Blood of Jackals (Lords of Legan Book 2)
Page 31
Steuben inhaled sharply as a feeling came over him regarding the fate of the boy’s parents. He turned to see the boy, Jayson, looking at him pleadingly. “Turn it off,” Steuben said wearily, his eyes lowered from the faltering image. “The power-supply is about gone.”
The woman complied, and this time Steuben was not surprised to see Jayson standing nearby. The boy had his head down and nervously played with his fingers. Seeing the boy’s despondent look, the woman sighed, glanced at Steuben and offered the boy the disk.
“Hey!” Charid called. “What are you doing?”
“Here, Jayson,” the woman said soothingly, ignoring Charid’s protest. “Take it.” Jayson looked up gingerly before accepting the precious object. “In a moment,” the woman continued, “we’ll see if we can get it working properly again.” The boy nodded silently, clutching the disk to his chest. “He showed that first holo-projection to almost everyone,” the woman whispered to Steuben. “He didn’t say a word, but it was clear what he wanted.”
“All I could tell him was that I didn’t know where his parents were,” another nearby man added, scratching the back of his head. “They must have gotten separated in the confusion.” Somewhere behind him, Charid expelled a short huff.
“I am not to be disturbed,” Steuben instructed, glancing at the others before looking back at the boy. All voiced their understanding as the Colonel returned to his corner of the room. Steuben was safe there for now, but sooner or later the time would come to leave this place. By then he was determined to know what he would do, and have a plan to see it done.
- - -
Again in a private club owned by the Consortium’s Anios Tenatte, Curin Morays took the drink offered by the buxom woman, turning to watch her as she walked away. With a loud sip, he wondered if he would have time with her before returning to his mother’s palace. The old witch was sure making it hard to sneak out of Crucidel lately. For the first time in his life, he was having to take what fun he could when he could get it, and the need for it grated on him.
“Your uncle has apparently eliminated another contender for the throne, Lord Curin,” Anios Tenatte said, his artificial eyes glowing in the darkness.
“Varian the Retard?” Curin laughed and sipped his drink. “He was never going to be grandee.”
“With similar hindsight, that could be said of other people,” Tenatte remarked. “Unless something is done soon, however, Lord Jordan may…” Tenatte chose his words carefully, “sideline everyone with claims to the throne.”
“Like he did to me,” Curin grumbled, still angry at his mother for accepting his uncle’s suggestion that he remain hidden in Crucidel until Derrick was found.
“Yes, with your uncle now regent, I had expected your mother to allow your return.” Tenatte regarded Curin. “Surely it is not for want of a consistent story regarding your abduction. Still, whatever her reason, it must be good.”
“Sligspew! I’m just suffering because she lost Derrick.”
“Yes. So you told me. Still no news on that front?”
“No. She doesn’t know where he is. The witch-bitches had a lock on him when he was with those cow-pokers, but they can’t find him now.”
“Pity. I heard Lady Morays lost a friend during the attack by the town folk.”
“Yeah, Hestori.” Curin laughed. “She got herself melted.”
“Well, you are not out yet, Lord Curin. Even Lord Guishaun could come back, if he ups his play. That makes your brother the only other potential claimant undeclared and unaligned. And reports say that Lord Cary is to be married.”
“Yeah, Cary gets some bitch with a big dowry, while I’m being left to rot.”
“About that, Lord Curin, is there something we can do to help you now, before your uncle consolidates his power?”
“Well, my mother has been holding back on my payments—”
“I mean, is there some way we can help you act on the plans we discussed?”
Curin’s face remained blank.
“To renounce the Morays name and go for the throne?” Tenatte pressed.
“I don’t know about that anymore,” Curin said, lowering himself in his seat and bringing his drink in close. “I’m not sure I want to be grandee. I just want things back the way they were.”
“But they can’t, not with what your uncle’s ambition means for you.” Curin looked at him blankly. “Jordan wants Legan’s crown,” Tenatte explained. “Two candidates with superior claims are dead, and Lord Guishaun may join them.”
“Oh. Well, so? Who cares about that pud-pusher? Mother would never let Uncle Jordan do anything to me.”
“Except imprison you.”
“Yeah, well that’s only until this thing with Derrick is over.”
“And what if Derrick is never recovered? Or what if he returns on his own while you are still being ‘held’ by the ransomers?”
“Mother would—”
“Protect her brother and give him what cover he needed. Having kept you confined this long, why not hide you indefinitely—or at least until Jordan is ‘secure’ on the throne?”
“She wouldn’t...” Curin did not finish his sentence.
“Look, are you sure your brother Cary doesn’t want the crown?”
“He keeps saying that he doesn’t want anything to do with politics.”
“Then who would that leave, if your uncle Jordan were removed?”
“You mean if he was killed?”
“That wouldn’t be necessary. We have information regarding his criminal involvement with the DuCideons. If a credible source could be used to bring this information to light...”
“I knock Uncle Jordan away from the throne, and you slam the DuCideons.”
“A mutually beneficial result, my Lord,” Tenatte said, surprised by Curin’s quickness. “And with your uncle acting without your mother’s knowledge…”
“No one would believe that. My mother is tied to most of Uncle Jordan’s dealings. They would both go down.”
“I’m sure you can think of a reason to pardon her, once you are grandee.”
“What else would you want for this?”
“All we ask is that the NDB Church and its DuCideon Brotherhood be expelled from the planet. We will take care of the rest.”
“And my brother? He wouldn’t cross my uncle or mother, but…”
“You said he didn’t want the throne.”
“If the way is cleared for him, the pigpoker would certainly take it.”
“Lord Cary would be a difficult target. He doesn’t chafe under your mother’s protection. Besides, would you really want to upset your dear ol’ mum like that?”
“For the Crown, in a heartbeat.”
“Having taken his vows as the Morays’ heir, renouncing the name would be hard for your brother. He would need political cover. You would need it too.”
“I’ll just blame Cary for not ransoming me, and say he didn’t want the money coming from House Morays. I’ll even say he wanted my inheritance for himself.”
“Bravo, my Lord,” Tenatte said with due enthusiasm. “We can also blame your father’s family for the abduction, since the title would return to them if you and your brother were gone. That should give you enough excuse to renounce the family name and assume your mother’s.”
“But I still don’t trust Cary,” Curin said stubbornly. “I want the Preening Pretty-Boy completely gone.”
“If you were grandee, and he just a viscount, would you really care?”
“No,” Curin replied, his sudden jealousy deflated.
“Then let’s agree to this: You take down your uncle with the information we give you, and make your bid for the throne. If Cary tries anything then, he dies.”
Curin thought a moment. “So where’s this information?” he asked.
“Why, I have it here, Lord Curin,” Tenatte replied, reaching into his jacket.
- - -
Vaid Ketrick looked at Allenford Biam from across the dining t
able at an exclusive restaurant in Landsig, neutral territory for two men with a history of never having liked each other. If he had not reminded himself that his primary enemy was really Bishop Chais Wyren, Lord Ketrick would have reached over to strangle the former government advisor, a man who had not only gone over to the hated NDB, but had usurped Ketrick’s position as the DuCideon planetary grandmaster. Biam’s betrayal was yet an unpaid debt.
Biam brought a steaming cup to his lips and sipped his tea, wondering how many security brutes surrounded their private, electronically warded room. The owner of the establishment was a businesswoman of local renown, the venerable Mama Cherek, who had kept her enterprises outside the larger Consortium and DuCideon operations for years. The terms of the meeting being set, Mama Cherek would ensure peace until the meeting was over, and the two men left her territory. Idly, the once-royal confidant considered the restaurant’s predominately red décor. No doubt Mama Cherek had an inside joke about how it hid all the blood.
“I wonder what Wyren is dining on tonight as his city continues to crumble,” Ketrick said, drinking rice wine instead of tea.
“Why should I care?” Biam replied. “Unless he chokes on it.”
“It must be difficult, Allenford: Having a man like Wyren as your master.”
“I have served under worse men. And one far less competent.”
At that moment, a waiter brought in a white glazed tureen. Having ordered the evening’s soup, Biam watched as Ketrick eyed the clear clumpy liquid being served into his bowl, its slow oozing occasionally hurried by the dropping of what looked like small sausages.
“Besides, I chose to work with Wyren,” Biam continued, tasting his soup and nodding to the waiter. “You had no choice but to get into bed with Tenatte.”
Ketrick suppressed the urge to spit as he swallowed his soup and cleared his throat. Spooning what he hoped was a ribbed sausage into his mouth, he tried not to guess at the meat. “My need for Tenatte is about over,” he managed to reply. “No doubt this war will force Wyren to sell what he stole from us and, given our takings from NDB caches, we might well buy most of our old operations back. Then where will you be?”
“I always knew my arrangement with the NDB would be temporary,” Biam responded, finishing his soup. “I have kept my options open.”
“With whom? One of the minor NDB houses? Another step down, surely.”
Ketrick had just emptied his bowl when the ethnic specialty he had ordered arrived. Upon each man’s plate lay a purple octopod with large eyes rolled up into its hood. For presentation, it sat straight up with its tentacles splayed. Ketrick nibbled on the garnish, waiting for Biam to figure out how to eat it.
Unwilling to let Ketrick see his discomfort, Biam cut one of the tentacles and placed it into his mouth. To his dismay, the creature’s suction cups still seemed to work, though with a gulp of tea, he successfully dislodged it from the back of his throat. Ketrick smiled as he pierced the top of the hood with his fork and cut a thin piece off the top with his knife. By the time Biam caught on, he had already severed another tentacle, so when he tried to follow Ketrick’s lead, the creature fell over backward on his plate. Biam tried to steady his meal with another thrust of his fork, but this time he stabbed too low and too deep, causing a rush of air through the creature’s beak below that sounded like a phlegmy gurgle.
“You need a new host to cycle back up into the higher political circles again,” Ketrick said, resuming his earlier remarks.
Biam ignored the parasitic implication. “You flatter yourself to suggest that you have the power to be a political patron,” he said, finally eating from the choice section of the ocean beast.
“As if I would take you back into the fold. You have no one to turn to now.” Ketrick skewered another layer of the creature’s hood steak.
“I have someone for whom it will not matter who is grandee.” Biam ate another piece from his plate. “Someone whose true power is greater than any who might sit on the throne.”
“Sounds like Lilth Morays, one who is not known for long tenured servants.”
Ketrick placed the utensils he had used for the course onto the plate, signaling he was done. As Mama Cherek was supposedly cooking this meal herself, Biam took Ketrick’s refusal to eat the tentacles as inoffensive to her culinary skills. Not even Ketrick would risk insulting their hostess, and it gave Biam a measure of what he had to eat to satisfy her honor.
“And you, Vaid?” Biam finished his required portion with a heavy breath. “Where can you go now? Do you think Legan’s DuCideons were the only ones infiltrated by the NDB?”
The next course was one of Biam’s choices again, a large twitching sea crustacean in a silent, prolonged death throe. Now it was his turn to watch Ketrick decide how and what to eat.
“Your precious Brotherhood is effectively no more,” Biam said, squeezing the juice of a wedge-cut citrus fruit over his plate, severing the eye-stalks of his dinner, and sucking out the tips and inner contents. “And Wyren will never stop pursuing you, even if you gave back all that you stole from the NDB and more.”
“Once Jordan takes the throne, or anyone with the backing of Lady Morays, the NDB will be expelled.” Ketrick pinned one of the legs of his entrée, cut it, and tried not to notice the fresh, faintly blue blood discoloring the cook’s sauce. “Wyren knows this. That is why NDB forces have been counter-attacking with such a vengeance. They need to win this conflict with the Consortium to remain here, regardless of the cost.”
“But if the NDB win, you lose your protection,” Biam countered.
“By the time that happens, the NDB will be in no condition to do any more fighting. And I still have friends in Parliament who hate the NDB as much as I do. I will not be alone.”
“A high risk, Lord Ketrick. For the Consortium could win too. Or the two sides could reach an accord. Either way, Tenatte will not let you remain independent for long.”
Both men resumed crunching through the shell of their now dead delicacies to get to the tender meat inside. Neither spoke as each considered his position, their thoughts no longer on trying to make the other lose face. Once they were finished and their plates were cleared, Ketrick was tempted to cancel dessert, though it was one that he had ordered. Simian brains that, while still living, had all the blood replaced with a caramelized solution. The dish was served frozen, with a red fruity glaze. Somewhere, Ketrick imagined, Mama Cherek was laughing at their foolish food fight. But neither man had come there to be the evening’s entertainment.
“Allenford,” Ketrick said, dropping all pretense from his voice. “I would bet that you have information regarding the NDB of high strategic value.”
“And I would assume that you have the same on the Consortium,” Biam said cautiously.
“If they were to destroy each other, would House Possór not be the stronger for it?”
“Definitely. Are you proposing something?” Biam did not keep the hope out of his face. They had finally reached the purpose of their meeting.
“Actually, I would suggest that we propose something. As a way for both of us to regain royal favor.”
“It would take both of us,” Biam agreed. “That way House Possór could maintain the appearance of neutrality. Jordan cannot afford to be seen as favoring one side of this war over the other. It would draw him into the conflict. But if both sides can be neutralized...”
Ketrick dropped his napkin over his dessert. Smiling, Biam did the same.
- - -
XX
From his own room at Pablen, Ashincor willed his projected awareness forward to the next room of another palace a continent away. More storage space? he wondered as he saw the room in his mind. Not expecting to find anything inside, he conducted a full search nonetheless.
That was how it had been from the start. Crucidel was big, bigger than what the maps showed. He had of course memorized the maps, updating them as needed while keeping track of where he had been, but so far, he had found nothing.
Safe. Ashincor gave a bitter scoff. He was not safe anywhere in Crucidel. That was why he kept these forays into the Viscountess’ lair short. He could not afford to become overly fatigued. If he encountered Lilth, or any one of her Dark Sisters, he would need his strength. But there had to be a better way.
Ashincor willed his projected-self back to his room and opened his eyes. He was getting faster at coming back, and that was good. Being able to escape quickly might serve him later.
“You are back early. Did you find something, Master?” It was Ansel, looking up from a portascreen.
“Not yet. But I have a task for you: Find out all you can about Lilth Moray’s coven. Specifically, I need to know the timing of their recurring rituals. Also, I want you to monitor any requests for the Church’s help in local police matters.”
“Yes, Master. But why—?”
“These Dark Sisters are powerful. Unless someone has a small army to send against them, anyone wanting them to answer for their crimes will want the help.”
“Very well, Master.” Ansel bowed at Ashincor’s nodded dismissal and left.
Alone, Ashincor reopened his vision, trying again to psychically peer into Crucidel’s secrets. Again he failed. Surrounded by a psychic fog, some areas of Lilth’s fortress were clear, others were blackened out, and most were somewhere in between. Unsurprised that the clearer images yielded nothing of use, he sought out the darker images. It was where things were most hidden, he decided, that he would find what he wanted. But it was also where it would be the most dangerous.
Ashincor thought he could handle one Dark Witch, especially if all he had to do was get away. But two in direct combat? And what if more had answered a summons by Legan’s Demon Queen? A bleak reality stared at Ashincor, and mocked his reluctance to return. Yet Crucidel held something for him to discover. He sensed it. Chipping at the edges would avail him nothing however, and would cost him time he did not have. And so, deep into the spider’s web he would go. There to find what beckoned him, be it his liberation or his doom.