by Eric Griffin
CLAN NOVEL
TZIMISCE
By Eric Griffin
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Clan Novel Tzimisce is a product of White Wolf Publishing.
White Wolf is a subsidiary of Paradox Interactive.
Copyright © 1999 by White Wolf Publishing.
First Printing April 1999
Crossroad Press Edition published in Agreement with Paradox Interactive
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To Victoria—
For all she has endured
at the hands of the undying.
Table of Contents
part one: the war council
part two: the firedance
part three: the deception
part one:
the war council
My Dearest Vykos,
How can I describe to you my feelings upon hearing from you again after so many years? Words are rough clay vessels that tend to crack when filled with such emotions—emotions that run deep and span lifetimes. I had thought you lost to me for all time.
To learn that you are not only alive, but here! It is altogether too much to hope for. It is almost better to believe this all some cruel joke or perhaps a cunning trap. Between Truth and Treachery, the latter is much the more constant mistress. She never strays far from my side these nights.
But your letter gives me cause to hope. I had almost forgotten what a fierce and terrible thing it is to hope. This is another debt I will have to repay you when we meet.
Ah, but what am I saying? We both know that such a meeting is impossible. As you have pointed out, your mere proximity places me in a rather precarious position. I cannot leave the city without attracting enough unwanted attention to destroy the both of us. You cannot venture so deeply into hostile territory. If you were to attempt it, all of my influence would not be enough to shield you from the consequences.
No, for the present you must lock away all thought of me in the secret places of your heart and make fast the door. If you will only keep faith a while longer, I will contrive to come to you, whatever the price. You may rely upon it.
I am not so vain, however, as to believe you have come all this way—across the intervening oceans and centuries—merely to look up an old friend. I fear your very presence bodes ill for the doves among us.
Have no fear, your secrets are safe with me. I mention this only in the foolish and sentimental hope that perhaps once you have loosed your hawks, we might arrange a rendezvous under the flag of a parley. You see how eagerly I embrace any pretense that might bring you to me once more. I am almost shamed by the fierceness of my desire to hold your delicate throat within my hands.
Ah, soon my dearest. Keep your secrets safe a little while longer. What are a mere few weeks to us, who have measured our loss and longing in centuries’ With each passing day, the anticipation of our reunion consumes me.
I remain, yours in undying devotion,
—Lucius
Saturday, 19 June 1999, 9:12 PM
Chandler Room, Omni Hotel at CNN
Center Atlanta, Georgia
Polonia surveyed the conference room with a critical eye. Perfect.
Still, he seemed somewhat preoccupied as he went about his ritual—shifting a place card here, removing a piece of chipped crystal there, plucking out an ill-concealed listening device. Absently, he corrected for a half-dozen subtle but potentially disastrous breaches of etiquette and precedence. He was painfully aware of just how little it would take to transform a Sabbat war council into an uncontrollable raging maelstrom.
He completed one full circuit of the prodigious conference table and began again. The fingertips of his right hand trailed along the surface of the rough-hewn table as he went. The touch was reassuring.
The blackened oak table was a presence in the room. Polonia approvingly ticked off its virtues. To begin with, it was massive. Its sheer size made it unlikely that even the most hulking Tzimisce monstrosity would be able to smash it or (as they were so wont to do) smash someone else with it. This alone would prove a telling advantage when the discussion grew heated, as it inevitably would.
The great circular table had the additional weight of tradition and history about it. The piece had been brought in, at considerable expense, from a private collection in England’s Lake Country. It was undoubtedly a forgery, but it was a forgery with a history. And that made all the difference. Like its legendary predecessor, this round table was intended to forestall the endless posturings and power plays that might otherwise arise in such an assembly of proud and temperamental warlords as each vied for a place of honor near the table’s head.
Polonia smiled at the thought. It was not only the table that had no head. It was the whole damnable assembly. He was all too aware that there was nothing to compel the factious Sabbat packleaders to follow his lead. He had spent a good deal of his effort in planning this event simply to ensure that he would not be among those torn to pieces during the opening arguments.
As the Sabbat Archbishop of New York, Francisco Domingo de Polonia was undeniably one of the foremost Cainite leaders in North America. New York was, after all, one of the first Sabbat footholds in the New World and it remained the jewel in its crown, despite a nagging Camarilla presence there. Polonia suspected that the fact that he still thought of America as the “New World” was perhaps a bit too revealing of his age. It was precisely this patient nurturing, however, that had grown New York from the mere stuff of pre-industrial nightmare into the full-blown playground of Gehenna that it was today.
It was only fitting that, even here in Atlanta, far from his sphere of control, the responsibility for hosting this little get-together should fall to Polonia.
In the geography of the undying, only Miami dared put itself forward as a rival to New York’s preeminence. Between these two cities lay only an unbroken stretch of enemy territory covering nearly the entire Eastern Seaboard. Polonia knew his power and influence were dulled and muted here in Atlanta. The city had been a Camarilla stronghold since its founding. There was little he could depend upon here. Certainly he could be sure of the loyalty of those hand-picked forces he had brought with him to the council—assuming of course that no mo
re compelling opportunity arose for them. He would ensure that no compelling opportunity developed. It was an arena in which he had some experience.
The gathered Sabbat warlords, however, were an even greater uncertainty. Drawn from marauding bands that ravaged the length and breadth of the American countryside, these autonomous mercenary groups gave allegiance to none and respect only to a select few—those who had earned such through trials of fire and sword.
In less than an hour, Polonia realized, this conference room would be filled with a clamoring throng of the most ruthless tyrants, predators, fanatics, mafiosi, serial killers, highwaymen, ganglords, and anarchists that had been gathered in one place since—well, probably since the onset of the First Crusade.
Polonia’s thoughts only reluctantly returned to the present century. This modern assemblage would be the pride of the Sabbat—the elite of the elite—the packleaders, the prelates, the warlords. All those who could command a following of at least a dozen Cainites would be on hand to strike a blow against the hated Camarilla.
Polonia had come around full circuit again to his own seat and to the body that swung gently behind it, like a tapestry. It was intended as a visible sign of the proximity of the Camarilla—a young Toreador, prim, effete, immaculate. He did not seem in the least inconvenienced by the coarse noose or by the improbable angle of his neck. Like the rest of the room, he was perfect.
Polonia wanted to keep attention focused on the Camarilla—on its posturing, its weakness, its vulnerability. He could not have been more pleased with his hunters’ catch. The victim’s hands were clasped before him in an attitude of supplication. They clenched a viscous-looking black candle. Polonia lit the wick and long shadows stretched away from him in all directions.
By the light of the candle, Polonia further scrutinized the victim’s features. Priceless. Even the Toreador’s fangs were vestigial, unthreatening—a fact that, no doubt, explained the curious artifact Polonia had found earlier.
He again drew out the carefully folded and slightly perfumed silk handkerchief. Opening it, he revealed an intricately etched silver bauble—a long thimble of exquisite workmanship with a wicked lancet protruding from the tip. Swiftly, Polonia tapped the underside of the victim’s chin, withdrawing the lancet before the first droplet of blood could fall. He carefully rewrapped the delicate silver needle to the sound of the first drops hissing and spluttering onto the oily candle below.
He was now irrevocably committed to the ritual at hand. It was only with great reluctance that he turned his back upon the conference room. His fingers ached for the tactile assurance of the great table, to make one last circuit of the room, to order the uncertainties of the coming night carefully.
Enough. There was nothing more he could do here. Resignedly, Polonia gave the corpse a gentle shove, setting it swinging in a slow pendular arc.
Blood and wax splattered an intricate spiral pattern on the tile floor.
He wondered what signs and omens might be read in the curious pattern of fallen droplets. Here in a gentle spray of trailing blood, an influential warlord lay dead, slumped over his cups. There, in a notable clot of wax, he saw a seal affixed to a compact that would bring feuding packleaders together and give the entire Camarilla cause to tremble.
The answer was here somewhere, hidden in the riddle of falling droplets. But which images were glimpses of things to come and which were mere phantasms conjured from a desire, or its converse, a fear? Polonia, faced only with further uncertainties, abandoned his musings.
He could not resist taking one last long look over the room. Then, with mingled satisfaction and resignation, he reached out a sure hand toward the swinging corpse and took a single step sideways into shadow.
Polonia pushed through the barrier and into the tenebrous realm known only to the most accomplished shadow warriors of his clan. The room beyond looked very much like the one he had just quit. A rough-hewn circular conference table dominated the hall. In the uncertain half-light, each of the wormholes that riddled the oaken surface was clearly visible, thrown into sharp relief.
The play of the light and shadow worked further mischief over the carefully ordered feasthall, seeming somehow to exaggerate Polonia’s chair. It now resembled nothing so much as an empty throne draped languidly with the trappings of the grave. This funerary seat presided over a great banquet of tarnished silver, goblets brimming with dust, delicately woven cobweb linens. Polonia surveyed the board with a hint of satisfaction. A vibrant red apple atop a decorative fruit bowl immediately arrested his gaze. Aside from the candle flame, it was the only spot of color in the room. All else was decked in subtle and varied shades of gray.
“Missed that one,” Polonia mused aloud.
“Poisoned, perhaps,” came the reply. “Very romantic, but not quite so effective. Surely it will not be necessary for your guests to keep up the appearance of eating on such a grand occasion.”
No matter how many times it happened, Polonia always found himself somewhat startled at the transitionless appearance of the envoys. One moment they were not there, the next they were—speaking, or taking, or touching.
Polonia turned quickly, but not so quickly that the other had not already taken his elbow to usher him to his chair. The sensation was not unlike sawing through bone. He disengaged as politely as he could manage and took his place at table. “No, more likely the apple conceals some weapon or perhaps even an incendiary device.”
“Ah…” the envoy replied with escalating interest. There was a flutter of a breeze and a shadow seemed to break away and stretch toward the apple. Suddenly, a brilliant flash illuminated the room. Tatters of shadow streaked in all directions and then fell to the floor in a gentle rain of scorched confetti. The explosion of light and its aftermath were accompanied by a complete and unsettling silence.
Polonia settled back in his chair. There were no further stirrings, no further signs of color, of vibrancy. He resigned himself to wait.
“A most excellent incendiary. Yes, quite satisfactory. Borges?”
Polonia had expected the voice to come from one of the corners of the room, where the shadows had fled. He was disappointed as the form materialized directly before him, standing atop the table. It made a low bow.
“In all likelihood. It bears his mark,” Polonia replied, trying to appear unruffled. “I understand that in Miami such modern contrivances are all the rage—firearms, grenades, flame-throwers….”
The shape before him fluttered excitedly at the very mention of flame-throwers. “Will Borges be in attendance, then?”
“Yes, of course. You will see him yourself. He will be seated directly opposite me. There.” Polonia gestured to the far end of the table where a crude wooden stool half leaned against the table leg. There was a truncheon of stale bread and a tin cup sitting before the stool.
Polonia smiled at this further contrivance of the shadow realm. He was well acquainted with the subtle alterations these environs worked upon the eye of the beholder, images carefully arranged to flatter, to tempt, to cajole.
He found himself once again thinking of the strange omens worked in blood and candlewax at the threshold of this twilit realm—reflections of desires and of fears made manifest. Visible emanations of things that were hidden or, more accurately, concealed.
“I was under the impression that Borges had sworn never to set foot in Atlanta.”
Polonia smiled. “He made a great show, of course, of not coming. I believe my fellow archbishop took it as something of a slight that the honor of conducting the siege did not fall to him.”
“He may well have more to say about that issue before your gathering is concluded.”
“Yes, I am much of the same opinion,” Polonia replied. “Atlanta is, after all, veritably right in his backyard.”
“And quite some distance from your own territory. I believe I understand you. He had, no doubt, extended his ambition, if not his actual hand, over the city already?”
Polonia laughed
aloud. “Yes, his agents were among the very first sent in to reconnoiter the city and, later, to disrupt the operations and posturings of the Camarilla. But there was never any real possibility of Borges passing up this war council. The Siege of Atlanta will be something talked about for generations to come. It is simply too great an event to be missed.”
“If they don’t all kill each other first,” the shade replied.
“If they don’t all kill each other first.”
An uncomfortable silence fell in the shadowy throne room. It was the envoy that broke the silence.
“And what of the regent? Does she send no representative to the council?”
“The regent?” Polonia lowered his voice. “Our Most Distinguished Excellency is content to remain unavoidably engaged in Mexico City. No, she has made it quite clear that she is taking no hand whatsoever in such ‘regional squabbling.’”
“Ah, but she could not remain uninterested in anyone who could bring the feuding warbands together and drive the Camarilla from Atlanta…. Such a one would certainly be well on his way to winning a cardinal’s throne.”
Polonia could feel the seat shift beneath him, expanding, bearing him upward. He made a dismissive gesture with the flat of his hand and the motion ceased. “The Vicar of Caine merely exercises her uncanny sense of when there is likely to be any contention among her archbishops. She is shrewd enough to remain conspicuously absent on such occasions. No regent, no legate to argue her cause, not even a nuncio to proclaim her will.”
Polonia broke off. It was always a somewhat delicate matter as to how much one could or could not say before the envoys. It would be foolish to believe that the regent’s mastery of the shadow was not as great as Polonia’s own. It was quite possible that the regent might be just as adept at extracting damaging testimony from the shadowy envoys as she was from the Cainites that fell under her power.