House of Jackals

by Todd M. Moreno

  "What did the Emperor’s representative say then?" Seffan's voice was soft and diffident.

  "Enough to know that he had no quarrel with our House. He only wanted you." Before descending the steps, Derrick paused for a reply, but his father kept his head down in silence. "It is strange, Father," Derrick said in a different tone, "how you said that the other Grand Houses would closely scrutinize our case, given that the Emperor's hand was so obviously involved."

  Stopping, Derrick bent closer, tightened his right hand on the railing, and spoke in a hiss. "But no one came to our aid, and do you know why?" The menace in his voice began to rise. "Because everyone knew you were guilty! Parliament. The Emperor. The Holy Church. The whole damned Imperium!" Having raised his arms to encompass the room, Derrick suspended them a moment before letting them drop. "Everyone but me." He slowly turned his head away. "I must have looked like an idiot sitting there, especially after you admitted to everything."

  Derrick jarred the thought from his mind and took another step down the stairs. "So, tell me, Father, will the Emperor show mercy? Compassion? You did everything only for House Possór, correct? Forget the fact that by right and title you were House Possór!" Derrick had taken a few more steps, entering a ray of light from the large window to his right.

  "You are now House Possór," the former Lord Legan said, seeing Derrick's hair aglow with the sun's rays.

  "What is left of it," Derrick said coldly. "Yet had you pulled it off, no doubt I would be all the prouder of you for making our House strong and great." He laughed bitterly. "Strong and great. We were going to show all those bastards, right?" Derrick shook his head. "Pride and honor. Everything I thought we had." He lowered his eyes. "I was a fool."

  Derrick coughed a laugh and looked at his father. "You know, I almost fought a duel at the Academy because of all this nobility shit." His father became rigid. "Mother never told you, did she?" Derrick's manner was dismissive. "Care to guess the cause? Whom I was to fight?" The old Count-Grandee's gaze fell. "No," Derrick gathered, "I suppose not. The headmaster was very unhappy at not being able to speak with you.” Derrick glanced at his father from the side. “I wonder what you would have said, if he had." Derrick's father did not respond.

  "Where were you that day anyway, Father?" Derrick's voice rose in pitch. "Were the other cadets right? Were you out secretly dealing with the Consortium’s Grand Overlord?" His breath wavered as his father sighed. "All my life I learned to have pride in the Possór name, and all that time you were selling it out!" Derrick was trembling. "So what kind of a House are we, Father?" He took a few more steps down. "Go ahead, say it." Derrick deepened his voice to mimic his father. "We are a Consort House, Son."

  "We are a Noble House, my son," his father said faintly. Seffan jerked his gaze from something Derrick could not see.

  "Noble?" Derrick asked mockingly, snapping inside. "But we are criminals!" He began to yell. "This," he said, pointing to the decorations on his uniform. "Fraud and hypocrisy. We do not deserve to wear this." Derrick ripped off one of his medals. "Dignity," he proclaimed, as if naming the item's representation. "And this one," he said, grabbing an insignia, "is for Faithfulness." He tore it from its place, only to violently remove other items as he randomly assigned significance to each. "Glory. Honor. Sincerity. Loyalty. Service." Derrick again began to walk toward his father, dropping his decorations as he frantically stripped them away. "Sacrifice! Morality! Integrity! Incorruptibility! Rectitude! And all kinds of assorted virtues!"

  Derrick panted as his uniform hung about him, rent and tattered. Only one decoration remained. He seized it as he reached his father. "And this last token—the Possór Star—which you so ceremoniously presented to me at my formal investiture as heir. Here," he wrenched it from his chest, "this is for you and the Exalted House Possór!"

  Derrick kept his hand outstretched for several seconds, lifting one defiant brow before letting the jewel-encrusted ornament fall to the ground. The former Count-Grandee watched it leave his son's unclenched hand and strike the polished dark-wood floor. Several small stones shot free from their settings on impact.

  Derrick's father abruptly came forward and slapped his son across the face, inadvertently augmenting his strength with the Disciplines. Derrick dropped to the floor, struck still more by his astonishment than by the force of the blow. Slowly Derrick rose to his feet.

  Seffan Possór's eyes teared as he and his son stood regarding one another in silence. But Derrick realized that he could not read those eyes. Had his father’s guilt and sorrow suddenly welled up? Or was this yet another dramatic display by an emotional chameleon?

  Derrick's expression turned from uncertainty to anger to cold amusement. He laughed out loud, righted his frayed uniform, and walked back to the staircase. "Have I offended you, Father?" he asked tauntingly, turning and resting his forearm on one of the carved wooden newels supporting the handrail. Blood seeped along the side of his face. "I thought all of that ‘regality’ was nothing but sligshit to you. Are you not glad I finally see things as they are?"

  Derrick's father shook his head slowly. "Why are you doing this, Derrick?" he asked.

  Derrick swallowed at the weakness in his father's voice. At the humanity of it. How could this be acting? His reply was soft and faint. "Why did you do this?" Derrick asked. "I admired you, trusted in you, but I never knew you."

  Seffan cried out and rushed to his son with his arms held wide.

  A warning tingled every nerve. This was not his father. The father he knew would not give in to drama. The father he knew held soppy emotional displays with contempt. "Stay away from me!" Derrick yelled, backing up onto the stairs. Seffan Possór stopped. "Nothing justifies what you did. It was plain greed! Our name, our...We were already a wealthy House." Derrick’s breath caught, and he involuntarily glanced to the side, wondering. "Even if we were not,” he resumed, “our self-respect would have been enough...at least for me." His eyes focused somewhere outside the window. "Sometimes it was the only thing which kept me going."

  "Life holds much that you are yet to understand," Seffan Possór sobbed.

  "Maybe so," Derrick agreed, looking back at his father. "But you should have taught me more about it, and told me why."

  "Everything was to stop before you assumed the title. You were not to know. I knew you would never have accepted it."

  "Had it come from you, Father, I may have surprised you." Derrick took a few more steps up the stairway. "Funny, even this morning I wanted to believe the lies. Yours, and mine." He lifted his head. "But we will rebuild, and be noble again…when the shame washes away."

  Seffan’s eyes were red and watery. Suddenly the former Count-Grandee's legs failed him, and he fell to his knees, weeping. Derrick stood motionless, seeing only a shadowy remnant of what was once his father—a formidable presence reduced to a pitiful old man.

  Or, at least, the appearance of one.

  This is not my father, Derrick told himself. The father I knew would not have done this. The father I knew was a man of honor. With a deep breath, Derrick straightened tall and psychically healed his face. He then spoke. "I will submit my judgment now."

  "Yes," his father wheezed, struggling to stand. "With your vote, I may still get a pardon...or at least a commuted sentence."

  Derrick looked down at the man without comment.

  The opposite of Mercy is Justice.

  The new Count pressed a button on his wristband as he turned to face the window. "You may return him," Derrick said to the guards, hearing the door open behind his father.

  "Son," his father pleaded, "I love you!"

  Derrick’s silence was brief. "Captain,” he said, “I need a new uniform—an Imperial one."

  Seffan stood where he was, trembling.

  "Yes, my Lord Count," the captain acknowledged.

  The former lord of Legan was being slowly led to the door when Derrick called out again, finding the will to pose a final question. "Father?" he said, his voice even.
>
  "Yes, Derrick?"

  Derrick heard the hopefulness in his father’s voice, but still refused to look at him.

  "Did my uncle and his family know?"

  His father's jaw dropped as he stared at Derrick's back.

  "Did...Mother know?"

  Seffan Possór's expression hardened. It was clear what Derrick had really asked.

  The former Count-Grandee stood erect, righted his uniform and raised his chin. As Derrick turned around, he saw that his father's cool calmness had returned. The unreadable mask was once again in place. Derrick suppressed a shudder. Nonetheless, he met his father's gaze, watching the once Imperial Lord turn and depart with dignified deliberateness.

  When the door finally closed, Derrick braced himself against the stair rail. It was his turn to make his fateful decision and, like his father, he made it before he even realized it.

  ---

  The room again stood as the judges entered. Once everyone was seated, the Imperial High Justice spoke. "Seffan Possór, having been convicted through your own admission of all charges against you, do you wish to offer cause for why sentence should not be pronounced?"

  Seffan stood hesitantly, knowing that inviting an allocution was unusual when judgment was based on a guilty plea. One of his counselors tugged at his sleeve, but the former grandee shrugged him off. Looking squarely at his son’s averted gaze, Seffan answered. "No, my Lord."

  "Very well," Justice Salian replied. "The court officer will read the verdicts in the order of their submission." All activity in the hall stopped as the officer stood from his station.

  "His Lordship, the Imperial High Justice: Death by public execution."

  The entire assembly knew that a death sentence required a unanimous vote under a guilty plea. From the murmurs, some believed that the High Justice's vote would hold. Still, given the reputation of Imperial penal colonies, most saw life-imprisonment as but a temporary reprieve.

  "His Lordship, the Count von Taccen: Death by public execution."

  As the whisperings within the courtroom increased, the old Count-Grandee looked up at his son. Derrick just stared forward, devoid of all emotion.

  "Her Palatine Ladyship, the Baroness-Grandia Stous: Death by public execution."

  Individual outbursts from the gallery became audible. This prompted the Imperial Justice to bring down his gavel several times. As order was being restored, Derrick shifted his gaze to his father. Their eyes locked together. Each face remained expressionless.

  Seffan broke first as sweat beaded on his forehead. Would Derrick fail him? Or would he do his duty and, despite what had just occurred between them, uphold his obligation?

  Give me a signal, my son, the old Count-Grandee urged silently. Tell me it is all right.

  "Her Excellency," the court officer continued, "the Archbishop Schnyder: Concurrence with the majority."

  An uproar ensued, forcing Justice Salian to again call for order. Finally, as the courtroom quieted, steeling itself before the reading of the final judge's name and title, the eyes of his son told Seffan Possór his answer.

  ---

  First Advisor Henely left for his quarters once the final verdict was read. Despite his recent misfortunes, his mood had lifted, though he kept it hidden. His only comment, made to an inquiring aide in passing, was that the whole affair was "partly tragic, but partly fortunate."

  The aide had accepted the comment with a nod that claimed understanding.

  The fool, Henely thought scornfully. When he finally entered his room, Henely quickly pulled his formal robes over his head and discarded them. From his closet, he selected a more common-day robe to wear. There was a new lord of Legan that needed his support and guidance, and one that needed to be spoken to on behalf of some very special people.

  A Chosen group of people.

  Lousin Henely smiled in a way that most would regard as benign. While he had already attained the highest office he could under Seffan, he knew that being First Advisor to Derrick would bring him even greater power and, more importantly, a reprieve from forced retirement. Not only was the young count inexperienced and ignorant about how much of the government worked, he was also most assuredly unsettled by the truth about his father.

  Just as he was meant to be, the Advisor chuckled.

  Silently, he thanked the carelessly ambitious Josephine. By transmitting the information that he had sent her to Imperial authorities, as he was certain she did, she had reacted as expected. Continuing to revel in the success of his plan, Henely congratulated himself on the recent dismissal of Commander Tillic as well.

  More pliable and more stable, Henely remarked inwardly, resuming his earlier line of thought. Yes, the son will be far better for them than the father. Victory achieved, his initial reluctance over bringing down Seffan was expunged from his memory. In his mind, he had always recognized the need to remove the danger that the old Count-Grandee had represented.

  Now I just need to get Steuben off Derrick’s assignment, he thought, remembering that he still had not answered the Colonel's last message, and back to monitoring those moronic rebels.

  Henely disapproved of Bishop Wyren's plan to keep the rebels active. Despite Chais Wyren's exalted status within the True Church, Henely also resented the man appropriating what had been his plan to harness the rebel movement. Even the NDB bishop's repeated sentiment, that no sacrifice was too great when made for God, made Henely uneasy. Especially after Wyren’s casual dismissal of his complaints about almost being killed during a raid while meeting with the rebels. The First Advisor huffed. These concerns would have to be dealt with later.

  Henely was about to leave when he glanced at his desk to a small bound box that Seffan had given him to keep for Derrick. He had been told not to give Derrick his surprise until Derrick’s first child was born. It was a curious instruction, and one that made him even more anxious to know what was inside. Henely grasped the box and placed it in his pocket. Derrick need never know if his gift had already been opened, and the First Advisor had no intention of waiting until he was a father to discover its contents.

  ---

  Seffan Possór made his way down the corridor with a look of peaceful serenity.

  Inside however, he burned contemptuously, his fury clearing his mind of all doubt and regret as he raged at his predicament. Angry at his succumbing to weak feelings and false hopes, the former Imperial Lord was now himself again, his will sustained by the pure hatred of all who had betrayed him. His one comfort was that he had prepared for this moment.

  Even as Seffan left the courtroom, he could see the person he had commanded to watch for any silent, final instructions: a man of average height, with mismatching eyes of blue and brown. Everyone else had standing contingency orders. One way or another, he would have vengeance on those who had wronged him, along with those who had merely disappointed him.

  That these others might also fail him was something he refused to consider.

  Given that Seffan had exited the courtroom through a side door, no one in the audience had been able to speak with him after his sentence was handed down. So it remained, until his guards led him to the hangar harboring the ship that would take him from his home forever.

  Lilth and Jordan stood near the doors leading to the Palace's landing bay, guessing that their cousin would be escorted to the nearest shuttle facility on his way to one of the orbiting Imperial destroyers without delay. As a truly condemned prisoner, Seffan had nothing to pack, and no personal arrangements to make.

  Despite his growing sense of isolation, Seffan was less than pleased to see his cousins. More accurately, he was less than pleased to see one of them.

  "May we?" Jordan asked the ranking officer of Seffan's Imperial escort, indicating his desire to speak to his cousin. "It will only be for a few moments."

  Clearly aware that these would probably be the former lord’s final visitors before leaving Legan, the guard nodded. The Imperial officer had barely stepped away when Lilth rushe
d to hug her cousin.

  "Seffan," Lilth projected, "it will be difficult, but according to Admiral—"

  "Lilth," Seffan replied, guessing her plan, "a rescue would be too risky. Why forfeit the rest of House Possór to the Imperials?"

  Back in the courtroom, the Viscountess had psychically peered into the future. Experiencing a vision she interpreted as revealing Seffan's fate, and knowing by the words he had spoken that the rest of it would now come to pass, her eyes teared. The weight of her short, round body jiggled as she trembled, fighting to maintain her composure. In truth, she knew she could do nothing to save him. Now she simply accepted it, although her sense of helplessness, a new emotion for the Voxny viscountess, only added to her despair and anger.

  Never would she see Seffan again.

  Seffan returned her embrace, moved by her genuine distress and frustration. Despite her hard exterior, he knew his cousin had a true love for the Family. She probably even partly blamed herself for what had happened. With uncommon warmth, Seffan sent out an emotional projection to comfort Lilth as best he could. He may not have had any words to give her, but he did have feelings he could conjure.

  Lilth calmed, her reddened eyes looked searchingly into his as they parted, asking the question she could not bring herself to voice: Why did you do it?

  The old Count-Grandee did not answer her. Instead he just gave her another light caress. They can say what they want about you, Coz, but you, above all others, truly know what it means to be Of the Blood. He only hoped that she had taught the same loyalty to her sons.

  "Seffan," Jordan began hesitantly, slowly shaking his head. "I do not know what to say."

  As the deposed Lord Legan turned, his expression darkened. Jordan did not appear to be particularly aggrieved. "Then be silent, Cousin," he replied.

  Jordan looked down, nodding his head to his cousin's reply before offering his hand.

  The former Lord Legan hesitated. Then, as if unsatisfied with such a reserved leave-taking, he leaned against his cousin, pulling him close. Checking that his shadowy servant was watching, Seffan gave his cousin a deliberate kiss on the cheek.