Blood of Jackals (Lords of Legan Book 2)

by Todd Marcelas Moreno

  Dolfini approached as Orqué withdrew, one black robe replacing another. “What news from Ferramond?” asked Derrick. He leaned against a large windowsill and looked out to the sky, suddenly wondering why he was torturing himself by remaining in this hated room.

  “The Patér Rector has a revised estimate of how much the Holy Church can assist in restructuring House Possór’s total debt, my Lord. He figures another fifteen percent of the amount previously offered.”

  “Every bit helps,” Derrick breathed, already knowing it was still not enough to save him from an arranged marriage. The only goal now was to have enough comparative leverage to make the ‘terms of surrender’ more palatable.

  “My Lord,” Dolfini said as he looked about the empty room. “Where your parents’ marriage portraits not in here? Surely they are not being auctioned.”

  Derrick stared at Dolfini. “No,” he said. “New places shall be found for them after the Palace restoration is complete.” The full truth was that Derrick could not let his mother’s portrait face a barren room. Or a barren palace.

  “Strange, my Lord. It reminds me of when I was last at Linse Castle. As I recall, all the family portraits were taken down after your father became grandee.”

  “And expelled my grandfather?” Derrick asked tersely.

  “I see that Your Lordship needs no reminding,” Dolfini replied evenly.

  “I know what my grandfather claims,” Derrick corrected. “And I know my side of it.” Derrick may have needed Patér Rector Warek, but he was not going to let his representative’s cheeky remark go unchallenged.

  “I was here at the Palace at the time, my Lord, as a security consultant, like Patér Orqué. Giving you and your mother up was heartbreaking for Patér Linse.”

  “Yet he somehow managed it.”

  “He came back when he could, my Lord. When it was safe. When he thought that you might be ready to receive him again.”

  “Whether his return was too late or too soon, it matters little now.”

  “Can yet another transgression by your father be that difficult to face?”

  “I do not care to speak of my father,” said Derrick.

  “Or is your anger at your grandfather but a projection from yourself?”

  Derrick’s eyes widened. This man dared much. Derrick would not resort to rank however to win this exchange. The charge would be answered. “Why should I be angry at myself? If you were here at the time, you know where I stood.”

  “You were innocent then, my Lord. But you carry guilt now.”

  “Why would I? And take care in your reply, Patér Dolfini,” said Derrick, abandoning his pledge to answer the man word for word. “I may need the Patér Rector’s help, but I would only take so much from him, much less from you.”

  “You treated your grandfather shamefully when he came to you, my Lord.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “He told no one. But he had no need. It was clear to anyone with eyes that you had turned him away. An old man, who had only come to help you.”

  Derrick stifled a wounded gasp. “And not to regain his lands and titles from my mother’s broken marriage contract?”

  “The Patér Rector would not have given him permission to return, if that had been so, my Lord. When your grandfather entered our Order, he renounced all such honors and estates. Did you ever talk to Chancellor Sukain or General Steuben about your grandfather’s efforts to find you after your abduction?”

  “Steuben was the one who found me.”

  “After having been sent by your grandfather.”

  Derrick pushed himself from the windowsill as he drew a sharp breath. “But he did not go out searching for himself,” he said. “He let others help me. Some who died for their efforts.”

  “And you would have accepted his help, my Lord?”

  “I was not myself. My memory was...”

  “His vision told him that he would not be the one to find you in any event, my Lord. And though he pushed his use of the vision to the point of his physical collapse, he did not remain idle after sending General Steuben to rescue you.”

  Derrick against resentfully took Dolfini’s bait. “So, what has he been doing?”

  “Seeking to bring justice to one who was behind your mother’s death.”

  Derrick leaned back. “He is already dead,” he declared with a forced exhale.

  “He did not act alone.”

  “What do you know of this?” Derrick demanded. “Tell me.”

  “Your grandfather has not told the Patér Rector, my Lord. But we know he is certain that he has identified this person, and that she is very much alive.”

  “Lilth?” Derrick said it more as a statement than a question.

  “To know for certain, my Lord, you must speak to your grandfather.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He is still recovering from a recent escape from Crucidel. An experience that very nearly killed him, like his first one.”

  “And when will he be fit for travel?”

  “If my Lord commands,” Dolfini replied with a slight bow, “I will issue a summons for him to come to the Palace immediately.”

  - - -

  Chais Wyren, Legan’s chief NDB authority, watched as the Consortium boss spoke with his entourage across the conference table in one of Pablen’s smaller banquet halls. Again Wyren sent a mental scan over him, and again it passed through him. This would be expected if the man psychically cloaked himself. But if this Tenatte, with his metallic eyes, pasty scarred face, and unnaturally perfect teeth, were really an android, as rumored, with no true awareness, the result of the scan would have been the same. Thinking to resolve the question, Wyren had also sent a few innocuous psychic probes, to test if Tenatte had any mental shields. This experiment had been inconclusive as well, as two men with Tenatte batted the probes away before they came too close. If Tenatte sensed what Wyren had done, which was by any measure highly rude, he made no indication of it. For his part, Wyren only smiled at Tenatte’s two warders, who in turn let Wyren sense their psychic power freely, probably as a warning not to push them too far. It was of course no matter to the NDB bishop. Those two would be taken care of easily enough when the time came.

  “Why Bishop Wyren,” Tenatte said from across the table. “I meant to ask you. How’s your most dutiful wife?”

  Wyren smiled, prompting one from Tenatte in return. The returned smile had been oddly hesitant however. “As well as can be expected,” Wyren replied.

  “Oh? Has something happened to her?”

  The Consortium boss had a deep vocal register, but Wyren heard a sudden tightness, along with an unfamiliar cadence. “The conflict between the two of us has caused for her nothing but tragedy, I am afraid,” answered Wyren.

  “She must be highly sensitive to feel the pain of others so keenly. After all, you’ve no doubt kept her and the rest of your family safe through all of this.”

  “You mean safe from you?”

  At that moment Jordan entered, flanked two steps behind by Vaid Ketrick and Allenford Biam, whose lack of personal guards suggested exclusive reliance on Palace security for their safety. All rose at Jordan’s approach, with everyone at the table thereafter exchanging the acknowledgements expected of them.

  “I must say, Lord Ketrick, Advisor Biam,” said Tenatte before Jordan could officially open the meeting, “I’m surprised to see both of you walk in so closely together. Could you two have already reached some sort of accord?”

  Wyren wondered at the man calling Allenford Biam by his now honorary former title, instead of recognizing him as the planetary DuCideon Grandmaster. Whether the omission was in deference to Vaid Ketrick’s claim to that title, or a slight to its significance, he did not know. Given his impression of Tenatte, the NDB bishop would not have expected his choice of words to be careless.

  “The differences between our relative positions still remain,” Biam assured Tenatte, avoiding any title for him entirely as he moved
his chair further down the table, away from him, before sitting down.

  Ketrick sat looking at the official Consortium representative silently.

  -

  “I’m surprised you don’t just rip out Biam’s throat with your teeth, Ketrick,” Steuben remarked, knowing the pair’s history as he watched on a monitor from the HOPIS control room at the Palace. Are you waiting for something, perhaps?

  “Sir,” called one of the HOPIS junior officers. “Unusual air and ground traffic patterns are being reported around several of the potential target areas.”

  “Show them on screen,” Steuben replied. As a precaution, HOPIS was monitoring the military sites Valmont had identified for possible attack. With his new rank, General Steuben had been given command over these sites, as well as the military units placed in orbit. He only hoped that Jordan had not infiltrated the military ranks enough to cause trouble. Having reviewed the officer lists of the affected facilities, Steuben bet that he had not. But he had been wrong before.

  The images changed on seven sections of the three dozen subdivisions of the giant wall screen facing Steuben. Using a trick he once learned, the old HOPIS officer opened his awareness to register the seven different scenes and reporting agents. Then he opened his awareness further, and saw possible enemy units moving into position. Knowing that local commanders were being updated on the situations around their bases, Steuben did not bother ordering them to go on battle alert. They already were. As were the other installations on Valmont’s list, along with still others Steuben had deemed of greater significance and risk that had not been named. Steuben’s next order was really going to concern deployment of the orbital units to those areas needing reinforcement.

  At that moment, the nature of the scenes he had been focusing on changed, as more images of the subdivided screen shifted. Fighting was breaking out, with the traffic surveillance suggesting the continued movement of enemy forces.

  Valmont had given him reliable information. A major attack was underway.

  -

  Ketrick glanced at the com-device around his wrist and noted the time, careful not to be obvious about it as Jordan continued to speak. The attacks should have commenced by now, only Tenatte and his new pet rebels would soon be finding themselves fighting government forces by themselves. None of his DuCideon brothers would truly be taking part. After reaching their positions and preparing to go in, they would disable any vehicles they were not using and simply abandon the Consortium and its latest ally, with no support, and no means of escape.

  Ketrick smiled as Jordan finally introduced a retired ambassador who would act as mediator. His job done, Jordan had no need to stay, and Ketrick envied his ability to depart this peace charade early. Soon he would be leaving too however, letting his second “negotiate” for him. Then, after retrieving some small item that would be left for him by a loyal DuCideon brother still well-placed within the Palace Guard, Ketrick would pursue his true reason for coming to Pablen.

  -

  “Unless you practice using the higher dimensions of existence, Ansel…” Ashincor replied, shifting in his seat as a lingering pain flared along his right side. Although healed, he still felt the occasional stretch of tender, newly formed tissue, and the sudden twitch of a regrown nerve. “…you will never get faster.”

  Sitting in a shuttle bound for Pablen, Ashincor and his acolyte discussed the use of higher dimensions to conceal a psychic attack. Ashincor saw combat strategies a fitting topic for Ansel who, without being told, somehow knew that fighting was in his future. Their talk however did little to free the Patér from his anxiety over returning to Pablen and his grandson. Even though his mastery over his body could negate the physiological manifestations of the worry and dread that would otherwise play havoc with his heart rate and breathing, the underlying concerns causing nervousness were still there. Derrick may have summoned him, but that did not mean he wanted anything more from him than information.

  “I have practiced grounding myself in a higher dimension,” Ansel said. Making sure one was “grounded” was fundamental to the training of new adepts. Many learning the telekinetic disciplines would forget the principle when moving objects of greater mass than themselves. Hurling a large rock could turn into hurling oneself, if one’s power was not sufficiently grounded for proper leverage. The same was true with “pyrotechnic” disciplines. Without the needed grounding, blasting a hole in a wall could mean blasting oneself through the opposite wall. “I can see how it keeps what you are doing hidden from someone not in tune with that dimension,” Ansel went on. “But how far up do you really have to go?”

  “It depends on your opponent. A foe grounding himself in the three basic dimensions might not be extending his awareness beyond them. Thus, any attack or defense you launch from a higher level will not be detectible by him until its effects manifest. That advantage can offset the extra time it takes you to work up the chain of dimensions and ground yourself, before making your real move.”

  “And other opponents?”

  “There will always be those who know more and are faster than you, Ansel. But you now know enough to be victorious in most battles. You have just to develop your skill in using that knowledge. And if the combat disciplines truly interest you,” Ansel looked down, but did not deny what his teacher had sensed, “only through continued practice will you achieve the needed precision and efficiency to knock some Dark Witch on her ass.” Ansel laughed, cheered by Ashincor’s encouragement.

  Feeling a sudden descent, both looked out one of the shuttle’s side windows.

  “There sure is a lot of air and ground traffic around the Palace today,” Ansel commented. “Will we be delayed in landing, do you think?”

  “Probably,” Ashincor concurred. “Still, we cannot complain too loudly. After all, we are contributing to the traffic, are we not?”

  -

  Agnetha Tousan waited in Jordan’s private sitting room, part of his suite at Palace Pablen, just as he had asked. Sighing, she sat in a stiff-backed overstuffed chair, and gazed at the militaria decorating the room. The array of weapons and portraits of old uniformed Possór lords bestowing beneficences upon troops and loyal retainers was clearly a declaration of power, an ideal impression to give someone waiting on Jordan for an audience. Having gotten to know him better, she just saw the military trappings as pretensions in Jordan’s case.

  “Oh, Dorrie,” she whispered, her mind turning back to the same subject that had dominated her thoughts since her brother’s death. “Why did you do it?”

  Jordan had allowed her to see the surveillance images of her brother’s final moments. And though such things could be fabricated, the look on Dorian’s face seemed true to her. A faked sequence would have played too conveniently to the jealous lover scenario used to explain the murder. Dorian was sad, yes, but more resigned than hurt. She knew her brother. There was no thought of revenge in his face. There was only defeat.

  Dorian’s warning repeated in her memory: “If anything happens to me, promise you will flee.” Yet the warning was partly why she stayed. There was something more to her brother’s death, and using Lord Jordan was her best way to discover it. But would it be worth the cost? Jordan had made no demands of her yet, but he surely had his agenda with her.

  Jordan. Her brother hated him, but never said why. Was it just Guishaun’s competition with him for preeminence in House Possór? It seemed all rather moot with Lord Derrick’s return. And all a terrible shame. Particularly for poor Varian.

  Agnetha loved her brother. But as Guishaun was always more tolerant of her than embracing, it was easy to see the murders of Guishaun’s father and brother as too opportune. And as for Varian’s murder: Why would an assassin not take an extra moment to make sure that both his targets were dead? If killers could reach that far into a royal palace, what would have stopped them from finishing the job when their poison had failed? But then, Guishaun was dead now too.

  “Here you are, my Dear,” Jordan said
as he entered the room. He had changed into a military uniform, complete, Agnetha noted, with a sidearm. He also carried a portascreen. Odd. “I was hoping you would join me for a final inspection of some of the items being shipped for sale.”

  “Oh?” Agnetha had not expected that. It sounded like a task that would be more depressing for him than interesting to her, but she was not in a position to refuse him. Especially since she still wanted something. “If you wish, my Lord. Might we still rescue some of the items from the block?” Jordan laughed.

  “Well, I can say this,” he replied, taking her hand. “What will not be saved this day will surely be soon replaced. Likely with something better.”

  - - -

  Steuben looked to his adjunct officer and back to the image of Ketrick on the room’s multi-split screen. Requests for military backup were coming in from all the planetary facilities under attack. This could be expected however, no matter how remote the possibility of any of them falling to their besiegers at present. But while dispatching groups of orbiting troops to certain areas would quickly end the fighting, it would delay redeployment, if another facility began to have a greater need. Or if all these attacks are but decoys for a larger one.

  “What are you waiting for, Ketrick?” Steuben whispered.

  “Sir,” the adjunct officer began, “the Chancellor requests an update.”

  “Put her on screen,” Steuben ordered.

  “General,” Sukain said as her image emerged. “How goes the fight?”

  “We are holding our own, Chancellor. Interestingly, some of the enemy units we identified have not engaged. Many of them have even left the area.”

  “A shift of tactics, defection or a diversion?”

  “Difficult to say, but I am holding back our orbital forces for now.”

  “And Lord Jordan’s Palace peacekeeping summit?”

  “The negotiators all speak like they are running for office.”

  “Which means they are stalling,” said Sukain. “Could they be expecting the fighting from these attacks to escalate?”