“For the sake of our dignity, if nothing else, we believe we are allowed a modicum of free will.”
“You can’t base your decisions on a bastardized ontology,” said Rosacher. “Either Griaule controls you, or this notion of the dragon as god is ridiculous.”
Struck by an idea, he once again pretended to clear his throat, stalling while he constructed his argument. Breque inquired whether he wanted a glass of water.
“How long have you been trying to kill Griaule?” Rosacher asked after taking a drink.
“There were countless attempts made before our body was organized, most of them ill-considered, a good many of them harebrained,” said Savedra. “The first official attempt under aegis of the council was undertaken approximately six hundred years ago. Of course in the early days, the council was appointed by a feudal duke and had no real power. But as it’s presently configured, more than two hundred years.”
“I’m forced to assume, then, that Griaule is not ready to die,” Rosacher said. “Or that you’ve failed miserably in satisfying your oath. If I wanted to kill the dragon, I’d cut down the forest in the hills close by him, pile the wood around his sides and set him on fire. Has that been tried?”
“Two centuries ago,” said Febres-Cordero. “A strong wind blew the fire back on the town. They had to rebuild completely. It was an event that coincided with the removal of the feudal duke.”
“We’ve explored every method we can think of,” said Breque. “This explains why we’ve offered a reward and are entertaining more eccentric schemes.”
“Yes, I met one of your eccentrics in the vestibule,” Rosacher said. “A fellow by the name of Cattanay. He intends to paint a mural on the dragon’s side using poisoned paint. Paint with a high lead or arsenic content. His expectation is that it will kill Griaule within several decades.”
Rooney chuckled and Paltz shook his head, as if astounded by this foolishness, and said, “Well, it won’t take several decades for us to deal with him!”
“Cattanay believes the process of painting will be too subtle for Griaule to recognize as an attempt to kill him. And by the time he does, if he does, he’ll be too ill to remedy it. His control will have slipped. I think the plan may have some actual merit, but that’s for you to decide.” Rosacher fixed his gaze on Breque. “More pertinent to the question before you, a plan like Cattanay’s, one that will take decades to achieve a result, would serve our mutual purposes. In thirty years we’ll have made enough money to provide for our heirs to the tenth generation, and—theoretically, at any rate—you’ll have a dead dragon, a booming economy, and a well-trained army. You’ve been at this for six centuries, gentlemen. I suspect your constituents won’t quarrel overmuch with a plan that delays their gratification a few more years.”
“Your argument presupposes that the plan will work,” said Savedra. “What if it doesn’t? Griaule may be capable of sniffing out Cattanay’s intentions.”
“You won’t know that until you’ve tried,” Rosacher said. “However, the signal virtue of Cattanay’s plan is that he’ll need three or four years to map out the project, build scaffolding, and so on. That should give you time to come up with an alternative. In the meantime we will profit and the town will thrive.”
The faces of the men at the table were a comical study in perplexity and concentration. Rosacher made a gesture of finality. “Gentlemen, I’ve stated my case and now I have business to attend. With your kind permission, I’ll leave you to your deliberations.”
“If there are no further questions…” Breque looked inquiringly to the other councilmen. “Mister Rosacher, you have our thanks for making most exhilarating what otherwise might have been a tiresome adversarial experience. You can be sure that we will discuss every facet of what you have said. Give us a few days. You will hear from us by Friday at the latest.” He beamed at Rosacher and gestured toward the door. “Would you mind telling Mister Cattanay to come in? I, for one, am eager to hear the details of his proposal.”
As Rosacher and Arthur strode down the hill, Rosacher’s mind went to the day ahead. There were appointments, contracts to examine, and he had to inspect repairs made to the refrigeration unit at the new factory. He would be fortunate to finish by seven o’clock. The time had come, he thought, to hire someone, perhaps several someones, to manage the business. Now that the council had been dealt with and, from his reading of Breque, he was confident of the result, he needed to get on with his study of the blood. He had been so consumed with the business that he had done pitifully little toward that end, and he looked forward to spending days locked away in a laboratory. But it was difficult to find people who were both competent and trustworthy. He would have to recruit his management staff on the coast and that meant a trip to Port Chantay, rounds of interviews…more time wasted. He despaired of creating a gap in his schedule.
“Pardon me, sir.” Arthur’s face was etched with worry. “What you said back there…that I was an expert on warfare. I don’t know the first thing about it.”
“There are dozens of books on the subject,” Rosacher said impatiently. “You have wonderful instincts as to aggression. I’m sure you’ll be a quick study.”
“I can make out letters and sound some words, but…”
“Don’t tell me you can’t read?”
“Take me forever to read a book, it would. Even then, I reckon I might not make much sense of it.”
“Learn, then,” said Rosacher, a nasty edge on his voice, fuming inwardly over the incompetence with which he was surrounded. “If you don’t learn, Arthur, how will you ever advance yourself?”
5
Shortly after eight o’clock that evening, Rosacher arrived at Ludie’s apartments. He hesitated, debating whether or not to knock, ultimately deciding that since he was attempting to restore intimacy, he should behave as would an intimate—he opened the door. The room was dimly lit by a single ornamental floor lamp in a corner, its flame turned low, and the windows held rectangles of purplish dusk. Walls and ceiling were draped in swaths of billowy, diaphanous cloth—pastel shades of green, yellow and blue that shrank the enclosed space and was intended to make the room appear to be the interior of a tent. Beneath this canopy, pillows and rugs were arranged about a teak table on which a cold supper was laid. The decor represented an ideal of luxury in Ludie’s homeland, or rather what she presumed to be an ideal—she had been born into poverty and sold at the age of six to a brothel-keeper from Peppertree; he in turn had sold her to the Hotel Sin Salida.
Rosacher collapsed amidst the pillows, closed his eyes and was assailed by nagging concerns relating to business. Attempting to quiet his mind, he sank deeper into a morass of petty entanglements, expenditures, collections and whatnot. When he succeeded in pushing these matters into the background, the question of his three-year lapse arose, and that so disturbed him, he abandoned the idea of resting, opened his eyes and saw Ludie standing above him. She was dressed to match the décor, wearing a gauzy peignoir that revealed the voluptuous contours of her body; yet in opposition to the seductive image she presented, her expression was one of poorly concealed distaste.
“I apologize for being late,” he said. “I…”
“How did you fare with the council?” She reclined beside him on the opposite side of the table and popped a slice of orange into her mouth. “It must have gone well or else you would have been too preoccupied to come at all.”
He told her in brief what had been said within the council chamber and she said flatly, “Congratulations.”
“You don’t sound like you mean it.”