The Garden of Proserpine
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fantasy set in the
universe described in the manga 'Eroica yori ai o komete.' However much that
universe resembles our own in its external physical features, the two are definitely
not the same. Eroica's world is one without AIDS or INTERPOL, where American
scientists offer top-secret formulas to the Pope (who accepts them), and agents
from both sides of the Curtain who get tired of being spies retire to a remote
Swiss valley where no one bothers them. Anyone expecting to find something that
conforms to the reality we ourselves live in is not likely to discover it here.
The American couple with the
complicated name were already eating breakfast when he arrived at the table
they shared at the pension. He said a brief hello and sat down with his paper
while the waiter, who doubled as the night clerk, brought him his croissants
and café au lait.
"Where's your friend this
morning?" Mr. Fawkes-Whatsits asked politely.
"He'll be down after his
shower," Dorian said in the same fashion. "He jogs every
morning."
Fawkes gave a neutral grunt, and
went back to reading the brochure of the conference. Thank God neither he nor
his tiny wife was the chatty type. Mornings were bad enough with Klaus, who
always bounded out of bed in a fever of energy and eloquence that took no
account of his bedmate's condition. Klaus' habits had altered not a whit in
their seven years together, and Dorian still found his behaviour on waking as
hard to take as his blanket-hogging while asleep. He couldn't have borne
conversation with anyone else before he'd had at least one cup of coffee.
He dipped his croissant into the
foamy milk and chewed slowly, thinking of nothing at all. This morning blank
time was a relief, in its way: an interlude of Zen not-being when the most that
was required of him was that he not stop breathing.
"This man Aouille," Mrs.
Fawkes said after a bit, "Is he related to the cybernetics expert?"
She turned the name into Owill, and Dorian winced.
"Dunno. A lot of Circassians
seem to be called that. They must not go in for birth control much, if it's all
one family." The man wasn't really good-looking, but there was a nice
homeliness to his big features, and experience told Dorian that his slow
easy-goingness probably vanished in bed. A small thread of interest stirred
inside him.
"It's not a family, actually,
it's a tribe," he remarked, smiling to ease his intrusion into their
conversation. The smile took energy. He signalled to the waiter for another
coffee. "There are two big ones in the Circassian highlands. When the
country was modernized after the first war the lowland government made everyone
adopt a surname, and the highlanders simply took the name of the tribe they
belonged to. That's why half the people are called either Aouille-" he
took pains with the pronunciation: A-oh-ee- "or Acaille. Like the
Sikhs." He gave a highbeam glance into the man's deep brown eyes.
"Oh," the other said a
little blankly: in response to Dorian or to the Sikhs, it was hard to tell.
It was the woman who said with
interest, "So these two scientists- Acaille and Aouille-" She'd
picked up the correction, but it still came out Owee. Oh well; Circassian was
an intractable language- "they might as well be called Smith and Jones? No
wonder no-one can find them."
"How do you know about the
names?" Fawkes asked. It sounded like a neutral question, but there was
definitely a response at some level. Dorian leaned a little closer to him.
"I had a Circassian friend
once, many years ago. He told me all the legends of the country."
"Legends?" That was his
wife. No jealousy there, only interest in what Dorian might have to say. Was
she so certain of her husband, or merely indifferent?
"Oh yes." Dorian smiled, not breaking eye contact with
the man. "In the beginning there were two stones that fell from heaven,
one red and one blue. The people appointed two warrior priests to care for
them. They carried the stones when the armies went into battle, and the
Circassians swept their enemies before them. So for many years the red tribe
and the blue prospered and ruled the land. But then there was division. The
warriors of the blue tribe wanted to continue their conquests, the red wanted to
stay and be content with what they had. The blue tribe left, taking their stone
with them, while the red tribe retreated into the fastnesses of the mountains.
Some day the two stones will be united again, and Circassian warriors will once
more shake the world." He ended the story with a flourish.
"Not so far off, was it?"
Fawkes smiled back at him.
"General Majek, you mean?"
Dorian raised an eyebrow. "That story about him being involved in bringing
down the Soviet regime? Surely that was just a popular legend after he left the
government so suddenly."
"He doesn't seem the kind who'd
stay quiet for long. And the timing was suggestive. He disappears off the scene
and a year later there's seething unrest throughout the area."
"He disappears and two weeks
later Chernobyl explodes," his wife said tartly. "You think there's a
connection there too?"
"It's probably just rumour and
speculation," Dorian said judiciously. "No-one could really believe
he'd drop everything in order to go look after a child." That had been
Klaus' conclusion. NATO had been more than a little concerned about what might
be behind the General's sudden 'retirement' in favour of his older son, given
rumours of conflict between Majek and the young man. However an intensive investigation
had found no evidence of a power struggle at home nor of any clandestine
political activity abroad. Sources in Circassia confirmed that the younger boy
was indeed in a deep coma following some kind of explosion, and that Majek had
returned with him to his fortress town in the mountains. However unlikely on
the face of it, it seemed he really had retired voluntarily in order to devote
himself to the child's recovery.
"All we ever hear from
Circassia is rumour and speculation," Mrs. Fawkes said in dissatisfaction.
"Like this paper of Jean Acaille's." She made it sound like Gene.
This time Dorian didn't correct her.
"The Fountain of Youth?"
He tried to keep his voice light, but a little thrill ran down his back as he
said the words.
"That's what I mean. All the
precis says is that he and - Aouille- are on the track of the chromosome that
causes aging. 'A preliminary analysis-' That's all. But the stories that are
going round- that he's isolated it, reversed it, that there are millennia-old
people living in Circassia... It's getting to the point of hysteria."
"They seem to be fuelling the
rumours themselves. Hiding away, not talking to reporters, not appearing in
public- it suggests there's more of a mystery than there is." That had
been Klaus' conclusion too, expressed far more forcibly than Dorian was about
to. Klaus was furious at being sent off on so ludicrous a mission. The fact
that agents from every other agency, and a host of countries both friendly and
not, had also come in pursuit of the elusive scientists just made him angrier.
"Ridiculous!" he'd stormed. "A fairy tale! There's
nothing to it, and those two are just trying to make people think there is.
They're going to look pretty stupid when they actually have to give some proof,
and so will everyone else. And NATO will damned well be right up there, wiping
egg off our face along with the CIA and the Iranians and MOSSAD and the rest of
the losers."
"They're scientists,"
Dorian had argued. "They wouldn't make claims they couldn't back. Stories
like this don't come from nothing. There must be something revolutionary
in their research to be getting a response like this."
"Oh of course," Klaus had
sneered. "You believe it. You would. You want to be twenty-five forever.
Well you can't. You're pushing forty-"
"Thirty-six," he'd
protested.
"-and you look every day of it.
Why don't you grow up? I hate being seen with someone who acts like a
middle-aged teenager."
"Seen? When have you ever been seen
with me anywhere?" he'd demanded, shaking with rage, and left before the
perennial quarrel could start again. He knew Klaus was only talking this way
because he was angry about his orders, but Dorian was damned if he'd serve as
whipping boy yet another time. And what Klaus said had hurt, more than he
wanted to admit. They hadn't seen each other again until their pre-arranged
meeting here in T--, and things hadn't improved much even then
He pulled his mind from the constant
sore point of Klaus, to hear Fawkes saying, as if in echo of his own thoughts,
"There must be something to it. Academics don't get carried away like this
for nothing. Someone knows something--"
"But it isn't us," Klaus
said, sitting himself down peremptorily and smiling wolfishly at the American.
"Whatever our respective governments may think. So you might as well stop
pumping my friend."
Fawkes looked at him mildly.
"Whoever does know isn't talking. That's the only thing we do know."
He put his napkin down and rose to go, his wife following suit. "Have a
nice day." He nodded briefly at Dorian, and left.
"Why did you have to be so rude
to that poor man?" Dorian demanded.
"He's an agent, stupid."
Klaus was shovelling a croissant into his mouth. "And you were telling him
everything."
"You think everyone's an agent,
including a perfectly ordinary American professor and his wife."
"You believed him when he said
he was a professor? God."
"He didn't say. I can tell from
his suits. Badly cut and badly cared for. His wife doesn't look after him- too
busy with her career, I'll bet."
"Oh, she's a career
woman, is she?" Klaus said with heavy sarcasm. "Could you tell that
from her suits?"
"Of course. She's much better
dressed than he is. Why don't you use your eyes, Klaus?"
"Why don't you use yours? If
you're so damned observant, Sherlock, how come you can't tell CIA agents when
you see them?"
"They're not CIA," Dorian
said in exasperation. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Some other outfit, then.
They're spies. I can smell them."
"You're paranoid.
They're-"
"You're a fool- always have
been and always will be," Klaus said in dismissive contempt. Something
inside Dorian turned to iron.
"You're right. I'm a fool. I'd
have to be, to stay with you and put up with this kind of behaviour."
"Don't make a scene."
"Don't make a scene. Don't draw
attention to myself. Pretend I don't exist. Just sit still and let you insult
me."
"It's your fault for getting me
upset and making me say things I don't mean. If you'd just learn to think
before you open that mouth of yours- where are you going?!"
He'd heard all this before, many
many times, and he didn't want to hear it again. He got to his feet and walked
out of the dining room, knowing Klaus wouldn't think of calling attention to
himself by following.
'I can't go on like this,' he
thought to himself. 'I can't. This is hell.'
Without purpose he wandered out of
the pension and into the cobblestoned streets of the old quarter. Instinctively
he made for the canal, where willows bent above the water's surface. Their pale
green was like a mist, and the sight of them was obscurely painful. All things
bloom again in the spring, but not us. Not us.
Thirty-six. Next year thirty-seven.
The year after that... He still kept his lean figure, he trained regularly to
maintain the solidity to his muscles, he was careful of his diet... There was
nothing to show. He looked like a man ten years his junior. But he felt
different now than ten years ago.
He felt under siege.
He'd never thought it would matter
to him- the small lines beginning around his eyes, the gold beginning to dim in
his hair. He thought he'd age with aplomb: go from being a beautiful young man
to being a beautiful old one. There had been friends of his father's whom he'd
loved as a boy: gracious Lord Marley with his exquisite manners and stunning
pure-white hair; Brigadier Hopkins with the threads of molten silver at his
temples and the face of an eagle, fierce and wise; someone called only Rudy,
genial, round-faced and laughing, like a cotton-haired cherub. The young men
who frequented the house loved them too. Dorian had early become aware of the
rivalry for their favours. He'd always thought that if he aged, he'd do it like
that.
'If I aged. I thought I had a
choice. I never thought it would be like this.'
This dreary middle-aged nothingness.
This lack of delight in the wonders of the world. No-one had told him that when
the body begins to fail, the spirit fails too. Or was it the other way round?
How long had it been since anything
had pleased him? Years, it seemed. After his second- third- year with Klaus--
'with' Klaus. He grimaced. His third year as Klaus' clandestine lover, when the
secret stolen meetings had begun to pall and Klaus had reverted to his worst
bad temper... It was so much nicer before that: not perhaps at the very start
when Klaus was always pushing him away, often at gun point, but after that, as
he had slowly- so slowly- allowed Dorian to come nearer and nearer. It had
taken every day of four years from Klaus' first grudging admission- in Paris,
that had been- that he actually preferred Dorian alive to Dorian dead-- though
Klaus himself wasn't queer and never would be and Dorian had better resign
himself to that fact right now-- to his final capitulation. Four years of close
loving pursuit, of small victories one after another, of advances that had gone
unrebuffed and intimacies, both physical and psycho-logical, that Klaus had
permitted with unvarying bad grace. His wire love had never unbent verbally,
whatever his body did. Dorian didn't mind. From that morning in Paris he'd
known he was going to win, and for four years the sun had shone unremittingly.
His career as a thief had reached new heights of glory- he'd breached the
security of collections private and public, he'd plundered the Prado and
despoiled the Gettys. T'ang figurines from China, van Gogh's Sunflowers from
Tokyo, Raphael's madonna from the Uffizi and Tintoretto's Venus from Venice had
all come to grace his country home. It had been wonderful.
It had been wonderful. And
now...
He didn't want to think about now.
Without intention, his feet had
taken him to the hotel where the Biogenetics Conference was being held. He had
nothing to do here- nothing to do in this city, for that matter. He'd come only
because Klaus would be alone and they could meet without observation from the
rest of NATO. T-- was too much a city of business and bureaucracy to provide
any outlet for Dorian's tastes. But the hotel and the conference had become the
centre of everyone's attention for this week. At least it was thronged with
people and might provide a diversion... until Klaus found him and ordered him
away from the area of his operations. Klaus expected Dorian to exist only at
night, and regarded his daytime presence as an affront.
He took a table in the indoor café
opening off the lobby. Around him seats were slowly being vacated as the
conference attendees finished breakfast and took themselves off to the first
seminars of the day. A programme lay abandoned on the table beside him. He
reached a long arm over and scanned it while waiting for his cappuccino, but it
might as well have been written in Greek. Well no- he could read Greek, but
this was incomprehensible. 'Biochemical genetics of elasmo-branchs with
emphasis on the alopiidae.' 'Gene expression in recombinant microorganisms.'
'Specific selection of deoxycytidine kinase mutants with tritiated
deoxyadenoisine.' He flipped through
the pages, and came to the seminars at week's end. 'Preliminary analysis of the
possible effect of deviant chromosomal structure on the human aging process' by
Acaille, Jean and Aouille, Sascha.
That woman was right. It sounded
like nothing at all. 'Preliminary', 'possible'... There seemed no reason why
agents from NATO and the old KGB and half a dozen other agencies as well would
show up in droves to track down the authors of the paper, but they were
here... There must be something to this, some substance to the
persistent rumours that Acaille and Aouille had found the key- or a key- to
perpetual youth.
Perpetual youth- it wasn't such an
unnatural idea. It simply meant being the same way one had always been, from
fifteen to thirty, before everything had begun to go so terribly wrong. It
showed a desire for stability. What could be more normal than that? Aging was
what was unnatural- the constant change, the unremitting attack of time, the
relentless degeneration. It was wrong. It was unfair. It should be
stopped...
There was a small stir around him, a rustling more psychic than physical, and Dorian found his head turning to locate the source. A man was walking through the café, making for the lobby door. Not a young man, nor particularly tall- no more than medium height, if that. There was no one thing about him that particularly struck the eye but he drew the room's attention like a magnet. Dorian frankly stared. Shaggy no-colour hair, the silver-smoke that blonde goes with age, growing carelessly over the collar; shaggy colourless eyebrows above deep-set eyes; pale skin with deep lines on each side of the bleached long mouth; a firm jutting chin and high blunt cheekbones that started a small ache in Dorian's heart. Unlike the academics all around in their conference suits and ties, the man was casually dressed as if for the country in a grey wool jumper and tweed trousers. Rather than looking out of place, he made the scholars in their unimaginative serge seem stolid and middle-class. The man was talking to someone beside him, quiet and intent, as if they were alone in the room. A hundred little details bespoke the aristocrat and leader: his straight spine and the tilt to his head, the informality of his dress, his genuine obliviousness to all those watching eyes. But what stunned Dorian most was the sense of concentrated force about him. It was practically visible, like the heat that turns the world wavy above a fire- an authority as massive and unselfconscious as a mountain's.
'Who is that?' Dorian
wondered, awestruck. 'Why have I never seen him before?' His fascinated eyes
tracked the man's progress through the restaurant and his finger crept up
unthinkingly to play with one of his curls. 'Oh God,' he thought, and his
finger throbbed as he twisted the hair tighter, 'Oh God-': half plea and half
prayer: and as if in response the man turned his head and looked straight at
him. His eyes were an amazing blue, like two pieces of the summer sky fixed in
a human face. Dorian straightened up, glowing as though warmed by the Mediterranean
sun as he felt the golden connection that ran between himself and the ravishing
stranger. Always it was the same, that supreme moment when he met another
avatar of the Beautiful and became caught in the mutual exchange of the
divinity each embodied. He reflected delight back on his beholder like a mirror
reflecting sunlight, feeling his own eyes growing wider and his mouth taking on
a soft curve. The golden warmth turned from him briefly and Dorian felt as if a
cloud had covered the sky. The man's companion was saying something to him,
urging him forward. 'Oh no- don't leave-,' Dorian thought in desolation.
The two moved on, but as they did those amazing eyes flashed once again in his
direction.
He leaned back in his seat, dazzled. It was as if his soul had been rapt
away to another plane of existence, one where heavenly music played among
sun-split clouds. Slowly he felt himself descending to earth again. He smelled
freshly poured coffee and the pungent perfume of a Gaulois and beneath that the
solid restaurant odour of linen, lemon, and thick carpeting. Around him sang a
muted conversational chorus of masculine baritones and tenors and the
occasional high soprano, speaking in French and German and English and, off to
one side, Turkish. The low hubbub was punctuated by the chink of china cups
replaced in saucers and the clink of forks against porcelain plates. Absently
he smiled at the flowers on his table: they were sunshiny yellow, frilled at
the edges, with small freckly spots like a jaguar's. The celestial music sang
faintly on, background to the steady clearness now burning in his soul, and in
his head there was one single word.
'Mine.'
He felt his being relax and expand to touch all the life in the room
around him. What a lovely day it was after all, and what a delightful city T--
had turned out to be, and how amusing these solemn academics were with their
impossible language and their hard ideas. The world was such a simple place,
really. There was beauty and it all belonged to him. He didn't even have to go
looking for it-- beauty came walking into his path like a god in a garden. Most
delightfully of all, beauty didn't always know who its most devoted lover was.
There was first the game and ceremony of pursuit to give pleasure to his days,
and then the final possession to crown his endeavours and his nights. Dorian
sighed happily. For the first time in what seemed ages he felt completely
himself. He felt like Eroica. It had been so long, so long, since he'd seen
something by chance and recognized it instinctively as his own.
He lingered again on the memory of those blue eyes and the deep lines
that bracketed the experienced mouth. How much he must know- how much he would
have to teach Dorian- and how much Dorian could teach him. He would smell of
tobacco, rich and mellow; he would be a slow and gracious lover, patient as a
father- but masterful too, no doubt about it. That was a mouth accustomed to
giving orders and a face used to being obeyed. And-- if one didn't obey? Under
the aristocratic courtesy there had beat- or was he imagining it? - a pulse of
danger. No, not imagination. Those eyes had held more than a hint of the
jungle. Like a panther- a silver panther- noble and deadly; or a blue-eyed
wolf, unfriend to man; or a king of Faery, pale and inhuman, judging mortal
kind by his own strange and merciless standards...
Even as his pulse beat more strongly, Dorian smiled at his fantasies.
His new love was all those things; he was also an ordinary man with a name and
an occupation and, if God loved him, a room number in this hotel. Now to find
out what all those were.
"The man who just left?"
The waiter looked a little blank. "I'm sorry, monsieur, a number of people
have left in the last five minutes. It's nearly time for the first session of
the morning..."
"This wasn't a scientist,"
Dorian assured him. "You couldn't miss him. He had pale grey-blond hair,
almost silver, and he wasn't wearing a suit- a grey jumper..."
The waiter was shaking his head.
"I'm sorry, sir, I don't remember a gentleman matching that
description."
"You must have seen him," Dorian insisted.
"Everyone was turning to look at him."
The waiter kept shaking his head.
"I'm sorry, sir, I was at the back of the restaurant-"
"That's where he came
from-"
"I didn't see him-"
Dorian gazed in exasperation at the
bovine face. "Let me speak to the maitre d'."
"Right away, sir." The man
departed with relieved alacrity.
Dorian bit his lip in impatience
until the maitre d' appeared. He was older and balding, with a shrewd watchful
expression that somehow annoyed the Earl. He repeated his question.
"- a grey jumper and tweed trousers.
I think he had some people with him. Obviously he's someone quite important; I
was just trying to place him."
"I'm afraid I don't know the
gentleman's name, sir. He came with a party- I don't think they're connected
with the conference, from the way they dressed. And I doubt they're staying at
this hotel. They settled the bill before they left, in cash."
Dorian's eyes narrowed momentarily,
then he smiled. "Ah well, I was just wondering who he was. I thought I'd
seen him before someplace."
"They might still be in the
lobby, or in the vicinity of the hotel," the maitre d' suggested.
Dorian laughed. "Oh, it's
hardly that important. I'll have another cappuccino- and do you have
brioche?"
"Yes indeed, sir," and he
vanished in his turn. Dorian lit a cigarette, and turned his attention on the
café, letting his glance rest finally on a good-looking young lad a few tables
away. He put a dreamy heavy-lidded expression on his face, the look of one
indulging in thoughts best not inquired into too deeply.
Very informative, the maitre d'. Too
informative. Paid in cash, had they? And certainly not guests of the hotel. Oh
no indeed. The man was clearly a V.I.P., but that was scarcely news. No, he was
a V.I.P. with a liking for privacy and able to command it. Dorian smiled
slowly. How wonderful. A little difficulty to be overcome, just for the
practice. His coffee and brioche appeared before him and he sipped absently. A
frontal assault on the desk clerk wouldn't work, obviously; but he didn't have
the equipment or the talent to hack into the hotel's computer. That was what
Bonham was for- what a pity he hadn't brought Bonham, but then, how could he
have known? Of course, he could get the information long-distance. He
considered the notion and discarded it. No, not this time. This was Dorian's
personal quest. In matters of art he took what assistance his men could give
him, but in affairs of the heart it was every man for himself. He smiled wider,
and was aware of a small commotion. The young man three tables away was rising
hastily and making for the door, blushing a deep red. He cast one terrified
glance over his shoulder in Dorian's direction as he disappeared.
Dorian laughed out loud. Definitely,
they'd think him an undesirable type. Time he went back to the fray. He
signalled for his bill.
He sat in the lobby, smoking slowly,
sizing up the men behind the front desk. They were all giving him covert looks,
of envy or perplexity or disapproval, but Dorian had his sensors out for that
little hormonal admixture that was necessary to his mission. Yes; there. The
young one with the blond hair and the remains of acne. That was the one.
Good-looking enough, though the red splotches were a pity; but if push came to
shove, better than the portly middle-aged man on his right.
"What the hell are you doing
here?"
Dorian jumped at the fierce hiss in
his ear. He turned to regard the stranger beside him- oh, not a stranger, of
course. Klaus. Of course. He opened blue eyes wide.
"Cruising the desk clerks. What
does it look like?"
"Leave at once. You're too
conspicuous."
"Go to hell," he said mildly.
"What?!" Klaus looked
dumbfounded.
"I said, go to hell. Or go
away- whichever you prefer. And if you don't-" he cut in over Klaus
outraged expression, "I'll yell that you're propositioning me. That'll get
you refused entry to this hotel for good."
"What the fuck are you
playing at!!" Give Klaus credit, his whisper still suggested volume enough
to shake the walls, but Dorian wasn't in the mood to give Klaus credit.
He ground out his cigarette, rose to
his feet, and strode over to the front desk.
"Where is the manager?" he demanded in ringing
tones. "I wish to speak with him at once. This man is pestering me."
He flung a hand out at Klaus who had stopped halfway in his pursuit. A bit too
much Edith Evans in the voice, he thought critically, but the effect on the
hotel minions was satisfactory. A flurry of activity erupted behind the desk,
and a man in pinstriped trousers emerged from the interior office.
"What appears to be the matter,
sir?" he inquired, eyes dubiously taking in Dorian's rose velvet draped
pantaloons and full-sleeved shirt.
"Nothing is the matter,"
Klaus interjected, low-voiced and in control. "This pervert wishes to
embarrass me in public."
"I am Dorian earl of Red
Gloria, a peer of the English realm and a citizen of the European
Community." He showed his passport to the manager. "This man came up
and whispered in my ear, right here in the lobby. I'm not accustomed to
behaviour of this sort in a hotel of your reputation."
"And you, sir?" The
manager turned to Klaus inquiringly.
"Major von dem Eberbach of
NATO." Unwillingly, Klaus flashed his ID. "This man is of interest to
NATO and I wish to speak with him."
"In what capacity?" The
manager was looking less than friendly at Klaus.
"I'm not at liberty to
say."
"Is this a matter for the police?"
"It concerns security. It's not
safe to have him in your hotel. Leave him to me."
"I don't think so, Major," the hotel manager said
heavily. "We've made it clear that your kind are not welcome here. Please
leave at once."
"My kind!" Klaus was black with rage and his tone
threatened. "Just what are you implying?"
"Spies- agents- undercover
operators- whatever you wish to call yourselves. We will not permit men like
you to disoblige our guests and disrupt the conference. We have police
security," he plowed on through Klaus' objections, "and I'll ask them
to intervene if you don't leave immediately."
"Ridiculous!" Klaus
snapped. "You can't turf out a NATO officer in pursuit of his
orders!"
"I can if you refuse to tell me what those orders are, sir. I
have an obligation to our guests. Will you leave, or shall I call for our
security staff?"
Klaus glared at the man, who merely
looked back at him with civil detestation.
Klaus turned to Dorian. "I'll see you
outside," he said darkly, and turned to go.
"You'll get the same answer
outside as in, dear," Dorian called after him, and had the
satisfaction of seeing Klaus' ears go red. "Some men can't take no for an
answer," he remarked to the manager. "But it looks like I'll have to
stay here now. Do you have a room available?"
"Sir." The manager spread deprecatory hands. "Our
rooms were all booked months ago."
Dorian smiled, megawatt charm pouring on the man like a nova.
"Of course. But naturally, there's always something available
for visiting celebrities. If the King of Sweden turned up this afternoon, you
wouldn't send him over to the Hilton?"
"Naturally not-'
"Well, he isn't here, and I am.
What have you got?"
"The Royal Suite is
taken--"
"I don't need a suite fit for a
king; a room for a prince will do nicely. That's what I am, after all."
"You are?" The man's eyes
were going unfocussed.
"In my own fashion.
Unrecognized, of course. We can't have a scandal."
"I've heard about the English
royals. You don't mean-"
Dorian nodded, smiling. "A
marriage of state- well, what can you expect? Like son, like father."
"Ohh..." He regarded
Dorian dazedly. "You don't look like-"
"Thank God," Dorian said fervently. "Meaning no disrespect, of course."
"Oh well, in that case-
Jean-Pierre," he signalled the middle-aged men. "Take- uhh-
"-His lordship-" Dorian
supplied. "I'm quite legitimately an earl." Luckily the manager was
in no state to figure out how.
"-to the twelfth floor
suite."
"Oh, I won't bother your senior
staff," Dorian interposed graciously. "This young man can take me to
my room." A wave of his hand, and the substitution was made as if by
magic. In seconds they were riding up in the lift.
"What's your name?"
"Paul, monsieur."
"Paul." He caressed the
syllable.
Paul didn't look at him, but blushed
furiously. Nonetheless, Dorian realized almost at once, he was more experienced
than that blush would suggest.
"Security's very tight here, I
see."
"Yes monsieur."
"Your manager just tossed a
NATO Major off the premises."
"Our guests are accustomed to
the best. We can't have them bothered with cops and robbers," Paul
replied, clearly quoting a superior. His eyes slid round to look at Dorian, but
meeting the Earl's, immediately went front again. "There are some very
important people here for the conference, after all."
"Yes. There was one of them
down in the restaurant. A man with hair like smoke-" Paul's face went
closed, like a door slamming shut. "Somebody so important that no-one sees
him if he doesn't want them to. I'm envious," Dorian murmured in the young
man's ear. "I wish I could command invisibility like that."
Paul shifted a little, but didn't
answer.
"Really?" Dorian smiled.
"Is your job on the line if you admit to knowing him?"
"Could be more than my
job," Paul muttered, as the lift doors opened.
"Do hotel staff often get death
threats from their guests? Maybe you should put in for danger pay."
"It's no joke," he
whispered desperately. "This place is crawling with secret agents. They've
told us to expect anything- kidnappings, assassinations, God knows what all.
It's because of those Circassians and their secret formula. Everyone's gone
crazy about it. They've told us not to trust anybody."
"I'm not interested in the
fountain of youth," Dorian half-lied, as Paul unlocked the door of his
suite. "I only want to know who my invisible man is."
"Why?" Paul didn't bother
to gloss the bluntness of the question.
"Why do you think?" Dorian
looked straight in his eye. "You should understand." He ran a swift
finger down the red-patched cheek. Paul blushed again but there was calculation
in his expression.
"You'll make it worth my
while?"
"One as pretty as you shouldn't
be mercenary," Dorian said neutrally, watching the eyes respond to his
nearness.
"I don't want money," Paul
blurted, and pressed closer.
"Well then," Dorian
smiled. "Show me where the bedroom is and maybe we can work something
out."
An energetic half hour later, Paul
disentangled himself from the tumbled sheets.
"I gotta go," he said, and
began pulling on his pants. Dorian concealed his disapproval of the vulgar
haste. Where there was no finesse in the important areas, one could scarcely
expect grace in the finer details. He stretched out at his ease and watched
Paul's eyes return unwillingly to his body.
"Well?" he said
inquiringly.
"Well what?" Paul asked
sullenly. No grace at all- not even a mercantile quid pro quo. The petty
bourgeois were the most tiresome of classes, no doubt about it, with their
perennial resentment of absolutely everything.
"My invisible man," Dorian
prompted. "His name, and his room number."
"His name's Aouille," Paul
said in smug triumph.
"Not the biologist, of
course."
"Not the biologist, not the
engineer, not the man who buys antiques, not the one with the funny harp, not
the artist who does the wood carvings--" Paul chanted.
"Good heavens, are they all
here together?"
Paul looked annoyed. "No, but
they have been. There are a lot of them."
"And this is another
Aouille?"
"Yes it is. And his room isn't
registered to him."
"You're not going to tell me which
it is, of course."
"It's against hotel
policy," Paul said, unbudgeably self-righteous.
"Dog in the manger?"
Paul looked confused, then angry.
"Of course not. You aristocrats think we're all for sale. All you have to
do is fuck me and I'll tell you anything you want-"
"As I recall, you fucked me.
Was it so bad?"
"No but-"
"But?"
"You only went to bed with me
because you wanted something from me," Paul muttered.
"Yes. You knew that before we
started. Something for something. Where's your business sense, young man?"
"Don't call me 'young
man'. I'm as old as you are."
"Twenty-four?"
"Twenty-two, but-"
"I'm thirty-six."
"Oh." Paul looked stunned.
"You can't be."
An odd satisfaction, not untinged
with bitterness, filled Dorian's soul.
"All year long. And feeling
every day of it right now. You'd do better with someone your own age."
"Oh." Paul was chewing his
lip. "I've got to go." He looked at the bedroom door, but seemed
unable to move.
"Good-bye then." Dorian
waited.
"Well-- good-bye." He took
a step to the door, paused, took two more steps, turned to look over his
shoulder, then turned completely around.
"Look," he said
desperately. "I know how you feel. But my job-"
Dorian smiled.
"You promise you won't tell him
where you learned-?"
Dorian nodded, crossing his heart.
"Oh God- It's the roof
penthouse suite. But you can't get in. There's a special elevator, and the
doors are coded access, and it's the guest who codes them- we don't even know
what it is- the housekeeper has to call to get in, even-"
"I see. Thank you."
"Oh God. I've got to go. This
didn't happen, right?"
"No," Dorian said
reassuringly, "It didn't happen."
His clothes and his tools were at
the pension. Dorian took the narrow winding by-streets rather than the main
thoroughfares, merely to give himself the pleasure of the walk. He approved of T---'s city planning, if one
wanted to put that name to an arrangement that had grown randomly within the
walls of the old castle town. Over on the wide boulevards were the eighteenth
century and Empire apartment buildings, but here near the canals there were
tall grey buildings from the Middle Ages with slit windows and spiral stone
staircases. Dorian saw a young man come running sideways down the narrow
enclosed steps on the outside of one tower-like structure. Just so, he thought,
the medieval students would have dashed out into the street in their doublets
and hose, bound for a lecture at the faculty of medicine which had been the
pride of both city and university since the thirteenth century.
But his mind for once wasn't wholly
on his fantasies of the storied past. The present was still too strong, not to
mention the promised future. The slightly grubby interlude just finished cast a
small shadow on his soul as he left the hotel, but it lifted in the rays of the
sun that warmed the cobblestones. That poor young man, with his turbulent skin
and adolescent rancours: God send him a nice rich lover and a change of diet.
Dorian erased the matter from his mind and returned to the memory of that
lion-like silver head turning in his direction. He played it over in his mind,
the slow revolution and the two blue eyes so transparent that the light had
seemed to shine through them- or out of them-
"Ouf-" He'd run full tilt
into a man by the canal side. He blinked, seeing dark hair with silver at the
temples-
"Your pardon, sir," the
man was saying in automatic apology. Dorian smiled brilliantly if illogically
at the silver temples. A good omen- how nice to live in a world that had older
men in it-
"Not at all. It was my
fault." He made a small open-handed bow.
"Have we met before, monsieur?
Surely I recall-"
"I'm afraid you're
mistaken," Dorian said kindly, hiding his amusement at the threadbare
line, and took himself off. Even if he'd been in the mood, the man wasn't at
all his type. But the encounter added the final note to his contentment. He
could look forward to being much run after again. There was nothing to make a
man irresistible like being in love. Back when he'd been pursuing Klaus, he'd
had to beat his suitors off with a stick. Well, he could live with that. He was
actually rather looking forward to it.
He arranged to have his clothes sent
to the hotel, stuffed the bare necessities into a small bag, and made a few
enquiries of the pension's proprietor.
"A hardware store?" she
said dubiously. "Maybe in the suburbs, monsieur. Or you might try the
department stores near the main square."
"What a good idea," Dorian
said graciously. He pressed a small remembrance into her hand, and received her
profuse thanks with a little thread of guilt. The poor woman would get the
rough side of Klaus' tongue when the Major discovered that he'd gone for good.
Of course, she could throw Klaus out as well, as the hotel manager had. That
was the best way to deal with bullies, in the end.
He took a cab to the city centre and
succeeded with some difficulty in making the necessary purchases. It was
mid-afternoon by the time he returned to his palatial suite at the hotel. Yes,
this was much more like it. Opulence and magnificence were his natural
background. Enough of the small two-star lodgings Klaus' parsimony and paranoia
had required him to stay in for the last seven years: places that suited
whatever Klaus' cover was at whatever time, places where other NATO agents
didn't come, places where Klaus could afford to pay his precise half of the
bill... He would never allow Dorian to pick up the tab. "I know where your
money comes from and I won't touch it," he'd said. What a pity the
constipated German soul was housed in such an attractive casing. A waste of a
beautiful body. Dorian sighed a last regret, and dismissed Klaus from his mind.
He had work to do.
Shortly thereafter he was swinging
fourteen stories above the street on a sling lowered from the roof and running
along a track laid beneath the coping. His hair was tucked under a white cap,
plain overalls covered the velvet and silk, and he was diligently washing the
windows of the top floor on the hotel's west side.
Unfortunately all the windows proved
to be of double glazed industrial thickness and wire reinforced, with opaque
curtains obscuring the view of the rooms within. Very secure indeed. His real
goal, however, was the large balcony off to his left and its walk-out double
doors. Painstakingly he worked his way, window by window, to the stone
balustrade. He stepped down onto it and approached the glass doors. They slid
open at once, and Dorian found the barrel of an automatic rifle staring him in
the face. He held up his squeegee mop as if in protection and looked in
affected puzzlement at the rifle's owner. He was huge and uncouth, with a mane
of rough black hair and a fearsome scar bisecting one eye.
"I have to wash the
windows," Dorian said slowly in French.
The man snarled something in
Circassian, clearly a negative. Dorian essayed German, with the same result.
That exhausted the languages he could legitimately speak as a native of T---. He tried again in Russian, carefully
stiff.
"The windows- I wash." He
waved his squeegee at the doors. The man repeated what he'd said for the third
time, and indicated, with the butt of his gun, that Dorian should leave.
"I wash windows. No wash, no
pay. I starve."
The man bellowed, waving the gun.
Dorian was debating whether the correct response was to bellow back or to burst
into tears when a second armed man came to the doors. The giant let loose a
cascade of tortured consonants at him, and the newcomer looked Dorian over
carefully. He was a little more kempt than his fellow and his manner was a
touch more civilized, but there was still an air of backwoods wildness to him.
His dark eyes, partly hidden by a shock of black hair, were like an intelligent
ferret's, and his aim was perfectly steady as he held his gun at Dorian's
stomach.
"You speak French?" His
accent was surprisingly good. Apparently he'd had some education.
"Yes of course." Dorian
put an aggrieved note in his voice. "Will you let me get on with my work?
All the fourteenth and twelfth floor windows have to be done this
afternoon--"
"Go ahead," the man said,
coming out onto the balcony. He spoke quickly to the giant, who stepped back
inside and slid the door to. "Koczi will stand inside with his gun aimed
at your chest, and I will stand out here aiming at your back. I'm sure you'll
want to finish quickly, under the circumstances."
"Believe it," Dorian
muttered, the disgruntled worker. "What's this all in aid of? An honest
man can't do his job these days without having foreigners shoving guns in his
face. This damned conference..."
"Quickly, monsieur." The gun barrel indicated the doors.
Dorian picked up his bucket and
squeegee, slathered soapy water over the glass and began wiping it off neatly.
As he worked he cast quick nervous glances inside, ostensibly at the hulking
Koczi, and learned that this was the sitting room, with a door in the opposite
wall that led apparently to the corridor.
"C'est fini," he said,
sourly. "Now I have to do the remaining windows on this side. I trust you
permit?"
"But of course," the
shorter man said. He smiled without humour. "I'll watch until you're
finished. I trust you permit?"
Dorian gave a Gallic snort of
disgust, remounted his sling, and proceeded to clean the remaining four windows
without undue haste. He rounded the corner and began working on the northern
side. The first three windows had the same wire mesh and opaque curtains behind
them as before, but the fourth was ordinary glass and gave onto an empty
corridor. Craning, Dorian could see a large door of some heavy kind of wood,
with a panel beside it. That would be the entrance, with the coded entry
system. He smiled in satisfaction. How high tech. How formidable. How lucky the
management trusted in the latest security systems and ignored basic
precautions.
Dorian tested the window. It was
bolted. At least they'd thought that far. It took thirty seconds to have a pane
out and the bolt undone. He regarded the locked and coded door with approval.
The hinges were on the outside. People always covered the obvious points and
slipped up on the secondary ones. Speaking of which-- Perhaps he should wait
until he'd concocted a plausible cover story before entering his beloved's- his
well-guarded beloved's- domain? His memory was inconveniently recalling one or
two things he'd learned about Circassian customs from Sergei, which suggested prudence
might be the best course. He twitched his shoulders irritably. When had he ever
been prudent? He was in love. Caution was for the helplessly middle-aged and
the hopelessly bourgeois, and he was neither.
He applied himself to the hinges and
was pulling the door away five minutes later. He cleared up the small matter of
the electric lock, tidily put the door back on, and effected his metamorphosis
from canvas-clad worker into elegant aristocrat. At last he stood with beating
heart looking at the real front door of the suite. 'Through me lies the way-'
he thought, and caught himself. No, damn it, through this door lies Heaven.
'Eternal Love it was that placed me here'- and love it is that waits for me
beyond. He took a deep, anticipatory breath.
The original bell was still in place and evidently, from the door's locked condition, still in use. He rang, trusting inspiration would arrive when he needed it. The door opened almost immediately, taking him off-guard.
"Hello, Zha-" The short
blond man checked. "You're not Jean." The open cheerful face looked
puzzled. Easy enough to talk his way past that.
"No, I'm afraid not,"
Dorian began persuasively, until his belated senses caught up with him. He
stopped and stared at the man, who was looking back at him with creased
eyebrows.
"Don't I-" Dorian began
just as the other said "I know you. I know I know you."
A voice called in Circassian from
inside the apartment, down the hallway and to the right. It was a deep voice,
peremptory, with a hint of velvet in it, and Dorian's knees went weak. His
voice. Oh God. It called again, more impatiently, a single name that
illuminated his darkness.
"Gunmar!" he gasped.
"It's me- Dorian Red Gloria."
"Lord Gloria!" Gunmar's
eyes widened in delight. Yes, definitely. Older, and by all evidence a little
more sensible, but basically the same cheerful innocent as a dozen years
before.
"You've cut your hair,"
Dorian said, smiling into his eyes.
"You haven't cut yours. Come in, come in." He took
Dorian's arm and pulled him into the corridor. "Papa, it's an old
friend," he called.
'Papa?' Dorian thought in
bewilderment. Gunmar's father was dead- but Gunmar was guiding him into the
living room and Dorian had eyes for nothing but the man sitting in a chair
placed by itself, like- like a throne, he thought. Aouille's ash blond eyebrows
were raised in speculation as Gunmar chattered through the introductions.
"Papa, this is an old friend
from England," he said in French. "Dorian Earl of Red Gloria. We met in
Paris when I was studying there with Takamatsu. He knows Uncle Savijc."
"That I can
believe," someone muttered- a large blond man sitting off to Aouille's
left.
"Kinta, don't be
horrible," Gunmar said reprovingly but with affection. "Lord Gloria, this
is my father and this is my cousin Kinta."
"I'm very pleased to meet you,
sir," Dorian murmured, gazing entranced into the blue eyes. Oh lucky lucky
Gunmar- to have been adopted by him. And lucky lucky Dorian, to know
Gunmar.
"The pleasure's mine,"
Aouille said, a small smile beginning. Not just courtesy. He remembered from
this morning. More than that: he liked something he saw in Dorian. The man had
taste as well.
"How did he get in?" the
large man- Kinta- demanded belligerently.
"An interesting question," Aouille remarked and his eyes danced a little at Dorian. "I look forward to hearing the answer, though not just now. I don't want to seem inhospitable but we're meeting to settle a few family matters. I won't-"
The bell rang again. "That's
Jean," Gunmar said in satisfaction. "Jean's Uncle Savijc's
friend," he added informatively as he went off to answer the door.
"His little
friend," Kinta said heavily, and Dorian registered both the hostility in
the words and the meaning behind them. 'Petit ami' meant 'lover' in French. His
eyes narrowed but Gunmar's voice was already coming down the corridor.
"You'll never guess who-" He turned around as Sergei walked
into the room, arm in arm with a dark-haired man, and stopped dead.
"Good God- Dorian," he
said, his head going back in surprise. He barely looked a day older- his hair
still the colour of corn silk and his one eye still a changeable shade of
blue-grey. He smiled suddenly and brilliantly. "It's been years."
"Yes, hasn't it?" Dorian said, bemused. Even after all his time with Klaus- even with Aouille sitting not three feet away and filling all his senses- there was still that little tug of attraction. From his side; not from Sergei's. He felt a small obscure pang at the muted happiness that radiated from his one-time lover. Because of this Jean person-- He looked over and just managed to keep the surprise from his face. 'Jean' was a young man-- a very young man-- young enough to be Sergei's son. Twenty-one, if that, and not a day older. Ah well- so Sergei was into cradle robbing...
"Dorian Lord Gloria, Jean," Sergei was saying in introduction.
Jean nodded, giving Dorian a
friendly but appraising look. Dorian wondered suddenly if he'd misjudged. Those
eyes were more than mature. Jean loosed Sergei's arm and held out his hand.
"Jean Acaille," he said.
"The scientist?" Dorian
asked in disbelief, shaking hands automatically.
"Jean." Aouille's
voice was heavy with displeasure. "You have an alias here. Use it. You
know how dangerous this is."
Acaille looked unconcerned.
"Lord Gloria is an old friend of the family. And frankly, I'm tired of
pretending I don't exist."
"If you don't care for the
pretence, you may find yourself facing the reality." Aouille's tone was
grim.
"We're more use to everyone
alive," Kinta said dismissively. "I've told you, you're being
paranoid about this."
"I listen to what's
being said out in the real world, where you can't be bothered to show
your face." Dorian couldn't blame him for being annoyed. Kinta would try
the patience of a saint. "Half the major powers want your discovery for
themselves, the other half think it will destroy the status quo, and all of
them want you out of the way."
"Speaking of out of the way,
why don't Lord Gloria and I take ourselves there?" Sergei suggested.
"This particular fight doesn't need noncombatant observers."
"Mmh," Aouille grunted,
recovering. "I'll see you after, Savijc. Lord Gloria-" Dorian glowed
at the sound of his name on those lips, "a pleasure to make your
acquaintance. I hope to see you soon."
"No more than I do,"
Dorian said sincerely, and turned to find Sergei staring at him in something
like shock, while the unspeakable boy beside him stood grinning from ear to
ear. When he smiled he looked too young to vote.
"See you, Sergei," Jean
said. "Sois sage."
"Et toi, aussi." Sergei
shot him a meaning glance, took Dorian's arm, and turned to go.
"By the way," Gunmar said
in a puzzled voice, "how did you get in? You don't know the code."
Trust Gunmar to remain the enfant
terrible in spite of his age. Still, Aouille ought to know about the flaws in
his security. Dorian looked over at him.
"The outside door, where the
panel is- the hinges are on the same side as the corridor. You can get the
bolts out with a screwdriver."
"Western technology."
Aouille's tone showed what he thought of that. "Savijc-"
"I'll see to it," Sergei said.
"But why did you take-"
"Later, Gunmar."
That was Aouille and Kinta and Sergei, all speaking together. Gunmar looked
surprised, and Dorian and Sergei took advantage of the momentary pause to make
their escape.
"Sergei, tell me. Tell me
quickly. Who is he?
"He told you. Jean Acaille, the
scientist."
"No," Dorian
howled, amused and infuriated. "Believe it or not, there are other men in
the world besides Jean Acaille and I'm in love with one of them. Who-"
"A moment, m'ami." He
stopped by the living room. "Araszyam." The shorter of the guards
came out and Sergei spoke to him swiftly in Circassian, gesturing back towards
the front door. Dorian tried to efface himself but Ara-what's-his-name had
already taken note of his face. He could tell the moment when the man began
informing Sergei of his exploits on the balcony. Sergei smiled and said
something that made him nod in comprehension. He saluted and went back into the
room.
"For
the record, you're an old friend of mine, an eccentric European aristocrat. To
men of that class the last three words are practically interchangeable, so they
won't be surprised at anything you do from now on." Sergei walked swiftly
down the hallway and into a smaller sitting room, and Dorian hastened after.
"Sergei, I'm dying. Tell
me. This man Aouille who's adopted Gunmar. Who is he?"
"Adop-? Oh. Oh of course. You
don't know."
"Know what? Sergei, are you trying to kill me with
frustration?"
"No- no, m'ami. But- Lord
Gloria, may I give you a piece of advice? Good advice. To make up for how I
behaved the last time we met."
"I forget how you behaved the
last time we met, but if you want to do something for me, tell me who he
is."
"This is what you have to do.
Leave the hotel, get into a cab, and go to the airport. When you get there, buy
a ticket for the first plane leaving-" Dorian was shaking his head-
"no matter where it's going, and don't come back. Will you do that?"
"No. Who is he?"
"Gunmar's father. His real
father. Not adopted."
"I thought you said his father was dead. Or am I thinking of
someone else?"
"No. That's what I told
you." He seemed for once at a loss. "It's embarrassing, the things
you do when you're young. I suppose I was- not quite sane- at the time, and
neither was Takamatsu."
"What's he got to do
with this?"
"It was two months after my
brother Ruza- after he went to war and was killed- and the fighting men were
all away on campaign- when the children were born- Ruza's and Majek's."
He'd never heard Sergei sound so awkward. "Szincza first and then Gunmar,
very close together. Then Ruza's wife died of complications-- and Majek's wife
nearly died, and the children had to be put out to nurse. And- well- we changed
them over. Takamatsu and I. Put Gunmar in Szincza's cradle and vice versa,
before the women arrived. It was our revenge- so that Ruza's son would be
brought up as Majek's- become the heir, have all the advantages--" He gave
a deep sigh, as if the worst was over. "And Majek's son- Gunmar- was brought
up as Ruza's. Until we told them the truth."
"Majek's."
Sergei nodded.
"That- he's the General."
"Ex-general. Szincza heads the
country now."
"You just said he's Ruza's son--"
"Majek raised him, Majek thinks
of him as his own. And Gunmar hates politics and the army and everything but
science. Takamatsu saw to that."
"Majek."
"Yes. The elevator is back
there. I'll walk you-"
"No."
"Dorian, you haven't a chance. He's a Circassian. You know
what that means."
"He's not a Circassian. He's himself."
"Exactly."
"He's mellowed. He must have.
He accepts you and Jean."
Sergei shifted. "That's
different. I'm his brother and- well, it's different. But it doesn't
mean-"
"You only know him as your
brother. You don't see him as a man. I think he might surprise you." He
smiled at the memory of the wordless connection between himself and Aou-- and
Majek.
"I think he'd blow your head
off if you suggested anything of the sort to him."
"Do you know, it's been years
since any man I was interested in put a gun to my head. I think I rather miss
it."
"Oh Dorian-" Sergei was
torn between worry and amusement. "What happened with that Major, anyway?
Did you ever get him?"
"Oh yes. He's here now, in
fact."
Sergei
sighed. "God protects fools and children. Judging by the men you go after,
you must belong in one or other of those categories. Dorian, can't you see what
a bad idea this is? Majek's a killer-"
"So is Klaus."
"He's a man-eater. He takes
people and he uses them. I don't blame him-- it's the way he is-- but I'd hate
to see you sacrificed to him. Please will you forget you ever saw
him?"
"All this carry-on, Sergei. You
wouldn't be doing it if you really thought I had no chance. What's the
problem?"
Sergei ran a distracted hand through
his hair.
"Men like Majek-- they have
their own ideas about the world, about the kind of men they are. You upset
those ideas at your own peril. And that's what you're going to do."
"I don't think there's much I
can teach Majek about himself. You underestimate him."
"You're in love, m'ami. That
never improves anyone's judgment. There are points he simply can't accept
without a struggle. I know. I was there the last time he was made to learn
something he didn't want to. It nearly destroyed us. I mean that literally: it
started a civil war. I learned a few things myself, and I suppose it was for
the best, but it was hideous while it lasted. We all got hurt-- even Halim, and
he's good at keeping a whole skin. Trust me, Dorian, it's dangerous, meddling
with my brother." He looked at Dorian's face, and sighed. "That was
the wrong thing to say, wasn't it? I should have told you he snores."
"I'd still have wanted to find
out for myself."
"Ah well. So be it. And what's
the Major doing here?"
Dorian blinked at the sudden change
of topic. "He's- oh-"
"Looking for Jean."
"Yes." Their eyes met.
"You know I won't tell him. You know I won't. You're a killer too,
and I want to stay alive."
"Oddly enough, as it happens,
I'm not. But yes, if you told Klaus and anything happened to Jean, I would
kill you."
"You've-- got over-- what
happened when you were eighteen?"
"Yes-- yes, I'd say so. I
forgave myself, and a few other people as well."
"I see you kept that taste for
dark young men."
"Oh yes." Sergei smiled
brilliantly at nothing at all. "I kept that."
"You're happy?" The
question sounded wistful to his own ears. Surely he didn't grudge Sergei a
little happiness, after the life he'd had--
"Happy? Oh Dorian. Yes, I
suppose I'm happy. Words are so useless, aren't they? Happy is what I was when
I was a child, when I had a new book or my brothers praised me. This is-- this
is another way of being. I don't know how to describe it. To have enough-- to
have more than enough-- all the time, and to know it can never be taken away
from me."
"Really? Sergei, he's so young."
"He's a lot older than he
looks."
"You Circassians all look so
yo--" He checked in sudden realization. "Is that what his discovery
is about? The reason you all seem younger than you are?"
"It's connected, apparently.
He's tried to explain it to me, but I'm not a scientist. There's some
peculiarity in one of the highland chromosomes that doesn't exist among the
plainsmen. It may explain some oddities-- the way we look, and the number of
centenarians in the mountains. Apparently we age more slowly than others."
"More slowly." He looked
at Sergei, who must be over fifty but who seemed twenty years younger. "The
fountain of youth."
"Hardly that. The practical
applications are very limited. There's nothing you can do with it. But I
suppose it could be used for genetic engineering. Not a pleasant thought."
"Isn't there something he could
do now-- to duplicate it in other people?" Dorian asked in disappointment.
"Dorian, are you pumping me?
"No, of course not," he
said in genuine surprise. "I mean-- well, is it supposed to be a secret?
If there's nothing you can do with it, why all the mystery?"
"There was no mystery to start
with. Jean and Kinta were only following proper procedures for a new
discovery--"
"Wait-- what's Kinta got to do
with this? It's someone called Sascha who's listed with Jean on the
programme-"
"Oh- sorry. Kinta's his
nickname in the family. Don't call him that unless he asks you to. We use it
because he has the same name as his cousin, the new General-- Szintarow.
Szincza for short, and Sascha in Russian."
"How do you keep track of who's
who, with all those names?" Dorian asked with real interest.
"We're used to it. It's not so
different from what you do, after all. Some people call you Dorian and some
Lord Gloria, and other people call you Eroica- and I suppose some people say
'My lord,' and others 'Sir'- Do you have difficulty remembering which one you
are?" Sergei smiled at him.
"Well-- no," Dorian smiled
back. "So who is Sascha-Kinta, anyway?"
"He's Ruza's son. We didn't
know he existed until eight years ago. Majek didn't want to recognize him at
first but he finally came round to it. Now Kinta's bent on his rights, and bent
on balking Majek when he can. Like now."
"Now?"
"Over the paper. No one ever
expected there'd be this kind of-- hysteria-- about Jean's discovery. When the
fuss began, they decided not to discuss it at all in public until they'd
decided what to do. Now the family's split on the question. Kinta and Gunmar
think it'll end when the paper's made public and people learn the facts. Majek
thinks it will continue and turn against us. He's here to persuade-- well, his
idea of persuasion-- Jean and Kinta to withdraw it."
"Any chance?"
"Jean doesn't really care. It
wouldn't bother him. But Kinta-- It was his brainwave that sent Jean off in the
right direction. Then he got interested too, and changed his field from
biotechnology to genetic research. It's taken most of his energy for the last
five years. You can see why he doesn't want to abandon it."
"Devotion to science? My money
would be more on sheer bloody-mindedness."
"Dorian, you were standing
there beaming at Majek like a-- like a lighthouse. You couldn't have picked a
better way to get into Kinta's bad books. It doesn't help that you're a friend
of mine."
"I'd say Kinta has appalling
taste. Nearly as bad as his manners."
"He hasn't had an easy life,
and he doesn't have an easy disposition. Very single-minded, very sincere,
absolutely no sense of humour. A little terrifying, actually."
"Well, if he's up against
Majek-"
Jean stuck his head in the door.
"They're reaching critical mass. Want to come push some rods?"
Sergei gave a small 'tchah' of
exasperation and got up. "That's supposed to be why Gunmar's there. And
you too, I thought."
"I tried," Jean said
cheerfully. "They just shout over me. Besides, damping Majek down is your
job, little brother."
"God."
"May I come too?" Dorian
was already on his feet.
"By all means. Come and see us
at our worst. If that doesn't act as an anaphrodisiac, nothing will."
Nothing deterred-- spurred on, perhaps,
by Jean's silent laughter-- Dorian followed him back down the corridor. They
could hear the loud Russian argument almost immediately. Both Majek and Kinta
had booming voices and, seemingly, no restraint about letting them loose.
"Do you know-- do you
even care-- how much we still depend on foreign aid? Have you even
thought what effect this will have? At best they'll cut it off entirely-"
"Nonsense. Why would
they?"
"Because they'll think of us as aliens- monsters-"
"Our humanity's not in doubt.
We can prove it biologically. One mutant chromosome doesn't mean--"
"Yes it does. At worst they'll
impose conditions. Aid in return for our genetic material-- like selling your
countrymen into slavery-"
"Spare me the rhetoric, Uncle.
What does it matter if they breed a race of half highlanders--"
"What does it matter?!
God, you would sell us all, wouldn't you? Which do you prefer-- the
Japanese or the Americans?"
"Papa, Kinta's not suggesting--"
"Kinta's quite prepared to
provide cloned mercenaries for any country that will give him--"
"I never said anyth--"
"He never said anything of the
sort," Sergei's voice was several decibels below both Majek and Kinta's,
but the two heads jerked over to look at him. He held up a hand. "Time
out, I think. When you two can be heard down the hallway, rational discussion
has long since gone out the window."
Majek began saying something angrily
in Circassian but Sergei, taking a seat across from the two of them, cut in
with a short sentence. Whatever it was, it stopped Majek dead. He and Kinta
exchanged angry, baffled glances and subsided with the air of men retiring to
consider their next move. Gunmar looked curiously at Dorian, who had sat down
behind Majek. Jean came and perched on the arm of Sergei's chair, smiling as if
watching a play.
"What's happened?" Sergei
asked him.
"Majek asked Kinta to withdraw
his paper and Kinta refused."
"Of course I refused-- this is
the work of--"
"Of course he refused- he cares
only for his own--"
"Stop." Sergei held up
both hands. "Brother, consider. If they simply withdraw the paper, the
rumours will go on spreading. You have to give the jackals something to chew
on-- something cautious and unexciting so that they lose interest. Kinta, would
you consider altering your report-- making it, to put it bluntly, more
boring?"
"No."
"Kincza, it won't hurt to tone
it down-" That was Gunmar.
"We could take out some of the
more radical speculation," Jean suggested.
"The implications are there in
the data. You couldn't take them out without falsification," Kinta said
mulishly.
"Some Circassians have a mutant
chromosome. Some Circassians live longer than average. There may be a possible
connection. Why not leave it at that?" Sergei asked.
"Because our research has gone beyond that-- far beyond that, as you know perfectly well." Kinta glared at Sergei. "You've had all the benefits of our discovery. What have I gotten from it?" Dorian felt vindicated. That was personal rancour speaking and nothing at all to do with scientific integrity.
"The same benefits,"
Sergei said. "But that's not what you want. I'll ask you a question. Think
about it-- don't answer me now. What would we have to do-- what would we have
to give you-- that if we did it, you'd modify your paper?"
"Nothing," Kinta said at
once. "Nothing can make me change that paper. The world's going to learn--"
"Yes," Sergei said, as if
Kinta hadn't spoken. "Think about it. Talk it over with Gunmar, and tell
us tomorrow."
Dorian glanced at Majek, wondering
at his silence. Majek was leaning back in his chair, chin on fist, watching
Sergei. His mouth was tight and the fingers of his other hand tapped at the
chair's arm, but his eye held speculation not unmixed with appreciation.
"I just said, nothing-"
Kinta was beginning, when there was a quick step in the hallway, and a man came
into the room.
"Samh' Majek, my apologies--"
he began, but stopped, staring at Dorian. Dorian looked back, feeling he should
be able to place him. Middle-aged, with badly cut black hair greying at the
temples and ugly ill-assorted features...
"You're the one who ran into me
by the canalside," the man said. "What are you doing here?"
"Interfering," Kinta
answered heavily, before Dorian could reply. "I thought you two knew each
other."
"They do," Gunmar
insisted. "It's Dorian Red Gloria. You remember, back in '82 in
Paris?"
"Only too well," the man
said with distaste and went to sit next to Kinta. "You're right, samhet,"
he said to him. "Interfering is his specialty." Majek stirred a
little in his chair.
"You have the advantage of me,
monsieur," Dorian responded politely. 'You can never go wrong with
courtesy' his father used to say. 'It smooths misunderstandings, and annoys the
rude.' Meanwhile he was racking his memory of ten years and more ago, trying to
place the stranger. There'd been Maaqa, but this man was too old to be him.
"Oh, Lord Gloria," Gunmar protested.
"It's Takamatsu."
"Oh." The monosyllable was
too brief but Dorian couldn't think of anything to add to it. A number of
unpleasant memories were trying to crawl into the light and he was determined
not to acknowledge any of them.
"'Oh' is right. What are you
thinking of, Sergei, to let a NATO agent in here?"
There was an instant, intense
silence. Three pairs of blue eyes were suddenly fixed on him.
"Lord Gloria isn't an
agent," Sergei said, unperturbed. "NATO merely makes use of his
expertise from time to time. And if you'd remembered what they were using it
for, back in '82, you might not have raised the matter. But since you
have--" He turned to Majek. "You should know, brother, that you bear
an obligation to this man. He's the one who saved your life during the
President's conspiracy."
Dorian, to his huge surprise,
blushed bright red.
"Oh, I say-" he stammered.
"Sergei-- really--" His face felt like the noonday sun, and he found
it absurdly difficult to meet Majek's eyes. "He's exaggerating. Really. He
did everything. I just-- I just happened to be involved." This was
wretched: even at fourteen he'd never behaved like this.
"Nonetheless," Majek said,
"I'm in your debt. I see now why Jean called you a friend of our family.
But you permit me to ask- are you working for NATO now?"
"No," Dorian said firmly.
"I've cut my ties with them completely."
"Couldn't he get it up any
more?" Takamatsu enquired. Dorian was speechless with a shock that turned
suddenly into cold devouring rage.
"Couldn't who get what
up?" Majek asked.
"My contact in the
organization. No, quite a different problem. He liked the sort of games you
used to play in Paris, Doctor, and I don't care for them."
"What kind of games?"
Gunmar asked. "Takamatsu never played in Paris, Lord Gloria-- did you,
Takamatsu?"
"I used to try a hand of
vingt-et-un occasionally, samhet, but my luck was never good." Takamatsu
gave Dorian a hard stare, and Dorian stared back.
"You two can trade reminiscences
later," Majek said. "Shall we get on with this?"
"Certainly. What's been
decided?"
"There's nothing to be
decided," Kinta said at once. "We're giving the paper on Friday as
planned."
"We're going to think about
Uncle Savijc's proposal," Gunmar corrected him.
"No--" Kinta looked angry
and distressed.
"Yes," Gunmar said, and
put a hand on his knee. "We don't have to accept it, but we should talk it
over."
"What proposal?"
"A quid pro quo," Majek
said. "We'll give Kinta what he wants if he'll agree to suppress the more
radical parts of the paper."
"What does he want?"
"That's what he has to
decide."
"All I want is to have the
truth known."
"The truth is a two-edged
sword, samhet. I still wish you'd agree to let Roche or Farben have it."
"I said no. Science isn't a
commodity-"
"What's this, Takamatsu?"
Majek asked.
"If samh' Kinta would sell the
information to one of the big pharmaceutical firms, half our problems would be
over. Countries who wouldn't hesitate to use violence against us might think
twice about taking on a multi-national. And the money would fund research for
the next decade-"
"I like the idea," Jean
remarked to the air. "Especially the bit about the funding. After all,
this is my discovery too."
Consternated glances passed amongst
the Aouille family. Dorian, having recovered his temper, remembered what Sergei
had told him about the highland tribes. Jean, as an Acaille, was very much a
Montague to the Aouille Capulets. Clearly it still made a difference.
"But of course, I think there's
merit in Sergei's suggestion as well," he was saying. "Think it over,
Kinta. Are we finished? The afternoon session starts in ten minutes."
"Evidently," Majek said.
"Until tomorrow." He looked them all over, nodded in dismissal, and
stood up. "Lord Gloria--"
"Sir--" He scrambled to
his feet.
Majek crossed his hands at the wrist
and held them before his chest. "I have a debt to you. My house is your
house. My goods are your goods. My life is your life, from this day
forward." He bowed slightly.
Dorian crossed his own hands.
"My life and my services are yours to command," he improvised, and
bowed back.
"Ah, wonderful!" Majek
beamed at him, took him by the shoulders, and kissed him full on the mouth.
Between shock and delight Dorian barely had the wit to respond before it was
over, leaving him with legs that trembled so badly he had to grasp Majek's arms
to keep from falling. He gazed beseechingly into his face, enraptured and
bereft by the too brief contact of firm lips and warm breath.
"Oh," Majek said, looking
at him closely. "This is perhaps not one of your customs? I
apologize."
"It's one of his customs,"
Takamatsu said sourly. "And more."
"You've just bowled him over with the force of your
personality," Jean joked. "Coming, Gunmar?"
"Mmh. Good-bye, Papa. Lord
Gloria, will I see you later?"
"Oh-- oh yes. I'll be
here." Dorian gathered his wits. "It's lovely to see you again. We
must have a long talk."
"Gunmar, if you're coming,
come," Kinta said from the door. "and if you're staying, stay, but
make up your goddamned mind."
"I'm coming," Gunmar said,
looking at Kinta in surprise, and left with the other two.
"My nephew is an
embarrassment," Majek said. "Ignore him. Will you have something to
drink?"
"Thank you, sir--" Dorian
began, but at that moment the shorter of the guards appeared beside them,
saluted and spoke swiftly to Majek. Majek nodded, turned to Dorian and said
something in Circassian.
"I'm sorry," Dorian
replied. "I don't understand the language."
Majek looked at Sergei, who smiled
at him unperturbed.
"My brother said you did. One
of your little inventions, Savijc?"
"Just a way of short-circuiting
a fruitless discussion. Whether you argue in Russian or Circassian, you'll
never win going head-to-head with Kinta. Change your strategy, brother."
Majek regarded him a long moment,
then said to Dorian, "I have a visitor and will be busy for the next few
hours. My house is yours. Sergei will see to your needs. Tell him the pass-code
as well, Savijc." He nodded, turned swiftly on his heel, and was gone.
Dorian felt as though the sun had
vanished. But he'd kissed him- held him with those strong, warm hands-- it had
been--
"I didn't know he could
blush," Takamatsu said. "He must have taken lessons somewhere."
"When I have something to blush
for, I do. Unlike yourself, Doctor. I hope you're pleased with what you've
done."
"You should thank him,"
Sergei said. "He got you the run of the suite."
"But he's put me in a false
position. I don't want your brother feeling obligated to me--"
"By our standards, he is
obligated to you, and has a right to know it. We take these things seriously.
If Takamatsu hadn't told him, I would have."
"You're so honourable, Sergei," Takamatsu murmured. "All that fine feeling, and no mention of what fun it is to set a cat among the pigeons."
"More like setting a pigeon
among the cats, I'd say. But it may be useful to have a nonconductor
around."
"He's scarcely that. He's got
Samh' Kinta's back up already, as if the poor boy hadn't enough troubles."
"Majek's put Kinta's back up as
far as it goes. It won't hurt to have his attention divided, since you're
obviously not going to be any help whatsoever."
"I'm not putting myself between
Majek and his nephew, thank you very much. I'll be there to help Samh' Kinta if
he really needs me."
"And the rest of the time
you'll take yourself carefully out of harm's way." Sergei sounded
disgusted. "Let me get you that drink Majek promised you," he said to
Dorian.
"You had seven years free of
the family," Takamatsu said, rising as well. "You can't grudge me my
two weeks," and he sauntered out the door.
Sergei gave a small rueful smile.
"Touché," he shrugged. "Scotch, Dorian? Or vodka?"
"Have you anything for a
hard-on? Your brother is-- well, you see how it is."
Sergei smiled, but shook his head.
"Sorry, my dear. A married man, and as monogamous as possible."
"So you do have lapses?"
"If Jean doesn't mind. But I
think he would in your case."
"I suppose that's a
compliment," Dorian said disconsolately.
"I'm sorry. I don't want to
lose him. I did once and I didn't care for it. Now I'm careful."
"Couldn't you just lend me a
hand for old times' sake?"
Sergei laughed noiselessly.
"You'll be the ruin of me yet, Lord Gloria. All right. For old times'
sake."
He led Dorian down a small hallway,
around two corners and into a small bedroom. Dorian kicked off his shoes,
opened his trousers and lay back on the bed to await the other's ministrations.
Sergei worked at him with skilled hands, and Dorian floated in a warm sea of
arousal, dreaming of the firm fleshy mouth that had kissed him so briefly
moments before and envisioning what might have followed after...
"You're not holding back on
me?" Sergei asked after a while.
"No," Dorian said.
"It just takes me longer now."
"Really?"
"Don't you find the same?"
All he needed was for Sergei's body to be as young as his face.
"I did until I met you. You had
a rejuvenating effect: and I was older then than you are now."
"I wish someone would
rejuvenate me," Dorian said sadly.
"Ah well, let me see what I can
do..." Dorian kept the triumph off his face as Sergei brought his mouth to
bear on the subject. Still the same old Sergei. He hadn't thought he'd be able
to resist for long. Oh yes-- as he discovered the next instant-- very much the
same old Sergei. Dorian arched and gasped as Sergei's mouth moved about him and
Sergei's tongue probed him intimately. His fingers clawed at the bedspread and
his head thrashed back and forth. Now he was holding back, desperately
trying to recall the dates of the kings of England and the counties of Britain
in alphabetical order: anything to stave off his climax and make this pleasure
last as long as possible. So long, so long since anyone had serviced him as
lovingly and as passionately as this. He heard himself giving small
high-pitched mewls and felt the heavy weight moving out of his groin and
rippling up his spine, slowly slowly pulling him up off the bed. A formless cry
came from his chest as orgasm arched his back to an impossible angle. Then he
was falling through a fire-shot blackness and coming to rest in the hot embrace
of the silken coverlet and his clearing vision showed him Jean leaning
comfortably against the frame of the door, arms folded, watching the two of
them with every appearance of interest.
"Oh shit," Dorian said
feelingly.
Sergei turned his head and sat up,
sighing. "You should try to avoid these cliched situations, ma vie."
"I make every effort."
Jean came in, closing the door behind him. "But what can I do when I find
a cliched situation happening in my own bedroom? A discreet withdrawal seems prudish. 'Ah, I beg your pardon. Pray
continue' is vulgar. If you can think of something else, tell me. I'll use it
next time."
"You could try 'Room for one
more?'" Dorian suggested, with intent to shock. Jean smiled happily.
"That's a nice one. Is
there room for one more?"
Dorian looked at Sergei, who gave a
resigned shrug back.
"Of course," Dorian said.
"Be my guest." His experience of cuckolded spouses was limited but a
gracious accommodation seemed the best policy.
Not waiting for further invitation,
Jean divested himself of his jacket, prised off his shoes and unbuckled his
belt.
"Take it all off," Sergei
said, starting to unfasten his long tunic. "We might as well keep as
unrumpled as we can."
"Picky, picky," Jean
laughed, but he began undoing his tie.
"Not at all. I've an
appointment with Dubois this afternoon. You know what he's like."
Dorian's clothes, being made for
comfort and easy removal, were off him in seconds, and he emerged from his silk
shirt to find Jean pulling off his trousers and briefs. His eyes widened in
appreciation. Oh my. Oh my yes, indeed. So that's what Sergei meant about
always having enough. Big, yes, though not grotesquely so; thick, but in
proportion to the length; with a lovely curving head emerging from the rosy
pink foreskin and a clean freshness that made him long to touch. Really, Jean
was-- well-- in a word, he was perfect.
"Of course, I only get
fucked," Jean said, businesslike. "Who wants to start?"
Dorian stared at him in disbelieving
anguish.
"Don't tease him," Sergei
said, amused. "Start with his balls," he told Dorian, "he likes
that."
"Hey, no fair telling
secrets."
"Then behave, or you will
only get fucked."
"Slave driver. You joining
in?"
"Mmmh-." His glance
consulted Dorian, who nodded happily. They arranged themselves, with Jean on
his back-- 'No way I'm gonna stand through all this'-- and Dorian crouched
above his thighs, hips raised for Sergei's use when he was ready. He himself
could barely hold back, with Jean's quivering organ rising right next to his
face.
"You can start without
me," Sergei said. "I'll just be a moment."
"Why do I feel we should be
saying grace?" Jean mused. "'For what we are about to receive-'"
"Shut him up, for God's sake,
Dorian."
He was only too happy to oblige.
Following instructions, he began with a methodical survey of Jean's testicles
under their sparse black thatching. Like eating one's vegetables first, he
thought: but in fact the experience proved to be most pleasurable. The crannies
of Jean's groin had the wholesome taste of a clean animal and his hair was
unusually soft, like a pelt. Dorian revelled in the mingled sensations and
smells and rejoiced to see the sudden stiffness that arched Jean's cock up to
his navel. Jean was groaning softly, deep in his belly. Both his hands came to
bury themselves in Dorian's thick curls.
Dorian worked his way up, from balls
to the underside of Jean's cock, and along its length to the tip. He rewarded
his tongue by letting it wrap itself all round the smooth fleshy acorn of the
head. Jean gasped; his hands let go of Dorian's hair and landed upwards on the
bed, the stiff fingers waving spasmodically like beetles turned on their backs.
"More-" he panted,
"Oh God, Dorian-"
"I'm coming in," Sergei's
voice said behind Dorian. "Careful of your teeth." A slick finger
probed him from the rear, twisted briefly and withdrew. Dorian took Jean's long
thickness into his mouth and consciously relaxed, waiting for Sergei. He didn't
have to wait long: Sergei entered in three swift pushes, and Dorian's muscles
closed about him as his mouth closed tight about Jean. Followed then a few
moments of pleasant dithering, the result of having his attention so
delightfully divided, but inevitably what was under his nose laid claim to the
largest share. Dorian made himself soft and open both front and back, which
Sergei took as the signal to start rocking slowly in and out of him. A small
part of his mind was set to note that lovely filling and emptying happening
behind while the rest of his awareness was focussed on what his mouth was
about. He began weaving his head in loose circles so that Jean's cock was able
to caress the inside of his mouth. Blindly, bluntly, it nuzzled at tongue and
palate and throat without ever moving itself. Jean's groans grew higher and
shorter. Dorian opened his throat and swallowed him deeper, trying to get all
that beautiful length into him even though he knew it was impossible at this
angle. His lips moved desperately upon the shaft. This couldn't last long. The
flesh in his mouth quivered suddenly, then thrashed independently of Dorian's
rhythm and released its hot charge in the back of his throat. Jean gave two or
three small moans, like a baby falling asleep, and his heavy, quiescent cock
came to rest trustingly upon Dorian's tongue. Dorian let him slip out but kept
his face buried in the black-thatched groin, simply to enjoy the musky
after-scent.
His attention was shortly recalled
to Sergei, who was moving delicately in and out of him. He clenched his
buttocks, beginning to fight Sergei's withdrawal, and Sergei responded at once
by becoming more insistent in his strokes. Dorian increased the tension,
denying him retreat and then denying him access, and found himself smiling as
Sergei forced his way inside again. He loved this kind of contest, where both
could ultimately win. He hadn't done it in far too long. Klaus never cared for
any challenges to his dominance, however playful. Annoyance flashed. Forget
Klaus-- he had other fish to fry. Like Majek. Oh. A pulse in his groin
jumped, suddenly and amazingly. Would Majek do it like this-- oh yes he would--
He clenched himself tighter and tighter, fighting against the wonderful moment
when he would be mastered-- refusing to be made to open completely to the
imperious invader, no matter how much he wanted it-- But his resistance was
useless. He was laid open and breached again and again by his barbarian
assailant, who laid sweet, cruel fire to the gate through which he made his
forays. At length strong fingers sank into his hips and an iron hardness buried
itself deep in his flesh for a last long moment. Then Sergei's face was pressed
against his back, wet and gasping, and Sergei's long hair slid about his ribs,
and it was Sergei after all, not Majek: but in his heart there was a deep
content, as if he'd received a happy omen for the future.
Sergei loosed him and collapsed onto
the mattress. Dorian rolled onto his side
in the warm space between the two men. He yawned hugely and happily,
stretching a little.
Sergei's fingers played gently with
his curls.
"Well, for old time's sake, that wasn't bad. I'm glad to have
met you again, m'ami, whatever happens from now on. But you do know we won't do
this again?"
"Mmm-hmm," Dorian agreed.
He looked over and found that Jean was fast asleep. "I'm glad I met you
too. And I'm glad you're happy. Really. I won't get in the way. You can tell
him that."
"I suggest you tell him
that, when he wakes up. I'm going for a shower- a fast shower, alone- and then
out. He'll come to in a few minutes."
"One kiss, then? I never got to
kiss you good-bye, in Paris."
"I'm sorry about that. One
kiss." He turned Dorian's head and brought his beautiful mouth to Dorian's
lips. It was a lovely kiss and Dorian savoured it to the full, but he made no
protest when Sergei ended it and stood up to collect his clothes. He smiled and
waved his fingers in farewell as Sergei slipped out the door.
Lovely. Lovely. Dorian sank into a
deep contentment. The world was full of beautiful men again and all of them his
for the asking. He need only reach out a hand to pluck them like flowers in a
garden. Like Majek; like Sergei; like this man sleeping naked beside him now.
He propped himself up on an elbow and subjected Sergei's lover to a closer
scrutiny. Bacon's dictum came unbidden to mind: "There is no excellent
beauty but hath some strangeness in the proportion." Well, Bacon was
wrong, for once. Dorian's eye considered the lines of Jean's body, from shoulder
to shoulder, from shoulder to groin, from hip to knee and knee to ankle. All
was classically symmetrical, even academically so, like an exercise in anatomy.
The pectorals swelled naturally above a concave belly; the flanks were narrow
and nicely indented; the arms were muscled but not thick, and they tapered down
to elegant but quite functional wrists. Dorian had grown used to the long
leanness of Klaus' body, all stripped-down concentrated force, and compared to
that Jean's legs were a trifle too short and their girth a touch too heavy. But
he had to admit that it was only a fault of comparison. Taken in and of itself,
Jean's body was as perfect as humanity could come.
So why did it fail to arouse the
same desire in him as Klaus' thinness and hollow chest, or the mutilated beauty
of Sergei's face, or the compact solidity of Majek who was half a head shorter
than himself? He considered the aesthetic problem. Perfection was static, hence
dull. Was that it? There was nothing to mark this body as belonging to a
certain Jean Acaille. It was a type. The one fascination it possessed was
intellectual: it deceived all expectation. One gazed and gazed, looking for a
flaw or an individual point, certain there must be a departure from the
standard because there always was. But this time- this time there wasn't. If
the template of mankind was lost, it could be recovered again from Jean. He
looked like Adam asleep in Eden, without even an Eve to companion him.
One eye opened and regarded him.
Jean yawned hugely and stretched arms and legs rackingly and energetically.
"That was nice," he said,
falling back on the pillow. "Where's Sergei?"
"Showering."
"Oh right- Dubois." He
turned his head to meet Dorian's blue gaze with his own curious and friendly
black one.
"So I'm an old friend of the
family?" Dorian asked. He'd wondered about that.
"Aren't you?"
"Hardly. I knew Sergei for a
fortnight eleven years ago, and I don't think I met Gunmar more than twice, if
that. What on earth did he tell you about me?"
"A lot. He said you were a
thief."
"I am."
"Yes, I see you are. I didn't
understand before."
"Meaning?"
"I couldn't see why Sergei
would think so highly of someone who lived by taking other people's things.
Someone dishonest, someone he couldn't trust." Jean interrupted himself
with a yawn, and scratched his head. "But that's not how it is, is it? You
don't take things out of malice or greed. You don't really take things at all,
I'd guess. When you see something you want there's a kind of energy generated--
an attractive force-- and the thing comes to you of its own accord."
"Yes, that's it exactly,"
Dorian said in surprise. "You're the first person who's ever understood
that. How did you know?"
"I watched you today. And of
course I know Majek."
Dorian glowed. "He's the same,
isn't he?"
"In some ways the same-- and in
others, very very different. It's the differences that are instructive. I'm
dying to see what happens with the two of you. Positive poles are supposed to
repel."
"I don't sense any
repulsion."
"Nor I. I'm looking forward to
this."
"Will you make notes of your
observations and publish them in one of your journals?" Dorian asked,
nettled by his tone.
Jean laughed. "There's an
advantage to the scientific mentality. Observe, don't react. You shouldn't
knock it-- it got us this." He patted the bed.
"Do you mind about that? You
know you really don't have anything to worry about."
"I do know. He has episodes of
other men just like he has episodes of depression. They're necessary, for some
reason, but they pass, and he comes back to me."
Dorian considered the absurdly young
face.
"Just how old are you anyway?
You talk as if you were-"
"Thirty-seven."
"You're older than me."
How satisfying. How vexing. He didn't look even remotely like it.
"How nice of you to believe me.
The English are such an untrusting race, usually."
"Us? Not at all. We take things
at face value."
"Maybe that's the problem. The
one time I was in England, every pub I went into demanded proof of my age, and
half of them still wouldn't believe it was true. I swore I'd never go to a
conference in an Anglo-Saxon country again."
It hadn't occurred to him that a
perennially youthful appearance might have its drawbacks. It was something to
think about. But as Jean seemed in a confiding mood, he ventured to ask,
"How long have you known Sergei?"
"Since forever. We met in
Circassia way back when I was a student."
"He likes them young."
Maybe that explained why Jean had lasted. "Were you together then?"
"Oh yes. He was my first. Pure
puppy love-- all over him and in his face. I wonder how he put up with
me."
"It didn't work?"
"No. I think now it was the
timing. I loved him and he loved me but there were just too many things working
against us."
Dorian remembered the Sergei he'd
known in Paris and nodded.
"We didn't see each other for
years until we met again by accident in '86. By then enough had changed that
that time it was different, and we've been together ever since. It's lucky we
got another chance."
"I know what you mean. When I
knew him he was very unhappy, trying to get away from his past and his family
and all. I did what I could to help, though it wasn't much." He smiled in
recollection. "At least I got him kissing again."
"What?"
"Back when you first met him,
remember how he wouldn't kiss anybody? Did you ever ask him why?"
Jean shook his head. "No."
"It drove me to distraction- he
has such a lovely mouth- and I really couldn't rest until I'd got the
whole story out of him. You know about his friend back in high school?"
"I know about his friend.
What's that got to do--"
"Oh, he's never told you? Then
he has gotten over it. He kissed him before the last battle, and then
when he died he swore he'd never kiss another man again. And he didn't-- until
he met me."
"It was you who rescued him
from widowhood? I'm obliged." Damn it, the man was laughing at him.
"I thought it time he started
living in the present," Dorian said stiffly.
"Oh yes, I agree. It's always
been his major failing, stewing over the past."
He relented. "Yes. And I
couldn't make him stop. The old ties to his brothers-- to Takamatsu-- they were
too strong for me. It's been one of my few regrets in life. What finally did it
in the end? You?"
"But of course. What do you
expect me to say? Actually it was mostly young Szintarow's doing, Majek's son.
He started it, at any rate. He turned the family upside down-- quarrelled with
his father and ran away from home and took sides with Majek's enemies. While
Majek was off trying to deal with that, Halim-- that's Sergei's twin brother--"
"Yes, I know."
"--he started a rebellion at
home using Majek's younger son Kostya as a rallying point. Then Kinta suddenly
turned up out of nowhere demanding to be recognized as one of the family. And then
Takamatsu decided to tell the world about Szintarow's real parentage-- you
heard about that?" Dorian nodded. "--and what with one thing and
another, Majek went so far round the bend he met himself coming back. I almost
felt sorry for him, even though I was on the other side."
"Sergei and I met again just as
all this was coming to a head. It couldn't possibly have been worse timing. I
was with Szintarow against Majek and Sergei was trying to stay neutral and I
didn't know if we'd even survive, let alone be able to get back together again.
But Majek did some reconsidering and he and Szintarow were reconciled before
too many people got killed. And when the dust settled, everything had changed
so much that none of the old relationships could work any more. They all had to
be started again from scratch."
"Including yours?"
"Including ours. It was bumpy,
but we managed."
"I'm glad."
Jean looked at him swiftly. "He
said you were one of the few moments of sunshine in all the years he was alone.
I should thank you. You made him happy when I wasn't there to do it."
"Some men wouldn't care for
that."
"I'm not some men. Take it I'm
grateful."
"So we're quits over
today?"
"Quits. We take our debts
seriously. Only--" Jean looked suddenly serious.
"I won't. I promise."
"Do you even know you're doing
it?"
"Yes, usually. He's pretty
immune, I'd say. It wouldn't have worked today if I hadn't been pushing
it." He said, not exactly in apology, "I never got a chance to say
good-bye to him properly, the last time, and I suppose-- well, this was
it."
"Unfinished business. And now
you move on to other conquests."
"That's not the way it works.
I'm the one who's been conquered. Bowled over, just like you said."
"That was to shut Takamatsu up.
He does go on. But somehow- well, as I said, it'll be interesting. Majek's
never met anyone like you. You know it could be dangerous?"
"That's what Sergei said, but
he sees him as his brother. I don't think he really knows. How did Majek react
to you?"
"Pragmatically. I was presented
as a fait accompli. Sergei took me to see him and said 'Jean will be staying
with me from now on,' and Majek said, 'You'll be needing larger quarters
then.'"
"Well then. You can't
get more accepting than that."
"That's what it looked like.
But there were all sorts of unspoken things behind it. Halim had gone off
somewhere as a mercenary, and Majek wanted Sergei to stay with him in Circassia
but he wouldn't say so outright, and Sergei was ready to leave again and not
come back if Majek didn't accept us, and Majek was making his acceptance conditional
on our not being too scandalous in public. All that crammed into two sentences,
apparently."
"You worked that out
yourself?"
"No way. Takamatsu explained it
to me afterwards."
"Takamatsu?"
"He's spent his life with them,
he understands them. It's more than I do. If you ever get stuck, you could do
worse than consult him."
"I'd rather die."
"That bad? He has an
off-putting way with him, I admit."
"He detests me. It's
mutual."
"He's probably just jealous,
like poor Kinta."
"Jealous? What of, for heaven's
sake?"
"You don't know? No, you really
don't." Jean looked at him in interest. "Sergei was right. You are
an innocent."
"I'm nothing of the sort," Dorian snapped in irritation. "That's one of Sergei's idées fixes, and completely wrong."
"Oh, I hope not. He described
you as one of the most dangerous men he'd ever met and absolutely unaware of
it." Dorian rolled his eyes. "But it's the one thing that might give
you an edge over Majek."
"I don't need an edge. I don't
want one. Really, I'm just a perfectly ordinary thief."
"But a most extraordinary man.
Oh come on, Dorian-- beautiful, graceful, charming, elegant, rich, well-born,
well-bred, gifted, unspoiled, sunny-- you have everything, and everything comes
to you like an apple falling from a tree. Isn't that so?"
"Not at all. I have to work to
get what I want. It's not all ask and have, you know."
"Have you ever wanted anything
that you didn't eventually get?"
"Of course."
"What?"
"Sergei."
"But weren't you in love with
someone else at the time- some soldier or other?"
"Yes," said Dorian
patiently, "but that's no reason why I shouldn't have had Sergei as
well."
"No wonder Kinta dislikes you.
The poor orphan faced with the golden prince. If you want to do us a favour,
shine a little of that charm in his direction. It would help a lot."
"I can imagine what he'd say if
I did."
"It'd give him a chance to turn
you down, at least. That may be all he wants." Dorian snorted. "Well,
it's a suggestion. Speaking of Kinta, I'd better get back to the conference
before he guesses what I've been up to. I said I was coming to get my
cigarettes and here it is forty-five minutes later." Jean heaved himself
to his feet.
"I should shower and change
too, before Majek gets back. I'm just down on the other floor."
"Fast work. I wonder how long
before he realizes he's under siege?"
"Soon, I hope."
Jean shook his head in despair.
"Did Sergei tell you the code?"
"No."
"5-23-12-25. May 23rd and December
25th. His sons' birthdays."
"Which one is Gunmar's?"
"Neither. As far as he's
concerned, his sons are still Szintarow and Kostya. And that should tell you
something about him."