Читать книгу The Saga of Larten Crepsley 1-4 - Darren Shan - Страница 19

Seba and Paris ignored Larten for a long time, but he didn’t mind. He could tell they were old friends who had a lot to catch up on. He served them their meal and provided wine from a jug that he’d bought in the last town they’d visited, then settled back and listened as they swapped tales and discussed other vampires.

“I lost my ear at the last Council,” Paris told Seba. “I was surprised you were not there.”

“I broke my leg on the way,” Seba grunted, blushing slightly. “I had to hole up in a cave for five months. I fed on bats and the occasional stray goat. I thought my time had come, but I healed and was able to hobble out in the spring.”

“I thought you had a bit of a limp,” Paris laughed.

“Tell me more about your ear — you look strange without it.”

Paris shrugged. “I was wrestling. My opponent’s nails caught on my ear and rather than take the time to free them, he ripped his hand away.”

“Painful?” Seba asked.

“Aye. But I bit a chunk out of his cheek in response. We forgave each other over a mug of ale later.”

Larten knew a bit about the Council. It was held every twelve years in Vampire Mountain, and vampires from all over the world made their way to it. Laws were passed there, tournaments were held and friendships were forged or renewed.

While listening, Larten was stunned to learn that Paris Skyle was one of six Vampire Princes. There were three classes of vampire — thousands of normal bloodsuckers, hundreds of Generals, and overseeing them all, the Princes. They held complete power. Their word was law.

Larten had pictured the Princes clad in fine costumes, like royalty in the stories he’d heard about as a child. He’d assumed they travelled with servants and guards. But apart from a few extra wrinkles, Paris looked much like Seba. His clothes were worn and dusty from the road. He was barefoot. He carried no crown or sceptre. And unless his retinue was hiding somewhere nearby, he was alone.

Paris threw away a bone and nodded at Larten to serve up more of the Wildcat. He certainly had a princely appetite — this was his third helping.

“What’s wrong with your hair?” Paris asked as Larten gave him the last chunk of cat. Though Larten’s hair had dulled slightly since his days in the factory, it was the same unnatural orange colour it had been five years before.

“Dye,” Larten said self-consciously.

“You dye your hair orange?” Paris chortled.

“The dye seeped into his skin years ago,” Seba said. “There is nothing he can do about it.”

“Why in the name of the gods did you dye your hair in the first place?” Paris asked.

“It was not by choice,” Larten answered quietly. “I worked in a factory. This is how the foreman marked me.”

Paris studied the boy some more as he chewed. “It’s been a while since you took an assistant,” he said to Seba.

“It is a complicated process these nights,” Seba scowled. “I preferred it when you could snatch a baby from its cradle and no one cared. Now the Princes complain when we do that. They urge us to only take those who will not be missed by humans, and gods help you if you blood the wretch before he comes of age.”

“Times are changing,” Paris noted. “For the better, I feel. It’s good that people worry more about their young, that we cannot pick as freely as we once did.”

“Perhaps,” Seba said grudgingly. “But such cautious manoeuvrings are not for me. I have trained and blooded several fine vampires over the centuries. In terms of bolstering our ranks, I have done more than my fair share for the clan.”

Paris waved a hand at Larten. “Yet here you are with another apprentice.”

Seba smiled. “Master Crepsley was an unusual case. When you find a boy eating cobwebs in a crypt in the middle of the night… well, such a lad has already driven a wedge between himself and the human world. If I had not claimed him for the clan, some other vampire surely would have.”

“It sounds like an interesting tale,” Paris murmured. “I will ask you to tell it to me one night, Larten. In return I’ll tell you a few of mine if you’re interested.”

Seba laughed. “The lad does not know much about you, Paris, but in years to come, when he realises what a treasure trove of stories you are, he will remind you of that promise. You may live to regret it.”

“Nonsense,” Paris sniffed. “I never tire of discussing my great exploits.”

Talk moved on and Larten was again forgotten. He had enjoyed being part of their conversation, even for a brief while, and looked forward to the time when he was considered worthy of full inclusion in talks between vampires as old and wise as these two.

Paris started to tell Seba of his recent adventures in a jungle. He seemed to have travelled to every country Larten had heard of, and many more besides. Larten was fascinated, but he excused himself and went in search of food to serve to the vampires later in the night. His duties had to come first.

Larten often hunted by himself. He hadn’t in the first few years, but Seba had trained him well and now he was left to his own devices most nights. While he enjoyed hunting with Seba, he preferred the solitude of the solo chase. He’d never feared the dark as a child, but had been wary of it. Now he’d grown to love it. Humans retired when the sun went down, leaving the world in the control of the creatures of the night.

Larten wandered freely, relishing the heady smells, the sounds of small animals rustling in the bushes, the cries of owls and bats. While his senses were nowhere near as sharp as Seba’s, he had learnt to see, hear and smell more than most humans ever did. He was aware of a different world unravelling around him, nature rolling its dice as it did every night, animals fighting, birthing, feeding, dying. There were a dozen dramas unfolding everywhere at once: in the bushes, the trees, beneath the soil. Larten could only follow a few of them — he saw an owl swoop on two mating mice and carry them away, and watched a fox drink by a stream, studying the water as if admiring its reflection. But the snatches he caught put a smile on his face like no human tale of ghosts and gods ever had.

On a rough road he kept to the shadows as a caravan of people passed, no more than three or four feet away from where he stood. It pleased him that he could follow their progress without them knowing he was there. He could have boarded the caravan and stocked up on fruit, meat and wine if he’d wished. But although he and his master sometimes stole when needs dictated, vampires were not natural thieves. They would rather hunt.

Returning to the forest, he became part of the hunting and killing frenzy. In a stream he caught two fish with his bare hands. Vampires could not drink the blood of a fish, but as with a cat, its flesh could be eaten once properly prepared and cooked. Larten kept one of the fish but gutted the other and left it lying on the bank as bait. He lay in wait nearby, as patient as any other predator. A rat nibbled at the guts, but Larten was in no mood for rodents, having eaten more than his fill of them over the last few nights.

Finally a stoat wandered by, homed in on the fish and greedily dug in. Larten gave it a minute, then swept down on the stoat and made short work of it. While washing his hands, he darted after another fish – this one even bigger than the first two – but it slipped away and made for the safety of deeper waters. Larten bid the fish luck as Seba had taught him – “Always respect the ones that get away” – then returned to the ruined castle with his catch.

Seba and Paris were arguing when he got back. Rather, Paris was shouting at Seba, while the slightly younger vampire was smiling wryly.

“This is the honour of a lifetime,” Paris huffed. “Thousands of vampires dream of such an offer.”

“I would say it is more than most even dare dream of,” Seba nodded.

“You could enforce your views,” Paris said. “If you object to the way we treat those who blood children, you could help reshape our laws.”

“But I do not want to,” Seba said. “I am old-fashioned. I do not like some of the changes that have been introduced in recent decades, but I acknowledge the need for change. I am no revolutionary.”

“I need your support,” Paris pressed. “There will be a crop of new Princes this century. I’m currently the second youngest, but at six hundred I won’t be for long. The prospect of sitting beside a handful of young, headstrong Princes troubles me. I need an ally who sees things my way, but who can also relate to the newcomers. You’re the best of both worlds, Seba, the old and the new.”

“You flatter me,” Seba murmured. “I am proud that you think so highly of me, but…” He spotted Larten listening. “Paris has made me a marvellous offer, Master Crepsley. He has pledged to help me become a Prince.”

“A Vampire Prince!” Larten gasped, eyes widening. He didn’t know much about Seba’s past. He thought his master was a General, but he wasn’t certain. And even if he was, Larten figured he couldn’t be one of great importance, since he had so little to do with the rest of the clan.

“At least the boy is excited by the prospect,” Paris muttered sourly.

“Power always impresses the young and foolish,” Seba said dismissively.

Larten scowled at his master and almost snapped at him, but bit down on his tongue, not wanting to earn a thrashing in front of their visitor. “How do you become a Prince?” he instead asked Paris Skyle.

Seba frowned – he would have preferred Larten to listen some more before chipping in with questions – but Paris was happy to answer.

“A General is nominated by an existing Prince,” Paris explained. “If his fellow Princes approve – one can object, but no more than that – it’s put to the vote. That can take a few years, because at least three-quarters of the Generals must be asked. If the majority give their backing, he’s invested at the next Council.”

“But what do you have to do to be nominated?” Larten pressed.

“You must prove yourself worthy,” Seba cut in. “It starts with knowing when to ask questions and when to be silent.”

“Peace, old friend,” Paris laughed. “I have irritated you. Don’t take your anger out on the boy.”

“I am not angry,” Seba said. “I am amazed and humbled by your offer. But I must ask you not to take this further. If you do, I will have to publicly reject you and that would be embarrassing for both of us.”

“I don’t understand,” Paris growled. “You deserve this. You’re respected by everyone. If you were the power-seeking sort, you could have swung a nomination a couple of hundred years ago.”

“But I do not seek power,” Seba said quietly. He stared into the flames of the fire and spoke in a quiet tone that Larten had never heard him use before. “I fear true power, Paris. I have seen it twist people, change them beyond recognition. Some, like you, thrive on it and remain masters of their souls. But I do not believe that I would be one of those.

“There is much about the clan that I would change. I would have us regress to a simpler, purer way of life. I think we interact too much with humans. I dislike the Cubs and their war packs. I do not approve of the impasse between ourselves and the vampaneze. I would push for less personal freedom, more regimented control of ordinary vampires by the Generals, a tighter, more restricted community.”

“What’s wrong with any of that?” Paris asked. “I feel that way myself.”

“But you can act neutrally,” Seba said. “You can balance your personal wishes against those of the many. You are happy to make suggestions, but not impose your will. You consider both sides of most arguments.

“I could not. My emotions would get the better of me. I do not trust myself to act as selflessly as a Prince should. Please, Paris, do not tempt me. Some are fit to rule, but I am not one of them. If I accepted the power of a Prince, you would live to regret it. More importantly, so would I.”

Larten was bewildered by his master’s words. He had always thought Seba was in total control of himself, the equal of any challenge. It distressed him to think that Seba was afraid. The vampire had been urging Larten to overcome his fears for the last five years. How could he now back away from his own like this?

“The boy is disappointed,” Paris remarked, spotting Larten’s expression.

“Larten is sharp, but inexperienced,” Seba said stiffly. “He may see it my way in time. Or he may not.”

“If he doesn’t, I certainly do.” Paris laid a hand on Seba’s arm and smiled, then arched an eyebrow at Larten. “Wipe that look from your face!” he thundered. “An assistant should never dishonour his master, even by thinking poorly of him.”

“But… you said… I thought…”

“I think Seba is incorrect,” Paris said. “He would be a fine Prince, a credit to the clan. But I can only judge him by what I see. He judges himself by what he feels. We should all be so honest and true to ourselves. It takes a vampire of the highest integrity to acknowledge self-doubt. My respect for Seba has increased after our talk tonight. Yours should too.”

Talk turned to other matters. Larten listened for a while, then slipped away and idly explored the forest. Thinking back over everything he’d heard, he wondered who or what ‘war packs’ and the ‘vampaneze’ were — both terms were new to him. But mostly he pondered Seba’s rejection of power and tried to decide how that made him feel.

Paris had gone when Larten returned. The boy looked around in case the Prince was still in sight, but he and Seba were alone.

“Most vampires do not bother with farewells,” Seba said without looking up. “We live for so long that after a time we tire of saying goodbye. Do not take it as a sign of disrespect.”

Larten thought his master was avoiding his gaze because he was ashamed. But when he edged around the fire and caught Seba’s wistful look, he realised the vampire’s thoughts were elsewhere.

“You wish you had accepted,” Larten said softly.

Seba nodded. “Part of me craves power.” He smiled bitterly and glanced at his assistant. “But it is a part I do not like, a part I must always be wary of. I said you had mixed blood when I tested you, Larten. What I did not tell you was that I have it too. My master almost rejected me when he tasted my blood. But in the end he gave me a chance. He is long dead, but there are not many nights when I do not think of him and vow to honour his memory by denying the hunger of my lesser self.”

Seba sighed and fell silent. Larten quietly cleaned around the elderly vampire, quenching the fire, scattering the ashes, bagging the remains of the Wildcat.

Finally Seba stirred. “Did you notice Paris’s bare feet?” he asked.

It was an odd question, but Larten was accustomed to strange queries. “Yes. I assumed that was his preference.”

“No,” Seba said. “Some vampires disregard footwear as a matter of course, but Paris is not one of them. He has commenced his trek to Vampire Mountain, to attend the latest Council. When we undertake that trip, we cast our shoes aside and travel barefoot. It is one of the rules of the clan.”

“Are you going to the Council this time?” Larten asked.

“Aye,” Seba chuckled wryly. “Broken legs permitting.”

“And…” Larten hesitated.

“…will I take you with me?” Seba shook his head. “Human assistants do not make the trek. You must be at least a half-blood.”

“You’re leaving me behind by myself.” Larten wasn’t dismayed. He would be able to get by for a few months without the guiding hand of his master.

“I am leaving you,” Seba said, “but not by yourself. There is a reason why I have not cast aside my shoes yet. I wish to make a detour before I set off. An old friend of mine is travelling nearby and I think you will enjoy his fine company.” The old vampire smiled warmly. “Tell me, Larten, did you ever hear tales in your youth of the weird, wild and wonderful Cirque Du Freak?”