CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“THIS HAS TO stop." Gabriel looked at the small group assembled in the Wolven-skorn parlor. "Jonmarc Vahanian is the Lady's chosen. We are oath-bound as the Blood Council to support the Lord of Dark Haven." The Blood Council and their seconds had come at his insistence the night after the reception at Dark Haven. Malesh leaned against the wall near the door. All of the other seconds except Yestin lingered in the shadows.

Uri sprawled in a chair, studiously avoiding Gabriel. Malesh felt the old revulsion sweep over him. Uri so obviously lacked the breeding, the inborn nobility that Gabriel exuded effortlessly. Wealth or not, Malesh wondered again how the Blood Council tolerated his maker.

"The idea of 'support' can mean so many things," Uri said, toying with the heavy gold chain of his bracelet. "I hardly consider coddling to be support. If he's strong enough, let him take the title. He survived the games. He can't hide behind your skirts forever."

"If you intend to challenge him for the title, then you challenge all of us," Riqua stepped forward. "Is that your intent?"

"Ah, Riqua. Still so much the merchant, balancing the scales." He withdrew a coin from his vest pocket and began to turn it through his fingers. "Why shouldn't he be challenged? You have a tradesman's love of efficiency," he said derisively. "Isn't it more efficient for one of "us to rule Dark Haven? How long will Vahanian live—assuming he doesn't meet an unfortunate accident? Most mortals are dead before they've lived fifty years. A strong man, a lucky man, might see seventy. What's that to us? Barely a day. Then everything declines while a new lord is chosen. We convince ourselves that it's the Lady who chooses, but how do we know? I believe it's luck, all of it. Nothing but luck."

"If it's efficiency you love, then where were you all those years that Dark Haven sat empty?" Rafe's voice had a hard edge to it. "What did you do for the holdings? You were content to let the vineyards waste away. We all were. We cared nothing about whether the villagers made a living, so long as they didn't come after us. Yes, Vahanian has accomplished so much so quickly because of Gabriel's backing. But now that I've seen what they've done, I'm ashamed that we let the holdings deteriorate. We wouldn't have done that for our own lands. I'm intrigued to see what this lord makes of the title. You should love that, Uri. A wild card."

"What do we care what happens to the vineyards?"

Astasia had strategically positioned herself between Rafe and Cailan, and she was enjoying the tension that produced. Malesh suppressed a smile. Astasia considered herself too good for him. Malesh would surprise her. Once his plan worked, Astasia's finely honed sense for opportunity would bring her to him, and to his bed.

"How do we prosper if the villagers grow fat?" Astasia challenged. "Will it fatten the goats they offer us, or the criminals they stake out for us to kill? Perhaps if they're wealthy there will be more cutpurses, and more for us to eat. Who among us needs the gold the traders bring? Outlanders bring their fear of our kind. They judge our mortal relationships, as if it's perversion for us to dwell among the living and take our lovers where we choose. When the last lord died, Dark Haven turned in on itself, and the outlanders stopped coming. No one to burn us, no one to spread lies about us to the mortals. We've been safe. Change can only bring grief."

"The fact remains that the Lady Herself chose Jonmarc Vahanian as the new Lord of Dark Haven, and we are oath-bound to the Lady." Gabriel's irritation was clear in his voice.

"Did she?" Uri asked, staring at the ceiling. "You were the one who claimed to. have the dream that foretold a new lord's coming. You're the one who said the Lady sent you to find Jonmarc Vahanian. And you're the one who claimed the Lady made you Martris Drayke's protector, even though it broke your vow to honor the truce. What do we have except your word that any of that's true?"

"How can you doubt the will of the Lady?" Yestin stepped forward. "Martris Drayke won back the throne of Margolan, against the Obsidian King as well as Foor Arontala. Jonmarc Vahanian has survived against all odds. Surely the hand of the Lady is clear!"

"I find that the will of the Lady is always clearest to those who wanted to go in that direction anyhow," Uri replied with ennui. "So perhaps it's the will of the Lady that the truce is broken. I understand that many vayash moru in Margolan have volunteered for the Margolan army, to hunt down Jared's loyalists. And Vahanian trains with Laisren to fight vayash moru. Is that, also, the will of the Lady?"

"Considering your threats, he'd be a fool not to." Riqua snapped. "The Lord of Dark Haven — and his Lady - must be as safe among our kind as we wish to be among mortals. Prosperous mortals have no need to fear us. The mobs turn against us when they're hungry, driven by superstition and fear. Vahanian offers us a way of doing business we've not seen before, a full partnership where we've only ever lurked in the shadows. Why shouldn't we support that?"

Uri looked from Riqua to Gabriel and the others. Malesh saw the hard glint that came to his maker's eyes, a look that meant Uri had reached his limit. "We're not meant to partner with mortals. We're meant to rule. Like the wolf rules the forest," he said with a glance toward Yestin. "We are the top predator. It's the way of nature. The strongest wins. And that is the will of the Lady." He glared at Gabriel. "I'll stop baiting your precious mortal lord when he proves to me that he can win his prize in fair combat. And if you can choose to break the truce as you see fit, then so can I. My patience with the Council is over."

Malesh followed Uri from the room, studiously keeping his expression neutral. That couldn't have gone better if I'd been Uri's puppet master. The truce is dead. Uri's cut off from the rest of the Council. He's declared Vahanian fair game. Uri's soft and slow. He's about to find out just what the top predator looks like. They're worried about the Lady's will. But it's my will that is going to remake Dark Haven— and there's not a thing their precious Council can do about it.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Cam stood outside the inn for half a candlemark, watching patrons come and go from the shadow of an alley across the street. Overhead, the winter wind snapped at the pieces of laundry forgotten by their owners for the night, left to freeze on the lines. Behind him, a cat yowled. The alley smelled of urine and rotted food, and only the night's chill prevented it from smelling even worse.

The Stray Dog Inn lived up to its name. Aberponte was Isencroft's palace city, but the streets where its wealthiest residents lived were far from these twisted alleys. This was home to the city's poorest residents, the people whose luck had let them down. The Stray Dog Inn made no pretense of long-faded glory. It was clear that the Stray Dog's building had been many things over the years, none of them very successful. Its thatched roof was bare in places, and the plaster beside the door was stained and cracked. A drunk slept off his wine near the front steps, unlikely to ever wake up again in this cold.

It was the kind of place Cam might have brought a dozen soldiers to shut down, either for cheating on taxes or rigging the card games. Tonight, Cam wore an old set of tunic and trews he had borrowed, from one of the palace's gardeners. The clothes were stained, worn, and appropriately smelling of dirt; he hoped to fit right in. Two weeks had pas'sed since Cam's return from the wedding in Mar-golan. For most of that time, he had been watching the patrons come and go at the Stray Dog Inn. Checking first in both directions, Cam entered the inn.