Blood of Jackals Read online

  Twenty years had passed since he was at The Palace. He remembered the day his son-in-law, the newly crowned count-grandee, told him that he was no longer welcome. Given the way he was already being treated, it was no surprise, despite his daughter’s attempted intervention. Derrick’s father even ordered Linse Castle closed to its former lord. Contempt and disrespect became the price of seeing his grandson, at least in private. Publicly, Seffan Possór would hug him, smiling as if they were on the best of terms. Ashincor detested that above all.

  Turning a corner near the old family apartments, Ashincor stopped and took in a room. Everything was garishly overdone. The gilded furniture was so ornate, it was uncomfortable to look at, let alone use. The richly worked tables and stands had so little utility, the luxury of waste seemed to be intentionally flaunted.

  “Gentility is not acquired at birth, Seffan,” Ashincor said aloud. “You ruled a planet, but you had absolutely no taste.”

  “Yet he married your daughter, Patér Linse,” a voice came from behind him.

  Ashincor did not move. “She was but a symbol of conquest, Lady Vialette,” the Patér said before turning toward her. “A beautiful trophy with a dowry.”

  Vialette’s mouth dropped. She had expected to surprise him, if not by her presence, then at least by her comment. “He did not love her?” she asked, again trying to take the upper hand.

  Ashincor did not rise to the bait. “Seffan’s family members were little more than game pieces to him: Counters to be moved and traded, as he willed.”

  “Derrick would disagree.”

  “He still has a son’s love.”

  “He also had his father’s love,” she countered. “Your judgment of my cousiné Seffan is twenty years old. People change.”

  “Only when there is a reason. Usually, they just become more adept at hiding who they truly are.”

  “Derrick says you want your family lands back,” Vialette taunted.

  “He is mistaken.”

  “What do you want then?”

  “I want him to wear the Crown,” Ashincor replied solemnly.

  Vialette laughed. “But he already wears it!”

  “Does he?” Ashincor lifted an eyebrow, wondering if the girl foolishly thought herself clever, or cleverly made herself seem foolish.

  “Should we go to Beneford Cathedral then, bring a crown, and wake up the Archbishop?” Vialette again laughed at the apparent absurdity.

  “I doubt your Uncle Jordan would like that,” Ashincor retorted.

  Vialette’s laughter abruptly stopped. Her eyes narrowing, she looked at the old man in front of her, studying and being studied. “I must go see Derrick now,” she said, her feigned pleasantness returning. “Shall I convey a message?”

  “No, thank you Lady Vialette,” Ashincor replied easily. “I am sure you will understand my hard-learned aversion to others speaking to my grandson for me.”

  “Very well,” Vialette said, turning. Ashincor called after her.

  “Before you go, Lady Vialette, tell me: Do you love Derrick?”

  “As a brother!” Vialette shot back, annoyed by the very question.

  “Then if you would,” Ashincor began, “help him see, that even when spoken true, such words do not mean that the person will never knowingly hurt him.”

  Vialette nodded, although her eyes betrayed her incomprehension. “And if you want to be close to Derrick again,” she replied, “know that just as there were reasons for his father to be as he was, there are reasons why Derrick grew to be who he is. And that he is still his father’s son.” She let herself out of the room.

  I know that all too well, Child, Ashincor thought. Ashincor turned back to the room just as his newly appointed acolyte, Ansel, entered through another door. “Ansel,” Ashincor said, “are you spying on me as well?”

  “No, Master!” Ansel replied, his straight dark hair moving with the shaking of his head. “I was looking for you, and when I heard you with Lady Vialette...”

  “Take care, Ansel,” Ashincor said sternly. “The Patér Rector may have assigned you to me, but as you are my acolyte, I can still—”

  “Please Master,” Ansel cried, rushing forward and going down on one knee, “I swear I only waited so that I would not interrupt. My duty is to you. Please do not send me away.”

  Ashincor looked down at the youth and relented. “Very well, Ansel. Now, why were you looking for me?”

  Ansel held up an envelope with Ashincor’s name written on it in stylized script. “A messenger came by with this from the Lord Chamberlain, Master.”

  Ashincor took the envelope, broke the seal and opened it. “A dinner party invitation,” he murmured. “Tonight. Apparently, I am a last-minute guest. He must have just found out that I was here.”

  “That was why I had to find you, Master. The Lord Chamberlain wanted to be certain you received it in time. Do you know the Lord Chamberlain, Master?”

  “I know of him,” Ashincor answered. “He came to his office after my time. Funny. I have not been on a high social list for years. I wonder what he wants.”

  “Maybe he simply wants to welcome you back to the Palace, Master.”

  “I am not exactly my grandson’s favorite relative, Ansel. Currying Derrick’s favor through me is not the best strategy. There must be something else.”

  “Maybe one of Patér Orqué’s assignments, Master? An investigation?”

  “None involving the Lord Chamberlain come to mind. Still, I find myself short of friends these days. Make my reply Ansel, and tell them I will attend.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Once word gets out about the poor relationship I have with my grandson, this may be the last party to which I am invited.”

  - - -

  “So, Cousiné,” Jordan Possór began, taking away a document that Derrick had just signed, “are you still up for attending that veterans benefit tonight? You seem very tired.”

  “I am,” Derrick admitted, reaching up and pushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Hey! You said that they were not expecting me to be there.”

  “I only mention it because you asked about going yesterday,” Jordan warmly assured him. Derrick’s need to have people close to him, especially family, had made it easy to allay Derrick’s suspicions after the trial. A few well-timed tears, and a confessed failure to convince his father to end his ties with the Consortium, and Jordan slipped easily into Derrick’s good graces.

  Derrick nodded, reassured by his cousiné’s response. “I know I should go,” he began sullenly. “I even want to go. But sometimes, I do not know if it is true fatigue… or depression.”

  “Is it your grandfather?” Jordan asked, worry lines deepening on his forehead as he tilted his head to look up at his present sovereign. Jordan added concern to his tone for extra effect. As if he cared about Derrick’s infantile mood swings.

  “I am still angry at him... abandoning me.” Derrick smiled self-consciously, knowing that he had not been left wholly alone. He had Tillic. Maybe losing his grandfather was what let his friendship with the old guard commander become so close. Poor Tillic, he thought, remembering how his guardian, teacher and best friend had died. I hope you knew that I loved you, you old rogue.

  “Knowing his reasons for leaving might help,” said Jordan. And for coming back. “Surely he cared about you.”

  Derrick shook himself and returned to the conversation. “I have considered just about every excuse he can make. Whatever his care, it was not enough.”

  Well, your father was an asshole at times, Jordan thought, remembering his own clashes with him. A person could only take so much. “Oh,” he said, glancing at a wall clock. “I better be off.” Derrick’s cousiné stood from his chair.

  “Have fun tonight!” said Derrick, consciously putting cheer in his voice.

  Jordan grinned wolfishly. “You too! You need it more than I do.”

  Derrick smiled in acknowledgment as Jordan left. He was not alone for long.


  “Come on, we need to go!” Vialette cried, giggling with excitement as she barged through a side door. “Curin and Cary are waiting,” she added, naming her twin Morays cousins. Derrick found himself caught up in her enthusiasm.

  “Go where?” he asked heartily. “For what?”

  “It is their birthday!” said Vialette. “Come on. We do not want to be late!”

  “For a party?” Derrick asked, wincing. “You know how I feel about big—”

  “It will just be us,” Vialette interrupted. “They have not seen you in so long.”

  “Just us four?” Derrick was skeptical.

  “Yeah!” Vialette grabbed Derrick’s arm and pulled him along. “You have done enough brooding around here by yourself at night. It is time to enjoy life.”

  “But—” Derrick thought of the veteran’s benefit that evening. Though Derrick was not expected, Jordan did seem disappointed that he was not attending. If he went off for a night of revelry right after telling Jordan that he was tired...

  “Oh, come on. You do not want to hurt their feelings, do you?”

  Derrick laughed despite himself. “No, but—”

  “Good.” Vialette tugged Derrick out the door.

  “Wait,” Derrick called. “I should at least change clothes.”

  “Fine, fine,” Vialette replied, laughing mischievously. “Just hurry it up.”

  - - -

  “Do you like the wine, Patér Linse?” the Lord Chamberlain asked, lifting his own glass. Ashincor took his up from the table and returned the toast.

  “It is a fine vintage, my Lord,” he replied. “It has been some time since I drank so excellent a Muerrivina.”

  “Ah, bravo, Patér Linse,” the Lord Chamberlain laughed. “How silly of me to think that I could stump your pallet.”

  “Yes, well done, Patér Linse,” another man said across the table. “Glad that all your years at Ferramond didn’t dull your sense of taste.”

  Ashincor turned to the man and smiled indulgently.

  “How long have you been at Ferramond, Patér?” asked the man’s wife, a thin woman with short hair, large teeth, and little makeup.

  “Twenty years, Madam,” said Ashincor. Glancing down the far end of the table, he caught the eye of the Lord Chamberlain’s wife, Madam Hansodian, as she was biting her lower lip.

  “So long?” the first woman went on. “Away from family and friends?”

  “Oh, but I was not imprisoned, Madam,” Ashincor said, lifting his fork to his mouth. “And I was not without family or friends.”

  “I meant that it must have been hard for you, after the Count-Grandee banned you from seeing your grandson.” The woman skewered a vegetable from her plate, briefly inspecting it before inserting it in her mouth.

  “He banned you, Patér Linse?” the woman’s husband asked, holding out his glass for more wine. One of the servants standing behind him refilled it.

  “Not exactly,” said Ashincor, unwilling to show his surprise at the course of the discussion. “Seffan just put so many conditions on seeing my grandson, I decided to stop playing his game. There is only so much a person can tolerate.”

  “Tolerate,” the woman repeated, holding another doomed vegetable aloft. “Well, I could never give up seeing my grandchildren. Never.”

  “I agree,” another woman at the table joined in, ignoring Ashincor’s eye. “I would die for my grandchildren. What is a little inconvenience compared to that?”

  Ashincor took another drink. He had attended enough dinner parties with Legan’s idle elite to know what was going on. Here were people for whom the sport of petty cruelty made daily life bearable. Gossip over his argument with Derrick must have reached them. Politically powerless, Ashincor was thus fair game, nothing but prey to the vipers of high society.

  “Judge Marskamoth,” a third guest called to the oldest man at the table, “did you not have a case where your intervention was the only hope for a family to reconcile and finally heal? There were grandchildren involved, was there not?”

  “Yes,” the judge replied. “A sad case. Could have been tragic.”

  “As I recall, did the children’s mother not devise a plan to cheat her own parents out of a large sum of money,” Madam Hansodian remarked.

  “That was the allegation,” the judge replied. “In all my years on the bench, I never saw so heartbreaking a disintegration of family. What is money compared to that?” He turned to Ashincor. “What is pride? Seeing the big picture, for their own good, I forced the grandparents to settle. They could afford it. And the grandchildren were able to stay in their home.”

  “Which had been the grandparents’ home,” said Madam Hansodian.

  Ashincor continued eating. He may have made mistakes with Derrick, but he would not answer the moralizing of social vultures and patronizing meddlers.

  “I am sure you acted justly, Judge,” the Lord Chamberlain said.

  “So, did the wound to this family eventually heal, Judge Marskamoth?” Madam Hansodian asked.

  “What, Madam?” the old judge replied, taking a long drink.

  “I said, after you gave part of the elderly couple’s retirement savings over to their daughter, did the rift between them heal?”

  “I expect it did, but I never followed-up. In my position, often all one can do is rule as you think best, and hope that justice comes of it in the end.”

  Madam Hansodian’s face remained expressionless as she drank from her glass. Her eyes never left the judge as she swallowed.

  “My only point,” the third guest began, “was that it took our good wise jurist here to help those people see the importance of family... and of grandchildren.”

  “And that was my point, Patér Linse,” said the woman with the large teeth. “Now, if the Count-Grandee made it impossible for you to see your grandson—”

  “Strictly speaking, he did not,” Ashincor interrupted, rejecting the urge to psychically smite the woman. Such a display would only have admitted weakness. “Lord Seffan just made sure the price was very, very high.”

  “It must have been a hard decision to make,” the woman’s husband remarked. Ashincor turned to him, but the man was looking somewhere else. If he held his glass any tighter though, the man would break it.

  “Yes,” continued the woman, flashing her teeth in a condescending smile, unware of the change in her husband. “I know I have my share of regrets.”

  “Regrets, Madam?” Ashincor asked.

  “Why yes,” she replied. “Surely you—”

  “The situation was unfortunate,” Ashincor declared. “A pity really. But regret? I sent messages and tried to contact him, but Lord Seffan blocked my attempts. He even restricted communication with my daughter. There was nothing more I could have done.”

  “What?”

  “You heard him, Dear,” the woman’s husband said abruptly. “The Count-Grandee was the one who was responsible for keeping Patér Linse away.”

  “But your grandson was an innocent,” the woman charged with sudden venom, sharing a poisonous look with both Ashincor and her husband. “You should have seen him anyway!”

  “Maybe if your child or in-law made you trudge through a river of shit every time you wanted to see your grandchildren,” Ashincor said between bites, “you would think differently.”

  Everyone at the table went silent as Ashincor wished he had not resorted to profanity. Damn the woman for getter the better of him.

  “Forgive us, Patér,” the woman’s husband managed faintly. “We meant no harm.” He looked meaningfully at his wife. “People often only have the power you give them. And I am taking the power back and saying, ‘No More.’”

  “Forgive me,” Ashincor insisted. “My outburst was inexcusable.” He shifted his gaze to the man’s dumbstruck wife. “Be glad, Madam, to be spared any hoop-jumping to see your grandchildren.”

  “W-w-well,” the woman stammered, “our daughter-in-law does expect a few things. But they are no trouble.”
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  “Glad to hear it. It is sad, but sometimes parents use their children as pawns to control others, and even hurt each other. A despicable practice. Imagine the morally bankrupt individual who would use a child as a weapon. Or a shield.”

  “Yes,” Madam Hansodian said, “why I have a friend whose son uses visits with his children to extort money from his own parents.”

  The woman with the large teeth said nothing, seemingly lost in her thoughts. Ashincor stabbed a piece of food on his plate and brought it to his mouth before looking up at the Lord Chamberlain, wondering to what end he was being tested.

  “They are innocent,” the woman whispered finally, looking to her husband. The man stared straight ahead as he ate.

  “Most games we play are needless,” Ashincor said between bites.

  “So, you are now free from games, Patér?” the Lord Chamberlain asked.

  Ah, Ashincor thought. He wants to know my commitment to Derrick. “I may yet make a play, my Lord,” he replied. “If the stakes are high enough.”

  - - -

  As Derrick and Vialette reached the docking bay, it was she who recognized the identification markings of her cousins’ transport ship.

  “They are here!” Vialette cried as she rushed forward.

  The ship’s landing platform lowered as House guards took up positions near the craft. While Derrick knew the two men exiting the shuttle, he would have had trouble identifying them out in public. Few people took Curin and Cary Morays for brothers at first glance, let alone for twins. Curin was taller, and had the body of a wrestler. While not ugly, his bulky look contrasted sharply with the finely drawn face of his brother. Despite being dwarfed by his brother, Cary was solid and well proportioned, and far more attractive. Both were older than Derrick by several years. Vialette was still hugging them as Derrick approached.

  “Curin,” Derrick greeted, extending his hand. Curin’s eyebrows lifted in surprise as he smiled and raised his hand to grip Derrick’s.

  “Aaaah,” Curin sounded before giving Derrick a hug instead. “Hey, Coz!”