Jordan covered a self-induced yawn as he again tried to dismiss his apprehension. Damn his nerves. Who the hell was this Consortium representative to make him feel anxious and uncertain? Surrounded by so many people, including extra security guards, surely Jordan was safe from attack. The Consortium would never try anything here.
Jordan caught the eye of a plain-clothed member of his escort. Unfortunately, Jordan did not see the HOPIS agent as a match to a Consortium assassin. Whom Jordan wanted to see was the bodyguard promised to him by Vaid Ketrick. Ketrick had assured him that if the Consortium did try to eliminate him for some “unknown” reason, his own master assassin would protect him.
He better, Jordan thought, looking about as he tried to identify his undercover guardian from his dossier images. After several more minutes of wearisome nods and clipped salutations, the ship left its dock and took to the open waters. The party had officially begun.
Again sensing the Duke’s gaze, Jordan psychically took a drink from the tray of a passing waiter, brought it to his lips, and favored his host with a cold smile. The Duke inhaled sharply before turning to one of his guests. Though heartened, Jordan wondered if there was a message in meeting there. Certainly the Duke had not participated in their Consortium operations before.
Finding a lone, empty chair, Jordan sipped his drink as he looked out over the ocean. He hated attending fundraisers, no matter what the cause. To him, the smiles, handshakes and small talk were all a waste of time. Had this function been one that he could refuse...
"It's a good day to be at sea. Don't you agree, my Lord?"
Noting the accent, Jordan kept his gaze on the scenery as the ship sped ahead. A few white clouds were all that obscured the bright blue sky. "Most might think so," Jordan replied finally, turning to see who had addressed him. As might be expected, he thought the man's tailor to be as equally accomplished as his social protocol instructor. The man had not even begged pardon for disturbing Jordan’s peace. "But I am under far different weather than this good ship."
The man smiled knowingly, his teeth unnaturally perfect. It made for a sharp contrast to his rough, scarred face. "My name's Anios Tenatte, my Lord." He offered his hand. "And those for whom I speak are under some of the same clouds as you and Lord Legan."
Jordan accepted it, though the man's base unsuitability as an emissary offended him.
"If it pleases you, my Lord," said Tenatte, his dark lenses reflecting Jordan's face, "perhaps we can seek shelter from the light of day together, and talk of our common concerns."
Having no real choice but to accompany the other man, Jordan could only hope that his DuCideon bodyguard was nearby. "By all means," Jordan replied with practiced ease, gesturing for Tenatte to lead the way before following him to the nearest entrance into the ship's interior.
The Consortium needs me, Jordan told himself, refusing to believe that his budding DuCideon connection, even if known, would be considered a betrayal by the Consortium.
His nervousness getting the better of him, Jordan projected a quick psychic scan over Tenatte. Not surprisingly, it seemed to pass through him. The Consortium representative's mental training should have been expected to shield him from small scans and probes. In fact, it would have been extraordinary if the scan had revealed any of the man's emotions or general nature. If Tenatte had sensed Jordan's psychic activity however, he exhibited no reaction.
Reaching their destination, the two men entered a dining room, the door opening automatically at their approach. Taking the array of refreshments as a sign that the room had been prepared for them, Jordan sauntered to an antique wooden chair at the main table, masking his reaction to the unwelcomed expectation that they would be completely alone. Tenatte said nothing as he lingered by the refreshments and removed his dark glasses.
Feigning a casual interest, Jordan noticed that the finely embroidered, silk table covering touched the floor evenly all around, even at the corners. The distraction failing to aid him as he sought to remain calm, he looked out the large window beside him, watching the city and port of Hieradam grow further distant.
"We find your cousin's resignation from the Council troubling," Tenatte began, pouring something into a glass. Even after sitting down however, he did not take a drink. "Though not nearly as troubling as his plan to—how did he put it— ‘purify’ his House?"
"He acted against my advice, but what can one do? He is the Count-Grandee." Jordan leaned back in his chair, eager to force the other man to carry the burden of conversation.
"He’s the current grandee, no doubting it. Just as sure as our current feeling is that it's best we remain unseen for now. The future is a different matter. Might he change his mind?"
"It is unlikely, even if he somehow comes through the trial with minimal losses. His angelic son, of course, would also oppose any resumption of Consortium activity."
"So, you're our best hope to keep our business here, is that correct?"
There was an amused sparkle in the man's eyes, as if Jordan were behaving exactly as the man had expected. But then he noticed that the small sparkle did not go away. As he looked deeper into Tenatte’s eyes, Tenatte stared back and laughed, prompting Jordan to look away. Tenatte’s eyes were mechanical.
"That is for you to decide,” Jordan replied finally. “I am only telling you that Seffan and Derrick will not have you."
"But you want the crown, right?" Tenatte’s face fell back to its stony countenance.
"If it falls upon me to wear it, I will," Jordan said evenly.
Tenatte studied him for a moment, nodded to himself, and let his voice take on a metallic edge. "We'll not kill Derrick for you."
Jordan choked and straightened in his chair. Although the words carried no psychic projection, they reverberated along Jordan’s spine.
"Instability is bad for business,” Tenatte continued in his old voice. “And there've been too many royal deaths already. There is no need for any more, for now."
"But—" Jordan’s voice flattened.
"Save your denials. We've taken credit for enough high-profile killings."
Jordan bit down, wanting to say something that he knew he should not. None of the Consortium’s local bosses seemed particularly concerned with Derrick’s continued health. Would all of them abide by Tenatte’s orders? Just how much control did this shadowy representative exert over them? "So,” Jordan asked, “how do you expect to continue—?"
"All dealings will go through you, just as they have been. Derrick will never know."
Jordan did not bother to hide his dissatisfaction.
"You want our operations to go on,” Tenatte asked, “don't you?"
"What you are proposing would be extremely difficult."
"How? Your people are used to keeping quiet. With the way that your bureaucracy is, what's the difference if Derrick's grandee? Derrick doesn't even know there's anything to look for, let alone where."
"Derrick is a foolish child," Jordan breathed.
"What better a front man? He’ll make a great poster boy: good looking, high ideals. Despite his emotional problems, he even has a successful service record from the Academy."
Jordan glared at the man, knowing that Tenatte had made the last comment to remind Jordan of his own military failings. The man from the Consortium was trying to provoke him. Was it just another test, or a chance to make another demonstration of his power?
False eyes, false teeth, false voice, false... Jordan stopped. He had yet to see the man drink. False mental shields? Jordan put a hand over his heart at an irregular contraction. Could it be that none of Tenatte was real? Jordan knew his disgust for androids was partly from fear. Unlike humans, androids had nothing to lose. They were thus untrustworthy, no matter how well-programmed their purveyors claimed them to be. Programs and security protocols could be hacked and changed. And fully humanized androids were the worst. It was too easy to let your guard down around them. A wild dog was a safer pet, it being harder to forget that it was da
ngerous and unpredictable. The only use for an android, as far as the now over-excited Jordan was concerned, was as an assassin. And he knew that he was not alone in thinking that way.
But if the Consortium wanted me dead, Jordan thought, slowing his pulse and smoothing out his breathing, this Tenatte would surely have made his move already.
"Derrick's record here is not as good," Jordan said finally.
"Seffan can be made to eat the sins of all. But Derrick is just for now. Later, who knows? Besides, Jordan, you can still marry that Tehasing woman, if you really want to."
Jordan froze, uncertain how much the Consortium knew. He had thought that he had been discreet in his contacts with the eldest daughter of Lord Teviston, the subject of the ongoing marriage negotiations between the Houses of Possór and Tehasing.
"Don't worry," Tenatte laughed. "We think you being married is a good idea."
Jordan said nothing. With marriage comes children…and hostages.
"Delanna Tehasing is closer to your age anyway. Derrick is far too young for her."
"See here,” Jordan protested, needing to assert his dignity, “I have only met her once."
"And that once went from the Casino del Rey on Jalmec to her bedroom at the Hótel—"
"Enough!" Jordan cried, emphasizing his call for silence with a slicing motion of his hand. He exhaled through his teeth. "How did you find out about this anyway?"
"You are of some value to us,” the Consortium representative replied. “So we take it upon ourselves to see that you're safe and well-protected on your travels."
"That sounds familiar. But while I carry on your operations, and even marry into House Tehasing, I am still not to be grandee?"
"Yet."
"What about Seffan's seat on your Council? Given what I will be doing for you—"
"Ask again when you can say, ‘Given what I've done for you.’ Until then, don't even think of having your cousiné Derrick killed to speed along your progress."
"And if a more successful ‘accident’ befalls him?" Jordan asked casually.
Tenatte's eyes narrowed. "Other accidents may occur."
"You may threaten me now," Jordan tilted his head upward, his vanity overcoming his cowardice, "but once I am grandee, I will not be so easily pushed around."
The two men stared at each other unblinkingly.
Jordan broke first. “I do not even know why I bother with this charade,” he fumed. “How dare the Consortium send a machine to talk for them? Better a clerk’s lackey. Better a—”
Tenatte leisurely sipped his drink, silencing Jordan. Having an android that could eat and drink was a pointless novelty, more befitting a wealthy collector than the Consortium.
"Seffan loved Cassand," the crime representative said joylessly. "Did you know that?"
"What does that have to do with anything?" Jordan snapped.
"It was a pity really," the man went on reflectively, spinning the contents of his glass. "She was a beautiful woman. Seffan should’ve known better. He should’ve been more careful."
"Are you saying that the Consortium killed her?" Jordan asked smugly.
"No. We gave no order. We didn’t have to. She learned something she shouldn’t have, and he understood what had to be done."
"Killing a reigning grandee would be more problematic," Jordan replied. Although he was not sure that he believed the man’s claim, Jordan’s voice cracked at the end.
"Grandia, grandee, it makes little difference to us. Both are only...human. Both can be replaced. There is always someone waiting to inherit a title—someone wanting a throne." Tenatte's irises darkened and enlarged. "Besides, who says you'd be the only target?"
While knowing Tenatte’s change in appearance was only for effect, Jordan still felt uncomfortable looking at him. "Who then?” he asked. “My sister?"
"Maybe an Imperial justice, or a certain archbishop or count-patent? The penalty would weigh heavily against the one blamed for those murders. Especially if they're seen as revenge."
Jordan sat silently as the ship began a wide turn to pass another island. He knew Tenatte was serious, and would make good on his threat. To Jordan, the problem was not just whether assassins could get to these people—or to him. He had to ask if it was worth facing the consequences of even a poorly executed attempt. Not fully believing that the Consortium would want Derrick around for very long, Jordan began to see this whole encounter as a test of his patience. The Consortium was known for that: weeding out impulsiveness.
"Very well," Jordan said stiffly. "I will not do anything to get him killed."
"We'll leave these matters in your hands for now then." Tenatte nodded once and stood. "By the way," he added, "you might be more careful with spies, especially from the DuCideons."
"The DuCideon Brotherhood?" Jordan asked, rising slightly in his chair.
"It's part of their screening process when considering new members," Tenatte replied, confirming Jordan's fear that the Consortium knew about him treating with its rival.
"B-but I—"
"Someone will call on you later, Jordan," the man interrupted, letting himself out.
Alone, Jordan Possór quietly gazed at the clear ocean horizon, thinking how this meeting affected his plans. I may not be able to kill him, Seffan's cousin thought defiantly, wishing that Derrick had been blasted to bits along with his horse by that shuttle, but I will not let the brat ascend the throne without a challenge. And now it was time to move on Tillic as well.
Jordan bumped something under the table with his foot, hearing it fall to the floor with a thump. Looking over the side, he saw a hand lying just beyond the edge of the tablecloth. His saliva catching in his windpipe, Jordan jumped from his chair, sending it crashing behind him.
Coughing as he again forced his heart to ease its pounding, slowly he bent over and lifted the cloth, revealing a man with a thick cord around his neck. The bulged eyes, contorted mouth and swollen tongue produced a ghastly expression of pain and horror. Sickened, Jordan nonetheless recognized his supposed bodyguard from the dossier Ketrick had given him.
---
Alone in his private workroom, Seffan Possór sat motionless, surrounded by official papers and small objects indiscriminately piled upon his desk. With the lights turned off and the room’s machines silent, nothing intruded upon the Count-Grandee's stillness.
Not even the portrait of the late Countess-Grandia on the wall next to him drew his usual notice. For he dared not look at the woman whose gentle eyes and warm smile bestowed a benediction upon all who gazed upon her. For on this night, she would not be a beauty from whom to draw solace, but a gorgon poised to damn him, until utter darkness engulfed Creation.
A heavy breath escaped him as he looked out his oriel window to the glowing city below, and the harbor beyond. The view offered him nocturnal life and dutiful industry, but no comfort.
What was he to do?
The death command had been obeyed. His brother was dead, along with his wife and son. Dynastically it was tragic, but not catastrophic. He still had Derrick, and cousins of varying consanguinity. Eliminating troublesome contenders here, and passing over stupid ones there, was the way of ascension in House Possór. Even if Derrick failed him, the line would continue.
But do not betray me, Derrick, Seffan silently begged. Memories of the dreams he once held for his son came unbidden, along with the regret of not being closer to him. Not you as well. Slowly Lord Legan's thoughts shifted. My own brother....
It had to be done, Seffan told himself. He conspired with someone seeking my execution. The threat had to be eliminated. And bringing official charges would have risked admitting...
With his defense plans not going well, Seffan knew that the trial would be all the word implied. Even if Lilth undermined the truthseer, he could still be convicted on lesser charges. The fines for those after an innocent plea could be substantial. But if he pled guilty...
How could Burin have been such a fool?
Ref
lecting on his last moments with his brother, Seffan still blamed his wife the most. She manipulated him, and constantly badgered him. In the end, Burin had simply gone along with her. It was what he always did, but that was his mistake. That was his crime.
Seffan swallowed, still wishing to find some excuse for his brother.
His betrayal was the first, the Possór lord silently declared at last. Suddenly he closed his eyes and gripped the right arm of his chair. His left hand tightened into a fist.
But how could you do it? Seffan asked with his thoughts, feeling his cheeks moisten. How could you have given me over to my enemies?
After a moment, Seffan opened his eyes and once more surveyed the city. So many with false affections, he mused bitterly. So many who would smile and pull the trigger. Was loyalty too much to ask from those you cared about? From those who claimed to care about you?
The Count-Grandee felt renewed pain from the last time a similar situation had occurred. It had not been that long ago, and it too had been forced upon him. Action causes reaction, and some consequences ensued inescapably. There was nothing else he could have done.
I must be strong, Seffan thought. Strong. Angry.
He had to banish these thoughts that weakened him.
The Count-Grandee began to take deep, purposeful breaths.
He was a traitor, Seffan Possór said to himself, listening to the air pass between his gnashed teeth. "They were all traitors! With traitors, there can be no mitigation. There can be no mercy." Dispelling his remaining attachment to those who did not deserve it, Seffan Possór continued to fill his mind with hatred.
Several moments slipped away.
Reaching inside himself with the Disciplines, Seffan created a mental shell that spun around him, emanating a raw maleficence. His body shook as his eyes began to glow with an intensifying inner light. Generating a field of negative psychic energy, Seffan laughed, letting the flow surge through him as it lifted his sorrows.
Unnaturally invigorated, Seffan stood, raised his now pulsating fist above his head, and brought it crashing down upon his desk. On impact, the same light that illuminated his hand encircled and penetrated every wooden fiber. In one bright flash, the once solid object shattered into splinters as it crumbled to the floor.
House of Jackals Page 28
