Part 23 (1/2)

The graf released his invisible arrow, and laughed as he recalled his true aim and clean kill.

Sylvana clapped, arranging her face so as to express amus.e.m.e.nt without cracking the mask of powder around her eyes and mouth.

Otho was staring directly into Sylvana's valley-like cleavage, and dribbling beery spittle.

Rudiger, of course, must notice his guest's interest in his mistress. Doremus wondered just how hospitable his father was prepared to be to upstart Otho.

Doremus looked away from Sylvana, back to his mother's portrait. The Grafin Serafina had died on another of Rudiger's unicorn hunts. If there was any gossip, it had never been repeated within Doremus' earshot.

Magnus stood in front of the rising fire, toasting his behind, drinking wine from a goblet. Balthus sat at the table, on hand to give expert testimony should the graf need a detail of his stories confirmed or expanded. His vampire was about somewhere, lurking.

Doremus sat down at the table, and carved himself a slice from a haunch of venison.

'Fine meat, my son,' Rudiger shouted. 'The finer for its freshness.'

Actually, Doremus would have preferred it hung for a day or two, but his father was insistent that what he killed this morning should be consumed this evening.

'To fully appreciate the taste of a meat, you have to kill it for yourself,' Rudiger explained, loudly. 'It is the way of the forest, the path of tooth and nail. We are all hunters, all animals. I simply remember better than most.'

Doremus chewed the tender meat, and cut himself some bread. Anulka, the dark servant girl with the distracted eyes, brought him a jug of spiced wine. His legs and back ached from his day in the woods, but he was hungrier than he'd thought.

From somewhere, Otho found a lute, and began to sing bawdy songs. Tired of the noise, Doremus poured himself a goblet of wine, and hoped the liquor would make the racket go away.

'Oh, the bold Bretonnian barber has a great big pole,' Otho sang, 'And the doughnut-maker's daughter a fine-sugared hole'

IV.

'A pity we couldn't have unicorn on our table, graf,' Otho ventured, voice tired from the fine entertainment he had granted the others. Some blasted servant had taken his lute away. He a.s.sumed Rudiger would have the fellow roundly flogged and booted for his impertinence, although the graf had unaccountably failed to intervene. He probably didn't want to make a fuss during dinner.

'Unicorn is not a game animal,' the old sportsman said. 'Unicorn is barely an animal at all.'

'Is that a unicorn horn on the wall?' Otho asked, knowing d.a.m.ned well it was, but wanting to keep Graf Rudiger occupied with stories. While he was boring everyone with tales of the hunt, he wasn't looking at Sylvana. And when he wasn't looking at her, the woman was nuzzling his leg under the table with nimble fingers, pinching his thigh, exciting his interest.

Sylvana de Castries had been eyeing up Otho for days, and tonight, if old Rudiger got sozzled enough, things would pa.s.s between them that would brighten up this dull holiday jaunt. It was a week since his last harlot, and his b.a.l.l.s were bursting.

Otho choked back a laugh as Sylvana's hand strayed into his lap. From here, he could see down the front of her dress, almost to her belly-b.u.t.ton. She had a ripe body, lightly freckled the way Otho liked his wh.o.r.es.

After a day of hunting, there was nothing better than an evening of food and drink, and a night of well-upholstered harlot. Among his league brothers, Otho was famous for his appet.i.tes in all directions. It was a point of honour in the fraternity that the lodge master be insatiable. Although, looking at weedy Dorrie, that tradition was due to take a nosedive in the new year.

Otho wondered if there were any way he could keep Doremus out of the office, and pa.s.s the cap on to one of the real bloods, Baldur von Diehl, Big Bruno Pfeiffer or Dogt.u.r.d Domremy.

The unicorn trophy was mounted on a s.h.i.+eld bearing the von Unheimlich coat of arms. Three feet long, and regularly polished, it was a perfectly tapered spear, threaded through with veins of silver. In the lodge, it was traditional for a little blood from any notable kill to be rubbed into the horn as a tribute, and the trophy's background was overlaid with crusted stains.

Rudiger emptied his horn, and called for it to be refilled. Anulka, the juicy maid-s.l.u.t with the blue lips of a weirdhead, complied. If Sylvana didn't come through, Anulka was Otho's number two choice. She looked just the sort for a midnight game of hide-the-sausage.

'Yes, Lodge Master Waernicke,' Rudiger replied, 'that is the horn of a unicorn mare. A magnificent beast, hunted down and killed by my grandfather, the Graf Friedrich. As you know, only the female unicorn yields ivory. The stallions we saw today were poor things beside a unicorn mare. They are taller, swifter, beardless, possessed of an almost human intelligence. Among unicorns, things are different than among men. Each tribe consists of a mare and six or eight stallions. l.u.s.ty b.i.t.c.hes, unicorn mares. Mothers gore their female foals at birth. Only the strongest survive to adulthood, to gather their own tribes. Unicorn mares are the longest-lived of natural animals, surviving several generations of stallions to tup with their grandsons and great-grandsons.'

Otho laughed loud, and elbowed Sylvana. Under the table out of Rudiger's eyeline, he slipped a spit-slicked forefinger into his fist and wiggled it in and out. Sylvana laughed like music, and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s shook like jellies.

Otho's mouth went dry with l.u.s.t, and he had to gulp down a swallow of wine to keep himself from choking.

He had been drinking ale, wine, Estalian sherry and coa.r.s.e Drak Wald gin. He believed in mixing his drinks, and his stomach had never let him down yet.

'You have hunted a unicorn mare?'

Otho looked around. Genevieve, the vampire girl, had dared to ask the graf a question.

There was a pause. Otho expected the graf to lash out at the intemperate bloodsucker. Instead, he sipped his ale, and shook his head.

'No, but I shall. Tomorrow. And you shall all accompany me.'

In the quiet that fell, Otho could hear the fire crackling.

'A two-edged privilege that,' Magnus said, 'considering the saying.'

Everyone looked at the old northerner.

'And what saying is that?' Otho asked, jollying the party along.

' 'Of those who hunt the unicorn mare, one comes home and he alone.' It's commonplace in the Drak Wald, and in the north.'

'A superst.i.tion,' Rudiger snorted.

'Nevertheless, it is often true. As a child, I was a guest in this lodge when Graf Friedrich set out to bring home his ivory. And I was here when he came up the hill, horn in his hand. Five had set out. Including your father, Rudiger. And only one returned.'

The graf fell quiet. Although Friedrich was often remembered in story and song, little was said about Dorrie's grandfather, Lukaacs.

'Are you afraid, old friend?'

Magnus shook his head. 'No, Rudiger, not afraid. I'm too old for that.'

' 'One comes home and he alone,' eh?'

Rudiger had explained earlier that he had waited years for the chance to go after a unicorn mare. Traditionally, they could only be stalked between the winter solstice of Mondstille and the new year celebrations of Hexenstag. And, despite the proliferation of stories, they were rare creatures.

'Today, we robbed our mare of two consorts. That will have angered her. Tomorrow, we must hunt her down, or she will come for us. That is all there is to it.'