More Than Mortal (50 page)

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Authors: Mick Farren

BOOK: More Than Mortal
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“This is what we must discuss in the Great Hall.”
“In an hour?”
“In an hour.” Fenrior gestured curtly to his escort. Two of them picked up the bloody, incapacitated, and now barely conscious Duncanon. The others turned smartly and proceeded down the corridor, back the way they had come. For a moment, Julia seemed uncertain of what she should do, almost as though she wasn’t sure which side she was on. Then she appeared to make up her mind, and she followed Fenrior and Gallowglass. As they moved off, Gallowglass turned back for a last consideration of Lupo with an aura of kinship and awe. Renquist let out a long weary sigh. Julia’s apparent problem with allegiances would assuredly create more upheavals before it played itself out, but in the meantime, he had Lupo with him, and his previous grim uncertainty was hard to maintain.
“Lupo.”
“Don Victor.”
“Once again you burden me with a debt of gratitude.”
“Isn’t that my primary function?”
Renquist had no answer to this, so he gestured to Marieko. “Lupo, this is Marieko Matsunaga. She has been a great help to me since I came to Britain.”
Lupo bowed. “I’m honored to meet anyone who fought with the Yarabachi.”
“You are very well informed.
“I recognized the symbol on your kimono.”
“You’ve been in Japan?”
“Alas, no—but the fame of the clan was not limited to the shores of the Rising Sun.”
Marieko responded to the flattery with pleasure and a certain discomfort, and the body language of a reluctant coquette. Lupo could be strangely charming when the mood took him, and outwitting Fenrior and his entire clan had obviously put him in a very good mood. Not to prolong the moment, Renquist decided to move the conversation along. “So the Highlanders had no idea you’d penetrated their fortress and were lurking in its passageways and on its stairs?”
“I fear these Scots can’t see beyond their noses. They may once have been among the foremost guerrilla fighters, second only to the Apache, but life has been too easy for them for too long. They have grown lazy and careless in their unchanging sanctuary, and they lack a sufficiency of foes to keep them sharp.”
“A pity we can’t claim the same.”
Lupo eyed his don knowingly. “Would you really have it that way?”
“A quiet life? I don’t know. It would make a change. How long did you manage to fool them?”
“I was present at the Lord’s feast and his ‘entertainment.’”
“You partook of it?”
“No, Don Victor. I felt the risk of discovery was too great. I did, however, encounter a young woman called Annie Munro. She wanted me to Change her.”
“And did you?”
“I thought about it. She might have provided a diversion, but I calculated it to be too much time and trouble.”
Three thralls appeared and went into Renquist’s room. They quickly reemerged, two carrying the body of Morbius by the arms and ankles and the third lugging the head. Lupo looked curiously at the head and then at Renquist. “Morbius?”
“Morbius.”
“He won’t be missed.”
“You knew him?”
“He was a nuisance all over Europe after he went to Greece with Ruthven on his final trip.” As the thralls departed, Lupo stared around and frowned. “Don Victor, we do seem to be standing in a corridor.”
“Indeed we do.” Duncanon’s blood was on the floor at their feet, but Renquist knew even more gore was splattered over what had formerly been his room. “The problem is I’m not quite sure what to do about it.”
Marieko was pleased to have the answer. “I have a room in which no one has recently been killed. We could
go there while we prepare for Fenrior’s meeting. It’s just one flight down.”
As they descended the stairs, Marieko made conversation with Lupo. “Is it true Lupo-san that you were contracted to kill Benito Mussolini?”
Lupo laughed. “Unfortunately I had to turn the assignment down. The logistics of traveling from Havana, where I resided at the time, all the way to Rome in the middle of World War Two was beyond even my contacts and resources.”
How Fenrior had been able to completely transform the castle’s Great Hall in time was a mystery Renquist would never solve. Had thralls been beaten bloody to prepare the place in a single hour, or had Fenrior been planning a meeting of this kind all along? The dais and the high table had been removed, and now just one long table, cleared for a conference and lit by electric spotlights, ran straight down the middle of the room. Fenrior’s throne had been moved so it now presided at the head of the table. Long clan banners were unfurled, draping the walls and streaming down from the rafters, lending the hall a majestic feudal dignity. The fire in the huge hearth was cold, nothing but swept ashes, as though the dancing flames of the feast would detract from the solemnity of this occasion, which, from the elaboration of its staging, was intended as a grand and formal hearing on matters of great import before an autocrat assured of his own ultimate power.
A single plain chair was set at the end of the table opposite, back somewhat, so it reminded Renquist of the seat of the accused at the courts of the Inquisition. When Renquist saw the efforts made to overawe with a display of pomp, and circumstance, he had to take a deep breath. It was predictable, but totally the wrong approach. The Lord plainly had yet to grasp what kind of being the Merlin really was, and what he might do if pushed. The lone
chair seemed to indicate he meant to subject Taliesin to some kind of inquiry or interrogation. Fenrior appeared to have missed the crucial point that, for such a thing even to take place, it presupposed those conducting the interrogation actually wielded the power. Fenrior’s secure certainty in his own power was understandable. He had lorded it over his clan for centuries, overcome all challenges, and was obviously accustomed to never having his authority questioned. Renquist could hardly blame the laird for what he feared might be an excess of confidence and a severe underestimation of the power of the Urshu. Nosferatu in general had been corrupting and confusing the minds of humans for so long it would be hard to accept the seemingly impossible: a being might come among them who could corrupt and confuse theirs.
“You look worried, Master Renquist.”
Lost in his concern, he turned quickly, taken completely by surprise, and found himself facing the Lady Gethsemany. The blue eyes fixed on his were arctic, and they challenged him not to make diplomatic small talk. Gethsemany wanted to know why he was worried. In a snap call of judgment, he decided to be as open as he could with Fenrior’s consort. “I wonder if the right approach is being taken here. The Merlin’s legend tells of his being able to bend flag-decked halls to his will and freely manipulate monarchs. Arthur Pendragon did not, by the old accounts, die well. They did more than just throw his sword into the lake.”
The blue eyes didn’t waver. “You don’t equivocate, do you, Victor?”
Renquist smiled in an attempt to mitigate what threatened to be a stifling gravity. “I frequently equivocate, my lady, but this is not the time.”
“We will not deflect Fenrior from his course this late in the day. You do realize that, don’t you?”
Renquist had obviously made the right choice. The use of the word
we
could only be a signal that Gethsemany
shared his misgiving of Fenrior’s methods. “I’m very aware of that.”
“And?”
“And I hold myself ready for what may come next.”
Gethsemany lightly brushed Renquist’s hand. “I’m glad to hear it, Victor. It’s a pity we haven’t had time to know each other better.” She hesitated. “Out of interest, how would you deal with the Merlin?”
“With stealth and silence, my lady. The twin touchstones of the predator.”
“Thank you, Victor.” And the lady was gone, leaving a waft of perfume, and Renquist again wondered about the dynamic between Fenrior and the females around him.
Renquist, Lupo, and Marieko had not been the first to arrive, but they were also far from the last. As the increasing number of those summoned waited for Fenrior, conversation was sparse, and even Theda was subdued, with her purple hair pulled back into a severe bun. Those summoned to the function struck Renquist as a strange assortment: Shaggy Lachlan and other elders of the clan, five of the Seven Stars, some outsiders he had seen previously at the feast, the corporate moderns in their dark suits and tinted glasses, the exquisite in the powdered wig, the obese kaftan-draped grotesque, even the irritating Henri Brazil. It was, however, fairly typical of nosferatu democracy, in which a leader might solicit the opinion of the many, and then do exactly what he’d decided to do in the first place. Surveying the exotic mixture that seemed already to have been given a voice in the debate, he wasn’t surprised when Julia and Destry walked in together. He hadn’t expected them to be holding hands, though, or wearing matching borrowed plaids. Renquist suppressed an inward groan. He had seen Julia’s attempts at bonding with other young powerful females—and remembered how they always ended in some display of lovelorn violence or worse. The groan was repeated when the pair came directly to him. “I need
to speak with you, Victor. In fact, Destry and I need to speak with you.”
“I don’t have time now, Julia. Much more pressing matters are bearing down on us.”
“That’s a little offhand isn’t it, after I came all this way to rescue you?”
“So far I haven’t seen much rescuing going on, my dear. In fact, I seem to recall you had to be rescued from Duncanon and his Highlanders on the bridge.”
“I’m serious, Victor—”
“So am I, Julia. I’m very serious. In fact, I cut off Duncanon’s hand to express my displeasure.”
Julia’s tone became exasperated. “If you’re in that kind of mood, Victor, we’ll have to take this up later.”
“I’m sure we will.”
About the only ones in the room who seemed to be taking the situation in absolute stride were Gallowglass and Lupo, who had greeted each other with great and dignified enthusiasm and were now conversing with more animation than he’d recently seen exhibited by either. Standing a little way off, he focused on the two of them, shamelessly eavesdropping. Gallowglass wanted to know how Lupo had managed to come upon Fenrior so completely unawares.
“How d’ ye do that’?”
“It’s a trick of merging one’s aura with the prevailing mood. It can make one virtually invisible to other nosferatu if they’re in a sufficiently heightened state. It works particularly well at times of conflict and confrontation.”
“So ye’re no shape-shifter.”
“There are no shape-shifters left, my Highland friend.”
“There are those who swear th’ Craft-workers are all gone, but look yonder.”
The pentacle coven of the Craft-workers in their ceremonial black robes and cowls had just entered. It was the first time Renquist had ever observed Lupo less than
fully in control. His jaw dropped, and he performed a complex and seemingly half-remembered genuflection with his right hand. Gallowglass was about to comment, but a small thrall dodged around the coven of Craft-workers and hurried up to him. The lanky Scot bent down to hear what the thrall had to say; then he straightened up and clapped his hands.
“Everyone take y’ seats. Th’ lord is on his way.”
No one had indicated to Renquist where he was supposed to sit, and he wondered if some arcane protocol governed meetings of this formal kind. He feared it would be explosive enough with so many nosferatu set to arguing. He didn’t want to court trouble before the proceedings had even started over a matter of seating. To his relief, Gethsemany took him by the hand. “Sit next to me, Victor. We may have need of you.”
This positioned him on Fenrior’s right, just two seats down from the lord. The Lady Gethsemany’s action didn’t pass without comment. Some further down the table had in their auras the unmistakable resentment of those who feel passed over. Some may even have believed, like Duncanon and Morbius, that Renquist was the creature of the Merlin. Marieko also looked decidedly put out, as though she had expected to be seated next to him, instead of a long way down the left side of the table between Goneril and a modern.
Fenrior came in fast and businesslike. No piper (although Angus Crimmon was present in the hall), no dwarf with wolfhounds, and just two guards at his back. He went directly to the throne without speaking even to Gethsemany, unhooked his dress sword from his belt, and tossed it with a clatter onto the table.
“My friends and followers, Clan Fenrior, and distinguished guests, we face a circumstance of great gravity.”
He stared slowly round the assembled faces to see what effect his words might have had. Total silence ruled in the Great Hall, laying over those present like an uncomfortable blanket of anticipation, and for some, a
slight chill of fear. Aside from the unique enormity of the concerns at hand, the very size of the gathering had the weight of potential history. It had been a very long time, even by nosferatu calculations, since so many of the undead had convened formally to confer.
“We face a challenge of a proportion we have not witnessed in recent times. As many of you already know, Taliesin the Merlin of old, possibly the last of the Urshu race on this planet, currently resides within the walls of Fenrior.” For those who didn’t know, he proceeded to recount the waking of the Merlin and give a brief résumé of the problems the Urshu’s presence appeared to be creating. “I have to take responsibility for initiating all this. My only excuse is that it was done under the innocent auspices of scientific research. In our eagerness to learn, we failed to appreciate what we might be bringing back to life.”

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