Blood of Jackals (Lords of Legan Book 2)
Page 24
“Tell Biam and Tenatte not to press us again,” Lilth ordered. “And to abandon any thought of supporting an alternative candidate for the throne.”
Jordan saw Curin’s face sour. “Have you comment on that point, Nephew?”
“No, Uncle,” Curin replied. “But Mother, why not give them consequences? Tell them that if they do this again, once Uncle Jordan is grandee, he will expel them from the planet.”
Jordan’s lips thinned at his buffo nephew’s clumsy attempt at manipulation. The problem was that it often worked on his doting mother.
“I see no reason that should not be conveyed to them,” Lilth said carefully. “But we will leave the threat’s wording to your uncle, Curin. He is good at that.”
Jordan smiled, though he wondered at his sister’s sudden caution. Had she seen something with her vision? Some path of the future that she did not want to take root? Or was this angle to advance her beloved son Cary? Time to give another push to his own plans, Jordan thought. Time to have another contender for the throne removed from the game.
- - -
Conversation with the man calling himself Alfren Ulane had tired Derrick. Though claiming to have no psychic ability, the man sure seemed knowledgeable about it. At least enough to make his probing questions somewhat uncomfortable. Having spent most of his time deflecting and trying to change the topic to Alfren and this friend of his, Derrick was relieved as their journey neared its end.
“There it is,” Alfren said, pointing to a building that looked more like an office complex than a residence. Derrick noted that the view behind it was of the same valley where he had met Alfren, only from the opposite side. They had traveled quite a distance.
“How long would it have taken you to get here walking on your own?” Derrick asked, keeping his hands on his vehicle’s steering wheel.
“Hours,” Alfren said with a smile. “But the road is well traveled, and rides are common.”
“Well, here you are then,” Derrick said, content to let the matter drop. “It was nice to meet you, Alfren.”
“What? Will you not come in?”
“I think I will continue on my way,” Derrick replied.
Alfren was about to object when a large man emerged from the building’s front double doors. The man appeared to look at them for a moment before waving a hand in greeting.
“Oh, to leave now would be rude,” Alfren insisted, waving back to the man. “Come dine with us.” The man began to walk toward them.
“It is good to see you, Alfren,” the heavy man said slowly, as if each word were an accomplishment. Alfren opened his door and stepped out to embrace the man. To Derrick’s annoyance, he left the door open.
“Yeskin,” Alfren said, “this is my friend, Derrick.”
Yeskin’s eyes widened as he smiled, exposing his poorly managed teeth. Derrick smiled and waved back. Seeing that Derrick would not get out of the hover-car, Yeskin lumbered over.
“My name is Yeskin,” he said, seemingly to think that Derrick had not heard. Yeskin offered his hand abruptly, as if just remembering what a proper greeting required. Noting the dulled focus of his eyes, Derrick saw an innocent simplicity, rather than a drug-induced vacancy. Realization of the man’s limited intellect all but melted Derrick’s negative resolve.
“My name is Derrick,” he replied, accepting Yeskin’s hand. The man had a strong grip.
“You are welcome in my home,” said Yeskin. He saw Derrick’s doubtful expression. “Please come,” Yeskin begged. “Guests are rare for me.”
Derrick looked at the grown man’s child-like hope. “And Alfren?”
“Oh, he will come too,” Yeskin replied.
“No, I mean, do you not have him over regularly?”
“Oh,” he began, the muscles of his face constricting as if in support of the effort to concentrate. “But Alfren is...”
Derrick instantly regretted flustering the poor man.
“Like family,” Yeskin finished.
Hearing Yeskin’s solemn declaration, Derrick lacked the heart to disappoint him. “Alright,” he said, stepping out of the hover-car.
Yeskin cocked his head to the side, holding his hands together but smiling just the same. “Good,” he replied. “Good.”
-
Although the size and design of the house indicated some measure of wealth, its furnishings, once rich, were now faded. Dust was everywhere, prompting Derrick to believe that Yeskin indeed lived alone, and rarely had visitors.
“Do you like the soup?” Yeskin asked as Derrick looked to a painting over the mantle.
“Yes,” Derrick replied truthfully, not sure if it was only his hunger talking. “Tell me, whose portrait is that?”
“That is my father,” Yeskin said proudly. “He was a great scientist.”
“He once held a university appointment, a chair endowed by the Count-Grandee himself,” Alfren added, looking at Derrick carefully.
“What area did he specialize in?” Derrick asked, ignoring Alfren.
“My father was fasci-na-ted by psychic power,” Yeskin replied with his careful enunciation. “He did very important work.”
“Oh?” Derrick asked, wondering if the man’s work might shed any light on the bar that was holding back his memory. “What was his name?”
Yeskin was about to answer but stopped himself. “You would not know him. His research was...” Yeskin seemed to try to find the right word, but soon gave up and chose another. “…secret. People don’t know you for that kind of stuff.”
Having just met, Derrick appreciated Yeskin’s caution. “I would be interested in hearing more about his research, I mean, if that was permissible.” Derrick spooned in another mouthful of soup.
“Really?” Yeskin asked, his eyes becoming animated.
“Sure,” Derrick said easily, sparing a glance at Alfren. Alfren’s eyes were downcast. “Your father’s work sounds intriguing, though I do not know if I would understand any of it.”
That did it for Yeskin. “My father’s things are all downstairs.”
“Downstairs?” Derrick asked.
Yeskin nodded. “He built an underground research center here.”
“But I thought your father worked for...” Derrick stopped at Yeskin’s sunken expression, guessing that there was something more to his story.
“He built it after he left the University,” Alfren explained. “With private funding.” Alfren’s careful tone told Derrick that the separation was not amicable.
“Would you like to come down and see it?” Yeskin asked.
Underground, Derrick thought, not much liking the idea. Meres had told him about his being held below ground as a prisoner at Crucidel. “Is there a way to access the data up here?”
“The computers form a closed-system,” Alfren answered. “For security.”
“What do you know of his father’s research, Alfren?” Derrick asked suddenly, feeling a warning creep up his spine.
“Alfren plays with the machines,” Yeskin laughed. “Would you like to see?”
“Maybe another time,” Derrick said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, and noting his hands were cold and shaky. “Thank you for dinner, but I must go.”
“But you don’t have a place to stay tonight,” Alfren said.
“You can stay here,” Yeskin offered. Sweat came to Derrick’s face.
“I could not impose,” said Derrick, rising unsteadily from his chair.
“Are you ok?” Alfren asked Derrick, glancing at Yeskin.
“I—do not feel… strange.” Derrick stumbled and fell.
Alfren looked at Yeskin. “Nervousness raised his heart rate and quickened the neurotoxin,” said Yeskin, his speech only marginally faster than before.
“Funny,” said Alfren, “he didn’t seem to even try to use his psychic power.”
Yeskin shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. That’s the first thing my father’s serum disables. Now help me carry him downstairs.” Yeskin stood from his chair.
“Sure,” Yeskin replied. “I don’t need it.”
- - -
Guishaun threw a glass figurine at the wall, shattering it over an animal rug in the sitting room of their Palace apartment. “The sonofabitch has me!” he cried.
Dorian silently continued his solitaire game, but knew it was true. The contacts they had once had in Parliament all sang the same song: Varian was now the heir to House Possór.
“I played right into his hands,” Guishaun went on. “I can’t stop him. I don’t even know if I can delay him.”
“Derrick may yet be found,” Dorian said, having his own problems. While meeting with his sister Agnetha again, her renewed refusal to leave the Palace had led to a quarrel. He knew that he should have been more supportive. Or at least have acted that way. Then he might have had a chance to know what she was doing, and whom else she was meeting.
“Derrick’s not coming back. My uncle probably already had him killed.”
“If he could kill Derrick, why did he need you to take care of your father?”
“Maybe he made a promise to the Consortium. Maybe he did not need me. Maybe his plan for Varian would have worked as easily with my father.”
“No, your father wasn’t as controllable as your brother, and his acceding would have solidified Varian’s claim, and your own. Your uncle could not let your father take the throne.”
“What do I do, Dorie?” Guishaun asked. “I have to stop him. I can’t let him use Varian.”
“You mean you can’t let Varian assume the throne,” Dorian corrected. “So how can you stop your brother from being crowned?”
- - -
Jordan Possór keenly eyed Karris, the major domo of Ossidel Castle.
“My Lord,” Karris said, still inside the castle’s main entranceway, “I am only following Lord Guishaun’s orders. I agree Lord Varian needs a change in routine, especially if he is to be grandee. But with Lord Seonas gone, I am afraid...”
“You need cover for when Guishaun returns,” Jordan breathed. “Very well. On behalf of the Possór government, I order you to stand aside and let us see Lord Varian.” He watched the major domo consider whether he had the authority for such a claim. “I am a Privy Councilor,” Jordan said pointedly, a technicality, given that Derrick had never bothered to affirm or remove anyone from his father’s old council. “I am also the official representative of the Noble House to the Parliament of Legan.” Another technicality, as the role was ceremonious, given that Derrick had relied on First Advisor Sukain to speak for him. It was enough for the major domo however.
“This way to Lord Varian’s rooms, my Lord,” he said with a smile.
Jordan and his entourage of courtiers and functionaries followed.
- - -
“This is your Uncle Jordan, Varian,” Jordan said, again sounding the door tone. “We must talk. I know you are there. Open the door.” There was no response. Jordan turned to the major domo. “Open the door,” he commanded.
“Yes, my Lord,” Karris replied with unapologetic righteousness.
Jordan walked into the room with cool indifference. “Varian, come here,” Jordan called, bringing a scented handkerchief to his nose. “Attend your uncle.”
“It’s so dark in here, my Lord,” said Karris. “Should the drapes be drawn?”
“Yes,” Jordan replied, “and open the windows. It is far too musty in here.”
The major domo nodded and signaled one of the servants.
“Very well,” breathed Jordan, when it became clear that Varian would not come out. “Search every room,” Jordan ordered the men who had accompanied him as he stepped close to the major domo. “The furniture in here is unacceptable for a man who would be grandee.”
“I agree, my Lord,” the major domo answered, “though Lord Varian might be more comfortable with his current furniture.”
“What does his comfort matter?” Jordan replied, wondering how tightly the major domo controlled the castle’s finances. “He will adjust. His future station demands it. Good God!” On instinct, Jordan shot a psychic bolt of energy as some small brown animal as it ran from one hiding place to another. It did not make it. “There is even vermin in here!”
“I have located him, my Lord,” one of Jordan’s men reported.
“Good,” Jordan replied, following the man as the dead animal was forgotten.
Varian stood shaking in a closet, still not fully dressed.
“Oh, Varian,” Jordan cried, “come out of there at once. It is so undignified.” Jordan addressed the major domo. “Lord Varian’s clothing is also unacceptable. He is to be dressed appropriately at all times, every day, and take his formal meals in the Great Hall.”
“Yes, my Lord,” the major domo heartily agreed.
Varian had not yet moved from the closet. At Jordan’s signal, two of his men advanced on Varian and grabbed him by the arms. Predictably, Varian screamed and attempted to fight, but the men were stronger, and dragged the now hysterical Varian from his hiding place.
“Nephew, Nephew, Nephew,” Jordan said with mock sympathy. “There is no need to make a scene. Let us try keeping the proper decorum.”
Varian could not hear his uncle through his screams.
“Clean him up,” Jordan ordered. The men pulled Varian toward the bathroom. “He has an engagement this evening with a few of his future government ministers.”
“No! No!” Varian cried as the men began to strip him.
“Oh, I know, Nephew,” Jordan said soothingly. “I do not care for government ministers myself. Especially that Sukain woman.”
Varian cried as he repeatedly tried to cover himself with his hands.
“Oh, not to worry. That ball-busting bitch will not be there. Tonight will be a good way to start meeting people however, since you have an appearance before Parliament next week.”
Varian yelled again.
“Yes, yes,” Jordan said, “but it was your brother’s idea. He had his own appearance before Legan’s Lords recently, and what is good for him is certainly good for you.” He turned back to the major domo. “Burn all of his clothes, sheets and toiletries. Scrub the place down and throw away all of this junk.” Jordan slapped away a small object that had been sitting on a table, breaking it.
“I could install him in the master apartments, my Lord,” the major domo offered. “It is still fully furnished, and decorated as Lord Seonas once left it.”
“Oh yes,” said Jordan, “and what a tasteful interior decorator Uncle Seonas was. Very well, do it.” He looked at the man coolly. “Go ahead and save the Family some money.”
- - -
Ansel had thought about the Soror’s words, and could only come to one conclusion: He had to search for Patér Linse room by room. What else was there? No one in the Palace knew where he was, he had failed to find him using the Disciplines, and he was running out of time.
He had called up an official holographic map of the Palace from the general database and, expecting it to be inaccurate, translated it into a program that would enable him to piece together missing rooms and corridors that the map omitted or distorted. Knowing that sending out a psychic probe through the Palace would invite trouble, Ansel keyed in the location of his room and coded it blue. One small section of the projected Palace turned from red to blue. Here was his starting point. Working on the assumption that Patér Linse, if trapped somehow, was stationary, Ansel extended his awareness out to the rooms surrounding his, focusing on dimensions so he could compare them to the holographic map.
Extending himself as far as he felt comfortable, Ansel stopped and came back to himself. So far the map still fit the dimensions of the rooms he had scanned. It was a beginning. He would worry about dealing with occupied and secured rooms later. There were ways around such obstacles beyond simply waiting for people to leave. In the meantime, he would continue mapping, waiti
ng for any secret areas that dropped out of the mapped design.
- - -
Guishaun saw the major domo as he stepped into the corridor leading to his father’s old suite. “My Lord,” the major domo said with a bow, “Lord Jordan was here and ordered that—”
“Get the hell out of my way,” Guishaun snarled, pushing past the major domo without breaking stride. He had left Pablen Palace as soon as he heard his brother’s terrified psychic call.
“But my Lord...”
Guishaun reached up and knocked hurriedly. “Varian, it’s me.” There was no answer. Guishaun was about to force the door when he stopped himself. Turning back to the major domo, Guishaun spoke through his teeth. “Leave here.”
Even without a psychic projection, the man sensed the pending danger. He bowed once and departed, with Guishaun eying him until he was out of sight.
“Please, Varian,” Guishaun said. “I’m alone.” Guishaun heard the door unlock and rushed inside, closing the door behind him and relocking it.
“Varian,” Guishaun called, looking about the room. He remembered that room, decorated like a museum set piece, with items you were to look at but never use. Look, but don’t touch. He walked further in and saw the door to the bedroom was ajar. He remembered that room too. He remembered that bed. It made him want to burn the whole place down. “Where are you?”
“Guishaun!” Varian cried from an adjoining sitting room. Guishaun sped to his brother’s side. Varian was dressed in pure white silk, with a jacket of thick brocade. His hair had been cut and slicked back. His skin was scrubbed pink. He smelled heavily of cologne. “Guishaun!” Varian cried again, reaching for his brother through his tears.
Guishaun took Varian in his arms and held him. Only then did he notice one of the many mirrors that had been installed in the room. There had been mirrors in the main room as well. Bigger ones, ones seemingly brand new. Mirrors, a bane to his self-conscious brother.
“I am so sorry, Varian.” Guishaun whispered. “I didn’t know.”
“Uncle J-J-Jordan,” Varian stammered, gripping his brother tightly.
“I will deal with him,” Guishaun said, moving in a rocking motion with his brother and he patted him gently. “I promise.”