“That it exists? Four executives at T-Corp and whoever they told. Also most everyone here at Clanhome—most all Nokolai, anyway. No one was supposed to speak of it outside the clan, so our guests aren’t supposed to know, but some of them probably do.”
“People will talk,” Lily agreed. “And kids repeat stuff they hear—especially if they think it’s a secret.”
“Which is why,” Rule said evenly, “silence was part of the agreement between Laban, Vochi, and Nokolai. They are bound not to reveal anything they learn while staying here, except to their Rhos, should they ask. Children can’t be bound by such an agreement, but the Laban and Vochi children have had no opportunity to speak with anyone outside Clanhome since they arrived.”
Laban and Vochi were subordinate clans, which was basically a feudal setup. Their Rhos were subject to Isen the way a minor lord used to be to an earl or a count or whatever back when titles were more than an attraction for the paparazzi. Back when titles were connected to real duties and responsibilities…duties that flowed both ways. “Vochi’s supposed to be good with money,” she said after a moment.
“Abe trained me.”
“Abe’s the Vochi Rho.”
“Yes.” Rule’s voice was tight. “I have a degree, but that only gave me the blocks to build with. Abe taught me how to build, what to watch for, how much fluidity to retain under various conditions, how to…he taught me so much. I can’t believe—” He cut himself off abruptly.
That his teacher had betrayed Nokolai. That’s what Rule meant. That’s why Isen was so furious. The Vochi Rho could have learned all about the prototype from his people living here. He could have learned everything the thief had needed to know.
Lupi didn’t have the same priorities as humans. To them, the possibility that a subordinate Rho had betrayed that relationship was a much bigger deal than the loss of a device that was potentially worth millions, maybe hundreds of millions. Or would be if it worked. Did the thief know it didn’t work right? Lily tabled that question for now. It was vital, but not as urgent at the moment. Lupi took a really hard line on betrayal. No shades of gray. If a member of Nokolai betrayed the clan, that was treason. If a subordinate Rho violated his agreement with Nokolai’s Rho, that was treason. In their world, treason had only one possible punishment.
If she wasn’t really smart—and probably lucky, too—someone was going to die. Maybe tonight. “Laban would be in the same position as Vochi to learn stuff,” she said carefully. “And they’re a lot more competitive than Vochi.”
Cullen snorted. “I doubt Leo knows how to balance his checkbook, much less how to sell the prototype. Rich in fighters, Laban. Poor in everything else.”
That’s what she’d been told. Nokolai’s two North American subordinate clans were opposites. Laban was small, contentious, and bred good fighters. Vochi was small, wealthy, and bred too many submissives. “Vochi like money games. They’re good at them.”
Rule bit off a one-word reply. “Yes.”
“The thief stole the prototype of a device that doesn’t work.”
“That…doesn’t sound like Abe.” Rule’s voice loosened slightly. “Treachery doesn’t sound like him, either, but to steal something that doesn’t work—to betray everything for an object without value—Isen needs to hear this.” He started to move ahead. Stopped.
“Go,” Lily told him. “Cullen can walk me down. If we run into trouble, he’ll burn it. It’ll do him good. Go.”
He hesitated a moment longer, then nodded and took off.
Lily and her fire-happy escort moved on in silence at the best pace her human feet could keep on the rough slope. It was maybe five minutes before Cullen spoke. “The prototype does work.”
She sighed. “Yeah. I know.” It was possible the thief knew about the side effects, too. And wanted them. She didn’t know why, but maybe that’s what had kept that abstracted look on Cullen’s face. Maybe he’d been trying to figure that out.
After a pause Lily added obliquely, “Abe matters to him.”
Cullen sighed back at her. “Yeah. He does.”
Lupi were very black and white about treason. Traditionally, it had only one punishment: death. And traditionally, it was the Lu Nuncio who carried out that sentence.
NINE
RULE stood at the center of the meeting field on his Rho’s right hand beneath glowing mage lights that blotted out the brilliance of the stars overhead. His heart beat slowly because he willed it so…but it was hard.
His Rho was angry. The stink of that anger rolled through him. He felt it in the very pulse of the mantle—a hard pulse, steady but a shade too fast. Out of sync with his own. This was something a Rho could do, use the mantle to pull any of his clan into an intimate rhythm. Rhos did it most often to steady a clan member whose control was slipping. Rule had done that himself. You didn’t have to pull on the mantle very hard, not one-on-one. Control your own heart rate, allow the mantle to flow out, and the heart rate of the other fell in with yours. Fast, if you wanted to move them into action. Slow, if you wanted to calm them. Rule had never tried to spread his control over so many at once, but Isen had, many times. Rule had experienced it from the other side.
He should be experiencing it now. Standing so close to his father, his Rho, while Isen pulled firmly on the mantle, no amount of training was enough for him to separate his pulse from that demanding beat. But he carried a mantle, too. And Leidolf did not beat at Nokolai’s command.
He felt dizzy. Disoriented. He was Nokolai.
And he was Leidolf.
He’d known that since the Leidolf mantle was forced upon him. Known with his head, at least, that the trace of Leidolf blood he’d inherited from a great-grandmother had made it possible for Victor to force the mantle on him. Victor had meant to destroy him with it. He’d failed.
Now he stood beside his Rho, surrounded by clan—by Nokolai—and his heart didn’t beat with Nokolai. It beat for Leidolf. He held it to a slow, steady rhythm, and that was hard, but not as hard as it should have been.
He was Leidolf. He knew that in his heart now. Literally. He was Leidolf, and Nokolai did not command him unless he allowed it.
Isen was playing a dangerous game tonight.
“Bill Peterson,” a voice called from the left.
“On duty,” Pete said firmly. “Excused.”
Rule’s nostrils were flared, open to the night. The air was soft and cool and thick with scent—dust and skin, sage and grass, fear and anger, a whiff of menstrual blood from a young woman nearby. Most of all, it was heavy with the massed scent of lupi.
Nokolai. That was the strongest smell, the scent of clan reassuring even now. But Leidolf as well, a scent carrying so many of the same notes, yet arranged to a different tune. That smell, too, contented him, where it used to wake his nape to bristles. Also Laban. A musky lot, Laban. And Vochi. Quiet, unthreatening Vochi. Leidolf, Laban, Vochi…each was clumped up together not far from the center of the field.
Nokolai Clanhome was crowded these days.
“Josh Krugman,” another voice called. “And Celia Thompson.”
“On duty,” Pete replied loudly, his voice crossing the response from the woman standing near Cullen saying the same thing. “Excused,” they both said, one right after the other.
In normal times, most lupi did not live at their clanhomes. Nearby, yes, if they could, but lupi had to earn a living just as humans did, which for most of them meant living elsewhere. Some worked at Clanhome, either as guards or for the nursery or at the clan’s construction firm. Others owned their own small businesses elsewhere or worked for human employers or companies. But a large number worked at companies owned by the clan in the three coastal states that comprised Nokolai’s territory.