Chapter 4 - Election Fever
“It’s very beautiful,” Vogler says.
He rests his glass of vitae - bishop’s blood, of an apparently magnificent quality, which he’s predictably failed to acknowledge - on the balcony and gazes out across the darkness of the Heath.
“800 acres,” you tell him. “The closest you’ll get to true wilderness without heading out to Richmond or Wimbledon. Of course, there’s not much for your clanmates to feed on down there these days, other than cottagers-”
“I can see why they chose it,” Vogler murmurs. A thought seems to strike him. “I don’t suppose the Knightsbridge palace has a view to compare?”
“The old rookery tower is five storeys high; I believe it was once Mithras’ own chamber, actually. But no - it’s on flat ground, all the way to the river.”
“Pity. A Prince should be able to see what’s coming.”
“You’ll have Cliveden,” you remind him. “Grand views across the Thames valley. Old Gangrel territory.”
And, now that you’ve reminded him of what he stands to gain, it’s time to let him know where you stand.
“I can help you take all of this,” you say aloud. “I know I can. But I’ll need you on-side, Wilhelm - no holding back. I need to know of any youthful indiscretions, I need to know the name of your contact in Venice; everything that might help or hinder us.”
Vogler does not show irritation at the familiar use of his first name; he does, however, flinch at the mention of indiscretions.
“Your harpies are sharp,” he mutters, and pushes his sunglasses back to cover his eyes. You’ve noted that this movement seems to be his most common attempt to disguise agitation or unrest. “All right, Sommers. Cards on the table, and so on. Malmedy. You’ve heard of it?”
A memory stirs, at first vague, and then distinct; an old memory, belonging to an old Anthony Sommers; born-again, confused, still desperately hoping to retain a human identity, human relations, believing himself to be damned.
“A massacre in France,” you say, shortly. “A few years after I was embraced. I remember.”
“Yes, you were around for that war, weren’t you?” Vogler says, coolly. “Strange that we should have been on opposite sides, in a roundabout sort of way, but then I suppose we were both very different people, back then. I was there to watch, however, not to take part. Unfortunately, fires were lit, and...well, things got a little out of hand. A considerable number of Kine died. I ran, into the mountains.”
He taps lightly at the side of his head, at eye-level.
“And so one question leads on to another,” he concludes, “because it was my friend in Venice who led me back from the brink. Caine knows he didn’t have to. How much do you know of the Inner Circle, Anthony?”
“Almost nothing,” you admit, after a moment.
“Me neither,” Vogler says, “and I’m rather glad, because what little I hear scares the hell out of me. My friend is called Salomon, and he is an Archon; a Gangrel, like me - he served under the warlord Karsh once, and now he serves under Madame Guil, whom I pray neither of us will ever have to meet. There are so few of our clan remaining in Venice...and so we pull together, because we must. He’s braver than I am, I know that much. He does his best for me, putting my name forward whenever he can without appearing too enthusiastic. I’m sure he’d be willing to speak of you, too - if attention from Venice is something that thrills rather than frightens you.”
You drum your fingers across the balcony’s edge.
“And that’s it?” you ask. “Your youthful mishap...that’s all there was to it, a few long-dead Kine in the middle of a war? Nothing else that could be used against you?”
He raises a hand, as if to make a vow.
“Scout’s honour,” he tells you. “It’s as you said, Anthony; if we’re going to win, we have to be completely open and honest with each other.”
*
“The squad's doing well,” Fellowes tells you, his voice crackling a little. “Too well, in fact, if you ask me - they’re starting to get restless. We got them all excited about fighting, and now we’re keeping them locked in a hangar doing target practice and running around the obstacle course throwing flash grenades at each other. They’re feeling the ennui - in a brutish sort of way.”
He sounds bored himself.
“Keep them occupied,” you say. “I don’t intend to waste our most valuable asset by bringing them out too soon, Edgar. They have to be prepared, one hundred percent, or not at all.”
“The Sabbat crossed the river last week,” he complains. “Went for a warehouse in Shadwell. They’re saying Jonathan Ketch was with them, and that old bastard hasn’t been seen outside Amen Court in twenty years. Something’s got them fired up, Patrician - they need to be cut back down to size before they get a momentum going.”
You lean back in your chair, working your ball-point pen between your fingers.
“It’s not that simple,” you admit. “I’ve found a candidate, Edgar - a uniting influence, a Kindred with Venetian connections, and if I can help him become Prince, I want to. But that means we need to be very careful with our resources. Wistman needs to strike hard and make a serious impact, because with everything that’s going on in London right now, it might not have a second chance.”
A moment of silence, before Fellowes laughs.
“You fucking Ventrue,” he says, and you’re not certain whether it’s with admiration or pity. “Scheming’s an addiction for you lot, isn’t it? I wanted to tell you earlier, Patrician - Turcov’s been trying to recruit me. Called me twice last month. Said Gordon Wyther was Scourge material, as it turned out, rather than Sheriff material, and if I played my cards right, in a decade or two, maybe I’d be asked to step up in his place.”
The pen cracks, just a little, beneath your grip.
“And?” you ask.
“I told him I’d think about it, of course. It was obvious what he was trying to do. He’s hoping to isolate you, take as much away from you as he can without appearing openly hostile in front of the others. I’ll pretend to go along with it, if you like. Anyway, I thought you should let you know.”
“Maybe you should consider more carefully,” you reply, relaxing a little. “After all, I hear he treats Toreador rather well. Maybe he’ll even let you read some of your poetry to him.”
“It’s certainly tempting. I wonder if Erika wrote poetry. Somehow I suspect it would have been rather earthy. Ah, well.”
“Good to talk to you, Edgar. And don’t worry - I’ll keep an eye on Sabbat movements. If they come within an inch of the National Gallery-”
“-Oh, piss off, Patrician. And send us down some more whores and vitae. Too long without either and the bastards begin to think for themselves again.”
*
Fear. You’ve seen it before, in the eyes of individual barons, a shift in their step, a nervous smile, but now it permeates the entire Long Room; each Kindred stands in their own space, silent, refusing to meet the eyes of their peers. Turcov waits alone by the fireplace. Sorley takes his seat early and busies himself with his smartphone, his long-nailed fingers clacking away at a lightning pace. Even little Aldous Fesk is not immune to the atmosphere; uncharacteristically energetic, he scurries back and forth across the room, from corner to corner, unceasing.
You take a seat by the window, enjoying the barons’ fear, and trying to conceal your own. It is not long before Turcov, glancing at his watch, says aloud in a sombre voice that snaps the eerie silence,
“Almost midnight. Take your places.”
And, as everyone settles into their seats - you resting a hand almost lovingly upon the chair that belongs to the Baron of Whitehall - the knock comes, loud enough to make old Earl Godrick flinch, upon the outdoor doors.
“Who comes without?” Turcov calls.
Somewhat muffled, the lisping voice of Gordon Wyther responds,
“The night is upon you.”
“We surrender ourselves to the night.”
The doors swing inwards. Wyther, clad in black robes that cling to his lanky form, takes three steps forward, four to the right, and announces,
“Archon Alfonso Iacomo begs permission to enter the kingdom of mysteries.”
“Permission is freely given,” says Turcov.
Iacomo steps out of the darkness. He looks old; one of those faces that was always old, a kind of Mediterranean craggy visage carved out of glinting black rock. You’d guess that he was Ventrue, though his skin is so dark and his eyes so cold that you could be forgiven for mistaking him for a Lasombra. He wears a simple grey suit partially hidden beneath a thick cashmere coat, and walks straight to the barons’ table, without looking up. At the Prince’s chair, he halts.
“It is an insult to your customs,” he says, in a gentle, accented whisper, “and to the memory of great Mithras who once took his place here, but I must beg a seat at your table.”
“You would honour us by doing so,” Turcov tells him. You can’t help but wonder when it was agreed that he should be the council’s spokesman.
Iacomo sits, with a gentle sigh, keeping his coat wrapped around him, and looks about, beaming, at the glum-faced barons. His gaze passes over you, in an instant.
“I believe we have some brothers and sisters of the Camarilla,” he says, “being entertained in one of the antechambers, who have already contacted me making it clear that they wish to be of service to London should the opportunity arise. I suggest that they join us, since what I have to say concerns them, too.”
Turcov nods, simply, to Wyther, who trots away back into the darkness of the palace corridors. He returns, after a few minutes of thoughtful silence, with a trail of Kindred following at his heels.
A few of the barons crane to look; not every face in the group corresponds to someone from Costello’s list, though you recognise Julian Fox, sharply-dressed and smiling, who catches Turcov’s eye and gives a little bow. Vogler stands, a little awkwardly, in the centre, pressing his sunglasses up against his face.
“Of course,” Iacomo murmurs, scanning the faces, “those who were required in their own cities could not be with us - oh, although I see the Prince of Swansea is here-”
Beside you, Digby Deeds sneers, his face buried in his hands.
“-but no Pell-Mell Queen? I had heard that she was in the city, and had an opinion on the matter of the succession.”
Turcov’s face, for a split second, is filled with panic.
“We, ah,” he stammers, quickly, “we haven’t heard from her.”
“She’ll want to make an entrance, I suppose,” Iacomo says. “Well, no doubt more will make themselves known over the coming weeks, but we’ll make do for now. Good evening to you all. No doubt you are all aware of my general purpose here and upon whose authority I speak, but perhaps you remain uncertain as to my specific duties. I have been instructed, over the next six months or so, firstly, to observe the state of London, and carry out changes to its ordinance if I see fit, secondly, to make certain for the benefit of my superiors that there will be no more...internal troubles of the kind that have plagued you in recent months, and thirdly, to advise Venice to the best of my ability the right candidate to take the place once held by Mithras, Lady Anne Bowesley, and, ah, Roger Kirkbeck.”
He smiles, broadly.
“Some of you are very old. Others,” and you try to meet his gaze with confidence, “less so, but in any case I take no pleasure in delivering a dressing-down to the barons of London, Kindred experienced and wise enough to have known better, as if they were schoolchildren. You failed to stamp out madness and rebellion in our midst, and now we are here, and there is no turning back. What I desire to see, more than apologies or recriminations, is evidence that you are once again in control, that you will obey your Prince, no matter who they might be, and that once again one of our most loyal cities can be trusted to keep itself in good order.”
Without warning, Iacomo stands. The barons quickly scramble to their feet, the chairs screeching back against the floor.
“Now,” he says, pleasantly, “I suggest we all of us share a glass of vitae together, chit-chat, and try to forget that, before I take my leave this beautiful city, each one of you will have attempted to betray your peers, lie, obfuscate, bluff and double-deal, in the hope of winning my favour. I look forward to getting to know you all.”
*
The car door slams. Vogler, beside you, looks tense; a fear of tight spaces, you think. Either that or it’s the muscular Brujah occupying the seat opposite him.
Iacomo folds his hands and beams at the pair of you.
“Well,” he says. “How do you think that went?”
The question seems to be addressed to Vogler, but for some reason, he merely gawps.
“If you were hoping to cow the barons,” you reply, quickly, in his place, “you certainly made a mark, my lord.”
“Indeed,” Iacomo says, suddenly looking a little bored, “indeed. Well, you asked for an audience, boys - even if I must say you went about it in a rather roundabout way. Speak up, please.”
Vogler seems to regain his confidence. Sitting upright, he announces,
“Sir, I...promised my associate, Baron Sommers, a private interview with you. I hardly expected you to respond, least of all so soon, but...you’ll have your fill of would-be Princes talking shit at you, if you’ll excuse the expression, and my hope was that Anthony would give you his own view of affairs in London, rather than lobbying on my behalf, so...if you’ll excuse me, I’ll fulfill my promise and leave him to speak with you alone.”
Iacomo nods; Vogler’s hand is snatching at the door before the car’s even come to a complete halt. He bows once, gratefully, and slams it again behind him.
“Typical Gangrel,” says Iacomo, waving at the driver to move on. “Happier chasing cars than sitting in them. Still, we’ve heard some decent things about him, and obviously with his clan’s exile there are many who’d like to see him do well, in one capacity or another. What do you think of London, young man?”
The question throws you off.
“I’m...sorry?”
“Come now - you’ve been plotting your way around here for the past fifty years or so, and recently it seems things have taken off. What have you learnt about the city?”
“Well,” you tell him, thinking quickly, “the most important thing I’ve learnt in my short time here? London is too vast and wilful to be controlled by a single Kindred. Mithras had Lady Anne. Kirkbeck fell because he no longer had powerful friends to help sustain him, and, over time, he became desperate. Lonely ambitions break like waves, Archon, on London's walls”
“Mm,” the Archon says, apparently neither agreeing nor disagreeing with you. “You will excuse me if I continue to speak abruptly, young man, because three of your colleagues already have lobbied to speak with me this evening, and I am already tired. You shall come away with as little as them, because I am nothing if not fair; a warning, and a prophecy.
"Cosy up to your choice of Prince as much as you desire, but look to yourselves first. The next time we gather at Knightsbridge, the barons of London will explain to me what they have done and what they continue to do to build Camarilla stability and strength in the city - why, if you like, they deserve to survive. One of you will have to be made an example of, to ensure the rest of you scheming fools get it into your heads that things have to change...and I daresay it’s no secret, young man, that many of your peers will cross their fingers and hope that it’s you.”
He drops you off outside the Houses of Parliament themselves, winding down his window to give them a quick glance and a husky murmur of,
“Glorious. Good night, young man - good night, good night."
How will you plan to counter the Archon’s warning?
A) My strength is, and always has been, Kine. I need to push my contacts amongst the politicians and the financial elite, make myself indispensable that way.
B) If I can build up an alliance with another baron, while proving myself useful in the process, I should. Maybe I should go to Biggs and suggest a foray into Giovanni territory...
C) Dubrik. I’ll give him Dubrik. Nobody else has got as close as me to the bastard.
D) Try and find out where Amen Court is. It’s a long shot, but presumably most of the other barons will be trying to make themselves useful by taking on the Sabbat - if we join forces, we’ll have a greater chance of success, which means they might even hesitate before stabbing me in the back.
E) All that matters is not being the weakest baron. Rather than desperately justifying my own existence, why don’t I just engineer it so someone else suffers a colossal failure in the next few weeks?
F) Ehhh...something else.
