Many of the items on the desk were also destroyed, but Seffan took no notice of them. Nor did he see the dust rising from the rubble, or the sharp fragments jagging upward. Regaining a sense of calm was all that concerned him as the light from his eyes slowly faded.
"There," he said, again breathing normally. With his energies spent and his mind cleansed, his affections for these former family members were things of the past. Soon he was glad that he had not attended their unwarranted memorial service, almost wishing that he had canceled it. Seffan Possór, however, refused the new bid at regret.
What was he to do?
His thoughts turned once again as he stepped over the remains of his desk and headed toward the window. Communiqués to the relevant Consortium contacts had been sent and unhappily received. The activities that had led to so many deaths, and his possible downfall, were finally over. And no matter how much the Consortium rumbled, Seffan had no intention of reversing his decision. He would let the NDB think that the Brotherhood would assume the Consortium’s business contracts on Legan though. Seffan needed the rebels kept quiet during the trial. Afterward however, that would end as well. The NDB would be expelled from the planet, and even the Brotherhood’s presently modest illegal ventures would cease.
Despite Jordan’s ranting, Seffan thought, recalling his cousin's displeasure over the loss of his profits from House Possór’s black market trade. Profits or no, they simply could not continue with the Consortium or the DuCideons. Seffan’s approaching trial made this obvious, although evidently not to his cousin. Of course, Seffan knew that he would have had to stop even without the trial. It was unavoidable. He never wanted his son to be involved in illegal activities or, like him, be trapped into accepting the dictates of criminals.
The Count-Grandee envisioned his cousin arguing his position to Derrick. Even knowing Derrick's character, Jordan's greed would make him that foolish. Just imagining the scene prompted the thought of disposing of his cousin.
It was my dear cousin who oversaw our Consortium operations, Seffan pondered silently. Does he not bear the responsibility of using people who lacked adequate mental shielding? Is he not the one who should have ensured that all records were destroyed?
Seffan sourly discarded the idea. If Jordan deserved death, arguably many others down the chain of command deserved it as well, including people whom he needed right now.
The Count-Grandee would think more on it later.
What now was he to do?
His advisors had already voiced their opinions and, while each took the trouble of saying it differently, all reached the same conclusion: absent an extraordinary development, he would likely lose his case. Remembering the earlier meeting that day, Seffan focused on his advisors’ faces, his thoughts stopping on one of them: Lousin Henely, his very confident First Advisor.
There stood a man who always had something to say, and no difficulty doing so; a man who almost appeared satisfied with Seffan's situation; a man of seemingly wanting loyalty; and the man who all too willingly helped stage his brother's death.
Henely.
The Count-Grandee turned abruptly from the window and left the room. He had two more days to consider what he would do at his trial. What was on his mind now however had to be done immediately. He knew he might not have the opportunity later.
As for Burin...
Now that Burin could no longer compound his crimes with further betrayal, Seffan knew in his heart that time would allow him to forgive his brother.
In that, he finally found some comfort.
---
XVI
"Damn woman!" cried Tillic, panting as he rolled onto his back. "You almost killed me."
"Not to worry," Marcea Curreck replied, adjusting her bed coverings before snuggling up next to him and kissing his cheek. "I have all my lovers insured."
Tillic laughed and pulled her closer. Tired but contented, the old guard commander idly looked about. He had once joked that her bedroom reminded him of the junior officer's quarters he once had in a rundown service barracks. Curreck had retorted that if he ever had to clean any of his own rooms, he might understand why she kept hers plain. Simplicity had its advantages.
"So," Tillic began, placing a hand over the one she had placed over his heart, "what’s the latest on the trial from the Palace?"
"The truthseer scares them," she said, "but no one says why."
"Unshielded personnel probably saw things they shouldn’t have. Once activities become routine, people tend to become sloppy."
"Is that a guess?" she asked, poking his exposed ribs. "You’ve been gone for quite a while. What have you learned?"
"I’m not really involved in any trial stuff."
"What? With all that’s going on? Why not?"
"Nothing’s come across my desk."
"Since when do you get assignments?" Curreck laughed, poking him once more.
"Hey!" Tillic yipped, moving over slightly. "Nothing’s come up, I tell you."
"Then what have you been doing with yourself?"
Tillic shifted again, this time uncomfortably. "I’m conducting a murder investigation."
"Whose?" Curreck rolled to her side, resting her head on an upturned palm.
"Burin and his family."
"That inquiry is supposed to be complete," she said evenly. "It has already been ruled accidental." Curreck leaned closer to his face. "Why are you involved?"
"Seffan ordered them killed," he said, refusing to look at her.
"I see."
Tillic knew that tone of voice. "The government report is—"
"I thought you had given up on this, Manus," Curreck said.
"On what?"
"You know what."
"Burin was killed—"
"Burin isn’t the issue here. Besides, you know damn well his death is related to the trial."
"This isn’t an official investigation," Tillic said.
"I don’t care what type of investigation it is. Though no one dares to say it openly, half the Palace figures Seffan killed them. There is no mystery here."
"But if I find evidence that Seffan killed his brother—"
"And to whom would you give your findings, Manus? Not to Seffan. Not to the Andior kid with his Pax Imperator hanging over us."
"To Derrick," Tillic responded.
"Yes," Curreck nodded, "to Derrick. Will you also tell him if his uncle was a traitor?"
The guard commander straightened.
"That would have to be part of your inquiry, wouldn’t it? Seffan’s reason for killing them is important, isn’t it? And since this whole affair is tied to the trial, will you also mention Seffan’s Consortium operations?"
Tillic winced. He had vowed never to tell Derrick the truth about his father’s illegal activities, though it was a promise that also saved him from admitting his own involvement in the first Consortium contracts, years ago. "But he killed Anson, too," Manus whispered.
A dead son cannot avenge murdered parents.
"I know," Marcea answered, "but do you see where this will lead, even if you can prove it? And you won’t be able to prove it."
Tillic finally looked at her.
"You might compile a winning court case, but we both know whom you really have to convince. And convince beyond all doubt. And that would be impossible."
"I have to try," Tillic replied stalwartly.
"So you can obsess over it? Throwing yourself into finding that one last piece of evidence so you can justify going to Derrick with your theories?"
"You would rather have me do nothing?"
"For whom are you really doing this, Manus? And don’t tell me Burin and his son."
"What do you mean?" Tillic waited for the name that he knew to be on her lips.
"Do you really believe the murdered dead are in anguish," said Curreck instead, "unable to rest until justice is done? Will convicting Seffan for murder truly end the suffering of some tormented soul?"
Tillic shook his
head. That he did not believe.
"Then if nothing you can do will affect the dead, you can’t really be doing it for them."
"But I owe a duty to them."
"You owe a duty to the living too, and unlike them, what you do will affect Derrick." Marcea turned to lie with her back to Tillic. “And me.”
During the ensuing silence, Tillic reached out and stroked her flowing white hair.
"Cassand was the most caring and noblest person I have ever met," Curreck said, pulling her blankets in close. "What was done to her was horrific, a crime beyond measure. If I had her true murderer before me, well, there was a time I would have killed him without further thought." Curreck stopped and swallowed. "But that satisfaction is not mine to have. It’s not yours either. You must accept that, Manus. Let her go."
"Marcea, my love—"
"You have chided me for being jealous before, Manus," Curreck interrupted. "I know all the arguments. What you don’t understand is that this has nothing to do with any relationship you could or would have had with her under different circumstances."
Tillic’s face darkened. "Would you fault a loyal subject for loving his queen? Or me, for caring about a person of good heart, a friend, and the mother of Derrick?"
"If I was once jealous of Cassand, it was because your obsession with her murder took you away from me. A ghost commanded more of your attention than I did. She occupied your thoughts instead of me. Your time was more hers than mine."
"That’s not true!"
"Perhaps, perhaps not. Arguing over percentages is pointless. But this is beyond simply doing your job, Manus."
"This isn’t about Cassand," Tillic said evenly, having already decided not to mention any of his new findings, particularly the connection he found to the four Imperial agents.
"Obsession is obsession, no matter what the object," she replied, lifting an eyebrow. She had once left him over this type of thing. She would do so again, if that was the path he chose. "You still haven’t said whom this is for."
"Derrick," said Tillic, remembering the promise he had made to him upon his return from the Academy for his mother’s funeral.
"Derrick," Marcea repeated. "So if you had all the evidence you could possibly get, right now, and if it all pointed to Seffan, would you go to Derrick with it? Would you really add that to what he is already dealing with from the trial?"
Tillic did not reply.
"There’s a good chance Seffan will lose his case. If he does, he’ll likely be imprisoned for the rest of his life. At that point, even if you convinced Derrick of his further guilt, all you would succeed in doing is hurt him, for by then Seffan would be well beyond his reach."
"But if Seffan wins his case?"
"He wins!" Curreck declared, tears filling her eyes. "Don’t you realize the risk you take in pursuing Cassand’s murder?" she asked. "If Burin and his family were killed over this trial, what could your life be worth?"
"It’s my job," Tillic responded solemnly. "It is my duty."
"Push Derrick too far and you’ll break him. Push Seffan at all and he’ll kill you. You can’t win this, Manus." Curreck took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "What could you possibly gain from it?"
"Derrick would know the truth."
"And what price would you have him pay for that truth? A power struggle between Derrick and Seffan would be no contest. Seffan would either lock him up in a jail or in an asylum. And that’s if Derrick doesn’t pitch himself off a balcony first."
Tillic recoiled, jumping halfway out of the bed before turning to her with a raised finger.
"Now do you understand why you must stop?" Marcea pleaded, grabbing his hand and putting it to her cheek. "The Imperials don’t care about Cassand. Burin’s death only interests them because of Pax Imperator. Seffan is the Count-Grandee of Legan, the head of the planetary government, and he has family connections to nearly all the lesser nobility on the planet. There’s nothing you can do to him, and there’s nothing you can try to do that won’t affect Derrick. Don’t you see? You can’t possibly be doing this for his benefit."
"Then for whom am I doing this?"
"For yourself, you stubborn, selfish bastard!"
The guard commander’s eyes widened as they locked onto hers.
"You may get truth, Manus," Curreck continued, her voice falling to a whisper, "but you won’t get justice. And no matter what some may say, truth without justice is not worth the fall of heaven, and not worth the suffering of us all."
- - -
Derrick stood on the observation deck, watching the activity of the Palace's hangar bay below. Another ship arrived, no doubt along with more demands for the utmost protection. He had caused quite a protest by limiting the number of guards that could accompany persons of note coming to the Palace, but he knew that his people could only effectively control so many.
Let them max their shields, Derrick thought, guessing a few buffoons would do just that, and walk around all shimmering and buzzing. Smiling, he remembered what an old eccentric teacher—and guard commander—had told him about such protective fields restricting mobility.
Thinking of shields and his youth reminded him of a prank he very briefly played when he was eight or nine: dropping small, impact-powder bombs upon the unwary. Of course, he only did it when his targets had their shieldbelts activated. Otherwise the joke could have been lethal. His father had put an abrupt end to the sport nonetheless. Mischief with a couple of his like-minded young guards was one thing. Dropping one on the Lord Mayor was quite another.
Peering down at a nearby walkway, he fancifully imagined Guerren Andior coming toward him. A shield would do little against the shell he had in mind for him. There would be a large crater to fill though.
I could instead send him a little surprise, Derrick idly mused, thinking of the explosives and trigger mechanisms he had recently seen in one of his father's armory labs. Tillic was no doubt still working on his murder theory.
Derrick pushed the emerging line of thought from his mind, purposely turning instead to his initial meeting with the judges.
Imperial Special Commander, he said to himself, his hatred of Guerren Andior again intruding. Ensure Pax Imperator? This is our fief, Andior. We ensure the peace here.
Yet the peace had been broken, and Derrick could not help but wonder at how easily Guerren Andior had accepted the official findings. Such incompetent stupidity, even if it worked to his advantage, sickened him. Unless Guerren did not care, so long as we were the targets.
Derrick inhaled deeply, once more trying to control his thoughts.
Do not think about him, he told himself, refusing to allow a mental image of Anson to take form. Later. I do not have time to mourn right now.
Derrick took another long breath and again steered his attention away from his young lost cousin. Soon a vision of Soror Barell came to mind, as he remembered the latest report on her from HOPIS. She was not being idle. Just the previous day, after joining Archbishop Schnyder on a sightseeing tour in the morning and early afternoon, the truthseer visited an orphanage run by her Order. Having spent time with most of the children, she concluded a late evening by meeting privately with several of her fellow sisters.
Reflecting on one of the surveillance pictures taken of her, her importance requiring close monitoring by the Possór government, Derrick wondered what Soror Barell was thinking.
Soror Barell.
CATHENA Barell, Derrick silently amended. Her name repeated in his mind, seemingly by its own accord. He had read every report he could on her. Still, while the factual details about her held little mystery for him, the woman herself remained an alluring unknown. Of course, Derrick often found women to be generally unfathomable.
The Possór heir's earlier mood disintegrated as thoughts of the ongoing marriage negotiation with House Tehasing leapt to the foreground. With them came more complications.
Faced with new anxieties, Derrick concentrated on the hangar crews below, again hoping t
o avoid thoughts of what really troubled him. But there was no evading the reality he faced.
House Possór could fall. A dynasty of a hundred generations was nearing an end. A tradition of nobility, culture and strength was almost over. That was his true fear. That was what the murders and the treasons all pointed toward. All stemming from a sham trial.
All because the Empire no longer tolerates the success of an honest man.
Derrick imagined his mother's voice: "Members of the ruling houses are born with wealth, not nobility. Nobility is a code we live by—an ideal for which we strive." She had always been instructing him. Even as a child he had learned to accept the mantle which he, as the heir to a grand-house, was expected to bear. "You must be an example to your subjects," she told him, "the embodiment of those traits which you wish them to possess."
"I have tried, Mother," Derrick said, almost thankful that she was unable to see what was happening. Derrick straightened, suppressing the feeling of loss that threatened to engulf him. With the family name already disparaged throughout the Imperium, he knew that even if his father won his case, the victory would come too late.
Derrick again remembered the Imperial Academy, his required service to the Emperor before becoming eligible to assume his father's title. The other cadets had often ridiculed him unmercifully over the alleged connection between House Possór and the infamous Consortium.
House Possór is a Consort House!
"Damn Guerren Andior," Derrick said, before once more trying to steer his thoughts.
The case, he said to himself. That was what he needed to focus on.
As a judge, Derrick knew that it would have been improper to be actively involved in his father's defense. He was not even technically supposed to peruse the evidence until the trial began. Yet despite his heavy schedule, he wondered if he should have done more. Sitting on the bench seemed to be a legal farce to Derrick anyway, although he could not think of anything else he could have otherwise done to help. There was also the political need to at least appear to be objective, even though he had no intention of being passive.
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