IV

IV

 

The Grand Platz—a giant square in the heart of Brussels— was known as the most beautiful plaza in the whole world and as a fabulous stage.

The space was flanked by the "Home of the King," which was the Allied Government's headquarters and home to lots of other buildings of historic importance. It was in no way inferior to the great squares of Rome's San Pietro Platz and Venice's San Marco Platz.

White Rose House—a mansion that used to be the headquarters of the Brewers' Guild—stood at the south of the square. It was an inconspicuous building. But someone with good sight might have noticed guards hidden in the ancient building. They might have even noticed the smell of blood that surrounded the building.

At the top level of the building, the mansion's owner sat at the desk in his library and took a sip from his wine glass, perhaps satisfied with his property. "Humph, so Watteau was injured, but he still managed to get away. Perhaps I came down to earth a little preemptively?" Darsus eyed the ten men and women who were stood stock-still in front of his desk. He took a drag of his tobacco. "We've lost Gie. Now I'm the only one left of Count Four."

"Our deepest apologies, Your Excellency."

In front of him stood the men of Count of Bruges. Their heads were bowed and they all had glum faces.

Standing a little to the side of them was Blunt, He was eyeing the vampire. "It is my fault that we lost Count of Bruges. It is my crime! Death is not enough!"

"You feel too much guilt, Blunt," Darsus said, shaking his head generously. He looked over at the sullen men of the lost count as he tried to pacify the Terran. "Gie's death is a great sadness, but it is not your fault. It is all the fault of this assassin. You must find him at all costs. It is the only way you will atone for your crime."

"Wa-Watteau was seriously injured. We have mobilized the police forces into finding him. We will have apprehended him by tomorrow."

"I certainly hope you do." Darsus nodded, pleased at Blunts confidence.

Darsus turned to look out the window. The sun was just starting to set, and people bustled in the crowds at the Grand Platz, making long shadows. In the flickering light of the fire, carpenters and stoneworkers worked on scaffolding and a provisional stage for tomorrow's masked parade. Ever since he was a child, Darsus had enjoyed this event, which welcomed the start of the summer.

"Losing Gie is like losing a son to me," Darsus muttered and then fell silent. His expression was depressed. In truth, he wanted to celebrate that he had removed his strongest rival with little inconvenience. But he had to look like he was unhappy. "But tomorrow, you will find the man who murdered Gie. I look forward to you reporting the news to me."

"Won't you consider leaving the disposal of this assassin to us?" asked one of the black figures, his arms wrapped in white bandages. It was the same Methuselah who had been attacked by Watteau. "We would like to handle this enemy of Count of Bruges ourselves. Count Darsus, will you please consider allowing us this pleasure?"

"Of course. When the police find the assassin, I will hand him over to you so you can do as you wish, if it will make you happy to crush the enemy of your master."

Several of the men standing in front of Darsus expressed their thanks, and he acknowledged their gratitude with a sincere expression. He placed the sword on the desk and picked up a bell. "With Count Granwelle gone, I will look after Bruges. You take your revenge. Rooms are prepared for you. I will support your courage until you find Watteau." Darsus ordered the servant who appeared at the sound of the bell. "Show the sons of Bruges to their rooms. Ensure that everything is seen to." Darsus then turned his sights to the plaza again. He smiled as he watched the reflections of his guests retiring to their rooms. "The one who survives is the coward. Just like myself."

They were rehearsing for the show tomorrow. He looked down at the plaza that was filled with fake princes and princesses. Darsus took a satisfied toke of his tobacco. All his life, he had never been the one to pick fights. All his movements had been in secret. He tried to show the most respectable face possible to the Allied Government.

He didn't touch the church, and he didn't pick battles with the Vatican. Even when he had fled to the skies, apparently fearful of a Terran assassin, he had been mocked by the aristocracy for being weak. But look at the results: Three of his rivals were dead. The Vatican had come this far. The Allied Government did exactly as he asked. No one was going to make an enemy of Count Darsus now.

"All on my own, now."

He recalled the sight of the fleeing Terran, who looked like drowning rats. Darsus turned his eyes to the desk. Seeing the white sword on it made his grin even wider.

Hague de Watteau had ignored the orders of Rome and came after me himself. Now he's lost his arm and his prey. There's nothing else he can do. Even if he discovers my location and comes looking for me in a crazed lust for blood, the White Rose House is protected by thirty Methuselah and more than one hundred Terran. Not to mention the Lost Technology surveillance machines. He'll be sliced to bits as soon as he approaches the front door.

"Cheers to me!" He poured the red liquid down his throat, completely enraptured by his own cleverness.

 

***

 

"What about Count Bruges' body?" asked Blunt.

"It is being looked after by the police at the moment," a guard answered. His rat face made an attempt at sympathy. "We had wanted to bring his body here, but with all the chaos at the station... you know. It was difficult to remove it secretly. It's being looked after in the morgue for a while."

"I see. But they said that they didn't know anything about his body?"

"That Watteau man is observant. It was decided that it was best the body was kept in secret."

"Well you don't have to worry about that, Inspector." The young Methuselah's nostrils flared a little as he spoke with an air of inflated importance: "The entire mansion is covered by surveillance technology. No expense was spared. This is the best system possible. The central surveillance room is manned twenty-four hours a day, so there is no chance of an intruder being missed. It would be impossible for even a Methuselah to enter here."

"That is impressive," the young aristocrat enthused. "I was wondering if I may take a peek. I would like to see this Lost Technology of which Count of Brussels was so proud."

"Yes, sir." The Methuselah felt pride, empowered by his position. He wanted to show off. "Please walk this way. But I must ask you to not touch any of the machinery." He unlocked the thick metal door and pushed it open, signaling for the young Methuselah to enter. The many Terran who were carefully watching the monitors turned to see who had entered, but when the familiar Methuselah indicated that they didn't need to worry, they turned back to the screens.

"This is astounding. This system is indeed extraordinary. The aristocracy of Brussels is very impressive."

"This room alone cost almost the whole state budget." The man was getting into his new role as tour guide now. "I know His Eminence is very attentive to these things, though, so I guess he wouldn't mind paying whatever it took."

"But it doesn't matter how excellent the system; it all depends on the operator. Used by people like you, it might as well be crap." The sudden change in tone took guard by surprise; in seconds, he pushed his sword against the young Methuselah's neck.

An odd noise came from deep inside his throat. The wound would keep healing, but with a swift twist of the sword, the victim's head could be forever sliced off. It was one of the few weak points that Methuselah had.

"What is going on here?!"

The guards had noticed the commotion going on behind them; they all turned around. There was nothing of the young Methuselah to see, though. They started to rise from their chairs... But in an instant, the rest of them were drowning in a sea of their own blood.

"Too slow. A few seconds and you would have gotten me," Blunt muttered, pistols smoking in his hand.

He pushed the surveillance men's bodies out the way and inspected the console. He turned off the switches, one by one. "Right. The surveillance system is down now, Bosch."

"Good work, Blunt. The rest, now."

The man called Bosch smiled. Twiddling the many knives in his hands, he quickly followed the Methuselah's orders. "Clear each floor, as we discussed. But you must not touch Darsus. I will call our master."

"I am already here." The quiet voice came from the open door. Blunt hadn't even heard it open. Men and women in plain black suits followed the man into the room. The leader was conspicuous because he wore a different color from the others. He had on a thin mask, and his blonde hair was tied back. "Good work, Bosch and Blunt. But you're thirty seconds late. Please hurry." His voice was so well moderated that you would find it hard to imagine anyone would disobey his orders. Almost twenty Methuselah and one Terran immediately moved to the next phase. "Yes, sir!"

The masked man watched them run off. However, he suddenly noticed something and approached the console. He touched his rose tattoo and then carefully chose one of the many switches and flicked it. "Humph. It seems that he is here, too. Earlier than I expected."

With a buzz, one of the screens had come on. Looking at the display, the man smiled.

On the black-and-white screen was the main entrance. The grainy shadows of costumed performers were lit up by the burning bonfire. However, the purple eyes behind the mask were looking at one shadow in particular — a ghost dressed in priest's garb.

Clutched in his left hand was a metal stick as tall as the man himself. The man had his right sleeve turned up. The masked man smiled. "Just as you hoped. A stage for revenge! Take your place, Sword Dancer!"