27 June, 1:20 PM, “The Czernograd Gazette” newsroom
Googling Mathias Maciar, perhaps unsurprisingly, did not return any useful information. There were no official biographies, and only two or three news stories, none of them recent, where the private secretary was mentioned in passing and in innocuous contexts. There were also two photographs, both group shots. Nothing distinguishing about Maciar; he blended in well with the crowd. I guess you wouldn’t really expect him to flash his fangs around during a formal reception for some Western European head of state, Igor thought. Maciar looked on the wrong side of forty, medium height and medium built, unmemorable features, a perfect functionary who stays in the background, almost a piece of furniture that does not detract the attention from those more important than him. He had learned well over the centuries, or however long he was what he was. Perhaps he needed to.
And sometime the night before, Mathias Maciar decided to end his life. Now, why would he do that? Suicides among vampires were not unknown, Some undead, most of them already several hundred years old, and most of them already somewhat unhinged, even by the murky standards of their half-way existence, would grow to loath their condition and seek a permanent escape. But it did not happen were often; the rates of self-harm among the undead Ruthenians and Galicians, Igor would have guessed, were much lower than for the mere mortals who seemed to be ending it all all the time, over money, health, honour or something as trivial as love. His newspaper only reported on particularly prominent or gruesome suicides; even then the job went to the more junior journos.
So why did Maciar killed himself? And who was really Mathias Maciar?
Igor didn’t lie to Gawneda. Until this morning he has never heard the name. The royal family and the national politics were neither his beat nor his interest; his personal politics of a non-partisan, anti-ideological, cynical variety. Like most of his generation he did not think much of his elected leaders, and even less of the unelected ones, considering them a quaint hold-over from another era, their role in the tourist pantomime of the magic kingdom perhaps their only still enduring raison d’etre. If he had given it any thought, Igor would probably guess that Ruthenia and Galicia was going to become a republic over the next ten or twenty years. Whether that would in any way improve the governance of the country was debatable; but maybe, just maybe, RiG would finally be less of a Slavic Disneyland and more... what? He didn’t quite know and thinking about the big picture would only give him a headache, which is why he usually avoided it. There were much better and more entertaining ways of acquiring a headache and Igor Svoboda was an expert at all of them.
On thing seemed certain: as long as there was this funny little thing called magic, RiG would always be a sideshow alley among the nations. No wonder so many people, young people, were choosing to leave. But the magic seemed to be leaving, too, albeit more slowly. That was, however, another story, and another headache.
Igor was rocking on his chair and chewing on the end of his pencil. At least he hoped it was his. He quickly ruled out discretely fishing for background information among his colleagues – was colleagues even the right term? – who handled the political reporting for “The Gazette”. There was no such thing as discretely fishing among fellow sharks; his inquiries would only alert them to a possibility of a story, the story they could – should - be covering themselves, the story that did not yet exist, or so he promised Gawenda, and he was keen to keep that promise.
That pretty much left only Goldstyn.
Victor Goldstyn was not a journo, but he wrote a weekly political column for the newspaper under the pseudonym “Courant”. So he wasn’t a competition, and therefore was, Igor hoped, safe. In real life, Goldstyn was lecturing in history and political science at Czernograd Uni; tall, gangly, awkward in person yet charming and brilliant in print, a grandson of Jewish refugees, many of whom managed to cross into the safety of Ruthenia and Galicia during the Second World War, decades before RiG actually manifested itself to its unsuspecting neighbours, at the time when crossing over was a far more complex matter than it was now.
Igor met Goldstyn at a staff Christmas party two years ago. He couldn’t remember how they actually started talking, but they soon established they both came from the same small city on the northern plain, and even went to the same preschool. Goldstyn wasn’t the type that Igor hang out with, but he discovered some inexplicable soft spot for the academic. He took him to a few parties that Goldstyn otherwise would never dream of being invited to, he shared some of his coke with him, and even got him laid a few times, though he would probably credit the coke rather than Goldstyn’s own charm and persuasiveness with the opposite sex.
“Goldie, it’s Igor here,” he said when Victor picked up his phone. “How are you, buddy?”
“Oh, my favourite scribe,” Goldstyn said. “What do you want?”
“I’m hurt. Do I only call you when I want something?”
“Actually, lately yes.”
“Don’t worry, there’s a party coming up that will make your hair, whatever’s left of it, stand on end – and I just might have an extra invite,” Igor said, readying his yellow notepad in front of him. “But that’s not why I’m calling now. I need a favour... or rather some information...”
“I knew it,” Goldstyn sighed. “All you people want is to use, use, use, and then you don’t even call.”
“I’m calling now, am I not?”
“I’ve got a lecture in-“ Goldstyn paused, “-ten minutes. So to the point, my friend, to the point.”
Goldstyn seems to have gained somewhat in confidence over these two years that they’ve known each other. Igor would have claimed some credit for that, if he thought it creditable, on which point he was at best ambiguous. It was much easier dealing with social cripples.
“Mathias Maciar,” Igor said. “What do you know about him?”
“Why?” asked Victor. Igor could hear a keyboard being tapped in the background; he wasn’t getting an undivided attention, even the measly ten minutes of it. “It’s not normally your beat. What has Mr Maciar got himself into?”
“Just a story I’m researching at the moment. You’ll see it in a few days’ time,” Igor didn’t feel like telling an outright lie when an evasion could hopefully do.
“You journalists; you expect everyone else to leak like sieves, but you keep your own cards close to the chest.”
“That’s two clichés in one short sentence,” Igor said. “Don’t let this shameful habit spread to your next column. Anyway – Mathias Maciar.”
“Ah, Mr Mathias Maciar,” Goldstyn gave a theatrical sigh. “What can I tell you? As you probably know, he’s one of three private secretaries to the Prince. The emphasis on private, in all the aspects of life and work. Very few know very little about him. Keeps to himself, and keeps out of the spotlight, a perfect faithful servant.”
“What’s his background?” Igor asked.
“Well, he’s pretty old,” the keyboard fell quiet at the other end; Goldstyn must have been finally concentrating. “A few hundred years; we’re probably talking the late Middle Ages, but no one knows for sure. The story goes that over the centuries he’s been in the service of the royal family on more than one occasion. Foreign missions and the such. Now has been with the heir for about ten years, working very closely with the Prince as he waits to inherit.”
“And the Prince never had any problems... image problems, with an undead working so close to him?”
“Oh you know the Herenkows, they always had a reputation for being somewhat liberal in that regard. Read for it: they will use anyone – and anything – that will be of benefit to them. Besides, not that Prince Peter could be the one to criticise anyone about image problems, could he? The word is that Maciar is a smart operator and he’s the one – on the King’s request originally - who has had a lot to do with the Prince’s make-over over the last few years. You know, to make him a more palatable a successor?”
“The only successor,” said Igor.
“Doesn’t mean he shouldn’t also be palatable in our day and age. Can’t take anything for granted in the 21st century. I guess Maciar did the best with what he’s had to work with.”
“Still, a less than popular heir to the throne employing a member of less than popular minority? You can’t tell me it doesn’t add to the perception problem.”
“Now, now,” Goldstyn chided him, “don’t give me that populist, xenophobic clap-trap. It’s not you. Besides, there’s never been any gossip about our Mr Maciar reverting to his bad old habits. Strictly volunteer feeding, I’d say, or maybe a blood bank. Wouldn’t even touch a deer or another one of God’s little creatures; Prince Peter is the patron of the Royal RiG Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, you know,” he laughed. “Unless...” he paused, “Is that what you’re writing about? Has the principal private secretary been caught biting what he’s not supposed to be biting?”
Only the tarmac under the King Nicholas Bridge, Igor though, but I can’t share that with you, Goldie. Not yet.
“Not that I’m aware of,” said Igor. “That would indeed be a bit of a scandal... Anything else you think I should know about him? Any gossip at all?”
“It would help if I knew in what context he was making a guest appearance in your story,” said Goldstyn.
“Never mind; you’ve been very helpful as always, Goldie. And you have to run to your lecture now.”
“Indeed I do,” Goldstyn said. “I’ll be expecting your phonecall soon. The party that will make my hair stand on end, and all that?”
Igor laughed. “Don’t you worry about that.”
It wasn’t much, but it would put some meat on the skeleton of the story. When it broke, which wouldn’t be too much longer. The Palace could not afford to sit on it and pressure the cops for too long. Not anymore. Better to get it out of the way and hope that it will a die natural death fast, suffocated by bigger stories, such as the continuing saga of the royal succession.
Igor turned to his computer and started translating the scribbles from his yellow notepad into coherent sentences and paragraphs. He couldn’t break the story himself, but when the authorities decided to break it, he would be the first in, ready with his article.
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