Henely smiled. So, what was the current price for a grand-county? How long would it take Derrick to see that he had no choice but to deal with Legan’s new preeminent power broker?
But if Derrick was foolish enough to promote some woman over him, perhaps the True Church should explore the other choices it had besides him. Yes, better to wait before making an offer. Let the Brotherhood and the Consortium bargain with Derrick all they wished. The True Church could beat any of their terms. Henely and the people he represented were after more than just added wealth. They had a position to secure.
And I want to know exactly where I stand with the little Lord Derrick before I commit our resources to save him.
The Advisor inhaled deeply. For now though, he patted his pocket, it may be time to find out what sort of expensive bauble is in this box of his. Since no one knew that the Count-Grandee had given it to him, Henely concluded that no one would know if it was ever delivered.
Go, Henely, Derrick thought after sitting down, feeling the shuttle rise. And when you return, you and Biam will stand trial for murder, before being openly and lawfully executed. Certain that his two senior advisors were his enemies, one reason why he did not have them killed out of hand was because he needed to know how far their activities went, and who their allies were. The other reason, or so he told himself proudly, stemmed from the idea that such men were not his teachers.
As the shuttle’s acceleration pushed him back in his seat, despite the dampening effects of the cabin's inner force fields, Derrick remembered something his father had once told him.
"Deceptions are best crafted in layers."
The new Count only then began to appreciate how deep those layers sometimes had to be.
---
Tillic entered his quarters slowly. He was tired, but did not attribute it to lack of rest. To him, he was only feeling his age.
Sighing, he leaned against the closing door, relieved that the whole affair was over, but saddened that its ending had taken so much with it. Swallowed by an emptiness, even his not-so-gently-suggested retirement came as no surprise. Seffan's guilty plea may have validated his investigations, but after what had happened between him and Derrick, being allowed to step down graciously was a kindness. Besides, Tillic always knew that he would need to resign his commission after the trial. It was unreasonable to expect to retain his post under a new lord, having used it to help topple the old one.
Still, no matter how many people looked forward to collecting their pensions and pursuing other interests, his release from service was no more than a pleasantly packaged exile. Funny, in his own lazy-day dreams of pensionhood, his greatest fear had been boredom.
Tillic made his way labouredly to a nearby chair.
I'm sorry, Derrick, he called silently, blaming himself for not appreciating the amount of pressure heaped upon his friend. Derrick’s duty was to see his House through its crisis, and he more than anyone should have known how deeply Derrick's sense of duty was ingrained.
I should have approached him differently, the old guard commander continued. Slowly. I’d have convinced him, if only I had given him a little more time to digest the truth.
Can you forgive me? Tillic asked, hoping their friendship had only been misplaced, not lost. Leaning forward in his chair, he buried his face in his hands.
"At least that bastard Seffan isn't around anymore," Tillic muttered as he lifted his head with a sniff. That one had deserved a far worse end than he got.
Gradually the former guard commander turned his attention to more immediate concerns. Tillic had two weeks to find a new residence, by which time his apartment would be reassigned, possibly to his successor. While Marcea had offered to take him in, he knew that with the situation between him and Derrick still raw, open association with him would not help her position. Idly, he wondered if, for that reason, he should stop seeing her.
The old guard commander gazed out his window to the city below, remembering how it looked when he first moved there. He had chosen this view, rather than that of the Palace proper, expecting to watch the city change as it grew and developed. Seeing it all before him, he realized that his hopes had borne out beyond anything he ever imagined. Day or night, the city was beautiful. Strange that in all the intervening years, he only noticed it now.
A place is just a place, Tillic thought, never finishing the adage that people were what truly mattered as he decided that a quick departure was best.
Nonetheless, although he had to leave his new lord and former pupil—and best friend—Tillic feared that if he left quietly, as he had been told to do, his separation from Derrick would be permanent. They would both move on with their lives, with new priorities and new associations. But what could he do? The old guard commander stood achingly from his chair.
Perhaps one day, eh Derrick? he asked, aware that no matter what he did, Derrick might never be ready to see him again.
The old officer’s thoughts turned to the recording he had made of his final report to Derrick—a precaution in case something happened to him. Since he had already relayed his findings, or at least tried to, he made a mental note to retrieve the special disk file from one of the security offices at the Palace.
Walking into the next room, Tillic noticed a small package on his dining table. It was wrapped like a present. The guard commander looked for other signs of entry. There were none. Cautiously he examined the gift and its surrounding area. Seeing an attached card that was partially open, he read the handwritten letters of his name without touching it.
Derrick? Tillic asked distantly, recognizing the script. Hesitant, his faint smile faded. Sitting down on a chair next to the table, Tillic reached over and switched on a com-link.
"Yes, Commander," the young officer said, addressing Tillic by his former rank.
Tillic could not place the voice. It was someone new. "Has Lord Derrick been to my rooms recently?" he asked.
"Just a moment, Commander," the officer replied, probably needing to confer with his superior before answering. "It looks like he entered briefly right after his father's trial."
It looks like, the old guard commander thought, critical of the young officer’s imprecision. "Did he leave anything for me?"
"I don't know, Sir." The response was clipped and impatient.
"Do you know if anyone else came into my rooms?" Tillic pressed, though the young man clearly knew that he no longer had to answer to the former guard commander.
"I don't know," the officer said firmly. "Is that all, Sir?"
"Yes. Thank you." Tillic barely said the last word before the transmission was cut off.
Tillic exhaled sharply and examined the capital "D" written on the back of the card. It was Derrick's D, and yet he hesitated. And reproved himself for it.
Could he actually think that Derrick might...?
Manus Tillic's eyes caught sight of a picture he had recently left on a nearby lamp table. It was an old official photograph of Derrick and his mother. Reaching for it, Tillic saw a four-year-old Derrick sitting up straight and proper, with his ever-beautiful mother behind him, gently resting a hand on his shoulder. For all his outward seriousness, to those who knew him as a child, the Possór heir's expression held a touch of playfulness.
A renewed wave of shame came over the old guard commander. "Oh, Derrick," he whispered, finally allowing himself to be touched once more by a simple gesture of affection. Here I wish for a way we could be friends again, you send me a peace offering, and instead of being glad, I become suspicious. What had life turned him into?
Tillic laughed at how he would have looked if he had sent a gift from Derrick to be checked for traps. And nearly cried at how devastated he would be if Derrick had ever found out about it. Maybe he had been at his job for too long. If you can’t even trust your friends….
Tillic inhaled deeply, suddenly so happy and relieved that Derrick had forgiven him that he hurriedly unwrapped the small container to see what it held.
"Th
is just better not be one of those cheap retirement pins," the old guard commander muttered before finally pulling back the lid. The only thing Tillic found inside was a brief note.
Taking it from its slot with a click from a metal piece that held it in place, the old guard commander unfolded it, having only the time to read the typewritten words, "For A Traitor," before his face and body were blown into charred fragments by the incendiary explosion which followed.
---
XXIII
In the command center of the House Guard, Advisor Biam sat calmly as others rushed about in the aftermath of the explosion, noting with mild interest that the Palace emergency alert sirens were silent. Tillic's apartment was not in the Palace, but Biam thought it was close enough to warrant extra security precautions. As this was not his operation however, he said nothing.
Besides, he was not worried for his safety. He knew who was behind the bombing. To him, it only meant having one less “traitor” to eliminate, assuming he would honor Seffan’s last order. As a backup, he was only expected to act if the first assassins failed in their task. Still, at seeing his list of potential targets, Biam saw only one name worth his time: Lousin Henely.
It was like a gift. Not only had he been ordered to kill a man he had already marked, if he were caught, he had a writ of sanction under Seffan's personal seal, penned by his own hand. It was as good as a pardon, for Derrick would have no choice but to respect it. And who knew what else the document's broad language might license? Who could say what other special assignments Seffan had given his trusted advisor before blowing himself up?
You are mine, Henely. Hiding his smile, Biam imagined how he might discharge the First Advisor, knowing that Henely would be even more cautious if the first attempt on him fell short. In fact, if he knew that Tillic's apartment was destroyed, Henely might be wary already. Might telling him that Seffan ordered Tillic's death allay his concerns? Biam thought not. Henley would only ask more questions, such as why Seffan had not told him about it himself.
"It might have been suicide," said someone behind the Advisor, updating his report on the explosion that killed Commander Tillic.
Yes, Biam thought with a nod. An old man is unceremoniously cast from the only life he knew. He has nowhere to go. His surrogate son is estranged from him without hope of reconciliation. He has no one else who cares.
Biam glanced at the man behind him, one of the new faces at key security postings. Was he laying the groundwork for a fast resolution to the matter? Just how many people were involved in Seffan’s plans for vengeance?
As he had many times before, Biam again pondered the extent of Henely's involvement. Was he the orchestrator of Seffan's downfall, a major player, or merely an opportunist? It bothered Biam that he still did not know. Just as it bothered him not knowing what Seffan’s suspicions were concerning his First Advisor. Was it enough for Seffan to hear that Henely was involved in Tillic’s investigations, or did Henely fail some other test of loyalty?
And am I the one being tested now? Would he be killed if he failed to eliminate the people on his list? Or would someone just come for him at some point regardless?
Damn psychopath, Biam cursed, standing from his chair. I did nothing to betray him, the Advisor silently affirmed, discounting his connection with Josephine. Still, his self-assurances that no one had any damning evidence against him could only ease his mind so much. He was going to have to be careful after all.
Especially if he was going to be First Advisor to an inexperienced young count for any extended period.
---
Changing from his uniform into his usual attire, Jordan Possór was glad to be home again, away from Pablen, and out of his martial trappings. While he retained his commission in House Possór's armed forces—as a lieutenant—he secretly despised having to do so. Military life never suited him, even before he tendered his service to the Emperor and was rejected.
Rejected!
Maybe that was why he disliked the Imperials so much, Jordan admitted. Maybe that was why his uniform lay in a heap near the door to his chambers—quickly shed, as if wearing it squeezed the life out of him.
Jordan exhaled. At least his application to the Academy satisfied the ascension requirements, if the title ever passed to him. When the title passed to him, he corrected.
He laughed. The Emperor did not care if you were discarded from his military service. So long as you put yourself up for potential selection, you were eligible to assume a title. This meant that a "reject" was qualified for an even greater office than what had been denied him.
Reject. Jordan scowled as the word reverberated in his mind, impulsively turning to a more appealing topic. Jordan had expected Seffan to fight to the end, knowing that the Imperials had not offered any deals for a guilty plea.
Though they clearly had made a deal with Derrick, given his vote on the court. That might be something worth exploiting. Especially now that news had been leaked that Seffan controlled the government to the end, and had issued the order for the Galleston Massacre over Derrick's objection. If only Seffan had given him more time to work his campaign against Derrick, Jordan may have had his supporters in place, and a good handle on those undecided political factions which may yet be swayed. But he knew that it would take more than just an ancient legal precedent to turn the common people of Legan against the recognized heir.
Which meant that he would need help. And quickly.
His sister Lilth was the logical person to ask, but her involvement would come at a price. The Voxny viscountess tended to take control of everything she touched, and to make unilateral decisions whenever it suited her. But there was a greater danger.
She already knew that his Archives research had discovered a twelve-hundred-year-old law of succession. She also suspected that he had a hand in Burin's death. Adding his resistance to her attacking the truthseer, she might guess at just how far back his plans extended, and maybe even divine other things he had done to advance his position.
Better to wait for his sister to approach him, he decided. He would be the willing participant in her plan. Let Lilth denounce Derrick for betraying his father. Let Lilth rally the Family to his cause. And let him—a loyal subject of his young cousiné, one who believed in him, and supported his right to rule—be forced to take up the crown. Jordan smiled at the role he would play: a modest and minor member of the Family thrust into a position to which he never aspired. Shocked, and then outraged, by what had happened. Reluctant, but bound by duty to serve his people, and to set all matters right.
But Lilth needs time to mourn, he thought, just a little impatiently. Both cousins. A chuckle escaped him. He still thought it funny that everyone blamed Josephine for his deeds. He imagined that they would similarly blame Seffan for Tillic’s death. Or even maybe Derrick.
He laughed again. Lilth would soon be back to her old self, he assured himself, scheming to cause whatever trouble she could. Then she would call for him. And then she would focus on obliterating the traitorous Derrick.
---
Alone in his private rooms, Advisor Henely reviewed the results again.
The box he held for Derrick was made of an alloy resistant to his portable scanner. It had some gold, but the amount and quality was indeterminable. Palace Security could no doubt tell Henely what was inside, unless the box was internally shielded, but the real issue was testing it in secret. For Henely, risk always had to be weighed. Was a small gift from a father to his son worth all this trouble? What would be his excuse if caught, and made to justify his actions?
And just how might he use this gift to mitigate his demotion from First Advisor?
Henely plopped down into a chair with an expulsion of breath.
Demoted. How did that happen?
The bell-tone to his outer door sounded. “Yes,” he called out crankily, “what is it?”
"We have the items you requested from Lord Seffan's personal study, Sir."
Henely's eyebrows lifted in an
ticipation before narrowing. It was not the voice of the man he had ordered to retrieve the articles.
Under God's eye, the New Dawn Believer silently cursed, irked by his own jumpiness over Tillic’s unexpected departure from the world. Suicide was so unbecoming.
Rising awkwardly from his chair, he sluggishly walked to the table where the portable scanner and the gift for Derrick lay. Moving things about on the table to accommodate more things, Henely’s robe caught the corner of the giftbox. The Advisor watched as it struck the stone-tiled floor. Another bell-tone sounded.
Behind the door, a man fit a cylindrical object to something he held concealed in his left hand. The woman next to him silently stood by, ready with a lasgun, and an explosive disguised to blend in with the other objects she was supposedly delivering to the First Advisor.
Irritated, Henely gracelessly bent over to retrieve Seffan's gift. Off-balance as he grabbed for it, he accidentally forced the lid to open and dislodged the object inside with a metallic click.
---
"What?" the captain gasped, hearing an on-site report concerning the second explosion.
"The blast was similar to the one in Commander Tillic's apartment," the officer in the auxiliary Security Control continued. "Advisor Henely's work room is completely destroyed."
-
Derrick sat on the throne of a dark, unused audience hall, still in his Imperial uniform. He was alone, save for the faded paintings and lifeless sculptures that kept him company. The last time he was in this room was for a ceremony when his father became grandee. His mother and Tillic had stood next to him, two reassuring figures in a world which had suddenly made Derrick—the new Possór heir—a focus of great attention.
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