“But you're the Greyfriar. A wonder-worker. If your infatuation with the human is truly over, then prove it.” She grinned. “The boy's life is the price of my faith. Bring me proof. And remember, I've smelled him.”
Gareth ran a hand over his long black hair, searching for options while trying to feign disappointment. “Is there no other way? With my father dead, we have to act quickly if we are to stop Cesare.”
“If we're so short of time,” Flay retorted, “then you'd best rush back to Equatoria, hadn't you? I'm off to London tomorrow to report to Cesare on how the war is proceeding. Find me when you are ready to present me with a bloody piece of Prince Simon. And pray that I don't mention this new treachery of yours to Prince Cesare. This audience is at an end.”
Gareth bowed to the war chief. “Very well. I thought you might be a bit more reasonable.”
“Come now, my prince, nothing worthwhile is easy.”
Flay laughed as Gareth strode like a shadow from the room. Once out of her sight, he moved quickly, lifting into the air. He struggled to calm his rapid heartbeat as he drifted south toward Adele.
WHEN PRINCESS ADELE was a little girl she used to play in her father's Privy Council chamber. It was a spacious room with a massive table surrounded by wonderful leather chairs that were soft and comfortable. Most of the year, the private garden outside the great windows was flowering. She used to open the glass and listen to the birds, and the soldiers chatting with one another as well as with the occasional passing maid. It made Adele giggle to hear the soldiers' voices change from brusque to smooth, and back again.
The most memorable feature of the room, then and now, was a large globe in an ornate wooden stand. It was easily five feet in diameter and an antique sepia color, with national boundaries, somewhat outdated now, and even natural features. Adele had always loved to run her fingers over the bumpy mountains, trying to reach her arms around the world. The northern third of the globe was stained red, and labeled in various spots “Vampire Clans.” The old geographical labels from before the Great Killing were only vaguely visible through the bloody overlay.
Now, Empress Adele's eyes drifted to that globe as she sat in her father's old place at the head of a new table with new chairs. The room had been redecorated, most noticeably with a display including the bloodstained flag that had covered her father's body after his assassination. The new empress was keen to remind everyone at all times in these early days of her reign that she was Constantine's daughter.
The Privy Council sat around the table that was layered with papers, charts, and maps. Additional dignitaries from the government and military crowded the room. Adele knew many of them well; some had been part of her father's regime, but others had been appointed by her or were newly elected to Commons in the special election required after the devastating vampire attack last summer. Everyone in the room was male, except for Adele and Ifrah Doreh, a Somali who was the new minister for foreign affairs. The men typically wore European-style suits, although often with a fez or Arab headdress. There were many heavily medaled uniforms present as well. Adele's commanders of the sea and air were in attendance. Her commander of the land, Sirdar Anhalt, was away on campaign. Of course, the ever-present Captain Shirazi, and a young blond corporal named Darby, stood like statues at her chair with hands clasped behind their backs, eyes moving about the room. Cigarette and cigar smoke hung thick despite several fans flapping overhead. Servants scurried in and out with water and tea and coffee, as well as sweets and fruit. Privy Council meetings were far less spartan under the empress than under her father.
Adele flipped the memoranda pages as she heard the end of a report. “We thank the Minister for Home Affairs. Now, Lord Aden, I have recently returned from an undisclosed tour of the western front. Our commanders impressed on me that our materiel needs are not being met.” Although she could easily have given in to impatient anger in her questioning, she maintained a calm demeanor. “What measures are your industrialists taking to increase production?”
Lord Aden, Laurence Randolph, glanced up as if surprised the question was directed his way. Still, he smiled gravely, in complete agreement with her. He was trim and fit, wore a fashionable suit with a perfect cravat. His dark hair was slicked back against his head, and he ran a finger over his thin rakish moustache.
“Your Majesty,” he began quietly, “production of standard ammunition for infantry has increased nearly fifty percent over the last month. Likewise, deliveries of machine guns to the quartermaster corps has increased.” Aden raised a reasonable hand, flashing a diamond-crusted ring. “That in no way diminishes our failure to adequately serve. There were miscalculations in the early months of the war, and the General Staff's estimation of ammunition required for a soldier to kill a vampire was low. We took some time to retool and catch up, particularly given the loss of anticipated allied production, as well as the surprising destruction of our western air squadron in Gibraltar last year. However, none of that is an excuse. The only solution is to perform better, which I believe we are. Still, if these failures cost the life of one Equatorian soldier, it is a burden I will bear for the rest of my life.”