“Opportunities for justice rarely occur on their own,” Lilth said finally. “I support your proposal. My brother will contact you once I gather my own contribution to the guest list.”
“Thank you, Lady Morays. I will also confirm my acceptance of his invitation to Pablen. I bid you farewell then.”
“And to you, Bishop Wyren,” Lilth said before blackening the wallscreen with a flick of her finger. She popped a few more bits of food into her mouth. “Can you gather the needed number of sisters from other covens?” Lilth asked one of the witches.
“Yes, my Lady. But we may have to offer a place in our own coven to some of the more powerful sisters for them to agree.”
“Do it then,” Lilth replied. “We need to see to the rebuilding of our coven anyway. We have mourned our lost sisters long enough.”
“As you say, my Lady,” said the witch.
Lilth smiled. A plan had been formulated and accepted. Vengeance would be hers. Snatching more food from her tray, Lilth dismissed her sisters before summoning the servant she had spoken with earlier, the one with the pretty face.
- - -
Henrald Steuben sat in his new office, replete with wood paneling and chandeliered ceiling, reviewing status reports. He was a full general now, and director of HOPIS. While rank certainly had its advantages, it was not a position he had ever sought to attain. Steuben had always been in the field. And though it was easy to think that he might return as an operative once HOPIS was purged of Jordan’s lackeys and NDB infiltrators, he had to be realistic. Derrick might retain him as a personal “solutions man” for special assignments, but in truth, he was getting on in years. The old soldier considered life as a coordinator and trainer. Surely it was his future, if he did not retire or die first. Privately, he wondered which he would prefer.
“Sir,” said his chief secretary. “Your appointment is here.”
“Right. Go ahead and send him in.”
The man said nothing upon entering Steuben’s office. As he walked further into the room however, his face began to change. Steuben calmly activated the room’s defenses as he waited for the man’s face to resolve into its true visage.
Courell Valmont. Now Steuben understood Bishop Wyren’s desire to rein in his wayward son. Valmont had received secret NDB psychic training, possibly in connection to his work with the rebels, and probably authorized by Bishop Wyren himself. Not knowing what other special talents Valmont might have, the man had certainly become much more dangerous in Steuben’s estimation.
“Glad to see you escaped your father, Valmont,” he said as the rebel leader sat. “By the time I broke out of Carran myself, I thought surely you were dead.”
“Thank you for the thought, Director-General,” Valmont replied. “And congratulations on your promotion. I am glad your rescue of Lord Derrick was a success. Since returning from Carran, I have tried to reach you. Given our past dealings, I cannot tell you how hurt I was that your new associates refused me an appointment, or even to let me speak with you directly.”
“Yes, well, suspected rebel leaders are more likely to be arrested than granted personal access to the director of HOPIS. By the way, I hope the poor bastard whose appointment you co-opted has not yet passed from this existence. I was hoping he could get me a good deal on a new hovercar I’ve had my eye on, what with my salary having just been bumped up a bit.”
“Not to worry,” Valmont replied, adjusting the padding around his midsection. While he could change the configuration of his face, he evidently had limits on what he could do to disguise the rest of his body. “He will be fine.”
“Relieved to hear it. Well then, what shall we talk about?”
“I offer evidence of NDB involvement in rebel activities, enough to justify confiscating NDB holdings on Legan, data on prominent rebels now under the patronage of the Consortium, and information on planned attacks set to occur within the next couple of days.”
“And in return, I suppose, you want pardons for select associates of yours?”
“For their pledges against any further uncivil or criminal activity.”
“You are willing sell out some of your own, just to cut a deal?”
“We are only surrendering those who have betrayed the Movement.”
“But you are also promising to give up your ‘Movement.’ Why not just shoot the traitors and carry on with your... social struggle?”
“Culling these leaders and teams from our ranks is part of the price for taking a grave gamble. In their own corrupt way, the Consortium, the DuCideons, and NDB Church have helped sustain Possór rule. But if their power is neutralized, as we believe Lord Derrick intends, Legan’s people will greatly benefit.”
“So now you gamble the viability of your Movement on Derrick being the benevolent ruler you wanted? Why this new faith in the ‘Scourge of Galleston’?”
“We both know that moniker is undeserved, just as we know that Derrick’s own family was involved in his abduction. The reasons behind their implicit fear of his rule, together with his actions since his return, give us cause to hope.”
“So much to promise to end your rebellion? What if the plot against Derrick was born of simple ambition, and not from fear of his severing House Possór’s lucrative underground ties?”
“We believe Lord Derrick desires to cleanse his House. We also believe, having finally spent time among the common folk, that he has newfound compassion. More, some of us are tired of fighting, and wish to quietly withdraw. Now others may break their parole if Derrick proves false, or fails to advance social justice, but that is not something we presently foresee.”
“Forcibly taking money from those who earn it, to magnanimously bestow it upon others who merit nothing, may be antithetical to Lord Legan’s sense of justice, however large the cut might be to feed the planetary bureaucracy. I fear he may fail to meet your expectations.”
“They are not mine, but if any of our comrades indulge in the self-serving disease of incurable discontent, they alone should be made to answer for their actions. I will disclaim any responsibility.”
“Understandable, from your perspective. Tell me though, after you get your pardon, will you go off quietly into the night, Valmont?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then if a conditional pardon may not be enough for you anyway, why come here and risk arrest? Does revenge on your father mean that much to you?”
“My risk is not uncalculated. My psychic training would prevent you from obtaining the information I offer without my cooperation, and soon I may even have more for you. The Assembly also knows I am here, and would not be above revenge, if I were harmed.”
“I have endured greater threats, but still, there is no sense in creating an unnecessary nuisance.” Steuben nodded. “All right, Valmont, let’s deal.”
- - -
“The targets are nearly all military facilities,” Sukain told Derrick and his other advisors as a holographic globe representing Legan was projected over the conference table. Points of light indicated the location of sites where Steuben’s source had indicated the rebels, secretly backed by the Consortium and non-NDB aligned DuCideons, planned simultaneous attacks.
“With the forfeiture announcement,” Derrick began, “their hiding behind the rebels comes as no surprise. But what do we make of them timing the attacks to coincide with the peace settlement negotiations brokered by my good cousiné?” No one thought to remark on Lord Jordan’s absence from their meeting.
“The more forces we commit to the Palace, the less we have for other areas,” Steuben answered. “They want us spread thin. And who knows which of these sites will be actual targets when the time comes, and which will be diversions?”
“What is the cost of putting additional forces in orbit and holding them there for rapid deployment?” Derrick asked.
“Considerable, given our current budget constraints, my Lord,” another advisor replied. “I would estimate a third of this quarter’s military operating allocati
ons, assuming they stay there for a week. Perhaps we can move more of the security burden on local authorities?”
“Local law enforcement in the civilian areas surrounding our military facilities are not routinely screened for security access,” Steuben reminded them. “Non-military sites do not pose a problem, but we lack the time to properly clear new people for the other sites.”
“How about if we discard the idea of capturing these insurgents and just eliminate them?” the previous advisor asked. “Would that reduce the number of required ground units?”
“Allowing increased collateral damage would also cause a reduction,” said Steuben, with little enthusiasm. “I suggest capturing high level insurgents for interrogation however. Given that we would otherwise simply kill them on the ground, their subsequent execution should not require a large investment of resources. Or public debate inherent in any protracted legal proceedings.”
“General Steuben,” Derrick replied, “I have decreed that justice shall operate publicly in my realm, with full procedures which are a defendant’s due.”
“I only suggest, my Lord, that justice need not require an extravagant production to be achieved. If guilt is clear, how much should we allow technical procedures to slow it down?”
“If we indeed fight for our survival, my Lord,” Sukain added, “swift and decisive justice may provide greater public confidence than justice delayed and possibly thwarted. After all, Justice is a result, any process we use is but a means.”
Meaning these are desperate times, Derrick thought. And Sukain’s view was despite her own unjust incarceration and near execution. “Very well,” he agreed. “Let all insurgents be killed save for those to be held temporarily for questioning. Put additional troops in orbit however, ready to support our ground forces where needed.” He turned to another advisor. “How fares the security arrangements for my cousiné’s upcoming peace summit here at the Palace?”
“Fearing assassination, Bishop Wyren requests permission for added NDB security to accompany him,” Patér Orqué began. “I told him that Lord Ketrick and Mister Tenatte have made similar requests, and that the safety of all would be better assured if they all kept their contingents to a minimum.”
“At this point,” one previously silent advisor quipped, “an assassination here would be a suicide mission.”
Derrick turned sharply to the man. “Assassinations have happened here before without immediate consequence. Besides, do you not believe that loyalty could give rise to such self-sacrifice even in the most rational of minds?”
The advisor looked down. “Forgive me, my Lord. I do believe in such loyalty. My remark was thoughtless.”
Derrick saw the man’s shame as genuine, and so he would keep his position.
“My Lord,” said Sukain, “there is another matter just confirmed. As regent, Lord Jordan ordered the sale of items from several royal palaces and museums.”
“So the restoration and maintenance work here at Pablen...?”
“Continues, my Lord,” Sukain assured him. “But few of the objects removed for the work are scheduled to be returned, and of those, most will only be copies.”
“How far did my cousiné get in his liquidation, and where is the money now?”
“Most items from the Palace have been sold at private auctions, or through licensed dealers. By all accounts, Lord Jordan received exceptionally good prices for them. He even banked the proceeds openly, and has been paying down our outstanding Imperial fines. More items have been boxed for shipping, and others are scheduled for removal. Again, most coming from Pablen Palace.”
“It seems your cousiné found a way to reduce his dependence on outside financing, my Lord,” Steuben remarked, “by selling art he likely hated anyway.”
Derrick pursed his lips. “How much of the fines could we conceivably pay off if we sold everything currently listed, after expenses and commissions?”
Sukain had anticipated the question. “My Lord, if we include not only art works and artifacts of historical relevance, but jewels and other unique personal items belonging to the Noble Family, through carefully made sales, we may be able to pay off thirty-five to forty-five percent of the fines still outstanding.”
“That much?”
“House Possór has been accumulating these items for centuries, my Lord. And I wager most of it is packed in storage already.”
“But my Lord,” a different advisor pleaded, “this isn’t just the patrimony of House Possór, it’s part of Legan’s heritage as well.”
“What good are tokens of the past without a future to admire them?” asked Steuben. “The real problem is what to do about all the bare walls.”
“Let the sales proceed,” Derrick declared. “As for our walls and empty halls, fakes can decorate any public areas. But bring down everything else not in current use. Store them in the catacombs beneath the Palace, if necessary. The sooner we pay down our fines, the sooner we can get financially strong again. And who knows? We may even end up buying some of these things back one day.”
“So, Lord Jordan was acting as a good steward,” one advisor remarked.
Derrick gave her a withering look.
“He showed some judgment in this,” Sukain admitted.
“And so, we follow Lord Jordan’s lead,” Steuben breathed. “I can’t say why exactly, but I feel like I need a shower.”
“Whether you respect him or not,” Derrick replied, “there are things to learn from my cousiné, General Steuben. My way of playing ruler nearly brought my death. Therefore, I will learn from more skilled players and approach this game differently. So save your shower, at least until our position is secure. The same for the rest of you,” Derrick turned to look at his assembled advisors, “for if we are to survive, I fear all of us will have a lot more to wash off before this is over.”
- - -
XXVIII
Leaving the Lord Chamberlain to deal with the details of the supposed peace talks, the event’s sponsor sauntered into one of Pablen’s private galleries dressed as an Imperial patrician. Jordan knew that negotiations between the NDB Church, Consortium, and the two factions of the DuCideon Brotherhood would go nowhere. Their negotiating a settlement was not the point of the meeting. He had only to open the proceedings, allow some career diplomats talk around things, and then let the parties themselves definitively resolve the conflict on their own.
Watching as uniformed workers removed, catalogued and packed more of Pablen’s art and artefacts, Jordan saw a painting being boxed for sale that he would have kept. He let it go without a word however. Once the financial restructuring of House Possór was over, and the insufferable Derrick was forever gone, the loss of his family’s old treasures would give him an excuse to have all the royal palaces refurnished, and allow him to play patron to a whole new generation of artists. Perhaps he might even start a stylistic era, if not age.
Two new workers entered the room carrying portascreens, offering Jordan only a nod, instead of a bow. Jordan straightened at the slight.
“Relax,” said Lilth Morays from behind him. “They are with me.”
Jordan spun at the unexpected voice. He was tiring of surprises these days. “Lilth, what are you doing here so soon?”
“Derrick’s rummage sale, and its inflow of packers and movers, was too good of an opportunity to steal into Pablen to miss.” She nodded to the two workers. When Jordan looked back at them, their faces had changed. Whether done by the psychic manipulation of their facial structure, or by simply removing an extremely well-crafted mask, it was clear who these women were.
More of Lilth’s Dark Sisters.
“How many have you brought in with you?” he asked, glancing at the other workers behind the women, thinking he might at least see through their disguises.
“Enough,” Lilth replied, smoothing out her black dress and replacing a stray lock of fiery hair behind her ear. “Soon Derrick and Tenatte will be mine.”
“Dammit, Lilth! Not so loud.
”
Lilth laughed. “You are always trying to be so sneaky, Brother. The Lord Chamberlain is looking for you, by the way. It is time to greet your guests.”
“When will you start the—?”
“When the opening ceremonies are over, leave immediately, and find a safe place to stay. Say you want to inspect the storage area where Derrick is tagging the legacies of our ancestors for special clearance. Whatever you say, wherever you go, do it quickly. After that, the reckoning of these bastards will come. I will call you when it is over.” Lilth smiled broadly. “And when you surface, Dear Brother, you will emerge as the new Lord of Legan.”
- - -
Derrick stood in what was once the family library, now a room bereft of the collection of ancient tomes that had conferred its function. Like many of the rooms in the Palace, currently, it was just another empty space.
Following a staircase leading up to the second level with his eyes, he stared at the walls where his parents’ portraits once hung. He would not miss this room, he told himself. He was determined not to miss it. And regardless of what future use was made of it, he promised himself that he would never enter it again. For it was here that he confronted his father over the truth of his crimes. It was here that he resolved to vote with the majority of the Imperial court that was sent to judge him. And it was here that he decided to turn his back on his father forever, and sentence him to death. No, he would never return here again.
A knock on one of the double doors leading to the main floor brought Derrick from his reverie. “Come in,” he answered.
“My Lord,” Patér Orqué said, bowing as he entered. “May I present Patér Dolfini.” At Derrick’s nod, Dolfini bowed as well. “He has news from the Patér Rector at Ferramond.”
Blood of Jackals (Lords of Legan Book 2) Page 43