Clan Novel Lasombra: Book 6 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Richard E. Dansky

  None of MacEllen’s followers would meet Polonia’s eyes. The archbishop nodded, and the faintest hint of a frown crossed his face. A crack like a gunshot split the room, and MacEllen collapsed, gibbering. What could be seen of his hand was a bloody, misshapen mess, and splinters of bone angled off in all directions. Polonia smiled, and squatted down to pat MacEllen’s head. “So, are we all through interrupting? Wonderful.” The archbishop straightened up and caught Vykos’s eye. “Now, our honored friend, I believe you were about to explain to all of us why precisely Herr Pieterzoon concerns us, yes?” He gracefully took MacEllen’s abandoned seat and propped his feet up on the fallen pack leader. “Please, the floor is yours.”

  The tension went out of the room like water. Suddenly there was background chatter again, and the sound of bodies readjusting themselves and the chairs they sat in. Vykos would have applauded, if she’d been the sort to applaud. She rose and spoke directly to Polonia. “Jan Pieterzoon is a Ventrue of considerable age and a most impressive lineage. He is, if my sources tell me true, one of Hardestadt’s brood, and among the oldest and most dangerous of that line. He is not, as Ductus MacEllen suggested, German, but Dutch. Nor does he, I suspect, fuck rats. Pieterzoon is devious, efficient and more than skilled enough to turn much of the population of this room into a series of delicate piles of ash. His presence can only mean that the Inner Circle is about to take a direct hand in affairs here, which is a development we have been anticipating with concern for some time. Needless to say, his reports back to his sire and that worthy’s peers will have a great deal to do with what sort of response we can expect. Therefore, it behooves us to eliminate him as quickly as possible, before he makes too damning a report, or takes the opportunity to interpose himself in our plans more directly.”

  Across the table, Borges frowned. “He’s in Baltimore, which means he’s caged like a rat. North is Philadelphia, south is where we stand, and west takes him nowhere. I say let him sit in Baltimore and make all the reports he wants. The jaws of the trap are about to close, and I for one would like to take this Dutchman home with me. Don Medina Sidonia would no doubt be profoundly appreciative of the gift. He’s been waiting for Pieterzoon’s head on a plate for a very long time.” Around the room, rumbles of assent wafted up.

  Vykos spread her hands in a conciliatory’ gesture. “If there were any other way, I’d be happy to allow you to capture him, but we simply do not have that luxury. If we allow Pieterzoon to gain his footing, to become comfortable, then he will become a most formidable foe, and he may be harder to subdue than you would think. Consider how the remaining Camarilla vampires will rally around him. Consider the personal resources he can bring to bear. Consider this, and you will realize that we need to destroy him while he’s still uncertain, still off balance, still—”

  “Jet-lagged!” called one of MacEllen’s adherents. Polonia silenced the man with a look, but the rhythm of Vykos’s speech had been broken. The room dissolved into shouted chaos. A fistfight broke out be-tween a member of one of the roving packs and a member of Borges’s entourage; the Archbishop of Miami turned to deal with it in his own savage way. Any hope there had been of keeping order vanished.

  Vykos caught Polonia’s eye and raised an eyebrow questioningly. The Lasombra gave the tiniest of head shakes, and, resigned, stood. “I think a short recess is in order. Those of you who feel the need to kill one another at this juncture, the basement has a concrete floor so the staff will be able to sponge up your remains easily. As for the rest of you, we shall reconvene in two hours.”

  Vampires and the occasional ghoul loped for the double doors that led out into the hallway, their exit punctuated by a loud snapping sound as Borges took care of his business. Within seconds, the room was empty except for two of the three archbishops and the still-moaning MacEllen. Polonia sighed. “Was that last mutilation really necessary?”

  Borges shrugged and made a great show of dusting his hands. “Not particularly, but it was enjoyable. “Your playmate MacEllen was right, in any case.

  Hmm?” Idly, Polonia kicked the pack leader’s still-recumbent form, just to make certain he hadn’t gone anywhere.

  “Taking the call during the meeting was a bit ostentatious. The Nomads aren’t much individually, but they’re vaguely formidable when they’re all pointing in the same direction, and consistently antagonizing them when there’s no real need means that they may all end up pointing at the cardinal’s pet. Mind you, I suspect that she could take care of the lot of them without excessive effort, but it’s really much more useful to have them taking orders, is it not?”

  Polonia made a show of thinking about it, stood and stretched. “Perhaps. On the other hand, they need some discipline if they’re ever going to be a real fighting force as opposed to a rabble. Overwhelming some isolationist Toreador who’s retired to Asheville to take up basket weaving is one thing. Dealing with a city with real defenses, one that’s had some time for preparation—MacEllen and his friends will founder and be shattered, and I can’t afford to throw them all away that idly.”

  “You can’t,” Borges repeated, half to himself. “Of course. I’ll bow to your superior knowledge of Camarilla defenses, as you’ve spent so many years analyzing them in New York, yes? I’m sure you have a very good grasp of them by now.”

  If Borges was hoping for a rise out of Polonia, he was disappointed. The other Lasombra steepled his fingers and nodded. “Indeed. I know them quite well, which is why I respect what they’re capable of, regardless of what we’ve accomplished so far. If you’d ever bothered to face them in the field, instead of pissing away Miami one block at a time to the Setite snakes, you’d have a bit of respect for them as well.”

  Borges purpled at that, and for a moment Polonia thought the younger archbishop would leap across the table and attack him. Then the moment of fury passed, and Borges managed a wan smile. “Touché, Archbishop. I look forward to partaking of your wisdom.” He executed a perfect bow, pivoted, and strode out the room. The only evidence of the confrontation was the crushed and mangled back of the chair behind which Borges had been standing.

  Sometime during the debate, MacEllen had stopped making noise. The only sound in the chamber was the hum of the air conditioning, which Polonia found suddenly annoying. He pursed his lips. Borges was a fool and a braggart, but he was right. Vykos’s maneuver had been designed to antagonize the Nomads and other, less-organized types, and for once in his unlife Polonia had no idea why.

  “My Cardinal,” he whispered, almost as a prayer, “I sincerely hope you know exactly what you are doing in sending me this fiend. Grant me guidance, grant me strength and, if this madness continues, grant me the opportunity to explain myself after I tear the head off each and every idiot I am being forced to work with here.”

  Piety sated, Polonia walked through the double doors of the chamber. Behind him, a tendril of shadow reached back to shut them with a neat little click. And beneath the table, still clutching his ruin of a hand, MacEllen didn’t notice at all.

  Saturday, 17 July 1999, 12:09 AM

  Iglesia de San Nicolás de los Servitas

  Madrid, Spain

  Don Ibrahim never felt quite comfortable entering Monçada’s inner sanctum. Part of that was the positive explosion of saints’ portraits that lined the walls of nearly every corridor; the iconography was deeply disturbing to Ibrahim’s conservative soul. There was also the fact that every bit of wall space that was not covered in graven images was instead decorated with mirrors, which Ibrahim found unpleasant to walk past. Monçada had explained the latter, noting that they allowed him a perfect perspective on most visitors, while not allowing those visitors to see him; but even so the sheer number of the things was oppressive.

  In addition, there was the fact that the two Cainites had tried to kill each other on any number of occasions stretching back to the early twelfth century, when Monçada was still a priest whose words moved thousands of worshippers, and Ibrahim was a blade in the hand of
the princes of the taifas. Of course, both had sworn any number of times since then that the past was past, what was done was done, and so on. The truth of the matter was, however, that politics within the Sabbat made them allies, and if either still harbored a thirst for vengeance, that one simply didn’t have enough other allies to afford to indulge it.

  The centuries, Ibrahim noted with a rueful smile, make for strange bedfellows. Then he strode into the cardinal’s sanctum sanctorum.

  Monçada was on his feet, ever the gracious host. “Don Ibrahim, how good of you to come.” Ibrahim noted that the stone floor had been covered in rugs of rich weave, and that the cardinal himself was barefoot; both were expressions of respect. “I’d offer coffee, but we both know better.”

  Ibrahim executed a perfect bow. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Cardinal.”

  “And you, my friend. I must admit, I have been awaiting your return for some time.”

  Ibrahim strode purposefully over to the table holding the chess set, and seated himself on the stool behind the black pieces. “Oh? Don’t tell me you have been that starved for conversation.”

  The cardinal laughed, politely, and maneuvered himself into the opposite chair. “Not at all. I just have a new stratagem that I thought might be effective against your defenses. I was anxious to try it out.”

  Indeed?” purred the Moor, his glance flicking over the board. “Are you so confident of victory that you can afford to experiment?”

  Monçada gave an almost bashful shrug. “Truth be told, my most recent guest expressed some doubts about the tenability of your position.”

  Ibrahim pursed his lips, his curling beard almost brushing the tips of his king and queen. “Oh, no doubt. But are you certain that your guest was not merely saying so to appease you?”

  “I doubt it,” replied Monçada quietly. “It was Talley.”

  “Talley!”

  The cardinal nodded. “Talley. He was supposed to mention something to you on his way out, in fact. Hmm. Your move, I believe?”

  “Talley…” The Moor pondered his position and, after due deliberation, advanced a pawn a single space. “Why, if I may ask, did the Hound grace you with his presence?”

  “Because I asked him to, of course. Talley knows better than to visit me uninvited. I think his first visit scared him entirely too much for him ever to be comfortable around me.” The heavyset man sucked on a fingertip contemplatively, then advanced a bishop. “I had work for him.”

  “Of course you did.” Another pawn moved forward, blocking the bishop’s clean line on the pawn protecting a rook. “What service could the estimable Englishman Talley provide you that one of your other, less notorious servants could not?”

  “Are you sure you want to make that move? I’ll let you retract it, if you want.” Ibrahim just stared, and after a moment the cardinal moved a rook onto a more-or-less clear file. “Ahem. I want Talley in the Americas. Something there displeases me.”

  “Oh?” Ibrahim picked up a white rook, looked at it. “Would it be obtuse of me not to have noticed before how cleverly this piece mimics your dear templar?”

  “Oh, not at all, not at all. Most of my partners never notice at all, nor do they notice the other faces.” Ibrahim grunted an acknowledgment, and continued looking at the set with new eyes. “That bastard Medina Sidonia, Chardin, Muntz…is that Skanderbeg? Hmm. And why is Lucita now my queen? When we began play, her face was on your half of the board. Why the change?”

  The cardinal made a small, almost embarrassed sound. “When Vykos made the set, I had him make two queens. A…moment of weakness on my part, I must admit. The side she plays on depends on my mood, and the latest report I have of her exploits. Sometimes,” and he heaved his bulk into laughter, “she stands on both sides.”

  Don Ibrahim picked up his queen and examined it closely. The Lucita between his fingers was tall and slender, with high cheekbones and an arrogant cast to her features. Her gown was long and flowing, something that Ibrahim privately doubted she’d ever worn in life, and her hands were folded demurely at her waist. “The likeness is remarkable,” he said. “Why has she now joined the ranks of your enemies?”

  “The same reason I needed Talley, in truth.

  Don’t tell me you’re siccing the Hound on your childe. Surely she can’t have done anything so terrible.” Ibrahim replaced the queen two ranks forward. “And your bishop is threatened.”

  “Why, so it is,” the cardinal replied, moving it back one space and over. “And Lucita has apparently gotten herself involved in something that could stagger the progress of the campaign that Vykos and Vallejo are engaged in. I’ve received word that someone feels that assassination is an appropriate way to deal with a disliked archbishop, and I strongly disapprove of such things. Lucita is, at this time, a tool of those working against my interests. I dispatched Talley to defend her potential targets. Oh, I don’t expect him to succeed, necessarily—neither he nor Lucita holds a clear advantage in the matter—but the fact that he’s present should provide sufficient reason for whoever’s behind Lucita’s hiring to perhaps think twice. I, too, can dispatch assassins when I must.” There was silence for a moment, then the cardinal added, “And I will have your queen in three moves, my friend.”

  Ibrahim stared at the board. “I don’t think so,” he said softly. “You’ll take her in three moves with the rook, but you don’t want Talley to have her.” Monçada sat up, perplexed. “Perhaps not.” Ibrahim moved his queen back to safety, behind a screen of pawns. “Do you have any idea who might be behind this complication?”

  “None at all. I suspect, of course, everyone.” A knight made a cautious advance. “There are a great many players with an interest in that game, Don Ibrahim, and some may well be concealing their true allegiances. The best I can do is move to protect my interests, and those of the Sabbat. Beyond that, it is as God wills.”

  “Bismallah. Still, Allah helps those who help themselves. You’ve invested much in this matter. Are you leaving yourself too thin on the ground?”

  “With God’s grace, all will be well.”

  “You know more than you’re telling, of course.

  Of course. Come. I’ve had a repast prepared for us. You will share a meal with me, as we are now friends?”

  “Of course. Shall we return to the game after we finish?”

  “Certainly. The game will always be there.” Ibrahim rose. “Alas, my friend, I fear you are exactly right.”

  Sunday, 18 July 1999, 12:29 AM

  Hyatt Regency Capitol Hill

  Washington, D.C.

  The room was small, with wood paneling and thick carpet on the floor. The furniture was of mahogany, and surprisingly good quality for a hotel. Whenever possible, Vykos preferred staying in places like this when Fate forced her to visit North America, at least when there were not more solid accommodations to retreat to. On a vague level, she was still uncomfortable with the sheer newness of the entire place, but surrounding herself with competent craftsmanship at least let her avoid thinking about the transience of most of the continent’s construction.

  The meeting had, of course, been a fiasco. She hadn’t expected any differently. After the first few easy victories, the Nomad Coalition (she could barely contemplate the name without laughing) had gotten almost completely unmanageable. Unfortunately, they still had to be invited to each and every council session. If nothing else, it kept them off the streets for several hours a night, and she agreed with Vallejo’s assessment that, if they ran around unsupervised in a single city for a week straight, they’d probably do more damage to the operation through sheer stupidity than the Camarilla would be able to do through stubborn resistance. The curfew that had been established in the city was proof enough that a lack of discretion had its consequences; there was no need to pour more kerosene on that fire.

  That being said, she still found dealing with the Nomads and others of their ilk wearisome.

  There was a gentle knock at the door. That was o
dd. She’d given the ghoul standing guard in the outer chamber of the suite strict instructions that she not be disturbed. On the other hand, assassins—her dear Parmenides excepted, but he was in any case off assisting with the siege of the Tremere chantry—rarely were polite enough to knock. “Yes?”

  Polonia spoke from outside. “A thousand pardons for the intrusion, but I was wondering if we might conspire for a moment before the meeting reconvenes?” The man was ever courteous, and about as harmless as a knife to the kidney. Of course, it was better to get an idea of his thoughts before the meeting began than otherwise.

  “Of course. I’d been hoping you’d come by. Do come in.”

  “You are too gracious,” the archbishop replied, and the door swung open of its own volition. Polonia strode in, noted Vykos’s position in the large chair behind the desk, and made the decision to remain standing. Behind him, more tendrils of shadow pulled the door shut, and at his feet a pool of inky darkness that bore a suspicious resemblance to a cat paced silently.

  “I was under the impression the hotel had a ‘No Pets’ policy, Archbishop.”

  “It’s just a little toy of shadow I take with me on occasion. I find it soothing. Also, it’s remarkably effective at catching mice.”

  “Mice?”

  “I misspoke: vermin. Mice, rats—all sorts. Besides, if we were enforcing the ‘No Pets’ policy, where would that leave your ghouls?”

  Vykos let a ghost of a smile cross her lips. “Indeed. But I can’t help taking in strays.”

  Polonia chuckled. “For purposes you don’t immediately share, no doubt. But let it pass, let it pass. How goes it with the siege? Have the Tremere seen fit yet to run up the white flag?”