Blood of Jackals Read online

  “We could seek the Holy Church’s protection,” Jordan countered.

  “Yes,” Ketrick replied nodding, “and you would be safe. But they know you are a hypocrite. To get the help of the Miran Church, you would have to give up the Crown—and surrender everything you had sought to gain.”

  “We will not hand Derrick over to you,” Lilth proclaimed.

  “Fine," replied Ketrick, “in exchange for that concession, we want immediate on-call access, along with instant notice of any change in his condition. The NDB will expect the same. Of course, that does leave one problem unresolved.” He looked up at Lilth skeptically.

  “And what is that?” the Viscountess asked, her face darkening.

  “Your questionable ability to hold someone like Derrick.”

  A thin smile touched Lilth’s lips. Suddenly her eyes blazed as she stretched out her arm and pointed at the man below her. Grabbed by the throat by an unseen force, Ketrick was pulled to the floor, his head striking the steps to Lilth’s chair. Dragged worm-like up the stairs facedown, his body rose to meet Lady Voxny, who sat straight-backed and imperious. Ketrick stopped and his head tilted back, enabling him to see the fiery eyes of Lilth Morays as they glittered with delight.

  “Know this, Vaid Ketrick,” Lilth intoned, “this arrangement suits us, but we will not be threatened. And as to your doubt in my ability to control someone as trained as my young cousiné, this demonstration should allay any uncertainty.”

  “Ey-ouu got mauve-g-guard, Bitch!” Ketrick stammered.

  Lilth backhanded the man, the force of the blow sending him flying off the stairs and to the floor below. Released from Lilth’s hold, Ketrick spun to his feet in an impressive display of reflex control. If Ketrick noticed the new array of guards in the room, all with weapons targeted on him, he did not show it.

  “You dare attack a grandmaster of the DuCideon Brotherhood?” Ketrick’s eyes reflected the hatred that had displaced his earlier contempt.

  “Your daring to offend me brought your own punishment,” Lilth replied. “I was content to allow your well-rehearsed scene to play out, so long as you did not go too far. Still, while you do represent the Brotherhood, my displeasure is with you. Therefore, you may report to your superiors that I, with forgiveness and grace, do not hold them responsible for your bad manners.”

  Ketrick fumed. “You are fortunate that I am under Discipline—”

  “I could have killed you with the same effort as an exhale,” Lilth declared, “just as I could kill you now. Do you still deny my power?”

  “I am here in the service of the Brotherhood.”

  “A dead man has no employer. You overestimate your value to your masters. Your incompetence in handling this matter may weigh heavily against you.”

  “My earlier warnings still stand: You must not kill Derrick.”

  “We will honor our bargain with the Brotherhood and NDB Church,” Lilth responded. “But do not treat us with such disrespect again.”

  “There is more to our agreement, Viscountess.” Ketrick bit off the last word.

  “And those things may be discussed as our plan progresses,” Lilth agreed. “Only so much can be done until Jordan is on the throne.”

  Aware that he had no choice, Ketrick stiffly nodded. “Then I will look on Derrick and his condition,” he said flatly.

  Lilth did not even blink. “Escort him hence,” she commanded.

  Two guards near the door stepped forward. Ketrick headed toward them with neither a bow nor a word. The guards preceded him out as two others closed the doors behind them. Lilth dismissed those with a wave of her hand.

  “I wondered how long you would suffer his manner,” said Jordan.

  “Letting him think his inane threat worked boosted his confidence,” Lilth replied, taking in short quick breaths. “It made surprising him that much easier.”

  “Well at least the meeting with Biam will not be as taxing.”

  “At this point, the NDB do not want the risks of holding Derrick either.”

  “So, like he NDB, he only wants Derrick alive as leverage over us.”

  “Ketrick knew we would never give him up.” Lilth looked at her brother sternly. “And this way, their hands stay clean, if anything goes wrong.”

  “But like the NDB, if they had gotten to Derrick first, as they planned...”

  “They would have kept him hidden, and not allow anyone to see him.”

  “So, we did the right thing by taking him first,” Jordan nodded to himself.

  “Yes, and absent any trouble, as soon as we are secure, and he has no more possible use, Derrick dies without a trace.”

  - - -

  Ansel closed the door behind him before pulling his acolyte’s habit over his head and tossing it over the back of a chair. With Ashincor Linse at another government meeting, the night was his to do as he wished—within reason, and within the confines of his room. That suited him perfectly.

  Sitting in his bed, the half-clad acolyte removed his shoes, lay back and closed his eyes. He was tired, and hunger gnawed at him. But while his training in the Disciplines allowed him to dispel the current demands of his body, their very triviality was what kept him from doing so. Ansel intended to use his powers for something else entirely: Entry into the Veiled Realm.

  Its exact nature was uncertain. It had a dream-like quality, but also a stability seemingly independent of individual entrants. Even those who could control their normal dreams could not set themselves up as gods here. It was a reality governed by its own rules. One could no more dominate there than they could their real existence. At least, that was the common wisdom.

  Ansel entered this dark realm as he always did, wearing a visage from his childhood. Anything to help her recognize him, should this be the time he finally found whom he sought. While reportedly the Realm was infinite, and had its own night and day, for Ansel it existed in perpetual twilight. That too suited him, confident as he was that he could identify her presence even in darkness.

  Believing that his unconscious guided these wanderings, Ansel never tried to enter the Realm in a different place. Thus, he always arrived in the same shadowy city. Besides, traveling was not an issue. Learning to fly in the Realm had been an adventure. He had even grown wings. But now the novelty of the air streaming past his face, and looking down at people he could not well identify, was gone.

  And so Ansel walked amongst the Realm’s inhabitants, asking for news.

  Catching the eye of a man he once engaged in conversation, Ansel raised his brow in silent question. The man shook his head and continued with his routine. He was a regular Realm inhabitant, Ansel had decided, not a visitor like himself. That was, assuming the man was not just part of the Realm’s illusory background.

  On that point, Ansel was unsure. Most of those he spoke with appeared to remember him, but time seemed to flow differently for some. And while “visitors” were usually open about their reasons for being there, some of the “regulars” expressed hostility at being disturbed as they went about their business. Their strange business, made so not by their doing, but by their presumed need to do so. Then there were the other “regulars” who would talk without the slightest restraint. Unfortunately, those individuals seemed mostly to have gone mad.

  But all of this was yet another mystery that could wait.

  Ansel watched as two teenage girls walked toward him, their wide stares of amazement marking them as first-time visitors. He paid them no mind.

  Seeing a tavern that he had not noticed before, Ansel walked beneath the swinging sign proclaiming it as the Drunken Slig, and entered. Nearly everyone there looked at Ansel briefly before returning to his or her own affairs. The trappings of a thriving business were all there, except for the life. It was as if the people were only there to pass the time. They drank, diced and played cards, but with a quality suggesting mindless labor. Ansel was used to it.

  “Have you a local brew?” Ansel asked the barkeep. The man nodded as he c
leaned a glass with a rag. “Can I have a draft in one of those mugs?” Ansel pointed to a stein amongst the glassware. The man nodded again. Ansel put two gold coins on the bar. He could afford to be generous. Making coins appear in his pocket took no more effort than changing his appearance. With a shared sense of value, the man gave Ansel his drink and took the coins without comment.

  “A tad young for drinking, ain’t ya, Boy?” a voice came from behind Ansel.

  Ansel took a long deliberate sip. “Alcohol only affects me if I wish it.” He turned around to meet the other man’s eyes. No “regular” would have challenged him like that, which meant the man was a visitor. Bullies had been fooled by Ansel’s chosen appearance before.

  “You’ve got an attitude, Boy,” the man went on, still sitting at his table. “You ever use that tone with your master?”

  A numbness passed over Ansel’s heart. As a visitor, it would be easy to guess that Ansel had psychic training. His apparent age would also suggest him still being under a master. But something more was at hand. “I was taught to always show my teachers respect,” Ansel replied.

  “But have your masters not pronounced this realm forbidden?”

  “Respect does not always compel obedience, Sir,” Ansel said. “Where did you study the Mental Disciplines, may I ask?”

  “Disciplines!” the man scoffed. “Want your eyes truly opened, Acolyte?”

  The man vanished from his chair and appeared standing at the bar across from Ansel. Ansel stepped back and raised his mental shields. He had never seen anyone move like that before. The man laughed.

  “You have the advantage over me, Sir,” Ansel admitted cautiously.

  “You can have the same advantage, Boy. Stop wasting time with that old fool priest trying to save his young fool grandson.” The man disappeared again and materialized right behind Ansel. “I can even help you find your sister.”

  Ansel spun away and brought his full powers to bear. “Who are you?” he demanded. The man laughed again just as a woman stepped into the tavern. Her golden hair ablaze in light, and her robes billowing in an unfelt wind, Ansel first took her to be an illusion.

  “Let this one be,” the woman commanded.

  The man’s form changed to one of twisted inhumanity. Hands became claws, with one arm longer than the other. Clothes rent to reveal fur and muscle, as shoes gave way to hooves. Ears and teeth grew long and pointed. “What claim have you on him?” the gray, hunched creature demanded.

  “I defend this boy’s claim over himself,” came the reply. “Now begone! Or I shall cast you to the pits from whence you came.”

  The creature’s bulbous eyes shifted between Ansel and the woman. A scream then emanated from its body as it dissolved into smoke. The preternatural echo of its rage barely faded before the woman turned to Ansel. As she approached, the light about her dimmed, and her robes fell to drape around her naturally.

  “Ansel Crispirón,” she said, “I am Soror Cathena Barell, and I must speak with you.”

  - - -

  The desk of Lerrero’s Palace office was spotless, an advantage to having so much data access through his portascreen. But it was the walls that struck Ashincor. Lerrero had put up maps of the area where Derrick had disappeared, along with photographs of witnesses, some connected to map points by red string, and bold-faced words and phrases denoting clues and key facts. There was no art in the room, no personal pictures, and no extraneous objects gathering dust. Lerrero had completely immersed himself in the case, but only one wall was covered. The others were blank. Was Lerrero leaving room for a bigger puzzle?

  “Ah, Patér Linse,” Lerrero said, still looking at his screen, “just a moment.” He motioned for Ashincor to sit. Ashincor complied.

  “You asked to see me,” Ashincor said as Lerrero finished reading.

  “Yes,” Lerrero breathed, with the patér noticing his fatigue. “I have just received word that HOPIS will be taking over this investigation entirely.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we within the House Guard will be free to focus on security matters, instead of dividing our resources.” Even as he spoke, it was clear the guard commander did not believe it.

  “I see. And Sukain agreed to this?”

  “Lord Jordan and the NDB were quite persuasive. Speaking for the Noble Family, Lord Jordan’s request carried a lot of weight.”

  “And I bet much of that weight came from his sister, Lilth.”

  “The NDB also offered to put more manpower on the case,” Lerrero continued. “At their own expense, of course, provided HOPIS was given exclusive jurisdiction.”

  “Leave it to the NDB to use a crisis as an excuse to broaden their control.”

  “Both Muerran and Sukain were hesitant. But Jordan already had the NDB in place, and they have been very successful tracking down rogue initiates for questioning.”

  “No surprise there. This is the perfect cover for the NDB to hunt down wayward church members and force them back into the fold.”

  “Come back or we will have you burned?” Lerrero asked. Ashincor nodded. “Burning” was a euphemism for stripping away the psychic abilities of an initiate. “But surely that would go beyond their government sanction.”

  “You have interrogated suspects before, right Commander?” Ashincor asked. “You know what goes on. What can go wrong. When looking at a suspect eyeball-to-eyeball, a lot can be communicated that will not be picked up by normal recording devices.”

  “Do you really think the NDB would go so far?”

  “Further. Especially with rogue initiates trained by us.”

  “Sukain has unknowingly declared open season on any enemy of the NDB Church with the Training. What will the Holy Church do?”

  “Because of our delicate position, we are quietly offering sanctuary to all rogue initiates. Not that we expect many to come forward. Being persecuted exacts a heavy toll on one’s sense of trust.”

  Commander Lerrero nodded. “Patér,” he said suddenly. “Muerran and I have spoken about this, and we both agree. We think it would be prudent if you kept a low profile for now.”

  “You want me to leave the Palace?”

  “No one is suggesting that. As Lord Legan’s grandfather, you have an interest in what is going on here. You have a right to be here. But with the NDB, however...”

  “You are worried I will cause trouble,” Ashincor said, sitting back in his char.

  “A political storm is coming. I may be turned out just for keeping you on.”

  “Is that what you are worried about?”

  “No!” Lerrero’s head sank to his chest, knowing how much his father depended on him, and how important it was to retain his position at the Palace. “I followed the lead you gave me, but the Lord Chamberlain and his wife refused to talk to me. Earlier though, after General Muerran informed me that HOPIS was taking charge of the investigation, a Lancet Gardet called me with the same news, ‘in case I hadn’t heard,’ he said. He also asked about you.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That your assignment was only temporary—until Patér Orqué returned.”

  “And he left it at that?”

  “No. He had the nerve to suggest that I keep an eye on you. He didn’t want you getting underfoot of his investigators.”

  “You do not think they are really looking for him, do you?”

  “Patér, the government will be announcing Lord Derrick’s disappearance soon. For your own sake, stay low.”

  Ashincor rose from his chair. “Have you an assignment for me then?”

  “Yes. I need your help in guarding First Advisor Sukain.”

  - - -

  VI

  “What do you mean he will not see me?” Vialette Carland demanded as Cary Morays’ personal assistant denied her entry into Cary’s private apartments.

  “His questioning over the abduction was quite exhausting for Lord Cary, Ma’am,” the aide replied. “He wishes to be alone, so he can r
est.”

  “I went through the same questioning,” Vialette insisted. “More, in fact.”

  “I am sorry, my Lady,” the man repeated. “He will not see you.”

  Vialette rolled her eyes and exhaled in disgust. Turning away, Vialette made her footfalls sound louder than normal as she stormed off. The man waited for her to disappear down another corridor before closing the door.

  It is the questioning I want to talk to him about, Vialette complained, stopping at a flight of stairs. Cary was avoiding her. Even when they were together, he was distant. She descended the steps with a sigh. News of the kidnapping had already been made public and, assuming HOPIS was correct, the kidnappers’ demands would soon be known.

  Don’t worry, Derrick, she promised. We will get you back. Curin, too.

  - - -

  “I see you,” said the child, peeking from behind a couch.

  “And we, you,” Jordan muttered, refusing to look at him. The child giggled.

  “The bitch does not even care about poor Curin,” Lilth resumed, sitting in her hover-chair. Seeing an incorrectly hung painting on the far wall, she was glad for the excuse to punish a nearby servant. “All she will talk about is Derrick.”

  The child came out from his hiding place and walked toward Lilth.

  Lilth’s hover-chair raised itself in the air, moving her out of the boy’s reach.

  “Curin must be going mad having to lay low,” Jordan remarked. “He is basically a prisoner in his own rooms.”

  “We have made arrangements so that he can go almost anywhere in Crucidel,” Lilth replied, her chair lowering as the child retreated to another area of her salon. “But even Crucidel can seem small if you cannot leave it. Since he refuses to wear a disguise, we simply cannot risk him being seen.”

  “He does not sneak out on occasion?” Jordan asked.

  “I see you,” said the child, returning to his game.

  Jordan narrowed his eyes.

  “And I see you,” Lilth said, twisting in her chair and pointing at the child. A small blue light emanated from Lilth’s forefinger and hit the boy mid-giggle. Frozen in place, the boy’s hair stood on end as his muscles spasmed. With a cry, the child’s governess ran to his side just as he was about to collapse to the floor.