After The Rabbit (Waldo Rabbit Series) Page 4

  “Five thousand gold skulls if you vote with me,” Lilith said.

  “Six!” Darius said.

  “Seven,” Lilith said.

  “I will add a thousand, as well,” Baldwin said.

  “So will I,” Gawreth said.

  It was common knowledge that Corpselover was far and away the richest of the Houses. Blooddrinker was the second.

  Darius glanced to his right. Tiberius pretended not to notice. He did not even bother to look to Poisondagger. With a snort of disgust he crossed his arms and sat.

  “Well, then, things are made clear.” Xilos let one hand drop to the table and lifted the other past his shoulder. “I say no.”

  And with that war was avoided.

  For the time being.

  XXX

  Baldwin put forward a motion to close the border with Dregal. It was passed unanimously. Knowing he would not get his declaration of war, Darius accepted this lesser alternative.

  As Lilith returned home, she knew what she would teach Hera today. Her apprentice would begin to learn just how politics and government in Alteroth worked.

  Chapter 4

  A Stab in the Back

  Skilled hands strummed strings and slapped drums, while lips played flutes and other instruments. No less than sixteen musicians stood in a corner of the hall, providing a pleasant background to the evening meal.

  In a dozen silver lamps, myrrh was burning, filling the vast chamber with sweet, smoky fragrance. Three long tables were placed end to end, and eighty nine people were seated at them. There were ninety place settings and ninety chairs, but one was left deliberately open. Upon the table were whole roasted pigs, chickens, and sheep. Baked fish, as well as succulent beef and venison, were piled high. Fresh baked bread, fruit, nuts, and vegetables were there, with only the best wine to wash it all down. For dessert there would be cakes and pies and puddings. All of them served by elven maidens dressed in silks any woman would be happy to wear.

  Anywhere else, such a lavish spread would be reserved for a feast day or some other special occasion. In Castle Poisondagger, this was an ordinary meal.

  Celton Poisondagger was seated eighth from the head of the table on the right side. He was the firstborn of Dante Poisondagger and his first wife Cecilia. Celton was a fifty-one-year-old archmage with decades of experience in helping to run the family estates. He had been entrusted to handle many delicate matters and knew how to be both subtle and forceful. Most of his time had been spent cleaning up his father’s many messes.

  Celton glanced to where the musicians were playing, to the lamps giving off wisps of grayish smoke, to the elven slaves in all their beauty and splendor, and to all the delicious food weighing down the table. All he could think of was the cost of it all, the waste. After a time, the music, incense, and servants all faded into the background. Even the food and drink grew bland when every meal was a feast.

  He glanced about the dining hall. More than anywhere else in the castle, this was a showplace. There were tapestries imported all the way from Trebizon, portraits and paintings commissioned from various artists, suits of armor made of silver, enchanted weapons and shields, and marble statues were to be seen all along the walls. They were all nothing more than garish displays meant to impress people with how cultured and prosperous the Poisondagger family was. It reminded Celton of a coward who bought a huge sword and then went about telling everyone about how very brave he was.

  The truth was the family should have been doing well. They did not own any gold or silver mines, but they had plenty of land and people. In Alteroth, taxes were not paid to the central government. Each House took as much as it pleased from the slaves and serfs it controlled. The tiny fraction of free citizens were exempt. Of course it also fell on each House to maintain the roads, enforce the laws, and provide military protection in the territories they controlled. The Great Families enjoyed both the advantages and burdens that came with complete autonomy.

  The Poisondaggers had as much territory as any other House. The farms and villages produced plenty of food. The towns and cities made consumer goods. All of which belonged to the family. It should have been plenty. The other families never had any financial issues.

  Yet their territory was plagued by bandits, the roads were becoming unsafe, the troop levels were barely adequate, and in the last several years there had been riots. People understood what would happen to those who opposed a Great Family’s will. That so many were ready to run the risk spoke volumes about how bad things were becoming. Their slaves and serfs accepted they were going to be exploited, but they would not accept being denied the essentials. Slaves needed to be fed, given shelter, and provided at least some sense of security. Even the most dimwitted apprentice knew that much.

  People were beginning to go hungry, because his father had ordered more and more of his lands to be used to grow tobacco rather than food crops. In the cities and large towns, crime was becoming increasingly common, and in some, gangs were beginning to form. The police forces and garrisons were underfunded and undermanned. The incompetence and corruption of the local authorities exacerbated these problems.

  The governors and overseers were all members of the extended family, relatives who felt entitled to stuff their own pockets. Every House had to deal with a certain amount of corruption, and, in general, the problem was ignored so long as it remained manageable. Due to his father’s stupidity, though, the issue had grown worse over the years. In certain areas as much as half of the revenues that should have been raised disappeared without a trace. Celton had gone to these spots and had the worst offenders publicly executed as examples. This would improve the situation for a short time, but eventually greed would always overpower fear.

  At the head of the table sat his father, Dante Poisondagger, patriarch of the Poisondagger family and member of the Council of Seven. Sitting to his immediate left was his ninth wife. Katrina was eighteen and younger than some of his father’s grandchildren. The old man looked to have not a care in the world. He was laughing at whatever nonsense Katrina was spewing out of her penis-gobbling hole. Everyone close to the head of the table laughed as well, only too eager to try and please. His father was eating some lemon pudding. With his rotten teeth, his diet consisted only of soft foods and strong wine. He cared not at all for the business of running his House and preferred to conserve his strength for his pleasures instead.

  We should have killed him years ago, Celton thought. Then we wouldn’t be in such a mess.

  Celton shifted his focus to the empty seat to his father’s immediate right. A plate, goblet, and utensils had been put there, but no one was ever allowed to sit in the chair. As his father’s first born son, Celton knew there were many countries where he would have been the legitimate heir. In Alteroth, however, it didn’t matter who was born first. What mattered was power and reputation. The head of a family was expected to choose the candidate with the greatest ability as the successor. This normally led to fierce competition among all the contenders to prove themselves. It was a wonderful system designed to weed out the weak and reward those ruthless enough to do whatever was necessary to stand above the rest.

  The person who was heir was always seated to the immediate right of the family head. The proximity of where you sat at the table was a reflection of your standing within the family. Your place was never set in stone. Yesterday, he had been seated ninth on the left side. The day before, he had been sixth on the left side, and the day before that, he had been twelfth on the right side. Within the main family, there were seven candidates to replace father, himself included. They were constantly being shifted about, as if in a game of ninepins. The chairs closest to the front were always occupied by the wives and by weaklings who were no threat to the succession. The heir’s seat was always empty, and Dante made it obvious he had no intention of ever naming someone to inherit.

  Celton stuffed a big chunk of beef into his mouth and chewed on it slowly. He was the first to admit his father could be ver
y clever when he chose. It was also clear he had a well-honed survival instinct. Dante Poisondagger was seventy-three years old, and had been head of the family for forty years. He had taken a total of nine wives and fathered thirty-six children, including nineteen sons. At the table were many who wanted nothing so desperately as the old man’s death.

  Yet there he sat, laughing, joking, and so very full of life. Celton’s father had many shortcomings but was an absolute master of self-preservation. In their world, power was everything. Family bonds, love, and loyalty all fell away when there was an opportunity to rise above the others. Position came before all else; there was no place for the weak. Every member of the family had this truth drilled into them from birth. From the moment you put on the black robes as an apprentice, you were expected to protect yourself. And if you could arrange an “accident” for a rival, so much the better.

  This applied to the head of the family every bit as much as it did to everyone else. If the leader of House Poisondagger grew weak or careless, it was only right he be replaced by someone stronger. Normally every Great Family had a designated heir to make the transition smooth and (nearly) bloodless. Each head of family was expected to try and hold onto power for as long as possible, but to also make sure the person who replaced them was the best candidate available.

  His father did not give a damn what happened to the family once he was gone. Dante cared only about living for as long as possible. If it meant there would be utter chaos when he breathed his last, well, the Dark Powers could sort it all out.

  Celton glanced a couple spots to his right. His cousin Pyrus, an archmage, was eating quietly. A little further down was Fenwyk, another cousin and archmage, laughing loudly at everything their father said. Turning up the table on the left was his younger brother Murat, yet another archmage. His brother noticed and lifted an eyebrow. Celton turned his attention back to his plate. There were other faces he was in competition with. Only one person could become the next head of family. Everyone else would be exiled to one of the branch families living in the countryside or other cities. There was only one prize, and they were all fighting for it. Even though they all wanted father dead and gone, they couldn’t conspire with each other. Celton knew anyone he talked to might, would likely, betray him to father. It would remove a competitor and earn father’s temporary favor. His father had no issue ridding himself of a threat.

  Trust is a dagger pointed at your own heart was a saying Celton knew very well.

  “A thousand gold skulls!” His father chortled and wiped his eyes. “He paid me a thousand gold skulls and got nothing for it!”

  Everyone near the head of the table laughed along with him. Each trying to laugh louder or appear more amused than anyone else.

  A thousand gold coins, and how long will they last? Celton wondered. That much gold was worth two million copper knuckles, an absolute fortune. It will probably be gone inside of a month.

  Celton did not laugh along with so many others, but he also knew better than to actually speak his thoughts out loud. If he did his father would probably seat him at the far end of the table with the grandchildren still too young to be apprenticed.

  As with most of his meals Celton ate his food and said nothing.

  XXX

  As he made his way to his apartment, Celton passed one of his nephews in the corridor. Virgil was one of Pyrus’s boys, a middling mage who specialized in evocation. His nephew gave just the slightest nod, a gesture he returned. As his nephew went by, Celton deliberately slowed his pace and turned his shoulder slightly so he could keep his eye on the young man.

  He was not surprised to see Virgil do the same.

  A stab in the back was the Poisondagger family motto. Living within the castle among the main family didn’t mean you were safe. He knew plenty of them would be happy to get rid of him. Celton could think of a few people he would not mind ridding himself of, as well. The problem was doing it without being too obvious. Accidents were acceptable; killing someone openly was not.

  Everyone in the main family had to deal with fear. It was the future that wore on nerves and left so many trying desperately to find any way to please father. Eventually the old man was going to die. Amazingly, it might be of natural causes. Since there was no designated heir, no one knew what would happen when the day came. No one was strong enough to declare themselves the next head and be certain of getting support. If you declared yourself, and the members of the family refused to acknowledge you, it would mark you as a failure and usually cause a quick and painful death.

  In most of the Great Families, when someone declared him or herself the new head it was usually a mere formality. Those who might be rivals would acknowledge him because they would not have the support to risk a challenge. For anyone who was not already an archmage, it was always safer just to kneel and acknowledge the heir. Smooth successions were bloodless successions.

  What occurred recently with the Blackwater family was an exception. Tiberius had not been the designated heir. He successfully removed his father and eliminated not only the proper heir but all the other potential candidates in one daring move. When Tiberius declared himself family head, the rest of the Blackwater clan acquiesced, and the Council had acknowledged an established fact.

  Celton had no doubt his rivals dreamed of doing something similar. The problem was there was no trust. No one would dare conspire with anyone else for fear of being betrayed. And there were simply too many other strong mages and archmages for any single person to safely deal with.

  So what would happen when his father breathed his last?

  “Blood and chaos,” he muttered to himself.

  Celton thought of the pit fights held on the Winter Solstice. All the criminals in custody were handed a sword, pushed into a pit, and told to kill each other. They always hesitated at first, each one afraid of the rest. But then one would stab his neighbor, and they would all get the idea. The men would attack desperately, while trying to watch for those trying to come from behind. Some men would make impromptu alliances and help each other for a while. Usually those unions ended suddenly with one stabbing the other in the back. Things always wound up degenerating into a mindless frenzy without any sort of order. It was rather pointless, as the “winner” got fed to the zombies.

  Celton found these matches very entertaining. He did not, however, want to actually participate in one.

  He entered his room intending to relax a bit before going to bed. When he spotted a slip of folded paper on top of his pillow, he drew his wand and quickly cast a spell. He was relieved to discover there were no hidden wards or enchantments within his apartment. The door had been locked, but that meant little. Anyone with magic or a lock pick could have gotten in. Father did not allow anyone but himself to magically seal doors.

  Knowing there was no magic cast into the paper, Celton picked it up and unfolded it. “If you seek glory come alone to the corner of Centaur and Amber streets at the second hour past midnight.”

  Glory? That was not a word of often associated with the Poisondagger family. Lies, betrayals, and conspiracies were what its members were known for. Who had time for something as pretentious as glory?

  Was this a set up for an assassination? Someone wanting to draw him outside of the castle where it would be easier to get rid of him? Could it be an attempt to bring him into a plot? He did not recognize the handwriting. Pyrus, Fenwyk, Murat, Dantos, Sabot, Jovan… were one of them trying to eliminate him?

  Celton looked at the piece of paper in his hand and considered.

  XXX

  It was the second hour and Celton was in the designated place. He had a wand in hand and was hiding against the side of one of the houses. The entire place was swallowed in darkness. There were no street lights, and every window and doorway was shut tight without so much as a flicker. The only slight illumination came from the Rivers of Fire miles away at the Forge.

  Celton waited in the darkness. He was not about to cast a spell to make himself
an obvious target. In the end, he had decided the potential reward outweighed the risk. If someone in the family were trying to plot father’s death, he would hear them out. If the conspiracy looked promising, he might join it. Otherwise, he would inform father of it and remove an obstacle. If this were an assassination attempt, which was very possible, he would try and eliminate his rival first. Either way, Celton saw this as an opportunity to advance.

  He remained as still as possible, peering into the blackness, searching for any movement. Being a magic user, he would sense the approach of any mage. He had several combat spells memorized and would not hesitate to cast at the first sign of treachery.

  Celton was still staring out into the empty street in front of him when a hand suddenly grabbed hold of his throat. Another hand took hold of his right wrist, forcing him to drop his wand. He was then slammed into the wall where he had been hiding. The grip around his neck was like a vice crushing him. He choked and hacked trying to breathe. Without his wand and unable to speak or freely move his hands, he could not use magic.