Chapter 2.6 - Albert XI
“I think I should speak now,” Prince Schureman says to his Seneschal, Adrianus van Eyck. Unlike Schureman, who is of middling height, van Eyck seems to almost stretch to the ceiling, with broad shoulders so that he truly towers.
“Of course,” he says. Already standing his leans forward to pick up the small bell from the table, and rings it with a precise shaking of his hand. It proves to be enough, and the room is soon all but silent.
Schureman stands, flanked by his Seneschal and by Simon Warren, his Sheriff. If the Prince looks insignificant next to van Eyck, at least he looks well dressed next to Simon, whose raggedy attire and wolfish appearance make no secret of his blood. I am sure Schureman thinks it looks imposing.
“Thank you all for attending my summons,” Schureman begins. “I realise it is not usual, but I have news to impart. I need to introduce to Satrap Albert here,” he motions his hand in my direction, “who has arrived in London at the invitation of myself and a number of other Princes to discuss matters of mutual import. Satrap Albert, naturally, has leave to reside, and I am sure you all join me in hoping he enjoys his stay in our great city.”
There is a pause, and I realise it is my cue. I stand from the side-table against the wall. “My thanks to your Prince for his kind words, and his hospitality. I arrive here as a stranger, but I hope when I depart I will leave friends behind me.” I sit once more. A few clap politely, and the sound soon peters out.
Schureman says nothing for a moment - was he expecting more? Maybe, but he does continue. “With Satrap Albert here we will shortly be having an influx of visitors. Whilst not a formal conclave Justicar Xavier is aware and supports our endeavours. He wishes however to have no cause to have to make an appearance.”
“So don’t make him have to,” Sheriff Simon growls
Schureman offers a tight smile at this interruption. “I urge you all to be courteous to our guests, and to be wary if those with less reputable aims seem to take advantage of the situation. And I remind our Anarch brethren that they too our bound by these laws, according to the…”
“We know,” calls out a voice from those gathered, “or have you forgotten who is going to be providing a goodly portion of the numbers you require for security?” An unassuming man shoulders forward, untidy mop of hair, a serviceable outfit. “You’ve introduced us to this guy from London, and told us about this not-Conclave. Do you have anything else to say, because some of us would like to enjoy our evening and you aren’t that interesting to listen to.”
Schureman keeps himself very contained, but knuckles whiten as he makes fists with his hands. He draws a very slow, deliberate breath. “And we thank you for your aid,” he says in a voice that sounds like it might cut glass. “Please, all of you, enjoy my hospitality.” With that he turns and leaves, the Sheriff following him. Van Eyck stays.
“You heard the Prince,” he tells the waiting crowd. “Please enjoy yourselves,” and the din of conversation quickly resumes - though he beckons the one who spoke, but my view is then blocked.
“Might I introduce myself?” says a man who has approached my seat. He is very neatly dressed, in what I take for the latest fashion (or perhaps fashion-to-be?). I stand, and wait.
“I am Jonathan Carisbrooke, Toreador Primogen of this domain.”
I doubtless appear blank a moment, and then I understand. “You must forgive me,” I say, putting my left hand over my chest and inclining my head, closing my eyes for a brief moment as I do so. “I had forgotten the influence of Iberian speech in the New World.” Though it does appear to be spreading from what I hear in the Water.
Jonathan maintains a polite smile, “Of course. I had just thought I should welcome to you the Domain personally as well, and assure you that if you require anything, please, let me know.”
I smile falsely. “Thank you,” I say simply. “I trust there will be no need for me to take up your kind offer.”
Jonathan’s smile matches my own, but I think without hostility. “But of course. I also wondered if you might like to attend some of the events we have upcoming of a more refined nature.” He pulls out a card from an inside pocket of his jacket, and holds it out to me. “I am sure there must be something we can offer that would be of interest.”
I look at the card a moment - really look - and it appears to be just that. With two fingers I pluck the card from him. “Again, thank you,” I say. “I will have to examine this later.”
Another bright smile from Jonathan. “My details are included. But I will take no more of your time,” and with a precise, perfect bow of the head he moves off, his purpose done and with an acute awareness not to overstay a welcome. I glance at his card - perhaps there will be something - but someone else approaches and I pocket it.
It is van Eyck with the man who spoke against the Prince. “Satrap Albert,” van Eyck begins. “I wanted to introduce you to Orin Radford, a valued - if somewhat antagonistic - member of our Domain.”
“Chrissakes Adrian you didn’t have to say all that,” blurts out Orin from his shoulder. He steps forward, and sticks out his hand. “Orin the Anarch, and I am not sure I am pleased to meet you.”
I smile in return, more fully, and take his hand. “Albert,” I say, “and I probably am pleased to meet you.”
Van Eyck’s lips break into a small smile. “I suspect you’ll be fine together. Please excuse me gentlemen,” and he withdraws.
We release each other. “Shall we sit?” Orin says, “rather than just stand like that ninny Jonathan insisted on doing?” I shrug, and we sit. “To be honest,” Orin continues, “if it wasn’t for Theo I wouldn’t speak to you at all, for all that Adrian said it would be a good idea.”
“You get on with him?” I ask.
“Eh, he’s alright. Stuck up of course, as are any of his sort. He’d be the prince, if people didn’t get so bloody uptight about the Tremere.”
“And you do not ‘get uptight’ about them yourself?” I ask, curiously.
“Course I do. But I don’t think your blood should count against you. Instead he gets lumbered with Schureman - which has to be some sort of punishment if ever there were one.”
Orin is nearly the perfect Anarch leader. He is talking louder than he must - to ensure everyone can hear. A few jibes at those in power, but nothing over the line. And a not-so subtle warning about the Tremere. I glance over at the dozen or so clustered back, clearly watching him.
“You seem to have quite a following here,” I say.
He grins at me. “Now what I really want to know is - if trouble comes at this not-Conclave - say the Crusade get wind of it -” and for the first time his voice drops, “- are you going to stand with us neonates and rabble, or are you going to run like most of the other elders?”
I wait a moment. “I take it you are unaware of the nature of my title?” I say softly into the silence.
Orin shrugs, “Well you’re not a governor of a Persian province, I know that.”
I chuckle, “No. No I’m not.” I look him right in the eye. “But - should a Crusade, or something similar, occur - I hope you will not find me a disappointment.”
He stares at me for several seconds. “I hope so too,” he says quietly, and glances around. He again speaks in his louder voice. “Well, I won’t take more of your time. Lots of people want to speak to you, and I don’t envy you listening to their droning.” He stands, gives a sharp nod of his head, and strides back to his group. They occupy two large tables further down the room, talking loudly amongst each other, probably annoying some others. Anarchs, frivolous on the surface, but now and then …
I dismiss the thought, and prepare myself for the next person who wants to welcome me. It is going to be a long night.