Waltz with a Vampire by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

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Dogs bark but the caravan goes on.

(Romanian proverb)

Val strolled along the cobbled way of Mary King's Close, past the ancient shops and tavern to the dark doorway that he sought. He entered, unaccosted by spectral figures or ghostly groans.

Red eyes glowed at him from a dark corner. The rat was a nice touch.

No candles burned in the ancient sconces, not that Val's keen eyes had need of their light. The chamber was as he had last seen it, save that the anatomist's table, and its unfortunate occupant, no longer stood in the middle of the floor. Val avoided a dangling manacle, walked up to the skeleton built in the stone wall, and twisted a certain bone. A section of the wall swung open. Val stepped into a room as different from the one he'd left as chalk was from cheese. Behind him, the wall swung shut.

Here was no filth, no cobwebs, no crimson-eyed rodent. The large chamber was lit with oil lamps and furnished in a Spartan style. No mirrors or portraits adorned the walls, but an ancient oval shield ornamented with a floral device hung there, along with a few pieces of ornamented pottery and a wooden Byzantine cross. Simple benches lined the room, and long-backed chairs with simple carved decoration. It was a room designed for meeting, not for lounging. The members of the Brotherhood were, for the most part, indolent and fond of luxury. Made comfortable enough, they'd never leave. Cezar had cleared a pathway and now stood poised with a long stick and a small leather ball.

At the bottom of the stick had been fastened a piece of wood, flat on one side. The aim of the business, Val had been informed, consisted of propelling the tiny ball through innumerable obstacles to eventually drop it, hopefully with a smaller number of strokes than one's adversary, into a tiny hole in the ground. Cezar claimed to like the game. Val couldn't imagine why. From what he could see, Cezar was no better at it than anybody else, despite his superior coordination and strength, and the fact that he'd been a member of the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers (though they didn't realize it) since their inception in 1744.

Cezar positioned himself, his feet spread at shoulder width, his knees relaxed, bending slightly from the top of his hips. His silver hair fell forward onto his shoulders. He narrowed his eyes at the target, and gently stroked the ball, which then rolled into a little tin cup.

"You've been practicing,'' Val remarked.

Cezar replaced his putting cleek in a bar with other clubs: longnoses, grassed drivers, spoons, and niblets, their shafts fashioned of ash and hazel, the heads from tough wood or hand-forged iron. He bent and picked up the little ball, which was made from tightly compressed feathers stitched into a horsehide sphere. Due to Cezar's enthusiasm, Val knew a great deal more about the game of gowf, or golf, than he wished, including the fact that King Charles I had been on the course at Leidi when given news of the Irish rebellion in 1642.

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