With a grimace, the Marshal dropped the head and the five-foot-long stump of the neck in the middle of the floor, stepped over it, and looked at George.
“The Office of Arbitration is satisfied,” George said.
Lord Robart turned toward the hallway. The two vampires picked up his armor and followed him without a word.
“What do you want us to do with the head?” Orro asked from the kitchen doorway.
The Marshal paused. “Do whatever you will.”
They turned into the hallway leading to the vampire quarters.
“I think it’s time I retired as well,” Lady Isur said. “Arbitrator, Innkeeper, Marshal, Your Grace, please excuse me. I must make myself presentable before the opening ceremony.”
“Of course,” George said.
Arland grimaced. “I suppose it’s best I go as well. By your leave.”
The two Marshals departed.
Orro stalked out of the kitchen and grabbed the head with his long claws.
“Please don’t tell me you’re going to cook that,” I said.
“Of course I’m going to cook it.” He waved the head around for emphasis. “Might I remind you that you’re on a limited budget?”
“What if it’s poisonous?” Jack asked.
“Preposterous!” Orro growled. “This is clearly a Morean water drake.”
He tucked the severed head under his arm and walked into the kitchen, dragging the neck across the floor behind him.
“I shall have to make some preparations as well,” George said. He and Jack left the room.
My legs gave out and I collapsed into a chair. Beast leaped into my lap.
Caldenia looked at me across the room. “So much excitement, and the peace talks haven’t even started.”
I groaned and put my hands over my face.
George wore soft charcoal trousers. Supple boots made of dark gray leather with a hint of blue hugged his feet and lower calves. His shirt was pale cream, and his dark blue vest was embroidered with a dazzling silver pattern too complicated to untangle at first glance. His long golden blond hair was brushed back from his face and caught at the nape of his neck in a ponytail. He leaned on his walking stick and his limp was back, but as he stood at the rear of the grand ballroom, he looked like an ageless prince from some hopelessly romantic fairy tale.
His brother stood on his right, wrapped in layers of brown leather. I could see no weapons, although he must’ve had some stashed somewhere. His auburn hair was slightly disheveled. George emanated an almost fragile elegance, but Jack was completely relaxed, his posture lazy and his face distant, as if he had absolutely no interest in what was about to happen and couldn’t be bothered to pay attention.
They looked nothing alike, but I was absolutely sure they were brothers. I’d never seen two people so skilled at pretending to be the exact opposite of themselves.
Gaston had parked himself on Jack’s right. Of the three, he seemed to be the only one being himself, which meant he stood there like a short but immovable mountain and scowled. I chose a place to the left of George and off to the side. I wasn’t really part of the ceremonies, but I was the host of this insane gathering, and the members of the delegations would need to know my face. I’d opted for a simple robe. I’d also turned my broom into a staff for the occasion. The staff could become a spear on very short notice. Not that I would need it, but you never knew.
Behind us a long table waited, ready for the heads of the delegations to discuss the possibility of peace. Right now the prospect seemed rather remote, but the peace talks themselves weren’t my problem. Keeping the peace was.
I glanced up. At the opposite wall Caldenia sat in a royal box, about thirty feet up. Her Grace wore a copper-colored gown with an elaborate lace pattern and sipped wine from a glass. Beast sat next to her. Until I had a better idea of the participants in the summit, I wanted Caldenia off the main floor. Her Grace could take care of herself, but I’d told Beast to stay with her as an extra precaution.
George glanced at the electronic clock in the wall above the door. “We may begin.”
I nodded and murmured, “Lights.”
Bright light bathed the ballroom floor.
“Release the Holy Anocracy.”
The doors on the left side of the grand ballroom swung open. A huge vampire stepped out, dressed in blood armor. Enormous even by vampire standards, he carried the standard of the Holy Anocracy, black fangs on a red banner. He faced us and planted the banner into the floor, holding it with his left hand. Music blasted from hidden speakers, an epic march, relentless, unhurried, and unstoppable. Images slid along the walls of the ballroom: an armored vampire tearing into a centipede-like creature five times her size; two vampires locked in mortal combat, fangs bared; a vampire with a House standard atop a mountain of corpses, bellowing in rage. This was the Holy Anocracy’s “We Are Scary Badasses” reel. The same images were being streamed to the otrokar and Merchant quarters.
The terrifying footage kept coming. A citadel of the Crimson Cathedral, unbelievable in its size; endless rows of vampires poised before boarding a spacecraft; a vampire woman in the flowing robes of a Hierophant dashing up the spine of an enormous creature, leaping straight up and slicing into its neck. An image of a small group of vampires in bloodstained armor appeared on the wall, calmly, methodically cutting their way through ranks of maddened otrokars. The Horde crashed against them again and again like an enraged sea against rocks, and fell back, bloodied and helpless. The message couldn’t be clearer. The otrokar were wild undisciplined savages and hundreds of them were no match for the six vampires.
Nice. How to ruin the peace talks in two minutes or less. That had to be some sort of record.
George sighed quietly.
The images stopped and blossomed into one enormous picture that took up all three walls: the seven planets of the Holy Anocracy. As the image came into focus, the rest of the vampire knights marched out in three distinct groups, one for each house. They reached the standard-bearer and froze.
Three faces appeared against the starry expanse of space, one per each walclass="underline" the severe face of the Warlord, a middle-aged vampire with jet-black hair on the right; the serene face of the female Hierophant on the left; and an old vampire in the middle. His hair was pure white, his skin wrinkled, and his eyes probing. He looked ancient, like the space behind him. It had to be Justice, the chief judge of the Holy Anocracy’s highest court.
The vampires roared in unison. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
The vampire delegation turned as one and formed a line on the left side of the grand ballroom, the three Marshals and the standard-bearer closest to us.
“We’re ready for the otrokars,” George murmured to me.
“Release the Horde,” I whispered.
The heavy door clanged open on the right and the otrokars emerged, Khanum in the lead and her son close behind. Three giant otrokars followed, each bigger than anything the vampires could throw at them, the rest of the delegation at their heels. They didn’t walk, they stalked like great predatory cats, emerald, sapphire, and ruby highlights playing on their chitin armor, their ceremonial kilts falling in long plaits on one side. An ear-piercing whistle rang through the grand ballroom and broke into a wild melody, full of pipes and a quick drumbeat. The walls ignited again, now bright with the endless plains of Otroka, the Horde’s home planet. A group of otrokars rode through yellow grass on odd mounts with reddish fur, hoofed feet, and canid heads. The image fractured and exploded into a mountain landscape filled with crags and fissures. The hard ground bristled with metal spikes, each supporting a severed vampire head.
The faces of the knights to my left were completely blank.
The puddles of vampire blood at the bases of the metal spikes trembled. The ground shuddered. A dull roar, like the sound of a distant waterfall, filled the air. The camera panned upward, showing a glimpse of a valley beyond the heads. An ocean of otrokars filled it, too many to count, a horde running at full speed, howling like wolves, the impact of their steps shaking the ground. They swept past the camera, bodies flashing by it. A muscular otrokar appeared on the screen, his face savage with fury. He swung a long sword, the muscles on his forearm flexing as he slashed, and the image turned black.