Blood of Jackals

by Todd Marcelas Moreno

  “It is good to see you, Curin,” said Derrick, patting his bear-like cousiné on the back before turning to Cary.

  “Heyyy!” Cary chimed, lifting his arms for an embrace. Derrick smiled as they did so. “You’ve gotten big since I last saw you!”

  “It has been a couple of years,” Derrick replied, almost apologetically.

  “So, are we ready to go?” Vialette asked eagerly.

  Curin and Cary nodded, voicing their agreement before looking expectantly at Derrick. The approach of Guard Commander Lerrero stayed Derrick’s reply.

  “May I inform HOPIS of your destination, Sire?” Lerrero asked.

  Derrick chided his own surprise. Did he really expect to leave without telling Security where? Without being accompanied by a detachment of guards?

  Seeing Derrick’s loss for words, Cary spoke up. “We’re just off to a little private club in Estafield. It’s me and Curin’s favorite. It’s called The Slighole.”

  “Sounds exclusive,” Derrick whispered. Curin playfully shushed him.

  Commander Lerrero was not amused. “Surely my Lord’s party will require an escort?” he inquired, hinting at the correct answer. Vialette shrugged indifferently. Curin lifted his hands in mock surrender, but was clearly disappointed at having security tag along on their adventure. Derrick did not want added watchdogs either.

  “Our shuttle crew was going to be free to join us,” Cary said carefully. The guard commander did not budge. Cary’s shoulders sagged in theatrical defeat. “Promise not to have him out too late?” he offered weakly.

  Derrick gave Cary a sour look, resenting the idea of him being some wayward teenager asking for permission to go out at night. Pointing to Commander Lerrero with his eyes, Cary silently asked if that was not the case. Lerrero focused his gaze back to Derrick and waited. Defeated, Derrick admitted that perhaps it was.

  “All right,” said Derrick. “They can come. But they stay outside. I do not want the party ruined by soldiers turning the place it into a garrison.”

  Lerrero nodded, but did not take his eyes off him. “As you wish, Sire. My Lady, my Lords,” the guard commander turned, looking at each of them, “enjoy your evening.” At their acknowledgement, Lerrero stepped back and watched as they all proceeded up the platform.

  “We will, Warden,” Curin said under his breath as he boarded the shuttle. Cary and Vialette laughed, following him up. Derrick smiled, nodding his head as he joined them.

  Arle Lerrero waited until the shuttle had departed before blowing out his breath. In truth, he was glad that Derrick was going out to enjoy himself. For the first time since taking over for the late Manus Tillic, Lerrero saw Derrick smile. He understood the burden of responsibility, for he certainly had his own. Even more now, with his elderly father having moved in with him.

  As if on cue, Lerrero heard his father’s signal through his ear-piece. Best to see what the old man wanted. It was probably something small, but Lerrero did not mind. His father had taken care of him when times were hard, and continued on helping him for years, until age had finally found him. Silently, Lerrero breathed thanks to Derrick. Had he not allowed the senior Lerrero to join his son in his Palace apartments, Lerrero would not have known what to do.

  - - -

  IV

  Sheltered from the rain by an overhang at the front door of the Chancellor’s residence, Ashincor was waiting for his shuttle when Madam Hansodian approached. “Thank you again for your kind hospitality, Madam,” he said.

  “And thank you again for coming, Patér,” she replied, taking his hand. “Are you sure you cannot stay?” Making physical contact, she sent a message with her thoughts: “I sense danger for you, Patér.”

  Distrustful of telepathy when normal words would do, Ashincor wondered why the woman could not speak openly at her own house. “My apologies, Madam,” he replied. “I really must go.” “I am listening, Madam,” he sent back.

  “It is I who must apologize, Patér.” “Lord Jordan is buying votes in Parliament.” “They had no right to breach so sensitive a subject as your relationship with your grandson.” “He has even told my husband that Lord Derrick’s coronation may be delayed.”

  “You need not apologize, Madam. Your guests’ curiosity on the subject was natural.” “Jordan has no doubt long been buying influence. Why delay Derrick’s coronation?”

  “Nonetheless I do. And hope—Oh, you will think me crass for mentioning it.” “He gave no reason. But from his smirking, he is planning something.”

  “Go on, Madam.” “For Derrick’s coronation?”

  “Well, you see, Patér, our youngest son has applied to Ferramond.” “I do not believe he expects Lord Derrick to ever wear the crown.”

  Ashincor swallowed, missing a step in their outward conversation. “I commend your son’s choice for university, Madam. Do you know what he intends to study?” “I can do little with this kind of information, Madam.”

  “He is unsure of his specialty yet, having such varied interests.” “You can be careful, Patér. Lord Jordan has agents everywhere.” “Personally, I hope he continues with his music.”

  “And his father no doubt prefers legal study.” “I will take care.” “Perhaps he can do both?” “Please tell me if you hear more.”

  “Perhaps. Thank you, Patér. I hope you have a good evening.”

  Ashincor gave Madam Hansodian a short bow before departing. He was already in his shuttle when the Lord Chamberlain stepped up behind his wife. She gave no reaction to his presence until he reached up to hug her upper arm. Then she shook off his hand.

  “Temper, temper, my Dear,” the Lord Chamberlain projected, “there is no call to be that way. You know that we walk with a delicate balance. You are a politician’s wife, after all.”

  “I never asked to be.”

  “But you are. And to survive, we must be so well-positioned that it does not matter who sits on the throne, though my bet is on Lord Jordan.”

  “Lord Derrick is the rightful heir.”

  “That is not for us to decide. At least you warned the good patér.”

  “With rumor and innuendo? I looked like a fool, and felt like a hypocrite.”

  “Well, my Dear, you know what is coming as well as I. It is like my father used to say: Better a live dog than a dead lion. If only we could have distracted Patér Linse a little longer.”

  “Yes, it is quite the wonder why he would leave so soon after dinner.”

  “At least we know he is done with hiding in Ferramond. It seems he has some fight left in him after all.”

  “Maybe Lord Jordan who should be careful,” Madam Hansodian replied.

  The Lord Chamberlain laughed. Let Patér Linse waste his time watching Lord Jordan. Lady Morays was the real danger. “That may be. But Patér Linse is going to need more than one friend at the Palace whose word he can trust.” He looked at his wife meaningfully.

  Madam Hansodian turned to him sharply, wondering how her husband intended to use her newly established credibility with the Patér.

  - - -

  Upon being announced, Jordan entered the auditorium where the evening’s veterans’ benefit was being held, calmly making his way to the podium. He was met with polite applause.

  “Thank you,” Jordan began, raising his hands to settle the crowd. His smile wilted. “I must first say that I am sorry, but Lord Legan, will not be with us this evening.” Jordan nodded in sympathy at the clamor of disappointment. “I know you expected him, but I hear he was called on a matter of state.” Jordan’s voice was without bitterness, doubt, or mockery. From the corner of his eye, he saw several guards that had been posted at one of the room’s exits quietly move out. They had all been dressed as waiters.

  Sorry boys, Jordan thought. Given Derrick’s unpredictable moods, the men they had put in place had remained as a contingency, in case Derrick changed his mind about attending at the last minute. No action for you tonight.

  “But let us still enjoy ourselves,” Jor
dan’s voice boomed as he lifted a glass. Catching site of what he took to be the granddaughter of one of the evenings’ honorees, he decided to personally congratulate her for her forebear’s past achievements. “And let us give toast to our sovereign’s good health!”

  - - -

  “We have nothing new to go on?” Ashincor asked telepathically, still in a shuttle on his way back to Pablen Palace.

  “We sense the upheaval drawing near,” Patér Orqué replied. As if people have pushed ahead their plans, but we have nothing more.”

  “Might the NDB be blocking our vision?” Ashincor asked, glancing out the window of the aircraft. The night looked so peaceful.

  “Others also have such power,” said Orqué. “But I will keep you informed.”

  “Thank you,” Ashincor replied. “I will do the same.” Ashincor sighed as he allowed the psychic link to terminate. His infrequent use of telepathy had made him fatigued. Swearing silently, he released his safety harness to get something to drink. His standing made him feel dizzy. He was about to try to clear his head when he heard a small knock against the cabin door.

  Expecting Ansel, Ashincor turned around and saw a dreamy image of the door slowly open. Fae-like light flooded his vision as a little boy broke through the misty illumination and approached him. In his hands was a small toy.

  “Derrick?” Ashincor called in astonishment.

  “Grandpa?” the young image of Derrick asked, lifting the object up with his hands. “Will you help me?” Ashincor choked on his words as his body froze. Derrick glanced down at a broken toy shuttle in his hands, and looked back up at Ashincor. “Please, Grandpa?”

  Tears streamed down Ashincor’s cheeks as he struggled to speak. “Der-rick,” he said, finally breaking through his immobility and reaching down at the form of his small grandson.

  The image faded. Ashincor had to stop himself from falling forward as he cursed himself for thinking the vision was real. Still, he had no time for anger. When visions came on their own accord, it was best they were heeded quickly. Ashincor made his way to a viewscreen and pressed one of the control buttons.

  “Get me Commander Lerrero,” Ashincor ordered. “I need to know where Derr--where the Count-Grandee is.”

  “At once, Patér,” came the reply.

  While Ashincor waited for his answer, Ansel entered the cabin. “Master?” Ashincor stayed Ansel’s question with his hand.

  “Commander Lerrero is presently preoccupied,” a young officer from House Security began. “May I help you?”

  “Where is the Count-Grandee?” Ashincor demanded.

  “His Lordship is with his cousinés, Patér,” the man replied, his annoyance at Ashincor’s tone evidencing his knowledge of Ashincor’s current relationship with his grandson. “Lady Vialette, and Lords Curin and Cary.”

  “Where?”

  “A bar in Estafield called The Slighole,” the man replied.

  “Can you contact them?” Ashincor pressed.

  “I can call their shuttle, Patér Linse,” came the hesitant reply.

  “Do it. And inform Commander Lerrero: the Count-Grandee is in danger.”

  “I will tell him, Patér Linse.”

  With the press of another button, Ashincor switched back to his shuttle pilot. “Take me to Estafield,” he commanded.

  “At once, Patér.”

  - - -

  The Slighole was a tavern located in an area called the Neutral Zone, a place between the city’s financial district and the docks. Once a boarding house, the drab exterior had changed little, apart from signage, and added years of neglect. The interior however had been completely redone and, in all the many years that followed, had never received a second look.

  “Are you sure this building is up to code?” Derrick asked his cousiné, looking at a bowed crossbeam along the ceiling.

  Cary laughed. “It’s part of the place’s character,” he replied.

  “Any more character,” Derrick remarked, “and the place would be rubble.”

  “It is good you made the security people go back outside,” Vialette added. “If they had gotten a better look at the place, they might not have let you stay.”

  Derrick turned to her and saw how her eyes wove from one area to the next. “You have never been here before,” he asked her, “have you?”

  Vialette shook her head as she sipped her drink. Curin Morays returned to their table and dropped in his chair with a sour look. Cary turned to him silently, catching his brother’s eye.

  “I just told the band to play us real music,” Curin mumbled. Cary nodded.

  “Well,” Derrick began, standing from the table, “I must find the restroom.”

  Cary glanced at Curin. Curin emptied his glass.

  “Curin knows where it is,” Cary offered, quaffing his own drink.

  “I’ll take you to the one downstairs,” Curin grunted. “It’s less crowded.”

  “I am sure I can find it,” said Derrick. “There is no need to--”

  “Nah. I’ll go with you.” Curin rose to his feet. “I have to go anyway.”

  Derrick nodded and followed his cousin. They were gone for several minutes when a finely dressed young man came over to Vialette.

  “Excuse me,” he said, looking Vialette in the eyes. “Would you dance with me?” Vialette blushed, but did not immediately answer.

  “Go ahead, Vialette,” Cary said, “you don’t want to disappoint the poor guy, do you?” He watched as a smiling Vialette allowed the man to take her hand. As soon as Vialette turned away, Cary dropped his smile. He is all yours, Curin, Cary thought, looking at himself in a mirror tile on the wall. He glanced again to the man dancing with Vialette and returned to his reflection. I am done with this plan. Scanning his eyes across the bar, he found a comely blonde woman about to burst out of her tight dress. Now it was time for other things.

  - - -

  Derrick had just finished washing his hands when Curin came up behind him. “Oh,” he said, slightly startled, “I am almost done—” Derrick felt a sharp pain in his back as his awareness was enveloped by psychic shield.

  Putting his hand-held stunner away, Curin Morays let his unconscious cousiné fall to the floor, smiling at the cracking sound of Derrick’s head hitting the tiles. Two accomplices, who had been waiting most of the evening for them, moved into action. Slipping baggy clothes onto Derrick, they began disguising his hair and face as Curin entered one of the restroom stalls. Balancing himself as he stood on the toilet seat, Curin opened the vent cover of an airshaft. The opening was large enough for even him to get through.

  “Hey,” said a voice from the restroom door, “what is going on here?” The two men working on Derrick ignored the unwanted intruder.

  “Our friend drank too much, and we’re playing a joke on him,” Curin said with a hushed voice, coming up next to the man conspiratorially.

  The man laughed, relieved. Curin laughed too. Then with a speed and force augmented by the Mental Disciplines, Curin hit the man in the throat. Curin watched him fall to his knees, gasping for air through a crushed windpipe.

  “We don’t have much time,” a man said behind him. Curin turned and saw that the two men were finished with Derrick. With a grunt, Curin reached down to snap the dying man’s neck before stepping forward to retrieve his disguise.

  With both Curin and Derrick wearing cloaks and hoods against the cold, Curin used his psychic ability to keep Derrick upright and simulate his walking. He and the other men then maneuvered his cousiné out through a side door and along a public walkway. It was not an uncommon sight that time of night, particularly around a club in this part of the city. Derrick’s security people outside barely gave them a glance.

  “You’ll be alright,” Curin said aloud, noticing two drunkards trying to get a third into the backseat of a nearby groundcar. “We’re almost home.” Soon Curin saw the larger vehicle he was looking for and headed toward it. A side door opened at his approach, and he entered without looking bac
k.

  “It took you longer than expected,” someone within the transport commented as Curin walked past. Curin flung Derrick onto a nearby table. His hair cut and grayed, and his face altered with prosthetics, Derrick drowsily grunted as his back and head hit the hard surface.

  “You think you can haul that sack of shit around any faster?” Curin challenged, turning around to face the man who had spoken.

  “A mere observation, m’Lord,” the man explained, his face without fear.

  “Yeah?” continued Curin, “well who the hell parked this far out?”

  “I did,” a woman said from behind them. Curin turned. It was his mother’s chief advisor, Hestori. Although clearly old, the woman still radiated strength. She was also a general in Voxny’s armed forces. “Let’s move,” she ordered.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” came a quick reply.

  Hestori smiled, knowing it was not her military insignia that compelled the men’s prompt obedience. Beyond her temporal titles, Hestori was also one of Viscountess Morays’ spiritual sisters, a self-proclaimed Akinser witch. She was more than a sister in fact. Hestori had once been one of Lilth’s teachers.

  Curin wrinkled his nose. He did not like being brushed off so easily, even by a self-styled Dark Witch. “You could’ve been closer!” Curin accused, moving to establish his rank over the woman. Hestori regarded him coldly.

  “But you are strong,” she replied. “Surely you can handle many things.” Her eyes flashed red and, with blurring speed, she held Curin up by his collar like a dangled doll. “But not me.” After a moment, she stepped back and let go.

  Upon being released, Curin could only fall forward. At the woman’s touch, his voluntary muscles had become useless. The remaining shuttle crew quietly carried on with their duties as Hestori walked to the front of the shuttle, allowing Curin to regain his dignity alone. After he finally rose to his feet, somebody walked past him toward Derrick.

  “What are you doin’?” Curin demanded, his voice with only a fraction of its usual brashness. The man spoke without looking up.

  “Just a quick medical scan,” the man replied, holding one of his instruments over Derrick’s chest. Derrick groaned. “Oh!” the man exclaimed, quickly pulling something else up out of his pocket. “Well, we can’t let him wake.”