Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [28]
Woodbridge offered the Guardsmen a pull of the pig, and von Klatka stared him into silence. The Prince Consort’s Own did not favour animal blood. The group had the collective saunter Geneviève associated with Prussians or Mongols, the universal attitude of officers in an army of occupation. Carpathians marched around in a cloud of their own arrogance, condescending as much to the newborn as the warm.
Von Klatka picked a table in the centre of the room and stared down a couple of sailors until they chose to remove themselves to the bar, leaving their whores behind. The knight dismissed two of the girls, a new-born and a warm tart with no teeth, but let stay the last, a self-possessed gypsy who bore with pride the scars on her neck.
The Carpathians took chairs and leaned back in them, evidently at ease. They were illegitimate children of Bismarck and Geronimo: all wore highly polished boots and carried heavy swords, but their uniforms were augmented with oddments scavenged through the years. Von Klatka had around his neck a golden lanyard upon which were strung withered lumps of flesh she understood to be human ears. Cuda’s helmet was adorned with a wolf’s skin: head surmounting the crown and ringing the visor with teeth, eye-sockets sewn shut with red thread; thick-furred hide hanging down to the centre of his back, tail dangling almost to the floor.
Vardalek was the most extraordinary figure, his jacket a puffy affair of pleats and flounces, covered with kaleidoscope designs of spangle and sparkle. His face was powdered to conceal suppurating skin. Pantomime circles of rouge covered his cheeks and a scarlet cupid’s-bow was painted over lips constantly distended by the two-inch fangs. His hair was stiff and golden, elaborately done up in bows and curls, twin braids dangling from the nape of his neck like rat’s tails. This was the Count’s party, and he was being escorted by the others on his tour of the fleshpots. Vardalek was one of those vampires who fussed about how close he was to the Prince Consort, claiming a dynastic connection as well as the obvious tie of bloodline. In a minute’s chatter and on the flimsiest of pretexts, he mentioned the Royal Person no fewer than three times, always with mock-casual prefixes like ‘as I was saying to Dracula...’ or ‘as our dear Prince mentioned the other night...’
The Hungarian surveyed the room and burst into high-pitched giggles, hiding his mouth behind a thin, green-nailed hand that protruded from an explosion of lace at his cuffs. He whispered to von Klatka, who grinned ferally and signalled to Woodbridge.
‘That boy,’ von Klatka said in approximate English, pointing a talon at Georgie. ‘How much for that boy?’
The potman mumbled that Georgie was not for sale.
‘Silly man, you understand not,’ insisted von Klatka. ‘How much?’
‘He’s my son,’ Woodbridge protested.
‘Then you should be honoured indeed,’ shrilled Vardalek. ‘That your plumptious whelp should excite the interest of fine gentlemen.’
‘This is the Count Vardalek,’ explained Cuda, whom Geneviève had marked as the snivelling toady of the group. ‘He is very close to the Prince Consort.’
Kostaki alone sat quietly, eyes forever watchful.
By now, everyone had shut up and was watching. Geneviève was sorry that Thain and the detectives had left, but these bullies were hardly likely to feel outranked by mere policemen.
‘Such a pretty lad,’ said Vardalek, trying to wrestle the youth into his lap. Georgie was stiff with terror, and the elder was strong in the wrist. A long red tongue darted out of his cupid’s bow and scraped Georgie’s cheek.
Von Klatka had out a wallet as fat as a meat pie. He threw a cloud of bank-notes in Woodbridge’s face. The ruddy-cheeked