Sustenance by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Read Free Book Online

houses as an accompaniment to the bluster of the wind. In his palazzo, Szent-Germain closed and shuttered his windows, then turned on the lamps over the extensive trestle table where he was working; the generator behind his laboratory in what had been a dovecote made a steady purr. It had been a demanding few days for Szent-Germain, for he wanted to keep his work from dragging on another week, forcing him to delay his departure once again: just now he was grateful for an hour or two dedicated to alchemy instead of the installation of an additional press at the Venezian branch of Eclipse Publishing, or devoting himself to the intricacies of Venezian business law. There had been too many things demanding his attention, and now he needed some privacy. The day had turned cold and damp, and although he was not often troubled by temperature, he had donned a black wool roll-top pullover and a fashionably cut Milanese sport-coat of black alpaca; the fabric had been a gift from Madelaine de Montalia when she returned from Cuzco, and the tailor who made it had waxed lyrical over the soft, light, warm cloth. His black slacks were the handiwork of his British tailor of a wool-and-Angora blend; his thick-soled shoes were made in Firenze of black leather, and fitted more like gloves than shoes.
    “My master?” Rogers called from outside the door; he spoke in the dialect of northern Italy. “I am sorry to interrupt you, but you have a visitor.”
    “Who is it?” Szent-Germain asked as he set his box of newly made gold in the safe beneath the table. He could still feel some residual warmth through the bronze-and-brass box. “I gather this is a stranger.”
    “Someone from the American Department of State,” Rogers replied. “His card says William C. Bereston, United States of America Department of State, Undersecretary for International Film and Publication for Western Europe. He said he’s hoping to regularize dealings with American and European copyright conventions.”
    Szent-Germain stood up, dusted off the fine residual powder from the gold, and went to open the door. “Film and Publication—that’s a new approach,” he mused, turning out the overhead light. “Where did you put this William C. Bereston?”
    “In the library, as usual,” Rogers said.
    “From your manner, you would seem to doubt Mister Bereston’s credentials, old friend,” Szent-Germain remarked as he stepped out of his laboratory to join Rogers in the corridor; he closed and locked the door.
    “Not his credentials so much as his purpose for coming to you; he’s too open and genial by half,” said Rogers. “There is something off about him; it’s not obvious, but it’s there—you’ll see what I mean. It’s not that he smiles a great deal—Americans do that—it’s something else.”
    Szent-Germain gave a single nod. “You have a keen sense for deception, and if you perceive it here, as I gather you do, what makes you think that William Bereston is not what he claims to be?”
    Rogers, who had been speaking English, continued in Byzantine Greek. “There is a … quality of furtiveness about him. He insisted on hanging up his own hat and overcoat. He looks about as if he were planning to rob the fine things you have. They’re little things, but they don’t ring true.” He shook his head. “Oh, I have no doubt that he serves his country in some capacity—he may even be functioning through the Department of State—but in an ancillary fashion.”
    “A spy, then?” Szent-Germain suggested in the same language.
    “Or some other sort of clandestine operative,” Rogers said as they went toward the front staircase to descend to the main floor.
    “What other sort is there?” Szent-Germain asked, an ironic note in his voice.
    “Think of Telemachus Batsho,” Rogers reminded him.
    “Why would an American bureaucrat seek me out? What does he think I can do for him?” Szent-Germain sounded weary; there had been so many times when people