The Intuition: Part 1, A Commission
A Horror Story
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A misty rain turned the Viennese autumn to perfume. The golden canopy of lindens and maples along the Ringstrasse exhaled it. It clung to the hair and clothing of those hurrying to the cafes. Dusk came with it, and the lamplighters carrying flame from post to post, so that the gas lamps bled their soft light onto the blue evening in watercolor blooms. Lord William Dovedale pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes and turned up the velvet collar of his black frock coat as he strode along the pavement to his hotel.
The miniscule beads of blood on his lapel vanished against the damp wool, and the scraped knuckles of his right hand stung inside his glove. He had dismissed the carriage and walked from the shabby boarding house where he had left Tom, careful as always to preserve appearances. The flush of adrenaline released during his afternoon in the brothel faded from his blood, replaced with a deep sense of well-being. He would be sure to send Mrs. Kinsky some pretty bauble as a token of his appreciation, and perhaps a new gown for the girl, Adele.
The Imperial Hotel blazed in the deepening night. He entered it, satisfied to cut a dashing figure among the cultured elite of the city, looking forward to soaking in his bath and to dining alone in his suite. He stood for a moment under the shattered radiance of the chandeliers, light dancing from the hearts of a thousand flawless crystal drops, and basked in the hotel’s opulence. Around him, wealthy men and lovely women in fine attire glided in lavish promenade to the doors, perhaps on their way to the opera or to a grand ball. Most passed him without a glance. Some of them nodded politely. He stood and moved among them, accepted as belonging in this rarefied atmosphere. He wished his old companions in the London slums could see him now.
“Lord Dovedale? A gentleman has left his card for you.”
Will brought his attention to bear on the young man in front of him. A salver balanced on the youth’s white glove, and a calling card lay on the gleaming silver. Will glanced about the busy lobby as he reached for it. He saw no familiar face, nor any that bore the belligerent stamp of the police. He glanced at the card. In heavy script, it read M. Andrei Borja. The name meant nothing to him.
“Did the gentleman leave a message?” He tucked the card away, his alarm subsiding.
“He is still here, sir. He arrived more than an hour ago and asked to reserve the little red salon.” Seeing Will’s hesitation, the attendant rushed on. “Shall I send him away?”
“No, no. I can see him now, before I dine.” He placed a florin on the salver. “I would prefer that my business not be a matter of public knowledge.”
“Certainly, my lord,” the youth said, his new whiskers twitching over his lip. The coin vanished from the salver with a subtle speed Will thought would impress even Tom. “The red salon is—”
“I know my way.” Will waited until the boy had scurried away before going to meet Monsieur Borja.
The red salon, its sconces turned low, presented a somber foil to the dazzle of the lobby. A small room favored by gentlemen wishing to smoke in comfort, or to attend to their various private business concerns, it exuded the masculine scent of tobacco and spirits. A man stood staring into the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. In the scarlet gloom, he was a silhouette, lean and angular, his longish hair as dark as his sober attire.
“Lord Dovedale,” the man said, turning to show the bearded face of a Rubens satyr. “I am Andrei Borja, an emissary of Prince Grigore Corbinescu. I am grateful that you grant me a few moments of your time.” Borja made a sinuous inclination of his long neck, and the firelight painted the side of his face with devilish shadows.
Will took in the rawboned, dangerous grace of the man, the mask of deference over simmering amusement, and ground his teeth. Forestalled in the delivery of his own polished greeting, he reverted to bluntness. “What is this about? I do not know you, sir, nor have I ever heard of this Prince Corbinescu.”
Borja gestured to the leather chairs on either side of the fire. “Please, my lord, won’t you sit and hear my tale? It is one that could profit you handsomely, and I have come a great distance to tell it.” He crossed to the tea table and lifted a folded newspaper from it. The paper, dog-eared and water-spotted, looked as though it, too, had traveled a great distance. Borja wagged it at Will. “My master knows of your reputation as a treasure hunter. This publication told us of your recent success in locating the Baroness Grunblatt’s long-missing jewels. The account was quite thrilling.”
“I have a talent for finding lost or stolen things. Call it an intuition. It is occasionally profitable as well as useful.”
The hunt for Therese-Elisabeth Grunblatt’s absent ruby and diamond swag had drawn Will to Vienna and had taken him into Moravia and Bohemia. Her grateful generosity provided his current luxurious accommodation. Commissions such as the Baroness’s paid far better than the thefts and cheats upon which he often subsisted, but they had to be won through the exercise of a further talent, that of a consummate actor. It was difficult and risky work. While the celebrity gained from his discovery of the Baroness’s jewels might help in procuring other lucrative contracts, he was not so foolish as to turn away an opportunity when it fell into his lap. He closed the door of the red salon and crossed to one of the offered chairs.
“I am listening,” he said.
Borja sat across from him, the ragged newspaper on his knee. “I am not surprised that you have not heard the name of Prince Corbinescu,” he said. “Our country is a small principality, remote and isolated. The monarchy that surrounds us does not recognize us, but we hope to change that. We can prove our right to independent rule, but the proof lies in certain relics of our antiquity. These are no longer in our possession.”
“And you want me to find them?”
“Yes, my lord. We can provide you some guidance. Unfortunately, it is as ancient as the relics themselves.”
Will frowned. “That sounds suspiciously like a fairy tale. I am not in the business of chasing legends. What monarchy is this that will not recognize your country’s autonomy?”
Borja reached into his jacket and withdrew a folded paper. He opened it and smoothed its creases on the tea table, and Will leaned forward to see it. It was a map of a mountain range, and one he recognized. He sat back in his chair and fixed Borja with a look of disdain.
“Those are the Carpathians. Am I to believe the small principality you speak of is deep in this wilderness? It must be very small indeed, sir. In fact, I begin to think it as much a fairy tale as its lost relics.”
Anger flared in Borja’s deep-set eyes, but his voice remained calm. “I assure you, Lord Dovedale, that my home is very real. Small, yes, and set in a rough terrain, but we are no paupers. The Prince himself has granted me the authority to offer you a rich prize for your trouble. It is a great undertaking. You will have the full support of the royal house of Corbinescu.”
The royal house. The words rang in Will’s ears like a clatter of gold coins. He clenched his fist, feeling his split knuckles burn as they flexed. A vision of Adele, lying in her cloak of golden hair and blood on the carpet, rose up like a ghost before him. It would not be a bad thing to leave Vienna. A title and a bit of fame made a two-edged sword; while it opened doors to a glittering world, it robbed him of the cloak of anonymity. He sighed.
“Tell me of this great undertaking.”
Borja’s eyes glowed. “It means a deal of travel, much of it through the Carpathian forest. We believe the relics to be hidden deep within. Prince Grigore will see you outfitted and provided with letters of credit on his banks. Anything you require will be yours: goods, maps, men, weapons. We have arranged for an antiquarian to accompany you, to verify the authenticity of your finds.” He would have gone on, but Will held up a gloved hand.
“You say you will provide weapons. You anticipate their need, then. Just what dangers must I expect? Tell me more about these relics. I don’t care to risk my neck over dusty scrolls.”
“We prefer to tell you of the relics once you have arrived at Stậnca Corbului, my prince’s seat.” Borja spread his long-fingered hands in an attitude of apology. “You must understand our concern for secrecy, my lord. If others knew of our search, well … it is a matter of some delicacy. As for the dangers you may face, they are academic, really. You may encounter bandits or beasts. The country you must traverse is quite wild. I assure you; we will provide you with good stout men. We have an entire camp assembled and waiting. Surgeon, cook, horseboys, guides, bearers. You shall go in as much comfort as can be managed in the circumstances.”
Will curled his lip. “I regret that I have given you the impression of a dandy. Let me assure you, Mr. Borja, that my comfort is not held so dear as you imply. I am an experienced campaigner. I prefer to choose my own men for such an endeavor, and far fewer than you would impose on me. I shall wish to move quickly, without a ponderous baggage train, and I have no use for a scholar on such an expedition. Your antiquarian may stay home.”
“Lord Dovedale!” Borja started to his feet in hot blood but regained his seat and his composure with an effort. “My lord, I regret that we must insist upon our expert accompanying you. However, what you say is good sense. A lean, fast expedition is best. Forgive me for casting doubt upon your experience; it was not intended as a slight. The country is rugged and unforgiving. I did not wish to seem unmindful of what small comforts we can provide.” He took a deep breath and furrowed his brow. “I concede your right to choose your own men. Please do not be angry if I urge you to choose well. We have a saying in my homeland. Death follows like a wolf and devours the sleepwalker. It exhorts us to preparedness in all things.”
“I see the wisdom of it, Monsieur Borja. One must be ever watchful of the wolf. Now, tell me more about the reward for this job.” Will showed his teeth in a hungry grin, and the two men bent their heads once more over the map on the table.
Your writing is so good! Now I wanna check out part 2. Keep on writing, fellow writer!
He's not a reading man, this Dovedale, is he? Especially not vampire stories... Great set-up!