House of Jackals

by Todd M. Moreno

  “His Grace, Lord Jordan Possór,” the man announced.

  Those people standing nearby turned from their conversations to acknowledge him. He did not hold a hereditary title, but Jordan’s status within House Possór gave him the court-rank of a local duke. For most people at this festive gathering, that was enough to grant him a great deal of deference, if not respect.

  Jordan returned some of the greetings with a benign nod. Speaking a few inconsequential pleasantries to others, he continued toward the pair of thrones at the far end of the great hall.

  On one of the thrones sat his rather round sister. Lilth sparkled with her tiara and jeweled ornaments. Sitting to her left was their cousin, Seffan Possór. Seffan laughed at one of her comments and leaned over the arm of his chair to reply. Behind them were a group of waiters, and a whole unit of Voxny’s Home Guard.

  Still relaxed and in good spirits, Cousin? Jordan thought as Seffan laughed again. He allowed himself a thin smile, which he directed at a woman offering him a toast in silent greeting. The Count-Grandee’s advisors were behaving as predicted, coming to deliver the bad news themselves. Seffan was in for a surprise. Now all Jordan had to do was alert Seffan to his presence before the advisors arrived. Seffan would then either invite Jordan to the subsequent high-level council meeting, or not. Jordan’s plans would not be upset either way, but in his pride, Jordan thought that he deserved the invitation, for his past service to his ungrateful cousin.

  I alone said this would happen, Seffan, Jordan said to himself, taking a glass of wine from a roving waiter. No one else warned you that the Emperor would unleash his minions. Besides, I have managed your dirty work with the Consortium for far too long not to have a seat on your Privy Council. You arrogant sonofabitch.

  "Ah, Jordan," one man greeted, a country vassal to Jordan’s sister, the Viscountess.

  "Really, Sir," Jordan replied with mock admonishment. Remaining where he stood, Jordan forced the other man to come to him. "Such gross familiarity. What could I have done that you would treat me so?"

  "But I hold you in the highest respect, Lord Jordan!" the petty nobleman cried in equally feigned dismay, his heavy moustache twitching at each over-enunciated word. "After all we have been through, would you really deny me so slight a show of favor?"

  "Yes," Jordan said reservedly, allowing a faint smile to form. "By the way, how are those mines working out for you?"

  The man laughed at Jordan's answer before responding. "Those waivers you secured for us were a godsend," he said, dropping his voice. "Further delay would have ruined me. That damn whorehouse of a bank. Hey, did my brother-in-law ever buy that company from you?"

  Jordan flashed his teeth in an imitation smile. The man already knew the deal had been concluded. He was just reminding Jordan that in terms of favors, they were even…for now.

  "That he did." The count-grandee's cousin sighed with affected injury. "Although I must admit, I had expected a better price."

  "These are difficult times, Your Grace," the man bowed his head. "Add those sheep-slamming Imperials snooping around everyone's private affairs and, well, people are cautious."

  "Yes, the Imperials," Jordan repeated, drinking from his glass as he glanced at his enthroned cousin. There was still no sign of Seffan’s advisors. "Perhaps our Count-Grandee will have all these regulatory investigations resolved soon."

  "He should just expel the bastards from the planet. The Emperor has no right meddling in local concerns. It is bad for business."

  "I am sure that upon his return to Pablen Palace, the Imperial problem will be my cousin's top priority," Jordan said with a wry grin, catching sight of a lovely young woman standing alone next to one of the room’s crimson marble columns.

  From the way her head turned from painting to statue to gilded chair, he could tell that she was not used to such richly decorated rooms. Clearly she needed the aid of someone who was familiar with Crucidel’s treasury of fine art and historical artifacts. Jordan glanced back behind him again at Seffan. The Count-Grandee was still smiling. Jordan had time.

  "But you will excuse me, my dear baron," Jordan went on, "I see someone I must speak with rather urgently." The other man bowed as Jordan passed.

  "This is indeed my first time to Crucidel," the woman said with surprise, answering the soldier standing next to her. "This is my first time in a true palace actually. It’s so beautiful."

  Weaving his way through the clumps of people separating him from his object of interest, Jordan had watched the upstart field captain whisper something to the woman. With his tailored uniform and glittering medals, Jordan hated the young man instantly.

  "Forgive me, my dear," Jordan said as he drew near, stopping the handsome officer from stepping in front of the girl, who was over twenty years Jordan's junior. The taste of youth could be so refreshing. "I could not help but overhear. This is your first time in my sister's home?"

  "Oh yes, Your Grace," the girl replied with a deep curtsy.

  Jordan inwardly scoffed at the woman's quaint third season gown, although he appreciated the view of her bosom it afforded him.

  "I'm only here because my father is ill," she continued. "I practically begged to be allowed to come and represent him in the procession to Her Ladyship, the Viscountess."

  Another sheltered daughter of a country squire, Jordan thought. At least those herd-smelling bumpkins were good for something. Acting on an impulse, he psychically scanned the girl, easily determining the strength of her mental shielding. She had the Training, but little ability. If he so chose, his own thoughts would penetrate her psychic defenses like a finger through a warm piecrust. Savoring the imagery, Jordan gave in to a wolfish smile.

  "It is an honor, Your Grace," the man next to the woman finally said. He bowed instead of saluted, as Jordan was in civilian dress.

  Jordan looked at the man again, having momentarily forgotten him. Once more he noted how the young soldier’s uniform overly flattered him, and how his many medals sparkled. Restraining himself from cuffing the handsome, well-toned commoner for speaking to him before being addressed, the count-grandee's cousin gave a brief nod.

  "But where are my manners?" Jordan asked, patting the front of his dark suit and flattening the expensive fabric swinging around to drape over his own narrow frame. "I am Jordan Possór, Miss, and am at your service."

  The young woman giggled as Jordan took her hand in his to kiss it, only to sharply inhale as his tongue deftly grazed the cleft between her two forefingers.

  Lilth Morays gazed at her revelers and sat fully back in her over-stuffed, metal-framed chair. While holding court was a burden for some rulers, for her it was an opportunity to display her power. It was for her that food and drink coursed through the room without end, and court musicians played without break. And it was for her that anyone of standing in Voxny came to be seen at a party that would set the tone for the viscounty’s entire social season. It did not matter that invitations to the lesser nobility were only elegantly printed compulsory writs. Nothing could be left to chance in a fete to the Viscountess’ noble glory. Even the presence of her liege lord added to her prestige. The Lord of Legan did not make appearances for just anyone.

  "Funny how your folk here celebrate the fall harvest even in the cities, Cousin," Seffan remarked, sipping from a gold goblet. "I bet half of them have never even seen a harvest."

  "A holiday is a holiday," Lilth replied, waving a chubby hand over the gathering. "Voxny has long been connected to agriculture, though its economy no longer depends upon it."

  "I wonder if my father would have allowed you to marry your old viscount, knowing it would make you a farmer's wife," Seffan teased.

  "As if your father cared a whit about how a person made his fortune," Lilth chuckled, folds of flesh appearing about her neck as her head tilted forward.

  "Sire, My Lady Morays," a man said, stepping before the two thrones roughly three meters away and bowing to each.

  Lilth turned to the graying man
standing at the foot of the dais, a member of Voxny’s local gentry. Presenting himself like this was a breach of protocol.

  "Please forgive me for not paying my respects with the others," the man continued. "I was unavoidably delayed, and have only now arrived."

  "Ah, a late knight," the Viscountess said, looking askance at the older man as she grabbed a small morsel from one of her servants' trays.

  "One of yours, Cousin?" Seffan asked, drinking from his goblet.

  "I am afraid so. Well, Sir Knight," Lilth said, eating as she spoke, "it has long been customary to take renewed oaths of fealty at this event. You missed the ceremonial procession."

  "Again, I apologize, My Lady," the man said, bending down on one knee, "and By the Witnesses of Heaven, and All Those in This Most Noble Presence, I Swear Fealty to the Viscountess of Voxny, Lady Morays, for Myself and for My Family."

  Lilth nodded solemnly, accepting the ritual words that bound the vassals of the Lords of Voxny to House Morays which, although widowed and with two surviving sons, Lilth now ruled.

  But the man remained in obeisance. "And to Your Imperial Lordship," he continued, "The Count-Grandee of Legan, I also swear my unquestioning faith and humble obedience—"

  Seffan casually lifted his hand to stop him.

  The man’s eyes widened as he saw the smoldering glare of Lilth Morays, realizing his offense too late: One should never swear fealty to more than one master.

  "That is well enough, good Knight," Seffan said, glancing at his cousin. His benign smile contrasted with the twisted lips of the angry Viscountess. "An oath of fealty to our most dutiful and loyal cousin is an oath to us. We can ask for no greater a pledge."

  The man bowed once before standing, but Seffan did not acknowledge it. The knight promptly looked up again to see Lilth shift in her chair as a growing silence settled amongst those behind him. Sensing the unease, the man stood, making another mistake in court etiquette.

  "Sir Knight," Lilth began evenly, "the Count-Grandee did not grant you leave to rise."

  The man paled as the tightening of his muscles forced him down into an uncertain hunch.

  "And neither did I," she added.

  This time the man fell to both knees, wincing as he hit the stone-tiled floor. "Forgive me, My Lady. I meant no disrespect."

  Seffan sat quietly. The old knight was Lilth's liegeman, and it was her right to deal with him. For Seffan to intervene would diminish her in front of her subjects. Yet from the reaction of those who had heard the exchange, he wondered if the woolly provincial was worth causing a spectacle. Surprisingly, he was enjoying himself, and he wanted the evening to remain festive.

  Through his training in the Disciplines, Seffan sensed his cousin amass her psychic energy. Glancing at the room’s silent spectators, he guessed that the most they were expecting was a loud, royal tongue-lashing. He knew his cousin far better than that however.

  Lilth was going to smite the man.

  "Cousin," Seffan said, telepathically projecting his words for her thoughts alone.

  Lilth tilted her head slightly to the side, her eyes still focused on the object of her ire.

  "Yes?" she asked silently.

  "The man is obviously an untutored buffoon. It would be poor form to let a backwater tard publicly enrage you by just being stupid. He is nothing—quite beneath your notice."

  Lilth looked at her cousin with an arched brow, searching his face for an explanation behind this unexpected sojourn into mercy.

  "You are right, of course, Cousin," the Viscountess replied, letting her breath escape. “He is scarcely worth a token response.” Focusing her awareness, Lilth directed her psychic energy at the knight as she made a motion of grabbing something in the air in front of her.

  The older man’s eyes bulged as his shirt and dress coat gathered at his neck, with Lilth bringing up her clenched hand and raising him from his knees. If he had any psychic ability of his own, the knight was smart enough not to fight her. Lady Morays’ psychic strength was well known. Letting him dangle off the ground for one tortuously prolonged moment, Lilth at last released the man. Though he fell less than an arm's reach, his legs nearly buckled as he hit the floor. Only the most strenuous effort spared him the indignity of collapsing to the ground.

  "The hand that elevated you, faithful knight," Lilth began, "can as easily cast you down. I ask little from my vassals, but I demand courtesy. Next time I summon you, do not be late."

  The man, shaken and sweaty, bowed again. This time Lilth excused him with an out-flung hand. Bowing once more, he backed away the customary three steps before departing.

  "Now you have done it, Cousin," Seffan said with thinly veiled amusement. Not only had the Viscountess properly rebuked the unmindful knight, her method had proved entertaining. The Count-Grandee signaled one of the servants behind him to refresh his drink.

  “What?” Lilth asked, her voice still gruff.

  "Now no one will come talk to us," he answered, sipping from his cup.

  Lilth laughed despite herself, glad to share in her cousin’s levity. Seeing the hapless man frantically search for the floor with his feet as sweat soaked through his clothes had indeed been amusing. "If only it were that easy," she jokingly bemoaned. "No doubt one of the sheep will get brave enough again soon."

  As subtle as ever, Sister Dear, Jordan thought, watching from a distance.

  He had already lost interest in the woman whose beauty he had targeted earlier. Conquering the innocent was too easy, and too often he found sexual inexperience to be boring. It occurred to him though that the game of “chase and release” might become tiresome as well. Still, at least he had the pleasure of dismissing that young officer and embarrassing him in front of the girl before discarding her as well.

  Suddenly one of the doors behind his sister and cousin’s thrones opened. Had the country girl wasted too much of his time? Had he missed his chance to make sure that Seffan saw him? Only when the door closed again did Jordan’s momentary fear subside. It had only been a routine changing of the guards.

  Returning his attention to the party, Jordan sighted one of Lilth's twin sons. He wrinkled his nose at the thought of speaking with his nephew, a man nearly thirty with the mind of a grade-school bully. Lilth had indulged and defended her two spoiled brats beyond salvaging. To Jordan, Curin was nothing more than an unwashed lump of a brute. His brother Cary, who was surely nearby, was just as uncouth and abusive. Aside from his smaller frame and finer features, Cary's only distinction was an occasional show of slick finesse.

  An oxrat and a weasel, Jordan thought contemptuously. The only thrones befitting them have running water. But they were not important. Neither nephew would stand in his way once the planetary crown fell from Seffan’s head.

  Turning back to Lilth and Seffan, Jordan saw a new man approach the two thrones. Jordan knew him, a wealthy local duke. Generally well-connected, just not well-connected enough. He was the perfect cover for Jordan’s approach to Seffan.

  "I agree, Sire," the Duke replied, continuing the conversation. "It just seems that the contractor for my reclamation plant is actively looking for bureaucratic obstacles to slow down the work. Costs are mounting far beyond expectation."

  "I am sure he is only seeing that the proper procedures are being followed," Jordan offered, stepping from behind him.

  The Duke turned sharply, startled by Jordan's voice.

  "You know the contractor, Cousin?" Seffan asked, having watched Jordan scurry toward the dais as he spoke with the Duke.

  "I have heard of him," Jordan affirmed. "It is ironic though. I recommended a different contractor, as I am sure the Duke remembers. The one he complains of is the one he chose."

  "Yes, it is odd," responded the Duke through a tensed jaw. Only the man's rank as a true duke saved him from having to formally greet Jordan. "Work had barely begun when he suddenly became...extremely concerned when it came to regulatory inspectors."

  "Perhaps this is a matter best left for
another time," Lilth suggested, glancing at her brother as she reached for another hors d'oeuvre.

  “I did offer to investigate the matter,” Jordan remarked, “if our good Duke wished it.”

  The Duke opened his mouth to speak but the Count-Grandee cut him off. "Investigate it then, Cousin," Seffan said. "And," he added with a knowing smile, "keep me informed."

  Jordan nodded silently before looking at the Duke with a twinkling eye. The Duke now had no choice but to deal with Jordan. The other man was careful though to keep whatever outrage he felt hidden as he nodded to Seffan as well.

  "On another matter," the Duke began, facing Seffan in a way so that he could turn his back to Jordan, "I hope that Lord Derrick is feeling better."

  The Count-Grandee lifted an eyebrow. "I was not aware that my son was ill."

  "I only know what I was told, Sire," said the Duke. "Lord Derrick missed an awards dinner I hosted last week for a children's charity. It was one of his mother’s favorites. The Countess-Grandia even made a provision for it in her will. She was most gracious."

  “Well, I cannot speak for Cassand,” Jordan began, taking half a step forward to realign himself with the Duke. “May she be one with the Creator,” Jordan added with a nod toward Seffan. “But I never had the impression that Derrick enjoyed attending social functions."

  The Duke gave Jordan no outward sign of notice.

  "And he has been rather solitary since his return from the Academy," Jordan continued.

  "Now Brother," Lilth said, her tone pleasant as she eyed Jordan. "Surely our cousiné Derrick has quite a busy schedule. Perhaps you misinterpret his mood."

  "Yes," Jordan said without conviction. "When exactly was that dinner, Your Grace?"

  The Duke cleared his throat, compelled once again to acknowledge Jordan. "Three days ago," he answered.

  "Interesting," Jordan whispered, bowing his head as he glanced at Seffan. "I have been at the Palace nearly all this week. Three days ago, Derrick was out riding, which has apparently become his habit when his...mood overtakes him. He did not return until almost nightfall."