Jervais’s eyes widened. “Surely, my lord, you don’t think—”
Jürgen waved his hand at the Tremere. “No, no. I don’t flatter myself that you’ve become entirely loyal to me, Jervais, but you aren’t stupid, and you certainly aren’t likely to ally with idiots like the Silent Fury.” He looked at the tablet again. Silent Fury has a spy in Magdeburg. “No one here is, really. Unless a spy snuck in as he did and is simply hiding in the city… but he insisted the spy was part of my court.”
“Do you believe that?”
Jürgen brushed aside the notes. “Again, Jervais, it’s a strange set of circumstances. What I know is that Albin the Ghost has been the subject of a through, if not very precise, reworking of memory. If I, or Christof, or probably even you, had done the job, it would have been nearly undetectable, but as it is, it seems more like someone tried to sculpt new memories for him using a very dull ax. Therefore, while he believes there is a spy here, I’m inclined to think that this was simply something he was made to believe.” He paused. “Taking that risk, however, is problematic, especially as I am about to leave the city.”
“Christof is competent. I’m sure he would find the spy, if such existed.”
Jürgen looked sharply at the warlock. “At present, Jervais, you and I know about this alleged spy, and no further does the story need to travel. Understood?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I have no need of panic in my courts.” Jürgen looked at the rest of his notes from Albin’s ramblings. “He described the other members of the Silent Fury, although he didn’t know—or was not allowed to recall—most of their names. Apparently the coterie consists of only six, including him.”
Jervais laughed. “Albin the Ghost, a slayer of kings?”
Jürgen, in spite of himself, chuckled. “I wouldn’t have believed it, either. I still think it’s mostly to do with their reworking of his mind. In fact, perhaps the clumsiness of the job is because he didn’t submit to it willingly. At any rate, the other members are mostly high-blooded, if that’s to be believed.”
“Oh, yes?” Jervais spoke pleasantly enough, but Jürgen could still hear the bitterness. The Tremere courted the favor of the High Clans, but were never considered such.
“Yes. Two Toreador, sire and childe, one Brujah, and a Tzimisce.” Jürgen was pleased that he had guessed the wild woman’s clan correctly.
“And the last?”
“Clanless, like Albin. German, though. That’s something.” He looked over the names; the German Caitiff was called Christoffel Weiss. He didn’t recognize the name, but then, why should he?
“What else did he confess to?”
“Well, naturally the Silent Fury gave him information on where they might be found during the day. A little makeshift hovel on the road to Frankfurt. I imagine that if I were to send knights there to kill them while they sleep, I’d find that they’ve set up some sort of trap. If I send anyone during the night, the trap still applies, and they’ll be awake and waiting. I have no intention on marching straight into their hands.” He regarded Jervais thoughtfully. “Perhaps you could summon some kind of storm over the area?”
Jervais shook his head. “Not really my area of expertise, I’m afraid.”
“Ah, well.”
“Perhaps you or Christof could summon them here? Is that not one of the powers of the Ventrue?”
Jürgen shook his head. “I thought of that, but summoning someone requires having met the person, as I understand it. With only a name, it’s possible we might call some poor man from his bed.”
“What of their leader? You said you’ve met him.”
“Yes, but if I summon him, no doubt his compatriots will restrain him. And the compulsion only lasts until dawn. The sun breaks the summons as it breaks many of our powers. God takes His due, like any lord.” Jürgen stood. Dawn was approaching. He had hoped to resolve this issue and put Albin out for the sun, but it seemed the matter would require more attention. “Towards the end, his will broke entirely. He just kept singing a song about a pig.”
Jervais chuckled. “That wouldn’t be a ‘pig in a shining crown’ by any chance?”
Jürgen stared at him. “Yes, actually. How did you know that?”
The Tremere looked up, startled and perhaps a bit frightened. “It was a song—something the peasants used to sing in Paris sometimes. A ballad about the king.”
“A ballad about the king featuring a pig in a crown?”
“Well, perhaps ‘ballad’ is the wrong term. It was an insult, frankly, but skillfully written. Actually, once you’ve heard the tune it’s very difficult to lose it.”
Jürgen nodded; he had, in fact, been unable to get the melody out of his head since Albin had started singing it. “But who wrote it?”
“Some dog called Pierre Cardinal. He was somewhat famous for a brief time; I’d always assumed the king’s men had caught and hanged him.”
Jürgen smiled. “Maybe not.” He nodded towards the door. “Thank you, Jervais. We shall speak more tomorrow night.” Jervais bowed slightly, and took his leave.
Jürgen sat alone for a moment, and then addressed the empty room. “Well? Have you any thoughts on this?”
A figure stepped forward from the shadows, slowly taking form, until a woman stood before Jürgen’s table. Boils and pustules covered her gray-green skin. Her hair was only present in patches, most of them not on her head. She covered herself in thick robes, and looked on Jürgen with love and devotion. Her voice was soft and beautiful, and wrenching to hear from such a hideous frame. “My lord, I have heard that tune as well. I made it my business to learn the entire song, in fact.”
Jürgen smiled. Akuji, his master of spies, collected stories and songs of all types. Her near-perfect memory was only one of the reasons she excelled at her post. “And can it help us in locating these Furores without them seeing us coming?”
“I think so. From what the Caitiff said in his confession, I think that they destroyed most of his memories of the Silent Fury, except what you were meant to see. Obviously, the German Caitiff—”
“Christoffel Weiss,” murmured Jürgen.
“Yes. He was allowed to remain in Albin’s memory for a reason, though I’m not sure why.”
“It may have been a mistake on their parts, of course.”
Akuji shook her head. “Perhaps, but I’d be more inclined to think that it was a mistake if they had been more careful in changing his memories. As it is, that name was the one that they left—if the manipulation was as clumsy as you say—”
“Then it took more effort to leave the name than it would have taken to erase it. I see your point. But the song?”
The Nosferatu shrugged, the boils on her arms cracking and leaking slightly. “As you say, once you’ve heard the song, it stays. I think they just didn’t notice.”
“But that still leaves the question of how to find them on our terms.”
“True. Perhaps I might be allowed to think on it and speak with you tomorrow night?”
Jürgen smiled. It was a pity Akuji was so hideous; he had known her for more than a century and she was one of the few Cainites he could bring himself to trust. And yet the beautiful one, who so obviously wants my trust… he didn’t finish the thought. Instead, he nodded to his spymaster. “I shall be here tomorrow after sunset, awaiting your wise council.” Akuji opened the door and faded from view. Some Nosferatu adopted masks, changing their appearance to something more palatable. Akuji preferred not to be seen.
Jürgen left his chamber and walked towards the Embassy of the Rose. It was late, he knew—Rosamund was probably preparing to sleep—but he felt restless. As he approached, he saw Sir Thomas step out of the shadows, sword half-drawn, and then step back just as quickly. “Your vigilance does you credit, Thomas,” Jürgen said in his direction. He knocked on the embassy door; Peter, Rosamund’s steward, opened it.
“My lord?”
“I would speak with Lady Rosamund.” He watched Peter�
��s face change, but subtly. These mortals had spent time with Alexander, where one false twitch of an eye could spell death. Peter seemed to disapprove of Jürgen’s visit, but of course said nothing. The seneschal led Jürgen to Rosamund’s chamber and knocked.
“My lady? Lord Jürgen is—”
“I know,” came her voice. She opened the door and dismissed Peter, but did not welcome Jürgen into the room. Jürgen was shocked; any breach of etiquette was unheard of for her.
“My lady, have I offended?”
She turned to him. “My lord? What right have I to be offended by the prince’s actions?”
Jürgen shook his head. “My lady, I admit to a desire to shield you from the horrors of what we are, and sometimes I forget that you are no less a Cainite than I. But Albin still hangs in his cell, and if it is truly important that you see him—”
“It is not.” She stood, but glanced around at the chairs in the room. Jürgen took the hint, and sat. She did as well, but a good distance away. Neither said anything for a long moment.
Jürgen looked away from her face, and said, “Albin claims there is a spy in my court.”
“A spy for whom?”
“The Silent Fury. A band of murderous rebels. They sent me a list of their aims some years ago—some nonsense about freedom to do as they would, as Caine said. I should have destroyed Albin before, rather than imprisoning him.” He glanced at Rosamund, but she seemed unmoved.
“Is that what you will write in the books? That destroying your enemies is preferable to leaving them intact, since they might one day return?”
“The… book? Oh, Acindynus’s letters? Perhaps, why? What would you write?”
Rosamund smiled coldly. “Me? I am no prince, my lord.”
Jürgen’s brow furrowed, and then relaxed. Obviously, Rosamund was upset that he had not invited her to make her own notes in the letters. He reproached himself; she was an Ambassador of the Rose and a diplomat and courtier of considerable standing, and no doubt her insights would be at least as interesting as his. Probably more so, he admitted—hers would be far better written. He opened his mouth to apologize, and then stopped. He wasn’t sure how to make the offer to her without it sounding as though he was simply doing so to placate her. A woman like Rosamund did not deserve placation.
Jürgen’s Beast stirred, drinking in his frustration and pain. It asked permission to look at Rosamund, to show Jürgen what it saw when it beheld the English rose. Jürgen denied it, and then slowly spoke. “My lady, I am sorry.”
“For what?” Her tone was still cold, but softening. She had the same senses that he did, and could hear his sincerity.
“Chiefly that I did not say earlier, when Rudolphus was here, that I would make sure that your insights were added to Acindynus’s letters along with mine. But also…” he faltered. “I do not know. I have no poetry, no verse from scripture or proverb of the ages that conveys what you are to me. I have no way to explain myself, for matters of the heart are not matters of the battlefield. I can construct no plan for breaching your heart the way you have breached mine.”
Rosamund stood and took a seat closer to Jürgen. She took his hand and they sat there, her looking at him, him looking at the floor, for a long moment. Jürgen reflected that their hands did not warm to each other—mortals took much for granted. Even two hands warming each other by touch was a deliberate thing for vampires.
Jürgen’s Beast exercised a rare moment of strength and asked Jürgen a question. Does she make you miss your mortal life? Jürgen declined to answer, but removed his hand and looked at his lady.
“Rosamund, a question.” He hummed a snatch of the cardinal’s infectious tune. “Do you know that song?”
She nodded. “Yes. I’d heard it in France, but I don’t know where it comes from.” She paused. “Why, my lord?”
The Sword-Bearer looked up at the door. He needed to leave; he could feel the dawn tugging at his soul. It wouldn’t be proper for him to spend the day here, as much as waking up next to her the following evening might appeal. “Because of your time in France, I thought you might have heard the song and perhaps tales of its author.” He frowned and shook his head. “And because—” he turned to face her—“I hold you in esteem, my lady, and recognize that you have the right to know the goings-on of this city. Your advice and knowledge are assets I have placed too little value on before this.” His Beast snarled in frustration, and the soldier in him demanded that Rosamund be made to drink from him after this admission.
Rosamund said nothing. She had no need. Jürgen could see her pride and jubilance, and that was enough to quiet both of those urges. He stood and took her hands, kissing them both, and then turned towards the door. He stopped before opening it. “I expect our journey might be slightly delayed as I deal with this ‘Silent Fury’.”
“Can I be of assistance?”
Jürgen opened the door, and heard the guards outside snap to attention. A thought struck him, and he smiled. “Perhaps, my lady. Tomorrow night, I may have need of your help.”
“I am only too happy to be of service, my lord.” He turned to look at her once more before leaving for his own haven. “And I am glad I will be allowed to help to avenge poor Blanche.”
Jürgen nodded, and began the walk to his bedchamber. Of course she is a true Scion, he reflected, and I should have recognized that earlier. A true Scion answers all debts and slights, and of course the murder of her servant must be paid for in blood.
Chapter Seven
Albin the Ghost wept bitterly in his cell. According to the jailor, he had cried and gibbered all throughout the day in a kind of hysterical half-sleep. As soon as the sun had set, he had attempted to pull himself free of his bonds, but when that had failed, he could only stand and bawl.
Jürgen was about to ease his pain considerably.
He’d warned Rosamund that the creature in the cell was not so much a Cainite as the remains of one. He’d warned her that he might boast to her about killing her servant, about any number of foul deeds. Rosamund had taken these warnings to heart, of course, but Jürgen wasn’t worried. Cainites of skill and age could reduce even other vampires to tears with a glance and a few well-chosen words, taking knowledge from their opponents’ minds and backing that knowledge with the force of Caine’s curse. Rosamund had experienced the worst of such manipulators; Albin the Ghost was hardly a threat.
Jürgen waited outside the jail for only an hour. Other Cainites and their servants, and even unknowing mortals wandered by, and he resisted the temptation to seize each of them and wrest whatever they knew from their minds. Everyone knows something, he thought, but they don’t usually understand the significance of what they know.
The Beast asserted its boredom and reminded Jürgen of what he had done the night before. Jürgen slapped the voice down and buried it under thoughts of his erstwhile servant.
Albin the Ghost hadn’t known his sire or his clan. Such Cainites were called “Caitiff” and were the lowest of the low, more debased and despised even than the cursed Malkavians or the deformed Nosferatu. But Jürgen had found uses for Albin, and set him to work in Magdeburg as a spy. When Albin had betrayed him, Jürgen had first imprisoned him, and then released him to find and report on the Silent Fury.
But apparently, there was some lost time here, somewhere. Not much—a year or two—but even so, Jürgen had let his attention to Albin slip. It was easy to do; the wretch was easy to ignore. Somewhere in the course of his travels, Albin had fallen in with the Silent Fury. But the time still doesn’t work, thought Jürgen. I imprisoned him… perhaps seventeen years ago. I released him shortly thereafter to trail these rebel bastards.
Jürgen’s Beast snarled a reminder. Albin hadn’t been released, he’d escaped. Jürgen had simply caught him skulking around the city thereafter and erased the escape from his mind. In the years since, Jürgen had quite forgotten, just as Albin had. But that still doesn’t answer where the Ghost was between his escape and his recapture.
It couldn’t have been more than a few months, but much can happen in that time.
“My lord?” Rosamund walked up to him from the jail. She wasn’t disheveled in the slightest, at least not physically, but her expression told Jürgen that something else was very wrong. “We must speak alone.”
Moments later they sat in Jürgen’s chambers, the door guarded by ghoul knights and a fire blazing away. Jürgen hoped the noise from the fire would mask their conversation from any Cainites in the area. “My lady, what did he tell you?”
She looked at his chest as if afraid. “Did you… command him last night? To refrain from speaking of your sire?”
Jürgen shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, but what of it?”
Rosamund nodded. “That is why he was so muddled, and that is why his mind was unclear, I think. But as I am unable to command minds or reorder memories—”
“What have you found, my lady?” Jürgen was growing nervous. He was beginning to suspect what had happened.
“He was commanded by the woman—the Tzimisce in the Silent Fury—to reveal to you his true allegiance. He has been in the employ of your sire since his release from imprisonment.” Rosamund’s eyes didn’t move.
Jürgen shut his eyes. “And in what capacity?”
Rosamund’s words were a whisper, but Jürgen heard them well enough. “He was spying on you on Hardestadt’s behalf.”
Jürgen felt his fangs elongating, and his eyes snapped open. He made the mistake of catching his lady’s gaze for a second, and saw her own eyes widen in fear. Have my eyes that vibrancy you so cherish now? he thought. “He told you this, even with the command I gave him?”
Dark Ages Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 12 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 6