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As he took in the grounds, he enjoyed the sense of ownership singing in his blood, but he was less than satisfied with the view. Everything was battened down for winter, the flower beds emptied, the blooming fruit trees blanketed with mesh, the maples and oaks without their leaves. As a result, one could see the retaining wall, and that was just not attractive. Better for those ugly security sorts of things to be covered.
Montrag turned away and walked over to a more pleasing vista, albeit one that was mounted on the wall. With a flush of reverence, he regarded his favorite painting in the manner he always had, for indeed Turner deserved veneration for both his artistry and his choices of subject. Especially in this work: The depiction of the sun setting over the sea was a masterpiece on so many levels, the shades of gold and peach and deep burning red a feast for eyes robbed by biology of the actual glowing furnace that sustained and inspired and warmed the world.
Such a painting would be the pride of any collection.
He had three Turners in this house alone.
With a hand that twitched in anticipation, he took hold of the lower right-hand corner of the gilt frame and pulled the seascape from the wall. The safe behind it fit the precise dimensions of the painting and was inset into the lath and plaster. After twisting the combination on the dial, there was a subtle shifting that was barely audible, giving no hint that each of the six retracting pins was thick as a forearm.
The safe opened without a sound and an interior light came on, illuminating a twelve-cubic-foot space stacked with thin leather jewelry cases, bound bundles of hundred-dollar bills, and documents in folders.
Montrag brought over a needlepointed stepping stool and got up on its flowered back. Reaching far into the safe, going behind all the real estate deeds and stock certificates, he took out a strongbox and then put the safe and the painting back as they had been. With a feeling of excitement and possibility, he carried the metal box over to the desk and got the key from the lower left-hand drawer's secret compartment.
His father had taught him the combination of the safe and shown him the location of the hiding place, and when Montrag had sons, he would pass down the knowledge to them. That was how one made sure things of value were not lost. Father to son.
The lid of the strongbox did not open with the same well-calibrated, well-lubricated slide the safe did. This one came wide with a squeak, the hinges protesting the disturbance of their rest and reluctantly revealing what lay within its metal belly.
They were still there. Thank the Virgin Scribe they were still there.
As Montrag reached inside, he thought, So relatively worthless, these pages, valued by themselves at a fraction of a penny. The ink held within their fibers was worth but a penny, as well. And yet for what they spelled out, they were invaluable.
Without them he was at mortal risk.
He took out one of the two documents and it didn't matter which he removed, as they were identical. Between careful fingers, he held the vampire equivalent of an affidavit, a three-page, handwritten, signed-in-blood dissertation concerning an event that had happened twenty-four years ago. The notarized signature on the third page was sloppy, a scrawl in brown that was barely legible.
But then, it had been made by a dying man.
Rehvenge's "father," Rempoon.
The documents laid the ugly truth all out in the Old Language: Rehvenge's mother's abduction by the symphaths, his conception and birth, her escape and later marriage to Rempoon, an aristocrat. The last paragraph was as damning as everything else:
Upon my honor, and the honor of mine blooded ancestors and decedents, verily on this night did mine stepson, Rehvenge, fall upon me and cause to be rendered unto my body mortal wounds through the application of his bare hands upon my flesh. He did so with malice aforethought, having lured me into my study with the object of provoking an argument. I was unarmed. Following my injuries, he did go about the study and prepare the room for to appear to have been invaded by intruders from without. Verily, he did leave me upon the floor for death's cold hand to capture my corporeal form, and he did depart from the premises. I was roused briefly by my dear friend Rehm, who had come to visit for the purpose of business discussions.
I am not expected to live. My stepson has killed me. This is my final confession on earth as an embodied spirit. May the Scribe Virgin carry me unto the Fade with her grace and all alacrity.
As Montrag's father had later explained it, Rempoon had gotten it mostly right. Rehm had come on business and found not only an empty house, but the bloody body of his partner-and had done what any reasonable male would have: He'd rifled through the study himself. Operating under the assumption Rempoon was dead, he'd set about trying to find the papers on the business so that Rempoon's fractional interest would stay out of his estate and Rehm would own the going concern outright.
Having succeeded in his quest, Rehm had been on his way to the door when Rempoon had shown a sign of life, a name leaving his cracked lips.
Rehm had been comfortable being an opportunist, but falling into the roll of accomplice to murder went too far. He'd called for the doctor, and in the time it took Havers to arrive, the mumblings of a dying male had spelled out a shocking tale, one worth even more than the company. Thinking quickly, Rehm had documented the story and the stunning confession about Rehvenge's true nature and had Rempoon sign the pages-thus turning them into a legal document.
The male had then lapsed into unconsciousness and been dead when Havers had arrived.
Rehm had taken both the business papers and the affidavits with him when he'd left and been touted as a valiant hero for trying to rescue the dying male.
In the aftermath, the utility of the confession had been obvious, but the wisdom of putting such information in play was less clear. Tangling with a symphath was dangerous, as Rempoon's spilled blood had attested. Ever the intellectual, Rehm had sat on the information and sat on it...until it was too late to do anything with it.
By law, you had to turn a symphath in, and Rehm had the kind of proof that met the threshold for reporting someone. However, in considering his options for so long, he found himself in the dicey position of arguably protecting Rehvenge's identity. If he'd come forward twenty-four or forty-eight hours later? Fine. But one week? Two weeks? A month...?
Too late. Rather than squander the asset completely, Rehm had told Montrag about the affidavits, and the son had understood the father's mistake. There had been nothing that could be done in the short run, and only one scenario where it was still worth anything-and that had come to pass over the summer. Rehm had been killed in the raids and the son had inherited everything, including the documents.
Montrag couldn't be blamed for his father's choice not to reveal what was known. All he had to do was state that he'd stumbled upon the papers in his father's things, and in turning them and Rehv in, he was just doing what he was supposed to.
It would never come out that he'd known about them all along.
And nobody would ever believe that Rehv hadn't been the one who'd decided to kill Wrath. He was, after all, a symphath, and nothing they said could be trusted. More to the point, his hand was either going to be on the trigger, or if he just ordered the murder of the king, he was the leahdyre of the council and in the position to profit from the death the most. Which was precisely why Montrag had had the male elevated into the role.
Rehvenge would do the deed with the king, and then Montrag would go to the council and prostrate himself before his colleagues. He would say that he didn't find the papers until he had properly moved into the Connecticut house a month after both the raids and after Rehv had been made leahdyre. He would swear that as soon as he found them he reached out to the king and revealed the nature of the issue over the phone-but Wrath had forced his silence because of the compromising position it put the Brother Zsadist in: After all, the Brother was mated to Rehvenge's sister, and that would make her related to a symphath.
Wrath, of course, could say nothing to the contrary after he was dead, and more to the point, the king was disliked already for the way he had ignored the glymera's constructive criticism. The council was primed to embrace another fault of his, real or manufactured.
It was intricate maneuvering, but it was going to work, because with the king gone, the remnants of the council would be the first place the race would go looking for the murderer, and Rehv, a symphath, was the perfect scapegoat: Of course a symphath would do such a thing! And Montrag would help the motive assumption along by testifying that Rehv had come to see him before the murder and talked with bizarre conviction about change of an unprecedented variety. In addition, crime scenes were never completely clean. Undoubtedly, there would be things left behind that would tie Rehv to the death, whether because it was actually there or because everyone would be looking for exactly that kind of evidence.
