Doctor Who_ The City of the Dead - Lloyd Rose [98]
Not that he had the slightest proof of any impropriety that the elderly gentleman had ever committed.
Watching Bal neatly dissect his fish, Oulette wondered yet again why of all the restaurants in Lyon, a city filled with them, his was the one that should receive this regular honour. His establishment, which bore his name, which was his father's name and his grandfather's before that, was, despite this age and lineage, hardly among the most celebrated. His menu was simple and traditional, based in the country cooking of his ancestors. Oulette was a subtle judge of people's tastes, and he surmised that Bal's pleasures, whatever they were, customarily veered towards the sophisticated. Yet he ate very plainly.
Oulette shrugged. Perhaps his customer simply had a sensitive stomach.
He was in fact correct. M. Bal had an extremely sensitive stomach. He was a sensitive fellow altogether, being unable to stand light that was too bright or noise that was too loud or textures that were too harsh or almost any smell at all. Subjected to overstimulation, he had fits - which meant that Oulette's concern for his waitresses was unnecessary, though it might not have been years earlier, when Bal was in his prime and had just discovered the sublime sense of wellbeing that came from having whatever he wanted as soon as he wanted it.
Alas, the means of maintaining this delightful situation had, over the decades, robbed him of most of his ability to enjoy it. There was irony for you. Though as a Frenchman Bal was a natural connoisseur of irony, there were times he wished he hadn't been presented with quite such an epicurean example. However, being ingenious, he had found compensations. As his own capacity for pleasure diminished, so grew his power to destroy it in others. He could, he discovered with pleased amazement, blight. Such a comfort to him in these later years.
Financial difficulties, physical distress, simple petty meannesses -all these he visited arbitrarily on whomever he cared to. A girl whose hairstyle he disliked. A man whose expression irked him. Anyone on a skateboard. He had enjoyed very much slipping that charm out from under the nose of an American and, later, balking that American policeman. Such a vulgar, pushy fellow, like all his countrymen. Needless to say, the local police would not dream of giving M. Bal the least trouble.
He also enjoyed - basked in, actually - the knowledge that he was keeping the charm from another mage who wanted it. Oh, how badly he wanted it!
The psychic probes, the astral assaults! The fool had learned that Bal's chateau was impenetrable. He had battered vainly against the barriers, a stupid moth unable to comprehend why it could not get to the light. Perhaps someday Bal would let him fly in and immolate himself. Or perhaps not. Bal had not actually admitted to himself that this other mage was someone to worry about, but he continued to find one excuse and then another not to actively engage him.
And why should he? He had the charm. The other was - what was that piquant English phrase? A sore loser.
Bal squinted slyly at Oulette, who was pretending not to be keeping an eye on him. It amused him to unsettle the proprietor, but he stopped there, as he really did enjoy the man's cooking and had no particular reason to do him ill. There were many others more deserving. He was just a bit annoyed at the way he always got the ugliest waitress. Maybe he should smite the little cow with a harelip, just to spite Oulette. Oh, but why bother? The fish was good. And he couldn't really see well enough any more to discern the girl's disappointing features with much clarity. True, the small insult rankled.
But he would be magnanimous. For a woman not to be pretty was curse enough on her, anyway.
M. Bal finished the last of his wine. He stood up and began wrapping his long, loose-knit muffler around his scrawny neck. He had to be careful this time