by Tim Waggoner
“What do you want, Malachite?” There was no irritation in his voice, no feeling of any sort for that matter. Alexander displayed emotion only when he wished to. He continued to stare at the map before him.
“May I ask what you are doing, milord?” Malachite asked.
Alexander’s head swiveled on his neck as he turned to look at Malachite, but the rest of his body remained statue still. “Surely you haven’t come here merely to satisfy idle curiosity.”
“I have come for another reason, but my curiosity is never idle, milord. We Nosferatu are archivists of a sort. To us, all knowledge—no matter how seemingly insignificant—is power.” It hadn’t been such in Constantinople. No, there Malachite had status and respect and no need to hide in shadows and trade scraps of rumor like his cousins in the West. But then, Constantinople was now a relic of its past glory.
Alexander smiled. The effect, as always, was mesmerizing. He was a handsome “youth” with curly black hair and deep brown eyes: a dark Greek god cast in unliving flesh. Malachite experienced an urge to avert his gaze, as if looking into Alexander’s eyes was like staring at the sun itself. But he didn’t look away, for he knew the prince would take that as a sign of weakness, and there was nothing Alexander of Paris despised as much as weakness.
“If I have learned one lesson in my long existence, my dear Malachite, it’s that power is power.” He looked at the Nosferatu for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before finally turning back to his map. “If you must know, I’m looking at a map of Christendom and pondering the different ways it might be reshaped.”
“In your image?” Malachite asked.
Alexander grinned. “Who else’s?” He looked at the map for another moment before rolling it up and placing it in the trunk with his other documents. He closed the lid and turned to Malachite. “If you have something to say, Nosferatu, you’d best get to it. Dawn draws nigh.”
Though Alexander had referred to Malachite by the name of his clan, there was no derision in his voice as there often was in the voices of other Cainites. The tainted vitae that ran through the veins of all Nosferatu twisted and distorted their forms, making them into hideous monsters and unliving lepers. Malachite knew that the disgust others displayed toward his clan was primarily because their physical appearance was the Mark of Caine made manifest, reminding them that, no matter what any individual Cainite looked like, all were damned. When around others—Cainites and mortals alike—Malachite usually kept the hood of his black robe up to conceal his features, or he used the gifts of his blood to take on a more pleasing seeming, but he didn’t bother to do so in Alexander’s presence. The ancient didn’t care about Malachite’s appearance one way or another. Malachite supposed the prince had seen worse sights in the last two thousand years.
“We have lingered here for the better part of a fortnight now,” Malachite said.
Alexander didn’t respond right away. He sat on the edge of his bed and gestured for Malachite to take the desk chair. The Nosferatu hesitated as he considered the proper etiquette for this situation. Should he take the seat that was offered or should he remain standing? Technically, he wasn’t one of Alexander’s sworn followers, though he certainly was not the prince’s equal either. Malachite doubted that Alexander considered any creature, mortal or immortal, his equal. To him they were all either pawns to manipulate or obstacles to surmount.
The merest hint of a crease appeared in the skin between Alexander’s eyebrows, and Malachite knew the prince was becoming irritated. Unsure which was the wisest course—but knowing that keeping the ancient waiting much longer surely wasn’t it—he turned the desk chair around to face Alexander and sat down.
Alexander’s delicate lips formed a small smile, and Malachite sensed he had just failed some sort of test.
“As you say, it has been two weeks since we made camp here, but I fail to see the significance of the fact. Don’t tell me that you’ve grown restless, Malachite. For our kind, two weeks pass as swiftly as two hours do for mortals. Perhaps it’s the… simplicity of our accommodations? The wilds of the Livonian countryside hardly provide the same comforts that you once knew in Constantinople, do they?”
Malachite knew Alexander was baiting him, but he still felt a surge of anger at the gibe. He felt the need to take a breath—not because his undead lungs craved air, but out of reflex remembered from a time when his body breathed deeply to calm itself. He managed to keep from inhaling, though. He’d already failed one of Alexander’s tests. He didn’t relish failing another.
“When you asked me to accompany you to Livonia, it was my understanding that I was to serve as your advisor.” Malachite allowed himself a smile. “It is somewhat difficult to perform that duty when the one I am to advise does not share his thinking.”
Alexander looked at him, not moving, not blinking. When he finally spoke, his tone was amused, though there was a coldness in his eyes. “As I recall, it was you who asked to accompany me.” He held up a hand before Malachite could respond. “Your point is well taken. But there is a simple reason why I haven’t told you more than I have: There is as yet nothing to tell.”
Malachite frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Alexander’s chuckle sounded almost human. “I’m being disingenuous. I should say rather that I am still in the process of gathering information. When I have acquired enough, I shall it mull it over, and then when I am ready, decide what my next move shall be.”
“While I understand the need to perform a certain amount of reconnaissance, how much is truly necessary in this situation? We have come here at the behest of Lord Jürgen to subdue pagan Livonia which, from what little I have seen, is nothing more than an expanse of trees and grasslands broken only by the occasional human settlement.” At least, that’s why Alexander had come to this land. Malachite had a far different reason—one that he had no intention of sharing with the fallen prince.
At the mention of Jürgen’s name, Alexander grimaced as if he’d just tasted disease-ridden blood. “I’ve come here for my own reasons, not to serve a petty German prince.” He spoke the word serve as if it were an obscenity. “And subduing this land won’t be as easy as you imply. We are here to deal with this Tartar chieftain Qarakh who seems to have established a Cainite tribe of sorts here. He defeated a band of Black Cross knights and Sword-Brothers last year. I must know more about the size and strength of the Tartar’s tribe before I can effectively plan my strategy.”
Malachite was unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. “I don’t see the need for any elaborate plan of attack. It is my understanding that Tartars are like the Turks we Greeks faced in Anatolia: savage raiders, yes, but little more than wild men and nomads. They can’t possibly match the skill and experience of your men. I would think—”
“But you are not thinking. That is the problem.”
Malachite had survived a very long time as a Cainite, and he knew better than to judge his kind by their apparent age. Nevertheless, given Alexander’s youthful appearance, Malachite couldn’t escape the feeling that he was being reprimanded by a child. The anger and frustration that had been roiling within him now threatened to fuse into a blazing fury, and he knew his Beast was close to breaking the mental chains with which he kept it bound.
Evidently Alexander sensed it too, because Malachite felt waves of calm emanating from the former Prince of Paris. Cainites were always wary of the Beast rising in others, for it could provoke theirs to come to the fore as well. Alexander’s personality and will were so strong that he could inspire emotions in others with relative ease, be it submission, courage or calm. It was one of the things that made him an effective leader.
Malachite felt his Beast recede into the back of his mind, where it would lair and wait, ever vigilant for the next opportunity to escape.
Alexander continued as if nothing had happened. “As you pointed out earlier, you understand the value of information. Why then should it seem strange to you that I am bi
ding my time?”
“Because it is unlike a lord at the head of a force of knights,” Malachite admitted, though he feared Alexander would be insulted. “I would expect you to march your forces straight into the enemy’s territory and demand that he fight or surrender.”
Alexander shook his head, the motion so slight that it was almost undetectable. “Ah, chivalry. God and the Devil save me from that foolishness.”
Malachite winced at the blasphemy. Though he was one of the Damned, he nevertheless considered himself a Christian. Many Cainites believed their condition was a test—or punishment—delivered by God, while others thought their kind was created by Jehovah to shepherd humanity. Malachite believed both were true, and that the divine will had seen its culmination in a wondrous city where Cainites and mortals both could thrive, a lost dream called Constantinople. Malachite was determined to see that dream reborn—no matter the cost.
“In all honesty, I suppose I might very well do as you suggest once I’ve established the location of this Tartar’s haven,” Alexander said. “That is, if my ultimate goal were indeed conquest.” He smiled then, as if enjoying a private joke.
Malachite thought for a moment upon the prince’s words. “You are seeking allies.”
Alexander’s smile grew wider. “There are powerful Cainites who lair in these marches, Malachite. Qarakh is one of them in Livonia, but there are Tzimisce voivodes who claim lands here as well, and others besides. If I can forge alliances with any or all of them…”
“You shall be in far better position to retake Paris,” Malachite said softly, impressed by the prince’s raw ambition. Jürgen—on whose behalf Alexander was technically leading this crusade—had warred with the Tzimisce of Hungary for several years. To hear Alexander talk openly of seeking alliance with them, it was clear he would never rest until he regained Paris, which he deemed to be rightfully his.
“Isn’t that the way of our kind, to take the strength of others and add it to our own?” Alexander said.
“That is how we feed.”
“No, that is how we exist.”
Malachite didn’t subscribe to such a bleak worldview, but he knew this wasn’t the time to argue the finer points of philosophy with Alexander. “And what if you discover that someone doesn’t wish to become your ally?”
Alexander shrugged. “Then I shall engage them in battle, defeat them, and the triumph shall add to my reputation, ultimately helping me regain my throne.”
Malachite was in awe at the simple audacity of it. “And what if you have to fight them all—Qarakh’s tribe and the voivodes both?”
“What if I do? I will take them on as they come—singularly or collectively—and I will destroy them.” There was no pride in his voice, no boasting. He said it as if it were a simple statement of fact, no more remarkable than saying that the sun revolved around the Earth. Or in his case, Malachite thought, around Alexander of Paris.
“I apologize, milord,” Malachite said.
Alexander frowned. “Whatever for?”
“For having the audacity to believe that I could ever advise you.”
Alexander laughed with delight, and for an instant he seemed as youthful as his countenance. “Do not despair, my dear Malachite. The time will undoubtedly come when I shall have need of your counsel. Until then—”
Before Alexander could finish his thought, Brother Rudiger—a Cainite garbed in a mail hauberk and a tabard emblazoned with the black cross of the Teutonic Knights—entered the tent. While Alexander was the ultimate leader of his army, Brother Rudiger commanded the knights in the field. All of the knights were members of the Order of the Black Cross, a secretive brotherhood of Cainites and ghouls hidden within the mortal Teutonic Order and loyal to Lord Jürgen. As a means to gather influence, such orders within orders were not uncommon among Cainites, but Malachite had to admit that the Order of the Black Cross was among the most entrenched he had encountered. Jürgen seemed able to use the cover of the Teutonic Knights (and their allies, the Livonian Sword-Brothers) with unparalleled ease.
Much of this was due, Malachite thought, to the fact that the unliving Black Cross knights had much in common with their mortal counterparts and cat’s-paws. They were true believers in the campaign to extend Christendom and fight the scourges of heresy and paganism, all for the glory of God. That they enlarged their order and lord’s domains in the process, and that many living Christians would consider them devils, was secondary to their crusading zeal.
Brother Rudiger, though of Ventrue blood like Alexander, could not have been more different from the exiled prince. Though he tried to conceal it, he loathed the secular-minded Alexander for his hypocrisy in using the Church for his own ends. Malachite had witnessed the two interact on a number of occasions, and while Rudiger always deferred to the prince and carried out his orders, the Nosferatu thought there might well come a time when he would refuse to do so. And then there would be trouble indeed.
“A rider draws near the camp,” Rudiger said. The knight was of medium height, broad-shouldered and somewhat stocky. He had a round face with neatly trimmed brown hair and a beard to match. His mouth was set in a firm line, and Malachite had the impression that he was fighting to keep his lip from curling in distaste at being in Alexander’s presence.
The prince’s eyes glittered like shards of broken ice. For an instant, Malachite thought that he would spring off the bed and fall upon Rudiger for entering without being announced. If the Black Cross commander noticed Alexander’s reaction, he gave no sign; he merely stood calmly and waited for a reply.
“Why do you disturb me with this news? Are your knights incapable of dealing with a lone rider?”
Rudiger’s eyes narrowed, but his tone remained even. “Of course they are capable, but I thought you’d want to be informed of the rider’s identity at once. It’s Lord István—and he’s alone.”
Alexander was silent for a moment before responding. “Bring him to me as soon as he arrives.”
“I shall do so.” Rudiger withdrew. Malachite noticed that the knight had departed without speaking an honorific: no Yes, your highness or At once, milord. Definitely a sign of trouble to come.
Malachite started to rise, but Alexander gestured that he should remain seated. “Stay. I would have you hear what István has to say.”
Malachite inclined his head. “As you wish, milord.”
Their wait wasn’t long. Within moments, they heard István ride up. Outside, Rudiger ordered a ghoul to tend to the Cainite’s horse. Then Rudiger and István entered the prince’s tent, the latter giving Malachite a quick look as if to say, What are you doing here? before bowing to his liege. He was a slender Magyar with black hair that fell to his shoulders and a neat black beard. He wore mail beneath a tabard that was ripped in several places and stained with dried blood. He hailed from yet another line of Ventrue but had sworn many an oath to Alexander. Malachite thought they’d bonded over a shared penchant for cruelty.
Rudiger, Malachite noted, did not bow. Nor did Alexander remark upon this.
István straightened and began speaking rapidly. “Your highness, I have returned from my reconnaissance mission with troubling news. I—”
All Alexander did was raise an index finger, but the gesture was enough to make István stop talking and close his mouth with an audible click. The prince turned to Rudiger. “You may leave us, Commander.”
“I think it would be best if I—”
“It’s not your place to think. Your place is to see that my orders are carried out on the battlefield. Do you understand?”
Rudiger looked at Alexander for a moment before bowing his head. “Yes, milord.” The knight’s voice was wire-taught with barely suppressed rage. He turned and walked out of the tent.
Alexander gave a small smile, clearly enjoying Rudiger’s obvious displeasure at having to submit to the prince, before looking to István once more. “When you rode out of camp a week ago, you did so alongside several others. Or have you for
gotten?”
István’s eyes narrowed, and Malachite knew he was calculating how best to respond.
“Of course not, your highness! I merely—”
Another lift of an index finger, another click of a mouth closing.
“Tell me what happened, István.” Alexander’s voice was barely above a whisper, but the tone of command it held was undeniable. “Tell me clearly and concisely, and without exaggerating your own merits.”
István seemed ready to protest this last comment, but then he nodded and began relating his tale, precisely in the manner his prince had commanded. When the knight was finished, he stood quietly, back straight and chin up to preserve his dignity, but his trembling hands spoiled the effect.
Alexander stood and István flinched, as if he expected his prince to strike him across the face—or worse. But Alexander, an inch or two shorter than his subject, merely looked up into István’s eyes. “Did you have to slaughter the farmer and his entire family? The Tartar will take that as a personal insult.”
István frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand, my prince. They weren’t members of Qarakh’s tribe; they were only mortal pagans.”
“The deaths of the kine mean nothing to that savage,” Alexander said. “It’s a matter of territory. We killed in his lands without his permission. Would you let others pick from your herd, István?”
“No, milord.” It was clear from István’s expression that he still didn’t comprehend how this had become his fault.
Alexander looked at István for a moment, as if he were trying to decide what to do with him. Malachite had the impression that the prince could just as easily dismiss him as tear off his head. In the end, Alexander chose the former.
“Dawn is near and you need rest after your ordeal.”
Looking as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune, István bowed low then withdrew from the tent without bothering to disguise his haste.