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

nephew gave me to understand that the flu, or something like it, had—”

      “My nephew?”

      “When he came to use the phone in my apartment— because there was something wrong with your phone, you know—?”

      “Yes, of course. Many thanks. If there is ever anything I can do for you—but you were kind enough to ask about my health. I fear I am not as strong as I might be. But so far, strong enough.” He smiled. “And not at all contagious.”

      “I was just speaking to your nephew again on the phone a couple of minutes ago—he’s a very nervous young man, isn’t he?”

      “Poor John. I’m afraid he has been going through a great deal of personal stress lately. May I ask the subject of this recent phone conversation?” Here he tossed his robe casually aside and sat down on the edge of the pool beside her.

      “It was about those men—those people in the hallway. The ones who were watching your apartment. But you must have seen them when you came out.”

      “Ah yes, of course. And did John have success with the other phone calls you so kindly allowed him to make—?”

      “I’m afraid there was no one at the number he really wanted to reach, and all he could do was leave a message.”

      “Too bad.” The vampire dabbled his pale feet in the water, beside those of his new companion. Making strategic plans had never been his strong point, but with half a millennium of experience to draw upon, one became adept in some things at least.

      Drawing a breath with which to sigh, he said: “I suppose John explained to you something of our difficulties. Surely we owe you an explanation, at least, in return for your kind assistance.”

      “He said your phone wasn’t working…”

      “Yes, of course. That complicated matters inordinately. But I meant—the other, more basic difficulty?”

      “Yes, well, I can understand. I’ve had some relatives myself that I spent a good deal of time trying to avoid—they were my first husband’s, mostly. Yes, of course, I understand very well, and it’s really none of my business.”

      He smiled, taking her right hand, gently but firmly, and raised it toward his lips for a symbolic kiss. He said, with heartfelt gratitude: “The perfect neighbor. One who helps one through one’s difficulties, even when it must be quite impossible to understand them.” His smile was sad, warm, appreciative, all at the same time.

      The lady, for the moment, could not find a word to say. But her pulse, in the hand that he still held, had quickened quite remarkably.

      As a rule this courteous vampire preferred to seek his nourishment, not to mention romance, at a much greater distance from where he slept. The waitress had represented something of a major exception in that regard; I am old enough to know better, he chided himself in bitter silence. Well, I did know better. And he had made the blunder anyway, and now he had paid for it.

      It was of no comfort to the vampire’s feelings to reflect that another exception was about to be made. Well, in this case there was no help for it. Others, to whom he owed a great responsibility, were depending on him for their very lives, and he must waste no time in regaining his strength. If the estimate he had now formed of the nature of his enemy was correct, all the strength that he could summon up was going to be needed.

      ‘Mr. Maule—it’s Matthew, isn’t it?”

      “It is indeed.” Both of their apartments were for the moment unavailable. He looked thoughtfully about the natatorium.

      In a voice still fluttered by that Continental hand-kiss, the dear lady asked him: “If I wouldn’t be taking you away from your swim, or exercise—well, would you like to come up to my place for a bite of lunch? You and your nephew both, of course. Or a drink? Or is it too early in the day for that?”

      ‘‘Dear Margot—it is not at all too early in my day to have a drink. But by the way, have you seen the moon tonight?”

      “The moon?” She was almost whispering, ready for a revelation.

      Which he thought he was certainly going to provide. “Ah yes, despite the fog, and all the many lights of the great city. Here.” He extended a hand and she took it, and a moment later she was standing beside him, dripping, on the slippery tile. “If we could step over to the windows here—behind the tall plants, where the glass is somewhat shadowed—”

Chapter Thirteen

      By the end of the year 1501, Cesare Borgia was not only Duke Valentino, but Duke of the Romagna as well—feudal overlord of the central Italian territory, composed largely of papal states that he hoped someday to make the nucleus of an actual kingdom. He could claim impressive achievements in his role as Captain General, Gonfalonier, of his father’s armies. The young man’s actual experience in battle was still quite small—he threatened so skillfully with his army that he seldom needed to use it—but he possessed the essentials of leadership, the qualities that can hardly be taught, including the most important—the ability to inspire fear or loyalty almost at will

      I can testify from personal experience that in those days the life of a secret agent in the employ of Cesare Borgia offered enough excitement for any breathing man or vampire. My own actual duties, at least at first, were almost exclusively those of a messenger. By night I could traverse the countryside at high speed, by air as well as by land. I could pass in or out of any castle, any town or army camp, no matter how formidable the walls might be, or how well they were guarded. The messages that I conveyed in secrecy, to prospective traitors, loyal supporters, churchmen, or merchants, were seldom written down. Frequently they were in code, so that I had no way of guessing at their import, save by the looks of the men who sent or received them.

      That I was not