Malachite thought for a moment upon the prince’s words. “You are seeking allies.”
Alexander’s smile grew wider. “There are powerful Cainites who lair in these marches, Malachite. Qarakh is one of them in Livonia, but there are Tzimisce voivodes who claim lands here as well, and others besides. If I can forge alliances with any or all of them…”
“You shall be in far better position to retake Paris,” Malachite said softly, impressed by the prince’s raw ambition. Jürgen—on whose behalf Alexander was technically leading this crusade—had warred with the Tzimisce of Hungary for several years. To hear Alexander talk openly of seeking alliance with them, it was clear he would never rest until he regained Paris, which he deemed to be rightfully his.
“Isn’t that the way of our kind, to take the strength of others and add it to our own?” Alexander said.
“That is how we feed.”
“No, that is how we exist.”
Malachite didn’t subscribe to such a bleak worldview, but he knew this wasn’t the time to argue the finer points of philosophy with Alexander. “And what if you discover that someone doesn’t wish to become your ally?”
Alexander shrugged. “Then I shall engage them in battle, defeat them, and the triumph shall add to my reputation, ultimately helping me regain my throne.”
Malachite was in awe at the simple audacity of it. “And what if you have to fight them all—Qarakh’s tribe and the voivodes both?”
“What if I do? I will take them on as they come—singularly or collectively—and I will destroy them.” There was no pride in his voice, no boasting. He said it as if it were a simple statement of fact, no more remarkable than saying that the sun revolved around the Earth. Or in his case, Malachite thought, around Alexander of Paris.
“I apologize, milord,” Malachite said.
Alexander frowned. “Whatever for?”
“For having the audacity to believe that I could ever advise you.”
Alexander laughed with delight, and for an instant he seemed as youthful as his countenance. “Do not despair, my dear Malachite. The time will undoubtedly come when I shall have need of your counsel. Until then—”
Before Alexander could finish his thought, Brother Rudiger—a Cainite garbed in a mail hauberk and a tabard emblazoned with the black cross of the Teutonic Knights—entered the tent. While Alexander was the ultimate leader of his army, Brother Rudiger commanded the knights in the field. All of the knights were members of the Order of the Black Cross, a secretive brotherhood of Cainites and ghouls hidden within the mortal Teutonic Order and loyal to Lord Jürgen. As a means to gather influence, such orders within orders were not uncommon among Cainites, but Malachite had to admit that the Order of the Black Cross was among the most entrenched he had encountered. Jürgen seemed able to use the cover of the Teutonic Knights (and their allies, the Livonian Sword-Brothers) with unparalleled ease.
Much of this was due, Malachite thought, to the fact that the unliving Black Cross knights had much in common with their mortal counterparts and cat’s-paws. They were true believers in the campaign to extend Christendom and fight the scourges of heresy and paganism, all for the glory of God. That they enlarged their order and lord’s domains in the process, and that many living Christians would consider them devils, was secondary to their crusading zeal.
Brother Rudiger, though of Ventrue blood like Alexander, could not have been more different from the exiled prince. Though he tried to conceal it, he loathed the secular-minded Alexander for his hypocrisy in using the Church for his own ends. Malachite had witnessed the two interact on a number of occasions, and while Rudiger always deferred to the prince and carried out his orders, the Nosferatu thought there might well come a time when he would refuse to do so. And then there would be trouble indeed.
“A rider draws near the camp,” Rudiger said. The knight was of medium height, broad-shouldered and somewhat stocky. He had a round face with neatly trimmed brown hair and a beard to match. His mouth was set in a firm line, and Malachite had the impression that he was fighting to keep his lip from curling in distaste at being in Alexander’s presence.
The prince’s eyes glittered like shards of broken ice. For an instant, Malachite thought that he would spring off the bed and fall upon Rudiger for entering without being announced. If the Black Cross commander noticed Alexander’s reaction, he gave no sign; he merely stood calmly and waited for a reply.
“Why do you disturb me with this news? Are your knights incapable of dealing with a lone rider?”
Rudiger’s eyes narrowed, but his tone remained even. “Of course they are capable, but I thought you’d want to be informed of the rider’s identity at once. It’s Lord István—and he’s alone.”
Alexander was silent for a moment before responding. “Bring him to me as soon as he arrives.”
“I shall do so.” Rudiger withdrew. Malachite noticed that the knight had departed without speaking an honorific: no Yes, your highness or At once, milord. Definitely a sign of trouble to come.
Malachite started to rise, but Alexander gestured that he should remain seated. “Stay. I would have you hear what István has to say.”
Malachite inclined his head. “As you wish, milord.”
Their wait wasn’t long. Within moments, they heard István ride up. Outside, Rudiger ordered a ghoul to tend to the Cainite’s horse. Then Rudiger and István entered the prince’s tent, the latter giving Malachite a quick look as if to say, What are you doing here? before bowing to his liege. He was a slender Magyar with black hair that fell to his shoulders and a neat black beard. He wore mail beneath a tabard that was ripped in several places and stained with dried blood. He hailed from yet another line of Ventrue but had sworn many an oath to Alexander. Malachite thought they’d bonded over a shared penchant for cruelty.
Rudiger, Malachite noted, did not bow.
