A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9) Fred Saberhagen (free ebook reader for iphone txt) 📖

      On the dot of sunset, the moment the last direct rays of the sun had vanished from the western windows, Constantia woke up, yawning and stretching catlike on the sofa in the mobile home.

      “Good morning,” said June, who was sitting in a chair nearby, there being not much of anywhere else to go. She threw down the magazine she had been trying to read.

      The gypsy only looked at her sleepily, and murmured something about being afraid that she hadn’t done her job well enough.

      “What job was that? Guarding us?”

      “Something like that.” Connie sat up and looked around. “Is hubby back yet? No, I don’t suppose he would be.”

      June stared at her. “How do you know he’s gone?”

      “Oops. Little Connie’s talking too much again!” One red-nailed hand went up to Connie’s mouth, covering an impish smile.

Chapter Twenty-Five

      Today’s crowd in the Place de la Revolution, Radu noticed, was of only moderate size, no more than four or five hundred people. A few of them, mostly sitting or standing in the best locations, he could recognize from the numerous other times when he had attended. They were the regulars who did their best never to miss a beheading, rain or shine. A couple of the women, the notorious tricoteuses, who brought their rocking chairs and knitting to the performance, were as usual jealously occupying the very best spots close to the platform, on the head-side of the knife. There was Madame Defarge, who seemed to have made herself their leader. When she glanced in Radu’s direction, he bowed lightly. She might someday have information that could be useful.

      Too bad, thought the younger Dracula, that they would not hold these events at night … a few of those new Argand lamps would illuminate the scene well enough to satisfy the breathing rabble. He would have to try to find some way to exert influence…

      Outfitted in a new disguise, one that as usual included a broad-brimmed hat, Radu had unobtrusively taken his place among the onlookers waiting to witness the day’s official violence. He had already noticed that not all of the younger Sanson’s usual assistants were on the job today, and in fact Gabriel had only one man with him on his high workplace.

      But that was really nothing out of the ordinary; normally there was a heavy turnover and rotation among the crew, and some variation in their number. Nor did it seem so strange that a different set of workers, adopting a slightly different routine, had piled some extra baskets and other equipment about them on the platform.

      Early this morning, Radu had received a short note scrawled by Gabriel Sanson himself, assuring him that the wooden blade had been installed and would be put to work today.

      The sunlight, stabbing out with fierce intensity between rain showers, was bright enough to bother Radu more than a little, and to dull his senses somewhat, even to pose some danger. But he pulled his hatbrim down a little more and stayed where he was, in a good position on the head side of the lunette, the little window, despite the fact that he was not close enough to have an ideal position. Backed up to within a pace or two of the edge of the crowd, he had his line of retreat open behind him, should it prove necessary.

      There was one beheading on today’s list that for him was very far indeed from routine. One execution that he would not miss, not for all the sweet young red blood in the world. Because this one meant the humbling defeat of his arrogant brother.

      The first tumbril had arrived, stuffed with more than a dozen arm-bound, crop-haired men and women, and the day’s work for the crew on the platform got briskly under way. Radcliffe was not in this shipment. Well, then he would be in the next.

      Radu turned frequently from side to side, shooting suspicious glances into the crowd in all directions. He was considering several possibilities regarding the present whereabouts of his brother. Of course Vlad was not going to give his enemy the satisfaction of being here to experience his humiliation at first hand. That Vlad was dead had to be counted a remote chance. More likely the elder was preparing some truly monstrous counterstroke of punishment for his rebellious little brother. But even if Vlad should succeed in that, there was nothing, nothing in the world that he could do now to prevent Radu from savoring this triumph.

      Still, it bothered Radu that he had no way of telling whether Vlad might be nearby, concealing himself among the crowd.

      He was not surprised to glimpse Constantia in a distant part of the crowd, and beckoned to her. But the gypsy only looked flustered, and tried to pretend she had not seen him. Which again was not surprising.

      One or two of Radu’s other associates, lesser vampires, were at no great distance, and he allowed himself to take some comfort from their presence. Not that anyone at whom Vlad’s anger was directed could really feel safe anywhere.

      Again a feeling of uneasiness returned to nag at him. He would not be free of it until he knew exactly where his brother was…

* * *

      Meanwhile, up on the platform, matters seemed to be proceeding according to the somewhat variable routine. Everyone was now accepting as standard practice the absence of the patriarch of the Sanson clan. The chief executioner’s health had been failing for some time. Radu remembered hearing that the old man, Charles, had not long to live—his difficulties being purely natural, not political. Over the centuries Radu had noted that if any class of people were truly safe from changes in political leadership, it was that of the executioners and torturers. Their jobs were secure no matter what.

* * *

      Today’s session was one of those when the crowd’s view from the sides, on the “body-side” of the little window, was partially screened off as if by