“Alright,” Vialette nodded, standing from her chair. “Is there anyone else though that might tell me where Derrick is?”
“No one comes to mind. Security did confirm that he is in the Palace, right?”
Vialette nodded.
“Then I suggest you just keep looking. After all, Derrick cannot hide forever.”
Once outside the door, Vialette saw “Mr. Anni,” who bowed silently to her before entering. She had barely stepped out to the outer hallway when Vaid Ketrick approached her.
“My Lady Vialette,” Ketrick said, glancing at the door as it closed behind her.
“Lord Ketrick,” Vialette replied.
Ketrick turned back to her in surprise. “You know me, my Lady? I am honored.”
“I have seen you with my uncle, Lord Jordan.”
“Here at his office?” Ketrick asked, as if fearful that she might have seen something else.
“At a party,” replied Vialette, wondering why people were so often surprised by her simple observations. “Do you have an appointment with him?”
Ketrick bristled at the question, but kept his voice disarming in its condescension. “No, my Lady. Though I hoped to speak with him. The man who just went in. Is he a friend?”
“He is my Uncle Jordan’ latest investment advisor,” Vialette replied.
Ketrick’s pleasant smile abruptly flattened.
“They will probably be meeting for a while,” Vialette continued.
“I imagine that they will,” Ketrick breathed, his eyes narrowing at the door behind her.
---
Entering through a concealed door and walking down one of the hidden hallways used by servants to move about the Palace unobtrusively, Tillic came to Derrick's favorite secret room. Since his appointment as lord-regent, he had made the subterranean alcove his personal study.
The guard commander only needed to hear that Derrick had "disappeared again" to know where he was, as would most of Pablen's regular inhabitants. Of course, it was also known that when Derrick "disappeared," he did not want to be disturbed.
Finding the room unlocked, Tillic simply let himself in.
Inside, Derrick stood hunched over a table with his eyes tightly closed. His right fist pounded against the dulled surface, but there was little force in it.
"Do you mind if I join you?" Tillic asked as he stepped beside Derrick, not bothering to apologize for disturbing his thoughts.
The Possór heir stiffened and glanced at the far wall before looking at Tillic. The guard commander smiled weakly, noting how the screen to Derrick’s right mimicked the view from an upper Palace bay window. Showing a real-time image of the city, the screen’s cellular units even adjusted to Tillic’s movements within the room, maintaining the illusion of perspective.
"No," Derrick replied, his voice just a whisper. Taking his seat, Derrick let his left-hand rest on the table and kept his right hand close. Gazing at the artificial window, the Possór heir assumed vigil over the city as small lights flared up against the approaching night.
Tillic looked around the unlit room for a place to sit. Finding an old hover-chair in the corner, Tillic activated it, set it next to Derrick, and silently watched the wallscreen with him.
Henely is a coward, Tillic thought after a few moments, berating the First Advisor for using him to conduct what should have been his own investigation. Burdening Tillic had saved Henely more than legwork. The First Advisor had also avoided having to decide what to do with such dangerous information—information that he undoubtedly knew was there to discover.
The guard commander shifted in his chair.
But would Derrick have really believed any of this coming from Henely? Tillic could not point to anything specific, but he did not trust Henely much himself. Or Biam, for that matter.
Maybe that's one of the reasons why Henely wanted me for this.
The thought gave the old soldier no solace.
"Is there, uh, anything new to report on the uprisings?" Derrick asked. It was an oddly awkward way to break the silence, but the old guard commander gave it no mention.
As Tillic described the latest incident, however, Derrick faced forward, forcing Tillic to try to meet the Possór heir’s eyes through the mirror-effected viewscreen. It was to no avail. Catching his own reflection though, Tillic noticed that he had recently lost some weight, which made his already wiry frame look withered. His eyes were also sunken, and his thinning hair was now completely gray. Cheers to the benefits of honest living, the old solider thought.
"While the rebels are better armed,” Tillic continued, “their attacks are more to make us to disperse our forces than to gain any strategic position. Fortunately, nothing has happened too close to the City. Otherwise, the Andior brat might have caused us problems."
Derrick frowned but said nothing. Tillic had momentarily forgotten that Guerren Andior and Derrick were roughly the same age. "Well," Derrick said, "please keep me informed."
In the silence, a Palace transport ship heading for the City Center came into view. Likely filled with visitors seeking one last night of entertainment before the trial, they watched it wordlessly as the craft made its descent.
How do I tell him? Tillic asked, burdened by the price of being proven right. It was not a question of whether the Lord of Legan was guilty of the charges against him. It was about whose blood was on his hands.
The old guard commander shook his head. The truth should beget no regrets.
But Marcea is wrong, he thought. Derrick needed to know. Otherwise he would reject the offer made by the Emperor's lackey for his vote, and throw away House Possór for nothing.
Though he had been surprised by Tillic’s visit, Derrick knew that while the old guard commander clearly had something he wanted to say, he had something to tell Tillic as well.
Why do I delay? he wondered, pushing Landsig and Agent Meres from his thoughts as he pushed his hand between the armrest of his chair and his seat cushion. Derrick's forehead creased. Surely Tillic knew about Biam and Henely by now.
They probably used Aunt Josephine to divert Father's attention and allay suspicions. And if this does involve the trial, it means Henely was probably the one who fabricated the evidence and delivered it to the prosecution. It had to have been him.
Derrick stopped for a moment, reconsidering whether he should wait before telling his father what he knew. They might be able to cause us more damage, the young Possór thought, but I have no real proof yet. I need Tillic for that. And if I alert them by tipping my hand now....
"A man can't serve two masters," the old officer remarked, still facing the night. Derrick turned toward him. "Whether we serve people or ideas,” he resumed, “we must accept a priority of values. Otherwise the inevitable conflicts will lead us to confusion, and even ruin. Then our choice is either inaction or inconsistency."
"Which did you choose?" Derrick asked.
"Inaction, mostly," Tillic replied. "But it is now time to decide whom I serve first."
Derrick pushed back into his chair, leery of what he was about to hear. Tillic does not serve Henely, he thought. So where is the conflict? Abruptly Derrick answered his own question, knowing that the guard commander's problem had nothing to do with the "accidental" explosion he had professed to be investigating.
This was why I delayed, Derrick admitted. He knew Tillic would find out eventually, and now the moment of complete honesty had finally come. "So, you have come to tell me something," Derrick said softly. "Something you wish you did not have to say."
The older man nodded, looking up at Derrick. "Yes."
"I once heard that a friend will hurt you when friendship demands it of them." Derrick gripped Tillic's shoulder reassuringly. The guard commander closed his eyes, making Derrick even more certain that he knew what the older man had come to say. "You do not have to compromise your duty to my father, or worry about my feelings. I already know what he did."
Tillic's expression instantly transformed to one
of amazement. "Derrick!" he cried. "How can you say such a thing so easily? You sound as if you condone the murder of—"
"Four Imperial agents?" Derrick asked, thinking he finished his friend's sentence.
The guard commander opened his mouth, but no words came.
"I am sorry, Tillic, but I hold little sympathy for spies." Derrick paused as concern tightened the muscles around his face. "I think you are overreacting a bit here."
The old man shook his head in disbelief before forcing his breath. "Your father…"
"I cannot believe it," Derrick interrupted, still thinking that he and Tillic were talking about the same thing. "Why is this an issue?" His voice trembling, he took a moment to steady it, not knowing what prompted him to be so defensive. "You always warned me to be careful of what I said, Tillic. Now, here you flirt with treason—right in front of me!"
"Treason?" the guard commander asked in astonishment. "What your father has done—!"
"What your sovereign lord has done!" Derrick corrected sharply. Do not desert me, Tillic, he pleaded silently. Not you. Not now.
Manus Tillic’s eyes searched Derrick’s with pained urgency. The guard commander did not find what he sought however. "I wasn't speaking of spies," he said finally, turning in his chair to sit at attention. There would be no turning back.
Derrick stared at his friend, his lips parted in a lost breath. Shaking his head, Derrick felt a need to get away. Run. Run fast. Run far. But Derrick fought the familiar urge, strangely aware that inexorably entwined within its call was a greater danger. If he could but identify....
"Oh no," Derrick whispered, gripped by something far more powerful than the revelations of Landsig. How many dead jackals had laid at the feet of his father?
Tillic’s words echoed in his thoughts. “I wasn't speaking of spies.”
"No, Tillic. No." Only then did Derrick realize what his friend was talking about, his new and unyielding clarity only worsened by his intuitive sense that it was true.
Derrick's breaths became shallow as he steadied himself in his chair. "I do not wish to hear anymore," he said, unwilling to further contemplate what to him was still unthinkable.
"You must," insisted Tillic, the moisture in his eyes blurring his sight as his anguish blurred his judgment. "Tomorrow you—"
"Will do what I know is right," Derrick said angrily. "Even if it costs us everything."
A momentary stillness settled over the room.
"I do not know where you get your information, Commander," Derrick continued, as much for himself as for the man sitting across from him. "But as I know that you cannot use the vision, I am aware that you can more easily fall victim to lies."
"No, Derrick," his friend sobbed, his eyes lowering to the floor. "They are not lies."
The despair in the older man's voice wrenched the young Possór, threatening to deny him the luxury of the self-delusion he fought to maintain. "Damn you, Tillic!" Derrick yelled as he rose from his chair. He turned around, seeing the old guard commander force each breath. "Why are you doing this?" Tillic still would not look at him. Why? Derrick asked again silently.
By the time Tillic could speak, Derrick’s internal battle between denial and acceptance was over, and his need for an answer, lost. Derrick now wondered how he could be expected to believe something so outrageous, let alone turn against his father because of it. What was once inconceivable was again just that. Recognizing the change, Tillic’s words died in his throat.
"Go now," Derrick said finally, his voice flat.
"Derrick, I—"
"Leave me." Derrick turned to the window, refusing to even look at his once good friend. His once best friend. "Go," he repeated, his voice barely above a stone's whisper. "For by God, if I hear any more of this treason, I will have you shot…just as my father surely would."
The guard commander jumped to his feet in alarm, suddenly alert to his carelessness. Derrick had increased Palace surveillance, but had this room not been exempted? The thought that Derrick might be performing for eavesdroppers offered him a brief hope, but in the end, Tillic doubted that Derrick would really sacrifice his own privacy. This was no act.
Tillic straightened to military attention. "I then take my leave of you, my Lord." Tillic's voice took on a wounded air of formality. "And I declare my sincere hope that what we both do, despite how it may appear, serves the greater interests of House Possór and the people of Legan."
The guard commander saluted without acknowledgment. Turning to leave, Tillic stopped as he caught sight of an odd sculpture standing against the wall. Derrick had glanced at it when the guard commander first arrived. There was blood along one of its sharp pointed edges.
As the guard commander spun in place to face Derrick, Derrick pulled in his right hand, making a protective fist. For the briefest moment, they both forgot what had just transpired. Tillic was once again Derrick’s guard commander, and Derrick was once again his charge.
His stare fixed on Derrick’s injured hand, Tillic was about to speak when Derrick let his loosened fist fall to his side. Confronted by the cool defiance of Derrick’s eyes, the old guard commander knew that he had lost the right of reprimand. Derrick would do as he willed.
Manus Tillic let his gaze fall to the floor as he found his voice. "I will return to my duties then, my Lord," he said finally. With a clipped bow, he left the room, not waiting for a response.
Take care in what you do, Tillic, Derrick said to himself, turning back again to the city. For our friendship is no longer, and no longer protects you. What was it his mother once said?
Sometimes when you stand with someone, you must stand apart from all others.
Knowing the trial was in less than fifteen hours, the Possór heir closed his eyes and tried to focus his thoughts.
All others.
A choice pressed upon him, Derrick was aware that his duty to his father took precedence over any other. Consequently, as Tillic now represented a possible threat to his father's case, Derrick felt the need to determine what the old guard commander's next move might be.
Suddenly, however, Derrick broke away from his forced analysis. His teeth clenched and brow furrowed, Derrick put his once-more bleeding hand to his fake window to the world, leaned forward, and let his head slowly rest against the cold, hard plasteel.
---
"Allenford!" the First Advisor yelled after barging through the military operations office and into a closed-door meeting with the top commanders of House Possór's armed forces.
Allenford Biam seemed unruffled by Henely's tone and familiarity. Rather than appear subservient however, as Henely had come to expect, Biam exuded an air of weary indulgence.
"Yes, Lousin?" Biam asked, still facing the tactical holographic display being projected above the circular conference table. The topic of discussion had been the planetary defense net.
"What do you know of the six dead rebel leaders?"
"Oh, is that what is troubling you?" Biam rolled back his eyes. “Why nothing, Lousin."
"Did you issue their termination order?" Henely demanded, ignoring Biam's response.
Biam addressed the others. "Ladies, Gentlemen, excuse us please."
"They don't have to leave," Henely growled, slicing the air with his hand.
Biam gestured toward a side door, speaking again to the military officers. "Please."
"Stay here!" Henely snapped, his face becoming flushed. "This won't take a minute."
"They do not report to you, Lousin," Biam lashed out, his own temper flaring. "They do not have to sit and listen to you—let alone endure your tantrums."
The officers all pointedly stood and exited through the door Biam had suggested.
"So,” said Biam as the last person departed, “is the pressure is getting to you as well?" It certainly makes Seffan a vicious bastard.
Henely could hardly contain himself. "How dare you—?"
"I dare much when someone interrupts one of my staff meetings. Now, I don’
t know what sort of difficulties you have been having lately that…”
"You haven’t answered my question," Henely challenged, able to exert some control over his anger. Biam continued speaking as if Henely had said nothing.
"...have been so stressful, but I assure you that I have had my own setbacks as of late."
Henely accentuated his words: "Did-you-give-the-order-to-kill-the-six-rebel-leaders?"
"I did not even know they were dead," Biam replied truthfully. "How did you find out?"
"News spreads fast. There have also been more protests over Galleston. Did you know that, or do your aides decide for themselves what and when to report?"
"So, you’re mad because you think these deaths will cause more petty protests?"
"Of course!" the First Advisor roared. "Do you think I want an Imperial occupation?"
Biam squinted his eyes. The protests were nothing. The Imperial Special Commander would be more interested in the military threat posed by the rebels' hit-and-run attacks.
"If you wanted to know if there was a signed order," Biam replied, "why did you not go to the Service division chief?"
"I am asking you." Henely paused, looking at Biam as if seeing him for the first time.
Biam caught himself before the right side of his upper lip rose in a sneer. He was done playing Henley’s whipping boy, and took pleasure in seeing that his change in behavior did not meet with the First Advisor’s approval. But he did not want to be openly adversarial with him.
"Besides," Henely resumed, "you know their procedure. After a warrant is issued, Special Service agents answer only to Seffan regarding their assignment."
"Well, I already answered you. Why should you care about rebel leaders anyway?"
"Because I had people there—infiltrating their organization."
The right corner of Biam's mouth rose slightly. "You did?" he said with mock astonishment. "But why did you not tell me? You did not inform Internal Security. Did you have the names of those rebel leaders all along?"
"Never mind. It doesn’t matter anymore."
"Do you have any others?"
"I don’t have time for this. Just make sure I know about any warrants being issued."
House of Jackals Page 35
