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

when I asked what had become of her, the Borgias told me that she still lived, long since fully recovered from the poison, as a servant in the Pope’s palace. That particular drug, it seemed, had little or no lasting effect upon breathing folk.

      You might think it quite natural for me to hold a grudge against Madonna Lucrezia. Well, in the circumstances that would have been hard to do, and I had little enough inclination to try. Fighting with a woman, of whatever age or condition of life, is generally a matter of monumental futility. And what warrior will devote his time and energy to planning vengeance on a child of twelve, my lady’s age when she committed the offense—quite accidentally?

      As I have indicated, it did not take me long to banish entirely any lingering resentment. At the same time, I reminded myself to be extremely cautious from now on, to be ever on the alert for signs of unwonted gaiety or intoxication in anyone whose veins I tapped whenever I was in the vicinity of Lucrezia or her most active brother— or, for that matter, if I should ever be a guest at the table of the Pope their sire.

      I took considerable reassurance from the fact that—as I thought—I would never forget the taste of that fair maid’s oh-so-subtly poisoned blood. I have said that matters of taste are, as a rule, unimportant to us vampires. The sugar of the Borgias, if I may so call Madonna Lucrezia’s discovery, is something of an exception.

      I can personally testify to the fact that, on tasting for the first time blood carrying the unshielded, undisguised flavor of the Borgia vampire-drug, one of my kind will notice a taste entirely unexpected, piquant, mysterious in origin—and very pleasant.

      Yes, very pleasant, despite the horrible way in which the stuff was actually concocted—more on that later.

* * *

      It was shortly after this midnight meeting in a military encampment that Cesare, doubtless already aware that his beloved sister and I had become lovers, confided to me that he was considering the option of someday becoming a vampire himself.

      I was casting about to find some appropriate words of congratulation on this progressive attitude, when he raised a languid hand, forestalling me. “But not just yet. Nor for many years to come. You, Drakulya, who were a prince, will understand. How can a man be nosferatu and at the same time a prince, ruler of a daylight people? You must be at least as well aware as I am of the immense difficulties.”

      I could not argue with that.

      It was shortly after my first meeting with the mature Lucrezia—I believe it was the second or third time that I saw her after that—that I finally had definite word of Basarab.

      In fact it was Madonna Lucrezia who gave me that word herself. Or her brother did. The truth was, they acted so in concert on this as on other occasions, that it was difficult to tell.

      Definite traces of repressed amusement were apparent in the young Borgias’ manner as they passed along to me the information that the aging traitor had been located. With their next breaths they warned me I might be surprised when I had found my victim.

      “Surprised in what way, my lord?”

      Cesare only smiled.

      “Nay, my lord Drakulya, if we were to tell you that, it would be a surprise no longer.” And sister and brother laughed together.

      “And where am I to find him? When?”

      “As to when, it may be today, this afternoon, if you wish. Dear brother, have you any duties for our friend today?”

      “None that cannot wait. Perhaps after sunset there will be something.”

      As to where I would be likely to find Basarab, my lady named a certain street corner in Rome.

      That was all. I hesitated, sensing that there was something pertinent that I had not been told. No doubt it constituted the surprise.

      Wary of my lord’s and lady’s humor, I ventured: “Basarab has been informed, then, that someone is to meet him there? And whom is he expecting?”

      “He is expecting nothing—as far as I know. Who can say what expectations men will have? But he will be there all the same.” And my informants, exchanging warm looks between themselves as they so often did, enjoying some secret joke, refused to elaborate.

      Taking my leave from them as swiftly as I could, I armed myself—belting on only a common sword and dagger, nothing out of the ordinary—and found my way to the street corner that my lady had named. It was a warm day, though by good fortune cloudy, near the middle of the afternoon. The neighborhood, being a poor one, stank, enough more than the average of the city that I took note of the fact.

      I stood on the street corner for some time, leaning as inconspicuously as I could against a building, that my enemy might not see me first and take alarm. It was a poor neighborhood indeed, though a cut above the worst of the slums, and not too poor to attract some beggars.

      Ordinary buildings, some apartment tenements that looked as old as Rome itself, and for the most part ordinary folk. Some time passed before my attention was caught by one of the beggars, an especially loathsome cripple, who pushed himself about on a little cart. Boys of the neighborhood, ragged and barefoot, had taken to taunting him, pulling at his hair and at his rags, trying to snatch away the little purse he was trying to conceal. One of the urchins, approaching with great stealth, got close enough to urinate upon him before being discovered.

      Choking out curses and lamentations, the beggar pushed himself laboriously across the muddy street upon his little cart—he lacked a leg, and his remaining lower limb appeared not capable of holding up his weight Fortunately for him his tormentors were distracted at this point by some proposal put forward by one of their number. They gave up the game and ran off in pursuit of some new