Choice of the Cat (Vampire Earth 2)

"Now what can I do for you children?" Victor asked, taking a sip of his Irish coffee, hardly enough to wet his lips.

"Information," Duvalier said. "We're hunting something. Or someone."

Victor leaned forward in his leather chair, which silently bore the shift in his respectable weight. He braced his massive head on a bipod created by his forearms, chin resting on the back of his right hand. "Yes? I shouldn't wonder the hunt isn't going well, if you don't know whether you're hunting a who or a what."

Duvalier took a breath. "That's because it's a little bit of both. The what is some kind of new military organization the Kurians set up. Their banner is sort of like the old swastika one from the twentieth century. Only backwards. The who is a man. We don't know his name; he goes by the rank of General. 'The General,' his people seem to call him."

"How do they get around, truck or train?"

"We know they use trains," she answered, "disguised to look like ordinary freight cars. The last solid information we have is that1 they were in Oklahoma in March. Headed north, we believe. No information on trucks."

"Hmmm, I've not heard anything about a 'General' from the Kansas Society. You never learned where they were going?"

"No," Valentine chipped in, wishing to contribute to the conversation.

"How large? Do they have enough men and equipment to make a try to conquer, say, Denver?"

Duvalier shrugged. "We just don't know. It can't be too large an army. Anything bigger than a couple of regiments, and some of the other Cats would have picked it up and brought it to Southern Command's attention."

Victor's jaw worked as he stared at the ceiling in thought. "I know there's a new line being driven west into Colorado. First new construction in that direction I've heard about in ages; our venerable Masters don't go in for civic improvement. You do know that they're also putting in new lines on your western border, right?"

"We've had some word. Southern Command isn't taking it seriously," Valentine said. "They think it's just another rail corridor to make defending the border easier."

Victor brushed out his sideburns with the backs of his hands. "I wouldn't be seen around where they are building.

They'll either shoot on sight or impress you. Best case is you'll be cutting embankments and driving spikes for a daily issue of corn bread for what's left of your future. But you could ask my man out there. I've got an agent that does an occasional run into the Denver Zone. He sometimes comes back with word of what's going on in the mountains."

Duvalier brightened. "How do we get there?"

"I'll put in a word with the East-West Line Chief, and that'll get you as far as the high plains. I'd recommend horses once you're out there. I'll give you a letter of introduction to Cortez. He'll get you supplies and mounts if you want to head west from there. He might even agree to guide you."

A gentle knock at the back door announced the arrival of another visitor.

"It never rains; it just pours," Victor quoted. "Last week I sat and twiddled my thumbs, but today you're my fourth caller. You will stay the night, of course."

Victor told his visitor that he would be just a few minutes, and introduced the Cats to a combed, pressed, and manicured servant named Iban. He charged Iban with preparing meals and bedrooms for the pair, and returned to the door to greet his latest arrival, a dust-covered man with a hat so wide it was just short of a sombrero.

The well-tended rooms, rugs, and furnishings made Valentine long for a bath more than for a meal. Iban somehow telepafhically picked up on his desire and suggested, "If you want to wash up before you eat, there is fresh soap and towels in the first-floor bathroom."

"Dibs," Duvalier said quickly. "Victor's bathrooms are incredible. Hot running water at the twist of a knob, and a razor so sharp, you can shave with its shadow."

"Prove it. What are you going to shave, anyway? I'd like to watch."

"Oh fu- Dream on, Valentine."

Valentine plunged into the prewarmed tub after a quick washup in the sink, fearing he'd leave a ring like a moon crater if he dipped immediately into the steaming water. The servant had poured some sort of scented oil in the tub; it smelled vaguely of cedar. Valentine lathered and shaved with a small hand mirror placed in a tub caddy, lingering over the rasping strokes and enjoying himself immensely.

Iban discreetly knocked and entered, taking Valentine's dirt-encrusted clothing and replacing it with a heavy cotton garment, a thin robe the servant called a kimono. Valentine lingered in the tub, then finally rose and put on the wheat-colored wrap. His hiking boots had disappeared, as well, and as the efficient Iban had not replaced them with anything, even socks, he left the bathroom barefoot to find Duvalier wolfing a fruit salad in an airy corner room. French windows let in the warm afternoon air.

"Quite a place," Valentine commented, feeling the rich texture of the draperies as he parted them to take in the lawn and sky.

"Quite a person," Duvalier countered.

"I didn't know they still made fabric like this."

"Probably just well preserved," she said. "Every time I'm here, it makes me think of stories I heard of the Old World. It's like a museum or something."

"Some of the higher-ups in the Kurians' favor live like this, I'm told," Valentine said. "You sure he's not one of them? How does he get away with it?"