Thursday, 22 July 1999, 4:31 AM
A subterranean grotto
New York City, New York
Calebros shifted in the desk chair. It was so difficult to find a comfortable seat, considering the peculiar curvature of his spine. He returned a sheet of paper—a brief report noting his suspicions about a certain Setite; Calebros had added a comment about another Tremere assassination in Baltimore, the Setite’s base of operations—to one of the precarious stacks of books and folders on his battered, overcrowded desk.
He skimmed another report—the latest from Washington—then turned and fed a scrap of brown paper bag into his typewriter.
Tuesday, July 27 1999, 3:16 AM
Chantry of the Five Boroughs
New York City, New York
“All of them, Regentia?” the overwhelmed novice asked.
“All of them,” Sturbridge replied. “And I want all of his papers: his notes, his letters, his grocery lists for that matter. All of these books that are not in their proper places, I want them. If they are lying open, mark the pages. If they’re not open, scan them for marginalia and mark those pages.
“Give the whole room—make that the room and the entire way down to the Exeunt Tercius—a good going-over for any resonances. Anything you find, I want that too. That ought to get me started. What do you know about the ritual he was enacting when he was…interrupted?”
The novice’s eyes kept involuntarily straying to the drained, crumpled body at the room’s center. “I don’t…I mean, it’s a Questing obviously, looking at the diagrama hermetica but… Surely Jacqueline would be better able to answer these questions. She assisted in preparing for…” The novice broke off, but recovered herself quickly. “I’ll send her along too,” she added hastily, forestalling the next order.
Sturbridge paused, then dropped the finger that was raised to instruct Eva on this very point. She smiled. “Better. Tell me, how would you say he died?”
“Something went wrong, Regentia. The protective circle has been effaced in places, the candles overturned. We’re lucky the whole room didn’t go up in flames….”
“It can’t, but go on,” Sturbridge interjected.
Eva looked questioningly at the Regent, but as no further information seemed forthcoming, she continued her speculation. “The ritual went wrong. Something…stepped through. It killed him, claimed his vitae, and fled. That way, towards the Exeunt Tercius and out. Aaron tried to block its escape and was killed as well.”
Sturbridge shook her head slowly. “You’re rushing ahead. But perhaps you do not appreciate the danger. We’re dealing with death here—the Final Death. Do you understand? When you hunt mortals, you can be ravenous. If you would contest with Death, however, you must be dispassionate. You must be disciplined. You must be patient. Death is so very…patient.”
She drew out the last word like a caress. But there was no warmth in it. “You proceed from too many assumptions. For starters, how did the ritual go wrong? Foley was an adeptus. He was assisted by two apprentices, one of the third circle, one of the seventh circle, either of whom could have pulled off a simple Questing by her- or himself. It simply does not hold together.”
Eva began to protest, but was cut off.
“Two. You can’t ‘step through’ a Questing. Nor can any of the denizens from the ‘other side’. That’s an old wives’ tale, fit only for frightening neophytes. A Questing is not like throwing wide the postern gate. It’s more like putting an eye to the keyhole. A seeing, rather than a going. Or, as a diligent novice would say, a scrying rather than…”
“An apportation,” Eva finished quickly, ducking the rather longish lecture implicit in the Regent’s glare. “But what if it wasn’t just a Questing? What if it was a full-blown Summoning? I know the standard precautions aren’t in place—there are none of the names of the archangelic protectors, no warding of the cardinal points, nothing more efficacious than chalk and candlelight and quill and parchment. But maybe he didn’t want anyone to know it was a Summoning.”
The Regent gave her a look of stern reproach. “You know full well that it is forbidden to perform any Summoning within the domicilia. To even assist in such an ill-conceived venture would be to invite my extreme displeasure.”
The tone of this last pronouncement carried a far greater threat than the words themselves. Eva, however, was too caught up in fitting together the pieces of her theory to take the hint.
“All the more reason for him to conceal the true nature of the ritual! Any of the protective diagrama would have given him away. His assistants would have divined his purpose and,” she paused triumphantly and then suddenly remembered herself. “And dissuaded him from such a disobedient course of action,” she finished somewhat lamely.
“Yes, the assistants, “ Sturbridge resumed the narrative. “Who Foley had decided to include in his ‘secret’ ritual for what purpose? It seems to me that not even Druids, Satanists and Templars go to such great lengths to ensure that their secret rites are so well-attended.”
“If I might speak frankly, Regentia,” Eva began meekly, “There are those within our chantry who do not feel as fervently about the interdicti as you and I do.”
Sturbridge raised herself up to her full height and seemed for a moment as if she might strike the novice. Eva, for her part, scrutinized some detail of the complex pattern of floor tiles, her head bent in submission.
Sturbridge exhaled audibly. “The interdicti exist precisely to keep foolish novices from indulging their folly unto self-destruction.
“Whether you realize it or not,” the Regent pressed on, “we are besieged here. Do you know what lies beyond these walls?”
A slight smile stole over Eva’s features before she could suppress it. She was thinking about the relatively cloistered campus of Barnard College upon which the chantry was situated. She wisely did not give voice to these thoughts.
“Beyond these walls,” Sturbridge continued, “lies enemy territory. New York is a Sabbat stronghold. The Sabbat stronghold. Thus far, you have been carefully shielded from this harsh and uncompromising reality. But surely even from within the safety of this chantry, you realize what is at stake here.”
“Yes, Regentia.” Eva’s tone was submissive.
Sturbridge raised the novice’s downcast face. “We can hold the ravening Sabbat at bay. We will hold them at bay. But we will do it the right way. We will not resort to high-risk rituals—especially those that dispense with proper wardings—within the confines of the chantry. We will not endanger our sisters in our search for better weapons to bring to bear upon our enemies. We will not embroil other powers—particularly those from beyond this terrestrial sphere—in our struggle.
“What is most important in fighting monsters is to ensure that one does not…”
“Become a monster,” Eva finished quoting the philosopher. Nietzsche was a countryman of hers, part of the complex intellectual and mystic tradition that was her birthright. Eva could not help but call to mind, however, that the words of the philosopher were also part of the birthright of the Reich. How often were his aphorisms used to defend and expound a pogrom of genocide that humbled even the worst excesses of the undying?
Words too, it seemed, could become desperate and monstrous.
Sturbridge put a hand on the novice’s shoulder and steered her towards the doorway. “But you look weary. Go to the refectory. Get some nourishment into your system. Then—and only then—may you return here and gather the things I have requested.” As Sturbridge closed the chamber door behind them, Eva visibly sagged, as if the immediacy of the corpse was the only thing that had been keeping her upright. She staggered down the corridor toward the refectory. A somnambulist. Sturbridge watched the receding figure until it reached the bend in the passage, as if to make certain that it would not stumble and fall before then. Satisfied, she called after her, “Eva…”
The figure turned with apparent effort.
“Be wary. Not all monsters come fro
m beyond these walls.”
Sturbridge strode off purposefully towards her sanctum. The few novices she passed along the way, catching sight of their Regent’s demeanor, pressed back into doorways and side corridors to let her pass.
Sturbridge batted absently at something before her face as if trying to clear away a cobweb or persistent insect. She purposefully triggered no fewer than three defensive systems (two silent and one very much audible) which she left for the security team to disarm in her wake. She was none too pleased with the demonstration of their obvious shortcomings two nights earlier and was not inclined to make their work any more enjoyable tonight.
She even went so far as to collar a particularly perverse guardian spirit and dispatch it to convince the chantry’s autonomic defenses that the domicilia was ablaze. That particular impossibility ought to keep them occupied for some time. They would probably have to take the “malfunctioning” system offline, dismantling the complex series of mystic, electronic, biochemical and geomechanical wardings one by one.
It was, perhaps, a small cruelty. But not one which Sturbridge repented. The punishment was, if anything, overly lenient compared to the bloodprice she might have exacted for the failure two night’s past—a failure that had resulted in the murder of her second-in-command in the sanctuary of his own workshop.
As she passed into her own sanctum, she noted with satisfaction that the door sealed itself behind her with the hiss of hydraulics and the singing of steel bolts ramming home. She called for the status of the chantry’s exits and found them all secured. She crossed to the desk and keyed a gimel-level override, unbarring one of the exits (the Exeunt Tercius, just to rub their noses in it a bit). A few quick gestures and she set a ward—a screamer, and a loud one—to go off when the door was resecured, crying the exact response time.
Only then did she allow herself to collapse into the overstuffed armchair in the room’s farthest corner. This chair was the only concession to comfort in the austere study. Even so, there was something imposing, almost throne-like, about it.
The chair seemed to rise from a dais of piled books. Jumbled stacks of tomes rose to well above shoulder-level in places, swaying precariously. Not infrequently, an entire wing of the edifice would break away and cascade to the floor in an avalanche of illuminated manuscripts, fashion magazines, papyrus scrolls, advertising circulars, penciled manuscripts, clay tablets and loose-leaf paper.
Safely ensconced, Sturbridge was finally able to ignore the dark shapes that fluttered in her peripheral vision and demanded attention. Instead, she focused upon thoughts of Eva and, more specifically, the faulty theory the girl had hastily constructed. Johnston Foley not had gone to Final Death at the whim of a beast of spirit—the preparations for his ritual were all wrong. Rather, he’d met destruction at the hand (and blade) of a beast of flesh, undead flesh. The killer had indeed, as Eva hypothesized, claimed Foley’s vitae, but he’d taken something else as well—a certain gem that had been the subject of Foley’s ritual. This was where Sturbridge held a distinct advantage over poor Eva. The regent had access to much more data. She was aware of so much more—such as a disturbing pattern of murders perpetrated against Clan Tremere, a pattern into which Foley’s demise fit all too well.
Oppressed by morbid thoughts and by the black fluttering that again closed around her, Sturbridge sank more deeply into her voluminous chair. She wrapped herself in the enfolding wall of books, pulling it tightly about her. She felt its reassuring proximity, its warmth, its protection. Slowly, the dark wings that buffeted about her face began to recede.
She was more than casually acquainted with their shadowy touch—the flurry of blows that neither cut nor bruised but rather seemed to smother. Her ears rang with the cry of carrion birds. She could feel their weight above her, hovering oppressively like the noonday sun, waiting. One among them, bolder than its fellows, picked experimentally at the hem of one sleeve.
She snatched back her hand to within the shelter of the cocoon of books. Her first instinct was to lash out, to strike, to shriek, to frighten and scatter the murder of crows. With effort, she suppressed this instinctive animal response.
She knew better. There was no point in expending her energies in avenging herself upon mere messengers, upon these harbingers of the end. She withheld her scorn, reserved it for their master, the one true nemesis.
So he was come among them once again. Sturbridge found herself unconsciously gathering her defenses about her, sketching the outlines of cunning wards, beckoning to unseen allies. She harbored no illusion as to the eventual outcome of the life-long confrontation. Even her (not inconsiderable) powers would avail little against her unwelcome guest. Sturbridge was no legendary beauty, to compel suitors and rivals to overcome intervening oceans and generations. Her suitor, however, possessed an inhuman patience and persistence.
It was not the first time that Death had come to call upon her. She only hoped that, this time, he would not be inclined to linger.
Wednesday, 28 July 1999, 11:09 PM
Presidential Suite, Lord Baltimore Inn
Baltimore, Maryland
“Any more Sabbat incursions near the city?” Jan asked.
“No,” answered Hans van Pel, Jan’s current assistant, in crisp, clipped English. As always, he carried a small pad of paper and a pen, but Jan had never seen the man take notes. Which was just as well, since written records were more vulnerable to destruction or theft. Hans stored a multitudinous array of facts in his mind and exercised infallible recall. “There have been minor probes, but none have progressed past the outer perimeter that Mr. Bell has established near Fort Meade.”
Jan nodded. The effectiveness of Bell’s perimeter was aided immensely by the sudden spate of construction along massive swaths of northbound I-95, the Gladys Spellman Parkway, and other major arteries of traffic from Washington. Garlotte, via several government officials within his considerable sphere of influence, had had no trouble arranging for the overly ambitious projects by the Department of Transportation. Snarled, one-lane, bumper-to-bumper traffic was relatively easy to monitor, and from the mortal viewpoint, there was nothing unusual about the D.O.T. closing and tearing up miles and miles of road more than it could ever work on at one time. “And the inner lines are prepared?”
“Yes. The second line at Baltimore-Washington International Airport, the third along the perimeter highway, and the fourth at the city limits are all as secure as possible.”
Jan began to slide through his fingers two of the bullets that had been lodged in his body and which had popped out when the wounds healed. His assistant did his best to ignore the grating sound of the metal slugs.
“Speaking of Mr. Bell,” van Pel continued, “the increased resistance he met on his latest raid into Washington suggests that the Sabbat forces are consolidating.”
“Which seems to corroborate information from our source within the Sabbat high command that they are massing for an all-out assault on Baltimore.” Jan caressed the smooth surface of the bullets, slid them over one finger, under the next.
A slight frown crept over Hans’s features at mention of the mysterious informant. “Are you confident of the veracity of your source, sir?”
Jan’s gaze focused on his assistant. “No.” Colchester, on the first night they had met, had briefed Jan about the assassin faux-ghoul who served the Lady Sascha Vykos but still reported to his Assamite masters via the Nosferatu. Jan was suspicious of the chain of information; not that Colchester would mislead him, but there were too many links, too many possible ulterior motives. If the information from that source, however, was confirmed by other reports…
“Bell’s losses on the raid were relatively light,” said van Pel. “And they were all Brujah, at any rate.
We’ll need all those Brujah when the time comes.” Jan was amazed that Bell managed to withdraw from Washington with any of his forces. Several times, he’d pressed well within the Beltway and fought his way back out. Some losses were unavoida
ble, and Jan knew that he might as well try to bottle a hurricane as control the Brujah archon.
“And the refugee corps?” Jan asked.
“As Prince Garlotte decreed, the majority of those Kindred seeking shelter in Baltimore have been pressed into service—the price of sanctuary. The sheriff and Gainesmil have formed them into units, and they man the checkpoints along the inner perimeters. The Brujah and our friends from Chicago have been assigned the more sensitive and vital areas.”
“Good.” As the bullets clicked among his fingers, Jan could not chase a nagging thought from his mind. “Why attack Baltimore first?” he muttered to himself.
“Sir?”
“Why attack Baltimore first,” Jan repeated, his gaze focused on some indeterminate point in the mid distance, “when they still have to worry about other points: Buffalo, New York City, Hartford? New York is too strong, of course, but why not pick off the others, then bring their full weight to bear on Baltimore, then New York? That’s what I’d do.”
“They didn’t have much trouble so far just marching up the coast,” van Pel suggested.
“But none of the princes were expecting such massive assaults. We’ve had time to fortify now, while the Sabbat consolidated its gains.”
“Perhaps,” said Hans, “they’d rather attack the defenses here than face the Gangrel at Buffalo.”
“Possible.” Jan removed his glasses and rubbed the tiny red marks on his nose. “And Xaviar might be close enough to support Hartford if it were attacked.”
Talk of Hartford raised other concerns in Jan’s mind. His overtures to the Giovanni in Boston had met with lukewarm response. Representatives of that incestuous clan were willing enough to talk with him, but with the outcome of the East Coast war so definitely up in the air, they were quite unwilling to support the Camarilla. Granted, the Giovanni refusals were couched in such diplomatic language as to seem practically to agree with Jan’s requests. But they would not endanger themselves for the Camarilla. They had not survived as an independent clan for so long by choosing sides. If it comes to it, Jan thought, I might have to point out to them that, eventually, not to choose the Camarilla is to choose the Sabbat. If they’re not with us…
Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 5 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 14