House of Jackals

by Todd M. Moreno

  “They’re highly sought after, my Lord, by more sophisticated—”

  “Get this idiot out of here,” Jordan ordered.

  Ketrick heard a brief struggle as guards seized the offending merchant, his protestations suggesting that he had no idea how he had insulted Lord Jordan. Not that it mattered. Ketrick did not bother to look at the man as the soldiers escorted him past. Upon entering the room, a servant announced the DuCideon Grandmaster to Lord Jordan.

  “Ah, Lord Ketrick,” Jordan said, reaching down and holding an item aloft. “Can you believe possessing something like this is now considered the mark of a collector with taste?”

  “Sadly, yes,” Ketrick replied. “In my opinion, far too many self-proclaimed artists with no appreciable skill hide behind a well-marketed persona. The commoners may be foolish enough to believe that an emotional backstory enhances art, or that greatness is proven simply by a stylistic novelty, but trying to push that rubbish onto people like us is an outrage.”

  Jordan nodded before continuing to peruse the room.

  Looking about, Ketrick saw that the large open area was filled with a wide variety of items, from paintings to furniture to statues to other assorted oddities. All of it brought in by hopeful sellers for the consideration of the Count-Grandee’s royal cousin.

  “My Lord Jordan,” Ketrick began again, catching sight of an item that would have interested him if time were convenient. “I have come to you on a matter of some urgency.”

  “Yes?” Jordan replied, picking up what looked like an ancient battle helm.

  “It is about certain information being collected on Your Lordship. Information which,” Ketrick paused, “are you sure, Sir, that this is an appropriate place to speak of such things?”

  “This is my home.” Jordan signaled to a servant his acceptance of the battle helm before setting it back down. “But you have brought a portascreen. You have something to show me?”

  “This is a draft report now being written, my Lord, along with supporting documents.”

  Jordan held out his hand and Ketrick gave him the portascreen. At first Jordan maintained his aloof expression. Soon however his eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened.

  “And I assume this report has been self-commissioned by the good guard commander himself,” said Jordan, his gaze still locked on the screen as he ran through the images.

  “We believe Tillic intends to give it to Lord Derrick when he becomes count-grandee.”

  “Tillic,” Jordan repeated, chewing the name. “I would think he would realize that such an attack on me is an attack on the entire Possór government, as well as on the Count-Grandee.”

  “That is why we think it significant that Commander Tillic will wait until after the trial to submit it, Lord Jordan. If the Count-Grandee wins his case, giving this report to Lord Derrick would be senseless...if not suicidal. But if the Count-Grandee is deposed....”

  “Which means that I am his real target,” Jordan breathed.

  “And the Consortium, my Lord,” Ketrick added pointedly.

  Jordan raised an eyebrow. “Yet this would affect your Brotherhood as well. If I am no longer coordinating operations, and Derrick starts snooping around, all organizations with clandestine activities could be suppressed.”

  “Surely Lord Derrick would not expel a philanthropic—”

  “Save it, Ketrick. Being naïve and inexperienced does not make Derrick stupid. Even a fool can be distinguished from an idiot.”

  “Just as thugs can be distinguished from gentlemen, Lord Jordan,” Ketrick observed. “In any event, the final report should be ready anytime. We could intercept it for you, of course.”

  “Yes, but that will not solve the problem. I did not realize that Tillic was so industrious. One wonders where he gets the energy.”

  “As near as we can tell, my Lord, none of Commander Tillic’s people are involved in producing the report. Still, there is no question that he is the one behind it.”

  Jordan grunted. “Then it seems the time has come for Commander Tillic to be removed.”

  “Is this something to take to the Count-Grandee, my Lord?” Ketrick asked, knowing the answer. By its wording, the report all but invited the idea of laying the blame for the charges against Seffan on Jordan’s head. It would be an easy sacrifice for Seffan to keep his throne.

  “The Count-Grandee has enough to think about right now without bothering him with something like this,” Jordan replied. “Besides, with all these damn Imperial spies running around for the trial, it would be best to keep the Count-Grandee’s hands clean.”

  “If the Count-Grandee will not be ordering it, my Lord, then having Commander Tillic...ah, removed would have to be done very carefully. As a favorite of Lord Derrick—”

  “Yes, yes,” Jordan interrupted. “We all must be careful not to upset little Lord Derrick.”

  “We could do this for you, my Lord,” Ketrick offered, testing Jordan’s reaction. Would Jordan obligate himself to the Brotherhood? Or was he already committed to the Consortium?

  “I would not trouble you further, Lord Ketrick. I can take care of this myself. Just give me the names of those involved in this report, and I will have it resolved in the next few days.”

  Ketrick did not bother to hide his disappointment. “There is a separate file, my Lord,” he gestured to the portascreen, “with the relevant names and information. The name of our source is omitted however. He is a Brother, and so he can be trusted.”

  Jordan gave no indication he had heard the last part, prompting Ketrick to make a mental note to warn his source. If the man wanted to live, he would have to go into hiding, possibly even off-planet. “Do you still want us to intercept the report, my Lord?”

  “If you wish,” Jordan said airily. “We can dispense with most of the names here soon enough. Tillic can come later. Anything else?”

  “Only to say that I greatly look forward to Your Lordship joining our Brotherhood. To be Your Lordship’s sponsor into the Deeper Mysteries is a great honor for me.”

  “Yes, well I have made no final decision yet,” Jordan warned, “and will not be prepared to do so until the trial is over.”

  “I guess I just hope for everything to turn out for the best, my Lord.” Ketrick met Jordan’s faint smile with one of his own.

  ---

  XV

  Intent on asking Advisor Biam about some unreconciled financial reports, Derrick was returning to the west end of the Palace when he heard two people approaching. Knowing that security rarely patrolled the area, and noting the cadence of their footfalls, he doubted they were station guards. Their voices confirmed his suspicion. Biam and Henely.

  Seized by an impulse, Derrick hid behind a dividing wall, shadowed beside one of the tall bronze statues that lined both sides of the hallway. There, he psychically cloaked himself. Now only a chance glance would reveal him, unless the advisors used their own psychic abilities to make certain they were alone. Aware of the embarrassment he risked, and the chance of having to explain himself to his father, Derrick wondered at his foolishness as the two men walked past.

  “The Viscountess hasn’t been able to get near her,” Henely said.

  “It might be better that way,” Biam remarked.

  “Perhaps, but it leaves the Count-Grandee with few options.”

  "So how will he plead?" Biam asked.

  "Seffan is still undecided," Henely replied reluctantly.

  "But the trial is in two days!"

  "He knows."

  Undecided? Derrick repeated, having been led to believe that his father's case was strong. Watching the two men depart, he cursed his schedule that always found him either leaving his father’s trial strategy meetings early, or missing them altogether. Still psychically hidden, Derrick followed the advisors, using the dark hallway’s natural cover where he could.

  For a moment, the advisors’ conversation died down.

  I must know more, Biam thought. The report from his spies in Archives
had hit him like a bombshell. The Advisor could even guess what Ketrick would say about it.

  The clod will probably cry over losing Burin again, Biam silently remarked. But the report’s importance could not be denied. Now they had to consider several possible claimants to the throne: Derrick, Seffan's uncle Seonas, Seonas' two quasi-legitimate sons, and Jordan.

  More, depending on the applicable marriage contracts, even relatives without the Possór name had to be considered. This included Lilth’s two sons, who could assume the Possór name under an escape clause in the House Morays agreement "should the throne of Legan be at stake."

  Biam drew a heavy breath. While the Brotherhood could make overtures to all the contenders before settling on its choice, he thought it wise to discover if Henely had a candidate. That was why he had waited for Henely outside the Count-Grandee's door. That was also why he needed to undergo the role of sycophant once again.

  "Interesting how the timing of this unfortunate ‘accident’ fits into place," Biam remarked.

  Derrick, who had almost begun a retreat to a safer location, stiffened.

  "It was masterful," Biam went on. With a furtive glance, he saw Henely smile, enjoying the praise. "When you told Seffan of their plan to escape to Rudderum, was he more vengeful or paranoid?" Asking such a question was bold, but Biam had his suspicions about Henely and, if pressed, he could always claim that Seffan had mentioned the matter. Of course, this assumed Henely had informed Seffan of the "traitors'" intentions, but that was the crux of Biam's inquiry.

  "At first a little of both," Henely replied, falling for the gambit.

  Now Biam smiled, knowing that the other man's vanity was his best weapon against him.

  “Telling him that they would stay in hiding until after the trial really upset him,” the First Advisor continued. “The idea that they might flee the planet nearly sent him into a tirade."

  Noting Henely's amusement, Biam wondered if he was truly unable to see how dangerous it was to deliberately provoke Seffan. The idiot must think Divine Aid is his to invoke.

  "It was too risky to let them run loose," remarked Biam, as if he still had reservations. "But one does what one must. Burin shared so many of his wife's views...and prejudices." Biam dropped his eyes to the floor and squinted, careful to keep his facial expression consistent with his words and delivery. From the side, he saw Henely turn his head slightly toward him.

  He glances but says nothing, Biam said to himself. Now it was time for Biam’s final test. "And if he were made grandee, as the Brotherhood fools thought to do, things would be worse."

  Biam felt Henely's eyes focus on him. Now he would know how good the First Advisor’s information network was. So Lousin, do you know I am with the DuCideons? Or are you beginning to wonder if I might be a Hidden NDB?

  "I agree," Henely said warily. "But the legal precedent they were to rely upon to prevent Derrick from ascending the throne was really too esoteric to be seriously considered."

  Biam had to consciously keep his eyebrow from lifting. So Henely was unsure of Biam’s associations. But he did know how Burin threatened Derrick's claim. Henely didn’t care about Josephine, Biam thought. He wanted Burin dead, and his son too. Unless...

  The First Advisor sniffed. "A twelve-hundred-year-old succession issue is a debate for academics, not politicians."

  Biam nodded, although more to cover his excitement over what Henely's scornful exhale had told him than to suggest accord.

  “If the Brotherhood really wants to be rid of Derrick," Henely continued, "they should try to tie him to Seffan's illegal activities. In fact, we should take extra steps to guard against that. We can’t allow this scandal to spread too far, can we?"

  The corners of Biam's mouth peaked slightly as all his effort in playing a hopeful lackey paid off. Henely had decided that Biam was not a DuCideon. As pleased as Biam was, he did not even mind that Henely saw him as stupid, and therefore harmless.

  And let it remain that way, Biam told himself, until I’m done with this overconfident ass.

  "But can an institution so bathed in tradition easily escape it?" Biam pressed. "This is not some Imperial custom handed down to us. However ancient, the law clearly states that if Seffan is deposed as a condemned criminal, his royal blood-line will be deemed to end with him, and the line of succession would shift to another branch of the family."

  "I know the law," the First Advisor snapped. "But only Burin had the political standing to challenge Derrick's claim. That was the whole point of it." Shaking his head to shrug off the petty nuisance, it was evident that Henely still found the subject troublesome. "Surely none of Seffan's cousins can pose a serious threat. While Derrick may not be especially loved by the common people—particularly those in Galleston," the First Advisor forced a chuckle, "he has long been recognized as the Heir. One thing I'll say for Seffan, he knew what he was doing by keeping the rest of his family in the shadows."

  That was the whole point of it, Biam repeated to himself. Just how well did Josephine fit into your plans? "Some of them may not be content to remain there if they sense a weakness," the Advisor probed, "or a chance to take Legan for themselves." Is Derrick truly the one you support, Henely? Tell me, for I want no more surprises.

  "Then we should eliminate any apparent weakness," Henely said impatiently. "So long as we don’t feed any fires by doing so." He looked at Biam sternly. "If we advertise this quaint legalism by openly worrying about it, we may embolden some idiot to take action."

  I am in, Biam said silently. "I know Derrick was always our best hope," he insisted. "I only..." Biam looked down with feigned reluctance. "Josephine might have been useful to blackmail." There, Biam thought, hoping Henely continued to loosely monitor his words. How he answers that should tell me what I want to know. Biam was not disappointed.

  "Small stuff," Henely declared, waving away the triviality before leaning toward Biam with a laugh. "You should have seen her face when I told her about the files found in her ‘secret’ safe. She was horrified, immediately claiming that they were planted." The First Advisor chortled again. "Anyway, after having said that I had no idea her apartment would be searched, I told her that it was no use even trying to speak with Seffan. It was all well beyond that."

  Should I believe what I am hearing? Biam wondered, now wishing he had spoken with Josephine before the end. His spirits fell at the idea that Henely was a better actor than he thought. "I imagine," Biam began, still hoping to assure himself that he had gained something from this exchange, "thinking the death order had already been given, she felt her only option was to escape while in Rudderum. If she but knew she was yet just under suspicion."

  Biam flashed a devilish grin that Henely returned with a cackle. Abruptly however Henely stopped, pursing his lips in thought. He has realized that he has said too much, Biam reflected. Good. That means I can put some credence into what he has said already.

  "The succession issue," Henely began, his voice again serious. "If you still feel a need to deal with it, do so quietly."

  Yes, Master, Biam thought mockingly, nodding to the arrogant asscap still talking.

  "I don't want to hear about..."

  Derrick lost the rest of the conversation, but had heard enough. It had been murder. And Henely and Biam were involved. Some comments puzzled him however, including those around the succession issue. Sighing, Derrick sat on the steps of a nearby marble stairwell. He needed to talk with his father, but knew that it would have to wait until the trial was over. His one consolation was that neither Henely nor Biam were going anywhere.

  Henely and Biam. It was fortunate that neither of them trusted the other enough to risk establishing a psychic link by gloating over their treasonous success telepathically. Derrick glanced about, supposing that it was also fortunate that they both knew that this corridor was not under routine surveillance. Derrick would never have known their guilt otherwise.

  Seeing Henely as the more dangerous of the two, he regarded the corpulen
t First Advisor intently: his twitching nose, the thin mustache, the short, straight black and white hair, the small pudgy hands. What else did you tell her, Henely? Derrick asked, wondering why his aunt had not gone to his father, despite the man's warning. Or why she had not gone to his uncle who, after listening to her, would surely have gone to his brother.

  "Anson," Derrick whispered. What did you see? Why did Henely want you dead too?

  ---

  Jordan Possór stood on the top aft deck of the O.S.V. Sea Queen, the Duke of Veron’s personal yacht. Thinking of Lilth’s plan to have the Duke drowned in his own reclamation plant, as repayment for his rudeness during the harvest ball at Crucidel, Jordan allowed himself a twisted smile. It was only a shame that Seffan’s trial required that the idea be put on hold.

  Time for that later, Jordan thought, catching the Duke glance his way periodically as more guests came aboard for his benefit gala. His arrival had seemed to surprise him. Yet while he kept Jordan within sight, the Duke seemed careful not to draw attention to his presence.

  Odd, Jordan thought, trying to distract himself from a resurging sense of dread. Most hosts at these events paraded what royals they could find. Did this mean that the Duke knew his real reason for coming? Jordan would have expected the Duke to refuse to host this meeting, if he knew who the other participant was. Or who he claimed to be.

  Despite overseeing House Possór’s relationship with the Consortium, Jordan had only ever met with its local crime bosses, never its planetary head. The omission was intentional, it being Seffan’s way of making sure that Jordan did not gain too much influence. He could not blame Seffan for his caution, of course. He could only despise him.

  But Seffan knew nothing of this meeting. In fact, the representative from the Council of Underlords, the Consortium’s ruling body, had made a point of suggesting that Jordan not inform his cousin of their consultation—at least until after they had spoken.