House of Jackals

by Todd M. Moreno

  Despite his doubts, and even his dislike for the New Dawn Believer's "True Church," the only feeling Steuben received was that he should rely on the NDB bishop's word.

  "I'll trust you," Colonel Steuben said.

  Depré let his breath out pointedly, but Wyren immediately lowered his eyelids and sent his awareness forward, preempting any further discussion. Steuben closed his eyes once again and created an opening in his mental shields, allowing the other man's thoughts to enter.

  "Salutations, Colonel Steuben," Bishop Wyren said with his mind, making no attempt to access Steuben's inner thoughts or memories. "It was good you did not tell them that we have seen each other before."

  "I wasn't certain," Steuben sent back. "Besides, I saw nothing to be gained by it."

  "We only have so much time," Wyren began, “But you should know that while the Galleston operation was costly, it had to fail."

  "What?"

  "Depré would have become too powerful within the rebellion. We can’t allow him to assume control over this region, or to become a member of their Assembly. Fortunately, the failure at Galleston, and now this ‘wrongful’ accusal against you, should end his chances."

  "People died trying to get those Chancellery files," Steuben said, unsure of how much to believe. He was always leery of people who appeared to give him their confidence too early.

  "Had Depré succeeded, the consequences would have been worse. You know what kind of man he is, Colonel, and what he would have done with that information. Taniell is one thing, but Lenalt is dangerously arrogant, reckless, and petty. He also expects things for nothing. He wants our money, but not our guidance."

  "So how did you know the operation would fail?"

  "You know Seffan," Wyren replied lightly. "All we had to do was make sure that the full situation was brought to his attention."

  "All that effort and expense just to make Kamarin and Depré look bad. I’d have thought that your influence with the Assembly alone could have prevented Lenalt's advancement."

  "Though our funds now serve as the rebels' lifeblood, opposing Depré and Taniell after such a victory would have raised too many questions."

  Or too much resentment? Steuben wondered privately. "There are other types of influences," the Colonel forwarded, projecting his thoughts once again. "Why don't you just use emotional projections and other psychic tricks on them?"

  "The Assembly is not as pliable as the lot you have taken up with, Henrald," the Bishop replied. "Besides, you know the dangers of excessive reliance on emotional projections. People notice the conflicts in their feelings, and begin to consciously examine them."

  And become immune. Steuben reflected on the success of Wyren's projection on him. As I thought I was. "You didn't need that information in the Galleston computers," Steuben told the NDB bishop. "And removing someone like Depré would not be too difficult for you."

  "He is useful for now," Wyren responded. "We want someone ready to displace him though, when the time is right. His aims go beyond what most of his attendants think, and I doubt Taniell can control him much longer."

  "What does he want?"

  "To destroy the present form of government and set one up ‘by the will of the People.’ Of course," the Bishop chuckled, "under his rule, it would mean just one more economically backward dictatorship, with its own elite class of unwashed but perfumed opportunists."

  Depré and his gang may decry Galleston, Steuben thought, again halting his projection, but his Revolutionary Government would be no more tolerant than Seffan. The Colonel clenched his teeth. And a club of looters feeding off the same host can only afford so many members.

  "What do you hope to gain from all this?" Steuben asked. The Bishop said nothing. "Why act to save me? Do you really want me to lead this Rebellion of yours?"

  "I wish I could say that we want to save you because we feel responsible for your current predicament," Wyren responded. "But the truth is that we do not want the hand of the True Church to be seen in this. We prefer indirect control, so that we can maintain our distance from the rebels. If we are exposed, other elements may get involved."

  Wyren did not have to say what one of those "elements" might be. The enmity between the NDB and Miran churches was well known, if not wholly understood. Steuben did not believe that this was the only reason the NDB wanted his continued involvement however.

  To forfeit the life of a fellow NDB is a tragic sacrifice, Steuben thought. To forfeit the life of a gentile is a cost of doing business. The good bishop wanted someone expendable.

  "Why me?" Steuben asked flatly, wondering how the NDB intended to control him.

  “Your true activities do not match your HOPIS reports,” said the Bishop. “You hope to develop the rebels as a personal resource. An assassination, perhaps?” Steuben did not reply. Wyren smiled knowingly. "Our aim is the same, Colonel: The downfall of Seffan Possór."

  Steuben allowed himself a smile of his own. The NDB was only half right. He wanted all of House Possór brought down. "I will neutralize Depré," Steuben said after a moment, "but I have nothing against Kamarin, and am not sure I want to lead this rebellion. Not yet anyway."

  "That is acceptable for now," replied Wyren, withdrawing his awareness.

  “One more thing,” Steuben shot back. “How did you know you could trust me?”

  “Who said we did?” The NDB bishop gave Steuben a meaningful look. “Who said we do?” Steuben remained silent. “In any event,” Wyren continued before withdrawing, “if I had found you to be completely untrustworthy, we both know how this would have ended.”

  The Bishop opened his eyes and faced Depré. "He is not on any infiltration mission," Wyren proclaimed, looking Depré in the eyes.

  Despite seeing Lenalt Depré's shoulders sag, the Colonel felt no sense of victory. The NDB had a hold over him now. If he displeased them, they would wipe him aside just as easily as Depré. All Steuben had gained was a little time.

  ---

  Attending a funeral for a local marquis was not what Burin had in mind when offering to help Derrick with some of his commitments. But his nephew had told him that the difficulty was not that his schedule had multiplied so dramatically, but that every time some semblance of routine began to emerge, a new and unexpected obligation would suddenly arise.

  So here I am, Burin told himself, looking about the church’s minimalist interior. Representing House Possór to a family who regards their own newly departed with indifference.

  To his left, Burin could see the family talking amongst themselves and moving about as if they were models in a photo session. Even the young new marquis appeared to be telling a joke to another man who had already had too much to drink. Burin was never one to see a funeral as a social occasion, but he was not there to judge the level of the grieving family’s mourning.

  So why am I here? Burin wondered as the new marquis nearly tripped up the stairs as he made his way to the podium. Could I really be taking what Biam said seriously?

  “The crown could be yours.”

  Burin shook his head. The possibility had long been there. He was second in line when his father was alive, and first in line until Derrick was born. Despite his being so close however, there was always a sense that it would never really happen. There was even some guilt about thoughts that it might. After all, the premature deaths of his brother and nephew were the only way for any secret wish to have worked. That was, until this business of the trial arose.

  Thankfully, his brother’s fate was out of his hands. But would Biam’s well-reasoned justifications provide the necessary salve to his conscience over usurping Derrick’s position? Did Derrick even want to be Grandee? Could he even last long in the job if he had it?

  Vaid Ketrick sat in a chair behind the Consortium representative without a word, waiting for the other man to notice him. At the front of the room, the new marquis took a microphone and began to work up the crowd with a few witty quips, as if the man in the open casket was “Box Number
One” for some lucky game show contestant. Of course, now that he was the marquis, perhaps the man had already won.

  “I am just grateful that before he died,” the marquis said, as a segue into the next part of his act, now that the comedy segment was over, “my father found the true path to God.”

  Ketrick snickered at the jab to the Miran Church, to which he knew the old marquis had belonged, prior to his doddered and dribbling conversion. With the audience vocally affirming his father’s ultimate redemption, the marquis began to sing. Rather than being mournful however, the song had an upbeat that set Anios Tenatte’s foot to tapping.

  “I forget,” Tenatte said without turning. “Did you do this kid’s father, or did we?”

  “We did,” Ketrick replied.

  “Well, I will say this,” Tenatte commented, still not turning around. “The kid-marquis can sing. What did you whack the father for, by the way? Did you just want another meeting?”

  Ketrick smiled. Over the years, the two of them had made a habit of meeting at funerals. It had started out as a coincidence, but they had made it a routine. Now it was traditional.

  “The old marquis forgot his oath,” Ketrick answered, privately admitting that by the time he died, the old man had forgotten his name. “I am here to remind the family of its obligation to us, and to make sure the new marquis understands the price of repeating his father’s mistake.”

  “Ah, now I remember,” Tenatte leaned to his side, his scarred face now in profile. “You didn’t have to kill him though. After all, we were just talking. The old marquis was quite the sports fan. At least when he remembered who his favorite teams were.”

  “Tell me, Tenatte, how strict is the Consortium these days with its Code of Silence?”

  “Blood Oaths, secret rituals and handshakes—you DuCideons are a class act.” Tenatte continued his toe tapping. “Hey, do you suppose I could ever work my way up to your job?”

  “Absolutely not,” Ketrick replied, looking to see if anyone nearby was listening.

  “Oh yeah. I forgot. I don’t have a title. What a shame. Maybe I could just manage your ‘members only’ bar. Yell at the gym attendants? Answer office calls for ya?”

  As his personal aide, Ethes Anni, came to mind, someone turned in Ketrick’s direction. Tenatte’s voice was carrying. “Must I remind you, Sir,” said the DuCideon grandmaster, “that we are here at a funeral? A sliver of seriousness would not be out of place.”

  “You have the poor bastard rubbed, and have the nerve to tell me to show respect?” Tenatte laughed. “Fine. Now we both know why you are here. Why am I here?”

  “Several warehouses were looted in Galleston during the revolt.”

  “So? Revolutionaries always steal from the rich. They didn’t belong to you, did they?”

  Ketrick smiled at Tenatte’s admission. “No. To the NDB.”

  “Then why tell me? Let the NDB call their own insurance agent.”

  “I just thought that the Consortium was going to avoid any ‘provocative’ actions while this trial ordeal was going on.”

  “And who told you that?”

  Ketrick did not reply, wondering if he could trust anything coming from Bishop Wyren.

  Tenatte smiled at Ketrick’s reticence. “Don’t believe everything you hear, my Lord Ketrick,” Tenatte said knowingly. “Was there anything else?”

  “Yes,” Ketrick replied, straightening in his chair. “I want it to be official: Duke Burin is under our protection.”

  “What, that Duke Burin?” Tenatte titled his head toward the Court-Grandee’s brother, sitting a dozen rows up.

  “Yes. We do not want him harmed.”

  “Well damn, Ketrick. And here I was about to snuff him in front of everyone before going out for a sandwich. Has he taken your oath then?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Hey,” Tenatte huffed, “you can’t dibbs a duke that’s still in the air. It’s not fair.”

  “All right,” Ketrick breathed, decidedly unamused by the other man’s wordplay. “But tell me: Do you want Burin out of the way?”

  Tenatte turned away and faced forward. Ketrick knew his question had been a surprise. He only hoped the man’s answer told him what he really wanted to know.

  “What do you offer in return for Burin’s safety?” Tenatte asked.

  Ketrick smiled. “How about we have Burin grant you a title?”

  Tenatte laughed. “Was there anything else you wanted to know, my Lord Ketrick?”

  “Aside from the names of Consortium spies within the Brotherhood, no. You?”

  “Aside from the names of your mother’s favorite color, flower and perfume, no.” Tenatte rose from his seat as a musical refrain became a duet about a lost dog. “Until next time, Vaid.”

  “Until next time, Anios.”

  I will support Derrick for the throne, Burin decided, still ignoring what had become a funeral concert by members of the old marquis’ family. Let Biam continue to talk and make his plans, but if Derrick wants the crown, it will be his.

  Burin smiled to himself in relief. He would do the right thing by his nephew. And if it became Derrick’s task to rule Legan, he would him help to succeed.

  ---

  Anson Possór stood on the balcony looking at the empty courtyard below his parents' apartments, pretending it was full of people. Wearing a fancy red bed covering as a cape, Anson addressed the crowd.

  "And We decree," Anson said, waving a small bejeweled scepter like a magic wand, "that insurance peddlers shall no longer marry, lest they breed, spread, and overrun the Imperium."

  Hearing the soft bell-tone from another room, Anson withdrew his next pronouncement. Someone was coming. "Assassins," he whispered, theatrically looking about for a place to hide.

  Secured in a closet, Anson peered from behind some clothes as his mother entered her dressing room. Cloaking his presence with a Mental Discipline he had recently learned, Anson suppressed a giggle.

  Walking directly to a wall-safe across from Anson's hiding place, Josephine shoved aside a mirror and stabbed the buttons of the safe's control panel. Her face shone with perspiration. Seeing his mother’s heated urgency, Anson decided not to surprise her as he had planned. Given her temper, he knew better than to risk further upsetting her.

  "Goddamn him," Josephine breathed, sifting through the papers she found beneath some other items in the safe. Reading one of the documents, she lifted a hand to the wall to steady herself. The Duchess cursed once again before looking up at the ceiling. "Damn him to hell."

  Slamming the safe shut, Josephine left as briskly as she had entered. She never even glanced in her son's direction.

  Alone once more, Anson waited before venturing forth. Curious about the safe's contents, Anson stared at the wall where it resided. He knew the combination, as his father had given it to him months before. But if his mother caught him...

  Satisfied his mother would not return, Anson took a deep breath and cautiously came forward. His makeshift cape fell from his shoulders as he placed his gold scepter on a nearby counter. Tripping the mechanism that slid back the mirror which concealed the safe, Anson pressed the code and opened it.

  The documents were no longer there.

  Anson’s brow furrowed as he searched through the other items. Most of it was jewelry and assorted personal effects, such as his mother’s medication. Clumsily knocking over one of the small containers marked with a prescription, Anson heard something bulky moving about inside. He picked up the object, noting its unexpected weight, and removed the lid.

  Inside was a computer memory cylinder. Anson grabbed it tightly in his hand as he quickly put the safe’s contents back in place. The safe once again closed, Anson waited a moment, listening patiently before going toward the fireplace in the next room.

  On a small table near a chair sat the portascreen he had seen earlier. Activating it, Anson sat as he accessed the memory files.

  Anson did not understand what he was reading at first
. Doubting that these were related to the documents his mother had gone through moments ago, Anson suddenly stopped as he reached what appeared to be a second group of files. Anson had only to read the summary page of this set before his eyes grew wide.

  ---

  XII

  The Possór heir passed through the room’s automated doors without breaking stride, silently sitting across his young cousin at a small conference table near the window. Having now met three other judges, Derrick had expected his daily administrative duties to give way to trial matters. Yet still he was dealing with what he considered to be local issues. It made him wonder how his father had carried on for all those years while managing to seem unharried.

  "Anson," Derrick said hurriedly. "You wanted to see me?"

  Anson's eyebrows rose as he pulled back in his seat, taken by Derrick's abrupt manner.

  Sensing the boy's doubts, Derrick softened his expression as he relaxed in his chair. "What is on your mind?" he asked gently, pushing a stray lock of auburn hair back in place.

  Anson expelled a deep breath. "I have a problem.”

  This must be serious, Derrick thought. "Well, here, let me get us something," said the Possór heir as he switched on a com-link. "Please bring us both something to drink, will you?"

  "Would you like anything special, my Lord?" replied the man on duty.

  "Anson?" Derrick asked casually. The boy shook his head. "No. Just make it cold, and without any stimulants." The Lord-Regent judged himself to be at his limit for such things.

  "At once, my Lord."

  Derrick turned off the com-link. "I hear you leave for Rudderum soon,” he said after a moment. “Some official engagement?" He spared his cousin his disapproval. With the trial only three days away, his uncle Burin should have canceled any festive public appearances.