by Eileen Wilks
Laban and Vochi were subordinate clans, which was basically a feudal setup. Their Rhos were subject to Isen the way a minor lord used to be to an earl or a count or whatever back when titles were more than an attraction for the paparazzi. Back when titles were connected to real duties and responsibilities…duties that flowed both ways. “Vochi’s supposed to be good with money,” she said after a moment.
“Abe trained me.”
“Abe’s the Vochi Rho.”
“Yes.” Rule’s voice was tight. “I have a degree, but that only gave me the blocks to build with. Abe taught me how to build, what to watch for, how much fluidity to retain under various conditions, how to…he taught me so much. I can’t believe—” He cut himself off abruptly.
That his teacher had betrayed Nokolai. That’s what Rule meant. That’s why Isen was so furious. The Vochi Rho could have learned all about the prototype from his people living here. He could have learned everything the thief had needed to know.
Lupi didn’t have the same priorities as humans. To them, the possibility that a subordinate Rho had betrayed that relationship was a much bigger deal than the loss of a device that was potentially worth millions, maybe hundreds of millions. Or would be if it worked. Did the thief know it didn’t work right? Lily tabled that question for now. It was vital, but not as urgent at the moment. Lupi took a really hard line on betrayal. No shades of gray. If a member of Nokolai betrayed the clan, that was treason. If a subordinate Rho violated his agreement with Nokolai’s Rho, that was treason. In their world, treason had only one possible punishment.
If she wasn’t really smart—and probably lucky, too—someone was going to die. Maybe tonight. “Laban would be in the same position as Vochi to learn stuff,” she said carefully. “And they’re a lot more competitive than Vochi.”
Cullen snorted. “I doubt Leo knows how to balance his checkbook, much less how to sell the prototype. Rich in fighters, Laban. Poor in everything else.”
That’s what she’d been told. Nokolai’s two North American subordinate clans were opposites. Laban was small, contentious, and bred good fighters. Vochi was small, wealthy, and bred too many submissives. “Vochi like money games. They’re good at them.”
Rule bit off a one-word reply. “Yes.”
“The thief stole the prototype of a device that doesn’t work.”
“That…doesn’t sound like Abe.” Rule’s voice loosened slightly. “Treachery doesn’t sound like him, either, but to steal something that doesn’t work—to betray everything for an object without value—Isen needs to hear this.” He started to move ahead. Stopped.
“Go,” Lily told him. “Cullen can walk me down. If we run into trouble, he’ll burn it. It’ll do him good. Go.”
He hesitated a moment longer, then nodded and took off.
Lily and her fire-happy escort moved on in silence at the best pace her human feet could keep on the rough slope. It was maybe five minutes before Cullen spoke. “The prototype does work.”
She sighed. “Yeah. I know.” It was possible the thief knew about the side effects, too. And wanted them. She didn’t know why, but maybe that’s what had kept that abstracted look on Cullen’s face. Maybe he’d been trying to figure that out.
After a pause Lily added obliquely, “Abe matters to him.”
Cullen sighed back at her. “Yeah. He does.”
Lupi were very black and white about treason. Traditionally, it had only one punishment: death. And traditionally, it was the Lu Nuncio who carried out that sentence.
NINE
RULE stood at the center of the meeting field on his Rho’s right hand beneath glowing mage lights that blotted out the brilliance of the stars overhead. His heart beat slowly because he willed it so…but it was hard.
His Rho was angry. The stink of that anger rolled through him. He felt it in the very pulse of the mantle—a hard pulse, steady but a shade too fast. Out of sync with his own. This was something a Rho could do, use the mantle to pull any of his clan into an intimate rhythm. Rhos did it most often to steady a clan member whose control was slipping. Rule had done that himself. You didn’t have to pull on the mantle very hard, not one-on-one. Control your own heart rate, allow the mantle to flow out, and the heart rate of the other fell in with yours. Fast, if you wanted to move them into action. Slow, if you wanted to calm them. Rule had never tried to spread his control over so many at once, but Isen had, many times. Rule had experienced it from the other side.
He should be experiencing it now. Standing so close to his father, his Rho, while Isen pulled firmly on the mantle, no amount of training was enough for him to separate his pulse from that demanding beat. But he carried a mantle, too. And Leidolf did not beat at Nokolai’s command.
He felt dizzy. Disoriented. He was Nokolai.
And he was Leidolf.
He’d known that since the Leidolf mantle was forced upon him. Known with his head, at least, that the trace of Leidolf blood he’d inherited from a great-grandmother had made it possible for Victor to force the mantle on him. Victor had meant to destroy him with it. He’d failed.
Now he stood beside his Rho, surrounded by clan—by Nokolai—and his heart didn’t beat with Nokolai. It beat for Leidolf. He held it to a slow, steady rhythm, and that was hard, but not as hard as it should have been.
He was Leidolf. He knew that in his heart now. Literally. He was Leidolf, and Nokolai did not command him unless he allowed it.
Isen was playing a dangerous game tonight.
“Bill Peterson,” a voice called from the left.
“On duty,” Pete said firmly. “Excused.”
Rule’s nostrils were flared, open to the night. The air was soft and cool and thick with scent—dust and skin, sage and grass, fear and anger, a whiff of menstrual blood from a young woman nearby. Most of all, it was heavy with the massed scent of lupi.
Nokolai. That was the strongest smell, the scent of clan reassuring even now. But Leidolf as well, a scent carrying so many of the same notes, yet arranged to a different tune. That smell, too, contented him, where it used to wake his nape to bristles. Also Laban. A musky lot, Laban. And Vochi. Quiet, unthreatening Vochi. Leidolf, Laban, Vochi…each was clumped up together not far from the center of the field.
Nokolai Clanhome was crowded these days.
“Josh Krugman,” another voice called. “And Celia Thompson.”
“On duty,” Pete replied loudly, his voice crossing the response from the woman standing near Cullen saying the same thing. “Excused,” they both said, one right after the other.
In normal times, most lupi did not live at their clanhomes. Nearby, yes, if they could, but lupi had to earn a living just as humans did, which for most of them meant living elsewhere. Some worked at Clanhome, either as guards or for the nursery or at the clan’s construction firm. Others owned their own small businesses elsewhere or worked for human employers or companies. But a large number worked at companies owned by the clan in the three coastal states that comprised Nokolai’s territory.
This was unusual. Until the Supreme Court stopped the government from administering the drug gado to any lupi it caught, Rule’s people hadn’t dared live together in large numbers. Most clanhomes couldn’t house even half their clan’s members, and clans hadn’t considered it safe to have too many of their members working at the same place.
Nokolai was different because of Isen…and Vochi.
Isen had known for a long time that lupi couldn’t continue to live secretly. The world had changed too much. He’d planned for the day they came out into the open; he’d worked with Wythe clan to make that happen, using the country’s legal system. Even before that, though, he’d been preparing. First he’d created a pretext for gathering forty or fifty clan to him—the fiction that Clanhome housed a religious cult. In addition to the homes here, he’d built dormitory-type housing for “visiting brethren.” After Nokolai went public, he’d added a second dormitory and additional houses.
Nokolai could, at
need and with some crowding, house their entire clan.
Even so, and even now, not all Nokolai lived here. Many remained scattered in California, Oregon, and Washington, keeping their ears perked and their eyes open. That was both strategy and necessity. War was expensive. Nokolai was a wealthy clan, but even it couldn’t afford to fully support all of its members for a long stretch. Not when a large chunk of that wealth came from the businesses it owned, where its people worked.
The decision to operate businesses that employed clan had been Isen’s. But he couldn’t have implemented it without Vochi’s help.
Vochi had always been a small clan, suffering even more than most from the limited fertility common to those of the Blood. It had always thrown too many submissives, too few fighters. Add to that a peculiar interest in accumulating wealth, and Vochi could have been the skinny kid in glasses getting picked on by the jocks…or, during times of clan strife, the skinny white guy who got caught on the wrong turf when the Crips and the Bloods were slugging it out.
Vochi knew this. They’d first submitted to Nokolai sixteen hundred years ago. Nokolai had defended Vochi ever since, and Vochi had done much in return for Nokolai. They were the reason Nokolai was the wealthiest clan—their acumen and, more recently, Isen’s understanding that money meant power in the human world. And for better or worse, that was the world lupi lived in.
In, but not of. They had much in common with humans, but they were not human. The clans could not be run the way humans ran their societies.
Human crowds reminded Rule of flocks of birds or children, unable to tolerate stillness for long. He stood beside his father at the center of roughly three hundred mostly still and silent people. Mostly, because there were humans in this crowd, too—female clan, who were as quiet as they could manage. But most were lupi, with a wolf’s instinctive understanding of the value of stillness. Most were Nokolai. Their Rho had called for quiet. They obeyed. Even with that hard pulse stirring them, they could hold quiet and wait…for now. As long as the rhythm didn’t pick up.
But not all here were Nokolai. Laban, Leidolf, and Vochi had each gathered into a knot of their own, surrounded by Nokolai. They would be feeling the tension. They were close enough to smell Isen’s anger. They’d hear the massed heartbeats around them, like a distant ocean. Leidolf would react to this differently than the other two. Rule held their heartbeats to a slow, steady rhythm. They were alert, but calm in their stillness.
Laban and Vochi were still, too—for a wolf’s reason. Fear.
The gathering was not, however, completely silent.
“Your find didn’t work?” Lily said to Cynna, her voice very low.
Cynna shook her head. “Mountains are tricky. I can find through dirt, but even small amounts of quartz will distort things unless I have a really good pattern. Which I don’t. I’ll work up a more complete pattern, but that will take time.”
“Emanuel Korski,” someone called from the rear of the crowd.
“On duty,” Pete said loudly. “Excused.”
“Matt Briggs,” another voice called from up near the front of the crowd. Pete responded with the same two phrases: On duty. Excused.
Lily drummed her fingers on her thigh. “About Laban…they haven’t been subordinate to Nokolai for very long, in lupi terms.”
“Less than thirty years this time,” Cynna whispered back. “But they’ve submitted several times over the years to different clans. This is their third dance with Nokolai.”
“Because they’re combative. They have trouble controlling themselves, so they need a dominant clan to sit on them. Vochi, on the other hand, throws a lot of submissives. They need a dominant clan for protection.”
“Andy Carter!”
“On duty. Excused.”
Six of them stood in the center of the meeting field—Rule and his Rho at the very center, with Pete at Isen’s left. Cullen stood behind them beside a short, angular woman with iron gray hair, thick glasses, and skin that remained luminous in her seventh decade—Isadora Bourque, the chief tender, who answered for those tenders excused from the meeting, just as Pete was for the guards.
Lily and Cynna stood to Rule’s right with their heads together to conduct their soft-voiced conversation. Lily had not run out of questions. No one else would answer them here and now, but Cynna was Rhej. Isen couldn’t command her silence, and by answering Lily’s questions she gave tacit permission for them to continue. Isen was ignoring the whispered conversation. If Cynna had chosen to sit down and paint her toenails, he would have ignored that, too.
But he hadn’t had to permit Lily within the small group in the center of the field. Lily had assumed she would stay with Rule, but Isen didn’t have to allow it. He had. There was a reason—with Isen there was always a reason, often several—but Rule had no idea what it was. Isen hadn’t given him any private word, any guidance at all.
His heart beat steady and slow, out of sync with the rest.
Perhaps no one but he and Isen and Cynna heard Lily’s next question. She kept her voice very low. “But the Vochi Rho himself is a dominant, right? He’d have to be.”
“Right.”
“And Vochi has been subordinate to Nokolai for centuries but has never been…what’s that word? Oh, yeah—subsumed. That’s why Leidolf doesn’t have any subordinate clans. They used to, but they subsumed them.”
“Becka Whitbourne,” a voice at the east side of the crowd called.
“On duty,” Isadora announced in her gravelly voice. “Excused.”
The obvious way to locate a traitor was to see if someone failed to appear. Isen wasn’t calling roll, however; he was calling absences. Or having them called out.
Visitors—both ospi, or clan-friends, and nonresident Nokolai—had been told to report to Pete. There were currently three clan-friends and two nonresident Nokolai at Clanhome, and they were accounted for. Mason and the two adults currently helping him at terra tradis were excused, of course. Adolescents couldn’t be left unsupervised. Nokolai’s guests from the other three clans had been told to assemble up front; Nokolai had been told to gather in the groups they were assigned under the emergency evacuation plan. Evacuation drills were held once a year, so this was a familiar way to assemble. Group leaders had been informed of the fire and the theft and told to pass that information on. Isen hadn’t called for silence until they were all in place, and now the group leaders were announcing any who were absent.
So far, the absences were all excused to other duty.
“That’s right,” Cynna said. “Bad habit of Leidolf’s—or of their mantle.”
“And Nokolai hasn’t wanted to subsume Vochi. Are they worried it might make them throw submissives?”
“It’s not that intentional.” Cynna chewed on her lip while someone else called out two names and was answered by Isadora. “I’m not sure I can explain it, mainly because I don’t really understand. I think you have to be a mantle-holder to really understand. But usually a subordinate clan gets subsumed when the mantles mesh too closely. The dominant clan doesn’t do it on purpose. It just happens. Nokolai’s a good dominant for Vochi because their mantles don’t mesh. Same with Laban.”
Another name was called out. Isadora responded, then looked at Isen and nodded. “All of mine are accounted for.”
Lily’s voice dropped even lower. “And Leidolf meshes with everyone?”
“Leidolf just swallows,” Cynna whispered back. “Doesn’t matter if they mesh or not. Sooner or later, they subsume any subordinate clans. I think it’s the high-dominant thing. Their first Rho was high dominant.”
Two more names were called out. Pete responded loudly, then said much more quietly, “All of mine are present or excused.”
Rule had expected to hear that. It brought him no relief.
Isen spoke, his deep voice rumbling up as if it came from the soles of his feet, magnified by his barrel chest. “Group leaders! Are there any others missing from your groups?”
Silence answe
red him. Rule focused on his breath. In, out. Slow. Deliberate. Calm.
Isen held that silence for a long moment. The pulse in the mantle stayed steady…steady, but too fast. Not calm. When Isen spoke again his voice dropped to a low growl. “We are at war. We are at war with the Great Enemy. The Lady’s enemy. And we have been betrayed.”
There was a reaction this time. Not words, but a soft susurration, from dozens of indrawn breaths. A quivering in the air. Isen had named the stakes. War. Betrayal. He had told them there would be no clemency.
Isen flattened his voice. “I would speak first with the Leidolf Rho.”
Rule stepped out from his father’s side and moved to stand in front of him. He stood nearly a head taller than Isen. He looked into eyes shadowed by heavy brows set in a face carved by time and will into stone. His Rho’s face.
But now, tonight, he was Leidolf. “I greet Nokolai’s Rho.”
Isen moved his head in the barest token of a nod. Rhos did not dip their heads. That would suggest a baring of the nape. “I greet Leidolf’s Rho.”
Rule inclined his head the same fraction of an inch. “Leidolf agrees that this is a time of war. The loss of the object Cullen Seabourne has been working on could be a blow to all the clans.”
“Will you ask your people what, if anything, they know of this theft? Of this thief? Will you ask them here and now?”
“As a favor, and so that none here will be distracted by suspicions that take them on the wrong trail, yes. I will ask.” Rule continued to face Isen and spoke quietly. “Leidolf! To me.”
There were sixteen Leidolf at Nokolai Clanhome—the guards who took turns protecting Rule and Lily. Sixteen men who moved toward him with silent ease…and he felt them. That had never happened before. He hadn’t known it was possible, but he felt his Leidolf clansmen moving toward him. It was nothing like what he felt through the mate bond, a sure and certain sense of where Lily was. It was far more subtle, more like feeling the faintest wisp of a breeze on a hot day. Something stirred behind him, and he knew what it was, that was all.