A Matter Of Taste by Fred Saberhagen (best reads .TXT) 📗

except in patience and solid, persistent planning. Some fragments of ancient lore, twisted in the telling and retelling, yet gave me the hint I needed: Travel anywhere was indeed possible for the vampire, provided only that he or she carried along, or shipped ahead, some earth of the true homeland on which to sleep. What can the soil, much less the soul, comprehend of the boundaries of politics? Yet so the situation was, and so it still remains.

      To help me I recruited a small handful of such breathing followers as I could muster. Not only insanity but dimwittedness was epidemic among them, I fear, and some were continually disappointed that I would have no commerce with the devil. Such tools as I could find, I used as best I could. Still, years passed before I could arrange for systematic shipments of Wallachian earth to Italy, and for my dirt’s concealment there in certain carefully chosen places. And my long sleeps, some lasting many months, in my grave or near it, continued also. Years more were wasted—as I then thought—in helpless stupor.

      During my periods of wakefulness, word reached me again and again, at discouragingly long intervals, that the two men I sought were still alive, and still in Italy, where they appeared to have found the finest arena on earth in which to display and profit by their skills of treachery and violence. Bogdan in particular had grown eminently successful in his new profession of condottiere, and I felt confident of being able to locate him, at least, with little difficulty.

      Such an undertaking as that of my international earth shipments, carried out with a maximum of secrecy, would be far from trivial in any time, including this modern era in which I write. Take my word for it that in the late fifteenth century, with the multitude of political and economic uncertainties obtaining then, the problems were truly formidable.

      Yet I persevered, and refused to be hurried. Many military campaigns had taught me the importance of proper preparation. Despite my unabated lust for vengeance, and the risk of having my adversaries escape, I would not move until I was ready. Decades had passed since the traitors cut me down, and the last years of the century were at hand before I felt ready and able to proceed.

Chapter Eight

      Joe had departed Uncle Matthew’s apartment around twelve-thirty. For the two breathing people inside the apartment the next forty-five minutes or so passed uneventfully, tempting them to hope that the siege was really over. Then the phone rang, distracting Angie from another episode of the fantastic tale on the tape. There was no extension in the guest bedroom. Shutting off one machine, she ran toward the kitchen to answer the other.

      John had reached the instrument before she did, and once again she could see the relief on his face at the first sounds he heard from the receiver.

      “It’s Joe,” he told her in a quick aside.

      Angie hurried on into the living room and picked up the extension there, slumping into a chair to listen.

      “—the line might be tapped” were the first words she heard Joe Keogh pronounce. He sounded tired and worn.

      “The phone line here?” John’s voice asked in puzzlement.

      “Yes. This one we’re using. Today I got a good look at other parts of that building you’re in. Up on the ninety-eighth floor, and elsewhere.”

      John sounded bewildered. “How’d that happen?”

      “I don’t want to go into a lot of detail on exactly what I did, because the phone might be tapped, as I say. But I did have some trouble getting away from the building.” Joe paused to let them consider that. “I’m okay now, and I’ll get back to you, don’t worry. I promise you help is on the way, but I can’t promise when it’s going to get there.

      “One thing you have to know. Elizabeth, the woman who was in there with you, is dead.”

      His listeners started incoherent questions. He brushed them aside. “We can talk it over later. The point is, you’re in real serious trouble there. Deadly trouble. Stay inside the apartment, no matter who or what comes to the door. Don’t try to leave. Don’t even think about opening the doors, or talking to visitors except on the intercom. Have you had any more visitors, by the way?”

      “No. We won’t stick our noses out if you say we shouldn’t.”

      “You definitely shouldn’t.”

      “Joe?” This was Angie. “How did she die?”

      “It wasn’t of old age, but never mind that now. Just do what I’m telling you. I won’t ask how your host there is doing, and be careful what you say about him over the phone.”

      “All right.” John sounded subdued to the point of collapse.

      Angie, on an impulse, hung up her phone, got to her feet, and walked softly into the master bedroom. The man who lay there opened his eyes as she entered, and— pleasant surprise!—focused them on her. For a moment his gaze was a hard, probing stare, then recognition came, and he smiled faintly. His lips moved as if he were trying to speak, but no sound came. He shook his head slowly and smiled once more before his eyelids closed again.

      “Uncle Matthew?” She advanced quickly to the bed and touched him on the arm, but there was no response. Still, she had a strong impression that progress was being made.

      Hurrying back to the living room, Angie picked up the phone again and heard Joe Keogh still talking. “—what I’m going to do is, try to arrange a meeting between myself and these people. You and Angie won’t be involved directly, and it won’t take place in that building. I’ll try to meet one of them, preferably their boss, alone. Broad daylight, very public place.”

      John was doubtful. “Joe, isn’t that…”

      “I know what I’m doing. I think maybe they understand now that I do, after some things that happened this morning. So maybe I can talk to them. What we still don’t know is what they’re really after, and