Kingmakers, The (Vampire Empire Book 3)

by Clay Griffith Susan Griffith

  Gareth looked up expectantly, eagerly. He couldn't help himself.

  Flay continued in a conversational tone. “He said to me ‘I wish Gareth was here with me. I want him to be my son again.’ Before I could answer that of course I had no idea where you were, no one did, his mind faded again. His eyes clouded. Your father disappeared inside himself, never to emerge again.”

  Gareth grasped the arms of the chair, threatening to rip them from the base. His heart shuddered as she twisted the knife inside it, but his anger grew. He glared at the war chief. “Flay, you know that there was little in this world I cared for more than my father. Therefore, might I offer you the advice that you should refrain from goading me at this time.”

  Flay paused at his cold rage and betrayed apprehension when the prince made a slight movement, but she soon recovered her advantage. Then she mimicked wide-eyed surprise at his threat. “I only tell you the final words I heard from your magnificent father to give you some comfort.”

  Gareth slowed his aching breath, willing his claws to stay sheathed. He had come to her with a purpose. He had hoped to spark Flay's once-powerful infatuation for him. His plan was minimal, it was true. Adele always accused him of being unable to think ahead; she was more correct than he liked to admit.

  Now, however, Gareth realized what he needed to do. He almost smiled at the thought that his father had given him a last gift: a way to get a grip on Flay and perhaps a handle on the future. It was for Adele. After several minutes of menacing silence, he shook his head and straightened. His voice was soft, but laced with resolve. “I've made a terrible mistake, Flay.”

  She gave a derisive laugh at the ridiculous boyish simplicity of his statement.

  He continued, “I don't know if it's possible to repair the damage I've done, but I will try.”

  “What are you talking about? Be plain, for once in your life.”

  “Very well.” Gareth stood quickly, causing her to draw back. “Not only am I going to kill Cesare, but I aim to become king. And I want you to help me.”

  Flay's breath caught. She covered her obvious misstep with a loud laugh as she slowly leaned against the wall and crossed her ankles casually. “Magnifique! You are still so completely earnest that you seem incapable of falseness. That must be why you are such a credible make-believe human.”

  “I understand your doubts. But you know as well as I that Cesare is leading us to our destruction.”

  “How odd for you to say that. At least Cesare is fighting on the right side.”

  “Flay, I have been quite…mad…for years. I can't explain it. But I tell you, it is over. War forces one to take sides.”

  “You've chosen your side, Greyfriar.”

  “I thought I had. Recently I have begun to doubt myself. And now, my father's death is a sign I can't ignore. I intend to rule, and I want you as my war chief.”

  “Get out, Gareth.”

  “This is your only chance to decide. I won't come again.”

  Flay pursed her lips and breathed out angrily with a quavering voice, “Even if you were sincere, there is no way for you to win the clan now. Cesare is a hero. He's one step from becoming the new king of kings.”

  “Does Cesare have so many allies, then? I know only Munich, Budapest, and New York. And the Lyon clan apparently. Are there more?”

  Flay bit her lower lip humorously and batted her eyes. “Oh yes, let me reveal all Cesare's plans so you can race south and tell your Equatorian bloodnurse. It's obvious to me that you told the Equatorians about Draken and Ashkenazy. That's why they split their forces and invaded the Balkans to draw them off the Rhone Valley. If I had their packs, this war would have been over months ago.”

  “Yes, I told them.” Gareth directed his eyes shamefully to the floor. “They trust me. I can tell the empress anything, and she believes it.”

  “Well, I don't trust you. You can't tell me anything that I will believe.”

  “Flay, listen to me for a moment.” Gareth began to pace, forcing her to turn with him, keeping his lanky figure before her. “I can tell you what will happen if Cesare becomes king. He will marry Lady Hallow and make her queen. The new queen will have no use for someone as ambitious and skillful as you. So she will force Cesare to name a new war chief, one more easily controlled. Which means that you must be killed.”

  “A chilling tale,” Flay said flatly.

  “But true.”

  “Perhaps. What do you imagine will be your lifespan under King Cesare?”

  “Hours? Minutes?” Gareth laughed bitterly. “Neither of us will survive my brother's reign for long.” He paused in his pacing, glancing hesitantly at her, then turning away. “Cesare would be making a mistake in losing you. You are the greatest war chief alive. However, he is building an alliance and needs political actors like Hallow. And he needs heirs. You are a commoner.”

  “Do you ever shut up?” Flay snarled. “Yes, I'm a commoner. I can never be queen. I know that. You have no idea what it's like to fight your way to the pinnacle and still be prey to weak, soft creatures. Like Cesare and Hallow. And you! None of you would be where you are today without me!”

  “I agree, Flay.” Gareth now held her with his blue eyes. He held out his hand. “Join me. You and I. Together we can take Britain, and more perhaps.”

  Flay stared now at the long supple fingers extended toward her, but refused to take the offer.

  Gareth looked disappointed and lowered his hand. “What can I do to convince you? Name it!”

  Flay continued to watch his hands even after they dropped to his side. “Kill the princess.”

  Gareth expected that demand and had his plausible answer ready. “No. That's impossible. She is too powerful now. I can barely stay in the same room with her. Her touch burns. I wouldn't survive, and I'm in no mood for suicide.”

  Flay sneered in doubt, but gave a glimmer of both belief and disdain. “So is that why you've returned? Your princess is toxic to you now? Your new toy is tainted?”

  Gareth again studied the floor pointedly. “You've felt her power. In Scotland, it was still young. It has grown to unbelievable levels.”

  “Her stench is always with me.” The war chief almost shuddered as if with nausea. She drew a hand across her face in hopes of wiping away the dread. “Fine. If she is too much for you, the princess has a brother. Kill him.”

  He tried to look annoyed at her petty demands. “Flay, the imperial family is well protected, especially since the assassination of the emperor at your hands.”

  “But you're the Greyfriar. A wonder-worker. If your infatuation with the human is truly over, then prove it.” She grinned. “The boy's life is the price of my faith. Bring me proof. And remember, I've smelled him.”

  Gareth ran a hand over his long black hair, searching for options while trying to feign disappointment. “Is there no other way? With my father dead, we have to act quickly if we are to stop Cesare.”

  “If we're so short of time,” Flay retorted, “then you'd best rush back to Equatoria, hadn't you? I'm off to London tomorrow to report to Cesare on how the war is proceeding. Find me when you are ready to present me with a bloody piece of Prince Simon. And pray that I don't mention this new treachery of yours to Prince Cesare. This audience is at an end.”

  Gareth bowed to the war chief. “Very well. I thought you might be a bit more reasonable.”

  “Come now, my prince, nothing worthwhile is easy.”

  Flay laughed as Gareth strode like a shadow from the room. Once out of her sight, he moved quickly, lifting into the air. He struggled to calm his rapid heartbeat as he drifted south toward Adele.

  WHEN PRINCESS ADELE was a little girl she used to play in her father's Privy Council chamber. It was a spacious room with a massive table surrounded by wonderful leather chairs that were soft and comfortable. Most of the year, the private garden outside the great windows was flowering. She used to open the glass and listen to the birds, and the soldiers chatting with one another as well as w
ith the occasional passing maid. It made Adele giggle to hear the soldiers' voices change from brusque to smooth, and back again.

  The most memorable feature of the room, then and now, was a large globe in an ornate wooden stand. It was easily five feet in diameter and an antique sepia color, with national boundaries, somewhat outdated now, and even natural features. Adele had always loved to run her fingers over the bumpy mountains, trying to reach her arms around the world. The northern third of the globe was stained red, and labeled in various spots “Vampire Clans.” The old geographical labels from before the Great Killing were only vaguely visible through the bloody overlay.

  Now, Empress Adele's eyes drifted to that globe as she sat in her father's old place at the head of a new table with new chairs. The room had been redecorated, most noticeably with a display including the bloodstained flag that had covered her father's body after his assassination. The new empress was keen to remind everyone at all times in these early days of her reign that she was Constantine's daughter.

  The Privy Council sat around the table that was layered with papers, charts, and maps. Additional dignitaries from the government and military crowded the room. Adele knew many of them well; some had been part of her father's regime, but others had been appointed by her or were newly elected to Commons in the special election required after the devastating vampire attack last summer. Everyone in the room was male, except for Adele and Ifrah Doreh, a Somali who was the new minister for foreign affairs. The men typically wore European-style suits, although often with a fez or Arab headdress. There were many heavily medaled uniforms present as well. Adele's commanders of the sea and air were in attendance. Her commander of the land, Sirdar Anhalt, was away on campaign. Of course, the ever-present Captain Shirazi, and a young blond corporal named Darby, stood like statues at her chair with hands clasped behind their backs, eyes moving about the room. Cigarette and cigar smoke hung thick despite several fans flapping overhead. Servants scurried in and out with water and tea and coffee, as well as sweets and fruit. Privy Council meetings were far less spartan under the empress than under her father.

  Adele flipped the memoranda pages as she heard the end of a report. “We thank the Minister for Home Affairs. Now, Lord Aden, I have recently returned from an undisclosed tour of the western front. Our commanders impressed on me that our materiel needs are not being met.” Although she could easily have given in to impatient anger in her questioning, she maintained a calm demeanor. “What measures are your industrialists taking to increase production?”

  Lord Aden, Laurence Randolph, glanced up as if surprised the question was directed his way. Still, he smiled gravely, in complete agreement with her. He was trim and fit, wore a fashionable suit with a perfect cravat. His dark hair was slicked back against his head, and he ran a finger over his thin rakish moustache.

  “Your Majesty,” he began quietly, “production of standard ammunition for infantry has increased nearly fifty percent over the last month. Likewise, deliveries of machine guns to the quartermaster corps has increased.” Aden raised a reasonable hand, flashing a diamond-crusted ring. “That in no way diminishes our failure to adequately serve. There were miscalculations in the early months of the war, and the General Staff's estimation of ammunition required for a soldier to kill a vampire was low. We took some time to retool and catch up, particularly given the loss of anticipated allied production, as well as the surprising destruction of our western air squadron in Gibraltar last year. However, none of that is an excuse. The only solution is to perform better, which I believe we are. Still, if these failures cost the life of one Equatorian soldier, it is a burden I will bear for the rest of my life.”

  Adele knew the handsome young industrialist craved congratulations for his tale of overcoming political missteps and miscalculations. However, his comment about the loss of American assistance, clearly referring to her refusal to marry the American Senator Clark, irked her, even though it was true. “When can we expect the first new ship to fly?”

  Aden pursed his lips in disappointment at the lack of praise. “We have an air battleship and two sail frigates weeks away from a fitting-out cruise.”

  “What about our ironclad program? Where are we on that?”

  The tycoon nodded sadly. “Progress has been slow unfortunately. The former HMS Culloden, now rechristened HMS Constantine, has experienced performance difficulties. There is a full report in your hands, Majesty. I expect the issues to be resolved soon and for our first ironclad airship to be in theater by summer.”

  Adele was warmed by the sound of her father's name on a new warship, but was undistracted from the delays. “The Americans have two of their steamnaughts in combat. Why are we behind?”

  The jowly Admiral Romanski, chief of the Air Corps, began to speak, but Lord Aden interrupted smoothly, “The Americans use a different technology, as I'm sure you know, Majesty. Their aluminum-burst engines are simpler than our coal burners, but I hasten to add, far less powerful. Constantine will be nearly twice as fast as the Americans' Bolivar or Hamilton.”

  “I'm surprised you're able to judge its capabilities with it shackled in the shipyard,” Adele said bluntly.

  Aden chuckled and twisted his heavy gold signet ring. “Have no fear. Constantine is only the first. We are preparing to erect the frame of our second and third ironclads in my yards in Suez even as we speak. We may be slightly behind the Americans for now, but once we put our feet under us, our airships will be the finest in the world.”

  Admiral Romanski said with an irritable glance at Lord Aden, “The aluminum-burst engines are marvels. I saw Hamilton in Havana last year. Its fuel requirements are less than our coal—”

  Aden interrupted again. “I agree that the American ships are impressive, for simple technology. We have studied their feasibility for our purposes, but we are committed to our route, and there is no sense in debating fancies now. We certainly have more important issues in the near future.”

  Adele tapped her fingernail on the table for silence. “I agree. Telegraphs. Gentlemen, where do we stand?”

  Prime Minister Kemal cleared his throat and flipped pages. “Um. We have experienced difficulties with telegraph lines from both Marseilles to Valence, and to our forward posts in Grenoble or St. Etienne. Likewise there is no progress to be made from Trieste toward the Danube front. The vampires seem quite aware of the purpose of the apparatus, and have interrupted or destroyed numerous attempts to string wires. With great loss of life among our signal corps.” He scanned the report for further information, which annoyed Adele. She expected her people to have command of their material.

  Kemal's pause gave the opportunity for a voice in the rear of the chamber to rise. “Telegraphs are fascinating, I agree, but I have another issue to address which I feel is significant to the public support for the war.”

  Adele eyed the man—Murad Garang. He was the whisper-thin leader of the loyal opposition in Commons, a skillful politician from the southern Sudan. He had cobbled together a formidable political coalition during the late Lord Kelvin's premiership which had only grown stronger under the milquetoast Prime Minister Kemal. Garang was not a member of the official Privy Council; he was one of Adele's extended War Council. She valued hearing his contrary opinions, but he could grow tiresome when action was called for. His white linen suit shone against the dim interior of the chamber.

  She said quietly, “I wasn't aware the public support for the war was in jeopardy, Mr. Garang.”

  “It isn't, Your Majesty. Yet. However, I believe the people across the Empire want a clear statement of our war aims.”

  “Which they haven't had?”

  “With respect, no. We certainly understand the goal is to remove the vampires' control of the north, but beyond that…what?”

  Admiral Romanski barked, “Let's accomplish that first, shall we?”

  Garang glared at the admiral. “We are throwing enormous numbers of young men into Europe to die in the snow. We are spending vast am
ounts of money to do so. I don't believe it is unreasonable to know the ultimate goal. Liberation of the northern humans is the point, you say?” The man paused, then added, “I ask, why?”

  The military professionals and many of the regime politicians broke into mocking dismissals, which were short of accusations of treason, but not by much.

  The rotund Admiral Romanski shouted over the din, “My great-great-grandfather escaped the vampire holocaust with hardly a shirt on his back. My family was slaughtered by those creatures.”

  Garang aimed his formidable hatchet face at the heavily medaled sailor. “That was one hundred and fifty years ago. Surely you are past the insult now. Do you expect to find the family silver still in the cupboard when the army rolls into St. Petersburg?”

  Romanski stood with jingling medals and slammed his hands on the table. “How dare you, sir!”

  Adele rapped her ring loudly on the table. “Enough! I won't have this behavior.”

  The admiral jabbed a pudgy finger at Garang. “Pardon, Your Majesty, but I can't stand by and let this Sudd troublemaker demean the struggle of the human race as if he was not part of it.”

  “Which human race would that be?” Garang replied loudly. “The Europeans? Look around you, Admiral Romanski. How many of the people in this room, how many people on the streets of Alexandria or Khartoum or Bombay are consumed by the lust for revenge for your ancestors being driven from the north? Are we to twist the entire Empire for the ambitions of a few who have delusions of the Old Country?”

  The empress said, “Mr. Garang, we are all human whether our ancestors came from the north or not. The vampires are a unique enemy, and we owe it to our brothers and sisters under their terrible yoke.”

  “With respect, Majesty,” Garang said, “no, we do not.” And over the rising outrage, he continued, “How far back must we set the clock? It has been over a century. Britain is vampire. Germany is vampire. Hungary is vampire. We have too many important issues here at home to waste money and men to free Russian herds!”