More Than Mortal (36 page)

BOOK: More Than Mortal

13.89Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

Columbine was skeptical. “Lupo thinks he can do all that on his own?”

“You think Lupo doesn’t have contacts? Or resources he can call on?”

Marieko looked briefly back at Julia. “That’s exactly what I told her.”

Columbine didn’t like it at all that Marieko had used Julia to score a point against her, and she began to wonder about the possibility of a German-Japanese axis. It had, after all, happened before.

The Lady Gethsemany rose to her feet, and all those who weren’t already standing followed suit. Their laird was among them, and as one, the clan paid their tribute and made salute. Renquist’s manners hadn’t completely deserted him, although the microfungi were still at work in his head, and he rose with the rest despite his obvious anger at Fenrior and the uncertainty of his status in the Great Hall and in the Castle Fenrior as a whole. He had been anticipating a massive, woolly, untamed bear of a man who could subdue his rowdy followers by force of sheer size and intimidation. To describe the figure who paused briefly at the top of the stairs and then descended to the tune of “The Black Swan” played on the pipes as the exact opposite was a slight exaggeration, but Renquist’s expectations were so far off the mark the statement came close to the truth. Fenrior was tall, slim,
almost boyish, and charismatically handsome, although Renquist found it hard to tell in which century he believed himself to be residing.

The side-paneled dark glasses that hid his eyes were the perfect example—they could equally have been ultramodern, futuristic Victorian, or simply copied from the actor Vincent Price in the motion picture made from Edgar Allan Poe’s “Ligeia.” Much the same could be said of the long, decorative leather waistcoat. It might have been eighteenth century, but Renquist had seen similar garments worn by gentleman rock musicians in the 1960s and seventies—except gentleman rock musicians didn’t also wear the kind of straight dress sword that hung at Fenrior’s side. As Lord of Fenrior, he was obliged to wear that plaid, but he had it nonchalantly draped over one shoulder, secured by a large rose-and-dagger pin. He’d also forgone the kilt, instead wearing high, above-the-knee boots with rows of silver buckles, very akin to ones often worn by successful Mexican banditos of the nineteenth century, over contemporary plain black jeans. The paradox was continued by the sheaths for two long dirks that were built into the top fold of each boot.

A second surprise for Renquist was that Fenrior didn’t have red hair. Seemingly he hadn’t contributed anything to the gene pool’s prevailing pigmentation. His hair was jet black, dead straight, long, limp, hanging almost to his waist, and contained a single white streak that ran from the center parting. A secondary function of the dark glasses might well have been to keep the fall of this relaxed mane out of his eyes. He made his way to the high table, exchanging jokes and brief pleasantries with individuals along the way, proving himself very much the Lord of the People, although Renquist noted the continuing skirl of the pipes enabled Fenrior to play the Ronald Reagan trick of pretending to be deaf to those he didn’t wish to hear. He mounted the high table dais at the opposite side from Renquist and moved quickly
to his throne, where he stood and slowly surveyed the assembly. “The Black Swan” ended, but Fenrior, with definite theatrical timing, waited for the pipes’ wheezing deflation to finish before he spoke.

“Please be seated, my friends. Let’s not stand on ceremony. We are to feast on the indulgence of vices before our adventures to come.”

Renquist didn’t know to what adventures Fenrior specifically referred, but he was sure they included both him and the cocoon of Merlin. Fenrior’s voice was precise and educated, perhaps deceptively languid, as if the laird fancied he suffered from the ennui of power. It had none of the burr, swallowed vowels, and bizarre syntax favored by Gallowglass, Shaggy Lachlan, and the rest of the Fenrior wild bunch. Fenrior was the undead version of those paradoxical Scots aristocracy who, throughout history, had toured Europe, been educated at the Sorbonne, but, back in their native banks and braes, could adopt an attitude of murderous and demented savagery with no apparent effort. Renquist could imagine Fenrior had fed on whole families—but probably with an unsurpassed gentility of manners.

“I have an entertainment planned for you later—”

At this, the Highlanders roared their approval, and some even drew their swords and beat the flat of their blades upon the table. To make noise seemed to be a popular social pastime in Fenrior. As the hammering subsided, the lord held up his hand for quiet.

“As is tradition, however, before we have our fun, I have to ask if any present might have a question, demand, or petition to address to me. As a preliminary to the feast, the lord must hear and know all that may be undone or amiss.”

The Highlanders scanned one another’s faces, but their auras showed it was only a matter of form. No one was expected to speak up or complain. Everything in Fenrior was supposedly as it should be. In confirmation, Duncanon got to his feet and declared, with what Renquist
considered an excessive degree of ass-kissing mock bravado, “Nothin’ undone or amiss here m’ lord.”

It all seemed to be part of a regular routine, and the Highlanders cheered, applauded, and engaged in more sword-banging. Renquist wasn’t sure if he’d have done what he did if he hadn’t ingested the microfungi. He’d like to think he’d be prepared to face down entire Clan Fenrior and its lord, alone, unarmed and cold sober, but he had to admit the intoxication helped. Hadn’t Shaggy Lachlan said there would be a phase of him wanting “t’ fight everyone i’ th’ room”? Renquist may have been putting his own unique spin on the prediction as he rose to his feet and faced Fenrior. “I have a question, my lord.”

The Great Hall fell silent as Fenrior looked along the high table at Renquist. “A question?”

“Perhaps even a demand.”

“Do I know you, sir?”

“You should know me, my lord, since I believe it was you who ordered my abduction.”

Renquist’s open accusation produced shocked expressions throughout the hall. Clearly no one in a long time had taken such a tone with the Lord Fenrior. The only exception was Lady Gethsemany, who smiled with open amusement.

Fenrior turned. “Ah … Master Renquist, I presume.”

“The same, my lord.”

“And your question, Master Renquist?”

Renquist sensed the way the confrontation was going to be played out. Fenrior seemed to favor an archaically mannered wordplay. Of course, that was no hard thing when one enjoyed absolute power, but Renquist would play along. By this point, he really had no choice—or means to back down without a maybe fatal loss of face. Incorporated in Fenrior’s maintenance of power was a need to remain popular. It was a weakness with potential for exploitation. Wasn’t it the will to popularity that had, in the late twentieth century, destroyed the human concept
of democracy in all but name? It could do the same in an absolute monarchy if the monarch wasn’t careful. “I am a trifle confused, my lord. I sit at your high table as a supposed guest, and yet you have deprived me of both my liberty and my sword.”

“Your sword?”

“My sword is at the Savoy, sir.

“Your sword is at the Savoy, sir?”

“So I believe. I carry it with me when I travel to wear on formal occasions such as this, when swords are apparently worn. Now I come to your hall as a nosferatu master deprived of his sword and therefore deprived of his status. Deprived of my sword, I can only consider myself a prisoner and leave this feast forthwith, since a prisoner has no business here.”

An angry muttering had begun among the Highlanders, but Fenrior seemed to savor Renquist’s juggling of protocols. “This is a sword of some significance?”

“It was given to me some centuries ago by Hideo Matsutani, the great swordsman of Kyoto.”

“So how does it come to be at the Savoy, Master Renquist?”

“I had no time to collect it, my lord, when I was seized by Gallowglass and his companions. It remains in London, in my suite at the Savoy, with the rest of my luggage.”

The muttering of the Highlanders grew in vehemence. The common view being Renquist was indeed a “southern jasmine limp-wrist,” giving insolent lip to their lord. Fenrior turned and quieted them with a gesture that also seemed to indicate the best had yet to come. “You are mistaken about that, sir.”

“Mistaken about what, my lord?”

“That your sword is at the Savoy.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Your sword is not at the Savoy. Your sword is here, sir.”

As if on cue Droon appeared bearing the Bushido
blade in its ivory sheath. The Highlanders exploded with laughter as the joke seemed to be on Renquist, but then the laughter abruptly died and hands went to hilts as Renquist slid the sword from its scabbard. He turned it slightly, so the light was reflected from the old and exquisitely fashioned steel. In the body of the hall, claymores were being slowly drawn, but Fenrior himself simply watched with the detached interest of one who truly believes nothing can happen to him.

Renquist knew he had to judge the mood of the Highlanders with great accuracy, which wasn’t made easy by the microfungi. At the very moment they seemed ready to rise and rush him, he stiffened slowly and brought the blade up to formally salute Fenrior, then dashingly cut it away, sheathed it in a single motion, and smiled. “Thank you for the return of my blade, my lord. You can count on its service while I remain your guest.”

The Highlanders were silent for all but a half minute; then Gallowglass and a number of the older retainers broke into an appreciative round of applause. The Lady Gethsemany joined in, and then the rest of the hall followed suit. The only ones whose hands remained firmly on their swords were the young ones around Duncanon, and Renquist was well aware they wouldn’t like anything he did. Boys would always be boys. He and Fenrior bowed low to each other like two actors who have just completed a scene. On the unspoken levels of undead diplomacy, much more than a scene had been concluded. Fenrior had flexed his muscles, but he had also made a concession to Renquist, and a message had been sent. The matter of Renquist’s abduction would be shelved for the moment, but his status as an honored and untouchable guest had been clearly established in front of the entire clan.

Fenrior turned away and faced the hall. “And now, friends, the entertainment.”

Marieko observed from a distance as Julia and Destry walked the horse and noted how many mannerisms Julia had consciously or unconsciously copied from Victor. She wondered what this newcomer really thought about Renquist. He was her creator, and that alone was a source of tension without any further or added complications. Gossip claimed that Julia wanted to become Renquist’s consort, and gossip also maintained that, if she hadn’t actually connived the destruction of Cynara, his previous longtime companion and hunting partner, she had at least been instrumental in manufacturing the chaos that had made such a thing possible. Marieko somehow doubted Julia was quite so obsessively infatuated with Victor as international undead chatter seemed to assume, except insofar as Julia saw Victor as the next step on her personal stairway to power. Although, might she be judging Julia a little too harshly? How many relationships weren’t, in one way or another, based on one or both partners’ self-interest? On the other hand, she wasn’t convinced. An ever-present hue in Julia’s chill aura told that she might pose a very special kind of threat. She would do exactly what suited her at the time, and only a fool would act on the assumption that Julia would behave according to the rational dictates of the common good. In Julia, Marieko observed a most unique of beings, a cold and calculating tactile hedonist. She would have to be studied.

Julia and Destry were, for the moment at least, the fastest to achieve the superficial bonding of the newly acquainted. They were both young, both twentieth century, and their kindred cloak-and-dagger backgrounds provided an extra commonality. On first arriving at Ravenkeep, Julia had sensed the horse and, on finding out Destry was its mistress, had begged to be allowed to see the incredibly rare Uzbek. While Julia continued to praise and flatter the horse and, indirectly, his owner, Destry positively glowed—and if things continued in the same vein, they would soon be hunting together. Unless
of course, Julia decided to prevail on Destry to let her ride Dormandu. Whether she asked and, if she did ask, whether she pressed the point would prove a strong augury of how matters might continue.

Seemingly Julia had not made the request, because Destry turned and handed Dormandu’s halter to Bolingbroke so the thrall could return the stallion to his loose box. She then called out to Marieko. “You look like you’re spying on us, lurking over there like that.”

“I was being discreet while you two equestrians went about your business.”

“Just breaking the ice.”

“And you were doing it so well, I thought I’d stay out of it.”

Julia’s aura remained carefully furled, but for an instant she looked curiously at Marieko, as though considering a possible rival. She looked more openly at Destry. Apparently Julia didn’t feel threatened by Destry. “Is she always like this?”

Destry nodded. “Inscrutability is her profession.”

Marieko gave a polite social laugh. “That’s a stereotype, sister dear, and you know it.”

BOOK: More Than Mortal

13.89Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

ads