Blood of Jackals

by Todd Marcelas Moreno

  “His memory is blocked.”

  “Constipation of the brain, huh? Well, our healer can give him a good flush.”

  “If anyone tampers with the block, it’ll most likely kill him. And if I take him back to the Palace now, they’ll try to tamper with it. Certain people there already want him dead.”

  “Him being a Possór, it’s not surprising. How long you need him kept here?”

  “The block should break down over time. His memories will find a way to surface. I don’t know how long it will take though.”

  Agnes pulled out a small pipe from her pocket, lit it, and puffed. “So, you think we’re backwoods enough to hide him from those government devils, do ya?”

  Jair stiffened. “Ma, I didn’t know where else to take him. He saved my life.”

  Agnes acknowledged the point with a puff. “You know what I think of his type.” She pointed her pipe at him. “What am I to do with him? Keep him in the house? What will others say when they hear a lounge-about stranger has come?”

  “I’m sure we can find work for him—a cousin from Landover.”

  “Put him to work?” Agnes took a long, approving puff. “Honest labor might kill a dandy like him. He’s not been eatin’ properly neither. Still, I guess I’ll risk it. All right, Jair. He can stay. But he’s gone at first sign o’ trouble. The Possórs are vicious bastards, and we won’t be stuck between them. You hear me?”

  “Yes, Ma. I’ll make sure nothing goes wrong.”

  - - -

  Guishaun Possór, by blood both nephew and cousin to Lilth and Jordan, looked out his window and returned the waves of well-wishers along the side of the road, wiggling his long thin fingers, four of them bejeweled with rings of different stones and sizes.

  “They probably don’t even know who I am,” Guishaun remarked under his breath, smiling and waving again as they passed another group of land tenants.

  “Anyone traveling in this monstrous carriage-crawler surrounded by the Palace Guard is bound to be someone worth sucking up to,” Dorian Tousan quipped. The tone and texture of his face was unnaturally smooth, and his eyebrows were plucked with precision. “When did your father have this gilded grandiosity built again?”

  “Right after he started dating my mother,” Guishaun replied.

  Yes, his niece, Dorian added privately.

  “Sadly, he did not get much use from it,” Guishaun said with mock sorrow. “Once The Scandal broke, he was prohibited from attracting any undue attention.”

  “That must have been hard for a man who strutted around town in a cape.”

  “It was the first time he paid for his self-indulgence. It nearly killed him.”

  “It’s still killing him.”

  Guishaun looked at his companion with a raised brow.

  “I just know what you tell me,” Dorian said quickly. “You described it—”

  “So long as my father stays in that little hideaway they exiled us to, and keeps himself semi-catatonic from whatever his latest drugs of choice may be, I don’t care. My brother and I have lived under his cloud of shame for too long. The only decent thing he can do now is die.”

  “I’m still surprised by the First Advisor’s invitation. What do you think the Sukain woman wants?”

  “To keep my Uncle-Cousiné Jordan off-balance. He’s aiming for the throne.”

  “Doesn’t anyone who is born into a royal family?”

  “Not everyone.” Guishaun looked out at the countryside. They had left the nearby towns and hamlets of Ossidel Castle, and would probably not be seen by anyone else until they reached the spaceport. At this point it would have made sense to fly the rest of the way, but this trip represented Guishaun’s coming out from banishment. He wanted it to last. And the scenery was quite lovely. Everything was so green. Even the sun had broken through the clouds.

  “But why curry favor with you? Your brother Varian is older.”

  “She knows Varian won’t come. You know my brother. Poor Varian can barely say his name to strangers without stuttering. I’m the only one they can use to counter my uncle.”

  “So Derrick’s really gone?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’ve only seen him twice, and that was when he was a little kid. I do know though that anyone who would sit on a throne had better be up to the job. The penalty for failure at this level of the game is death.”

  “What does that mean for your Uncle Jordan then?”

  “If Derrick does survive by some miracle, Uncle Jordan probably won’t. He has made a lot of promises that he can only keep as Grandee.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been talking to your Aunt Lilth again.”

  Guishaun smiled. “She’s the only one who paid attention to Varian and me.”

  “She still scares the piss out of me though,” Dorian remarked.

  “She’d be happy to hear it.”

  “Don’t tell her.” Dorian hit Guishaun quickly but softly in the arm. “No sense in gaining her notice. I hate even saying her name out loud.”

  Guishaun chuckled. “Of course, my aunt could be using me, too.”

  “Against your uncle?”

  “I don’t know. This family-politics stuff can be difficult.”

  “Maybe you’d be happier if you stayed out of it. You would still be provided for, and be worry-free for the rest of your life.”

  “All my life I’ve been imprisoned, Dorie, watching lesser family members enjoy things I could never have. Sidelined, all because of my father and mother. This is my chance to come out in the light. I’ll have my day in the sun.” Out his window, Guishaun saw a small girl playing alone in a field, spinning like a top with her arms outstretched. “Stop the carriage,” he ordered through his com-link.

  “We’re near the air-field, my Lord,” a voice replied as the carriage stopped.

  “What is it?” Dorian asked, looking out his window.

  “My Lord?” the voice said over the com-link.

  “Just a minute,” Guishaun barked back.

  “You’re watching that little girl?” Dorian asked. She was still twirling, oblivious to any outside her own private world.

  Guishaun nodded and continued to stare, both loving and hating her. “I’ll have the full freedom I deserve, Dorie,” he whispered. “I swear I will.”

  - - -

  Henrald Steuben leaned back in his chair, looked to the ceiling, and slowly exhaled. He had read all the reports on Derrick’s disappearance, and all the status updates from the ensuing search, and the results were the same: Nothing.

  HOPIS was accomplishing nothing. The NDB Church was accomplishing nothing. And no one else seemed to be actively looking. Even Steuben knew that his sifting through the facts of Derrick’s kidnapping would never actually find him. It simply spun the wheels.

  The recent activity at Crucidel was interesting though. An intruder getting in and out of a royal palace with sensitive information was not a regular occurrence.

  But what would put the entire viscounty on alert, and then cause Crucidel to decline all help from any outside security forces?

  Not the kind of secret information he was after, Steuben wagered, having no desire to enter the lair of Lilth Morays. She was not the type to leave anything incriminating lying around anyway. More, conducting an official investigation involving her would probably get him killed. And if he tried any unofficial visits, they would most likely never find his body.

  Crucidel was therefore out, and Steuben was therefore stuck.

  There was not one avenue left to try: The Mental Disciplines.

  Steuben rose from his chair. He still needed a physical connection to Derrick to optimize his chances with the vision. Fortunately, he knew just the place to find one. He had no sooner reached the door to leave his office when an aide’s voice came over the inter-office comm.

  “Sir, an Elder Lancet Gardet is here to see you.”

  “Tell him to state his business and make an appointment.”

  “He said
he is from Bishop Wyren, Sir. And that he must speak with you immediately.”

  Bishop Wyren of the Church of New Dawn Believers was the NDB patriarch of the planet Legan. Having saved Steuben’s life by lying to the local rebels about his loyalty, the good bishop’s price was Steuben’s cooperation in monitoring their activities, and possibly leading them. That, and surely other things which were yet to be revealed.

  “Send him in,” Steuben replied, going back to his chair and turning on a viewer playing another news report on Derrick’s disappearance.

  “Colonel Steuben,” Gardet said as he strode in and surveyed the room. That was all the time Steuben needed to decide that he disliked the man. As far as he could tell, the NDB did count “pride” as a sin, unless exhibited by a nonbeliever.

  “Mister Gardet.” Steuben remained seated. “I was just wondering if the NDB Church was to lend us the services of more adepts in the search for Lord Legan. I know that the Holy Miran Church has offered its aid in these most dire of times.”

  “The Mirans’ visions are no greater than ours,” Gardet remarked, sitting in a spare chair without invitation. “If we cannot find Lord Derrick, no one will.”

  “Then I wish your people every success.”

  “Colonel, I came here to speak to you on an urgent matter.”

  “So I gathered from your lack of an appointment,” said Steuben, annoyed by the man’s preemptory tone. It was as if Steuben was the one asking for something.

  “We want you to handle a problem with the DuCideon Brotherhood.”

  “Oh?” Steuben scratched the side of his beard. “And what problem is that?”

  “Vaid Ketrick, the current planetary grandmaster.”

  “Oh? What about Anios Tenatte, our resident Consortium boss? Is he in the way too? Maybe I can give you a special deal for hiring me to whack them both.”

  “We are serious, Colonel.”

  “I know you’re serious, Mr. Gardet. Bishop Wyren however can’t be.”

  “We have an arrangement.”

  “You and I have no arrangement, Mr. Gardet.”

  “I speak for Bishop Wyren.”

  “So you say. I know of the Bishop’s interest in the rebels, and he is kept very well informed about them. He had mentioned no quarrel with Lord Ketrick.”

  “I am mentioning it to you now.”

  “I am neither a professional mediator nor a corporate marriage counselor. If fitting the Brotherhood into NDB operations is proving difficult, consultants—”

  “We know what needs to be done.”

  “Then do it.”

  “Colonel, you don’t want us to be enemies.”

  “Ketrick’s your enemy, and from where I stand, he has little to worry about.”

  “You do not have his...protections.”

  “Look, Lancet, I appreciate the public relations risk in having one of your Church Security assassins liquidate Ketrick, and—”

  “We do not have assassins in Church Security.”

  “I’m flattered you thought of me for the job. Really. It’s against government policy though to accept outside work. After all, I have my pension to think about.”

  “So, this is about money?” Gardet sneered.

  “No, it’s about respect. You come here unannounced, without sufficient references, try to give me orders, and then threaten me? Give me one good reason for not throwing your arrogant ass out through my window right now.”

  “Killing me would ultimately kill Lord Derrick.” Gardet rose from his seat.

  “What?”

  “I will give Bishop Wyren your answer, Colonel. You might take added care with the rebels though. You never know when their regard for you may falter.” Not waiting for a reply, Gardet turned his back on Steuben and left.

  Presumptuous little prick, Steuben thought, lowering his psychic defenses. The point had been made however. If Gardet was who he said he was, the Colonel could no longer expect the Bishop’s backing with the rebels. That meant he would have to be sure not to raise any suspicions among the rebel leadership for a while.

  As for Vaid Ketrick, Gardet clearly did not know that Steuben knew Lord Ketrick through his uncle, from the man’s old military days. Steuben would have to warn the DuCideon leader. But not from any sense of obligation. He simply liked the idea of thwarting the NDB. Let the bastards take out their own garbage.

  - - -

  Jair Meres watched Derrick ride his horse up toward the porch of the house. A few of the other men waiting nearby glanced in Derrick’s direction, and made disparaging comments about how the “city boy” rode.

  Derrick’s posture and discipline marked him as being far from a novice rider. In a short time, he had even managed to give his horse a more refined trot than the others had ever bothered to do. Meres guessed that Derrick’s riding ability had somehow slipped under the mental bar over his memory. While this was a welcomed occurrence, he wished it had not manifested itself in a riding style that made Derrick stand out among these people.

  His people, he told himself.

  Derrick dismounted and greeted the group. Only a couple men answered him. “Sorry I’m late,” he said to Meres, reaching into his pocket. “Your mother asked me to give you this.” Jair took the note and quickly read it.

  “She may be a bit optimistic,” Meres said, putting the note away. “And don’t worry. You’re not late. We’re still waiting for Petraik to get here.”

  “Where is he?” Derrick asked.

  “He’s still out with the herd,” Meres replied.

  “Does he know we have a meeting scheduled?” asked Derrick.

  “Sure he knows,” said one man. “You think my brother’s stupid?”

  Derrick turned to the man, one of the Fiskin Brothers. The Fiskin family owned the largest ranch in the area, though the holding was not enough for the head of their clan to have more than whatever courtesy title the locals thought to bestow. In the outlands of Quetana, that meant none.

  “No,” Derrick said. “I am sure he has cause to be late.”

  “Cause?” the young man said, spitting the word as if it tasted like sulphur. “My brother doesn’t need ‘cause’ to be late meeting up with someone like you.”

  Derrick looked the man in the eyes and then looked at another Fiskin brother. The second one wore a smirk. “Surely he’s not making us wait deliberately.”

  “Angren,” Meres said, pulling Derrick to the side before turning to the others. “Could you excuse us for a sec?”

  The Fiskin Brothers were still laughing when Petraik Fiskin rode up to the porch and dismounted. “Is everyone here?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” said his younger brother, eying Derrick, “even this city sasher.”

  “Don’t have much use for sashers,” Petraik remarked. “Who is he?”

  “My cousin,” Meres answered. “Angren, do you mind excusing us?”

  “Excusing us?” the young Fiskin sneered.

  Derrick nodded and walked away.

  “I’ve never seen your cousin before, Jair,” said Petraik. “Where’s he from?”

  “Landover,” Meres replied.

  “You should see him ride, Pate,” said one brother. “It’s like he’s got a corncob up his ass.”

  “Him bein’ so pretty,” said another brother. “Maybe it ain’t just corncobs.”

  Meres did not respond.

  “Right,” Petraik said. “Let’s get this meeting over with.”

  Derrick remained standing nearby, but he was only half-listening. Ignoring the remarks at his expense, he was content that he and Meres were only waiting until his memory returned. Soon, none of this would matter.

  But how soon? Little things seemed to be coming back. He could ride a horse, although he did not remember learning. He knew lots of detailed and trivial facts, but had no context for them. And some things he seemed to be forgetting. Meres said he had escaped from somewhere, but Derrick could not remember where. He even had trouble remembering the escape, or Meres’
part in it.

  Derrick shivered at the thought of gaining old memory at the expense of new.

  If what he gained really was memory. That thought frightened him the most. What if these snippets of memory—or dreams or whatever—never coalesced? What if they all stayed fragmented, and his conscious memory continued to creep forward? Or worse, accelerated to the point where he lived only in the present? Had he not heard of people like that? People who could not remember beyond a few minutes, but seemed to draw upon some reservoir of memory that allowed them to eat and bathe by themselves. Would that be like living in a dream?

  Movement in the corner of his eye caught Derrick’s attention. It has one of the herd. While genetic engineering had transformed cattle into many specialized breeds, it was still easy to identify a steer as a steer. Or in this case, a calf.

  Derrick watched the animal run across the field. At first it looked to be trying to shake something off its head. Then he saw that the calf had some sort of bag in its mouth, which it thrashed from side to side as it ran. Amazed, Derrick realized that the calf was playing with the bag. This simple animal, considered by most to be slothfully unintelligent, was having fun. Blissfully unaware of its preordained fate, this young calf was engaged in the joy of running free with a new toy it had just discovered. Derrick laughed, and then wanted to cry.

  “Run,” he whispered. “Take this moment in life and just be happy.”

  “Nave,” Petraik hissed, interrupting their meeting. “Go get that thing.”

  “Sure, Pete,” Nave Fiskin said, jumping on his horse and galloping off. Derrick turned, unaware that anyone had seen what he had seen. Meres stepped forward from the others.

  “Did you see that, Jair?” Derrick asked, smiling broadly.

  “Yes,” Meres replied, his eyes soft in sympathy. Derrick’s confusion over Meres’ reaction fell aside as he heard Nave Fiskin’s voice in the distance.

  “Come here, you li’l bastard,” Nave said, closing the gap between himself and the small calf. Horrified, Derrick watched him rope the animal and viciously yank the cord taut. Jumping from his horse, Nave descended upon the frightened beast and ripped the bag from its mouth.