Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 5 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Gherbod Fleming

  part three:

  progeny

  Saturday, 7 August 1999, 10:13 PM

  McHenry Auditorium, Lord Baltimore Inn

  Baltimore, Maryland

  A solemn collection of Kindred had gathered around the scarred conference table. Jan, like each of the others, did his best not to look at the gouged crater in the wood just a few feet away, but he found his gaze drawn back to the spot time and again.

  “Surely the entire clan won’t leave the Camarilla,” said Gainesmil, “no matter what Xaviar says.”

  Jan followed the Toreador’s nervous glance at the rear of the auditorium, where Malachi stood guard by the doors that, mere hours ago, Xaviar had stormed through. Garlotte’s scourge had not left with the justicar—not yet—but most Gangrel, unlike Malachi, were not tied so closely to a particular prince or to Camarilla hierarchy.

  “If anyone speaks for all the Gangrel,” said Jan morosely, his eyes now locked on the evidence of violence done the table, “it is Xaviar. Word will spread. There will be a mass exodus.”

  “Word has already spread,” Prince Garlotte snapped.

  They had all agreed last night to keep Xaviar’s outburst and threats secret for as long as possible. To Garlotte’s disgust, that had proven to be only a few hours. He glared around the table.

  Their number was fewer tonight. Isaac and Lydia were overseeing portions of the defenses. The Quaker apparently had been so shocked by Xaviar’s pronouncements of doom that the Malkavian had fallen into torpor, and Colchester was nowhere to be seen.

  Not to say that he’s not here, Jan mused morbidly. The weight of responsibility he’d felt for so many weeks had been replaced—or maybe added to—by numbing fatalism. The Gangrel would leave. The Camarilla cities would fall one by one. Jan would fail his mission and, if he survived, return to face Hardestadt.

  “What about Buffalo?” Theo Bell asked.

  What about Buffalo? thought Jan. It will fall. Without the Gangrel, it will fall. He almost spoke the words aloud—more prophecies of doom; the Undoing of the Children of Caine is at hand—but he restrained himself. Bell’s focus on details, his enduring pragmatism and unbreakable will, drew Jan back to a challenge that was not yet completely hopeless. Not yet. He straightened somewhat in his chair as his thoughts turned in a more productive direction. He could not afford to escape through madness and torpor, as the Quaker had. Nor could Jan retreat inward, like Victoria. She sat at the table again tonight, a pained expression on her face, only speaking when directly addressed. She was not herself. Xaviar’s doom-mongering had affected her perhaps even more deeply than it had the unstable Quaker.

  But more important matters required Jan’s attention.

  “Buffalo is completely exposed without the Gangrel,” he said. “If we shift forces from here…maybe the Chicago element—”

  “I cannot accept the weakening of this city,” Garlotte broke in. His words were sharp, unequivocal.

  Jan tried to explain, “If we create a small, mobile force, then it could be brought back if—”

  “Baltimore must be held,” Garlotte insisted. “If we divide our forces, neither city will be strong enough to stand.”

  “I agree,” Marcus Vitel added. “We stay strong here and press the war south when we are able.”

  Jan recognized from Garlotte’s tone that the prince would not negotiate on this point, and though Jan had been allowed great leeway in coordinating the Camarilla defenses, he was still, in the end, a guest in Garlotte’s city. Additionally, with both princes agreeing and Theo not feeling compelled to offer his opinion, Jan held little hope of swaying those to whom, technically, he was merely an advisor.

  “Abandon Buffalo,” Gainesmil said.

  “No.” Jan removed his glasses and began to rub the bridge of his nose. Despite the hopelessness of his position, he felt compelled to make them see the importance of somehow maintaining Buffalo. “Baltimore is stronger,” he explained, “if there is the threat of another Camarilla city within striking distance should the Sabbat fall on us here…or if there’s at least a perceived threat.”

  Garlotte regarded him skeptically but said nothing.

  Jan opened his mouth to speak, but, surprisingly, it was Bell who gave voice to his plan: “As long as the Sabbat think there’s an army that can come help us here, that’s as good as having an army. We bluff them.”

  “Yes,” Jan agreed.

  Garlotte was shaking his head. “But they will find out about the Gangrel, and if we don’t divert forces from here, how do we make them think—”

  “We make an army,” said Jan. He set his glasses on the table, then stood and began to pace back and forth behind the empty seats, where Xaviar had stood the night before. Damn his pride, Jan thought, seeing again the Gangrel’s mark on the table. And damn Garlotte’s. And damn mine. But there had been no other way than to defy the justicar.

  Now it was Vitel shaking his head. “You’re not suggesting that we just Embrace enough mortals to defend a city.”

  Jan paused in his pacing. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. Theo—what?” Jan could tell the archon didn’t like the idea.

  The Brujah’s dark face was creased by a deep frown. “I don’t think Pascek would go for it.”

  “Would he rather lose the entire East Coast?”

  “Maybe,” Bell said. “All I know is he and some of the other bigwigs have had a hundred shit fits over Prince Michaela Embracing an army in New York. It’s not the Embracing exactly, but that’s a lot of tough Ventrue bastards. No offense.”

  But Jan wasn’t prepared to concede. “What good is a balance of power among our own clans if the Sabbat takes everything?”

  Bell shrugged. “Don’t ask me. Ask Pascek. Ask Hardestadt.”

  Jan understood Theo’s point readily enough. His sire would not approve of the plan. Bell was right. More than the East Coast was at stake. What good would be saving the East Coast if in doing so they brought the Camarilla clans to each other’s throats? Already, the Gangrel had abandoned the sect. No one would agree to an army of Ventrue or—God forbid—Tremere, for the very reason that those clans were already seen by each other as being too powerful. But that still left other options.

  Jan turned to face Bell. “What about a small army of Nosferatu…and some Brujah tossed in?”

  “They’d be so young,” said Vitel. “Even if they were of potent blood, it takes time to adjust to our existence, to master the gifts of the undead.”

  “But it’s a bluff.” Bell slowly began to nod. “They don’t have to master anything.”

  “Exactly,” said Jan. “They don’t have to fend off an attack. If there’s enough Kindred activity, it could confuse Sabbat spies and delay an attack. It’ll at least buy us time, and with Buffalo in Camarilla hands, Baltimore is stronger.” Jan closed his hand into a fist. He unobtrusively glanced at Garlotte, who seemed less entrenched in his opposition. He’ll agree as long as we don’t take anything from here, Jan thought.

  Vitel, however, was not convinced. “The clans might not mind all those new Cainites, but Prince Lladislas in Buffalo won’t like it. Overpopulating doesn’t make for stability.”

  “Neither does a horde of Sabbat running through the street killing mortals and staking the prince,” Bell pointed out. He shrugged. “But he’s right. Lladislas won’t like it.”

  Jan returned to his seat. “It’s the best chance he has to keep his city.” But he knew they were correct. Lladislas was a hard-headed Brujah—as if any prince wasn’t stubborn—and he’d spend years arguing for reinforcements rather than accept a plan that might leave him stuck with a gaggle of ill-disciplined, hunger-driven neonates to wreck the Masquerade in Buffalo.

  “What if we tell him that our intelligence shows that an attack is imminent?” Jan suggested. “We tell him an attack is coming. We can’t reinforce him—which is true. This way, he can at least leave an army of neonates to take a few Sabbat with them. No recriminations from the Camarilla.”

/>   “He’d like that,” Bell agreed.

  “Lladislas evacuates the city,” Jan continued. “With the increased Kindred activity, the Sabbat believes there’s a real, formidable army. They’re deterred from attacking…or if they send a force large enough to deal with what they think is there, they’ll have to draw manpower from Washington, and we have a chance to strike there.”

  This last line of reasoning broke through to Vitel. He agreed with anything that would give the Camarilla a chance to win back his city. Garlotte, too, was willing to go along—which meant Gainesmil was on board—since Baltimore was not weakened. Roughneck didn’t pull much weight even if he did object for some reason. Practically speaking, there was still one potential veto.

  “Lladislas will do it… if you tell him to,” Jan said to Theo. It was a tricky thing, to ask a Brujah archon to mislead a Brujah prince, and Jan couldn’t press too hard. It was a call Theo had to make. Jan only hoped the archon realized that there truly were no ulterior motives for trying to get the Brujah prince out of his city. “It’s in his best interest, and he won’t go along otherwise.”

  Theo sat stone-faced. He had contributed to the plan, but much of the execution would necessarily fall on his shoulders. Finally, Bell nodded, if not enthusiastically. “It’s his best shot,” he agreed, “and it’s the Camarilla’s best shot.”

  “We might as well be the Sabbat.”

  All heads turned to face Victoria, who had unexpectedly offered her first opinion of the evening.

  “We might as well be the Sabbat,” she said again in a low voice. Her green eyes seemed to have lost their luster. Though she never looked poorly enough to be thought of as haggard, she did seem tired, and only vaguely concerned with events around her.

  Jan didn’t completely follow her meaning. He didn’t think she could change the minds of the others, but she did exhibit influence with Prince Garlotte on occasion, so Jan attempted to mollify her. “We have to convince Prince Lladislas to act in his own best interest, otherwise—”

  “Lie to the damned Brujah all you want!” she suddenly blurted out. “We all do. They never know the difference.”

  If Bell took offense behind his unreadable mask, he gave no sign.

  “But to Embrace twenty…fifty, a hundred mortals?” she went on. “To turn them loose on the streets? That does nothing for the Masquerade—nothing good. It makes us no better than the Sabbat. Is it worth surviving, only to become what we despise?”

  “If it’s the only way we can survive,” Jan retorted. He was somewhat mystified by Victoria’s sudden bout of scruples. Law, morality—these were not absolutes, as she seemed suddenly to think. Like manners, they were preferences contrived to govern the interaction of the masses. But sometimes those individuals occupying positions of responsibility, those Kindred entrusted with the caretaking of the entire race—of humanity, fragile as it was—must through necessity step beyond those bounds.

  Jan started to say as much, but the attention of all around the table was distracted by movement at the rear of the auditorium. Malachi had stepped closer to the double doors and was prepared for whomever entered. Jan had visions of Xaviar again slamming open the doors and stalking down the aisle, but Malachi hadn’t heard the Gangrel justicar approach until the doors were flung open wide.

  When the doors did open, Prince Garlotte’s youngest childe, Fin, entered the auditorium. He seemed embarrassed for a moment that everyone was watching him, but he quickly mastered himself and continued down to the table.

  “Our business here is concluded,” said Prince Garlotte. “Mr. Pieterzoon, Mr. Bell, proceed with your plan.” Then, having dismissed Victoria’s objection, he directed his attention toward Fin.

  For his part, the young Ventrue, aside from a brief glance at Victoria, who didn’t seem to notice he was there, determinedly held his sire’s gaze. “Prince Garlotte,” he said formally, “I must discuss something with you, and since it’s something you have to decide as prince, and not just as my sire, I come to you here.”

  “I can see that you do,” Garlotte said evenly.

  Fin paused and licked his lips. Jan found himself sympathetic to the boy’s plight of addressing an aloof, seemingly omnipotent sire. Though the council proper was concluded, the other Kindred remained at their seats out of respect for Garlotte and his childe. Fin seemed to have expected more resistance from his sire. Encountering none, he plowed ahead.

  “I want to Embrace a mortal. I’ve never asked for this before.” He hesitated briefly, then, “I feel that it’s my right.”

  “Your right.” Prince Garlotte did not laugh or grow angry. He remained totally impassive.

  “Yes. Katrina has Embraced. Twice. I don’t think it’s too much to ask.”

  Jan couldn’t help but take note of the boy’s resolve—and of his utter lack of judgment. Apparently every Kindred in Baltimore knew about the prince’s troublesome female childe and her unauthorized coterie, but to bring to the prince’s attention facts that he obviously wanted not to know—at least officially—was less than wise.

  “You are aware of all that is transpiring?” Prince Garlotte asked. “All that consumes my time—the Sabbat hordes pressing at the city gate; the insanity of a justicar? Surely you’ve heard of these.”

  “I am.” Fin swallowed hard. He paused, but then pressed ahead. “I want to Embrace Morena before something happens. With the Sabbat. Before it’s too late.”

  Garlotte rested his chin on his fist. The assembly, quite ill at ease now, waited patiently nonetheless for him to resolve the matter. “Come to me, my childe.”

  Several seconds passed before Fin took the first step. Each footfall echoed through the otherwise silent auditorium as he walked around the table. Fin knelt before his sire, the prince, and bowed his head.

  Garlotte lifted his childe’s chin. “You must learn patience. A year and a night—before that time is up, we will resolve this. Speak no more of it to me.”

  Fin nodded and rose. A mix of relief and disappointment was visible on his face, but Jan couldn’t help thinking that the young Ventrue was fortunate.

  Sunday, 8 August 1999, 1:42 AM

  Presidential Suite, Lord Baltimore Inn

  Baltimore, Maryland

  “You’re sure there’s no indication of an attack on Buffalo?” Jan asked.

  Colchester had waited until van Pel left to reveal himself. He wore his monstrous, tusked visage and resembled nothing of the suave businessman who last night had sat at council. “No large-scale movements from Washington, or from Montreal or New York City,” he said. “And Vykos’s ghoul reports only the continued build-up for an eventual shot at Baltimore.”

  “The Assamite masquerading as Vykos’s ghoul.”

  “Yes. Parmenides, now Ravenna.”

  “And this other business with the Assamites…”

  “Right.” Colchester stretched and cracked his knuckles so loudly that Jan thought the Nosferatu’s fingers might pop off. “Since the Sabbat War started, four Tremere assassinated: in Atlanta, right here in Baltimore, then Calcutta, then New York. All four confirmed or strongly suspected Assamite involvement. I mean, shit, who else is gonna go around bumping off warlocks?”

  “But who are they working for?” Jan wondered aloud. “Assamites don’t dirty their hands for free.”

  “They didn’t used to, anyway,” Colchester said. “Word is that might’ve changed.”

  Jan was only partially listening as he tried to unravel certain facts. “And Vykos has a personal Assamite. Has he…she…it, whatever…Vykos made an alliance with them?”

  “Possible. There’s also a Setite.” Colchester started counting off on his fingers. “Operates out of Baltimore, had a flunky in Atlanta, and was in Calcutta meeting with that one when he got whacked. Three out of four.”

  “Hm.” Jan weighed this information against his own suspicions. “Prince Garlotte knows this Setite?” Colchester nodded. “Sure. Hesha keeps a low profile. It’s not worth starting a war
to get rid of him.”

  “Hesha Ruhadze? I didn’t know he worked out of Baltimore.”

  “He don’t advertise.”

  “I see. There’s also Victoria,” Jan pointed out, “who was in Atlanta, and meeting with Maria Chin when she was assassinated.”

  “Maybe the Assamites gave out Tremere coupons….”

  Jan was thinking aloud again and paying little attention to Colchester’s prattle. “That might explain why Aisling Sturbridge is spending her time at the chantry in New York instead of here.”

  “…Maybe it was a Tremere rebate, or off one get one free. Tax write-off?”

  Jan’s thoughts, despite his best efforts, drifted away from murdered Tremere and back to Victoria. Part of him recoiled at the thought of her being responsible for or even complicit in such brutality. Maria Chin had been decapitated by a garrotte. Jan pictured Victoria, not as an accomplice luring the Tremere to her destruction, but as a victim, horrified, cowering in fear. That image blended with how he’d seen her tonight—practically catatonic. She seemed so fragile.

  But Jan knew that wasn’t the full story. Ironically enough, it was Colchester’s absurd litany that helped Jan clear his mind and focus again on the business at hand.

  “Never mind.” Jan waved Colchester silent. “Who’s behind it isn’t the most important thing right now.” We can do with a few less Tremere, he thought, but then caught himself. The Tremere could be a devastating tool when unleashed against an enemy. But they’d damn well better start pulling their weight.

  “Now,” Jan said to Colchester, “this is what we’re going to do….”

  Sunday, 8 August 1999, 4:19 AM

  A subterranean grotto

  New York City, New York

  For the past forty-five minutes, Calebros had stared into the dark recesses of his lair and tried to calm himself. Still, his hands were not completely free of trembling. Upon receiving the news, he had managed to clack out the relevant data on his typewriter before succumbing to the nervous palsy. Reading the understatements recorded in ink did little to soothe him.