like a vast cross on its plateau, and from its windows there was a view of the slopes which descended towards the plains. When the weather was clear, admittedly a rare occasion, you could see as far as Miragliano and the sea. Now there was only a spectacular cloudscape, and a fascinating pattern of rain splatters. One of the sickly trees by the ruined Chapel of Manaan had been struck by the lightning blast, and was burning like a lamp, a tattered flame amid the dark, fighting las.h.i.+ng sheets of rainwater. Its flickering light made the stones of the chapel seem to dance, animated, Vathek would have claimed, by the souls of the victims Smarra's pirate father had sent to the bottom of the Tilean sea.

A hand fell on her shoulder, and she was spun around.

'Fire,' Pintaldi said through his twisted throat. 'Pretty fire'

Pintaldi had a fascination with fire. It often got him into trouble. His head still hung at the wrong angle, and his shoulder was caked with dried blood.

'Fire'

Gently, with strong hands, she took his head and s.h.i.+fted it, setting it properly on his neck. He stood up straight, and experimented with nods. He was put back together again. Pintaldi did not thank her. His eyes were fixed on the burning tree. There were flecks of foam on the ends of his moustache. She turned away from his gaze, and watched with him as the fire was crushed by the storm.

'It's like a struggling soul,' Pintaldi said, 'at the mercy of the G.o.ds.'

The flames were wiped off the tree, and it stood, steaming, its branches twisted black and dead.

'Its defeat is inevitable, but while it burns, it burns bright. That should be a lesson for us.'

Pintaldi kissed her, the taste of his blood biting into her tongue, and then staggered back, breaking the contact. Sometimes, he was her lover. Sometimes, her sworn enemy. It was hard to keep track. The variations had something to do with the will, she was sure.

He was gone. Beyond the window, the storm attacked ferociously, tearing at the stones of Udolpho. The house was colder than ice tonight.

IV.

The novice's robe was heavy with chilled water, and Kloszowski missed the warmth and security of his heap of dead people. He was lost in the forests. By the ache in his legs and knees, he could tell he'd been climbing upwards. The ground beneath was sloping more sharply, water running in hasty rivulets around his feet. If there were men-at-arms out searching for him, he couldn't hear them over the din of the weather. He would have pitied anyone trying to get through this storm on horseback in armour, and guessed Zeluco's men would have given up by now. Not that that was much consolation.

Lightning struck, imprinting the black and white image of the forests on his eyes. The trees around here were all twisted and tangled, as if lumps of warpstone in the earth, seeds of Chaos sprouting amid the other roots, were turning the forestry into a nightmare distortion. With each javelin of lightning, certain trees seemed to leap forwards, sharp-twigged branches reaching out like multi-elbowed arms. He told himself not to be superst.i.tious, and tugged at his borrowed hood. Freezing water trickled down the back of his neck.

Underfoot, soft ground was a sea of mud. Soon, there'd be little difference between the forest and the marshes to the south. He was wading, and the novice's boots were too loose, already filled with a soft, cold mush of mud that settled a chill into his toebones. If he stopped, he would be drowned where he stood.

He fought onwards, the rain as tough an obstacle as the ever-changing wind. His robes flapped like the ragged wings of a dying raven. The symbol of Morr picked out on his chest was very apt. He must look like death.

Finding shelter was his only priority. None of the trees offered any cover against rain and wind. His knees were on the point of giving out and his exposed hands were wrinkled like those of a drowned sailor who'd been in the water long enough for the fish to eat his eyes. It could be that, with another irony, he'd escaped from the dungeons of Zeluco only to perish of his freedom, not murdered by the malice of the duce but impersonally snuffed by uncaring elements.

The ground was sloping upwards, and there were slow waterfalls of mud streaming around. Surely there must be a hunting lodge somewhere, or a woodsman's hut. Even a cave would be welcome.

Up ahead, Kloszowski imagined he saw a light.

He felt a surge of strength in his legs and shouldered his way through the rain, pus.h.i.+ng towards the glow. He hadn't been wrong, there was a light. Somehow, it wasn't rea.s.suring. A pale blue luminescence, it was constant, distorted only by the curtains of rain hanging between Kloszowski and it.

He pulled himself up over a bank that had been reinforced with stone and logs, and found himself on the remains of a road. He could see the light clearly now. It was a blue ball, hovering a few feet above the ground like a small, weak sun. And beneath it was an overturned carriage.

A horse, its neck broken, was mangled between the traces, legs sticking out in the wrong direction. There was a liveried coachman sprawled face-down in the mud, not moving, a fallen tree across his back.

Kloszowski ran, boots slapping the pebble-and-hard-earth surface of the road. At least the coach would offer some shelter.

He didn't like to look at the blue light, and tried to keep his eyes away from it. In its centre, the blue became a tinted white, and there were thick smudges, changes in the consistency of the glow, that reminded him of a face.

There was a screeching in with the wind. Someone was crying out. The carriage was on its side, rain streaming in through one of the open windows. There were people inside, arguing. Blue flames fell like little raindrops, and evaporated against side of the vehicle. He reached the carriage, and saw himself bathed in the blue light. It didn't radiate any heat.

'h.e.l.lo there,' he shouted. 'Friend, friend.'

He climbed up, and looked through the open window.

There was a puff and a fizz from inside, and a woman shouted.

'You idiot, I told you it wouldn't work if the powder got wet.'

Kloszowski tried to pull himself in, but the carriage was overbalanced. He heard a wheel snapping as the vehicle righted itself, and jumped back so it wouldn't break his legs. The people inside were dumped on the floor, and sounded shaken up.

'Back, monster,' a man said.

Kloszowski could see a shaking pistol pointed at him. Its flashpan and barrel were black with soot and still smoking. It wouldn't fire again. He pulled open the door, and forced himself in, slapping the firearm away.

Inside, it was wet but at least the rain wasn't whipping his face. It sounded like a thousand drum beats on the wooden roof of the coach.

There were two pa.s.sengers, the man with the pistol and a young woman. He was past middle age and had once been sleek and corpulent, and she was in her twenties and probably attractive.

Her face was lovely, and she had a ma.s.s of coppery gold ringlets.

They must have been expensively dressed when they set out on their journey. Now, they were as wet, muddy and bedraggled as the meanest peasant. Nature was as great a leveller as the revolution. The pa.s.sengers were obviously afraid of him, and shrank together, clutching each other.

'What manner of fiend are you?' the man asked.

'I'm not a fiend,' Kloszowski said. 'I'm just lost in the rain.'

'He's a cleric, Ysidro,' said the woman.

'Thank the G.o.ds,' the man said. 'We're saved. Exorcise these daemons and I'll see you're richly rewarded.'

Kloszowski decided not to tell them his robes were borrowed. He'd seen the light outside, but no daemons.