Tim Akers - Heart of Veridon

“Fine. In here. Williamson, a coffee. Jacob?”

“Of course.”

“Two, Williamson,” he said, then left the room.

“Thanks, Billy,” I said over my shoulder, then followed the elder Burns into the ballroom.

The place was done up. Sconces hung with holly and beads, the walls draped in bright fabric. A massive automaton was suspended from the ceiling, the sort of thing that would tell a slow, syncopated story when it was in full swing. Everything was thick with dust, even the bowls of wax fruit and most of the floor space. I remembered something about the family hosting a Beggars Day ball last year. Maybe they were hoping to reuse the ornaments next year. Or they couldn’t afford the workers to take it all down.

It had just been starting, when I left. My childhood was awash in trivial wealth. Nothing about those days of summer estates and lavish meals had hinted at this end. Though, thinking back, perhaps the signs had been there; the first desperate thrashings of a dying house.

There were chairs, mismatched, pulled into a tight circle by the grand window. A newspaper rack sat off to one side, and a cart with the cooling remains of breakfast. So this was the library now. I wondered what that other room looked like, the walls of dark wood and leather spines. Did father eat here so he wouldn’t have to face those empty shelves?

Alexander indicated a chair, then sat down. I took a different seat and propped my feet against the cart. In a few minutes, time spent invested in scowling and small talk, Billy brought coffee. It was good stuff.

“So, what’s this about?” father asked, firmly clanging his spoon around the cup as he stirred in his sugar.

“Tell me about the Council,” I said.

“Finally taking an interest in your nameright? That’s nice, but it’s a little late. I’ll be passing the seat on to your brother, once he gets out of the navy.”

“Gerrald won’t take it. He’s married to the river, and that trollop from the outer banks. But that’s not what I mean. Tell me about the Council right now. The problems you people are having.”

“Problems like what?” he asked. Alexander folded his hands in his lap and looked uninterested in a carefully cultivated and well practiced manner.

“Let’s not play games, father. There’s something going on, in the Council. Either you’ve been sleeping through the sessions, or you’ve picked a side. I need to know what you can tell me about it.”

He grimaced and plucked a newspaper from the rack. Rather than look it over, he folded it into a tight square, and then unfolded it. Once it was open, he started over.

“Look, Jacob, son. This is all very intricate stuff. Yes, there’s some tension in the Chamber Massif. People are balancing obligations, weighing allegiances. Trying to get a little advantage. But that’s the way it always is. There’s nothing new about this squabble.”

“Angela Tomb shot me.” I pointed at his chest, then mimed a pistol shot. “Close to me as we are right now.”

Alexander looked at me dully. “I’m sure you’re mistaken, Jacob. I’m sure Councilor Tomb-”

“People keep saying that to me. I’m the one who got shot, father. I’m the one the bullet went into. Are you saying I mistook the bullet?”

“The bullet, no, but her intent, Jacob. Surely she didn’t mean to kill you. Perhaps the gun went off by accident? Knowing you, you probably gave her plenty of reason to hold a gun on you.”

I slammed my palm down on the wooden arm of the chair. The slap resounded through the room. Billy rushed in, a broom in hand. We ignored him.

“If not us, if not the Founders! Well, then, no one! Bang! What does that mean, Dad? What about that did I mistake?”

“Sir, if I may-” Billy began.

“Later. And my coffee’s cold.” Alexander leaned closer to me, poking his finger at my face. “We need to be very clear here, Jacob. The Tomb is a close ally of this house, and a good friend of the Family. We don’t go around shooting one another, and to say anything less is plain absurd.” He swatted the breakfast cart with the folded newspaper and stood up. “Now, unless you’re going to say something sensible, I must bid you good day.”

“Do you know Malcolm Sloane?” I asked. My father was already on his way to the foyer, to see me out. He stopped.

“What did you say?”

“Malcolm Sloane. Is that name familiar to you?”

Alexander crumpled the paper in his hand, then returned to his chair and sat down heavily.

“Sloane. Yes. How do you know that name?”

“We met, at Tomb’s party on the Heights. Who is he?”

“He’s… a friend to the Council. To some of the Council.”

“Is he a friend to you?”

Alexander winced and looked out the window. “We have worked together, but no. I would not call a man like that my friend.”

“What does he do?” I asked.

Father kept his eyes out the window, leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees. His eyes were watery, I thought, like an old man’s rheumy eyes.

“Difficult things,” he said. “Things Councilors can’t do. Not directly.” He turned to me. “I ask again, how do you know that name?”

“Like I said. We met at Tomb’s party. It was casual.”

“There are no casual meetings with Malcolm Sloane. In the same way that there are no casual meetings with bullets, or back alley knives. Sloane is a weapon, Jacob, an animal. He’s a damn summoned monster for the Council. Whatever business you have with him, abandon it.”

I laughed. “Gladly. But I seem to have his attention. I’m in some trouble, and he keeps popping up, everywhere I look for a way out.”

“So here we go, at last. You’re in some trouble, and you need the old man to get you out. Upfront, Jacob, you could have told me that.”

“I can get my way out, sir. All I need from you is information, and a little good will.”

He stood over me, not a tall man, but an angry man. “Both are in short supply, boy. What do you need?”

“I need to know what Sloane has to do with the current trouble. Because, for gods’ sakes, it seems to involve me.”

“It doesn’t,” father said firmly. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

“Angela thinks differently. As does Sloane. Now out with it. What’s splitting the Council, and how bad is it.”

Alexander ground his teeth, staring at me with his dark eyes. The newspaper was still in his hand, crushed and smudged. He walked firmly to the window and stared out at the weedy remains of our formal garden. The room was quiet. Billy came, poured fresh coffee and then left. Father’s cup had stopped steaming before he spoke again.

“Stay here,” he said without turning around.

“Excuse me?”

“Stay here. Until it blows over. I can’t keep you in your rooms, but you could be comfortable. Safe. Gods know they would never look here.”

I stood up and went to the breakfast cart. The sausage was cut-rate, but the eggs had been cooked properly. Too bad they were cold. I made myself a plate. Father wouldn’t look at me.

“That your plan, dad? Keep me safe and hidden away. Maybe use me to bargain with whatever rogue element in the Council is hunting me down. Maybe, if you’re lucky, get the artifact in the bargain.”

“Artifact?” he asked, half-turned towards me.

“Coy, old man. Yes, the artifact, the one you and Angela sent Marcus and his boys downriver to collect. The one that came in on the Glory of Day, right up until the whole ship burned up. That must have been a bitch, huh? All those plans, and the damn zep flames out at your doorstep.”

He turned to face me, his mouth set in a distasteful grimace. He looked like he’d drunk bad milk, lumps and all.

“You seem to know more than you’re letting on, boy. Trying to trick your old man?”