Blood of Jackals

by Todd Marcelas Moreno

  “Yes,” the Patér Rector replied. “And I can see his brother’s matching worthiness. What a sight to see you working at this hour as well, Mr. Gardet.”

  “You will address me as Elder Gardet.”

  Biam cut short a deep breath to look again at Warek, worried over the news the Patér Rector had on offer. Under their secret arrangement, entered into after Derrick had dismissed him, he was going to owe the Patér Rector big for this.

  “Forgive my suggestion, Advisor Biam,” Warek said easily, smiling as he ignored the other man’s demand. “I only thought to help.”

  “Then we will give your suggestion its due consideration,” Garget sneered.

  “Good,” Warek said evenly, “as that is the Lord of Legan’s wish.” Warek waited for realization to come to the man.

  “What?” Gardet asked. Biam remained still.

  “Derrick Possór, the Lord of Legan,” Warek said cheerfully.

  “How could you know what he wants?”

  “His Lordship told me, Mister Gardet. My, it must be late over there. Perhaps we can talk further when you are no longer so fatigued.”

  “We will talk now,” Gardet commanded. “When did Derrick talk to you?”

  “That is quite a broad question,” said Warek. “About what, specifically?”

  “About wanting us to resume marriage negotiations.”

  “Us? I do not believe His Lordship had you in mind, Mister Gardet.”

  “Cut the crap, Warek,” Gardet fumed. “Have you found Derrick?”

  “If I take your meaning, Gardet, no. I did not ‘find’ him, per se. When we last spoke, however, it is true that I found him to be quite well.”

  “When did you last speak to Lord Legan?” Biam asked. As much as he enjoyed his new NDB watchdog being toyed with, he needed to know everything.

  “Two hours ago, Advisor Biam,” Warek replied.

  Biam nodded, but Gardet tossed his head back in fury.

  “You must like playing little games, Warek,” said Gardet, chewing his words.

  “No,” Warek corrected. “I do not like playing games. That does not mean, however, that I am bad at playing them. Advisor Biam, you have only a limited amount of time to formulate an official response to Lord Derrick’s reemergence.”

  “How much time?” Gardet grumbled.

  “That I cannot say. But it will be made public within the day.”

  “Has anyone else been notified?” Biam asked, guessing the answer.

  “The NDB Church has a chance to be one of the first to rally to Lord Derrick,” Warek replied, glad that he had contacted Biam. Nothing in the former advisor’s words or manner suggested that the NDB were fundamentally against Derrick’s return. “And I strongly suggest you take care in keeping certain options open.”

  “The Restored True Church will do what is best,” Gardet declared.

  “For that we can only pray,” Warek replied. “But you should know, a man of pure faith hedges no bets.”

  “Shows what you know,” Gardet hissed. “We do not gamble.”

  “Sure you do, Mr. Gardet,” Warek said, reaching to turn off the viewscreen. “Every time you part your lips to speak.”

  - - -

  Guishaun looked at his bedroom at Pablen Palace for the last time. His uncle Jordan had won. According to the Lord Chamberlain, Guishaun’s fate was sealed when First Advisor Sukain’s government fell, when his uncle had become regent.

  It was a pity about Sukain, Guishaun thought. She was one of the few people at Pablen worthy of respect. Now Jordan only stayed her execution so he could assign all blame to her when Parliament finally declared Derrick dead. Then he would kill all her supporters, inaugurating his reign with a purge. How typical.

  “I will miss these rooms, Dorie,” Guishaun said to his companion.

  Dorian nodded, with even his clothes looking dreary and morose.

  “Oh, cheer up, Dorie. Now that I’ll be receiving father’s holdings, we can fix the ol’ castle up any way we wish.”

  “Is that what you really want, Guishaun?” Dorian whispered.

  “No,” Guishaun whispered back. “But what choice do I have? If I don’t return to my cage, my uncle will tie up my father’s estate in court forever.”

  “We could escape off-planet,” Dorian suggested weakly. Guishaun laughed.

  “I should have taken your advice at the start. My uncle will never let me leave now. Not alive anyway.” Guishaun sighed. “No, Dearest. He wants me close, so he can watch me. He can’t have me running loose.”

  “The bastard would probably kill us for trying,” Dorian muttered. “Who’s to stop him? He can’t afford letting any heirs with a better claim than him be free.”

  “What is it, Dorie?” Guishaun asked. “It may be for the rest of our lives, but at least we will be home. Or is it…that you want your freedom, at least?”

  Dorian stared into the eyes of the one he loved before pulling him close. “My home is with you,” he said. “So long as we’re together, the rest doesn’t matter.”

  - - -

  Surrounded outside by patrols of various members of Holy Orders, Derrick sat in a room adjacent to Ferramond’s largest assembly hall, dressed in full royal black and gold finery, watching the Patér Rector address those nobles and government dignitaries in attendance. They had all been carefully picked, based on either their past demonstrated loyalty to Derrick, or their known dislike of his cousiné Jordan. Still, Steuben was hardly reassured.

  “The faces of some of them in there seem less than supportive,” the Colonel rumbled, watching the same viewscreen as Derrick.

  “I know you would have each of their memories psychically probed for possible treason, Colonel,” Derrick replied. “But we need allies, and for that, some level of trust must be risked.”

  The Patér Rector finished recounting the pertinent parts of Derrick’s ordeal, careful not to point at Jordan or Lilth directly, but generous with his hints. Thinking on these two members of his family, Derrick almost laughed at his lost naïveté. There was a time when he would have thought it simple for someone in his position to just return to the Palace and proclaim himself. He knew now of course that with Jordan and Lilth in control of the government, his reemergence had to be carefully choreographed. Otherwise he would be walking to his death.

  “I also still dislike admitting to your lost memory, my Lord,” Steuben added as the Patér Rector’s presentation continued.

  “Better to admit to a small problem than to have it exposed, and thought of as a larger one later. Besides, with the soror’s certification, my overall health is beyond challenge.”

  “Even an Imperial-level certification will do little to stem their private doubts, my Lord. But you have been through much. To claim you were wholly unscathed would be suspect.”

  Derrick nodded, caught by Steuben’s reference to the Imperial government. It was a shame he could not turn to the Emperor for help in safely retaking his throne. It had long been the Imperial attitude that a noble who lost his crown did not deserve it. This made Imperial intervention in most royal restoration efforts extremely rare, and to his knowledge, Derrick’s case did not fit any of the Emperor’s known exceptions to this rule. He was on his own.

  “The Patér Rector is getting ready to introduce you, my Lord,” Steuben said as he stood from his chair.

  Derrick stood as well, straightening his black House Possór uniform and adjusting the high collar. The time had come to show himself, as a man, and as a ruler. While the secrecy of this meeting had been pledged, Derrick knew that rumors of his return were already circulating. It was just as well. Let those who opposed him have a chance to act carefully in the moment of his reappearance. Better that than rashly. For in that time, between their caution and otherwise possible bold action, might lie the difference in Derrick’s survival and his fall.

  - - -

  Guishaun and Dorian sat opposite each other in Seonas Possór’s old carriage, both returning to Ossidel Ca
stle the same way they came. Having cleverly maneuvered Parliament to name him regent in Derrick’s absence, Jordan Possór would likely soon call on that same corrupt body to proclaim Derrick dead, despite reported sightings by wool-headed locals living near remote waterways, forests, and cattle ranches. Once that occurred, Jordan would be made grandee and, absent a miracle, Guishaun Possór would be written out of planetary politics for good. But why would his uncle even chance a miracle, if he could so easily avoid it?

  “Exile still seems uncharacteristically merciful coming from my uncle,” Guishaun began, looking out a window to the distance. “His Lord Chamberlain can say what he wants. There must be some reason why my uncle doesn’t simply have me executed… for murder, at least.”

  “We walked right into it,” Dorian murmured, looking to the road through his own window. “Killing your father, and then Varian. We did exactly what he expected, because it was exactly what he would have done.”

  “You’re not being fair, Dorie, comparing him to us. My father deserved to die, and Varian... well,” Guishaun breathed. “I think the reason my uncle won was because he finished cutting his deals for the throne before we could even start. We lost to time, not to my uncle.”

  Dorian looked at him. “Either way we lost. And we have to pay the price.”

  “And what is the price, Dorie?” Guishaun said intently. “Go on. Tell me.”

  “Death,” Dorian answered.

  Guishaun sat back in his seat and swallowed. His uncle had not been merciful after all. How like him to tell Dorian of their doom, with him being powerless to stop it. Poor Dorie, he thought, only now noticing his lover’s dark sunken eyes. He knew when we left, and the secret’s been eating him up. His uncle Jordan was such an evil bastard. “When?” Guishaun asked.

  “Not long after we get home. I’ll find you in bed with a woman, and kill you both before killing myself. That’s the planned scenario for the media anyway.”

  “Leave it to my uncle to craft a good story. Who’s the unfortunate woman?”

  “A local peasant girl having an affair with one of the castle’s security officers. A real beauty, I hear. Sleeping her way to the top, only to fall into a chasm.”

  “I’m sorry, Dorie. Damn but I should have listened to you. About leaving.”

  Dorian sighed. “Yes, well what’s done is done.”

  Guishaun leaned forward and took his love’s hand. “Dorie, I don’t want to die in my father’s prison. I’ve danced to my uncle’s tune enough, knowingly or not. I want my last steps to be my own, at a time and place of my own choosing.” Guishaun fell back in his seat and looked out the window. “Like here. This is perfect. Driver, stop!”

  “My Lord,” the man’s voice said, “my orders are to—”

  “It will only be for a moment,” Guishaun snapped.

  The carriage came to a halt.

  Guishaun leapt out, straightened his clothes, gathered his dignity, and strolled toward a green open field. Dorian stepped out as well, watching Guishaun breath in the cool, moist air, and gaze about the lush emerald surroundings. Treading onto the high grass, Dorian felt the damp penetrate his shoes. What a shame, he thought, and then laughed at the idea of him wondering if the stain on a shoe would never come out. The laugh almost made him sick.

  “Look, Dorie!” Guishaun called. “The clouds are rushing away—back to the sea! Back to the sea with you then!” he cried, running as if chasing after them.

  “Go back to the sea,” said Dorian, joining in the levity, with a voice as heavy as the stones beneath the waves. Dorian smiled faintly as Guishaun stopped running and circled back to him. Their eyes met.

  Guishaun then took another deep breath, closed his eyes, lifted his arms wide, and spun himself. Round and round.

  “You know, Dorie,” he said, laughing as he almost fell over from dizziness, “the old monks were right in saying that the way to freedom was giving up everything. I understand that now.”

  “I’m happy for you, Guishaun,” said Dorian, his jaws clamping at his beloved’s name.

  Guishaun’s smile faded. “But there’s one thing I can’t give up, Dorie,” he said. “I just... can’t.”

  “I know,” Dorian replied, warm tears mixing with the cold drizzle on his face.

  “Will you help me?”

  Dorian nodded, unable to speak.

  Guishaun smiled at him. “Good-bye, Dorie,” he said.

  “Good-bye, Guishaun,” Dorian whispered.

  With another deep breath, Guishaun closed his eyes and started spinning again, losing himself in a childhood pleasure from a childhood he never had. Reaching into his jacket pocket, Dorian took the lasgun he had received at Pablen Palace and lifted it unsteadily, trying to keep his friend within its sights. One of the servants called out from the rear compartment of the carriage, seeing Dorian with a raised weapon. Guishaun stopped spinning and froze, facing Dorian with his eyes still closed. The back door of the carriage opened.

  Dorian only had time to fire through Guishaun’s heart before a security officer from the carriage fired through his.

  - - -

  XXVI

  “So, angelic heralds are to trumpet Derrick’s return,” said Jordan, reclining in a gilded chair with a drink in his hand. “But why should Ferramond’s political patér withhold any public announcement until Derrick’s actual arrival at Pablen?”

  “To make us nervous,” Lilth replied, picking at a hovering tray of food.

  “Surely he does not think to move us to do anything stupid,” Jordan breathed.

  Lilth glanced at her brother. “The Church likes temptation. And entrapment. His lost memory remains unmentioned however. I wonder if memories have been infused to allow what is left of Derrick to play the role of being Derrick.”

  “Is it possible that he could have all his memories back?”

  “No,” replied Lilth, stabbing a piece of meat with a sharp metal finger-guard.

  “If only you had put in a psychic command to kill him remotely,” Jordan lamented, eying his sister. “It is a shame. To come so far, and fail...”

  “Let Derrick return to the Palace,” said Lilth, knowing that her brother had no intention of giving up. “Let him address Parliament. What will that gain him?”

  “Control of the government.”

  “You have had months to remove anyone who was still loyal to him. Did you do as I said?”

  “I think so.”

  “You think so?” Lilth sighed. “Well, no matter. Once Derrick comes back, begin to undermine him. Make him paranoid. Let him make mistakes. It will contrast well with your tenure as regent. When the time is right, Derrick dies at the Palace. We will make it big and loud, so no one will suspect your hand in it. Then Parliament will beg you to take the throne.”

  “What about Sukain? She is still alive.”

  “Kill the bitch. Say she hung herself, or pulled some fool hunger strike. You do not need me to make up a stupid cover story for you.”

  “All right. But does this mean that we have to let Derrick be crowned?”

  “No. Derrick will not live that long.”

  - - -

  Commander Lerrero ended his communication and leaned back in his chair. His father was not happy about leaving the Palace, but at least he was safe. Lerrero only regretted not being able to move him himself. Thankfully his aunt had stepped in to help, though she was really in no better shape than her brother. She had even assured Lerrero that his father could stay with her indefinitely. Clearly she knew what was happening at Pablen, if nothing else than from the news. But he had no intention of imposing upon her more than necessary. Indeed, as her only other close relative, Lerrero had already been thinking on how to arrange for her further care as well. She had always been kind to him. It was the least he could do. But all that would have to wait.

  Frankly, Lerrero was surprised he had lasted so long after Lord Jordan was named regent. Thinking his position to be of some importance, he had expected to be given Hou
se Possór’s special retirement package. It made him wonder if Lord Jordan had exhausted his supply of cronies to pack government service, or had simply become so busy running the government that he forgot to replace him.

  Not that it mattered, he supposed, reaching a computer control junction in a hidden access alcove, and pulling an interface device from his uniform pocket. He had survived Lord Jordan’s purge. Maybe so that he could do what he was doing at that very moment: risking his career, and possibly his life. He only hoped that the rumors of Lord Derrick’s return were true.

  Entering the false order to the duty officer of Pablen’s security detention area was the first potential failure point in his plan. Lerrero knew the current officer of the watch however, a holdover from the time of Derrick’s father, a man with no sense of duty save that which gave him privilege and power. His concern for his charges extended only to what sadistic diversion they could provide, and he was not likely to trouble himself to verify a transfer order for an execution. Certainly not when there were so many other prisoners to torment.

  Once the duty officer confirmed receipt of the order, Lerrero deleted both messages from the record. Now he would intercept the two guards send to escort the prisoner, two guards who also owed their positions to a liege administrator, in this time-honored system of bureaucratic feudalism.

  -

  With his greatcoat draped over his shoulders, Lerrero met his targets as they reached his planned point of contact. As expected, their prisoner was strapped unconscious to a hover-chair.

  “G’day, Commander,” one of the men said casually, without salute.

  “Good morning,” the uniformed Lerrero replied, ignoring the man’s slight.

  “Commander,” the other guard remarked, “have you gained weight?”

  Lerrero laughed, patting his stomach and part of a second set of clothes he was hiding. “Middle age: Don’t let it happen to you.”

  The two guards were still laughing when Lerrero blasted them with the electrical pulse weapons concealed up both his sleeves. Although their firing did not trigger any security alarms, it was enough to stun both men, and allow Lerrero to deliver two quick lethal blows to their throats. Bending over their prisoner, the guard commander removed the medical patch on her neck and injected her with a restorative. He had already freed her from her restraints, and pulled out the set of clothes he had brought, by the time the prisoner awoke.