House of Jackals

by Todd M. Moreno

  Now is the time, Biam thought as he waited on the silent Seffan, determined to exploit the spy report he had been given on Henely’s activities. There might be risks, but Biam knew that his plan had the potential to provide him with greater influence and security.

  And if the "titled clerk" later found him out, there would be nothing that Ketrick could do about it. Who can argue with success? Even if he failed, Biam could always claim to have acted under Ketrick’s direction. Did Ketrick not say that Henely was dangerous?

  Biam allowed himself a tight smile. If Ketrick could support anyone for the throne without conferring with his superiors, either the Brotherhood was indifferent towards Legan, or did not expect Ketrick's efforts to matter. Given that the planet's economic underworld was controlled by the Consortium and, to a lesser extent, by the New Dawn Believers, such a position made sense. Whatever the reason for the Brotherhood's apathy however, Biam’s knowledge of it gave the Advisor new appreciation for his freedom to act.

  "It may be time to rein Tillic in," Advisor Rouher prompted, hoping to renew the topic. Seffan and Biam only glowered in her general direction.

  His eyes wandering, Biam noticed a new portrait on the wall: Burin, in his younger days, before his marriage. The Advisor also noted his lord's new desk. Was a brother as replaceable to the Count-Grandee as a piece of furniture? It made Biam consider his own relevance.

  To rise among the DuCideons, Biam had to prove his ability to those who mattered. Altering Legan's power structure would attract the needed attention, but not if Ketrick took the credit. The best way to prevent that would be supplant Ketrick as grandmaster, a post of limited importance. Biam nearly laughed at the irony. To move past Ketrick’s position, he had to give it greater significance. But at that point, Biam might gladly assume the very chair he now scorned.

  Unless, Biam considered, I express an interest to the NDB in converting….

  "Would you say that his regular duties have suffered by this folly?" Seffan asked at last.

  Biam shook himself from his thoughts.

  "I do not see how they could not be, Sire," Rouher answered, again looking at Biam.

  "I too have been unable to steer him from this obsession, Sire," said Biam. "He simply has his people attend to the tasks I assign him, and ignores my suggestions to let the incident go."

  "Put him under surveillance," Lord Legan said, resting his head against the back of his chair as he gazed up at the ceiling. "I want to know his contacts and what exactly he knows."

  "Should we stop trying to impede him, Sire?" Rouher asked.

  "Yes," the Count-Grandee replied. "I will speak to Tillic myself. After that, I want him to act freely. Then we will know what to do about him."

  The advisors nodded and, after being signaled that they were excused, stood from their chairs, bowed, and left the room. The Count-Grandee absently scratched the side of his beard.

  That foolish old man is my son's best friend, he thought critically, recalling his prolonged inquiry into the death of Derrick's mother. He would remind Tillic where his loyalty should lie. Then, if necessary, he would add the meddling Tillic’s name to a small list he was keeping.

  "Sire?" Biam asked, poking his head through a crack in the door. He saw a tremor pass through the Count-Grandee. He is getting jumpy, noted Biam. Quickly he looked for other clues to Seffan's mood, which had a growing tendency to change rather abruptly.

  "Yes, what is it?" the Count-Grandee responded, his right-hand twitching in agitation.

  "Sire," Biam began, stepping further into the room and closing the door behind him. His tone was a mixture of apology and concern. "I have something to report, an item which I was reluctant to disclose in front of so new an advisor as Rouher."

  "Were you not among those who recommended her?" the Count-Grandee asked.

  Biam realized his mistake as he realized Seffan's real question. Did you not say she was trustworthy? Thinking only of the leverage he would have over Rouher by supporting her, Biam had underestimated the preference that Lord Legan had for male advisors. Biam sidestepped the question by swiftly making his point. "Sire, what I have to say concerns Henely."

  The Count-Grandee lifted an eyebrow.

  "Based on my talks with Tillic and others," the Advisor continued, "I have reason to suspect that the guard commander began his investigations under the First Advisor's direction."

  ---

  Taniell Kamarin walked briskly, despite lacking a clear destination. Only Depré's longer legs kept him from trotting to keep pace. Upon hearing about the murder of six rebel leaders, Kamarin had felt the need to walk outside. They thus found themselves along a riverbank in Galleston's rough Southside, her neighborhood as a child.

  "The Assembly says it's retaliation for our…disturbances," Kamarin said resignedly, breaking the silence. "Though that suggests that they were waiting to act against known targets."

  His anger so strong that he could taste it, Depré was troubled by the want of outrage in Taniell’s voice. Still, he was glad for the chance to be alone with her, even with so many passersby. "But wouldn't that be contrary to Seffan's orders to simply kill us as they find us?" he asked, noting how her eyes seemed to change color under the light of the setting sun.

  "They just say one thing and do another," Kamarin spat, maintaining her quick stride.

  Lenalt released his breath. Taniell would deal with this latest disaster by walking herself to exhaustion. Glancing to his right, he saw some teenagers standing by the door of a shuttered shop, talking and laughing amongst themselves. Two stood apart from the others and watched as he and Taniell walked by. He paid them scant attention. "Did they say anything else?" he asked.

  "The assassin was dressed as a woman," said Kamarin with a shrug. "Your Bishop Wyren was with them though. He and his companion narrowly escaped a lasblast."

  Depré grunted, watching the minimal nearby foot traffic decrease even further with the coming darkness. "I suppose it's no surprise that Steuben's disappeared again,” he said. “This time he is supposedly on some special mission for Derrick, no less."

  "So you don't believe Wyren?" Kamarin asked, finally slowing down. Since Wyren had stood up for the Colonel, Depré had made no secret of his lessened regard for the NDB bishop. Not even Lenalt could truly say however whether his feelings stemmed from personal disappointment or reasoned suspicion.

  "I don't trust him," Lenalt corrected, catching Taniell’s concurring nod, "or any other NDB. They're just using us, maybe as a bargaining chip with Seffan. From what you've said, they've already bought the Assembly, and have moved their people—who once fought with us—into safe administrative roles. Now our operations are stopped and started at their whim." He would not admit it, but Depré also thought that Steuben was correct in saying that those lost in Galleston had been sacrificed merely to test Seffan's response to an uprising. He too now doubted that the NDBs had any real expectation that they would retrieve the targeted files.

  "Well at least we have the DuCideons," Taniell said, turning off the sidewalk toward a vacant public bench overlooking the water.

  Lenalt heard the resentment in her voice. Given her desire to withdraw from the rebel cause, the Brotherhood’s desire to work with him, and not her, should have been acceptable. Vaid Ketrick's sole reason however had been a sexist one, and Taniell knew it.

  "Though I hear," she added with a smile, "the NDB now control the DuCideons as well."

  "I don't care about that," Lenalt grumbled. He sat down next to her with a loud huff. "So long as that idiot Ketrick keeps our money and supply of arms coming through, he can say what he wants, and complain how he wills."

  "You dislike him too then." Taniell’s gaze softened with the gentle flow of the river.

  "He's running his own game, just like the NDBs. His mistake is thinking that he buys our obedience. Can you believe it? He honestly expects me to report on Wyren's activities."

  Taniell remembered what Steuben once told her. Take care in you
r plans that you know whose "pawns" are whose. Suddenly she felt old. They're all silent partners, she thought. That, or they were friendly enough rivals to divide the spoils of Legan without destroying everything.

  Sighing, Taniell reevaluated Lenalt's plans to avenge Galleston and—hopefully—deal the government a crushing blow. Despite his assurances, she doubted Depré fully expected to leave Pablen Palace alive. It was not the end for which she groomed him, but she knew that he could not succeed her. Training alone would never make him a good leader. Lenalt would die a hero though. She wondered if that was what he truly wanted. Depré was adamant that he be the one to carry out the mission from the start. At first she suspected that he was motivated by a personal vendetta, his complaints regarding the competence of his people aside. Now she was not so sure.

  A martyr, she thought, feeling a pang in her heart. Just like his brother.

  Nolan, she cried silently. You told me that I would have to be hard, but would you really have me send your brother to his death? She received no answer.

  As Kamarin saw it, they were in the same position as when they started. All their time, efforts, and even blood, had failed to gain much of anything. Nothing had really changed. Should she try to stop Depré? Spare herself the guilt of one more life?

  No, she decided. Lenalt would demand his right of revenge, and she would not deny him.

  "What is the latest from the Palace?" Kamarin asked finally, suppressing her feelings, forcing herself to accept the premise that personal desires had no place in command decisions.

  "No one’s saying anything,” said Depré, surprised by her change of topic, “but everyone’s on edge. Seffan and his advisors aren't as self-assured as they publicly let on." Depré flashed a newfound smile, one that she did not return. "I think they're scared."

  "Why are you doing this, Lenalt?" Taniell whispered, her resolve breaking. Depré looked into her worried eyes and smiled again before looking away. For a brief moment, Taniell again saw the kid-brother Nolan had introduced to her years before. "Why?" she repeated.

  “For...” Lenalt’s answer stalled on his tongue, “my brother. Nolan.”

  Taniell’s expression did not change.

  "I'll be back, you know," he added, forcing a laugh. "You can't get rid of me so easily."

  Taniell nodded, assuring herself that she was not like the young woman she had privately come to despise, the rebel comrade who had said that people were mere pawns to advance and discard. She was different, Taniell insisted. She was different because she cared.

  Yet she would still expend Depré's life in pursuit of an uncertain plan, on a mere gamble.

  What did her thoughts matter then? Let her conscience deny her the comfort of reason, and demand that she condemn herself as a hypocrite. What would that verdict mean to the dead?

  Shaking in a warm breeze, Taniell wondered what would happen if Lenalt did not return. Would she remain with the rebels? Would she continue to fight for a cause she no longer cared about? How much did she still owe Nolan? And what would she owe Lenalt if he died too?

  A little girl’s familiar voice echoed through her thoughts.

  "I know you have already made at least one attempt," Kamarin said abruptly. Depré met her gaze but said nothing. One generally did not take credit for failed ventures, and Taniell did not press him to do so. "Make sure he doesn't get away this time."

  "I will," Lenalt said solemnly. It took visible effort for him to swallow. "I promise."

  Kamarin nodded, silently vowing that if Lenalt failed in his mission, she would finish it for him. She would take one last life before she retired from the field, then join her daughter, leave Legan forever, and consider all the ghosts appeased.

  ---

  XIX

  Cathena Barell slowly opened her eyes, sluggish from her long communication with her superior on distant Valier, Matér Kellen. Given the sensitive nature of their discussion, they had used telepathy, sending their thoughts so that only the two of them would perceive them.

  The Matér had not been pleased with her report however.

  Cathena lifted herself from her chair as she dispelled the drowsiness that sought to claim her. As she had done many times since her arrival at the Palace, Barell looked out the window of her assigned room, breathing in the sweet scent of tree blossoms which, from above, seemed to cover the large courtyard like snow. Soon her strength began to return.

  "Yours is not a mission of mercy," Matér Kellen had told her, troubled by the concern Cathena had expressed about the Possór heir. "Justice is what you are there to achieve."

  "But he has been through so much, Matér," Cathena had replied. "Is it so wrong to feel compassion for him? You read his dossier. Even when he was a child—"

  "Would you let the father escape judgment just to spare the son?"

  "No. But we both know that Derrick is innocent of his father's crimes."

  "Just as we know that he must face the truth. No one has the right to hide from reality."

  Even me, Cathena admitted, wondering why the Matér had not asked the question that was so obviously on her mind: Have you confused Compassion with Love?

  Cathena turned as a bell-tone came from the door to her apartment. "Come in," she said.

  "Excuse me, Soror," an older woman said as she entered. "I am the palace housekeeper, Marcea Curreck. You wished to speak with me?"

  "Yes," Barell replied, coming forward to meet her. "It seems a determination has been made that my safety requires continued surveillance of my room. So much so that each disabled device begets the installing of a new one somewhere else. Could you help me with this?"

  "My duties as housekeeper do not routinely include security matters, Soror," the former-HOPIS agent said smoothly. "But I can convey your concern to Palace Security, if you like."

  "Thank you," said Barell, stepping to the side as she debated whether to broach the real question on her mind. Curreck saw the truthseer’s hesitation, wondering at it.

  "Is there something else you would like to ask me, Soror?" Curreck prompted.

  Cathena smiled with a deep exhale, grateful for the invitation. Curreck smiled knowingly in return. "Lord Derrick," Barell began. "Have you known him for long?"

  "Yes, I would say so," Curreck laughed. "In fact, few people know more about him than I do. You see, I transferred here soon after my youngest was born, when my husband died."

  Barell lowered her eyes. "I am sorry. I did not mean to—"

  "I have seen Lord Derrick grow from an infant," Marcea continued, eyeing the truthseer carefully. "Meaning that my regard for him is more than that of a servant—or a future subject."

  “I understand,” said Barell, “and am grateful for your openness."

  "Since we are being direct then," Curreck continued, "why do you ask about him? There are numerous articles and reports on Lord Derrick. Some even offering insights on influences and events which have molded his character...and disposition. What did your sources miss?"

  "Ashincor Linse," Cathena replied without hesitation.

  The housekeeper nodded. "Derrick has not seen his grandfather since he was small. From a political standpoint, the man no longer exists."

  "I know," said Barell. "I also know that the former Lord Linse accepted Holy Orders, and holds a post at Ferramond University. My question is: Why did he leave?"

  Curreck glanced about, more out of habit than out of any real need. “Lord Seffan drove him away,” she whispered, finding herself trusting that the soror would not betray her. It was something she would later ask herself about. “The disrespect he suffered was deplorable.”

  “Why did the Count-Grandee hate him so much?”

  “Lord Linse was a strong man of good character. He was also very popular, and may have grown too close to Derrick for his father’s liking.” Suddenly catching herself, the housekeeper crossed her arms. “But why the sudden interest? Do you think he might return?”

  “The day will come,” Barell replied even
ly, “when Lord Derrick will need strong allies.”

  Curreck leaned against the wall, looking at the truthseer with newfound appreciation.

  ---

  Vialette had searched the Palace for Derrick for over an hour, galled that no one would tell her where he was. Some of the servants had even said that he had “disappeared somewhere,” though they ever so politely refused to elaborate. Unwilling to believe that her cousiné might be avoiding her, she sought the one person at Pablen she thought would help her, her Uncle Jordan.

  Jordan Possór, who had been enjoying a late drink in his newly expanded Palace offices, agreed to see his niece only reluctantly. It was not that he disliked the girl. It was just that he held her in so little regard.

  “Yes, the truthseer does bear watching,” he agreed, having already explained to Vialette that he did not know where Derrick was either. “I am sure HOPIS does what it can, but with everything else going on, their priority is not with her.”

  “But she is the real threat to Cousiné Seffan, right?” Vialette sat stiffly in her chair.

  “Yes, but they do not really expect her to do anything for which they might arrest her.” Jordan leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink.

  “But if they are not really watching her, how could they catch her doing anything?”

  “You are right, Vialette,” Jordan sighed, glancing at a note on his desk and then casually tossing it back in its pile. “Perhaps you could aid HOPIS with an extra pair of eyes.”

  “My Lord,” called Jordan’s secretary over the comm on his desk.

  “Yes?” Jordan replied, glad for the interruption.

  “A Mr. Anni is here to see you, Sir.”

  Jordan’s eyebrows arched. They were not supposed to meet until next week. For him to come sooner meant that it was something important. At least, it had better be important.

  “Who is that, Uncle Jordan?”

  “Anni? Oh,” he laughed. “He is my latest investment advisor.” Jordan smiled at his own joke. “And I must meet with him privately, my dear.”