A Rose-Red City
Dave Duncan
First e-reads publication 2003
www.e-reads.com
ISBN 1-58586-231-2
This book is dedicated to
JANET
without whose encouragement, support, and assistance it would never have been written.
“A rose-red city— half as old as time”
J. W. Burgon,Petra
One
“A rose-red city— half as old as time”
J. W. Burgon, Petra
Danger came to Jerry Howard in the middle of a clear and languorous summer afternoon. It came without warning and it came by the hand of a friend.
He was in his workshop, happily titling a book, surrounded by tweezers and tools, by punches and gold leaf and the sweet smell of leather and glue. If he raised his head he could look through the double doors into his library and beyond that, through the big windows, watch the passers-by going up and down the sun-warmed cobbles of Fishermen’s Walk. On the far side of the walk sat seagulls, posed and preening on the rail— and where else could one find blue seagulls? Beyond the rail, in turn, the harbor shone like glass below a porcelain sky and a breeze as gentle as a maiden’s first kiss. Nowhere, he would have said, could he be more content, or secure.
SCAR… he aimed a careful L.
A shame to be indoors, yet he was long overdue for some worktime. That morning he had gone fishing with Father Julius, plodding through wet grass and drippy willows and carefully laying invitations to suicide on the trout pools.
SCARLET… he reached for P.
Nor had he worked the day before, spending it in a hilarious grape-tramping spree with newlyweds Pietro and Maria and a dozen mutual friends, ending the evening around a roaring bonfire with them and especially with Juanita and— much to their mutual surprise— taking Juanita home to bed.
PI… why the hell was X in the M slot?
So now he must work, for he had enough old books on hand, needing rebinding, to keep him busy for the rest of this day and all tomorrow.
And there, perhaps, lay a tiny needle of discontent in his haystack of happiness. Tomorrow would see the start of Tig’s boar hunt. He had been invited. He had been very tempted to join— until he had discovered by accident that Killer was in on the plan as well, and very probably the instigator. Any affair in which Killer had a part was certain to be as dangerous, uncomfortable, rowdy, prolonged, and immoderate as possible. There would be unending marches across impossible terrain and bloody battles with inadequate weapons against ferocious, man-crunching animals— lions were by no means impossible if Killer had anything to do with it; there would be sleeping in snow or quagmires, probably during blizzards; there would certainly be juvenile practical joking and hazing, as well as wild orgies of one sort or another, and it would be unprecedented if the party returned intact, with all its members uninjured— indeed, Killer would regard the outing as a failure if that happened.
PIM…
In his own opinion, Jerry Howard had long ago proved that he was capable of holding his own in such macho insanities and did not need to keep on proving it at great risk to his physical well-being. Unlike Killer, he did not actually enjoy the process. So he had firmly declined the invitation. Very sensible!
P again.
Juanita was another problem, another tiny prickle in the haystack. No, not Juanita herself. Their brief affair had ended long ago, and last night’s rematch had been entirely satisfactory for both. But it had been a one-night stand, and he disapproved of one-night stands. Why, he wondered, could he not, like Pietro, form a lasting relationship with a woman and settle down to the married bliss which should be the lot of any well-adjusted man?
But was he well-adjusted? Be honest! Was he not secretly regretting the boar hunt? Was he, possibly, very slightly bored?
Then he saw that he had been staring, unseeing, at The Scarlet Pimp, which suggested the amusing thought of shelving the book with the partial title and watching to see who took it down. Before he could suppress the temptation, the outer door of the library opened to admit… a friend.
Gervasse had been one of Benjamin Franklin’s Parisian cronies and much resembled him. Their generation had believed that obesity was the best indicator of the leisured life of a gentleman; thus he entered a room stomach first and supported himself on a carved oak staff. He was, of course, in perfect health, strong as a smallish mule, cured now of the gout and stone which had tortured him in Franklin’s day and had probably formed the subject of many of their conversations. His head was shiny pink, fringed by wisps of pale blue hair, and his cape was a wide expanse of yellow linen, ending in a remarkable overhang at waist level. Below that his indigo trousers swept back in long folds as full as a gown. Short cape and flappy pants were standard wear in Mera and Gervasse’s were only remarkable for the quantity of material they had required, but he was an eye-filling sight regardless. He advanced into full view, doffed his blue cap with its feather, and swept a courtly bow.
Jerry had already recognized the thump of the cane on his rug and was around the table, clutching The Scarlet Pimp mischievously in his hand. He used it as Gervasse used his cap in a matching bow, although he had never quite mastered the same aplomb in bowing.
Gervasse was flushed and wheezing slightly, as though he had been running. “My dear Jerry!” Wheeze. “So fortunate to find you at home…”
“My dear Gervasse!” Jerry replied, sliding The Scarlet Pimp unobtrusively onto the big library table. “The pleasure is entirely mine. I shall seek the benefit of your expertise on an intriguing Amontillado which I obtained from Ricardo… only… yesterday…” Gervasse was carrying a wand.
Gervasse nodded his head in polite acceptance and murmured that he would be delighted to taste a minim of friend Jerry’s Amontillado; but he had seen Jerry’s eyes lock themselves on the wand, and his own eyes were twinkling. Jerry led him over to the red leather chairs by the fireplace, unable to remove his gaze from that wand.
Outside…
Gervasse sank back in the chair, laying his staff by his feet and the wand across his knees and pretending to survey the big room as though he were not already entirely familiar with it, being a frequent visitor, chess partner, and participant in innumerable all-night philosophical discussions from that very chair. Jerry tore his eyes away from the wand and headed for the cupboard where he kept wine and crystal.
So much for boar hunts! Outside! If Citizen Howard had indeed been reaching the beginnings of boredom, then Outside would provide a great deal more stimulation than a boar hunt, even a boar hunt organized by Killer, and possibly an infinitely greater amount of danger.
He poured the wine, determined to show no impatience, but very conscious of his heartbeat and a dry tingling in his throat.
“How many volumes?” Gervasse murmured.
“Three thousand, the last time I counted,” Jerry told the cupboard, “but that was many years ago. About a third of them are out at any one time, thank Heaven, or I should have them stacked like firewood.” It was an admirable room, high-ceilinged and spacious, with woodwork shining in a color as close to white as it was possible to obtain in Mera, with four many-paned windows looking out on the cobbles of Fishermen’s Walk, and tall alcoves holding a myriad of books, almost all expertly bound by Jerry himself in morocco leather. But Gervasse had not come to admire the city library. He had come with a wand.