House of Jackals

by Todd M. Moreno

"He left on the Imperial Commander's shuttle just moments ago, my Lady."

  She should have expected as much. "What of my Uncle Jordan and Aunt Lilth?"

  "They are about to leave, my Lady. I last saw them with His Lordship, the Count…."

  Vialette arched an eyebrow at the man's stumble over the proper reference to Seffan. "And the Imperials?"

  "Their remaining forces have assumed control of the area for ‘security’ reasons, Ma'am," the man replied, clearly unhappy with the arrangement. "The Imperial judges appear to be waiting for another of their party to arrive."

  Vialette looked through the plasteel window to the hangar below. She saw Archbishop Schnyder, Von Taccen and Lady Gastolos, but no sign of the Imperial Justice or the truthseer. She was about to ask their whereabouts when a woman in an Imperial uniform entered the room.

  "Excuse me, my Lady," said the man before he walked toward the Imperial officer.

  Vialette nodded as she tried to discern what the judges were saying by reading their lips.

  Soon Soror Barell joined their group.

  "Soror Barell," the Archbishop hailed as she drew near. "We wondered where you might be. Are you ready to depart?"

  The Soror lowered her eyes in obeisance. "Your Eminence, I came to ask leave to remain for perhaps another three hours. I imagine our ship will not break orbit for at least that long."

  "You have plans, my dear?" The query came from Count von Taccen.

  Barell turned to the large, older man and locked eyes with him for a moment. She then looked back to her superior. "I wish to see someone at Ferramond before I go."

  "Oh?" said the Count-patent, knitting his thick white brow. “Anyone I might know?”

  The Archbishop and Soror both seemed to temporarily lose themselves in thought. The Archbishop finally nodded. "Go immediately," she replied, her eyes indicating approval. "I shall wait for you aboard my ship." The Soror gave a small genuflection before leaving.

  "The new Count will need whatever help he can get," Baroness-Grandia Stous remarked. The city of Ferramond was home to a small, well-regarded university under the auspices of a Holy Order. The Baroness-Grandia, familiar with the planet's recent history, also knew who was said to have retired there. From that, she easily guessed whom the young truthseer intended to meet: the former Lord of Linse, Derrick's maternal grandfather.

  The Archbishop was not surprised by her deduction. "That is why I agreed. Now that Seffan is gone, perhaps it is time to end his self-imposed exile."

  Count von Taccen looked from one woman to the other with narrowed eyes. When it became clear that neither would elaborate on their conversation, the Imperial representative sniffed purposefully and changed the subject. "I must say," he began, keeping the Soror in sight, "when I first saw our lovely young truthseer, I had doubts."

  "Soror Barell has always had my every confidence," the Archbishop replied firmly.

  "Yes, I am certain she does her job well." He paused, shifting his weight to the right. "Interesting. I myself did not know how we might get an acceptable verdict from young Lord Derrick. Did you, Lady Gastolos?"

  The Count-patent gave Baroness-Grandia Stous a pleasant smile, but she did not return it. Instead of answering him, she simply looked at Von Taccen with measured indifference.

  Seeing Soror Barell speak with a pilot and board a small shuttle, Vialette became curious over why she was not leaving with the judges. Noting the ship's markings, she promised to indulge her interest later. Just remember, Cathena Barell, she thought, I am watching you.

  ---

  It had taken Seffan but a second to put himself into the proper mental state. It took just a few more to use his skill in the Disciplines to begin generating the electrical charge he needed.

  Seffan knew that proceeding directly against the nearby guard would gain him little, even if he used his psychic abilities. Despite his sullen and defeated demeanor, the Imperials had surely taken the precaution of selecting sentries who were proficient in the Mental Disciplines, aware of their prisoner's extensive training. Moreover, even assuming he could defeat the young guard in psychic combat, Seffan knew that such activity would attract the attention of others, who would then attack him as a group before he could get the man's gun. While Seffan had the power to cloak his own actions—including the internal generation of psychic energy—once he involved someone else, he would not be able to keep his movements hidden. He needed a ruse.

  The guard in the room stiffened as Seffan stood from his chair. "You really should remain seated until we break atmosphere, Lord," the man said, reaching out with a staying hand.

  As an automatic precaution, the guard made a quick psychic scan of his prisoner. The guard accepted the non-threatening aura Seffan projected as genuine, not finding it odd that his sudden scan had apparently caught Seffan with his mental shields lowered.

  "Age has not yet deprived me of my balance, Son," the old Count-Grandee replied gently. "I just want to see Legan one last time." Seffan reached for the room’s viewscreen and activated it. "Besides, you may have the joyous duty of watching me, but you do not have to wait on me."

  On the viewscreen, the initial scene displayed the fleet of Imperial destroyers, growing larger as the shuttle approached. Changing the image with the control panel, Seffan stopped at the first clear picture of the planet. "Is it not beautiful?" the former Imperial Lord said distantly.

  "Yes, Lord," said the guard hesitantly.

  Seffan sluggishly reached up to adjust the image again. This time however, he discharged the energy he had psychically generated within his body. Seffan's forefinger had just touched the wall-panel when a blue-light flashed from the corner of the guard's eye, followed by the sound of a large, crackling pyrotechnic burst. From out of the light, the former Count-Grandee was seemingly flung toward the man. Catching him to break his fall, the guard was momentarily stunned by what he first assumed to be a residual shock.

  Exploiting the guard's confusion, Seffan quickly regained his footing and reached one hand behind him to grab the man's lasgun while the second activated his shieldbelt. Using natural leverage and the force created by his shield, Seffan broke from the surprised guard's grasp just as the man's two senior comrades entered the room.

  "There's no way you can escape!" the young guard called from the floor, switching his own shieldbelt on as he stood. The two other guards had already leveled their weapons.

  Straightening himself, the former Lord of Legan draw back his lips in a wicked sneer as he altered the setting of his captured lasgun. His dark, fathomless eyes staring forward, he shot continuously at the unshielded wall separating him from the ship's engine room.

  Although the two guards fired desperately, their weapons failed to penetrate Seffan's personal shield before the effort no longer mattered. Seffan Possór's last thoughts, before the engine explosion disintegrated the shuttle, were of how Lord Fenté might react to hearing that his son had been killed by the hand of an enemy that he had thought was defeated.

  ---

  Derrick stood before an ever-changing group of aides as if in a dream, barely conscious of his responses to their countless questions and reports.

  His father, Seffan Possór, the once Imperial Lord of Legan, was dead.

  Strangely, Derrick discerned no change, even in his own feelings. It was as if his father's life had lost all consequence after the trial. Either that, he thought from somewhere distant in his mind, or the events were still too unreal for him to offer a response.

  When Guerren Andior finally spotted him, the new Count was giving orders.

  Having quickly absolved House Possór from legal responsibility for any losses caused by Seffan Possór's suicide, the Andior heir had spent some time debating whether to speak with Derrick. His decision to personally take his leave of Derrick, and his order for his shuttle to take the former Lord Legan to the waiting Imperial destroyer without him, had saved his life. Despite this, Guerren Andior felt oddly reluctant as he approached Legan's new
ruler.

  He is delegating a lot of authority, Guerren thought, listening patiently as Derrick finished with his last remaining advisors. He understood Derrick's desire to be temporarily freed from some of his responsibilities. Under similar circumstances, he would probably want some time to himself as well. Guerren nonetheless questioned whether his sense of duty would allow him the privilege of mournful solitude. Not all the decisions being demanded of Derrick were petty. The planetary government had been delivered a crushing blow. Did Derrick have the right to withdraw to his sorrows as others frantically worked to keep the sinews of power from splitting apart altogether? It was his fief after all, even if only for the time being.

  The Andior heir ceased his ruminations. Others were far more entitled to judge Derrick's actions than him. His only satisfaction was his certainty that his news would be welcomed, and that it would alleviate at least a little of the pressure bearing down on Legan’s new lord.

  "Count Possór!" Guerren hailed as he drew near.

  At Guerren's call, Derrick froze, his sense of unreality dissolving into a sharply delineated world of fiercely opposed shapes and colors. He could easily guess what his father had hoped to accomplish by his death. That he had failed, with the object of that failure now standing before him, only made the gesture seem emptier.

  Concerned over what he might do in a face-to-face confrontation with the Andior heir, Derrick felt his muscles tense as he searched for a way to escape. Seeing none, Derrick turned toward the specially commissioned Imperial officer. "Commander," he replied, keeping his voice even with steeled control.

  "The four other judges have left the planet, Lord Legan," Guerren began. "And while a few Imperial officials have yet to depart, my duties here are at their end. Absent any further occur—" Guerren hesitated, "...issues within my jurisdiction, I simply plan to return to my ship."

  Derrick nodded once, wondering if that was all his former tormentor wanted. "Very well," he said after a prolonged pause. The Andior heir shifted uncomfortably, as it became evident that Derrick would say nothing further.

  "Derrick," he began gently. The young Count lifted an eyebrow at the familiar address. "I am sorry for your misfortune, and for my prior…offenses." Derrick was about to respond but Guerren pressed on, raising his hand entreatingly. "I said many uncharitable things. I know now that they were undeserved." Guerren swallowed. "May I be granted the strength to follow your example, if ever I should be so severely tested." The Andior heir stood motionless, his hands to his sides, with his head and eyes cast down, waiting for Derrick to reply.

  Still angry, and noting Guerren’s subdued demeanor, the new Count wondered if he might be able to psychically strike at the Andior heir before he could defend himself. Maybe, Derrick thought, Guerren's sense of guilt would even allow him to do it with impunity.

  Derrick opened his awareness to the psychic currents around him. Unable to tell if Guerren had lowered his mental shields, the only way to be sure would be to either psychically scan the area or simply attack. The former option of course would alert Guerren to raise his mental defenses. The latter, regrettably, was out of the question.

  It was one thing if Derrick cuffed the Andior heir. Cuts and bruises healed easily enough. It was quite another if he came at him with a surprise psychic assault. Even if Derrick beat Guerren in what would undoubtedly result in a full-blown psychic duel, war would almost certainly ensue. The Andior marquis would not look kindly on his first-born son returning mentally crippled, and Derrick's own family would feel the same, if anything happened to him. There was also Guerren’s current Imperial commission to account for as well.

  It was not the personal and diplomatic risks however that caused Derrick to discard the idea. He knew those words had been difficult for Guerren, and that as the Imperial Special Commander, he had no need to say them. The apology was sincere. But the bitterness remained.

  "You caused me a great deal of...a great number of problems," Derrick said finally.

  Guerren nodded, bringing his eyes to meet those of his one-time adversary. "I know, and I will carry that with me. I also know that I cannot expect forgiveness. I would only have you know of my regret, and complete lack of malice. I wish you well."

  Derrick hesitated but did not break eye contact. Memories of his struggles and denials asserted themselves in argument. He then offered his hand. Guerren's brow lifted for an instant, but he quickly accepted Derrick's hand with his own and firmly shook it.

  "Safe journey, Guerren," Derrick said before releasing his grip. The Andior heir accepted Derrick’s amicable wishes with a long-held blink and nod. "And please tell our elder brother, Fenté, that We hope our reconciliation is an encompassing one."

  Guerren looked up at hearing the ancient formulaic greeting between crowned heads. Derrick, speaking as the Count of Legan, was referring to Guerren's father, the Marquis-Grandee. Kindly overlooking Derrick’s present lack of the title of grandee, Guerren nodded once again.

  Peace made, the special commander assumed a formal stance and saluted Legan's new ruler. "Pax Imperator reigns, my Lord Count. I now retire from my post, By Your Leave."

  While the ritual words of withdrawal were his due, in this case Derrick sensed there was something more in them. Lord Legan gave a stiff nod in return, playing out the formality. "Guard well His Imperial Majesty and the Empire, Commander Andior."

  Guerren Andior bowed, turned on one heel, and walked away.

  -

  "My Lord Count," First Advisor Henely called as he entered the docking bay and bowed. "May I be the first to address you as His Imperial Lordship, the Count-Grandee of Legan?"

  Derrick scowled before facing the advisor. Henely was not only openly seeking favor, he was also professing his certainty to his new sovereign that House Possór’s fortunes would change for the better, that it would keep its planetary fief, and remain a Grand House.

  "You are too late, Henely," Derrick said coolly, turning back from the landing platform to his ship. "Much too late." Derrick had his own message to send.

  Henely's face soured beneath his bow, but he did not get a chance to respond.

  "My Lord Count!" a guard commander panted, rushing toward him.

  "Yes, Commander Lerrero?" Derrick replied. The man was Tillic's replacement.

  "Sire, we have new information regarding the deaths of Duke Burin and his family."

  Derrick remained motionless.

  "It is possible that your father may have been involved."

  "What lies are these?" Henely demanded. "How dare you—?"

  Derrick ignored him. The scene was playing as planned. "Does this come from the information Tillic left you, Commander?" he asked.

  "It is based on it, Sire. We are still investigating."

  "But why does it matter now what your father might have done...Sire?" Henely insisted, forcing the last word from his lips. "What can be gained? Who still cares?"

  Derrick looked at him sharply, silencing the First Advisor. That was when he realized that the man had yet to offer his sorrows on the death of his father. Looking at him again, Derrick saw the First Advisor’s eyes widen for the briefest of moments.

  Let that be your first lesson of my reign, Henely, Derrick thought. "Carry on, Commander," he said calmly, controlling the urge to strike his inherited First Advisor.

  "Yes, Sire." After the man saluted and left, Derrick turned to the First Advisor.

  "I have an urgent assignment for you, Henely."

  "Your Lordship?" Momentarily lost in thought, Henely’s surprise turned to suspicion.

  "I want you to join the special embassy to House Tehasing," Derrick continued. Despite his earlier opposition to his father's plan, the new Lord Legan had no choice but to embrace it. He was quite aware that a martially cemented alliance might now be the surest—if not only—way to secure his House. That, Derrick knew, was his top priority, and a responsibility for which he could not let mere personal desires interfere. No matter how great those wishe
s were.

  Duty comes before Desire.

  Cathena had said as much herself, when she refused to accept his expression of...

  "But, Sire, I—"

  "Advisor Sukain will inform you of the latest details," Derrick said, cutting off Henely as he cut off further thoughts of the truthseer. "When Sukain leaves the Tehasings, you will lead the new talks. Biam will accompany you. For now, I only want the discussions to remain open. No formal proposals are to be offered without my specific approval."

  Seeing Henely again about to protest, Derrick put a tone of finality in his voice.

  "This is very important, especially after what has happened. Both of you are to leave immediately." Derrick took satisfaction from the look on Henely's face. Not only would Henely not be around to "aid" the new guard commander in his investigation, Sukain, a former junior counselor, had just been promoted over him. We’ll see who comes forward on your behalf now, Henely, he thought, as I root out your entire hidden network.

  "Yes, Sire," the Advisor reluctantly acknowledged.

  Derrick turned without any further comment and walked up the platform to his shuttle.

  The pup now thinks himself a jackal, Henely thought as Derrick's shuttle powered up its shield and suspensor fields for lift-off.

  The Advisor turned away to leave, asking himself if he should postpone his bid to help House Possór finance its newly imposed penalties. Henely knew better than anyone that if Derrick wanted to remain a grandee, he needed to obtain the money from somewhere. True, there were established markets for amounts that would ransom a planet. But the rates were exorbitantly high, as was the potential for less than understanding creditors if the economic future proved difficult.

  No, a delicate situation like this pointed to soliciting a private backer, which suited the now demoted First Advisor quite well.

  He really can’t rely on an appeal, Henely thought, dismissing the vague and worthless assurances of Count von Taccen. The former First Advisor discarded other possibilities with equal ease. Until Derrick was firmly secured on his throne, House Tehasing would not obligate itself to any marriage arrangement, let alone extend House Possór any credit. Approaching the Consortium would be out of the question for the high-minded Derrick. A similar taint would bar any association with the DuCideon Brotherhood. The Holy Miran Church, well, they probably did not have the money anyway. That left one other possible source for the funds.