The Kingmakers(86)

“That won’t please Cesare. He’s already missed one full moon.” Flay tossed the canvas bag into a corner. “What is your plan?”

Gareth leaned forward. “Can you still turn the Pale against Cesare?”

She scowled. “My control over them isn’t what it once was. Many of the old members died in Edinburgh at the hands of the butcher Clark. The newer recruits are more loyal to Cesare than to me. I have specific fighters I can call on, but many of the packs were reorganized by Hallow and Cesare during my exile.”

“It’s obvious that Cesare fears you. Tell me more about Cesare’s allies. Perhaps there’s a weakness there.”

Without hesitation, Flay laid out what she knew of Cesare’s politics. Gareth already knew about his brother’s so-called Grand Coalition of the North—consisting of London, Munich, Budapest, and New York—but there was more to learn. She explained the ties with St. Etienne and Lyon, and the failure to draw Grenoble into the group. Already it was annoyingly complicated with deals on provisions of herds for the packs of allied forces. And Cesare was providing promises to allow his human, Lord Aden, to mine coal in clan lands. Gareth smirked, but didn’t interrupt. Flay was grateful she had little to do with the politics, even though she had to suffer constant bickering from Lyon about receiving compensation for feeding the British packs who came to fight. Fearing an imminent human push from the south, the packs of Draken of Munich were breaking off from the Hungarian front to reinforce Lyon.

Flay concluded, “The key to the future is Paris. The northern French clans will come into the war, but only if Paris does. King Lothaire will only treat with a king. Hence Cesare’s rush to the throne.”

Gareth nodded thoughtfully, considering with silent alarm the wide swathe Cesare was planning. This would be the greatest clan alliance since the Great Killing. It would be a federation of packs likely sufficient to roll back the struggling human offensive. And it would make Cesare king of kings in all but name. However, Paris was an interesting twist.

“King Lothaire,” Gareth said, “was a friend of mine.”

“Was?”

“Well, I haven’t exactly maintained my companionships among our kind for a century or more. But we were quite close once. I lived with him in Paris for many years.” He pointed at Flay. “I think we should pay him a visit on the way to London.”

“We?”

“Of course. We have to coordinate our action against my brother. Is there some problem with you leaving Lyon?”

Flay said eagerly, “No. I’m the alliance war chief. If I have reason to travel, so be it. When should I meet you in Paris?”

“A few days. Keep a low profile, if possible. We dare not let Cesare know that you and I are together. We’ll sound out Lothaire’s support for our coup.”

Gareth grinned at the war chief’s toothy smile and quickening breath. Flay would be a most fearful opponent on the battlefield; he doubted he could best her in even combat. But she had been alone so long it was a simple task to twist her and bind her with tiny little words like we and our.





“SIGNAL FROM BOLIVAR, sir. They are ready to commence bombardment.”

Senator Clark saluted the ensign. The massive USS Bolivar cruised alongside the senator’s relatively small frigate, Ranger. Unlike the frigate, Bolivar was a “steamnaught.” It was a dirigible-shaped steel colossus with its buoyancy elements enclosed inside armor and one hundred guns bristling from six rows of gun ports along both flanks, as well as heavy turrets on the dorsal and ventral. This airship was the pinnacle of American military engineering, a new era in air firepower.

Senator Clark was the master of this grand armada. He was a tall man, muscular and powerful. His weathered face sported a heavy black beard, and his eyes shone with nearly manic clarity of purpose. He wore a blue officer’s tunic with brass buttons and gold piping. He adjusted the heavy Fahrenheit saber dangling from his leather gun belt. White gaiters glowed stark against the dark uniform. His usual white Stetson hat was missing, and his collar-length wavy black hair tousled in the wind.

He put a brass spyglass to his eye to scan the ragged little city below him. Wilmington. It sat beside the Cape Fear River, close to the Atlantic. Not perfect, but the best harbor between Charleston and the Chesapeake. And he intended to have it as his rear base for the campaign against Richmond.

He saw vampires swirling low over the city.

He sensed someone at his shoulder: Major Stoddard, his ever-present adjutant. “It’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it, Major?”

“Wilmington?”