Blood of Jackals

by Todd Marcelas Moreno

  Derrick turned to Petraik Fiskin. “Why did you have him do that?”

  “That’s a feed bag,” Petraik replied, his satisfaction in answering Derrick overcoming his annoyance at being questioned. “We reuse those.”

  “Could you not just let the poor animal have it?”

  “I don’t know how you big city boys do things, but out here, we don’t just use things once and then throw them away.”

  “Angren,” Meres cautioned Derrick.

  “So hateful,” Derrick said, marveling at the man. “Do you have any idea what you have done?”

  Nave Fiskin rode back and showed his brother the bag. “The damn thing bit a hole through it, Pete,” the younger brother reported.

  “Throw it away,” Petraik said, smiling at Derrick.

  Derrick felt a hand grip his arm before he even knew he had taken a step.

  “What are you stoppin’ him for, Jair?” Petraik asked, turning to Derrick. “You have a problem with me, pretty boy?”

  “Let it go, Angren,” Jair told Derrick. “We are done for now. Best we leave.”

  Derrick turned to Jair with deadened eyes. Agent Meres had seen that look on a Possór before. Alarmed, Meres opened his psychic awareness, about to give Derrick a telepathic message. He stopped as Derrick stepped back, the blood draining from his face. Meres did not sense any psychic activity from Derrick, but he did sense Petraik’s mental shield go up.

  Petraik Fiskin had the Training. Meres scanned the other Fiskin brothers.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Petraik demanded, eyeing Meres.

  Meres withdrew his scan. “Nothing,” he replied.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “I guess your dad taught you more than just ranching, huh Petraik?” said Meres before silently cursing his stupidity. He should have let the matter drop.

  “He showed me a few things,” said Petraik. “From when he was a squad commander for the Possórs. And you?”

  “A buddy in the civil service taught me a trick or two,” Meres said, reaching for Derrick’s arm. “Come on, Angren.” Derrick shrank away, his face ashen.

  “Looks like Cow-Lover ain’t feelin’ so good,” Petraik remarked.

  Looking at Derrick, Meres sighed and lowered his mental shields. His psychic senses awakened, he could feel Petraik’s mental defenses lower as well.

  “Come on,” Meres repeated, pushing Derrick along. “Let’s go.” Derrick went with him, though he mounted his horse like a man who had ridden for days.

  “What happened back there?” Meres asked him once they were out of earshot.

  Drained, Derrick took a moment to respond. “When?” he asked finally.

  “With the calf... with the Disciplines. Take your pick.”

  “Sorry about the calf. It was... innocent. Why make its brief life miserable?”

  “You wanted to kill Petraik,” Meres accused. “Something woke up in you.”

  “I do not know what. I had to defend...” Derrick went silent.

  “I see,” Meres replied. “It must have been a ‘meat’ thing. Shall I tell my mother you’ll just be eating fruits and vegetables from now on?”

  “No, it is not that,” Derrick said seriously. “I do not know what triggered in me. I wanted to do... something... but I was powerless.”

  “All right, then what about when I used the Mental Disciplines?”

  Derrick lowered his head and urged his horse forward, forcing Meres to keep pace. “I felt power emanating from you,” said Derrick, “and I was scared.”

  “You must have some aversion reaction implanted in your mind.”

  “But to sense psychic activity means that I was using power too, right? There must be someone who knows about these things to whom I could go.”

  “I was told not to take you to anyone. Whatever was done to you, it must work itself out. If someone tampers with it, it could kill you.”

  “I am going to be sick,” Derrick said, placing a hand over his stomach.

  “Never worry about something you can do nothing about.”

  “What?” Derrick took short, shallow breaths.

  “It’s a saying someone once told me.”

  “How do you know when you can do something, and when you cannot?”

  “If you don’t know, what’s to be gained by worrying?” Meres said, quickening his pace to get ahead of Derrick. “That’s the whole point.”

  - - -

  Dressed in purple and gold, and at the invitation of the government, Guishaun Possór entered the chambers of Parliament’s Upper House to represent the Noble House at its opening session. It was an honor his uncle Jordan had been claimed as his own, and the significance of the change was not lost on those in attendance.

  “They’re staring at you,” Dorian said with the Disciplines as he walked behind Guishaun. His own garments, while fine, were calculated to complement Guishaun’s, not to compete.

  “Let them stare,” Guishaun replied, exaggerating the sway of his walk. “Sukain wants me on display, so why not give everyone a good show?” He nodded to several of Legan’s local lords as he made his way past without slowing. He was there to be seen, not to make small talk.

  “Speaking of shows, you never did answer whether you will grant the representative from the Consortium an audience.”

  “If I give one to the Consortium, then I’ll have to give one to the Brotherhood, and I don’t intend to deal with either of them.”

  “Don’t you want their political support?”

  Guishaun laughed, letting the sound echo in the dark wood-paneled chamber. “I tell you what, Dorie. Inform the Consortium and Brotherhood people that I know nothing of their Legan operations and am happy to keep it that way. Also tell them that I don’t even see myself entering government service, at present, and that I would hate for them to waste their attention on me.”

  “Right, so maybe you’re in, maybe you’re not. In the meantime, however, you want to keep your hands clean.”

  “Basically.”

  “And what about your Uncle Jordan’s requests to meet with you?”

  “I’ll be seeing him at dinner tomorrow night.”

  “He wants to meet with you before then.”

  “Tell him my schedule is full. The sonofabitch had over thirty years to say more than ten words to me. If he’s waited this long, he can wait another day.”

  “As you wish.”

  The great doors to the House of Lords were opened for Guishaun, as befitted a visit by a member of the ruling family. In further accordance with protocol, all stood as Guishaun Possór made his way to a gilded chair. Guishaun took his time, enjoying the attention.

  “Hey, there’s no chair for me,” Dorian complained.

  “You get to stand,” Guishaun replied.

  “What? This is a load of—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make it up to you, Dorie.”

  “You better. You know I can’t stand very long in these shoes. My feet are already starting to hurt.”

  Guishaun sat down in the chair and looked out over the assembly. His eyes finding Sukain’s, he nodded once to her.

  The governmental session could now commence.

  “I could get used to this ‘Lord Guishaun’ stuff, Dorie.”

  “Oh, I know, ‘my Lord.’ No doubt you’ll soon have me flushing your shit for you to orchestrated music, all while offering it a salute.”

  - - -

  XI

  Sukain glanced down the table as she lifted her drinking glass. So far, the dinner was uneventful. While Lord Jordan and Patér Linse had traded frosted remarks, Lord Guishaun spoke to everyone with the same carefree tone and wit. The few prominent citizens in attendance, which euphemistically included representatives from the Consortium and Brotherhood, kept mostly to general topics. The handful of local nobles did the same. It made her wish that Cary Morays had accepted her invitation. How it would have galled Lord Jordan had she used Lord Cary’s “unexpected” arrival as
an excuse to seat him at the head of the table, currently held vacant out of respect for the missing Derrick.

  “I disagree,” said Vaid Ketrick, bringing a forkful of food to his mouth. “Regencies are for when a ruler suffers from incapacity. Lord Derrick could be found tomorrow, for all we know.”

  “That is unlikely,” Jordan countered, frowning at the DuCideon leader.

  “Perhaps you know something we don’t, Uncle,” Guishaun remarked.

  Sukain caught Ashincor’s eye. Were the insects in their bottle about to fight?

  “Possibly,” Jordan replied, “but I too am at a loss as to where Derrick is.”

  Ashincor signaled to Sukain. Jordan had spoken the truth. She nodded. Ashincor’s gifts as a truthseer were limited, but he was all they had. Jordan would not have spoken so openly in front of someone he did not know.

  “But Lord Legan’s emergency standing order provides for the naming of a Protector,” the Consortium representative said, “and we have one.” Anios Tenatte nodded to Sukain. “Madam Sukain already has nearly all the powers of a regent.”

  Not quite, Sukain thought, wondering why the Consortium was taking her side. She saw Jordan stir in his chair. So, Jordan has lost the Consortium’s favor.

  “There are some powers a regent would have over a glorified First Advisor, however,” Ketrick said. “No offense, Madam Sukain.” Sukain smiled.

  “Sounds more academic than practical,” said Tenatte. “If her authority is in question, she can consult the Lord Chief Justice, and thereafter go to Parliament, which can either to confirm her authority, or deal with the matter itself.”

  “Careful,” Guishaun quipped. “If we go too Parliamentarian, some may ask if we need a royal sovereign at all.” Several eyes at the table widened in surprise.

  “Well, revolution aside,” Ketrick began, “a regent could provide some stability to the government, at least in the eyes of the people.”

  “Naming a regent based on the expectation that Lord Legan will be gone for a while hardly implies stability,” Tenatte noted.

  “But a regent’s office is only temporary,” Jordan insisted. “Once he returns,” Jordan stressed the word to avoid using Derrick’s title, “it will terminate.”

  “Yet in the meantime, a regent could affect a complete change of administration,” someone else at the table remarked, a businesswoman of respectable holdings. “And that is always a disruption to the normal processes of government, and to most economic sectors.”

  “Surely a regent under these circumstances would not be so rash as to order a wholesale government purge,” Ketrick replied. “He—or she—would most likely keep the existing bureaucratic postings in place, for continuity’s sake.”

  “Then why name a regent at all,” the woman asked, unimpressed by the token condescension, “if the extraordinary powers of the office are not to be used?”

  “Unless you have your own ideas for such powers, Uncle,” said Guishaun, with an innocence which no one believed. Jordan’s lips thinned.

  “I merely think the idea of a regent is worth considering,” he replied.

  Guishaun shook his head, dismissing the evasion. “We have all considered it, Uncle,” he pressed. “If you could make it happen now, would you?”

  “I am not in that position,” Jordan said evenly, despite the effrontery of being asked a direct question. “Nor do I currently have sufficient information to come to any final position on the matter.”

  “But based on what you know now, Uncle—”

  “Really Guishaun,” Ketrick cut in, “there is no point in badgering—”

  “How dare you interrupt me, Lord Ketrick?” Guishaun roared. “And by Hell’s gods, I will have your acknowledgement of my rank.”

  Ketrick paled, but regained himself quickly. “Pardon, my Lord Guishaun,” he said stiffly. “Thinking this but an informal discussion, I overstepped myself.”

  “I doubt anyone sees this as a mere dinner party, Lord Ketrick,” Guishaun replied, “but I accept your apology. Now, Uncle, would you install a regency?”

  “I probably would,” replied Jordan, “provided the right person were named.”

  “So, as I understand it,” Guishaun resumed, “unless a ruler is underage, usually regents are the next in line for the throne. Would you agree?”

  “Well,” said Jordan, “I can think of circumstances when a regent might not be the most direct heir to the throne.” Guishaun pursed his lips.

  “So whom would you name as conditions are now?” he asked.

  “Nephew, this is all getting highly speculative. What point—?”

  “The necessary parliamentary support for naming a regent would be easier to obtain if it were known who that regent would be, Uncle, however temporary his—or her—office may be. And you just indicated you would have one named.”

  “It is not my place to nominate a regent. Besides, you make the appointment of a regent sound like a campaign for office.”

  “But that’s exactly what you’re doing, Uncle: Campaigning. What I don’t understand is why you go to so much trouble trying to hide it. If you want to be regent, why not just say so?”

  The representative from the Consortium laughed.

  “You find something amusing in this?” Jordan asked him.

  “I merely find your nephew’s direct honesty refreshing, Lord Jordan,” replied Tenatte. His expression became solemn, but not unkind. “But take care, Lord Guishaun. Politics rarely rewards honesty.”

  “Politics may not be an arena I want to enter, Sir,” Guishaun replied carefully.

  “Who is playing games now?” Ketrick said, adding belatedly, “my Lord?”

  “Well,” Sukain said, setting down her glass, “I think we are ready for the next course.” She signaled the headwaiter. “We will skip the vegetable dish,” she told him in a theatrical whisper, “and go straight for the sautéed rabbit hearts.”

  - - -

  Vaid Ketrick returned to the DuCideon chapter house in a foul humor. He had agreed with Tenatte that Jordan needed humbling if either of them were to gain the concessions they sought in their dealings with House Possór. But Ketrick could not bring himself to join in on Guishaun Possór’s taunting, especially after the saucy sausage succorer had humiliated him.

  As his shuttle descended into the hanger bay, Ketrick saw a man standing next to two guards near the bay doors. He looked familiar, but Ketrick was in no mood to hear any petitions for intervention in personal business matters.

  “Lord Ketrick,” Steuben said as Ketrick stepped away from his shuttle. “I was told I could wait for you here. My name is Colonel Henrald Steuben from HOPIS. We have met before, though I would not expect you to remember me.”

  Ketrick grunted. He could not tell a HOPIS agent to simply go away. “I see. Yes, I remember. You knew my uncle. Well, what can I do for HOPIS, Colonel?” He entered a turbo-lift, signaling his guards that Steuben could accompany them.

  “My Lord, I must speak with you in private.”

  “My guards are fully sworn Brothers, Colonel. They will repeat nothing.”

  “My Lord, a man came to me claiming to speak for Bishop Wyren—”

  At that moment, the doors to the turbo-lift opened to Ketrick’s offices. Lancet Gardet stood before a desk, berating another man. They both turned to the open doors. “You!” Gardet said, pointing at Steuben. “Why are you here?”

  “He said I could wait in the hangar bay,” Steuben replied, indicating the man to Gardet’s right. Gardet shot the man a narrow glance before addressing Ketrick.

  “Brother Ketrick,” he began, “this man Steuben is a HOPIS assassin.”

  “Yes Gardet,” said Steuben, “and you wanted to make me the NDB’s.”

  Ketrick froze. “What is going on here, Brother Gardet?”

  In answer, Gardet twisted his wrist and brought forth a concealed lasgun. At Gardet’s first motion, Steuben grabbed Ketrick, activated his personal shield and dove for cover. Gardet fired but misse
d, as the man next to him tried to wrestle the gun from him. The two guards accompanying Ketrick only had time to draw their weapons when several other men rushed into the room and began to fire.

  Bolting from Steuben’s protective grasp, Ketrick dodged toward his office just as Gardet killed the man beside him. Steuben ran after the DuCideon leader, leaving the two guards near the turbo-lift to cover their escape. Once inside, Ketrick uttered a command that sealed the room. Steuben barely got past the door before the primary office was completely closed off from the fighting outside. Immediately he looked about for another means of escape. Ketrick armed himself and collected other items from his office before throwing the Colonel a lasgun.

  “Bishop Wyren wanted me to kill you,” Steuben said, checking his weapon. It was fully charged.

  “Yes, I gathered that,” Ketrick replied between commands to his computer. “No doubt Gardet was going to be my successor.”

  “What about those last men who came in? Were they sworn brothers too?”

  “Yes,” Ketrick said acidly. “This betrayal was long in the making.”

  The lasfire from the other room ceased. “Lord Ketrick,” came Gardet’s voice over the office-comm. “Those doors will not hold forever.”

  “Is there another way out?” Steuben asked.

  “Yes, a private way. One passed down by one grandmaster to the next. But in using it, I will leave nothing behind to fall into enemy hands.”

  “Final warning, Ketrick.” Gardet’s words echoed in the shielded room.

  “What do you mean?” Steuben’s brow lifted.

  Ketrick grabbed the last of his things. “Follow me, Colonel. Through here.” Ketrick triggered the opening of a secret door. “Stay close. I will let you know when it comes time to go on separately. In case I do not get the chance to tell you later, thank you for your warning.”

  Ketrick went to the opening and fell from sight. Steuben was just a step behind him, catching his breath as he plunged into darkness.

  “Brother Gardet,” said a man as he neared. He was holding a com-link to his ear. “All resistance has been eliminated. We now have the building.”

  “That was quicker than I thought,” Gardet remarked.