House of Jackals

by Todd M. Moreno

  HOUSE OF JACKALS

  By Todd M. Moreno

  Prologue

  “I may have pushed him too far this time,” Cassand confided as she slipped a large jeweled ring from her finger. “But those criminals from the Consortium have dictated to us for too long, and for all his assurances, Seffan was never going to ask the Imperials for help.”

  Cassand Iowynne Linse d’Possór, countess-grandia of the planet Legan, sat before a gilded mirror in her bedroom at Pablen Palace, its beveled surface reflecting the room’s white lacquered furniture, gold-leafed moldings, and crystal lighting. One of her ladies-in-waiting stood behind her, a cousin from her mother’s family, combing out Cassand’s long blonde hair.

  “Your husband was a stubborn man even before he ascended the throne,” her cousin said, accustomed to speaking her mind when they were alone. “You only told him the truth.”

  “Maybe it is something else then.” Cassand stopped, reluctant to say more. Never had she seen Seffan so angry. Or hurt. Threatening to leak details of the Consortium’s operations on Legan to force his hand was foolish however, no matter how acute her own anger. But a crisis is coming, she thought. And if Seffan does nothing, he will be even more vulnerable than he is now.

  “House Possór has ruled Legan for centuries,” Cassand resumed, “but never has such an ill-chosen ally become so integral to its continued governance, and the unwholesome relationship such a poorly kept secret. Whispers of rebellion are rampant, and Legan is not the only one within the Empire affected. Corrupt associations have felled several planetary houses already.”

  “The cure for an unstable rule,” the older woman sniffed, “is a unifying purpose. But a mere shared pursuit for wealth does not engender loyalty, even among family members. What House Possór needs is a truly worthy common mission. Then it will naturally seek better allies.”

  “Without my having to push,” Cassand sighed, placing her ring on the dressing table.

  “Or at least push so much,” the other woman said, finishing the last stroke of her brush.

  Cassand smiled at her through the mirror before looking back to her own reflection. Her large azure eyes were still sharp and clear, as they were when she was first married. But the passage of years had brought lines around those eyes, along with shadows. “I only hope it is not too late,” she whispered, offering a silent prayer for added patience and understanding.

  “House Possór can still cleanse itself of the Consortium’s oily taint,” her cousin replied. “But only if it is willing to give up its ill-gotten revenues.”

  “And therein lies the true problem,” Cassand said as she rose from her chair.

  Already dressed in her night clothes, Cassand made her way to bed as her thoughts turned to her son, Derrick. As Seffan Possór’s only son and lineal heir, Derrick also had a rightful role in dealing with what she knew to be a risk to House Possór’s very survival. But he was still away off-planet, being in his final year at the Imperial Academy on Doloren.

  Seffan is wrong to keep Derrick ignorant of the Consortium’s influence here, the countess-grandia thought as she parted the curtain of her canopy bed. It puts him at too great a disadvantage with the other cadets, all taunting him over rumors that are true.

  Cassand bid her cousin goodnight as the other woman dimmed the lights before leaving. Neither expected the count-grandee to join his wife that evening. His duties rarely allowed them to share the night, one of their sacrifices since he became Legan’s ruler. Still she wore an inviting silk nightgown beneath her airy peignoir, just in case. People may have once whispered over the financial aspects of their arranged marriage, but whatever his original regard for her, she knew that her husband loved her. Despite his flaws, she had even grown to love him as well.

  Alone in the darkness of her bedchamber, Cassand wondered how her son was faring on far away Doloren. The Imperial Academy took a physical and emotional toll on all its young cadets, but Derrick’s sensitive and introspective nature made his required Imperial training even more difficult. Yet while she would have spared him its disciplinary excesses and cruel juvenile harassments, she understood the need of military instruction for all would-be rulers. And part of that education was his learning to gain the respect of those around him, regardless of his rank.

  Wanting her son to know that she was thinking of him, Cassand inhaled deeply and opened herself to her psychic awareness, as her teachers of the Mental Disciplines had once taught her. Finding that inner connection to her son, she sent forth an expression of her devotion. It was not in words, but in feelings, for no words were needed. In return, she could feel Derrick’s warm response, and even received a sense of where he was at that moment.

  Glimpsing an image of her son sitting in a cavernous lecture hall in his dark blue cadet uniform, Cassand was about to withdraw her psychic projection when she distantly felt a cold weight drag across her throat.

  Her mental connection to Derrick instantly severed, there was no resisting the violent force pulling her projected awareness backward through the psychic channel as it collapsed. The shock of plummeting back into her body was like crashing through the ice mantling of an abyss. Time slowed as she wallowed in a thickness of thought and perception, her rising panic denying her a full sense of connection to her physical self. Overwhelmed, and unable to direct even her own will, she felt madness swarming up around her.

  Suddenly an illuminated image of her son broke through the flurry of confusion.

  Derrick, she thought, her mind finding a focus on which to order her thoughts.

  Tapping a hidden well of strength, Cassand centered her consciousness and registered what has happening: She was alone in her bed at the Palace, and someone was trying to kill her.

  Reaching to her slashed neck with her hand as she willed herself to move away from her attacker, she found that her physical self would not obey. All that the deadened limpness of her throat muscles allowed was a feeble gurgling as she began to drown in her own blood. Panic again battered her mental defenses, threatening to scatter her thoughts and tear her mind asunder. But she would not yield. Not yet.

  Cassand’s heart beat fiercely as her lungs filled with agonizing fire, setting every nerve of her being to pulse and quake. She turned to her psychic powers to stem her loss of blood and compel her body to move, but to her horror, she found that the same paralyzing force that immobilized her also prevented her from healing herself with the Mental Disciplines. Even as she envisioned herself crawling away from her assassin, willing her nails to dig into her sheeted mattress to drag her away, she remained still, helpless, and trapped within her own body. Cassand could not see her attacker in the dark, yet whomever it was, the assassin had not only been able to breach Palace security, but also slip past her own psychic defenses and neutralize her abilities.

  But was there nothing for her to do?

  Retreating deep within herself as her life’s blood drained away, Cassand called out to her son. He had to be warned. Even in her fading consciousness, she could guess that her murderer had come on orders from the Consortium. Ignoring the growing wetness of her crimson-stained bedding, Cassand lashed back against a mounting despair as unbidden tears blurred what remained of her vision. Derrick was beyond her reach, her waning strength unequal to the task of any meaningful telepathic projection. Desperate, and now losing her battle to remain calm, Cassand writhed inside as she screamed and then shrieked her thoughts to any who might hear.

  And to her terrified surprise, someone did hear.

  Even in Cassand’s renewed and deepening confusion, the revealed presence was familiar. But the fury of her struggle was flaming out, reduced to silent wailing as her mind flailed about, chasing empty avenues of ill-promised action. She had lost he
rself, no longer even able to realize that she should have recognized the icy feminine voice echoing in her mind.

  Faithless bitch…

  Her attention now drawn by instinct, Cassand felt the presence of two shadowy figures as they stole next to her. Yet while her attackers had lifted the psychic cloaks that had kept them hidden, their identities remained safe before her failing senses. There was nothing left for her now. In growing calm, she clung to her love for her son, even as some fragmented part of her awareness spinning out in its flight to oblivion realized that the greatest danger to House Possór—and to Derrick, lay not from the Consortium, but from within the Noble Family itself. Someone had betrayed her to her killers. They would willingly betray Derrick too.

  But with her breathing ceased, her heart still, and her blood spent, the remnants of Cassand’s final dissipating thoughts could no longer give form to regret, fear or sorrow.

  Those burdens, like the many hopes and dreams she once held, would now have to be carried by others.

  …If they were to be carried at all.

  ---

  I

  Making his way to the hangar bay beneath Pablen Palace, Jordan Possór wore a face of funereal solemnity. According to his spies within Legan’s planetary government, an Imperial indictment had been issued against his cousin Seffan, the reigning Count-Grandee of Legan. Jordan suppressed a smile. Given the severity of these criminal charges, his cousin Seffan’s very crown would now come into play.

  And it was about time. Jordan had had Seffan trapped half a year earlier, and was about to usurp him, when that meddler Cassand was killed. Unfortunately, following his wife’s still mysterious murder, Seffan had instituted a flurry of operational changes, including purges of critical records and key personnel, which had wholly upset Jordan’s plans for ascendancy.

  I will not see my efforts wasted this time, Cousin, he thought. The only pity is that you will never know that it was me who outsmarted you.

  Jordan stopped several steps from his shuttle's boarding ramp, gazing at the other ships within the hangar bay before turning his eyes to the ceiling. Catching sight of a surveillance camera, he turned in profile and displayed a look of grim determination. He was always careful about what other people saw, and had projected general worry for weeks. In the months to come, his actions would undoubtedly be scrutinized even more. There could thus be no unaccounted-for laughter, and no musing smiles. At least none that his suspicious cousin might see before any royal resentment from it would matter. Appearances had to be kept if he wanted to succeed, and Jordan vowed that they would be, until the crown of Legan was firmly upon his head.

  “My Lord,” asked the aide standing behind him. “Are you well?”

  “No,” Jordan replied without turning, “but I must go.” Sighing, he resumed his sullen march to the doors of his shuttle. But his time was short. By now, his cousin’s privy councilors had seen the indictment as well, and were likely pissing themselves over how to tell their ruler, who would expect such news to be delivered personally. As a lone messenger was a doomed messenger, Seffan’s advisors would report together, relying on the safety of numbers as cover against his wrath. Their need to formulate an approach with Seffan beforehand was what gave Jordan a chance to be there when they told him. Then he would see how far Seffan trusted him.

  Silently acknowledging the salute of his guards before entering his shuttle’s main cabin, Jordan straightened himself to his full height and let his face revert to its normal expression of cool disdain. The only cameras on him now were those under his control.

  “Best speed to Crucidel,” he ordered, taking his seat. As the cabin’s suspensor-field activated, he felt its soft tingling on his skin, and did his best to ignore his minor discomfort.

  “Yes, my Lord,” replied another aide, relaying the order over a com-link as the shuttle’s gangway closed and locked. The familiar buoyancy inherent in a shuttle lift-off confirmed to Jordan that his order had been unnecessary. The pilot knew where he was going, if not why.

  Crucidel—his sister’s palace. Cameras were of little worry there, though his theatrical performance for her could be no less subtle. Like their cousin Seffan, Lilth Morays also had a reputation as an unforgiving critic. Still Jordan smiled. Few actors were as accomplished as he.

  Movement by one of his aides brought Jordan’s attention back to the present. “As you ordered, my Lord, I have an appropriate change of clothes for you for the party at Crucidel.”

  “Good,” Jordan replied. “Have them ready as soon as we level off.”

  “Yes, my Lord. All should be ready before we even make our descent.”

  Jordan let the woman go without acknowledgement as he settled into the comfort of his chair. Despite the heavy draperies and gilded ornamentation along the interior walls and ceiling, he felt vaguely dissatisfied. It was only as he glanced at the minimal furniture around him that he realized why. The space was too small. The next shuttle he ordered would have to be bigger.

  “My Lord?” prompted another aide. Jordan turned to the young man without recognition. Another newly-assigned trainee. “Would you like to watch one of the local broadcasts?”

  Jordan rolled his eyes before turning away. “Why not?” he said indifferently.

  The windows along the sides of the cabin dimmed and two panels opened to reveal a wall-screen in front of Jordan.

  “May I get you your usual refreshment, my Lord?” the second aide offered. Jordan nodded as a planetary news show filled the screen, not bothering to look at the man as he left.

  “Here is the incident with Lord Derrick from this morning,” the commentator said as images of Derrick Possór, son and heir of Jordan’s royal cousin, assaulted him.

  Jordan’s eyes widened.

  “See how the older gentleman is falling forward just before Lord Derrick greets him,” said another commentator. The scenes repeated slowly for the broadcast audience. “Now, clearly Lord Derrick is rushing to catch his hand to help him up. But something else is also going on. The strength it would take to pull the man to a standing position at that angle....”

  “Your drink, my Lord,” the second aide asked as he returned to the cabin, smiling and holding up a glass. Jordan shook his head at the aide’s obliviousness.

  “What is this?” the Possór lord demanded, pointing to the image on the wall with his open hand. A close-up on Derrick Possór’s face still commanded the screen.

  “I agree,” one commentator continued. “Lord Derrick was using the Mental Disciplines, psychically lifting the man to his feet to make it look like he was straightening up on his own.”

  As the broadcasters continued their favorable commentary on the young man assumed to be Legan’s next ruler, the aide realized his mistake. Jordan Possór held no admiration for his cousin’s heir. Yelping at the screen, the aide put the glass down and clambered for the control.

  “I doubt many are surprised that Lord Derrick would expend such effort to spare a man’s dignity,” the second voice from the screen declared before the channel changed.

  The nervous aide’s hasty choice was unlucky. Instead of being placated, Jordan was now confronted by another full-screen image of Derrick Possór, this time an official portrait.

  “TURN IT OFF!” Jordan roared, psychically augmenting his voice with the Mental Disciplines. Its sound echoed about the cabin. The young aide complied under a compulsion he could not refuse. As the light of Derrick Possór’s face dimmed, the cabin fell into near darkness.

  “NOW, COME HERE,” Jordan commanded. Still employing a psychic projection, he made each word puncture the aide’s very thoughts.

  Grimacing, the aide turned and approached Jordan. His eyes were downcast. Impatient, Jordan reached out his hand and psychically pulled the man toward him. The sudden speed jerked the man’s head back as he was brought to the floor before Jordan’s feet.

  “Well?” Jordan asked, psychically forcing the aide to look up at him.

  “I am sorry, my
Lord,” the aide began, his head frozen in place. “I forgot how much you dislike….” Catching himself, the trembling aide fell silent.

  “Dislike...?” Jordan asked with malignant sweetness, inviting the man to continue.

  “I am so sorry, my Lord,” the aide repeated, his voice cracking.

  “So you have said,” Jordan replied. “But to be clear, what I dislike are stunts aimed at creating a false public image. Do you really think that Little Lord Derrick gives a rat’s cod for some old dullard who falls over giving a simple bow?”

  “N-no, m-my Lord,” the aide answered.

  “Smart boy. Now get out of my sight.” Jordan waved the aide away. The aide bowed deeply, sniffling as he retreated to the shuttle’s rear storage area. Jordan’s senior aide came up from behind the young aide as he left, ignoring him as he went by.

  “My Lord,” she said with a garment carrier next to her. “Your clothes are ready.”

  ---

  Jordan Possór hid his smile as he walked through the two great doors to the throne room of his sister, Lilth Morays, the Viscountess of Voxny. Ignoring the liveried guards and servants standing near the entryway, he scanned the crowd before him as he descended the grand stairway. With his royal cousin’s counselors still en route, Jordan had some time to fill.

  Most of the guests were local gentry, mere rabble to the grandee’s first cousin. Even as a viscountess, Jordan’s widowed sister would have been a minor player on Legan, its planetary peerage including hundreds of crowned heads of varying rank and power. But with her familial ties to Seffan, and Seffan’s own leveraging of eco-political relationships within the thousands of planets comprising the Imperium, Lilth’s status merited a good number of off-world dignitaries and prominent business holders. It was for them that Jordan decided to mingle.

  Recognizing Jordan as a member of the Noble Family, the master-of-ceremony rapped his heavy wooden staff three times against the highly polished, stone floor.