The Regency Heralds began enthusiastically trumpeting the Ceremonial Flourishes the moment the Imperial lander touched down. The brassy fanfares rattled across the High Pavilion, echoing like a hellish brigade. The waiting dignitaries rustled impatiently.
Opposite the stairs, the Great Balcony looked down upon the distant surface of the Iron Sea, a bleak and empty wasteland of rust and broken rock. The ghastly desolation confronted arriving travellers like a warning, staggering them with their first clear sight of the true nature of Thoska-Roole. Some thought it beautiful. Others recoiled, awestruck, shocked or horrified. The ancient red desert lay in rumpled bloody sheets, a nightmare vision under a flaming red sky. The view did not inspire sanguine thoughts—except occasionally to Vampires. The colors of Thoska-Roole often reminded them of sweet fresh blood.
The crowd at the bottom of the stairs looked haggard. Few of them cared about the vista anymore. Some complained loudly to one another; others, more experienced at survival, kept their thoughts carefully to themselves.
The Prefect of Thoska-Roole, an aged Phaestor named Zarr Khallanin, had summoned this gathering of Nobles to the palace fifteen hours ago. He had allowed them frequent rest and refreshment, but he would not allow anyone to leave until after the welcoming ceremonies to celebrate the Lady Zillabar’s arrival had fully concluded. Protocol demanded a five-star welcome for a Lady of her rank, and because Zillabar ruled the Zashti clan, she required the presence of every Noble Citizen at MesaPort, nothing less. So Zarr Khallanin calmly held his ground. He insisted that the gathered Nobles await the Lady’s landing—and they must continue waiting until dismissed by the Lady herself; but the Prefect also implied with subtle suggestions that the imposition of this demand came from the Lady’s House, and not his own.
Beside Khallanin stood his protégé, a young starlord named Kernel Sleestak d’Vashti, a thin bloodless-looking Vampire. d’Vashti had brought his squadrons of Marauders to Thoska-Roole two years previously, looking for an industrial world where he could refit and rebuild. He had immediately offered his services to the administration of Zarr Khallanin. Thenceforth, he had secured for himself an appointment as one of Khallanin’s most trusted advisors by the skillful application of scurrilous information about Khallanin’s other most trusted advisors. The resulting perceptions created not only an increased sense of paranoia in the noble Prefect, but a perfect opportunity for an ambitious underling as well.
d’Vashti waited patiently beside his political mentor. He recognized that the crowd had long since grown restless and frustrated, almost to the point of anger. He didn’t care. It suited his purposes—his mentor’s purposes—to have them feeling angry and resentful. They would blame the Lady, not the Prefect. Later, he could make quiet unofficial personal amends to each and every one of them—not on the Lady’s behalf, not even on the Prefect’s, but on his own. He’d make sure they got the message. Slowly, he would build support.
He glanced across the room and noticed the Dragon Lord, the supreme father of the entire race of Dragons. The Lord of All Moktar and Lesser Breeds had long since grown much too large for any but the most ceremonial of occasions; only the largest of rooms could hold him comfortably. He stood more than five meters tall. His tail alone had more length than a Vampire. Even those nobles who considered it an honor to stand near the Dragon Lord still gave him plenty of room. The Lord stood in the center of his own wide clearing in the crowd, his great head split in a ghastly grin, revealing yellow teeth as long as a young man. His armor glistened with an ebony sheen. He loomed huge over his end of the room; the thick towers of his scaly hind legs and the great curving claws at the base of them attracted nervous glances from those closest by. The Lord himself gave no notice of the attention he drew. He seemed lost in some ancient reptilian dream. His great eyes had closed against the glittering boredom; the monster looked as if he’d gone to sleep.
d’Vashti knew better. He had no illusions about the Dragon Lord and the power he controlled. The Dragons remained the dominant military authority in the Regency; partly because their inability to surrender—you could kill a Dragon, you couldn’t defeat him—made them essentially unbeatable; and partly because the commanding physical presence of even a single Dragon inspired feelings of stark terror in most species, especially the mammalian ones. A troop of Dragons simply marching through a village made for an excellent textbook study in naked panic.
Even the highest of the Phaestor gave their Moktar allies an apprehensive respect. d’Vashti had seen the Lord of All Moktar and Lesser Breeds in action more than a few times and the memory still gave him uneasy nights. Even an ordinary Dragon controlled an appalling strength and viciousness. The master of all of them commanded the incredible physical authority necessary to control his entire species. He had once killed a Captain and his entire family of sons for committing the terrible insubordination of massing more than he did. The act had represented a naked challenge and the Dragon Lord had quickly demonstrated his wrath. Since that time, no Captain, ambitious or otherwise, had even dared to fertilize that many eggs at one time.
Most observers assumed that if the Dragon Lord could continue to manage the actions of his Captains this ruthlessly, the inevitable day of political challenge would not occur for at least another century or three—but when it did happen, Dragon blood would flow like wine. The last time the Dragon Lord had faced a serious challenge, fully one-third of the major Dragon families—those who had supported the loser—had forfeited their lives. The loyal survivors had thereafter enjoyed many years of free breeding.
The thought of all that coiled and brooding Dragon energy troubled d’Vashti. Someday the Dragons might grow even more ambitious. The Moktar Dragons could easily crush the much weaker Vampires; both species knew it and their alliance remained uneasy. The threat remained unspoken, but the thought of all that naked power coming to bear against the Vampire aristocracy continued to worry the highest councils of the Phaestoric Authority. No Vampire had yet conceived of a way to protect against that eventuality—except perhaps, the continued maintenance of the present state of mutual advantage. The two species would simply have to continue sharing the great overripe plum of the Regency.
Beside the Dragon Lord stood Lord Drydel, the Prince-Consort. Drydel looked up suddenly and noticed d’Vashti’s speculative interest. He allowed himself an amused expression that could mean almost anything. d’Vashti returned the Prince’s glance with a delicate nod and an opaque smile; he held eye contact with the other man for a long violet moment, then deliberately, languidly, let his gaze slide sideways toward the ranks of pretty page boys. He wondered how many of them, Lord Drydel had seduced. Probably at least as many as d’Vashti himself had.
Rumor had it that the Prince still maintained a remarkable private harem; a dangerous mistake, if true. If d’Vashti could only find a witness—or even just a soiled bedsheet; the most miniscule fragment of proof would suit his damaging purpose—and if he could, without revealing his participation in the matter, somehow maneuver the damning evidence of Drydel’s transgression into the Lady’s hands, it would certainly mean the end of this Prince’s reign. No Lady ever objected to private harems of lustrous boys; powerful leaders often needed outlets in which to sublimate their overwhelming mating urges, and the tradition of the personal harem had a history as old as the Phaestor—but the tradition did not extend to include the lusts of Noble Consorts, and any Lady would surely take offense at her selected partner bedding down these pubescent trifles instead of servicing her own desires. A Lady’s devouring passions must always take precedence.
d’Vashti considered alternate possibilities. He still fancied his presumed opponent. He had once admired that whole swarm of rosy Phaestor boys—fat, naked, chubby, tasty hatchlings all—eventually fastening his attentions on the sharpest of the survivors, the youthful Drydel himself. This had happened long before the Lady’s intolerable selection, and although the male/male mating dance had never had the chance to come to passionate fruiti
on, d’Vashti still keenly felt the hunger. He knew that Drydel felt it too; he had not mistaken Drydel’s frequent frank examinations, both before and since his coronation. But he knew that Drydel could just as easily assassinate him as take him to bed, depending on the politics of the moment. The dilemma that d’Vashti pondered troubled him deliciously: how to ascertain which of Drydel’s lusts held sway at any given moment?
The idea of a dalliance with Drydel troubled him. What advantage might he gain from it? Even more disturbing, what advantage might Drydel gain? Certainly, he could not allow his own mentor, the noble Prefect Zarr Khallanin, to discover his lusts. Khallanin stood tall and pink and shining beside him, an example of elegance in power for all to see and admire. What a peculiar dilemma for the both of them, d’Vashti thought. What a remarkable moment in the game! Both he and Drydel stood pinned to the board by the power of their own desires as well as the power of their respective mentors, yet each wanted to trade one for the other—at least, d’Vashti perceived it that way. He wondered if he had made a mistaken assumption about the Prince-Consort and his intentions. He didn’t know. And he didn’t know how to safely find out. The risk remained too great.
d’Vashti shook his head as if to clear it, and pushed all thoughts of consummation aside. He didn’t dare. Across the room, Lord Drydel flashed a dazzling smile purposely in his direction—much more than just a simple greeting, an invitation or a challenge? d’Vashti groaned inside. The danger and allure would surely drive him mad.20
Even for a Vampire, Lord Drydel had a stunning presence. Exceptionally tall and slim, and oh, so pale-bright golden, he shimmered with angelic poise. He moved with the grace of a sparkle-dancer and spoke in tones so soft and gentle that beholders often likened him to a lovely wraith, some kind of pretty holiday ghost. Drydel’s exquisite manners only enhanced the illusion. Indeed, he seemed delicate almost to the point of effeminacy.
The Lord had the high, pronounced cheekbones and the small, slightly protruding mouth common to all of the Phaestor, which usually afforded them a sharp, sinister, almost rat-like appearance, but which in Drydel’s case produced instead a brooding thoughtful expression which served somewhat to offset the startling clarity of his appearance. His lips seemed almost too red for his lustrous skin, his eyes too wide and bright, his hair too silver-glowy. The deceptive elegance of his features belied the sharp mind behind them. His extraordinary appearance served as a useful distraction; he used it skillfully to his advantage, it confused the unwary.
But Drydel possessed a mysterious attraction that went far beyond mere beauty; he unnerved even his own kind. An enigma lived behind his liquid blue eyes, something every bit as wicked and as devious as the Lady Zillabar herself. Somewhere deep inside this brilliant puzzle lay the source of his enchantment. Some suspected that the purest essence of Vampire hunger lived behind those eyes, a hunger so intense that it would even feed on Vampire flesh. If true, then it explained everything. Other Vampires, unused to the frank appraisal of a higher kind of predator could only submit to his raw power.
The Lady Zillabar herself had fallen prey to Drydel’s notorious charm at their first meeting. Drawn initially only to his beauty, she had quickly found herself entranced by his delicious wit and ultimately his wicked sense of how to handle power gracefully. Eventually, and not without considerable careful planning, she selected him as her Prince-Consort.
As Zillabar’s favorite plaything, Lord Drydel enjoyed the Lady’s unlimited favor while it lasted. He had studied Zillabar’s history; he knew she could grow bored too easily. Drydel planned to have his own intrigues in place before that happened; he had the wit to keep both his ambitions and his vanity hidden.21
Drydel knew about the stories circulating. He knew how they had started and had long since taken care of any evidence that might incriminate; the voluptuous little boys had long since fed their brothers. Lord Drydel took no foolish chances. He served the Lady’s purposes with loyalty and zeal—and with considerable caution. She’d find no fault with him; not by any action of his own.
As for d’Vashti—well, even though Lord Drydel still enjoyed the immediate advantage of the Lady’s favor, he knew better than to depend on it. While at the moment, the Lady still found d’Vashti ill-mannered and presumptuous, a mere surrogate for Khallanin’s senile fumblings, Drydel knew better than to expect that her opinion would remain unchanged for long. In Zillabar’s case, desire often reflected the particular vicissitudes of politics and power—and, under Khallanin’s tutelage, d’Vashti had a growing sovereignty here on Thoska-Roole. Even Zillabar didn’t dare abuse his courtesy too badly.
For his part, Drydel didn’t share the Lady’s particular disdain; he found d’Vashti’s cruel ruthlessness attractive. That d’Vashti stank of dangerous ambition only made him more interesting, not less. If d’Vashti kept on consolidating his authority, who knew what might happen—especially if Khallanin suddenly disappeared from the political equation. Would d’Vashti pick up all the pieces? Or would they scatter like spores on the wind? How many would land in his garden? Or the Lady’s? The situation held no small potential—and Drydel had his plans too.
—Finally, at long last, the Imperial Heralds raised their horns and blew their most expectant notes. Everyone looked up in expectation. And then, as if in answer to a prayer, the towering dark gates at the crest of the stairs parted in majestic glory, opening to reveal a lambent white blaze of light beyond.
Now the Heralds trumpeted with new excitement, and a procession of glistening warrior-lizards entered in proud precise formation; they wore the black and scarlet uniforms of the Zashti clan and carried the colors of their individual Houses on high standards. They all had gaudy ornaments and warpaint appropriate to their high stations. As they descended, each pair of Dragons peeled off from the front of the march and took up ceremonial positions on either side of the staircase. Thus, they lined the course of the Lady’s downward procession.
Following them came the Lady Zillabar’s personal retinue, Captain Naye-Ninneya and the squad of six personal Dragons. Much larger than the warrior-lizards, more brutal-looking and more dangerous, they came down the stairs as if they owned them. They fanned out at the bottom and waited.
The Heralds paused—the silence smelled of heady expectation—then proudly, the musicians played the Zashti Entrance March. The blaring notes of triumph filled the hall and as they echoed loudly, the Lady Zillabar appeared . . . she looked almost tiny in the towering light of the doorway. She waited for the applause to start, and then began a stately measured descent to the floor of the gallery.
Having found discretion impossible, the Lady had gone for impact instead. She wore a luminous blaze of twinkling diamond mist and sparkling crystal shards—no color at all and all colors at once, it reflected and dazzled and blinded. The Lady Zillabar had become a fantastic apparition of woven light. One could not look directly at her; neither could one look away politely.
d’Vashti squinted and frowned and shielded his eyes. His vision burned painfully. He could see only blurs. The Lady had outsmarted them again, himself and Lord Khallanin. She had upstaged the Prefect in his own palace. The applause came thundering in waves around him. It rose and rose, roaring in his ears like the Lady’s own rebuke; the tumultuous clapping went on and on and on. He glanced sideways at his mentor, unsurprised to see that Lord Khallanin applauded as enthusiastically as all the rest. Whatever feelings he might have written on his inner face, he showed only delight on his outer one. The Prefect had not survived this long by luck.
d’Vashti had to admire the Lady’s style. He recognized the elegance of her maneuver. She’d never say a word about this; she wouldn’t have to. Instead, she’d treat him with exquisite courtesy while he squirmed in shame and resentment.
She approached. Lord Zarr Khallanin and Kernel Sleestak d’Vashti both went down on one knee before her, bowing their heads low and spreading out their arms in total deference. The Lady let them stay that way for a long painful momen
t, much longer than usual, while she regarded them both dispassionately. She made them hold the position to the point of embarrassment; her way of reminding Lord Khallanin—and in particular, d’Vashti, the architect of this moment—exactly where the real power still rested. d’Vashti thought he heard a stifled laugh behind him; he flushed with anger; later he’d run the tapes and find out exactly who found his public mortification so amusing. He’d show that one the meaning of true humor. At last, the Lady acknowledged their devotion with a nod and bade them rise.
To Lord Khallanin, she displayed her most gracious smile. She did not hold him responsible for the attempt at her public embarrassment. The Lady knew better. She allowed him to kiss her outstretched hand, and she responded with a throaty purr. “Your service always brings me satisfaction.” Then she turned to d’Vashti. She did not extend her hand, she merely met his shadowed eyes with cruel study. “Never forget,” she said so quietly that only he could hear, “that service must flow upward before it can flow down again.”
Kernel d’Vashti stifled the first thought that came into his mind. Instead, he carefully inclined his head in a curt, socially correct, nod of gratitude. “I thank you for your wisdom, Lady Zillabar. As always, you bring—enlightenment.” He spread his hands wide to include the painfully bright, shimmering veils that enveloped her. Soon, his eyes would begin watering. If he used his handkerchief to dab at the tears, people would notice. If he did not, they would still notice. The cunning witch.
“Thank you for noticing.” Zillabar beamed disarmingly. She looked to Khallanin and said, “Come now, let’s conclude this tedious ceremony and all go someplace where we can sit and chat together.” She reached for Lord Khallanin, pulling him forward in her wake, and then she paused as if remembering, turned back and laid one delicate hand across d’Vashti’s arm—a touch that felt disturbingly like the cold flicker of a snake—and she smiled sweetly. “Do please join us. I have so much to say to both of you.”
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