by Jack Conner
Chapter 11
After several exhausting hours in the War Room of planning strategy with his captains (many of whom were potential turn-coats, he knew), Roche Sarnova retired to his lavish chambers and had his servants prepare his sauna. He made himself a glass of whiskey and slipped into the boiling water, slowly letting himself relax.
Things were not going well. Despite all his efforts, he was losing the war. No matter how many victories he won against Subaire or how many spies he ferreted out, he still could not win.
The worst thing was that he knew the reason why: the Sangro Sankts. Conditioned to protect immortals against human knowledge, the ancient order was sabotaging his efforts. He understood their fears, but there were so many shades in the world now that they should have no reason to fear humans. It was their due to have their own place in the world, their own country. Or at least a city. A Jerusalem for the Undead.
It was time.
There was one glitch. The so-called Scouring had created chaos in the immortal world, pitting factions of immortals against each other by killing off leaders that had been able to bring peace. As a result, every day scores of shades were killed needlessly, senselessly, whether it be the war of the karula against the abunka in Lereba or that of the Saiphang against the Konduli in Hong Kong or the territorial battles between the gangsters in America.
Consequently, the Community dwindled in number just when it needed the ripeness it had so recently achieved. For, if they were to have their own country, they needed a population large enough to protect themselves against those mortals that would side against them. To Sarnova and the others that shared his vision, the Scouring was making a someday Jerusalem difficult.
All this had begun to make the Dark Lord suspect that the Scouring was orchestrated by a member of the Sangro Sanks, a suspicion fostered by facts gathered by his spies. Though it had been Vistrot who'd begun the Scouring, it had been a kavasari female named Amelia who’d originally propositioned the Titan. Now that Vistrot was gone and she had taken over his territory, it was very likely she would aim her sights on Sarnova, if indeed she craved dominance in their world.
If she didn't, then her reasons behind the Scouring might've been to disable Sarnova's Jerusalem, which is what he was beginning to believe. He wondered if Amelia was a member of the Sangro Sankts; he had no picture of her, only a name and a race. The members of the order never told him their names. He knew that there were three females in the group, and that one of them had been absent from the last meeting.
Could that have been her?
If not——if Amelia was not a member of the order—what would've prompted her to kill off so many of her own kind? Or did she not consider lesser immortals her kind? To none of these questions did he have an answer. Nevertheless, he puzzled over the problem as he sipped a drink.
A servant entered and announced the arrival of Ambassador Mauchlery. Sarnova and his guest exchanged greetings, and the Ambassador disrobed and slipped into the sauna.
"Hot," he said, appreciative.
"What would you like to drink?"
"What wouldn't I? Some cognac would be fine."
A servant fetched it for him. "Would you like a massage?" the girl asked, but he declined.
"You don't look so good," Sarnova observed, when she had gone.
"I don't feel so good, to tell the truth. Today I was approached by our dear Colonel De Soto. He wanted me to narrow down a time to overthrow you."
"How efficient of him. What'd you say?"
"I told him I'd summon him when I'd pinpointed the right moment."
"Very good."
"That's not all. Just before I came here, two interesting facts were reported to me. Good news and bad. Which would you like first?"
"The bad."
"It's pretty bad, Roche," Mauchlery warned.
"Go ahead."
"It seems that our border and airport spies have reported large numbers of incognito shades moving into Romania. Though they arrived in different ways, they all appear to be a part of the same group."
"How many?"
"Nearly two hundred, all told."
"Damn."
"Yes."
"Where did our spies follow them to?"
"The forest. After that, the army—or whatever it was—realized it was being observed and vanished without a trace."
"Were there any familiar faces?"
"Only one."
"Who?"
"The albino Jean-Pierre. Lord Kharker's consort."
"I remember."
Sarnova finished his drink, ordered another and sank lower in the steaming water. What could this mean? Two hundred shades. An army. They hadn't announced themselves to him, which could only mean they were enemies. Of course, there were only a few immortal armies around, and only one that he could think of that would be strong enough to attack him.
"Libertarians," he muttered.
"That's what I thought, too," Mauchlery said. "But why would Jean-Pierre be among them?"
"Good question. So what's the good news?"
"I'm afraid it's really just a follow-up to the bad news, Roche. Lord Kharker’s just called and requested permission to pay us a visit. I wasn't informed of this until just now, but since his request was simply out of politeness, it was of course granted. He’ll arrive in a few days' time. With him is Ruegger, the one they call the Darkling."
"The Marshal. Yes, I remember him." Sarnova thought a moment. On the one hand, he was glad his old friend was dropping by, but why would Kharker's albino companion be traveling into Romania with the Army of Liberty? After some time, he asked, "Francois, do you see how this fits together?"
"I have no idea, Roche. Even if Kharker was coming here to pave the way for Liberty—which is the only possible scenario I can think of—he wouldn't try to slip the albino in past the border, would he?"
"Of course not. He knows we keep a close watch on all those who come through. Which can only mean ... what, that he doesn't know about Jean-Pierre? It can't be. And why’s he traveling with Ruegger? They parted ways many decades ago. Not long, really, but still ... Ambassador?"
"Nothing, Roche."
"Speak up, if you have any ideas."
"Well, I was just thinking: What if Kharker is being brought here against his will? What if Ruegger, who was friends with that Libertarian leader Ludwig—the one that died—is using Jean-Pierre as blackmail in return for Kharker coming here ... and ... and somehow weakening our defenses to pave the way for Liberty's invasion? And Kharker, being made to do this against his will, knows that we'll recognize Jean-Pierre and is hoping we'll figure it out before he gets here."
"That does make a certain amount of sense. And you're right; I find it hard to believe that Kharker would betray me willingly. Now, if Jean-Pierre was being held as a hostage against his good behavior ... maybe." He sipped his drink, then set the glass down. Now wasn't the time for intoxication. "We have to get Kharker away from the Darkling. He needs to be able to speak freely."
"One thing more."
"What am I forgetting?"
"We need to reassure him that Jean-Pierre will be okay. He loves that creature, Roche, and would not see it harmed."
"Yes, you're right, of course, but I haven’t forgotten. There's something that'll keep Jean-Pierre safe."
Francois smiled. "The Sabo."
"If the Libertarians attack through the Sangro Sankts' entrance—which must be what they intend to do; a frontal attack would only destroy us both, but more likely them—but if they go through the mountain itself ..."
"The Sabo."
"And the Sabo knows Jean-Pierre." Feeling better, Roche picked up his glass and downed another swallow, this one rather large. "Here, Ambassador. Your drink looks like it could be freshened up."
"That would be great."
As the girl refilled his glass, the Ambassador said, "I think I'll have that massage now.”
"Yes," agreed the Dark Lord. "I think I will, too."
; * * *
Harry Lavaca was working on his third martini of the day when Cloire showed up at his side, unescorted. The bartender hardly took notice of her, despite his liberal hostility toward immortals; she’d come to visit Harry often since they'd been at the castle. And, as Harry was a regular patron of the bar, she had been here more than once before.
"Hey, Cloire," he said, swiveling on his stool to get a better look at her. For some reason, she seemed agitated.
"Harry, we need to talk."
"Have a seat."
"No." She glanced around, as if trying to decide the best way to get him out of the bar, then let out a breath. "Let's go to a booth."
He shot the bartender a look, and the bartender nodded. Grabbing his drink, Harry hopped off his stool and followed Cloire to a booth, where a waitress approached. The she-wolf waved her away.
"Have you heard about Kiernevar?" Cloire asked, lighting a cigarette.
He had, but he wanted to hear what she had to tell him. "What about him?"
"He's entered the competition in the Pit."
He raised his eyebrows. "Really?"
She related to him what she’d observed first-hand, and he listened patiently. For whatever reason, the two had formed a friendship over the last few weeks, which was disturbing to Harry, because back in the days when he was a notorious shade-killer he would've considered her a perfect target. She was evil and took pride in it. Yet for some reason he liked her, and she seemed to feel the same way towards him. They’d gotten drunk together several times, had stayed up the whole night talking and telling each other stories, and once every now and then, such as now, she’d come to him for advice.
"So whattaya think?" she said when she'd finished.
"I think he's insane."
She smiled patiently. "I hope you can come up with something better than that, Harry."
He ordered another drink, and they talked it over. “How could Kiernevar have gotten so strong?” he asked.
“He was turned by Frenchie.”
“I know, but to defeat this Lyshira … How old did you say she was?”
“Old.” She frowned. “Some shades are just naturally stronger than others. They can tap into whatever it is that makes us easier than others can. I don’t know.”
Suddenly, he laughed.
“What?” she said.
“Well, here we are wondering about him. Why not—hell, why not just ask the mad bastard?”
She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
For a moment, Harry sensed that she might actually be afraid of Kiernevar. Then again, he wouldn't blame her if she were.
"It's up to you," he said.
She seemed to think about it for a moment, then said, "I guess I've got nothing better to do. Byron’s refusing to come to my bed now."
Despite himself, Harry said, "Why?"
She made a face. "I was a little hard on him when Kiernevar disappeared, I guess. It was his responsibility ..." Anger clouded her features for a second, then blew over.
"What about Kilian?"
"Oh, he's still around, but, well ... I guess you could say I'm keeping him at a distance."
Harry finished his drink. "Ready when you are."
She threw a few dollars on the table. When he started to protest, she said, "It's on me, Harry. My way of ..."
"What?"
"Apologizing."
"You don't need to apologize, Cloire."
"For everything, Harry, for kidnapping you in the first place, but mainly for that night back at Kharker's Lodge when I tried to humiliate you in front of Danielle. You know. Giving you that bottle and sending you on your way. Even then I liked you, but I thought you were going to spoil everything."
"That was my plan."
"In any case, I'm sorry. Forgive me?"
He watched her closely, his antenna up and out and on the search for guile, but he found none; she was sincere.
"You're forgiven,” he said. “Any woman who'll buy my drinks can get away with pretty much anything."
"I'm serious, Harry."
Slowly, she reached out a hand across the table and held it open, palm up. Warily, he took the hand. She gripped him tight, but not too tight. The contact was … intimate.
"Harry," she whispered, "have you ever given any thought to, you know, Turning?"
Up until then he'd been feeling slightly buzzed. Sobriety stormed his body on the instant.
"I ..." he began, then cleared his throat. "I've never wanted to live forever. Maybe I would've said something different when I had something to live for ... when my wife and kids were still alive, but now—"
"That's just it! Harry, don't you see? You never started over, you just gave up, on everything. You even stopped killing for the most part. But Harry, there's so much to see." She released his hand and stood. "Just think about it. Meanwhile, let's go find that bastard Kiernevar."
Shaken, he followed her out of the bar and they began their search.
"By the way," he said, "where are we going?"
"He might be a fruit, but Kiernevar will go where everybody else is going. Everybody likes a show."
They entered the theater where the Funhouse of the Forsaken was practicing its routines. At the moment, it looked like a dress rehearsal was going on, the magnificent red curtains pulled back, lights shining from up above. Maximillian, just below the stage, shook his head and shouted at one of the actors, but Harry suspected even that was part of the performance. The seats were far from full, because many would-be spectators were still at the Pit, but once the fights were through for the night, this place would fill up fast.
At first Harry didn't see Kiernevar. He and Cloire wandered the aisles for some minutes before he looked up at the balcony seating on the second level, which was deserted except for three figures. Sitting near the front row was Kiernevar, as Cloire had predicted, flanked by two Castle Guards, which was S.O.P. for the contenders to the throne. Kiernevar hunched forward, engrossed in the action on stage.
"He looks like a fucking guppy," scoffed Cloire.
She and Harry found the stairs and ascended to the balcony, where a sloping aisle led them to the bottom.
One of the Guards rose aggressively. Kiernevar turned. Instead of telling the Guard to retake his seat, he cocked his head at the second one, who got to his feet as well. Not a very friendly sign, Harry thought.
"Kiernevar," the lunatic said.
"Knock that shit off," Cloire told him.
Kiernevar, who was bare-chested and wearing only a loincloth, climbed to his feet and faced them, giving Harry a view of the werewolf's skeletal frame, smeared with feces from groin to gullet. He stank like a sewer; it was a wonder the guards put up with him. Certainly nobody sat close to him.
"Fuck, but you need a bath," Cloire said.
"Go away,” he said. “No longer part of death-squad is Kiernevar. King. Lord Kiernevar."
"But why?" Harry asked, grateful at least that the creature was able to communicate, however awkwardly.
"Kiernevar is strong,” Kiernevar said. “Others are weak. Kiernevar is born to rule. Now go. Or he will kill you."
Cloire made a fist, which she seemed to just barely keep at her side. Harry touched her forearm. Slowly, she relaxed.
"K, don't you miss your friends?” she said, trying a different tac. “Come on back to us. We can be pals again, just like before. So long as you take your fucking pill. Come on, follow me back to our rooms like a good boy."
"Kiernevar hate pill. Pill deadens his mind, makes him calm when he does not like calm." He spat. "Chaos," he said. "Voices and movement. This is what pill takes away. Now he is back and will be king. Soon all shall worship Kiernevar."
Harry swallowed. Kiernevar, from what he’d heard, used to be a vagrant in New York. Why all the sudden did he want to be a ruler? Was it because he'd only now been exposed to the idea by staying at Sarnova's castle? Or—and this is what Harry thought more likely—was it because someone had planted the tho
ught in his head?
Cloire, still intent on winning Kiernevar to her side again, asked him, "What about his friends—your friends?"
"He has none."
"Get your goddamned pronouns right, you fucking little ..." Growling, she shut herself up and started over. "Remember your friends in the death-squad, K, the good times we used to have. You want that back, don't you?"
"No friends, only Byron, and he does what you tell him. Also Danielle a friend to Lord Kiernevar. Buy him hot dog."
Seeming to realize she'd lost the battle, Cloire sneered. "You make poor friends, Kiernevar. Byron's a fool and your little girlfriend isn't as nice as you might think. She's gone off to kill her foster brother—remember all that?"
An odd look came into his face, as if this filled him with concern.
"She goes to dungeon?" he asked.
"That's right."
Harry and Cloire exchanged glances. For some reason, Kiernevar didn't like the thought of Danielle going to kill Ascott, although he seemed to show little regard for life itself.
A sense of urgency overcame Kiernevar. He leapt over several rows to land in the aisle. Then, walking swiftly but with a strange dignity, he marched past Cloire and Harry and made for the stairs. His guards followed, and the trio descended from the balcony and disappeared from sight.
"Fucking weird," said Cloire.
* * *
Danielle woke with a strangled gasp. She’d been hanged by the neck from a noose, she realized, and she dangled from one of the larger limbs on the Tree, her hands tied tightly behind her back. Butt-naked, she swung back and forth in the air, her feet—also bound—several yards above the ground. Swinging …
What was making her swing?
Swish-crack.
It hit her again, a large bone-branch slapping her, whipping her, from behind. She tried to scream, but the rope had dug so deeply into her neck she couldn't manage even a squeak. She couldn't even breathe.
Swish-crack! The branch whipped her again.
Jesus!
Was this the Balaklava's way of telling her that she was their slave, that she would be whipped and hanged as they saw fit?
