Ventrue

Ventrue

**of Note**

“My lady, have I offended?”

She turned to him. “My lord? What right have I to be offended by the prince’s actions?”

Jürgen shook his head. “My lady, I admit to a desire to shield you from the horrors of what we are, and sometimes I forget that you are no less a Cainite than I. But Albin still hangs in his cell, and if it is truly important that you see him—”

“It is not.” She stood, but glanced around at the chairs in the room. Jürgen took the hint, and sat. She did as well, but a good distance away. Neither said anything for a long moment.

Jürgen looked away from her face, and said, “Albin claims there is a spy in my court.”

“A spy for whom?”

“The Silent Fury. A band of murderous rebels. They sent me a list of their aims some years ago—some nonsense about freedom to do as they would, as Caine said. I should have destroyed Albin before, rather than imprisoning him.” He glanced at Rosamund, but she seemed unmoved.

“Is that what you will write in the books? That destroying your enemies is preferable to leaving them intact, since they might one day return?”

“The… book? Oh, Acindynus’s letters? Perhaps, why?

What would you write?”

Rosamund smiled coldly. “Me? I am no prince, my lord.”

Jürgen’s brow furrowed, and then relaxed. Obviously, Rosamund was upset that he had not invited her to make her own notes in the letters. He reproached himself; she was an Ambassador of the Rose and a diplomat and courtier of considerable standing, and no doubt her insights would be at least as interesting as his. Probably more so, he admitted—hers would be far better written. He opened his mouth to apologize, and then stopped. He wasn’t sure how to make the offer to her without it sounding as though he was simply doing so to placate her. A woman like Rosamund did not deserve placation.

Matthew McFarland Jürgen’s Beast stirred, drinking in his frustration and pain. It asked permission to look at Rosamund, to show Jürgen what it saw when it beheld the English rose. Jürgen denied it, and then slowly spoke. “My lady, I am sorry.”

“For what?” Her tone was still cold, but softening.

She had the same senses that he did, and could hear his sincerity.

“Chiefly that I did not say earlier, when Rudolphus was here, that I would make sure that your insights were added to Acindynus’s letters along with mine. But also…” he faltered. “I do not know. I have no poetry, no verse from scripture or proverb of the ages that conveys what you are to me. I have no way to explain myself, for matters of the heart are not matters of the battlefield. I can construct no plan for breaching your heart the way you have breached mine.”

Rosamund stood and took a seat closer to Jürgen. She took his hand and they sat there, her looking at him, him looking at the floor, for a long moment. Jürgen reflected that their hands did not warm to each other—mortals took much for granted. Even two hands warming each other by touch was a deliberate thing for vampires.

Jürgen’s Beast exercised a rare moment of strength and asked Jürgen a question. Does she make you miss your mortal life? Jürgen declined to answer, but removed his hand and looked at his lady.

“Rosamund, a question.” He hummed a snatch of the cardinal’s infectious tune. “Do you know that song?”

She nodded. “Yes. I’d heard it in France, but I don’t know where it comes from.” She paused. “Why, my lord?”

The Sword-Bearer looked up at the door. He needed to leave; he could feel the dawn tugging at his soul. It wouldn’t be proper for him to spend the day here, as much as waking up next to her the following evening might appeal. “Because of your time in France, I thought you might have heard the song and perhaps tales of its author.” He frowned and shook his head. “And because—” he turned to face her— “I hold you in esteem, my lady, and recognize that you have the right to know the goings-on of this city. Your advice and knowledge are assets I have placed Ventrue too little value on before this.” His Beast snarled in frustration, and the soldier in him demanded that Rosamund be made to drink from him after this admission.

Rosamund said nothing. She had no need. Jürgen could see her pride and jubilance, and that was enough to quiet both of those urges. He stood and took her hands, kissing them both, and then turned towards the door. He stopped before opening it. “I expect our journey might be slightly delayed as I deal with this ‘Silent Fury’.”

“Can I be of assistance?”

Jürgen opened the door, and heard the guards outside snap to attention. A thought struck him, and he smiled.

“Perhaps, my lady. Tomorrow night, I may have need of your help.”

“I am only too happy to be of service, my lord.” He turned to look at her once more before leaving for his own haven. “And I am glad I will be allowed to help to avenge poor Blanche.”

Jürgen nodded, and began the walk to his bedchamber.

Of course she is a true Scion, he reflected, and I should have recognized that earlier. A true Scion answers all debts and slights, and of course the murder of her servant must be paid for in blood.

Matthew McFarland Albin the Ghost wept bitterly in his cell. According to the jailor, he had cried and gibbered all throughout the day in a kind of hysterical half-sleep. As soon as the sun had set, he had attempted to pull himself free of his bonds, but when that had failed, he could only stand and bawl.

Jürgen was about to ease his pain considerably.

He’d warned Rosamund that the creature in the cell was not so much a Cainite as the remains of one. He’d warned her that he might boast to her about killing her servant, about any number of foul deeds. Rosamund had taken these warnings to heart, of course, but Jürgen wasn’t worried. Cainites of skill and age could reduce even other vampires to tears with a glance and a few well-chosen words, taking knowledge from their opponents’ minds and backing that knowledge with the force of Caine’s curse.

Rosamund had experienced the worst of such manipulators; Albin the Ghost was hardly a threat.

Jürgen waited outside the jail for only an hour. Other Cainites and their servants, and even unknowing mortals wandered by, and he resisted the temptation to seize each of them and wrest whatever they knew from their minds.

Everyone knows something, he thought, but they don’t usually understand the significance of what they know.

The Beast asserted its boredom and reminded Jürgen of what he had done the night before. Jürgen slapped the voice down and buried it under thoughts of his erstwhile servant.

Albin the Ghost hadn’t known his sire or his clan.

Such Cainites were called “Caitiff” and were the lowest of the low, more debased and despised even than the cursed Malkavians or the deformed Nosferatu. But Jürgen had found uses for Albin, and set him to work in Magdeburg as a spy. When Albin had betrayed him, Jürgen had first imprisoned him, and then released him to find and report on the Silent Fury.

Ventrue Chapter Seven But apparently, there was some lost time here, somewhere. Not much—a year or two—but even so, Jürgen had let his attention to Albin slip. It was easy to do; the wretch was easy to ignore. Somewhere in the course of his travels, Albin had fallen in with the Silent Fury. But the time still doesn’t work, thought Jürgen. I imprisoned him… perhaps seventeen years ago. I released him shortly thereafter to trail these rebel bastards.

Jürgen’s Beast snarled a reminder. Albin hadn’t been released, he’d escaped. Jürgen had simply caught him skulking around the city thereafter and erased the escape from his mind. In the years since, Jürgen had quite forgotten, just as Albin had. But that still doesn’t answer where the Ghost was between his escape and his recapture. It couldn’t have been more than a few months, but much can happen in that time.

“My lord?” Rosamund walked up to him from the jail.

She wasn’t disheveled in the slightest, at least not physically, but her expression told Jürgen that something else was very wrong. “We must speak alone.”

Moments later they sat in Jürgen’s chambers, the door guarded by ghoul knights and a fire blazing away. Jürgen hoped the noise from the fire would mask their conversation from any Cainites in the area. “My lady, what did he tell you?”

She looked at his chest as if afraid. “Did you… command him last night? To refrain from speaking of your sire?”

Jürgen shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, but what of it?”

Rosamund nodded. “That is why he was so muddled, and that is why his mind was unclear, I think. But as I am unable to command minds or reorder memories—”

“What have you found, my lady?” Jürgen was growing nervous. He was beginning to suspect what had happened.

“He was commanded by the woman—the Tzimisce in the Silent Fury—to reveal to you his true allegiance.

He has been in the employ of your sire since his release from imprisonment.” Rosamund’s eyes didn’t move.

Jürgen shut his eyes. “And in what capacity?”

Rosamund’s words were a whisper, but Jürgen heard them well enough. “He was spying on you on Hardestadt’s behalf.”

Matthew McFarland Jürgen felt his fangs elongating, and his eyes snapped open. He made the mistake of catching his lady’s gaze for a second, and saw her own eyes widen in fear. Have my eyes that vibrancy you so cherish now? he thought. “He told you this, even with the command I gave him?”

Rosamund shook his head. “He never said so much, not directly. But I saw it. I saw the way his colors and mind changed when I spoke of you and of Hardestadt. I think he has taken blood from your sire.”

Jürgen ground his teeth. “Yes, I suppose his blood might well wash away the oath Albin had with me, especially since he has not received my own blood in so long.”

Jürgen took a moment to put the pieces together. The Silent Fury never went too far from Magdeburg, which meant that Albin could spy on both them and Jürgen without too much difficulty, especially if he and the rebels were allied. But Hardestadt… what did the lord of the Fiefs of the Black Cross think to gain here?

He stood. “Very well. I understand their plan, and I know what must be done. I ride tonight, alone.” His Beast leapt up and howled in delight, but Jürgen shushed it. He walked to the door, and then turned. “My lady…” He moved back to her and took her hands. “I do not know how to thank you for this. I can only say that I knew that there was more to learn from Albin, but that finding it myself would take time, as he would resist me.” He stepped closer. “But no one resists you.”

He leaned in and kissed her. His fangs were still extended and they brushed gently against her lips, but drew no blood.

They kissed, and he lost time. He lost rage and blood and honor. He lost everything but the kiss, but her, but what she had done for him without thought of boon or advantage.

Love?

The soldier refused to allow it. He stopped and pulled back. She looked surprised and perhaps a bit frightened— this was unlike Jürgen. He turned and left the room, instructing the guards to make sure that Rosamund was kept safe.

Ventrue Heinrich joined him immediately. “My lord, what is happening?”

Jürgen grimaced. “I am leaving, Heinrich. I have important business.” He nodded towards the stables. “Go and make sure my horse is saddled, and tell Christof that he is to act as prince until I return. I doubt it will be more than a few nights.”

“Alone, my lord?”

“Yes.” He stopped at the prison door. “I am only staying to feed and get my sword, and then I ride.” He started to descend the stairs, and then turned back to his seneschal. “Heinrich, Albin must not know that I have left, under any circumstances.” Heinrich nodded and darted off to the stable. Jürgen continued down towards the prisoners. He would need his strength.

He knew where to find the Silent Fury.

Matthew McFarland Jürgen rode south, his horse’s hooves deafening in the still night. He dearly wished he could dull his senses and hear as a mortal, but he could not—when riding at night, he needed to be able to see the road by the dim moonlight. While that was all very well, his hearing was similarly sharp, and the pounding hooves drowned out any other sound.

Trabitz. He had never been there. It wasn’t a large town. It was significant only insofar as Hardestadt’s court stopped nearby. Hardestadt never held court in the same place for too long. Every few years, he would send word to Jürgen as to his traveling schedule for when and where he expected to see his childe. Hardestadt paid very little attention to what happened behind him, as ever more concerned with what was before him. Jürgen couldn’t find too much fault with his sire’s practices—his sire was unquestionably one of the most powerful Cainites in the world. But he hadn’t noticed the Silent Fury following him, dwelling ever in his shadow, probably only a week behind him. Feeding on his scraps like the dogs they were.

Small wonder, then, that Albin had found them so easily. Small wonder that Albin had such incomplete information on Jürgen—he had traveled with the Silent Fury instead of gathering information for Hardestadt.

Still, Jürgen could not help but pity the Ghost of Magdeburg. The Caitiff had no idea that he was meant to be a sacrificial lamb, simple bait to lead Jürgen into conflict with his sire. Jürgen rode on; he reasoned that he could reach Trabitz before daybreak. Once in the vicinity, he should have little trouble finding the Silent Fury—Cainites left evidence of their passing if they were not careful, and these Furores had most assuredly proven careless.

His horse’s hooves flew over the uneven ground, but the steed—strengthened on Jürgen’s blood and trained with Akuji’s skill with animals—didn’t slow. Jürgen’s thoughts drifted to Rosamund. Would she have come on this mission, had I asked? How have I any right to ask such a thing? This mission is Ventrue Chapter Eight nothing more or less than war, and Rosamund is no warrior. That thought troubled Jürgen. All Cainites, no matter clan or road, possessed the capability for battle. The Rose Clan, known commonly as the Toreador, possessed skills of perception and speed that made them fearsome combatants. Some of them, like Rosamund’s brother-in-Blood, Josselin, did choose that path; others chose more artistic pursuits. Jürgen wondered if Rosamund’s sex held her back; he knew that sheer age and necessity made warriors out of many female Cainites.

He heard the river to the east and urged his horse closer to it. Hardestadt’s court had followed the river for a time, and so the Sword-Bearer assumed that the Silent Fury had as well. He ducked under a branch and slowed slightly. He’d been riding for hours; his quarry should be somewhat nearby.

Their leader had been a merchant in life, and if he was correct in his assumption that Pierre Cardinal was now a Cainite, spreading his tunes as he had in life, the pack of them wouldn’t be too far from Trabitz. They must sleep outdoors or in a wagon, perhaps with a ghoul guard, and enter the city to feed at night. Now Jürgen only had to track them.

Trabitz wasn’t a large settlement—the population wouldn’t support five Cainites easily. As he rode, he smelled tilled earth. People, farmers perhaps, were nearby.

He dismounted and walked his horse, having no desire to tire the stallion out too much. He would need to ride back as quickly as he’d come, after all.

From the distance he heard someone singing. The words were German, but the tune was familiar.

Sits in his castle on the Elbe, Happy in his sty, happy in his swill.

Jürgen noted with some distaste that the lyrics had been reworked to fit him. He drew his sword.

Spends nights at the teat of his fair French whore, The pig, the pig with the shining sword.

Jürgen crept closer. He had no gift for stealth, but the Cainites of the Silent Fury seemed not to notice. He peered out at them—the moonlight was enough for him to see by, and of course they had no fire lit. Fire only served to frighten Cainites, for it could not warm them and many of them had no need of the light.

Matthew McFarland He only saw four. One sat near a small wagon and played on a lute. His clothes and accent marked him as Pierre Cardinal, the Toreador. His childe was nowhere to be seen, but she wasn’t the one Jürgen was most concerned about. Christoffel Weiss, the Caitiff, stood near the Toreador and sang along. Armin Brenner stood off, peering towards the river.

Where is the Tzimisce?

Members of this clan, often called the Clan of Dragons, were dangerous in ways that no other Cainites could be. The merest touch of a Tzimisce could reshape flesh, splinter bone and even—if legends were to be believed— draw the blood from an unliving body. Jürgen wished to kill the wild-looking woman first, but could not see her.

And then Jürgen’s horse shrieked, and he knew that she was near after all.

He heard the music stop and a warning called out in a language Jürgen had heard before, but did not understand—some bastard Slavic tongue.

The Sword-Bearer leapt to his feet and strode towards the Cainites. He had no need to hide, or to sneak, or to cower. He was the Prince of Magdeburg, and he had no fear of the peasants before him.

They attacked as a group—they had clearly been training for the night when they might face Jürgen in battle. Pierre darted in more quickly than a human eye would have been able to follow, stabbing at Jürgen’s face with a short blade. Jürgen deflected it easily, and lashed out at the Toreador. The blow caught him by surprise and Pierre stumbled backwards, out of Jürgen’s reach. Jürgen raised his sword and advanced, just as Christoffel leapt on him from behind.

The Caitiff’s fangs pierced the back of Jürgen’s neck, and Jürgen realized with a trickle of cold fear that they intended to take his blood and soul as well as his unlife.

He wasn’t surprised, of course—while performing the Amaranth on another Cainite, especially a prince, was tantamount to blasphemy, surely nothing was beneath these wretches.

Ventrue Jürgen’s Beast roared in frustration, but Jürgen quieted it. He stabbed his sword into the ground, reached behind him and seized Weiss with both hands, and flung him against a tree. He heard bones crack in the impact, and more break as the Caitiff tried to regain his footing, but ignored them. Weiss would have to waste precious blood and time healing himself, and Jürgen did not intend to give him the chance. He snatched his sword from the ground and rushed at the Caitiff still struggling to his feet. Christoffel’s eyes grew wide as Jürgen drew back his sword to decapitate him—but the blow didn’t land.

Armin Brenner tackled the prince, and Jürgen mentally chastised himself for not keeping his attention to the side. Brenner, as was typical of his clan, was much stronger than his small frame would indicate. Also characteristically, he was on the verge of frenzy.

Jürgen dropped his sword again. He grabbed the Brujah by the throat and groin, raised him above his head, and brought Brenner’s back down on his knee. Brenner’s spine shattered with a sickening crunch, and he screamed in pain. Jürgen threw him to the side—repairing a wound of that magnitude would take only minutes, but minutes would be enough. He picked up his sword and saw that Weiss was retreating towards the wagon, obviously as the precursor to an attack by the others.

Jürgen had no intention of playing into their hands.

He sprinted towards the wagon and jumped on top of it.

Looking down, he saw Weiss, Cardinal, and Cardinal’s childe waiting for him. The girl was terrified—almost in Rötschreck, Jürgen guessed. He glared down at her and bared his fangs, his gaze cutting through her mind as surely as his blade would her head. She shrieked and ran. Cardinal looked after her and shouted, “Mathilde!”

Weiss kept his eyes on Jürgen, but he was still trying to set the bones in his legs. The Sword-Bearer leapt nimbly down from the wagon and landed behind the Toreador, grabbed a handful of hair, and drove his blade through the small of Cardinal’s back. He fell to his knees as Jürgen’s sword severed his spine, and, shoving the musician to the ground, Jürgen turned his attention to Weiss.

Matthew McFarland