On a Darkling Plain (27 page)

Then he thought about what he’d just said and snorted in derision at his own paranoia. “Or maybe not. It’s a complicated situation, but it couldn’t very well be
that
complicated, Could it?”

“You’d be surprised,” said Melpomene dryly. “But in this case, you’re probably right. I believe that, except for my personal rival, a cabal of Tremere
is
at the top of the chain.” She frowned. “I’d
prefer
that that weren’t so, but my wishes won’t change the reality.”

Curious, Dan cocked his head. “Why would you prefer it?” he asked, “just because you know how powerful they are?”

“No,” Melpomene said. “They are powerful, of course, but every clan has its own extraordinary resources. It’s just that —” She faltered momentarily, as if uncertain that she truly wished to confide in him. He wondered fleetingly if simple loneliness didn’t sometimes loosen her tongue as effectively as her preternatural charisma did his. Then she pressed on. “Do you know that of all the bloodlines, the Tremere are the only ones who don’t trace their lineage back to Caine?”

“I’ve heard stories to that effect. Supposedly the founders of the clan were Transylvanian sorcerers who turned
themselves
into Kindred, using magic, about a thousand years ago.”

“The stories are true,” Melpomene replied. “And because their bloodhne was newly come into the world, because no Methuselah could claim them as his descendants or had done the work necessary to bring them under his influence, for a time they played only a minimal role in the Jyhad.”

Lucky them,
thought Dan. Two skinheads reeking of cheap gin and greasy onion rings emerged from the bar. One, a pudgy kid with a swastika tattooed on his forehead, sneered in Dan and Melpomene’s general direction, and the vampire wondered if he was going to have to beat them up. But then the other guy, pasty-faced and sweaty, swallowing repeatedly as if he were on the brink of throwing up, tugged at his companion’s arm, urging him to come away. The flabby teenager grimaced and nodded. Weaving, the two blundered off in the opposite direction.

“Many of us didn’t realize just what valuable agents the Tremere could make,” Melpomene continued, seemingly oblivious to the skinheads. Maybe, Dan thought,
she
hadn’t been able to see
them.
“We were accustomed to thinking of age and lineage as power, and since the magi possessed neither.... But there was one Methuselah who had himself explored the powers of dark sorcery available to Cainites, losing all his humanitas in the process. He
did
recognize the Tremere’s potential, and he was the first member of my generation to take control of any of their covens. His name was Tithonys, and it was my misfortune that, of all his peers, he hated me the most profoundly.”

“Why?” asked Dan.

“Because once upon a time, in the days of Agamemnon and Achilles, we were lovers,” Melpomene said, turning slightly, hiding her face behind a veil of raven hair. “And then later, after he threw me over, I murdered his new mortal leman.” She laughed sadly. “The fiery passion of my bloodline isn’t always as wonderful as it’s made out to be. Of all my sins, I’ve had cause to regret that one the most.” She sounded so mournful that Dan raised his hand to squeeze her bare white forearm. Then he remembered that his fingers would pass right through her.

Melpomene stood up straighter and shifted her shoulders as if shrugging off her ancient sorrows. “Needless to say, Tithonys used the Tremere against me,” she said, her tone now brisk and matter-of-fact. “My minions had never faced anything like that assault. I feared that each and every one would perish before they learned to cope.”

“Are you afraid that Tithonys has come after you again now?”

“No,” Melpomene said, so firmly that Dan wondered if her insistence wasn’t for her own benefit as well his own. “Because I won a total victory in that conflict. I cremated Tithonys’ decapitated corpse with my own hands, in a tumble-down little farmhouse in Normandy. Someone else, someone — unless I’m extraordinarily unlucky — less cunning and powerful, is attacking me this time. It’s just that his use of the Tremere stirs unpleasant memories.”

“I understand. Are you going to warn Prince Roger’s brood that the Warlocks are behind the attacks on Sarasota?”

The ancient vampire shook her head. “Not yet, because we don’t know
which
Tremere are to blame.”

“Does that matter?” Dan asked. According to rumor, the Warlocks were far more organized and homogeneous than the other six principal clans of the Camarilla. That was one of the reasons other vampires feared them, and it implied that, on some level, the entire bloodline was involved in the present conflict.

“Yes, it does matter. Your notions about the Tremere aren’t entirely accurate.” The observation gave Dan the creepy feeling that Melpomene had just read his mind. “There
are
rivalries and conspiracies within the clan; you just don’t hear about them because the magi take care to ensure you won’t. It’s entirely possible that some regent, lord, or pontifex has undertaken this campaign without the knowledge of his peers, or even of the Inner Council of Seven in Vienna. I don’t want my descendants picking fights with innocent Tremere, or flinging wild, unprovable accusations around in Conclave. That could make the present crisis worse than it is already."

“What Conclave are we talking about?” Dan asked. “The struggle has taken on an overtly political dimension,” said Melpomene vaguely. “You don’t have to worry about that. Your task is to continue your investigation.”

Dan grimaced. “Yeah. I was
hoping
that I’d already uncovered enough to satisfy you, but I actually knew better.” “Do you have an idea of how to proceed?”

“Uh-huh. I went through Wyatt’s wallet and found his address. And this.” He showed her the scarlet key card.

'“Camelot,”’ Melpomene read. “Do you know what that means?”

A little pleased that he knew something she didn’t, Dan nodded. “I recognize the logo. Camelot’s one of the big new theme parks in Orlando. And you’ll notice that this isn’t just some kind of season pass or discount card. The park wouldn’t give a customer a key that would open anything. This looks like something an employee would have.” He grinned. “I’m going to search Wyatt’s home, and then I’m going to Disneyland!”

EIGHTEEN:
THE CONCLAVE

Laws are like cobwebs, which may catch small flies, but let wasps and hornets break through.

— Jonathan Swift, “A Tribical Essay upon the Faculties of the Mind”

Standing in the shadowy wings of the theater of the Performing Arts Center, awaiting his cue as if the present situation were a play, Elliott fingered the Windsor knot of his favorite red silk tie, making sure it was tight and centered between the points of his well-starched collar. “Stop
fidgeting!”
Judy Morgan said. “You’re making me nuts!” Elliott turned toward her. Her black leather halter was even skimpier than usual, and her skin-tight jeans were tattered and oil-stained. He suspected that her appearance was an expression of her rebel’s disdain for the whole idea of a Conclave. “You could have done with a little more fidgeting yourself,” he said dryly.

“Bull,” she replied. “Everybody expects me to look like a rough, tough Brujah, just as they expect you to look like a sissified Toreador. If 1 walked out there in a power suit, that really would make a shitty impression. Speaking of which, don’t you think we might as well schlep our butts out on stage?”

“Absolutely not,” Elliott said. Surreptitiously, to avoid annoying Judy anew, he inspected his charcoal-gray trousers for lint. “No one looks more foolish and ineffectual than a person passively waiting in front of an audience for someone else to appear and commence the festivities. Witness Gunter.” He nodded at the ruddy-faced Malkavian elder, who’d already taken one of the seats arrayed before the tall, massive teak desk on stage; a spasm of loathing passed through him. “I should have staked the wretch when I had the chance.”

“I take it you still think he put Palmer Guice up to convening the Conclave.”

“Him, or one of our phantom enemies. Even if he isn’t responsible, you can rest assured that everything Gunter says now will be directed to one end: convincing the Assembly that he ought to be proclaimed acting regent of Sarasota, or even prince outright.”

“I imagine that’s true,” said Judy, frowning and massaging one of the old scars on her shoulder. “But... look, I know I haven’t done as much of this political crap as you have — I never had the patience for it — but I don’t quite understand why you’re acting like we’re on trial. We haven’t done anything wrong. Someone else is doing things to us.”

“That’s exactly the point,” Elliott replied. “Our enemy has made us look vulnerable, and — though you won’t find the principle stated in the Six Traditions — weakness is the gravest crime of all among our predatory breed. It arouses people’s avarice. If someone can exploit the law to satisfy his rapacity at our expense, you can rest assured he will.”

A footfall sounded behind them. They turned to see Palmer Guice bustling toward them, followed by a pair of his black-suited deputies — or Archons, by their proper title. Guice was a long-nosed, lantern-jawed vampire with webs of wrinkles surrounding his steel-gray eyes. He affected an old-time English magistrate’s black robe and curled white wig, wearing the outfit with a self-assurance that made it seem appropriate. His pale aura was a confusing smear of constantly shifting colors; Elliott couldn’t draw any inferences about his mood.

As usual, Guice
sounded
cordial to the nth degree. “Elliott! Judith! I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, but our flight was delayed. Damned airplanes! Can’t abide ‘err.. The kine should have stuck with steamships and railroads.” “Welcome to Sarasota,” Elliott said with all the warmth he could muster. He extended his hand and the Justicar shook it. “I don’t think your visit was necessary, but we’re honored to have you, and we’ll try to make your stay as pleasant as possible. Before we begin, may I ask you a question?”

“You can certainly
ask,”
the Justicar said, clearly implying that he might not feel inclined to answer.

“Why did
you
think you needed to come here?” Elliott asked. “Who’s been talking to you?”

Guice chuckled. “Why, Elliott! That actually sounds a little paranoid. Poor Roger’s illness is common knowledge, and the ‘Dracula’ murders have made the national news. Moreover, speaking strictly hypothetically, if anyone
had
been carrying tales, I’m sure you understand that a Justicar can’t afford to reveal his sources. Otherwise they’ll dry up on him.” He gestured toward the stage. “Shall we?” He beamed at Judy. “After you.”

Looking sourly bemused that anyone would defer to her on the basis of her gender, the Brujah walked out from behind the curtain, and the other Kindred followed. The drone of conversation filling the hall grew louder. The house lights were burning, and Elliott was surprised to see that the majority of the seats in the spacious auditorium were occupied, by patrician Ventrue in outdated clothes; gorgeous Toreador;hideously deformed Nosferatu; Gangrel marked with the pointed ears, flattened, snout-like noses and other stigmata associated with their shape-changing powers; and other undead whose lineage was less readily apparent. It was one of the largest Assemblies he’d ever attended. No doubt some of the mysterious enemies of Sarasota were in attendance as well. He wondered how many of the vampires in the chamber were present to support Roger Phillips’ people — precious few, he suspected — how many in hopes of seeing them come to grief, and how many simply to enjoy the spectacle of the deliberations.

As Elliott sauntered to his chair, he picked out certain faces in the audience, including those of Otis McNamara and Catherine Cobb. The Toreador dared to hope that at least these two old friends were on his side. Perhaps Malachi Jones, the newly crowned Ventrue prince of Tampa Bay, peering alertly from one of the nearest boxes, was also. A thin man with bushy muttonchop whiskers and pince-nez glasses, Malachi was renowned for his sagacity, even temper, and general benevolence; he’d always gotten along well with his Manatee County neighbors. But there were others whose presence was more ominous. Like Gilbert Duane, the Malkavian prince of Miami, a bald, muscular black man with a beard and a perpetual scowl. And Pablo Velasquez, a member of the Tampa Bay primogen, a handsome Latino also of Malkavian blood who was dressed as elegantly as Elliott himself, with a gold tack in the shape of the Moon trump from the Tarot gleaming midway down his tie. Both Duane and Velasquez seemed likely bets to support Gunter, their clanmate, in any bid that he might make for power.

As Judy and Elliott sat down, Gunter glowered at them. Meanwhile Guice climbed onto the high seat behind the lofty bench. Standing at parade rest, the poker-faced Archons took up positions on either side of the massive piece of furniture. The Justicar picked up his gavel and rapped once for order.

To his surprise, despite his apprehensions, Elliott experienced a thrill of anticipation. As he gazed out at the crowd, he felt a desire to perform. And though the business of the Conclave was deadly serious, it was a public entertainment as well — a person had only to notice some of the gawking faces in the seats to appreciate
that
— and one in which he had a stellar role.

It took a few seconds, but the Assembly finally quieted down. Smiling out at the audience, Guice said, “Thank you. I’m Palmer Guice, Justicar of Clan Ventrue and the Camarilla, and this Conclave is convened on my authority to discuss certain recent events in the domain of Sarasota deemed to be of general concern. As at any Conclave, anyone is welcome to speak his mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of seating certain individuals on stage because I imagine they’ll need to speak frequently. They’re Prince Roger Phillips’ primogen: Judith Morgan of Clan Brujah”

— some of Judy’s rowdy progeny whistled and clapped — “Gunter Schmidt of Clan Malkavian, and Elliott Sinclair of Clan Toreador.” Trying to look confident and competent, invoking his supernatural charisma, the actor nodded to the crowd. With luck, the power would influence
some
of the spectators, even if the more powerful and the more hostile ones proved resistant.