by Eric Griffin
Sturbridge did not come with miracles in hand. She didn’t even have the answers they wanted. She expected resentment. She anticipated feelings of betrayal. She would not be surprised by accusations of treachery.
“I’m sorry to have missed him,” Sturbridge replied. “But it was kind of you to come in his stead.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Things have been a bit hectic since Dr. Dorfman left, but we do what we can. I have a car waiting outside and Dr. Dorfman has left you some material on the conference in Baltimore. I would love to drop in and hear you speak. What will you be presenting?”
“A little piece about the Evil Eye in New England folk custom. Give me your address and I’ll send you a copy. When did Dr. Dorfman say he’d be returning?”
Chessie laughed. “It’s always so hard to tell. But I’ll tell you this, if they were to fly me to Vienna, I don’t know if I would ever come back.”
Friday, 27 August 1999, 11:52 PM
McHenry Auditorium, Lord Baltimore Inn
Baltimore, Maryland
Sturbridge paused outside the double doors, weighing her options. It was not too late just to turn around now. The doorman would even hail a cab for her. She could be at the airport in half an hour and back in New York in time to frustrate any of a half-dozen petty intrigues that would have hatched in her brief absence.
No. Better to go in and get it over with. She braced herself and entered the auditorium expecting the worst. It seemed the festivities were already in full swing.
“What in the nine hells were you thinking?” The voice, which Sturbridge instantly recognized as belonging to her dear neighbor, Prince Lladislas—most recently of Buffalo—resounded from the rafters. The fact that the party he was addressing—a dignified man matching the briefing description of her host, Prince Garlotte—stood a mere two paces away from him in no way moderated the volume of Lladislas’s outburst.
Garlotte weathered this fresh insult with visibly fraying patience.
Sturbridge performed a hurried calculation as she slipped into a seat in the front row. Lladislas and his remaining entourage could not have been in Baltimore for much more than a week now. Judging from Garlotte’s expression, it had been a very full week.
“Since embracing a bunch of know-nothing neonates worked so damned well in Buffalo, you’re planning on doing it again in Hartford? What the hell! I might have expected this kind of stunt from you, Garlotte. But Theo—”
The Brujah archon calmly and gently placed a restraining hand on Lladislas’s shoulder. The displaced prince shook him off with a snort, but abandoned his tirade. His voice was pitched low, but his accusation carried.
“I trusted you.”
Bell regarded him levelly. “Good. That and a dollar gets me a cup of coffee.” He smiled broadly and clapped Lladislas on the shoulder. “Buffalo was a deathtrap. You know that; I know that. Sorry if it’s hard to hear. There wasn’t anything more you could have done there but go down swinging. But I’ll tell you this, there will be other fights, real fights, fights that mean something. And I want to have you there for them. Do we understand one another?”
Lladislas threw up his hands. It seemed he was still adjusting to the humbling role of prince-in-exile. Sturbridge could follow his tortured thoughts in the lines of his face as Lladislas struggled to gauge exactly how far he might push his host.
Garlotte’s voice broke in upon her musings.
“…Our privilege to have with us Regent Aisling Sturbridge of the Chantry of the Five Boroughs in New York. May I say that it is a great honor to have such a seasoned and steadfast opponent of the Sabbat advances here among us, Ms. Sturbridge.”
Sturbridge composed herself, rising to her feet to address the gathering. She nodded in turn to the principals on the council, matching names to the few unfamiliar faces: “Prince Garlotte, Archon Bell, Prince Vitel, Prince Lladislas, Mr. Pieterzoon.”
Her tone was carefully dispassionate, formal. She might just as easily have been lecturing a group of school children, or giving directions to a lost motorist, as addressing the remnant of the pride of the East Coast Camarilla.
“Three weeks ago, Prince Garlotte informed the Tremere office in Washington of the assertions that Justicar Xaviar of Clan Gangrel made before this body. Speaking officially, on behalf of Clan Tremere, we can lend no credence to the wild claims that have been reported to us.
“We have no reason to doubt the justicar’s veracity. He has ever been a tower of strength and a pillar of integrity. We deeply sympathize with his unsettling loss. We mourn our fallen comrades. We cannot, however, accept at face value the justicar’s assessment of the situation. There are monsters enough slavering at the very gates of this city. There is little need to conjure up mythical Antediluvians to further distract and demoralize our forces. We can ill afford to draw off much-needed resources from the present conflict to avenge the personal loss of Xaviar’s warband.
“Make no mistake, their loss is a tragedy. They will be sorely missed in the troubled nights ahead. But the Tremere will not be swayed, nor driven to petty vengeance by the justicar’s less-than-veiled threats to this council.”
Sturbridge looked to each of her fellow councilors in turn. She saw her sentiments echoed silently in the stoic looks, the downcast eyes, the averted faces of her peers.
“What troubles me,” Pieterzoon broke the uncomfortable silence, “is what could have frightened someone like Xaviar that badly. If I were to come back raving about Antediluvians,” he gave a self-depreciating smile, “We could have all just laughed it off. But Xaviar, he just doesn’t seem the excitable type.”
“Whatever they ran into up there,” Garlotte said, “it’s best given a very wide berth. It may sound callous, but my feeling is that whatever it is, it’s the Sabbat’s problem now. Sorry, but that’s how I feel.”
“Just like New York.” Sturbridge’s words fell heavily into the silence.
“Beg pardon?”
“New York. It’s the Sabbat’s problem now. Buffalo, Albany, the Bronx. What’s one more nightmare loose upstate?”
“Ms. Sturbridge, I have been a poor host. I did not mean to offend. Nor did I mean to rush you straight into council session before you could rest and recover from your voyage. I hope you will allow me to make amends.”
“That will not be necessary, Prince. I spoke out of anger. The comment was not representative of my clan’s position. I withdraw it.
“It is not my intention to dismiss the justicar’s concerns out of hand,” Sturbridge continued. “We have uncovered further evidence that I hope may shed light on just what exactly Xaviar and his band ran afoul of in those mountains.”
She placed a leather attaché case on the table and removed a plain manila envelope containing a single piece of parchment. She handed it to Jan, who opened it.
Staring up at him was a single unblinking eye. Further illustrations and annotations crowded the sheet, all rendered in the same sprawling, desperate hand. The parchment seemed to writhe in his grasp. Jan shivered involuntarily. “What’s this supposed to be?” he asked, quickly passing the parchment to Vitel at his right.
“Well, that is what I had hoped you would help me determine, Mr. Pieterzoon. The page was discovered on the body of one of my associates,” Sturbridge rushed through the half-truths, “who was killed during the execution of a rather…unorthodox ritual.”
The sheet of parchment continued clockwise around die table to Gainesmil, Garlotte’s steward and right-hand man. He let out a low whistle. “Some piece of work, whoever thought this stuff up. A real headcase.” He passed the paper to Victoria Ash, his hand lingering a moment too long at the point of contact.
“The reason I wanted to place this sketch before the council is that illustration in the lower left—the one-eyed man surrounded by what looks to be a mound of splintered bones. The sketch put me in mind of…”
“Yes, I see.” Vitel had one hand on the paper, but Victoria seemed reluctant to surrend
er it. “Xaviar’s description. The monster with the blazing eye.”
“The circumstances surrounding the creation of this picture are still a bit muddled, but the timing coincides almost exactly with the confrontation described by the justicar.”
Despite Sturbridge’s low-key delivery, her words were having an effect. Jan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “What the hell is that thing?”
“A reasonable question,” said Sturbridge. If she had any reasonable answer, she did not offer it.
“May I?” For the second time, Vitel attempted to take the paper from the unusually withdrawn Ms. Ash. Her grip on the parchment was white-knuckled.
What do the Tremere hope to gain from this? Jan wondered. Did they think they could divert attention away from themselves and their pointed non-involvement in the current crisis by feeding this council such ambiguous information? What he needed was solid intelligence—enemy positions, troop compositions, supply points. Not marginalia and pointless speculations.
“Leopold.”
Victoria’s voice came to them as from a great distance. A hollow plish from the depths of a well.
“Beg pardon?” Garlotte turned toward her.
“It’s Leopold,” she said quietly, her eyes never leaving the parchment.
“Yes, I think that’s one of the inscriptions here.” Vitel leaned over the parchment. “Leopold. And this one looks like Hazima-el. And this one, Occultum…”
“No, this. This is Leopold,” Victoria’s fingers were so knotted around the edges of the page, it seemed she would surely tear it.
“You know him?” Gainesmil asked incredulously.
“Who,” Prince Garlotte asked, “is Leopold?”
Victoria stared at the picture without acknowledging the prince. Her hands shook. She seemed to recede before their eyes.
“Can someone tell me, who the hell is Leopold?” Lladislas was on his feet.
“No one,” Victoria said simply. “A sculptor. A Toreador. From Atlanta.”
Everyone spoke at once.
“I don’t believe this. What you’re trying to tell us is…”
“Are you quite sure you recognize him? It is just a penciled…”
“This is ridiculous. I’ve had quite enough of…”
Sturbridge could feel the dark wings closing in about her. Angrily she waved them away. “I’m sorry. Did you say ‘Atlanta’, Ms. Ash?”
Victoria just nodded, but Garlotte was already racing down that line of speculation.
“It seems a bit of a coincidence, does it not? A Tremere regent assassinated. The first of the Sabbat assaults. Your own…narrow escape. And now, you would have us believe, this creature…”
Lladislas was struck suddenly by the absurdity of it all. “You’re not suggesting that a lone Toreador destroyed a small army of Gangrel?!”
Now Victoria did look up. She looked directly at Jan, silently entreating his belief. “I’m only saying that this is Leopold.” She pushed the sheet away from her and folded her arms.
“It’s all right,” Sturbridge soothed briskly. “It’s not your fault.” She looked pointedly at Lladislas, as if daring him to contradict her. “It’s not your fault.”
“All right,” Garlotte was regaining his composure. “So, what do we do now? Send someone after Xaviar? Tell him it’s all been some big mistake? That the thing he ran into out there was just…”
“Oh, that will go over well!”
“I’m afraid there is little you could say to our proud justicar at this juncture.” Vitel’s voice was calm, reasonable. “I’m not entirely sure that there is any practical benefit to be gained from this information. No offense intended toward the Tremere representative.” He inclined his head in Sturbridge’s direction.
Sturbridge turned to face this subtle attack from an unexpected quarter. “None taken, my Prince.”
“I’ll go.” Victoria said in a quiet voice.
Vitel continued to muse aloud, almost absently. “Tell me, Ms. Sturbridge, did you say you had come through Washington? How is…”
My city. Sturbridge could hear the words as clearly as if he had spoken them aloud.
“How is the effort to reclaim the capitol progressing?”
There was a groan from across the table and Lladislas threw up his hands in exasperation.
“Not that old song again!”
Sturbridge ignored him. “The chantry still stands, my Prince. And while it does, there is still hope.”
“To Atlanta. To find Leopold. Someone’s got to go.” Victoria seemed unaware that the conversation had already taken another turn.
“Out of the question,” Garlotte said. “Dangerous. Pointless. Let’s hear nothing more about it.”
“Don’t you think we should hear her out?”
Sturbridge spun upon Jan, stunned at his casual betrayal. His features were impassive. Smoothly, almost effortlessly, he had completely redefined Victoria. Where once she had been a peer, a fellow councilor, perhaps even a rival, she was now just another expendable to be thrown into the teeth of the Sabbat forces. It was unsettling.
“You are quite sure you want to do this?” Gainesmil’s concern was tempered with an all-too-apparent desire to distance himself from any unfortunate entanglements with the sinking Ms. Ash.
“I’ll leave at once.” She pushed back her chair, almost toppling it to the floor. “Mr. Gainesmil, my Prince. Jan.” She all but fled the table.
Vitel nodded distractedly, seeming to take no note of the Toreador’s hasty departure. “Still hope. Of course. Of course. But tell me, Ms. Sturbridge, what word of my old friend, Peter Dorfman? I must confess to being…saddened by his silence. Since I have gone into exile here.”
Sturbridge felt a chasm opening up beneath her. Dorfman. Vitel. Damn. How had she missed that connection previously?
She tried to push back the rising insinuation. “The pontifex has been out of the country for some time, my Prince. The motherhouse. Vienna.”
The words turned cold and heavy upon her lips. Lies, she realized too late. Transparent lies.
“Vienna,” Vitel repeated absently. “I see. So he has not been involved in the resistance, the defense of the city? He might, even now, be unaware of the cruel card that fate has played his old friend?”
Sturbridge saw the horns of the dilemma bearing down upon her. She tried to beat back the insinuation. “It is my understanding that he has been there since before…”
“The surprise attack? A fortunate man. A very fortunate man. There is no taking that away from him. I am sure he will do well for himself. In Vienna.” He added pointedly.
“What is it you’re getting at, Vitel?” Garlotte broke in gruffly. He more than anyone seemed rattled by Victoria’s abrupt departure. “You’re not trying to imply that the pontifex had some advance warning of…”
“No, no. Nothing of the sort. How could you even suggest such a thing? Why, to know of a Sabbat attack upon your own city and fail to warn your prince, why it would be…”
“Preposterous. Baseless suspicions. Really, Vitel, this is unworthy of you.”
“It would be almost as bad,” Vitel continued in a quiet voice, “as actively courting such an attack.”
Saturday, 28 August 99, 1:35 AM
Lord Baltimore Inn
Baltimore, Maryland
Sturbridge paused, one hand on the antique oak-paneled door that stood vigil before her suite at the Lord Baltimore. The entire wing was silent. A welcome change from the uproar of the council chambers. Given the fate that had befallen the last Tremere that had been the guest of this establishment, Sturbridge had had little trouble convincing her host of the necessity of setting aside this entire floor for her personal use.
She was in no mood for company.
Events in the council chamber had taken a dramatic and unexpected turn for the worse. She had been caught badly unprepared. She had not anticipated such concerted opposition from the former Prince of Washington, D.C. With a few carefully ch
osen insinuations, Vitel might have systematically destroyed what credibility she—and by extension, the Tremere—had with the council.
Immersed in the nightly struggle for survival in New York, Sturbridge had been isolated from what she imagined must have been a truly epic and ruthless rivalry being played out behind closed doors in the nation’s capital. Dorfman and Vitel. In hindsight, Sturbridge was surprised the city had managed to contain two such ambitious and unscrupulous powermongers for so long.
Vitel’s claims were patently ridiculous, of course. Dorfman was a keystone in the Tremere Pyramid. One simply did not rise to that level of influence without learning some hard lessons—prominent among them, that you don’t bankroll private grudges with clan credibility.
Sturbridge had been there, so she knew what it was like. She had a chantry of her own to look after. The very thought of putting all that on the line—the decades of careful planning, the hard choices, the sacrifices—just to settle some personal vendetta… It was unthinkable. It was monstrous. It was…
It was, she realized, exactly what the others might expect of such an influential and unscrupulous Tremere powerbroker. Vitel’s claim struck so dangerously close to exactly what they wanted to believe, that they accepted it instinctively. Her efforts here had been utterly undermined before she had properly begun.
Sturbridge leaned heavily into the weathered door to her suite. It looked as if it had come through a shipwreck, long ago, in the days when the tall ships still dominated the harbor.
Perhaps that was what stopped her. The sense of age—of history—about it. Sturbridge scrutinized the lines and knots of the old wood like a palmist, trying to divine the meandering threads of its past and future.
She could pick out the tracery of gangly masts and flapping sails that once swooped in and out of the harbor like exotic birds. They skimmed the surface, snatching a glistening cargo, and fluttered away again.
She laid bare the door’s story with her fingertips, feeling its grain, its warmth, its solidity. The telltale remainders of a distant life. Some distant part of her—an ancient, weathered, wrecked part of her—stirred in answer.
