“I’m worried about my boy.” Dagen pulled a used paper napkin out of his pocket and wrung it in his hands, absentmindedly twisting it this way and that.  Even though dead air was generally discouraged while on long-distance vid calls, he was glad that his friend hadn’t said anything to fill the silence. Too often, people felt compelled to fill the air with mindless chatter, especially when the time came for compassion. Dagen knew that sometimes, the most compassionate remark you could make was none at all.  Silence, especially between friends, was golden.

He smoothed out the wrinkles and looked at the logo printed on the napkin’s front.  Unsurprisingly, it had come from Jalai’s Old Fashioned Ice Cream Parlor.  It was the same ice cream store that he’d taken Victus to when he’d been just a boy, so many years ago. It was still his favorite place to go when he needed a few minutes away from the monastery to contemplate difficult issues in his life.  The store had changed hands several times in the past two decades, and aside from minor remodels, each new owner had wisely chosen not to try and improve upon its character.  This continuity had provided Dagen with a sense of stability, and he hoped it would never stop being precisely what it was.  If it did, he thought to himself, I might just leave monastic life and buy the place myself. The image of Victus serving scoops of ice cream to small children while wearing a starched, white uniform brought a much needed smile to his face.

“Are you certain that we did the right thing in sending him there?” he asked, taking partial ownership of an issue over which he’d had little influence.  “I’m confident that you had very good reasons for sending him to Mal, but the negin isn’t getting any less abrasive, and after more than a year, Victus doesn’t seem to be any closer to catching the assassin.”

Back in his office at the Earth abbey, light years away,  Abbot Wesley sighed dispiritedly.  “I know, I know… You can’t imagine how badly I want to pull him out of that nest of vipers.” He slowly shook his head, wondering for the thousandth time if he’d made a mistake. “But every time I think about recalling him, it just…” he waved his hands around him in a vague cloud of indecision, “something inside me screams bloody murder that he needs to be there.”

They sat in silence for a time, both men sipping their tea as their minds calmed. After examining his feelings, Dagen decided that he did not wish to cultivate his negativity by dwelling on things that made him sad, so he changed the topic.  “The last time we spoke, Victus told me that he’s training his replacement.”

The abbot chuckled.  “Knowing Negin Mal’s reputation for abusing his employees, I’m surprised Vic isn’t training an assassin,” he joked, indulging himself in a rare bit of gallows humor.

“He may have both on his hands,” Dagen said, joining the abbot’s jest. “Mal has enough money to hire whomever he chooses to be his bodyguard, and out of ten thousand possible candidates he chose...are you ready for this? A pit fighter.”

Wesley rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Please, tell me you’re kidding me.”  He held his head in his hands dramatically, then peeked out between his fingers. “His weekly report said he had extended an offer to train his replacement, but he didn’t give details.” He looked off into the distance. “A pit fighter… Doesn’t the man have troubles enough already?”

Dagen nodded his head.  “I agree, on the surface it doesn’t seem like a very good idea, but the man he’s training doesn’t sound like a bad sort. Vic said they pulled him out of the pits before it twisted him too badly.” He sipped his tea and considered. “From what he says, his student is a bit rough around the edges.  And on the corners,” he added. “And faces.  And maybe a little in the middle…”

“But if you ignore all that, he’s a real find!” the abbot finished for him, practically sparkling with enthusiasm.  His gaze hardened, and he transformed into the imposing figure who made the most powerful men on Earth break into a sweat at his approach. “Have you run a background check on him?”

“Victus specifically asked us - and ‘us’ includes ‘you’,” Dagen said, emphatically, “not to interfere.  I think he wants to handle this by himself, soup to nuts, to prove to everyone that he’s capable of working without a net.”

“Prove to Uhlu, you mean,” Wesley said, archly. “That man’s a prune.  He’s persnickety to everyone, I grant you, but he’s always seemed particularly hard on Victus.”

Dagen was indignant. “If you know he’s doing it, why don’t you call him on it?”

“And be accused of favoritism?” Wesley scoffed. “Not on your life. The boy’s going to have to fight his own battles.” He pulled himself up short. “Why am I wasting oxygen telling you this?  It’s the same speech you’ve been giving me for the past twenty years.”

“It is, indeed,” Dagen chuckled, “but I hardly think anyone could accuse you of favoritism. You’re as hard on him as everyone else is.”

Wesley looked surprised, and maybe even a little betrayed. “Do you think so? Really?”

“I do,” Dagen said, his raised eyebrow daring his friend to contradict him.

Wesley gathered himself.  “I suppose perhaps I do expect more of him, because I know what he’s capable of.”

“Yes,” Dagen agreed, “and Uhlu is harder on him because he wants to prove that varii aren’t sufficiently stable.  And I’m harder on him because I’m biasing against the fact that he’s my son. Nobody treats him the same as any other person.” He sighed. “The only person who’s ever treated him with absolute equality has been Caroline, and that doesn’t do him much good since he’s out of communication so much and never gets to talk to her.”

“Not ‘sister’ Caroline, I notice?” the abbot gently teased his friend. “Do I sense romance on the winds, after all these years?”

“As a matter of fact, you do,” Dagen said, proudly. “She’s a fine woman, and she deserves to have someone like me in her life.”

Wesley looked at his friend, knowingly. “I approve. Not that you need my approval, but you have it anyway.”  He cocked an eyebrow at his friend. “I can only hope Victus will find some way to squeeze his lump of coal into a gemstone of some sort in the limited time he has left.”

***

“This sucks donkey balls,” Lucas grumbled, under his breath.  The ear flick he got from his instructor was painful but it was expected, and he considered it a price well paid for letting loose into the world such a poetic turn of phrase.

“Straighten your back,” Victus said, as he settled his arms into the inner pockets of his robes and scanned the crowd milling beneath them.

Lucas complied, then surveyed the cavernous main room on the other side of the curtain. The formal receiving hall of the Mal estate was bustling with activity, the political and financial aristocracy of Galise having gathered in the hopes of witnessing the ascension of the planet’s newest Grand Negin.  Swathed in their finery, the descendants of the original stake-holding families glided about on a veritable lake of polished white marble.

Lit by two dozen overhead chandeliers, images reflected back to hundreds of self-conscious eyes from the corner-to-corner mirrors covering every wall.  The mirrors had been hung for purposes greater than simply massaging the egos of the guests. The younger participants in that evening’s festivity used them to check their appearance.  Their elders used them to track prey that wished to remain unseen.

Ornate sconces on the walls reflected the flickering light cast by thousands of beeswax candles.  The hall had been built without light emitters; in accordance with tradition, the great hall was devoid of even so minor a modern convenience.  No electricity flowed through the thick stone walls, nor were any electronic devices allowed inside.  Privacy was paramount for the self-important people who were, that night, indulging themselves in the affectations of ancient Terran aristocracy.  Some sported powdered wigs and coat tails, others hoop skirts and bustles, and not all were gender-correct.  All told, the costumes were as madly impractical as they were stunning to behold.

From his vantage point behind the curtain at the end of the hall, Victus had a clear view of every corner of the room.  He remained at high alert, and motioned to Lucas to do the same.  In a few minutes, Rudex Mal was going to walk out on the raised platform on the other side of the velvet curtain and recite a carefully crafted speech in front of four hundred politically motivated competitors, most of whom would have danced for joy at the news of his demise.  It was Victus’ sworn duty to keep them disappointed.

His job would have been all but impossible, except for the fact that through an almost fantastic combination of crafty planning and opportune timing, Mal was worth more alive than dead to every single person in the hall.  Many were contractually bound to him in some way.  More were restrained from action by threats of damaging information which would be distributed upon Mal’s death. All were socially bound to attend, and none were enthusiastic about it. Now that they were there, they did their best to impoverish the house by consuming Mal’s finest liquor at a furious rate.

The negin had refused all of the Kenzine’s suggestions for protection, loudly proclaiming that he refused to cower and hide while the other negins laughed behind his back. The absence of technology in the room made security somewhat easier, but Victus was not satisfied. Regardless of Leland’s assurances that the crowd had had their claws removed, Victus hated having the house guards outnumbered by a hundred to one.  Over the past decade, the previous Grand Negins Mal and all their legitimate successors had been assassinated, and they had all been kind, well-liked individuals. With a man as universally loathed as Rudex Mal, Victus would not have felt secure had they been sealed behind safety glass. 

Hidden backstage until it was time for him to be formally introduced, Mal waited with eroding patience.  He was already the Mal family’s legitimate negin by way of  inheritance, and nothing aside from his death would remove him from that position.  But until the other Grand Negins had  voted on the matter and officially recognized his ascension, he would have no say in matters concerning the world outside his little kingdom.   After his welcoming speech, the planet’s eleven Grand Negins would join Mal in the convocation room behind the stage, and Mal would discover whether his years of careful planning and ruthless manipulation would bear fruit.

Victus saw something catch Lucas’ attention. “What is it?” he asked, leaning closer to keep his voice as quiet as possible.

“Nothing,” Lucas said, nodding to where a group of chamberlains had gathered, taking advantage of their negin’s preoccupation to have a quick conference among themselves.  “Look!” he joked with hushed excitement, “it’s a gaggle of Lelands!”

“Pay attention,” Victus chastised, but was distracted from further instruction by a discreet hand signal from one of Max’s guards stationed at the back of the room.  He alerted Lucas that he was leaving for a moment, then swept the waiting room with his eyes one last time before stepping away.  Other than the negin frantically pacing back-and-forth, there was nothing to see.

As the distance between them increased, Lucas squared his shoulders and expanded his scrutiny to encompass the entire hall.  He might hate Mal’s guts, but he’d still take a bullet for the man.  He couldn’t possibly fail - his reputation was at stake.  It would be a cold day in hell before he’d let someone say that he hadn’t done his duty.

Like everyone else in house Mal, Lucas was currently dressed in his gaudiest, most ornate uniform.  His dress coat was splashed with the colors of the house - a bright gold and crimson fabric dotted with fleur-de-lis.  The seamstresses of the house were fairly adept at clothing for sapiens, but at tailoring for varii, they fell short. The coat they had sewn him into barely fit his wide shoulders, and his badly-hemmed pants were inexorably chafing a raw spot on the underside of his tail.

The elaborate garb was more appropriate for dress than duty and he had no expectations for fast or stealthy movement. The jacket’s formal collar did a passable job of hiding his slave collar, but with all that crap fastened around his neck it was beginning to feel like a noose.  To say that he was uncomfortable would have been an understatement second only to saying that he’d had “a little fun” with Laura Reed on the evening of his twenty-first birthday.

Lucas smirked quietly at the memory and dug a finger under the band of his collar. Much as he wanted to rip the damned thing off, he didn’t dare do more than gently tug at the unyielding material. If he managed to pop it off before disarming it, the next thing that came apart would be his head, about 10 microseconds later.  His seditious mind reminded him that the collar was far from new.  Their manufacture had been banned a hundred years ago, so the one he wore had to be at least a century old.  As far as he knew, the explosives had rotted away to nothing but sawdust.  The more responsible part of his brain pointed out that if the electronic portion of the collar still worked, and he knew from multiple firsthand experiences that it did, then there was no reason to assume that the explosives were not still fresh as well. Grimacing to himself, he stopped fiddling with it and returned to parade rest.

His gaze carefully scanned the room in the unpredictable non-pattern that Victus had taught him.  “Pick out everything that’s moving, and make sure it should be,” he repeated, in his head, “Then go back and pick out everything that isn’t moving, and make sure it shouldn’t be.”  There was a lot of motion in the room. At first, keeping track of the movement of guests and staff seemed impossibly complex, but the task became more manageable after Lucas assigned memorable names to the more ostentatious guests.  Emperor Tight Pants was easy to track because of the solar system of sycophants who constantly orbited him.  He was currently talking to Dutchess Boobs-a-Lot, who had recently escaped the conversational clutches of the perpetually angry Lady Megacephalic.

As he watched the popinjays and made note of their interactions, the underlying social structure began to reveal itself.  When he finally perceived how intricate Negin Mal’s machinations must have been to achieve his current position, Lucas spared a quick glance back at the man.  Without question the fat oaf was a sadistic prick, but he was also an undoubted genius where social manipulations were concerned. He had carefully goaded every guest in the hall into a political position where it was impossible to effectively oppose his ascension.

Returning to his scanning, Lucas picked out the eleven people in the crowd who were most likely to be the Grand Negins and concentrated his attention on them.  They would be the ones who voted on Mal’s ascension, and he entertained himself by calculating the odds of Mal’s success based on nothing more than their interaction with others.  After a moment he blinked his eyes; was what he saw truly the case?  The eleven Grand Negins appeared to be standing almost equidistant from each other, suggesting a pre-planned, and possibly nefarious pattern.

After watching them for a few minutes he relaxed.  Over time, their movements revealed themselves to be random.  The men were simply being kept apart by the physical presence of lesser men and women who had been sucked into the event horizons of their influence.

Traveling between these loci of power were servants trying valiantly to keep all of the guests fed and hydrated with canapes and wine. When Pearlie passed Lucas bearing a large tray of appetizers, he diverted his attention for a few seconds to give her a suffering look, a rub of his belly and a suggestive wink.  She smiled demurely and nodded back, completing their clandestine communication.   He was certain that he’d find a generous portion of the meaty, cheesy appetizers waiting for him in his room when he returned, and he’d find her as willing a sex partner as usual the next time they encountered each other in the kitchen pantry.  She warmed up considerably once separated from the interfering biddies she worked under.

Self-serving mission accomplished, Lucas straightened his back and returned to scrutinizing the guests.  His small moment with Pearlie would cause Vic no end of upset, if he happened to see. He would not show his displeasure until they were back in their room, safely away from the calls of duty and the eyes of men, but still there would be consequences.  Lucas hoped that a platter or two of delicious finger food would soothe the Kenzine’s instructive ire, if and when he discovered the transgression.  This was bound to be a long evening and they’d last eaten a lifetime ago.

His conference with the guard completed, Victus joined Lucas behind the stage, where he watched with no small amount of interest as Mal worked himself into a lather.  “Oh God,” the negin moaned,  “Oh, God, oh God, oh God… I can’t wait for this to be over.”  He worked a pudgy finger underneath the collar of his formal shirt, pulling it looser by a small degree.  “It’s hard to breathe in this.”

“You’re telling me,” Lucas muttered.

Victus didn’t think the negin heard the comment, but his sharp look silenced the other varius. “Max reports that all the guests have arrived.” His glance back out into the hall confirmed his statement.  “Leland is in conference with the other chamberlains, and should be with us momentarily.”

“Finally,” Mal groused. “I need to get out of these shoes. My feet are killing me.”

Lucas snickered to himself, and Victus shot him a warning look.  He’d been doing his best to train his student to keep his opinions to himself, especially where Mal was concerned, but moments like these demonstrated how far they still had to go.

Unfortunately, this time the negin did not miss Lucas’ reaction.  “Do you find something funny, slave Lucas?” he demanded.

Lucas straightened, and his face reverted to its military façade before answering.  “No, my negin.”

“Good,” was the sneered reply. He might not be able to shock the smart-assed dog-man into submission right now, but there would be a wealth of opportunities later to do anything he wished to get back at him.  A smile crossed his face as he contemplated his options. After he no longer needed a bodyguard, perhaps he would have the man’s arms and legs amputated, then release him from his contract to beg on the street for the rest of his miserable life.

Recognizing the dangerous look in Mal’s eyes, Vic spoke up to distract him. “If I may propose, negin?”

Already tired of the conversation, Mal rolled his eyes. “Yes, Victus.”

“It would look better if you avoided calling him “Slave” in front of your guests.  Although he wears the collar, you gain no standing by emphasizing the fact that you are being guarded by someone who is not doing so of his own free will.”  He paused a moment for that to sink in.  “It would look better for you to refer to him as ‘guard’ or simply by name.”

Mal acquiesced. “I suppose I can’t disagree with you, but he’s forgetting his place.”

“I agree,” Victus said, turning a stern look to Lucas, “I am planning future lessons to address this.”

Lucas silently thanked his lucky stars he had already arranged for the plate of food. They wouldn’t stop the lecture he was going to receive, but at least he’d have something to look forward to after the tongue lashing was over.

Leland stepped around the corner, his brisk pace doing little to settle the negin’s agitation.  He was dressed in formal attire; wig and tails suitable for his station as majordomo.  In his right hand, he carried the sizeable, brass-topped cane which was symbolic of his office.  He afforded the negin the full weight of his stare, a small strain of worry behind the man’s eyes revealing his anxiety. “You remember all you’ll need to discuss?”

“Yes, yes Leland,” came the impatient reply.  “We’ve been over it a hundred times and it’s all written on the agenda.  Stop worrying.”

“We’ve only been over this twice, and both times you’ve- ”

“Leland!” Mal spat, before tempering his voice. “I’ve waited my entire life for this moment, now let’s go!”  

Victus's ears pricked up at this, mirroring Lucas's own reaction, but neither man had time to comment before Leland was back in motion.  “All right,” the majordomo sighed.  Whether he liked it or not, whether Rudex was ready or not, preparation was at an end.  Their hands had been dealt, and now it was time to play their cards.  He motioned for Victus and Lucas to take their place at either side of the negin, and the four men walked to the edge of the curtain.  The others remained offstage while Leland passed through, his emergence seemingly unnoticed by the milling guests.

Victus and Lucas assumed parade rest with Mal between them, watching as Leland advanced to a discreet mark embedded in the floorboards at the center of the  stage.  At this acoustically perfect spot, his every word would be projected throughout the room for all to hear.  Once he was in position he gave the floor a sharp rap with his cane.  Two seconds later he did it again, and this time the action was mirrored by every other chamberlain in the room. Two seconds later it came again.  And again, and again, until the sharp report of canes rhythmically striking the marble tile was the only sound in the hall.

Suddenly, as if some silent signal had been passed, the percussion ceased, leaving echoing silence in its wake. Leland was not fond of being the center of attention, even if only for a few moments, but that’s what his position required so that’s what he did.  Formal and poised, he began his announcement. “My lords and ladies, negins, owners and independents, the House of Mal welcomes you to this, the first Landholder’s Meeting under the roof and authority of the Negin Mal.”

Dutifully, the room gave mild applause.

“In this, his first appearance, may I present Rudex Mal, son and successor of the honorable Hordex and Scintilla Mal, Nephew to the late Valdoz Mal, and the current legal and proclaimed Negin of House Mal.”  At this introduction Mal stepped through the curtain, flanked by his canine bodyguards

The applause which followed was somewhat more enthusiastic, and was shot through with gasps of confusion and surprise by people who had not realized that Mal’s bodyguard was not only Kenzine, but was varius as well.  And there were two of them! The pair of hybrids bore little resemblance to the slow-witted beast-men who were occasionally seen tending the fields of local farmers. The men guarding Mal tonight more closely resembled ancient Egyptian gods, and were as effective at striking fear into the hearts of men as Anubis had been four thousand years earlier.

All eyes were on Rudex Mal, and he craved their attention every bit as much as Leland had disliked it.  Not a person in this room would disagree that Mal was, at this moment, the most important man on Galise.  He waited with an air of benevolence for the applause to die down. “My lords and ladies,” he began, in a stately, controlled voice, “as you know, there has been much trouble in my house, as of late.”  Heads nodded sympathetically as Mal acknowledged the unfortunate deaths of his entire immediate family.

“It has taken time to re-establish the order and business affairs which my family has managed for generations,” Mal continued, “but we are back!  Tradition and honor demand that we provide our guests with the finest food and drink the planet has to offer, and we have done so tonight.  This task required us to spare no expense in discovering the best Galise has to offer. But after spending months combing the far corners of this planet, my agents came home with distressing news!  Hats in hand, they came to me to report their failure.  They had wasted my money, they said, for the finest Galise has to offer comes from this very estate!”

Mal was doing well, Victus thought. His posture was relaxed and his delivery seemed relatively unrushed.

“You have only to look around you to see evidence of this in the delicious food harvested from our farms, the delicate wines from our own vintner’s casks, and the musicians trained in our own schools. House Mal is vibrant!  We are strong, and we stand before you ready and eager to share our prosperity with other capable but less fortunate houses.” This provoked another wave of head nodding, but Mal thought he detected impatience in the nods of some of the older grand negins so he omitted the middle part of his speech, bringing it to an uncomfortably premature close. “There is now official business to conduct, and I would invite the negins of the Guild to join me in conference.  The rest of you, please continue to enjoy the hospitality of House Mal while our work is in session.”

At that, the negins, each with his chamberlain standing respectfully behind his right arm where he could supply information at a moment’s notice, began the slow procession into Conclave. As each of the grand negins stopped to greet Rudex Mal, Leland announced and recorded them into the attendance book which served as the meeting’s binding contract.

Each of the negins felt the weight of Victus’s intimidating stare as they walked past. A Kenzine’s scrutiny was unnerving to even the most confident of men, and Victus used it to excellent effect. Regardless of the lack of electronics in the room, after walking past the Protector, each of them felt as though they’d been scanned down to their bones.

Victus and Lucas followed Mal and Leland to the door, closing it behind their charges. Victus had fought to be on the same side of the door as Mal, but in this case tradition won out. The varius guards stood vigil outside the door, straining their ears to hear whatever they could of what was said inside while pretending to do nothing of the sort.

None of the guests showed any desire to approach the door, and Lucas took advantage of their temporary privacy.  “How long did you say that Mal has been eligible for succession?” he asked, quietly.

“You heard that too?” Victus replied, not taking his eyes from the guests.  “I believe Mal outed himself.”

Lucas smirked in satisfaction. The lines of succession on Galise were complicated, and Rudex hadn’t been born anywhere near the top of House Mal.  If he had indeed been, “waiting all his life” for the ascension ceremony, that suggested that he’d been helping to usher key members of his own household into the afterlife for many years.  To check his logic, Lucas asked, “How many people below Mal in the lines of succession have died in the past two decades?”

“A few,” Victus admitted, “but the attempts on their lives have been rather half-hearted. Sufficient to draw away suspicion, but mostly ineffective.”

“Mmmm…” Lucas murmured.  “He’s pretty good at this little game of thrones, isn’t he?”

“That is why I keep warning you to be careful around him,” Victus said. “He is fully capable of killing and has done so multiple times.  He can execute you at the touch of a button, and if you continue to annoy him, he will.”

Lucas refused to acknowledge his own peril.  “Aww,” he scoffed, “you do care!”

For the first time that evening, Victus turned away from the crowd of guests and afforded his student his full attention. “Yes, Lucas, I do care.”  He tried to put every bit of his conviction into his words, in the hopes that they might finally reach through to the other man. “You deserve far better than to die at the hands of a maniac like Mal.”  He wanted to say more, but restrained himself.  He had already been distracted for too long, and his attention must return to his duty.

When the Kenzine looked away, Lucas felt an almost physical pressure lift from his shoulders.  “I’m touched,” he said, to the side of Victus’s face.  Oddly, the fighter wasn’t certain whether or not he was still joking.

Victus’s attention suddenly fixed on one guest. “That woman,” he said, pointing her out to Lucas, “the one in the pink and white hoop skirt?”

“Miss Tryst?” Lucas said. “What about her?”

“Her name is Meredith Warner,” Victus corrected, “and she had to delay her own ascension ceremony to accommodate Rudex.”

“Huh,” Lucas grunted, as he examined the tall, willowy woman. “She doesn’t seem particularly annoyed by it.”

“The media paints her as outraged,” Victus said, mildly. “What do you think?  What does her body language suggest?”

Lucas narrowed his eyes as he thought, his ears giving the occasional twitch. “I don’t think she cares all that much,” he said, finally.  “I think she’s playing it up to her advantage.”

“What leads you to that conclusion?” Victus asked.

“She ignores women under her like they don’t exist. When a woman of equal or greater standing talks to her she’s been putting on a ‘poor little me’ act, to gain their sympathy.   When a man approaches her she plays at being injured and throws off signals of helplessness and sexual interest. When they turn away, she stares at them for a bit too long for me to think she doesn’t want something from them. Whether that ‘something’ is sex or sympathy...”  He shrugged.  “She’s trying her best to manipulate everyone.  In this crowd?” he gazed meaningfully at the guests. “I don’t think it’s going to work.”

“Do you think she is a danger?” Victus asked.

Lucas grinned. “She thinks she is.”

“She bears watching, then,” Victus said, then straightened to his usual ramrod posture.

Lucas grunted his understanding and the two fell silent.  The noise level in the room made it impossible to hear what was going on in the room behind them and the two stood patient watch until the door once again swung open and a much relieved Rudex Mal emerged, proudly bearing the jeweled crest signifying his ascension to grand negin status.

The guest’s applause seemed polite but forced.  Looking over their heads to the serving staff, Victus saw that they’d all put aside their burdens and were clapping with a vigor that their expressions did not support.   He and Lucas had taken up flanking positions on either side of Mal as he passed, and were disconcerted when Mal steered himself straight into the middle of the crowd instead of remaining in a defensible position.

Lucas didn’t need to spare a glance at Victus to know that his teacher was upset by their employer’s careless behavior.   They tightened their formation until they towered over Mal, their imposing height doing a passable job of keeping his guests at bay.

One man had the wherewithal to approach, the genteel expression on his face doing nothing to soften the hard look in his eyes. “Congratulations, Rudex.  I don’t know how you managed it, but...here you are.” He looked about them at the regal splendor, then down at his own business wear. “Forgive my state of undress.  I didn’t have time to prepare a formal costume. I only learned of your occasion an hour ago. Someone must have misplaced my invitation.”

“Oh, no.” Negin Mal looked sad. “You didn’t misplace it, I didn’t send you one.  I couldn’t figure out how to make one fit inside an opium poppy.”

While the negins exchanged increasingly sharp barbs, Victus took advantage of the lull in activity to bend down and whisper in Leland’s ear. “Who is this man?”

Leland could not ignore the confrontation, but neither could he ignore the fact that Victus needed information which only he could impart.  Compromising, he turned a shoulder to the confrontation and whispered quickly, “It’s Negin Tawno Mal, cousin by marriage to Rudex.  He was in line to succeed after his father, but when Valdoz Mal died last year it cut that entire branch of the family out of the line of succession.”  He cut his eyes up to Victus, hoping that the Kenzine was keeping up with the rapid fire delivery of names and relationships. “He blames Mal for his father’s death, and for his lack of ability ever to become grand nagin.”

Victus glanced back to the confrontation.  “We need to get him out of here without causing a scene.”

“Too late for that,” Leland observed dryly, as the volume on the argument increased by another notch, threats now circling the argument like flies over a pile of dung.  Most unfortunately, the two men were standing close enough to the acoustic epicenter of the room that each of their angry words were clearly heard by everyone in the hall.

Now red-faced and sweating, Mal turned and barked at Victus. “Teach this man a lesson!”  His fat, ringed finger was pointed squarely at his cousin’s chest.

Victus was instantly in action, his body and mind working at capacity to navigate this maze of social propriety.  The teachers at the monastery were fond of having their students answer complex mathematical equations while they sparred to stretch their mental flexibility, and at the moment this seemed little different.

Less than a second after Rudex Mal’s command, Victus had taken Tawno Mal by the arm and was staring him in the face.  Like a snake charmed by a Mongoose, Tawno was unable to look away.  Exposed by an annoyed snarl, the points of the lupine’s teeth suddenly looked very sharp.  Slowly, menacingly, Victus leaned forward to make certain the man, and by extension, everyone in the room, heard his every word. “The man with no friends dies alone.” It was an old koan which every Kenzine child learned early in their life, but Victus doubted anyone else had heard it before . Thus, he hoped that it might sound exotic to their ears.

Spinning the man around, Victus marched him down the center of the reception hall to the exit, ostensibly so all could view the shame of his ejection, but also so that four hundred witnesses could attest to his perfect physical condition, should the man later complain of rough treatment.

Striding quickly back to the side of his stunned employer, Victus moved them both from the acoustic sweet-spot. He signaled Lucas to join them, leaned down to Mal’s ear and spoke with quiet intensity.  “Laugh.  As if you have heard the funniest joke ever created, laugh.”  He backed up slightly and smiled, as if the two had shared a private joke.  A chuckle escaped his canine lips, but it sounded forced from a man of his position.  Lucas picked up on the intent and joined in, his humorous expression seeming far more natural.  Not understanding what was happening, the negin managed only a weak chuckle.

Victus attempted to encourage him with a waggle of his eyebrows, but the negin’s uncomfortable expression made his increase in volume sound more like psychotic twittering so Victus abandoned the attempt.  Once again, he leaned forward to whisper in the negin’s ear. “Explain nothing,” he advised. “Brush off the incident to anyone who inquires as if it had never occurred. And,” he stressed, “do not drink anything more tonight while you are in their company.” He plucked the ever-present goblet from the negin’s sweaty hand. “You can not appear to be drunk after something like that.”

Grand Negin Rudex Mal shot his Protector a withering look. “You and I are going to have a discussion.”