Blood of Jackals (Lords of Legan Book 2)

by Todd Marcelas Moreno

  “I understand,” Derrick breathed, lacking the strength to say more.

  “Go ahead and sleep, if you want,” Yeskin said, turning in his chair to review his notes. “I have some work to do.”

  - - -

  “Can you cut this wallowing in self-pity?” Dorian said in dining area of their Palace apartments, watching as Guishaun aimlessly trolled his soup with a spoon.

  “This is not the time, Dorie,” Guishaun warned.

  “And you can cut the attitude too,” Dorian replied. “You don’t have any right to self-pity. Varian’s the poor bastard who’s dead.”

  Guishaun flew from his chair. “I said,” he whispered, grabbing Dorian by the shoulders, “I don’t want to talk about it.” Dorian was undeterred.

  “But you do talk about it. Every time you mope and whine about having to do it. It’s a line of sligshit, and I don’t need it, and I am sick to death of it.”

  “But I did have to do it!” Guishaun roared, gripping Dorian’s collar.

  “Who are you trying to convince? Are you afraid of being a sociopathic sonofabitch who would kill his own father and brother to be grandee?”

  “Father was different,” said Guishaun, though his hold on Dorian loosened.

  “I don’t give a bear’s ass about your excuses,” Dorian said, freeing himself from Guishaun’s grip. “And I don’t care if St. Varian gave you his blessing. I love you, Guishaun, but admit it: You’re a bastard. At least have the balls,” he grabbed Guishaun’s crotch, “to admit it. Better a bold, ruthless bastard than a cowardly one.” Dorian released the dumbstruck Guishaun and walked away from the table. “I’m taking a shower,” he said without looking back. “Too much crap has been thrown around in here lately, and I can’t stand the smell.”

  Dorian entered the bathroom, closed the door and braced himself against the sink counter, looking in the mirror while fighting to suppress a run of dry heaves.

  Someone had to tell you, Love, he thought, a hand to his stomach. Cause if you don’t see this to the end, Varian will have died for nothing, and we’ll be next.

  - - -

  Varian Possór’s murder, along with his younger nephew’s temporary incapacity, was well timed. Faced with crisis and uncertainty, Parliament was only too willing to side-step the issue of Guishaun’s legitimacy. Though by naming Jordan as regent, it had also unwittingly cast upon it. And by having finally involved government troops in the conflict between the Consortium and the NDB Church, First Advisor Sukain, for her part, had provided a focal point for blame should anything go wrong. Now all Jordan had to do was solidify his control over the government, continue to marginalize his nephew, and “sort out” Sukain’s “mess,” all while keeping her at hand for public execution once Derrick was confirmed dead. Jordan should have been happy.

  But what began as an amusing exercise of power that morning, receiving petitions for his favor, was now boring him. “As a ruler, having my ass kissed takes half my time,” he remarked.

  Jordan’s carryover chamberlain, a man who had now served three previous planetary rulers, pursed his lips. “You may handle the hearing of these petitions any way you wish, my Lord. For Count-Grandee Seffan, price was more of an issue than propriety. Lord Derrick, well, he fancied himself a distributor of Justice, whatever it was that he meant by the term.”

  “Sweet, little Derrick took a hardline when granting leniency, then?”

  “More than one well-paying petitioner called him ‘cold-hearted,’ my Lord.”

  “Well, I shall take a more moderate approach. Let us have more groveling!”

  Smiling as he rapped his staff of office on the stone floor, the chamberlain signaled the next supplicant to enter.

  “My Lord,” the older man bowed before Jordan’s throne. “I represent the second son of the eighth Marquis of—”

  Jordan held up his hand. “We will assume your client is from an old and distinguished family,” he said, using the royal pronoun. “What was his crime, and why should We intervene?”

  “My Lord, my client was convicted of murder five years ago. He has changed much since that time. He has rehabilitated himself, and been a model prisoner.”

  “Five years? Why has he not already been executed?”

  “Given his station, his case has remained on appeal. Your Lordship is now his last hope. As I said, in these five years, he has come a long way—”

  “To a miraculous transformation. No doubt. But how fares his victim?”

  “My Lord?”

  Jordan gave the man a brittle smile as he summoned a nearby servant. “Legan’s prisons brim with those who regret their misdeeds, have found a god, and swear to be reborn. What you must offer, Counselor, is a reason why your particular client should be granted a pardon. What separates him from the mob of falsely accused and converted holy men?”

  The man thought a moment. “My client is an artist, my Lord.”

  “Oh?” Reaching into the servant’s silver bowl, Jordan took a handful of shelled nuts. “And his medium?” Jordan popped a couple of nuts into his mouth.

  “He writes verse, my Lord. He has come in first for three years now in the annual inter-prison poetry contest.”

  “Incarceration of rhyming laureates must once have been rampant for there to be such a highly competitive event. Well, have you any samples?”

  “Yes, my Lord,” the man said, opening his file case and holding out a sheet of paper. The chamberlain signaled a servant to take the paper to Jordan. As Jordan read, his head bounced to an uncertain meter, and suddenly stopped.

  “This actually won something?”

  “It has even been published, my Lord, by a well-known—”

  “Have you any others?”

  “No, my Lord, I—”

  “Return one week hence with poetry, Counselor. Real poetry—not this freeform drool. Old or new matters not, but new would be preferable.”

  “Would my Lord care to assign a theme?” The advocate was unruffled. It was not his task to defend the integrity of his client’s art.

  “Let it be: ‘Life.’ And tell your client that the work he submits will truly make or break his career.”

  “I will do so, my Lord.”

  - - -

  Ashincor opened his eyes. He was back in his room at the Palace, with Ansel sitting across from him expectantly. Since returning from the Veiled Realm, he had barely spoken to Ansel, beyond describing his plans against Lady Morays. He had not needed confirmation from a truthseer to know that she had been with Seffan when he killed his wife, but such reassurance was good to have for what he intended to do. Accepting what his earlier visions told him, that Derrick’s fate was out of his hands for now, Ashincor had decided to target his grandson’s greatest enemy. If not for revenge, his actions would at least to make it possible for Derrick’s safe return. If he were to return.

  “I made us some tea, Master,” Ansel said.

  Ashincor glanced at the table, saw the setting, and nodded. For the first time, he realized that he had never thanked Ansel for saving his life, this young man, barely out of his teens. “Thank you, Ansel,” Patér Linse replied.

  “Did you find a way into Crucidel, Master?”

  “Yes. Conducting my search undetected, however, remains a problem.”

  “Could you tell if the revised floor plan I found is accurate?”

  “So far it is, although I have not penetrated too deeply into the palace. Lilth Morays’ two remaining Dark Sisters roam about freely, along with who knows what else. My guess is that what I am looking for will be guarded.”

  “And what are you looking for, Master?” Ansel lowered his gaze at Ashincor’s stern look. “I am sorry, Master. I know your mission is sensitive.”

  Ashincor nodded, wishing he could tell his acolyte why he was risking his life. The fact that Ansel willingly stayed with him, knowing the dangers but not his objective, invoked a sense of shame in Ashincor. But he was determined to know the extent of Lilth Morays’ involvement in
his daughter’s death. Yes, it was selfish, but…

  “Lord Derrick, Master. He must be found.”

  “What?” Ashincor had not been listening.

  “From my research on Jordan Possór...” Ashincor lifted an eyebrow. “It was all public information, Master,” Ansel assured him. “We have to stop him. He must not become grandee.”

  Ashincor wondered how much excitement, and being part of something he deemed important, motivated his young charge. “That would require bringing down his sister as well.”

  Ansel nodded. “And we will, right Master?”

  Ashincor noted the youth’s eagerness. “I am glad you are with me, Ansel.”

  Ansel smiled. “Thank you, Master.”

  “I must return to my meditations however,” said Ashincor. “In the meantime, you should work on that new discipline combination I gave you.”

  Ansel swallowed. “It is a difficult one, Master.”

  “Yes, but if something goes wrong, and they come for us, you must be ready.”

  “I will do my best, Master.”

  - - -

  Valmont pressed himself against the trunk of a giant tree, and waited for the sound of pursuit to pass. They were still looking for him, though the intensity of their search was lessening. Given the circumstances, the identity of “they” did not really matter. Whether Consortium forces found him or NDB Church Security, he was likely dead either way.

  The latest threat over, Valmont left the protection of the tree and pressed on. It was his fortune that this forest had been preserved. These trees were the largest on the planet, and created a barrier that scanners had difficulty penetrating. So long as he stayed there, he was fairly safe. But Valmont had no desire to remain with the other forest creatures any longer than necessary. As beautiful as his surroundings were to some, he saw only obstacles to returning to the comfort of civilization. Ironically, it was his father who had brought that attitude out in him.

  When he was a boy, they would go into these woods, whether alone, or with a group of other paired fathers and sons. He never understood why bonding rituals had to entail discomfort, if not pain. If his father had wanted Valmont to like him, he would have done better to let him go home. And what was the idea of only allowing him to bring a knife, bedroll and water? As if living like a caveman developed your character beyond something like, say, a caveman.

  He sure would be happy with just a bedroll now though.

  Having never trusted anyone enough to allow any telepathic bonds, Valmont could not psychically call for help without risking the wrong people finding him. But he had learned to use certain talents in ways to avoid detection, originally from his father. For example, he knew what direction he was going by sensing the planet’s magnetic pull. Within reasonable parameters, he could compensate for the weather by adjusting his body temperature, and he could efficiently control the use of his body’s reserves to minimize the effects of hunger and fatigue. Perhaps most importantly, he could also cloak his awareness and hide himself from the psychic vision of others. All this he could do without risk of discovery.

  The same applied to gathering food. Under his father’s rigid tutoring, he had learned how to detect and neutralize most organic poisons using his own body chemistry, meaning he could eat almost anything. If he had to, Valmont could also review his memory of his father trying to teach him to hunt and trap certain animals, lessons he had paid little attention to at the time, and ones he had tried to forget. The one thing he could not do, as he had with his father, was build a fire. Whether by its heat, or smoke by day or light by night, a flame would be difficult to conceal if anyone happened to be searching for him at the time.

  Valmont stopped short as he spotted a rabbit hiding in a bush. Only then did he realize how hungry he was. Altering his approach so he could come straight at the creature, he closed the distance, ready to send a small psychic spark to stun his meal. In the end, Valmont had gotten so close that he could have psychically pulled the rabbit to him while breaking his neck, without fear of another adept sensing his power. But now began the more difficult part.

  On one of his father-son journeys through the forest, Valmont had lost his knife. This time he was lucky however, and found a rock with a serviceable edge. Skinning, gutting and beheading proved to be a little messier than he had remembered, but Valmont allowed his hunger to drive him. Once all that was accomplished, he compacted the small carcass in both his hands.

  Here is a trick you did not teach me, Father, he thought as he hunched over protectively. Using his thoughts, he crafted a spherical shaped shield between his hands that encapsulated his underdressed dinner guest. He then shot psychically-created electrical fire through the shield configuration and along its inner surface. It was a shame, he thought, as a welcomed aroma began to emerge, that he did not know enough about the fermentation process. There were a lot of berries around.

  - - -

  Until he came down from the hyper-awareness of the battle trance, Steuben had not known how truly tired he was. Fortunately, his chair had been a good place to sleep. Dispelling a lingering drowsiness, he saw a full plate of food next to him, and ate without question.

  What better refuge could he have? Safe, and waited on by quiet, obedient Children of God, with no real children to disturb him. No running or shouting. No questions. Why are you here? Why are they after you? Why did you betray the old Count-Grandee? Why did you spare his son? Why did you abandon him?

  “Why?”

  The soft piping voice shook Steuben from his thoughts. Reaching for his loose weapon, he stopped upon seeing his young questioner. Narrowing his eyes at the little boy standing in front of him, he was further annoyed by the boy holding his ground and awaiting an answer.

  “Because the alternative would be worse,” Steuben snapped.

  The boy regarded him and his scowl silently and, seemingly satisfied, walked away without a word.

  Steuben eyed the boy as he left, noting the flat circular object he carried. I’m getting old, he thought, running a hand through his thinning gray hair. While wondering why the boy had bothered him, idly he considered how he had taken him by surprise. Once upon a time, someone sneaking up on him would have made him angry. Clearly that time was gone, perhaps lost along with his sense of certainty, duty, and self-worth. Lamenting a drink that was not to found in an NDB sanctuary, Steuben lazily looked about for something to distract him.

  Food and water was accessible from the lower right wall. Four air-ducts large enough for a man to walk through were at each corner and, from what he knew of the designs of most NDB shelters, each one was an independent source of oxygen. As for the furniture, there was more than enough for all and, if his chair was any indication, it was of good quality. Moreover, as the main room appeared to have several lesser ones adjoining it, there was plenty of space for the other four women and six men, along with the two kids...

  The Colonel visually counted the people again. His recount the same, he closed his eyes and mentally scanned the area once more. He registered eleven people, just as before. Sitting up in his chair, Steuben scanned each individual one by one, verifying with a quick psychic probe that they were without mental shielding. Each person he psychically touched tensed in turn, even Charid, who had let his shield drop again. When he reached the boy who had approached him however, his mental scan passed right through him.

  Steuben grunted. The little bastard cloaked himself, he thought, wondering if the boy was noble-born. Generally, only members of the aristocracy were introduced to the Disciplines at so young an age. Determined to have a full explanation, he projected another mental probe.

  With a choked cry, the boy dropped the thick disk he carried, ran to the opposite corner of the room, turned, and looked straight at Steuben. Knowing that only someone with psychic ability could have detected his probe’s origin, Steuben stood and made his way to the boy.

  “Elder Brother,” Steuben’s appointed second called. Receiving no reply, the man inter
jected himself between the Colonel and his quarry. Steuben’s eyes rose to meet his with such intensity that the other man took a step backward. Still the man remained in Steuben’s way.

  “Who’s the kid?” Steuben asked, momentarily dropping his act as an NDB elder. The change confused the other man, but he answered.

  “He was here before anyone, Elder Brother. None of us know who he is.”

  “If this boy came here alone,” Steuben began, “it means that he is local, as at least one of you here should be. Are you telling me that no one has any idea where this boy came from?”

  “Elder Brother,” a woman began, stepping forward. “I have been watching the child.” The woman’s eyes shifted about nervously before she continued. “I think he may be an inborn.”

  Steuben’s brow lifted a fraction, but he nodded understanding. The explanation made sense, and he had heard of the NDB practice of gathering children with “inborn” psychic talents for study and special training. Still he was leery. “What do you know about him then?”

  “Almost nothing, Elder Brother,” the middle-aged woman admitted.

  “What’s an inborn doing here?” Charid demanded, his lip curled with hostile disdain. To Steuben, either the man was again trying to assert his importance, or he truly thought that the child should be caged.

  “He has a toy holo-projector, Elder,” another woman said, holding the thick disk the boy had dropped when he fled Steuben’s probe. She activated the device at his continued silence.

  From its center emerged a hologram of a young smiling couple. Steuben saw the boy look about anxiously. Freezing in a pleasant pose, the projected image soon began to waver.

  “Is there any more to it?” Steuben asked, again glancing at the boy.

  Examining the device more closely, the woman adjusted one of the toy’s settings. A new image appeared, this one weaker than the first. In it the same man and woman smiled brightly, each speaking the same words in turn: “Happy Birthday, Jayson.”