Jacob Wolfe was a great bull of a man, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest that wouldn't have looked out of place on a professional gladiator. He wore his hair cropped close to his skull, maintained his face as that of a man in his forties, and ignored all fashions as they came and went. His jaw jutted always forward, as though daring anyone to comment. His eyes were dark and piercing, and it was a point of honor to him that he never looked away first. He had hands like mauls, large and blocky, curled most often into fists, and his voice was a growl. The Wolfe had put a lot of time and thought into the image he projected, and he was quietly pleased with the result. It let people know right from the start that he was not a man to be trifled with.
The Wolfe was a hundred and three years old, but thanks to Imperial science, the young man sitting opposite him could easily have been mistaken for his brother rather than his son. Even so, a stranger would have found it hard to detect any Family resemblance between them. Valentine Wolfe was tall, slender and darkly delicate, like a hothouse flower rudely torn from its usual habitat. His face was long and thin and more than fashionably pale, and his shock of jet black hair fell to his shoulders in curls and ringlets. Heavy mascara highlighted his overbright eyes, and a painted crimson smile hid his feelings from one and all. He had an artist's hands, all long slender fingers and languorous gestures, and they fluttered about his throat in moments of excitement like startled doves in the night.
Valentine Wolfe was well known in and out of court for having tried every drug known to man, and a few he'd had made up specially. If you could smoke it, sniff it or stick it where the sun doesn't shine, he'd tried it all once, and twice if he enjoyed it, which he usually did. It was truly said he'd never met a chemical he didn't like. It was a wonder to all who knew him that he hadn't fried his brains long ago, but by some dark chemical miracle, his mind remained sharp and dangerous. He had the usual enemies for a man in his position and looked like he would outlive them all. And though he chose not to play the game of intrigue himself, he could still be a subtle and malevolent influence on those who did. Valentine might be a hothouse flower, but his thorns were poisonous. He produced a tab from a silver pillbox and pressed it against the side of his neck, over the main vein. His painted smile widened like a scarlet wound. His father sniffed disapprovingly.
'Do you have to do that now? We'll be at court soon, and we're both going to need all our wits about us.'
'It's just a little something to take the edge off, Father.' Valentine's voice was calm and polite, and only a trifle dreamy. 'Rest assured that all my many resources are at your disposal. If I was any more alert, my synapses would be going into meltdown. Why do you suppose Her Imperial Majesty, long may she reign, desires our company this time?'
'Who knows why the Iron Bitch does anything these days? I've spent more time traveling back and forth in these damned death traps this last week than I'd normally expect in a month. She's not following any of her usual patterns, and all my usual sources have either disappeared into the woodwork or developed unexpected scruples. I've been paying the little turds good money for years, and just when I really need them they fold on me. Assuming I make it back from court in one fairly large piece, heads are going to roll, boy, and I am not being metaphorical. She's planning something, something she knows the Company of Lords won't approve of, so she's doing all this just to keep us distracted and separated. It's a smokescreen, sleight of hand, but hiding what? Pay attention, boy! One of these days, loath though I am to admit it, you're going to have to take over from me as head of the Family, and I won't have it said I didn't do everything in my power to ready you for that.'
'Far away may that time be. Father,' said Valentine, and only a careful ear might have detected a note of sarcasm in his voice. 'You do so much for me, and I never appreciate it. I have a few trifles about me that are said to boost the intellect and liberate the mind. Would you care to try a little something?'
'No, I would not. I've never needed drugs to be smart. Show me how smart you are. Why do you think the Bitch wants to see us this time?'
Valentine drew a flower from his sleeve. It had a long stem bristling with thorns, and its thick pulpy petals were black as night. He sniffed the flower appreciatively, then took one petal between his perfect teeth and pulled it free. He ate the petal slowly, savoring the juices.
'The Empress has been most disturbed of late, ever since news came in of two newly discovered alien species outside the Empire with technologies at least the equal of our own. One would have been enough as a potential threat, but the prospect of two such species seems to have practically unhinged the poor dear. Then there's the cyberats, playing their disruptive little games in our computers, the clone underground spreading its proclamations everywhere you look, and let us not forget the elves, bless their black little hearts. The elves have been growing increasingly arrogant, not to mention successful, in their attacks of late. And of course there are always the endless court intrigues, with their plots and schemes and intricate designs. Some days at court you don't dare cough or scratch your ear for fear someone will take it as a sign to start something violent. Still, you don't need me to tell you that, Father.'
The Wolfe smiled briefly. It was not a pretty sight. 'So, you have been paying attention, at least. They're all good answers, but which one would you pick? Where does the real danger lie for the Empress and for us?'
Valentine Wolfe ate another black petal, chewing thoughtfully. Bright spots of color glowed on his pale cheeks like badly applied rouge, and his dark eyes saw many things. 'The aliens are too distant a threat to be worrying our dear Majesty yet. Perhaps we should just introduce the aliens to each other and then stand well back while they fight it out. The cyberats are too few and far between to be anything but a nuisance, and the clone underground lacks the funding necessary to emerge as
Jacob Wolfe nodded slowly and flexed his great muscles. 'Good. That's more like it. One of us is going to get the chop, and she wants us there to witness it and be reminded where the real power at court lies. Nothing new there, except that for once, I don't have a clue as to who it might be. And that is strange. There's usually some whisper going round where my agents can overhear it. So watch yourself when we get to court, boy. Keep your mouth shut and your veins clear, and take your lead from me.'
'Of course, Father.' Valentine finished the last petal and began to chew slowly at the stem, ignoring the thorns. A thin trickle of saliva mixed with blood ran down his chin as he smiled, and Jacob Wolfe looked away.
* * *
The antechamber to the Imperial Court was grand enough in its own right to put any other court to shame. A huge open chamber of gleaming steel and brass, it stretched away in every direction for as far as the eye could comfortably see, the vista broken here and there by tall intricately worked pillars of gold and silver, set at regular intervals as much for the effect as anything else. And still the packed crowd filled the antechamber from wall to distant wall. Everyone who was anyone, or thought they might be, came to court when the Empress held audience to shake the hand of those in favor or snub those who weren't, to make Family agreements or business deals, or just to be seen at court by the billions watching on their holoscreens throughout the Empire. Food and drink of all kinds were freely available from bewigged servants, but few availed themselves. Waiting to see the Empress, and discover what mood she was in this time, didn't exactly encourage the appetite. Besides, Lionstone had a nasty sense of humor, and it sometimes emerged in the food.
All the Families were there, the cream of the aristocracy, carefully keeping a respectful distance between themselves and sworn enemies, or simply those of discernably lower status. Every Clan had a feud going on with at least one other Clan. It was expected. Holograms stood to one side, nodding politely to each other, given away by the occasional faint shimmering as some security field interrupted the signal for a moment. Forbidden by law and custom from speaking or drawing attention to themselves, they drifted among the gorgeous lords and ladies like ghosts at the feast.
The Families conversed quietly as they waited, searching for support or oneupmanship or simply the latest gossip. Knowledge was power in Lionstone's court, even if it was only foreknowledge of which way to duck. Everyone suspected everyone else of being the prospective victim of the coming court's proceedings, and veiled eyes looked this way and that for signs of weakness, like vultures hovering over a dying man. No one said anything openly, of course. It wasn't done.
