Kingmakers, The (Vampire Empire Book 3) (16 page)

“T
HE OPERA IS
in Italian,” Adele said over the sound of the clattering carriage. “But I can explain it to you.”

“Capisco l'italiano
,” Gareth replied.

“Okay.” She stared evenly at him in the dim light. “How many languages do you speak anyway?”

He thought. “I'm not sure. Twenty? It depends on what you consider a language. In the north, dialects vary greatly from region to region, even from village to village in some areas. My Italian is northern. But even usage in Savoy can be very different from Lombardy. I've never been south of Milan. Very few vampires have. Have you ever been to Rome?”

“Yes. Several times.” Adele was suddenly less than satisfied with her languages—English, Persian, Arabic, Swahili, and French, as well as some familiarity in several northern tongues such as Italian and German, and snippets of a few extinct sacred languages. She was facile with languages, or so she had thought until she witnessed Gareth. He had picked up very nuanced Arabic from a single boat ride up the Nile. His absorption of human languages was remarkable, and typical of his kind. However, she did have one untold secret tongue, a singular ability to rival his own.

Gareth was in the midst of asking a question. “Does Rome…”

“Ask your question in your own language.”

“My language?” He looked at her with suspicion. “What do you mean?”

“Your vampiric language.”

He smiled slightly and nodded. “Ah. I wasn't even sure your people knew we had a language.”

“Most of us don't. We tend to think you just hiss, like cats. But some of us know differently. So ask your question.”

Gareth laughed and then growled deep in his throat and almost spit as he pulled and pushed sibilant air over his palate. Still, his hands gestured conversationally, as if he was chatting over dinner.

“No,” Adele said. “Rome is not part of the Empire. In fact, none of the Italian states are, nor do they care to participate in the war. Yet.”

Gareth's eyes widened in shock, and his mouth hung open. “You understood me.”

She grinned in acknowledgment.

He asked, “How long have you understood our language?”

“Since I heard it spoken in France, when
Ptolemy
was downed. I'm never sure I'm understanding it properly, but I get a sense of what is being said. Of course, if several of you are talking at the same time or there is too much distraction, I can't follow it.”

Gareth pursed his lips in thought. “I hope I never said anything untoward within earshot.”

Adele laughed loudly. “No. I don't recall anything insulting. In fact, you hardly ever speak vampire.” She reached out to him. “I'm sorry for keeping the secret so long.”

“On the contrary, you shouldn't have told me now. We're still leaders of rival houses. Don't give away all of your secrets to me.”

She grew serious, and her face clouded. “But we're together. We shouldn't keep secrets from one another.”

Gareth considered her words in thoughtful silence.

“Why?” she pressed. “Do you have secrets you're keeping from me?”

“No. But you're different. You must protect yourself from any eventuality. I don't matter.”

She eyed him with mock suspicion, trying to play it off as a joke, but even so, some of the hurt was real. “I'm not sure I can believe you. Perhaps you're lying to me now to cover your secrets.”

“Perhaps, but I'm not.” Then he blurted, “No, I do have one last secret. My true name.”

“
Gareth
isn't even your name?”

“It is. But my kind are born with a name in our language. We don't use it; it's secret. We believe that knowing someone's true name gives you power over them. At least, that's the tradition; it's largely forgotten now.”

Adele sat quietly watching the reflection of her diamond tiara sparkling from its place atop her rigidly ordered curls. She tapped her fan against her knee.

His brow wrinkled in question. “Shall I tell you?”

“No,” she answered.

“I will happily tell you.”

“No, don't.”

“Why?” Shadows flashed across his angular face as light from passing streetlamps slipped through the edges of drawn shades.

“I don't ever want to know the last mystery about you,” she replied softly.

“As you wish.” Greyfriar smiled and laid a steady hand over her nervous fan. “At least you'll know that the power you have over me has nothing to do with my name.”

The muffled din of cheering from outside increased, and the clomping of the mounted columns of White Guard around the carriage grew louder. A colored card showed on the wall, triggered by the footman riding outside to indicate they were nearing the opera house. Adele searched her small clutch for a mirror and checked her make-up. “How do I look?”

“Magnificent.”

“Thank you.” She smoothed the lap of her gown. “I used to hate dressing up. And I wouldn't want to do it every day, but I quite enjoy it now. Maybe because I have someone to do it for.” She glanced up at him.

“It suits you. You carry yourself like an empress. And you do attract my attention, though vampires are always drawn to high fashion naturally.”

His deep laugh calmed any last nerves as the carriage rocked to a stop. There was a whistle at Adele's side and she picked up a small speaking tube. The footman's voice came from outside, “Are you prepared, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, Gregor. You may proceed.”

The carriage door swung wide and the blare of countless trumpets filled the air. Greyfriar stepped out to screams of excitement. He paused at the foot of the steps and turned to offer his hand to the glittering empress. The footman posed with mute annoyance as Greyfriar handed Adele down to the red-carpeted walkway, which extended across the sidewalk and up the many steps to the portico of the Grand Macedon Opera House where a line of brass horns blew an earsplitting welcome.

Adele appeared in a pale yellow gown, accented in magenta. It showed her olive complexion to wonderful effect. The skirt was voluminous, but her waist and bodice were tight, and sparkled with intricate gem work. Her strong shoulders were bare under a magenta silk stole, appropriate for single women, if daring for an empress. Long opera gloves above the elbows completed the elegant ensemble.

Adele glided up the steps with a grace that thrilled her; managing vast gowns had always been a challenge. Greyfriar followed just behind her shoulder, scanning their surroundings constantly, an all-seeing sentinel. Her White Guard stood at attention, lining her path. Captain Shirazi acknowledged her with a brief nod before returning to his duty.

On the portico, she turned with a brilliant smile to wave at the multitudes, most of whom would never set foot inside the Grand Macedon in their lifetimes. Adults held children aloft to catch a glimpse of their empress and her mysterious companion.

Adele then entered the vast building of sparkling chandeliers, bold mosaics, marbled columns, dark but intricately carved woodwork, and a veritable jungle of green plants in massive pots and cisterns. There facing her across the spacious lobby was the interminable greeting line of tuxedoes, gowns, uniforms, and veils.

With her secretary at her side to announce names, the empress passed down the line, shaking hands, acknowledging bows and curtsies, secretly delighted as all eyes locked on Greyfriar, who went with her but did not acknowledge anyone, like a guardian angel or vengeful spirit.

Adele paused to speak to the two blue-haired colossi of the Phoenix Society. Lady Tahir was accompanied by a devilishly handsome young man who did not bear a family resemblance. Mrs. General Alfred
Cornwell (ret.) was with her husband, the grey-whiskered General Cornwell, whose head quavered slightly, but who was resplendent in a uniform adorned with medals of the Burmese Campaign.

“General,” Adele said, “most delighted to see you. I have the frequent opportunity to greet your wife, but I believe I have yet to make your esteemed acquaintance.”

“Thank you, Majesty,” the old gentleman replied briefly, then stopped talking, which caused his wife to smile, but when he opened his mouth again, her eyes flew wide in alarm. “And may I say, as a military man, well done in Grenoble!”

“Thank you, General.”

He carried on in a muttering baritone. “I daresay those boys gave the vampires what for when you showed up, let them know what they're fighting for, so to speak.”

Mrs. General Alfred Cornwell (ret.) went ashen, horrified that her husband had just referred to the empress as some sort of barracks pinup, giving the boys at the front a bit of home. She touched the general's ribboned sleeve and tittered nervously, signaling that his time with the monarch was at an end.

“And, if I may,” he persisted, pointing a knobby finger at the delicate young empress, “all the chaps at the Polo Club are bully for you. Every man jack of us wishes he'd been at Grenoble.” He clenched a quivering fist and flecked his bushy mustache with emotional spittle. “If only I wasn't so blasted old! I'd join up in a second!”

Mrs. General Alfred Cornwell (ret.) was breathing raggedly from the fear that her hard-earned position in society had been undone in a few blustery words from her demented husband. Lady Tahir, who typically was so attached to the general's wife that they finished one another's sentences, subtly turned herself away in order to distance her social status from the plummeting stock of her former friend.

Adele took the old general's rough hand. “We thank you for your kind words, General. We wish you were able to be at Grenoble as well. Your service to our father is sufficient to earn you praise and rest. If the men of the army in Europe are half the men you and your comrades were in Burma, we daresay the vampires stand no chance.”

General Cornwell's lip quivered until he tightened his jaw manfully. He bowed deeply to her.

Adele looked at the confused Mrs. General Alfred Cornwell (ret.). “And the women behind our men at the front are what make Equatoria the great empire it is. We thank you for your service.” She then glanced at the equally confused Lady Tahir and said with an impeccable straight face, “And your ladyship, I am so glad to see you with your son.”

“My…son? Oh yes! Quite!”

Adele moved on to receive the remainder of Alexandrian society. She tried to hurry so the opera could begin.
The Greyfriar
was reputed to be an epic of more than four hours. It had been slated originally to premiere in the autumn, but the outbreak of war made it seem temporarily frivolous. So the season was put off until the empress gave permission for social life in the capital to begin again. The delay gave the creators of the show time to add an unprecedented fifth act in which Greyfriar leads Equatoria to victory in the vampire war.

At the end of the receiving line was the director of the Imperial Opera Company, who greeted Adele, then led her and Greyfriar to the door of the royal box. Soldiers were positioned outside along with Adele's social secretary with her agenda. The door opened, and she heard an expectant hush from the house. As she entered, the crowd rose, turned toward her expectantly, and applauded. Adele went to the curved rail of the box high above the sea of people and acknowledged the uproar.

“God save Your Majesty!” came a shout above the din.

There was an audible rush of surprise at the exclamation. Adele looked for the source, but it was lost in the shadows. That outburst would be in the papers tomorrow, she thought. A public expression of faith, even at so bland an event, was cause for comment. Add to that her reputation as a religious acolyte, and it would become a topic of pointless debate across the coffeehouses and tearooms of the city, as well as the cloakrooms at Commons.

Gratefully, for the moment, the crowd was instantly distracted by the appearance of Greyfriar at her side. Opera glasses snapped up to multitudes of faces as men and women sought a closer view of the mystery man.

Adele kept her expression neutral and settled into her seat. Greyfriar joined her, and the director handed them both hardcover copies of the evening's program with an unctuous, “We fervently hope you enjoy the production.”

“We're sure we will since the program is already a hit,” Adele replied as Greyfriar pored over the pages of the playbill, taking great care to turn the fragile paper with his gloved hands. “Well, shall we get started?”

“Indeed. I should hate for the war to conclude before the opera.” The director laughed but noticed the deadpan look on the empress's face. He sobered instantly and straightened with a look of terror at his faux pas. “We shall begin momentarily.” He withdrew, bowing until the door was shut by soldiers, leaving Adele and Greyfriar alone with only several thousand of Equatoria's elite looking on.

The Grand Macedon was a lush and magnificent venue, larger than Algier's La Premiere, but considered a second to it still. Two levels of ornate private boxes along the sides and two balconies in the rear overlooked the floor that sloped toward the orchestra, where the conductor was mounting the step behind his podium. An audible hush swept the hall as the maestro tapped his baton, then raised it. Held it. And down it came with a thunderous percussion beginning the prelude. House lights began to drop. Conversations in the private boxes wound down with handshakes and waves and promises to speak later.