House of Jackals

by Todd M. Moreno

  "Maybe the excessive exercise exhausted him beyond his ability to attend a formal dinner," Lilth suggested calmly, shooting her brother a hard look.

  "That would perhaps explain it," the Duke reflected, "but I learned of his cancellation early that morning."

  "I would not take it personally," Jordan said, hitting the man on the shoulder. "Derrick—"

  At Jordan’s touch, the Duke turned on him abruptly. The unexpected movement prompted the guards behind the thrones all to bring their weapons to the ready.

  "Jordan!" Lilth projected angrily. "That is enough of such talk in front of this duke."

  "—has had a tough time of it since his mother's death," Jordan finished.

  The Viscountess leaned back in her chair and signaled the guards behind her. As one, the guards returned their weapons to their sides. Jordan was about to remark further when he felt a slap against the back of his head, his sister psychically making her displeasure known. Turning, he also saw Seffan level a deadened gaze upon him.

  "Yes," the Duke agreed, catching the silent exchange between the royal cousins. "But while the inquiry into her death was, by some accounts...inconclusive, it has been a year. Is it not time for him to resume full attention to his duties?”

  "Derrick will take whatever time he needs to reconcile himself to his loss," Lilth snapped. "How dare you criticize him before us?"

  The Duke became rigid as he instinctively stepped back. Prying his eyes from Lilth, he looked at a servant carrying a wine tray. The Duke calmly returned his gaze to Lilth as one of the glasses on the servant’s tray rose into the air and moved toward the Duke’s raised hand.

  The floating glass neared the Duke without a wobble, a clear display of psychic control. The audible reaction within the hall showed that his gesture had the desired effect, for though his use of psychic energy was being monitored, it was a bold move to engage such power in the presence of the planetary ruler. As the glass reached his hand, the Duke took a measured sip.

  "The Countess-Grandia was my cousiné, Lady Voxny,” the Duke resumed. “Yours is not the only blood that Lord Derrick shares."

  Without a glance, the Duke released his glass and floated it to a servant’s tray. Clearing his throat, he gave Seffan a short bow. "Still, forgive me, Sire, if I have given any offense. No doubt drink, age and the late hour have combined against me."

  Now it was the Viscountess who could not openly interfere.

  As Derrick was Seffan’s son, the slight was for her cousin to address. So too was the remark critical of the inquiry concerning Cassand’s death. Officially, a jealous kinswoman serving as a lady-in-waiting murdered Cassand in her sleep. The case was closed.

  Knowing what she would do to the Duke for his insolence, Lilth wondered at her cousin’s continued silence. Her pardoning the lowly knight was indeed an act of mercy. She could have squashed him in front of everyone, and no one would have said a word. That she did not only proved her beneficence. Overlooking two affronts from a Duke, topped by that gross display with the wineglass, was another matter. That would be viewed as a sign of weakness. A ruler can always forgive a slip by the insignificant, but never a slight by the powerful.

  "Perhaps I should take my leave, Sire," the Duke said with a bow of his head. Even in her own palace, there were limits to what Lilth could do to this Duke. Seffan, as the planetary ruler of Legan, had far greater freedom of action. But would Seffan really let him go so easily?

  "Perhaps you should," Seffan said finally. "Too much drink and lack of rest can only be detrimental to one's health."

  The Duke smiled and bowed once more to Seffan, who nodded his permission to leave. His smile intact, the Duke gave a short bow to Lilth, his hostess, and stepped away from the dais.

  "Seffan!" Lilth roared with her thoughts. "How can you let him get away with—?"

  "He is right, Lilth," Seffan projected as the Duke stopped to speak with someone in the crowd. "Derrick should not have to be reminded of his responsibilities."

  "I agree," Lilth replied. "Derrick must be told. But that duke has no right judging him, let alone openly questioning us to our face. And you saw the way he treated Jordan! Then his mentioning...the murder, and making a defiant show for everyone."

  Catching a faint twinge from Seffan at the reference to his wife, Lilth once again garnered her psychic energies.

  "Cousin," Seffan projected, his tone strangely weary. "Making an example of a doddering knight is of no consequence. Assaulting a duke, particularly this one, is fraught with problems. He has significant off-world connections that I find convenient to maintain. This is not worth creating a disturbance. And the man is adept at the Training."

  "I can still take him," Lilth replied.

  "It will cause a scene," Seffan said, not disputing her claim. "More than what the silly trick with the glass did. He is strong and will defend himself. I would be forced to intervene."

  The Viscountess turned toward her cousin. It cannot be that he fears the man, she thought, hating the very suggestion. Surely there was a connection here that she was missing.

  "Very well," Lilth breathed, seeking out the servant from whom the Duke had taken his glass. Upon a mere gesture by her, the man dropped his tray as his arms became pinned to his sides. Coiling her tendrils of power around the servant, Lilth squeezed as she brought him toward her. The crowd parted as the servant struggled in his mistress’ grip. Hearing the commotion being caused by the Viscountess’ display, the Duke turned as the servant was levitated up to the level of Lilth Morays’ gaze.

  “One of my guests had to take a glass from your tray himself,” the Viscountess accused. “I expect my servants to be more attentive.”

  “P-please, m-my Lady,” the young man stammered. “I didn’t know he wanted—” The man, his face already red from the sudden infusion of blood, cried out as Lilth’s grip tightened.

  “And when it was clear what he wanted,” Lilth replied, “you just stood there.”

  “It happened so fast,” the man pleaded. “I was surprised.”

  People near the thrones could hear bones crack as Lilth squeezed the wailing man again. “I suppose then that you were still too shocked to move when he returned the glass to you?”

  “My Lady—!”

  “Enough,” cried Lilth, sending a psychic blow that spun the man’s head around. His neck broken, Lilth let the servant’s body drop to the floor. As other servants worked to remove the body and the dead man’s fallen tray, Lilth looked at the Duke to make sure her message was received. The Duke met her stare before once again turning to leave.

  “The Duke knows better now than to ever return to Crucidel,” Seffan remarked as the court musicians resumed playing.

  “His temerity should still be punished,” Lilth replied, her anger only partially satisfied.

  "All right," Seffan agreed, lifting his hands in mock surrender. "Do as you wish with him, but do it quietly—and unseen."

  Lilth nodded, her cold violet eyes fixing on the Duke as he reached the top of a flight of stairs. Her choice of revenge made, she raised her right index finger. A servant instantly rushed to her side. Her face utterly expressionless, Lady Morays issued orders in a slow, soft voice, never letting the Duke from her sight.

  Seffan shook his head, about to say something to Jordan when he saw his cousin suddenly look away. From behind him, First Advisor Lousin Henely approached carrying a long metal tube. Seffan's other governmental advisors were all in tow.

  "Sire," the corpulent Henely began. "Something has happened which requires your attention. May we speak with you?"

  "What is that in your hand?" Lilth asked, having concluded her instructions regarding the unfortunate Duke.

  "It would be better to discuss this matter in private, Sire," the First Advisor whispered.

  "What is it?" Seffan growled, catching a glimpse of an Imperial seal imprinted on the tube. It would not have taken many tries to guess. As a simmering anger pulsed through his veins, the Count-Grandee
gripped both arms of his chair.

  The Viscountess smiled ever so faintly, glad to see Seffan finally invigorated.

  The First Advisor hesitated, looking for his colleagues. Instead of standing beside the portly man, the other advisors remained several paces behind him. "It is a criminal indictment against Your Lordship issued by the Imperial Minister of Justice," Henely replied.

  The smile on Lilth’s face faltered to a gasp as Jordan intentionally widened his eyes.

  Surprise Cousin! Jordan thought with hidden mirth.

  Steadily rising from his seat, the Count-Grandee pushed the steel armrests of his chair outward, his strength augmented by the Mental Disciplines. The strained, shrill creaking of bending metal made several of Seffan’s advisors blanche. Only First Advisor Henely maintained a frozen-faced expression as the Count-Grandee approached.

  Snatching the tube from his advisor’s grip, Seffan held it by one end as the fingers of his now glowing left hand pierced through the metal and tore off one of the ends. Inside was a scrolled document. His hand still alight with a psychically generated aura, Seffan took out the indictment, allowing the tube to fall to the floor with a clatter. The document blackened along the left side as he read, stopping only when he handed it to Lilth for her own review.

  "When," the Count-Grandee seethed, "did...this...arrive?"

  "Less than an hour ago, Sire," Henely answered.

  Taking no longer to read the indictment than Seffan, Lilth looked up at her cousin.

  Jordan straightened as Lilth lowered the document, holding it loosely on her lap. With a quick turn of his head, Jordan caught Seffan’s eye. The Lord of Legan frowned, but signaled Lilth with a curt wave. Jordan suppressed a smile as his sister handed him the indictment. So, his cousin was going to include him in the council meeting after all.

  "Sire," the First Advisor resumed as the Count-Grandee’s dark eyes fell upon him once again, the left one twitching. "As you can see, politically speaking, the Emperor has all but declared war upon us."

  ___

  II

  Derrick Possór, heir to the throne of Legan, rested quietly on his horse, gazing upon the city nestled in the valley below him while the sun descended behind the distant mountains.

  Security will tell Father I was out alone again all day, he said to himself. How many times had he ignored Manus Tillic's warnings about his "personal excursions?" Perhaps it was too many. But Derrick refused to let the old, overly protective guard commander deprive him of his one outlet: Solitude.

  Not that the forest reserve offered him much in terms freedom. Commander Tillic once said that a squirrel could not “squeeze a turd” without Palace Security knowing about it. None of his father's other men dared to speak so brazenly, but Derrick had known Manus Tillic all his life. Their friendship gave the old commander a great deal of latitude. Yet Derrick’s smile at the vulgar boast soon faded. Even squirrels have no privacy here, he thought.

  Derrick returned his attention to the sunset and deeply inhaled the cool, moist air. The sensation comforted him. As did the breeze against his face, blowing at the few long auburn locks that had escaped from under his hood.

  Derrick’s horse fidgeted beneath him, as if reminding its rider of the late hour. He laughed, reaching with a gloved hand to pat the animal. "It is all right, Wôden," Derrick called softly, receiving a whinny in reply. "We will be going back soon."

  On a viewscreen somewhere in the city below, an image of Derrick showed him bent forward, stroking his horse’s neck. The image suddenly jerked out of focus.

  “Shit,” said a man watching the screen, “the visual-tracking went out of alignment. Can’t you keep that ship steady?”

  “I told you there would be interference with the geo-positioning,” replied the man next to him. “Besides, you’ve got to expect some turbulence with the ship that high over the city.”

  “Well how am I supposed to get the nava-system to lock-on?”

  “All it would take is a quick sensor-scan. Then we’ll get both systems in line.”

  “No! They’ll pick up the signal and know we’re targeting him.”

  “Fine. Then stop complaining and let me finish.”

  Derrick glanced over his shoulder at Pablen Palace. Clouds had moved in behind it, darkening the horizon and leaving all that surrounded it cold and quiet. Even with night-lights brightening its façade, Pablen Palace appeared dejected. Hollow. Although structurally bold and opulent, with its high pointed towers, steep roofs, and sharp sloping walls jutting like spear heads up from its solid rock foundation, Pablen loomed over its sovereign domain in lifeless splendor.

  Derrick shivered in an abrupt wind.

  “There,” the second man proclaimed. “The ship’s position is confirmed, and the route to the target area is locked. Have you regained visual contact?”

  “No,” said his companion, shoving the controls at him. Expelling his breath, the second man tilted the viewscreen in his direction as he coordinated the two systems.

  “OK. Got him. Here,” the second man pushed back the imaging controls. “I’m starting the programmed run. Make sure we don’t lose visual contact.”

  Still a small shining object in the sky, the craft swung around the perimeter of the city, picking up speed as it went.

  Derrick dreaded returning to the Palace, and the feeling troubled him. Pablen had been the official seat of government for a hundred generations of ruling Possórs. After the planetary conquest, when House Possór attained grand-house status and enlarged its court, Pablen became Legan’s capital. Such a history should have commanded a greater regard from him.

  Of all the residences at his disposal however, Derrick preferred Linse Castle, the former stronghold of his mother's noble house. It was not as large as Pablen, but it was older. From its forward barbican over the main outer gate, to its spire-topped turrets, it had a design that harkened back to a lost era, on a long-abandoned world.

  Derrick was tempted to call for his personal transportship. If he left now, he might yet catch the sunrise from the castle’s seashore half a globe away. He knew though that he would not make the summons.

  Duty before Desire, he recited silently. A lot of work awaited Derrick at the Palace and, as his advisors would undoubtedly point out upon his return, his prolonged absence would only make matters worse. Still, were they not the ones who suggested that he accompany his father to some all-day party in far off Voxny? As if a formal appearance at a local court function was any more enjoyable than listening to a bunch of obsequious blowhards at a council meeting.

  Let them wait, Derrick thought, deciding that peace from his seemingly unending responsibilities would be worth a lecture or two. Closing his eyes, he listened to the wind running through the high blades of grass below, and the leaves of branch-entwined trees above.

  Making its positional marks while maintaining its targeting, the aircraft completed its circling of the city, its last arc veering just beyond the expanding flight pattern to intersect with Derrick’s position as it blasted toward him. Only when the batteries defending the Palace and its surrounding grounds opened fire did Derrick become aware of the danger. Acting on reflex, he activated his shield and that of his mount, covering his eyes from the blinding light of Pablen's protective weaponry as it illuminated the twilight sky.

  His horse reared, frightened by the noise and by the tingling over its skin from its shield’s energy field. While the continuous lascannon fire created an outer screen to augment the Palace's defensive shields, Derrick psychically reached out with his thoughts to calm the animal. He succeeded just as the shields of the shuttlecraft were overwhelmed, their failure allowing the focused energy of the lascannons to obliterate it in one large fireball.

  Derrick and his horse were pushed back by the explosive shock wave, with only their distance and the merged configuration of their shielding preventing Derrick from being thrown. Dimly the Possór heir heard a voice coming over his com-link.

  "Come in, my Lo
rd. Lord Derrick, are you all right?"

  "I am fine," Derrick replied loudly, temporarily deafened by the lascannons and the airship's detonation. "It is over now. There is no need to pick me up."

  "A ship is en route to you, my Lord."

  Derrick allowed himself a short huff, knowing better than to argue. House Security would take him away from the area regardless of his wishes. "Very well," he breathed.

  Derrick could already see ships and other personnel rushing to his position, and to that of the downed shuttlecraft. One ship touched down a short distance behind him.

  Lowering the setting of his personal shield, Derrick urged his horse forward and studied the craft's wreckage. It had not taken much to destroy it. The fact that he could easily have been killed only weakly registered in the back of his mind.

  "My Lord," one officer called as she ran from a security ship to take his horse. Another soldier lifted Derrick’s foot out of his stirrup and pushed his leg up and over the saddle. Two others helped him down from the other side. His dismount performed with rapid efficiency, Derrick remained passive, permitting his security people to usher him to the waiting shuttle so he could be whisked away to the safety of the Palace. As he often did, the Possór heir imagined that he was a piece of luggage, mindless of any special handling he received.

  Derrick was seated and airborne before he thought to ask about his animal. With the danger abated, no doubt the horse would be returned to the Palace stables later.

  "Preliminary reports indicate that the craft was conducting a sight-seeing cruise,” one of the security people relayed to his superior, loud enough for Derrick to hear.

  Images of the shuttle’s possible passengers filled the Possór heir with regret.

  “So, entry into restricted air space may have been inadvertent,” the senior man remarked.

  Inadvertent, Derrick repeated hazily, saddened by a simple error carrying so high a price.