Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [55]
‘A commission from the Palace,’ Fox Malleson said, with pride. He picked up a bullet between thumb and forefinger. The pads of his fingers all had hard burn-calluses. ‘For the Prince Consort’s Carpathian Guard.’
Beauregard wondered how nosferatu soldiers loaded their pistols. Either they had warm orderlies or thick leather gloves.
‘Actually, silver’s not much good for bullets. Too soft. You get the best effect with a core of lead. Silver-jackets, they’re called. Burst in the wound. That’d polish off anyone, un-dead or not. Very nasty.’
‘A costly weapon, surely?’ he asked.
‘Indeed so, Mr B. This is the Reid design. An American gentleman, Reid said bullets should be costly. A reminder that life is a currency not to be spent freely.’
‘An admirable thought. Surprising from an American.’
Fox Malleson was reputedly the finest silversmith in London. For a time, his profession completely outlawed, he had been confined in Pentonville. But expedience prevailed. Power is based, at bottom, on the ability to kill; thus the means of killing have to be available, even if only to a select few.
‘Look at the workmanship,’ Fox Malleson said, holding up a crucifix. Even without its jewels, the craft was evident in the sculpting of the figure of Christ. ‘You can see the suffering in the lines of the limbs.’
Beauregard examined it. A few truly feared the cross – the Prince Consort included, apparently – but most vampires were indifferent to religious artefacts. Some murgatroyds made a point of flaunting their immunity by wearing ivory crucifixes as earrings.
‘Popish silliness, of course,’ Fox Malleson said, a touch sadly. He passed the crucifix to his apprentice for the pot. ‘Still, I miss artistry sometimes. Bullets and blades are all very well but they’re just function. No form to speak of.’
Beauregard was unsure. The rows of bullets, like ranks of soldiers in pointed helmets, were shining and pleasing objects.
‘That’s why a commission such as yours is such a pleasure, Mr B. Such a pleasure.’
Fox Malleson took a long, thin bundle from a rack. It was wrapped in coarse cloth and tied up with string. The silversmith handled it as if it were Excalibur, and he the knight charged with it until the time Arthur should return.
‘Would you care to examine?’
Beauregard loosed the strings and slipped away the cloth. His sword-cane had been polished and refinished. The wood shone, black with a red undertone.
‘Lovely to see such work, Mr B. The original manufacturer was an artist.’
Beauregard pressed the catch and drew the sword. He laid down the sheathing wood and held up the blade, turning his wrist so it caught the red light from the embers. It sparkled and flashed and danced.
The weight was unchanged, the balance perfect. It felt as light as a willow switch, but a flick of the wrist was translated into a powerful slice. Beauregard cut at the air, smiling at the whistle.
‘Beautiful,’ he commented.
‘Oh yes, Mr B, beautiful. Like a fine lady, beautiful and sharp.’
He laid his thumb against the cold flat of the blade, and felt the smoothness.
‘I ask a favour of you,’ the silversmith said, ‘don’t use it for chopping sausage.’
Beauregard laughed. ‘You have my word, Fox Malleson.’
He took the cane, and with a click sheathed the silver-coated sword. He would feel safer in Whitechapel, knowing he could defend himself against anyone.
‘Now, Mr B, you must sign the Poisons Book.’
18
MR VAMPIRE
‘You’re to come quick, Miss Dee,’ Rebecca Kosminski said. ‘It’s Lily. She’s took poorly.’
The self-possessed little girl vampire led Geneviève through the streets away from the Hall. She was discharging her errand with meticulous attention. As they walked, Geneviève asked Rebecca about herself and her family. The child was reluctant to give answers that suggested she was in a position to be pitied. The new-born already had an independent spirit. She dressed like a miniature adult and gave no answer when asked about favourite dolls. She had evolved away from the childhood of her body. The cruellest question anyone