by Eric Griffin
Well then, consider our gains.” Without turning, Borges ticked off his points on immaculately manicured nails. “One. With Polonia absent, we were uncontested in our assumption of the role and powers of council chairman. I cannot overstress the importance of this preeminence. The privileges of this position have allowed us to set the agenda, guide the discussion, define the terms of the confrontation with the Camarilla, bring pressing decisions to a head, or table them indefinitely. The game will be played by our rules.”
“Well played,” quipped Sebastian, taking an experimental swing with the fireplace iron. “Point two?
Two. All parties present, including both the Coalition and the Old Worlders, acknowledged our precedence in these proceedings and the superiority of our claim—Miami’s claim—in these contested territories. Did you note how they railed against our absent host while deferring to my authority? Our battle line is firm. The entire Southeast is our backyard, period. Never mind the fact that some of these renegade bands of Nomads have been operating in this region for years now. The home-field advantage, as they say, is ours.”
“Bravo. I shall especially keep this point in mind as I would like to further discuss our plans for the conquered Atlanta. But do not allow me to distract you; point three?”
“Three. This Averros desperately wants to be a major player in this theatre. And he’s way out of his league. We can use that. Give him a bit of encouragement. Point out to him that there may well be another archbishopric to carve out of the Eastern seaboard. A great triumvirate! Polonia in the North, Borges in the South and Averros—at the head of his glorious Nomad Coalition—in the Mid-Atlantic. A formidable line of battle from which the Sabbat could smash the territories in the soft Camarilla underbelly. But perhaps I get ahead of myself.”
“Not at all. You, sir, are a visionary. And visionaries must be given their full head of steam. Is there a point four?”
“Four. Neither of us is dead yet.”
Sebastian brought the poker down across the top of the armchair. He leaned his elbows upon it and spoke directly over his master’s head. “There are those who might quibble, but I shall cede the point. Very good then. Tonight we celebrate. But tell me first, what we must do on the morrow to press our hard-won advantage? That Tzimisce monster won’t be on hand again, will he? I must admit that he has me quite flustered. Doesn’t he have some battle ghouls to, if you will excuse the indelicacy, stitch together?
That, my child, remains to be seen. But pull up that stool and sit here at my feet awhile and we shall lay out our plans for tomorrow’s council. Your pacing will drive me to distraction.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Sebastian. He walked back around to the front of the chair and slammed the poker noisily home into its rack. He obediently retrieved the stool near the fire. “Now let me see. The first order of battle, suppose, is to settle upon some plan to push the siege into its final stages. To hasten the death throes of the Camarilla. If memory serves me, as the Siege of Miami drew to its glorious climax…”
“Slowly, my son. You are so impatient. The first step is to finish driving the wedge between the New World Cainites—our party, of course, is already firm on this point but the followers of Polonia and the Coalition must be brought into the light as well—to drive the wedge between us and Monçada’s interlopers from Madrid.”
“Ah, I stand corrected. Or rather I sit corrected, but it is much the same thing. You are right, of course. Let’s see. That means the Butcher and his slavering horde of war ghouls. And Vallejo and his damnable legion of the cardinal’s household troops. And isn’t there a Koldunic sorceress somewhere in the lot?” Sebastian continued. “I don’t recall hearing from her today, but I picked her out easily enough. She is quite unmistakable. All tribal tattoos and blood body paint and bone piercings. Ghastly, really. And then, of course, there is this Vykos. Monçada’s handpicked emissary. That’s another thing I’m not in the least bit happy about. Vykos.
“I don’t really know anything about her of course.” Sebastian pressed on, pulling a large opaque hookah toward him. “Nothing, of course except what the other councilors are whispering.”
He took a long slow pull from the mouthpiece and blew out a perfect ring of purest shadow. There was a long pause, but Borges did not seem eager to supply further information.
“She’s a Tzimisce, of course,” Sebastian hinted, still getting no reply. “And a particularly hoary old fiend if what they say is true—hailing from Byzantium or Constantinople or some such. An authentic Old World nightmare. You haven’t had the opportunity to meet the lady in question, have you, Borges?
Make yourself easy on that point,” Borges said. “They don’t let her kind out much. Like to keep them where they can keep a good eye on them, no doubt. You know the old saying, ‘always keep your enemies close at hand.’”
“I know the saying.” Sebastian shot Borges a look. “I have heard you cite it on numerous occasions. And I believe it is ‘always keep your enemies and your childer close at hand.’”
“Why so it is,” Borges absently stroked Sebastian’s hair, and none too gently. “And I thought you weren’t paying any attention to the words of a doddering old man.”
Sebastian instinctively shrank from the mastiff grin, pulling free from the old man’s grip.
“Do not worry yourself over this Vykos,” Borges said flatly. “If you carry out your appointed task, if you drive your wedge skillfully, she will have no firm ground on which to stand.”
“But what if she is another ravening lunatic?
What if she is?” Borges repeated. “Ravening Tzimisce we have in great abundance. One more will certainly not threaten our position. What worries me more is, what if she is not a ravening lunatic?
“Now attend to me, and I shall describe how we are to proceed.”
And Sebastian stared intently into the dark cowl of shadow where the master’s eyes should have been and committed to memory each word that passed those lips.
Sunday, 20 June 1999, 11:18 PM
Chandler Room, Omni Hotel at CNN Center
Atlanta, Georgia
“And will you also deny,” Sebastian railed, “that your precious cardinal has taken an all-too-personal interest in the future of the city of Atlanta?”
Vallejo weathered these accusations, as well as the outburst of barking laughter from the Coalition side of the table that accompanied them, but his veneer of aloof composure was wearing thin.
“His Eminence the Cardinal, has made no secret of the fact that he is gravely concerned with the events unfolding in and around the city of Atlanta.”
“Secret? I should think not,” Sebastian retorted. “By now, surely even the Camarilla has learned of the presence of you and your ‘legion’—as I believe you are calling that mob of worm-ridden, somnambulant refugees that accompanied you from Madrid. Honestly, I don’t know what it is about the state of Georgia that so inspires Europe to throw wide the doors of her prisons at the slightest provocation….”
“I think,” replied Vallejo through clenched teeth, “that you overstep yourself, sir.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Sebastian calmed himself and began pacing the room. A dramatic affectation, perhaps, or it may have been intended to cover the fact that those seated nearest him had begun to edge away warily.
“Perhaps I should rather say what is foremost in the minds of all those here assembled. I shall speak plainly, sir. As even you must be aware by now, your very presence here compromises our position.”
Vallejo snorted dismissively into the silence that followed this proclamation. “Although I am willing to grant that yours is the more intimate knowledge of compromising positions,” he began, warming to the challenge at hand and encouraged by a new round of catcalls from the Nomads, “you must in return admit that, of the two of us, I have a few more seasons of campaigning to my credit. And I, for one, have yet to see the army that was lost on account of its receiving timely reinforcements.”
“It is not the reinforcements that worry me,” Sebastian was nearly shouting to be heard above the throng. “It is the cost of that reinforcement. We are not so green as you would have it. Do you think that the significance of your ambitious cardinal’s ‘interest’ is lost on this astute assembly?”
The pitched argument was interrupted by the resounding of three great blows upon the chamber door.
“Open!” cried a commanding voice from outside, “in the name of His Eminence de Polonia, Archbishop of New York, Gatekeeper of the New World, Guardian of the Paths of Shadow.”
The herald did not wait for the effect of his words to sink in. Before anyone could make a move toward the door, it burst inward. Revealed in the doorway was a broken and misshapen figure, wielding a gleaming silver-headed pickaxe. The implement had obviously seen some rough usage. It was weathered and battered and had an unmistakable weight of ages about it. The wooden handle had been sharpened to a wicked point and blackened in fire. The sinister purpose of this makeshift wooden stake was lost on no one—especially in light of the fact that the lower three feet of the handle were stained dark with ancient blood.
The figure brandishing the pickaxe was no less disturbing. Its body was cumbersome and bloated, giving the distinct impression of a drowned corpse. Its facial features seemed mushy, like a porous fungus that might well collapse into scattered spores if even brushed with the fingertips. The creature’s head was shaped something like a moldy apple which had begun to fall in under its own weight.
The herald came forward into the room dragging one leg, obviously no longer fit for bearing him up, behind him. He inverted the axe and banged its head straight down on the floor three more times.
The room fell silent.
A worm, easily as big around as a delicate lady’s wrist, burst from the herald’s cheek. His head sagged further and seemed about to collapse entirely. The worm twisted as if to regard the assembly, revealing no less than five segments of its slimy black body, before disdainfully withdrawing again from sight.
The herald gave no sign of being aware, much less discomforted, by this interruption.
“All rise!” he commanded.
All around the table, councilors began to stand—some of them much more quickly than others. Costello and the New York contingent leapt to attention. The visiting dignitaries from distant Sabbat cities who had little personal stake in the power struggle for Atlanta, notably Montreal and Detroit, also rose promptly to honor their host.
Even the Old World representatives—including the minions of Cardinal Monçada—were seen to be standing. To be sure, most of them, like Vallejo, were already on their feet in the midst of the heated confrontation with Sebastian. But none among them was so ungracious as actually to return to his seat.
The Coalition side of the table, however, was another matter entirely. Some of the Nomad warchiefs could be seen to shift uncomfortably in their chairs, but no one seemed anxious to make any move that might be interpreted as acknowledging Polonia’s authority. Many watched Averros circumspectly—some clearly looking for his lead, others watching patiently for any sign of weakness.
In the midst of the uncertainty and tension, Caldwell slowly and deliberately propped first one foot and then the other upon the table. He crossed them with an exaggerated sigh.
Averros, who had settled back comfortably in his chair, now sat forward. He said something sharply to Caldwell, pitched low to keep it from the ears of those around them. Caldwell snorted.
With a mutter of disgust, Averros stood and grabbing Caldwell by one foot, swung his legs violently from the table.
“What the hell!” Caldwell protested. Spun around and out of his chair, he found himself on his feet facing his leader.
“Not worth it,” Averros cautioned, seeing the anger and challenge in Caldwell’s face. Instinctively gravitating toward the confrontation, the other Nomads rose and pressed closer, encircling the pair.
“Yeah, you’re not,” Caldwell turned away, but he was hot and could not resist another parting shot. “But if you’re a real good boy and do just what master tells you, maybe the nice archbishop will let you lead us all in the national anthem, or the pledge of allegiance. Hell, you could even make hall monitor.”
Caldwell felt a tightening in his throat as his collar was grabbed from behind. He twisted in the grasp, launching a blow that would drive the claws of his right hand deep within his opponent’s chest cavity and tear out his black heart.
Shattered claws cascaded to the floor. Caldwell cursed and jerked back a bleeding and probably broken hand. He staggered back a few paces, but Averros did not seem inclined to pursue him and finish the job.
“The next time you pull a stunt like that,” Averros hissed just loud enough for the ears of his followers, who were crowding close around the two, “you’re dead. You understand? So you’d better just get used to the idea of being the best damn hall monitor in the whole Coalition, because the next time you step out of line, it’s over. The next time you mouth off, it’s over. The next time I have to remind you who’s running this show, it’s just over. Now straighten up your act, Capitan. Understood?
“Sir,” Caldwell acknowledged somewhat grudgingly, without looking up. He occupied himself in pulling the bones of his fingers noisily back into their proper places.
Fortunately for Averros, he had not come to today’s council session as unprepared as he had yesterday. After the incident with Hardin, Averros was not about to be caught by surprise in a similar show of bravado today. He gingerly rubbed at the tender spot on his side where Hardin had blooded him. The damn thing hadn’t closed right. There had been fresh blood on the sheets this evening and even now the jagged pink seam still burned.
He had stitched it up hurriedly at last night’s council with a loose strand of shadow that was ready-to-hand. Earlier this evening, he had spent a considerable amount of time gathering up similar strands, testing their strength, weaving them tightly together into thick cables of shadow, and binding them about his person. The result was a protective vest much more formidable than mail, much more resistant than Kevlar—an armor that might well withstand just about any force he was likely to run into within the confines of the council chambers, short of the first gentle touch of the morning sun.
Unnoticed among the commotion caused by the Coalition power struggle, the only figure who kept to his seat throughout the entire proceeding was the venerable Borges. The rest of the Miami faction had risen to pay their respects to Polonia, but their own archbishop was under no such compulsion.
Polonia entered decked in all the formal regalia of his office—the traditional ermine robe, miter and crosier of an archbishop. It may have been a trick of the uncertain light streaming in from the corridor behind him, but he seemed to cast not one, but two distinct shadows before him.
As he crossed the threshold, these two attendant shadows grew more distinct, seeming to take on substance and dimension. Where previously both had stretched out flat on the floor before the archbishop, they now seemed to ascend, as if climbing a flight of stairs. First their heads emerged, breaking the plane of the floor at right angles. Then their shoulders rose into view. Soon it could be seen that each of the shadowy attendants bore aloft a small black velvet cushion. Upon each of these cushions rested a precious artifact that was easily recognizable to the assembly. Upon the right hand was the golden apple of New York, and on the left, the orb of dominion over shadow.
The bearers deposited their charges with stately grace before Polonia’s place at the vast circular table. They then turned and descended into the floor in the same curious manner in which they had emerged.
Polonia paused to survey the gathering before taking his seat. Everyone else was forced to remain standing as well. Receiving the homage of the gathered Sabbat leaders, framed by the spectacle of the young Toreador hanged from the ceiling behind him, Polonia was clearly in his element.
He addressed the gathering. “Thank you for coming, ladies, gentle
men, friends, honored guests. I sense a certain exhilarating expectancy in the air of this room—a premonition, if you will, that greatness and glory are close at hand.
“I appreciate the sacrifices that many of you have had to make in order to be with us on this momentous occasion. You have crossed vast distances and braved great danger to reach this meeting place, isolated deep behind enemy lines.”
He reached out and gently started the body of the dangling Toreador swinging in a slow, circular arc.
“Let me assure you, therefore, that the decisions we reach here, and the challenges that we are called upon to meet in these coming nights, will give the Camarilla cause to tremble.”
Polonia paused to allow the roar of the assembly to quiet itself.
“As you are no doubt aware, Atlanta has been a Camarilla stronghold almost since its founding. It is, perhaps, no great wonder that a city which was originally named Terminus should attract the attention of our rivals. It is the very sort of thing that would appeal to their affectations.”
Polonia jabbed an accusing finger at the unresisting body of the young Toreador and was rewarded with a trickle of blood running down the victim’s chest. The tantalizing aroma of it wafted across the room.
“You should also know that Atlanta is a city ripe for Sabbat conquest.” He raised a hand in an effort to restrain their enthusiasms and began again. “For some time now, we have been engaged in laying the groundwork for the Siege of Atlanta. The Camarilla is reeling, gentlemen, and tearing itself apart in its flailing attempts to prevent its inevitable fall.
“It began with the Blood Curse. The Red Death savaged the Camarilla’s numbers. Losses among the most vulnerable fringe elements of their society—the neonates, the clanless Caitiff and the Anarchs—are rumored to have reached as high as forty percent attrition within the opening weeks of the epidemic. And the pestilence raged unchecked for nearly six months.
