After The Rabbit (Waldo Rabbit Series) (6 page)

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 very 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.

In the dark, red and slitted eyes appeared before his own. Inky lips pulled back in a bloodless smile to reveal fangs.

A vampire!
Celton had been outwitted after all. He expected those fangs to rip out his throat and for everything to end.

Instead, the monster spoke to him. “I take it you are Celton Poisondagger? I’ve already eaten, and if I wanted to kill you, you would be dead. Forgive my rudeness, but I did not want you to attack me by mistake. Do you understand?”

The iron grip loosened barely enough to let him breathe again.

“Yes,” he gasped.

“Good. Now we can talk.”

The vampire let go of him and casually strode a few steps away.

Celton snatched his wand from the ground and pointed it at the vampire. He had never faced one before and never realized how silent and quick they were. To say nothing of strong! This one was a few inches shorter than he was and looked positively frail. After the initial demonstration, Celton would not be fooled, though. “Who are you? No one in my family has a vampire under their control.” He kept his arm steady and was ready to cast if the monster did anything threatening at all.

“I should hope not. It would be an embarrassment if one of my kind were captured by a member of your clan.” The vampire performed an elaborate bow, causing the cape about his shoulders to whip about. “My name is Enver.”

The name was well known. Celton sucked in a deep breath and considered killing the creature immediately. “You’re Lilith Corpselover’s familiar.”

“I am.”

“What does House Corpselover want with me?”

Enver shook his head. “Nothing. I am not here on behalf of my mistress.”

“Then, why are you here?”

Enver spread his hands. “I’ve come here to offer you and your family the chance to get something you have wanted for a very long while.”

“What do you mean?”

Enver spoke slowly, as if savoring every word. “I am offering you the chance to kill my mistress.”

Chapter 5

Better Than Flowers

Waldo sat
on the ground with the spellbook he had taken from Melissa in his lap. Having spent the entire night running, this was his first chance to go through it. Rather than studying any of the spells or recipes or wards, he was skimmed through to get an idea of what was here.

It quickly became obvious that Melissa had not been bluffing about being an archmage. There were many complex spells a mere mage would not be able to work. From the selection it was also clear Melissa was primarily skilled in wind magic. Waldo noted only four healing spells: all basic, closing cuts, removing bruises, that sort of thing. By comparison he counted thirty three separate spells using air magic, ranging from creating a simple breeze to flying to bringing down a cyclone.