Sable Palace and Elsewhere
1st June SY154
Things seemed to settle down somewhat after my visit with Rupert, and I was delighted that Claire seemed almost back to her normal self. She commented once or twice that occasionally there was a nagging from the Logrus in the back of her mind, but it was now sufficiently subdued that she could keep it in check, and it no longer threatened to overwhelm her. She joked that it probably just wanted to remind her that it was there, but had accepted that my brother was on the way to recovery and so there was no more she had to do. It was an incredible relief.
I resumed my duties on 16th May, and as I read through the accumulated paperwork on my desk, I was rather startled that the previous day, a Private Member's Bill had been passed in the House of Commons aimed at restoring Andrew's place in the succession. My first thought was that the Friends of the Lost had taken advantage of my absence to move forward their agenda. However, once I'd ordered up the Mansard records and scanned them through, it seemed as if Julian Castle - Andrew's successor as Attorney General - had been one of the driving forces behind the Bill: and as Andrew had said a few weeks before, if his wishes regarding the succession were to be overturned, Castle was one of the two people who could legally do it.
Of course, when we'd spoken, I would guess that Andrew had been thinking in terms something more private in the way of an arrangement, which he could probably quietly scotch if he chose to, rather than introducing a Bill into Parliament which would make things very public and more difficult to counter. Moreover, the fact that the Bill had passed the Commons with a two-thirds majority meant that there was more support for Andrew's position than I might have expected. Not all of them could be members of the Friends of the Lost. At least, I really hoped they weren't, or Sable had an even bigger problem than I'd realised. And I wasn't sure that all of it could be put down to an upswing in hostility towards the Reich since the Treaty had been signed, with Andrew as the focus of the anti-Treaty faction, given that he was one of the highest-profile opponents of both the Reich and the Treaty within Sable.
I would have to monitor the situation closely, and if the Bill were to pass the House of Peers, and come to me for Royal Assent, I was going to have to think about it very carefully. After all, if I really looked at it closely, I actually couldn't deny that I had some sympathy for their position, given that I knew what had been behind Andrew's actions.
Gray's security briefings also made particularly grim reading. The murder rate was significantly higher in the Reich than it had been, as various people took the opportunity of a change of power in the SS, however temporary, to settle old scores. Gray also noted that Juergen Kessler had been entertaining a steady stream of dignitaries at his weekend retreat in Leipzig, where he held his Higher Nobility title and lands. His assessment was that Kessler was definitely going to make a move to take over the SS organisation, whether or not Rupert recovered from his current incapacitation, and moreover, he indicated that he thought the heads of the Gestapo and the Einsatzgruppen would probably back him to the hilt. Rupert wasn't going to have an easy time of it.
Gray also sounded pretty certain that once my brother was up and about again, there was going to be another bloodletting. The trouble was, without knowing how badly Andreas and the Machine had been wounded by the Death Curse, the idea of half of the Reich's armed forces and the majority of its security machinery ripping itself apart, when what was needed was strength and unity of purpose, was not a pleasant one.
I don't think I'd ever heard Gray offer even the slightest sympathy towards our enemies until that set of briefings.
Over the next couple of weeks, I regularly kept in touch with Rikart Schultz regarding my brother's condition, but he had little new to report. At least, little that he was willing to admit to me. As 1st June came closer, I began to wonder if it was worth just checking in with Rupert, himself - or his mind, at least - to see how things were going. However, I didn't relish another trip to the Wewelsburg, so I decided to try an experiment.
The image of him sitting next to what seemed to be the avatar of the Sable Pattern, reading the story of his life, a glass of whisky at his elbow, had stuck with me, and was sufficiently vivid that I wondered if it might be possible to draw a Trump of it. The very idea that the Sable Pattern had an avatar was a strange concept in itself, given that I hadn't realised that even Prime Reflections of the Primal Power had such things. It made me wonder if there were others attached to Argent, Azure and Gules, or whether it was more that I had Anglia and the Primal Pattern had decided that Rupert, too, should have an ally.
So on the afternoon of Saturday 31st, I settled down to try to create a Trump. As I laid down the initial design, I didn't feel to be making an impression, but as I worked, I began to feel Trump energy within the painting, and became more convinced that I was, indeed, creating something, even if I wasn't entirely sure what. By the time I was finished the following morning, what I held in my hand looked similar to what I had envisaged, but not quite the same. The pose and surroundings were exactly as I remembered them, but Rupert's face was a younger version of his normal appearance, rather than more like mine, as he'd been in the flesh (as it were). Perhaps, by now, more time had passed with his reading, and he was becoming more certain of his own identity. But the card was definitely cold.
As four o'clock was the traditional time, I decided to hold off on trying my experiment until then. I want to the morning service at St George's Chapel and then, after a decent lunch, I headed for my office to carry on working down the backlog. Among other things, new to my in-pile were Gray's latest assessments of the situation in the Reich, and by four o'clock I was thoroughly depressed, and trying to figure out how to accelerate Rupert's recovery. Maybe, if he got back before Kessler made his move, some of the trouble could be avoided. The question was, was there any way I could mention it to him when we met, or would Düdesch maintain his view that current information was jumping ahead. I suppose it depended on whether the big cat cared more for Rupert or the Reich.
I laid the papers aside, drew out the Trump - I wasn't sure I wanted to risk this one to a mind Trump - and placed the call. Initially, it felt as if it was trying to reach something but couldn't find it. However, after a couple of minutes, I felt the contact open. At the other end of the link I could see my counterpart, looking closer to our current age and more like his usual self, although I could still see the library in the background.
"I wasn't sure that this was going to work," I said, smiling, pleased that it had.
"Robert?" he said, surprised.
"It's June 1st."
He was obviously puzzled and I could feel him trying to remember the significance of the date, before the light dawned.
"Really? Fascinating. Thank you for remembering. However, sadly, I'm not sure I'm in a position to come to you."
"Then if you'll let me..."
"Of course," he answered, and extended his hand.
I've done some stupid things in my time, but in retrospect, taking his hand and stepping through was definitely one of the worst. Even dumber than attending my brother's wedding, the previous March.
"How did you manage that?" he asked, genuinely curious as I joined him and looked around.
He'd obviously been busy since I'd last seen him, and I could see that he had just started on the German titles...having read the first couple. I suppose it explained why he now looked more like his usual self, and would make discussing Powers far easier, as he would at least know what I was talking about. His style of dress had changed, too: he was now in a suit of more military-style cut, rather than the Victorian gentleman's garb he'd been the in last time I had been here.
"I drew a Trump," I answered.
"Interesting..." he replied, "how can you draw a Trump of a mental construct?"
"I'm not sure if I've actually drawn a Trump of the construct, or a Trump of your new self. Certainly the old ones weren't working when I last tried them, which isn't totally surprising if your mind is regenerating. How are you feeling? You look to have made progress..."
"Indeed I have," came the reply, and I could sense a change in his demeanour as he said it. Moreover, I saw Düdesch come padding around the corner from the reading nook heading towards us, looking purposeful.
"Rupert..." I said, cautiously. Something felt very wrong.
"It's a fascinating story. Two halves of the same being, trapped in one body, finally separated so that each can follow their own destiny. Except one half imposed his will on the other to mould him, rather than let him be himself and reach his own potential," he growled, anger suddenly flashing in his eyes."
"What the Hell?" I asked, caught flat footed.
"I can't believe how badly you fucked me over, you sanctimonious son of a bitch. You gathered together all the inconvenient, unwanted bits of yourself; every hang-up you ever had about being 'abandoned' by our whore of a mother; every hatred you have of our father and our aunt and their beliefs; and every lousy stereotype you hold about the Thule Society and the NSDAP; called it your Dark Side; forced it to be subservient to someone who isn't even technically human; and fostered it on me. You even denied me the chance of having a natural family of my own. By the gods I was naïveto ever believe you gave a shit about me."
"There's more to it than that..." I protested.
"Really?" he replied, with a sneer, "is there really?"
"You're jumping to the end...you've missed out a third of your life and the changes in our relationship over the last few years, and you're leaping to the wrong conclusions."
"How can I possibly be leaping to the wrong conclusions, when all your thoughts, thought processes and feelings are written here in black and white? What was I supposed to be? A cartoon villain? Your 'evil twin brother'. If that's how you think of me, then fuck civilised. Perhaps evil twin brother is how I should act."
And without warning, he launched into me with the strongest mental assault I'd ever been subjected to. He poured his hatred and resentment at me, and caught off guard, I fell back before him. I did my best to rally, but for a man who hadn't appeared to have any shields last time we were in proximity, I couldn't make the slightest impression on his mind. Within his defence I felt the Pattern, and realised that Düdesch was backing him. I tried to draw on my own Pattern, but access to it was blocked: Rupert's mental construct belonged to the Sable Pattern, and I couldn't get any purchase.
Then, as I felt myself giving mental ground, I saw the big cat spring. It caught me bang in the centre of the chest and knocked me backwards, and I cracked my head on the bottom of the bookshelf and blacked out.
* * * * *
When I awoke, I was alone. Groggily I got to my feet, rubbing the sore patch at the base of my skull, and looked around me. I headed for the reading nook, but the fire had burned down to embers, and there was no sign of either Rupert or Düdesch. However, I did see a note on the side table, weighted down with a half-full glass of whisky.
"Time I accelerated things I think, brother. You've become weak, and while that suits me perfectly fine, for the good of our respective nations, balance needs to be restored. You need to grow a pair, and stop passing your shit off onto me. Düdesch has opened the books to you. Maybe they will remind how one of our blood should act. Read my life. Learn from it. Enjoy it. I have every intention of enjoying yours."
I picked it up and stared at it. Had his actions been premeditated? Or had he merely had time after I'd been rendered unconscious to come up with a plan, which would be in character with his usual, opportunistic streak?
Then I flipped the noted over and found the PS.
"Oh, and by the way, I'm really looking forward to fucking your lovely wife."
I saw red. I grabbed the glass and hurled it at the fireplace, and had the satisfaction of seeing the fragile crystal shatter into a million pieces, and the alcohol ignite in the embers. Then I started on the furniture, and began smashing and breaking. I couldn't control myself, so angry was I at the thought of Rupert Delatz with Claire. I wanted to kill him more strongly than I had for years.
I have no idea how long the rage had me in its grasp for, but eventually, it subsided, and I found myself surrounded by broken wood and slashed leather. But at least I hadn't taken my anger out on the drinks cabinet. I poured myself a drink and stood there for a few minutes, getting control of myself until I stopped shaking, and taking in the devastation I had wrought. I tried bringing a Trump to mind, but either my mental deck was missing, or it just didn't function here. The Pattern, likewise, was denied to me. And the only sound was the flames crackling in the fireplace as they died down once more.
Not sure what else to do, I started to explore. I began at the end with the earliest memories. There were windows, but no door. However, when I looked out of the windows all I could see was light: it was impossible to make out any detail, if, indeed, there was any to make out. I looked around for something heavy to try to break them with, but all that remained was the ruins of the chairs, and when I tried to use part of one of those, it bounced off and made no impression. As if the windows were actually a made of some kind of plastic. I moved cautiously back towards the door at the other end - locked, of course - but there was no-one in the library but me, and no way out.
The only other sign that anything else living had ever been here, was a single feather on the carpet by the door. That led me to consider the Logrus, but if the eagle Düdesch had chased off when I'd been here last had been the avatar of Roland's creation, the chances were that trying to use the Logrus here would be a very bad idea. Out of curiosity, I tried to reach for the feather, but as I touched it, it burned me. I snatched back my hand and turned it over, and could see the imprint of it perfectly inscribed on the flesh of my fingers. It seemed to bear out the likelihood that using the Logrus here would be bad. Moreover, when I tried to will away the injury, I had no success.
I was a prisoner just as surely as if I'd been thrown in a cell and the door locked behind me. No-one knew where I was except Rupert, and I rather doubted he would be back to see me any time soon. However, if he did...just then I had an exceptionally strong urge to wring his neck.
I couldn't see anything else I could do, except what he'd planned, in the hope that once I had read to the end of his life, I might be released from the prison, as I guessed he would have been. I crossed to the bookshelves and reached down the first volume of Die Lebensbeschreibung von Rupert Delatz. Sure enough, this time I could lift it from the shelf, and when I opened it I could read the neat, German gothic script in which it was written. Volume II was also open and accessible, but once I got to the third book, it was blank. He hadn't read to that point yet, so its mysteries hadn't been unlocked.
I picked up the first volume once more, and walked back to where the chairs had been. They were still splintered. No magical force had rebuilt them in my absence. I considered for a moment, trying to conjure them whole once more, but there was nothing. This wasn't my construct to control. Apparently I could only destroy. However, I didn't feel brave enough, or desperate enough, to try to destroy the books, in the hope that their absence would give me my freedom. Resigned to the trap I'd walked into, I cleared away the debris, then found myself a comfortable wall to lean against, and settled down to read.
* * * * *
I must have dozed off, metaphorically speaking, because the next thing I consciously remember was the feeling that the whole place was shaking. I got hurriedly to my feet, doing my best to keep my balance, and emerged from the reading nook. There was light rippling along the books, and I could see the twists and turns of the Sable Pattern in that light, and as it passed backwards and forwards, the ground shook. Once the shaking was so violent that I was actually knocked to the ground, although the structural integrity of the building itself seemed sound. I decided to stay where I was, but a short while later, there was another violent tremor.
As I felt it, I also felt myself feel fainter, less real, as if something was being taken from me. Had the Pattern been available to me, I would have used it to defend myself, but it was not. All I could do was wait it out. Thankfully, when we were hit a third time, I felt more solidity returning to me, and a short while later, the rippling light faded away and the tremors stopped. I got cautiously to my feet and took stock of my surroundings. Something was different. I considered for a moment, and then realised that the later books - the ones of Rupert's life – were no longer pristine: they looked to have been read. Which led me to one conclusion. The treacherous bastard had walked the Pattern in my body, and fully restored his memories that way, instead of carrying on the long way.
But where did that leave me? Did I even have a body to return to?
I moved cautiously back to the reading nook, and once again picked up the volume I'd been reading which had been beside me when the quake had struck. Volume XXIII. How had I got that far without realising it? Rupert's memories were disturbing, focused and downright unpleasant in places, but I couldn't stop myself from reading, as I began to get insight into who and what I'd made when I'd manifested him. I also realised just how much he'd loved Elizabeth; how much he hated the fact that I'd let her die and Andrew live; how much he resented the relationship between me and Claire; and how frustrated his inability to have children had made him. His bitterness was a recurring theme throughout his memories, both for himself, and because he felt the Reich was disadvantaged by a lack of blooded individuals.
However, he'd managed to counter the latter to a degree, bringing Conrad Berthelmes and Tristan Heydrich to the Reich and giving them influence within the Wehrmacht. And had caused Conrad to father Juergen Kessler within the first few months of the Reich's existence. And they weren't the only ones: there were others of both Delwin's and Sand's bloodlines, who he had located and brought 'home'. He had also brought another son of my blood to the Reich: a man I hadn't even realised was my child. Joachim Peiper. The name brought back memories of my own. Of being hunted through the Ardennes. Somehow Rupert had known he was my son and used that, even though I did not. Peiper had been given the Waffen-SS in its earliest days, and commanded it with the same efficiency he had shown on Terra Magica.
I ploughed on. The plots, the schemes, the forming of the Knights of the SS and the rituals undertaken on the Celtic Quarter Days, and the battles of one-upmanship with the Kaiser, who he considered inferior and barely human, even though walking the Pattern under my guidance had fundamentally changed Wilhelm's original situation. Developing a love of flying to try and give himself freedom from what he considered my shackles. The pursuit of music as he tried to prove to himself, as much as to anyone else, that there was more to him than merely being a cold-hearted killer and the leader of a murderous organisation. And yet, balancing the positives was his dedication to using any and all Powers at his disposal to try to attack Sable, and all of this while he met me once a month, in an attempt to remain civilised. Still, at least those meetings had stopped him actively hurting me – until today - and vice versa, as he genuinely seemed to believe that an actively hostile relationship between us was bad for the Sable universe.
So what had caused him to throw away that wisdom and attack me?
It was horrifying and fascinating at the same time, and showed my brother in a completely new light - his motivations, his thought processes, his all-abiding love for his country. Although I will admit that I dreaded reaching the part where he captured and tortured Andrew. And yet I could see no way I could avoid it, if the only way I was going to leave the library was by finishing his life story.
I'd reached RY035 when I heard a new noise in the library. Footsteps on the carpet...barely audible under normal circumstances, but as loud as thunder in the silence. I rose from my position, feeling cramped and cold, but strangely not hungry, despite the fact that the only sustenance I'd taken since I'd been there had been from the whisky cabinet (I didn't even want to think why our subconscious had come up with that one), and looked into the main body of the library.
My brother Michael was walking towards me.
I had never been so pleased to see anyone in all my life. And once again, I realised with awe that despite the mild exterior, he is one of the most brilliant Trump artists I have ever met. Moreover, within the Sable universe, he was probably the only person who could have found me, except Rupert.
"Robert," he said, as he saw me, and an incredible look of relief crossed his features.
"Michael," I answered, "thank God."
We met in the centre and I embraced him.
"What is this place?" he asked, looking rather surprised at the display of emotion as we stepped apart, "it doesn't feel quite real, and I detect a Hell of a lot of Pattern, even if I can't properly analyse it."
"It's a memory construct...built by the Sable Pattern, as far as I can figure out."
"Whose memory?"
"Rupert's," I replied.
"That makes sense, given how I got here."
"Which was...?"
"I used same Trump you must have done as a focus. The one of a rather younger Rupert in...well, in this place, as far as I can tell...But the card was very odd...not quite like anything I'd come across before."
"I wasn't sure what I was painting when I created it," I answered.
"And you used it anyway...never entirely wise," he commented.
"No shit, Sherlock," I snorted.
"Sorry," he said with a mischievous grin, "but you asked for that." Then he looked more serious again. "Anyway, I couldn't reach him, or you, but I found this place. What happened? My best guess is you've been sucked into some kind of Trump trap: the card looks to be one you drew, but I could feel signs of tampering."
"I suppose a Trump trap is as good a way of describing it as any, at least for now. But please, tell me you can get us back out of here. You have no idea how fed up I am of looking at these same four walls."
"I analysed the Trump, both how I guess it was originally and how it is now, and have figured out a way of countering it which I'm willing to try, if you are."
"You couldn't do it soon enough," I answered, looking at him.
"Then hold on."
I felt him bring some kind of Trump construct to mind, although the specifics were way more complicated than anything I could build. And then we were transferring, and I suddenly felt real again. I tried to take a breath, but ended up choking, until he grabbed my shoulder, pulled me upright, and gave me a well-placed thump on the back. Once I was able to breathe again, I took in my surroundings, and realised I was in my quarters. Then Claire was beside me, and her arms were around me, and we were kissing.
"Robert," she said, as we finally came up for air, "what the Hell happened?"
"When I've figured that out, I'll tell you," I answered, "how long have I been out?"
"As far as we can tell, getting on for forty-eight hours," Michael replied, "it's currently about eight-thirty in the evening, on the 3rd June."
"After dinner on Sunday, you said you wanted to finish some work, and told me not to wait up," Claire explained, "but when I woke up around four in the morning and you still hadn't come to bed I got worried. So I went looking for you. You were slumped over your desk in your office, and it looked like you'd had a stroke."
"Claire called me, we got you to the infirmary and checked you out, but quickly realised that all was not what it appeared. We confirmed that you had, indeed, had some kind of seizure...it was as if parts of your brain had overloaded...even burned out...although your shifting was trying to put things back together. But what was more apparent was that you weren't in there any more. She couldn't feel you down the link you share. Then she mentioned the Trump and we started putting two and two together. She had you brought here, so as not to worry people unduly, and I've been trying to figure out what the card is ever since."
"At least I seem to have all my memories, so obviously whatever it was didn't destroy anything permanently," I replied, thinking of my encounter with Rupert.
Could what they were describing would tie up with the kind of attack he'd hit me with in the library? Or was it something else? I had all my memories, but as I sat there, I could feel that something wasn't right. A shape shifter usually has a good feel for whether all is physically well with them, and right there, right then, something was off. I pulled up a self-check spell and quickly realised what it was. I wasn't in my own body: I was in Rupert's. I could clearly identify the Dark Side markers, and I felt lighter than normal and exceedingly unfit. As if I'd been in a coma for a month. Moreover, the damage they were describing would tie up with the effects I had observed related to his transferral of Sigiswald's Death Curse.
And yet apparently I looked like me, and the body was where mine should have been.
"Robert, are you alright?" she asked.
"I'll be fine," I answered, trying to sound convincing.
"Did someone attack you?"
"Claire, you said after dinner on 1st June?"
"Yes. What's wrong?"
"It's...no, nothing...I'm probably just confused. Sorry."
"Understandable," Michael commented, but as I looked at him, I realised that he knew there was something I wasn't saying. However, he didn't press the issue at that point.
"Do you feel like getting up and moving?" Claire asked, "you've had a lot of people worried, and I think they'd be happy to see you up and about."
"Give me a few minutes to make myself presentable, and then I'll be down," I replied.
"Shall I wait for you, or see you downstairs?"
"I'll meet you downstairs. I rather fancy something to eat."
"Alright," she said, and kissed my forehead before heading out. Michael, however, stayed behind as I hauled myself up to a sitting position on the side of the bed, annoyed that it was more effort than it should have been, and he handed me a dressing gown.
"You ignored Claire's question," he commented, "were you attacked?"
"Oh yes."
"Rupert?"
"Who else?"
"When?"
"Earlier than it seems I went missing," I replied, "I called him at four, and as far as I'm aware, I never came back. And yet Claire remembers seeing me at dinner."
"Sure. You were definitely there, although looking back you seemed a bit quiet. What's wrong?"
"It wasn't me. It was Rupert in my body."
"How is that even possible?"
"I have no idea. It's something to do with that construct. He must have seen body snatching as a quick way back to health and happiness, and hit me when I wasn't expecting it. And he had help. The Black Pattern avatar was actively aiding him. Between them they knocked me senseless with a combined mental attack and a well-placed bookshelf, and by the time I came around, both of them were gone.
"What was that place? Just a mind construct or did it have some kind of soul element as well?"
"I have no idea for certain. The bookcase hurt like Hell, that's for sure. My guess is that there must have been a soul element if he could kick me out of my own body and take it for himself, and moreover if you could pull me out into what I'm pretty bloody sure is his mangy corpse."
"Be grateful it's neither mangy, nor a corpse," Michael replied, seriously, "or you really would be in trouble. But still, as far as I've heard through my sources, he's still unconscious in the Wewelsburg. Certainly there's been no sign that he's up and about."
And as I knew from past conversations, Michael had some very well placed sources. Probably better than Gray's.
"So it either didn't work, or he's playing possum," I mused, "want to hazard a guess which?"
"Without knowing exactly what happened to you, I can't comment on the first. The second, though...if he is awake, and has found out just how sticky things have got in his absence, then yes, I could quite easily see him sneaking around in the background. After all, he wouldn't be the first of our family to do something similar."
"No, he wouldn't. Although Rupert taking a leaf from Caine's book is a disturbing thought. And given that I'm sitting here compos mentis in the body which was actually damaged by the trick he pulled with the Death Curse, if he is wearing my flesh and blood, there's no medical reason why he wouldn't be up and about."
"So we assume he's playing possum. In which case, how did his body end up here?"
"Exactly what did Claire find in my office?"
"Just you slumped over your desk, over that Trump."
"Which could easily have been staged. He gets back to his homeland, changes his form to look like mine, and then brings it back to cover his tracks...it might work. Any sign of Powers usage?"
"According to Andrew, there were signs that you'd jumped out and back with the Pattern, plus some Trump activity which I put down to meddling with the card. Nothing else."
"No trace of anyone else?"
"No, but then, if he was working in your body...Robert, are arcane signatures part of the body or the soul?"
"I have no idea. I'd always assumed the soul, but if body and soul were confused and comingled...I suppose him working within my body could have looked like my handiwork. And he's almost certainly a good enough forensics mage to confuse the issue...I know I am."
I lapsed into silence, feeling bitter and angry.
"There's something else, isn't there?" Michael said, quietly.
"He also left me a bastard of a note to rub things in, which was the last straw. I freaked."
"I saw the damage. Do you want to discuss it?"
"He boasted about wanting to sleep with Claire...in rather less polite terms than that. Thankfully, at least it sounds as if that didn't happen, if I never came to bed that night."
I thought I detected a slight hesitation before Michael answered, and I suddenly had a very bad feeling. Somehow the son of a bitch had done what he'd promised. Anger welled up in my like a hot fire, and I was powerless to stop it.
"Christ, I'm going to wring his treacherous neck when I get hold of him," I said angrily, "how dare he..."
"Robert...please...calm down," Michael said, quietly.
"How exactly do you suggest I do that?" I shouted, "I can tell from the way you hesitated that he did what he promised."
"I don't know for sure," he answered, cautiously.
"Yes you do," I challenged, "I know when you're hedging. Michael, he threw away civilised when he did this. When he attacked me. When he messed with my wife. I was a fool to trust him in the first place...to have compassion for him. Never again. I'm going to put an end to this as soon as I'm up and moving."
"Except you're alone, and he'll have the Honour Guard with him. You'll be outnumbered."
"Right now, I don't care," I answered, hotly, and felt him recoil.
"Don't be a damned fool," he snapped, with a very un-Michael like anger in his tone, "for a start, how secure are you in that body? What's to stop him just knocking you straight back to the library? Or worse, destroying you utterly by separating you from either your own flesh and blood or his.
"I don't know," I retorted, "I'm pretty sure he's walked the Pattern in mine. Maybe he did that to solidify himself: the link between body and soul."
"Then for God's sake do the same..." he said, angrily, "and for Claire's sake, and Sable's, leave it at that. Give yourself time to calm down and think this through rationally.
"Fuck rationally. He's walking around in my body. I want it back."
"Does it truly matter?"
"Yes it bloody well matters. Dark Side souls can't exist for any length of time in Light Side bodies, and vice versa."
"How do you know that?"
"Because it nearly killed his son Stefan."
"But from what you've said in the past, Stephen was fine once he'd walked one of the other Patterns. Doing so tempered the effect of the Black Pattern on him, and he's now living a normal, healthy life here in Sable. So maybe, if you walk the Pattern in the body you're currently wearing, it will not only stabilise you, but prevent any problems."
"Don't you get it?" I snapped, "I don't want to get comfortable in Rupert's body. I don't want to stabilise it. I want to take back what's mine."
"But genetically you're identical. Why does it matter? As long as your soul and your body are comfortable with one another. Hell, you're a shape shifter. You know as well as I do that flesh is malleable."
"No. Genetically we're almost identical. There are one or two key differences."
"But are they worth dying for?"
"The idea of Rupert running around fathering little Delatzes and then taking them to fast time, training them up, and launching them into the murky world of Reich politics just now, when things are a powder keg. Yes, I'd say that's worth preventing."
"Christ, Robert! This isn't just about Claire, is it? You're jealous?"
His tone was somewhere between horrified and disbelieving.
"Listen to yourself," he said, coldly, "you sound just like him. You feel inferior because he now has something you don't...something you used to take for granted. Tell me, how subtle were you when that subject came up at your monthly meetings? Or did you lord it over him in that regard?"
I looked at him, at a loss for words.
"As I thought," he answered, then said more calmly, "if my advice means anything to you, please...quit while you're ahead. Right now you're alive, relatively healthy...if rather unfit...and mobile. There's no guarantee that any of the above would still apply if you go into the Wewelsburg after him, all guns blazing."
"If it came to it, I'd regenerate. And I'd regenerate back the way I ought to be."
"Don't be a bloody fool," came the answer, "One, with the Machine pissed as Hell, Sable needs you. Getting yourself killed on a revenge kick would be stupid and irresponsible. Two, do you have any idea what would actually happen if you did end up regenerating, especially now? There's no guarantee you'd regenerate back the way you think you ought to be. And three, technically, you wouldn't be King of Sable when you returned. Dominic would have legally succeeded you as things currently stand, and I could see that being a disaster waiting for somewhere to happen."
"Why does everyone have a problem with Dominic all of a sudden?"
"I'm very fond of the lad...after all, neither of us had the easiest start in life. But despite the fact that he grew up here, his heart has never really been in Sable...he's spent too much time Outside, and married a woman from Outside, rather than from within Sable. And deep down, you know that, otherwise you'd let him stand as Regent when you're away, rather than appointing Andrew and Claire all the time. And people have noticed. They feel you have no confidence in him, which is almost certainly behind the current movement in Parliament to clarify Andrew's status. Especially as most of them have no idea why Andrew stood down in the first place."
"Then I just have to make sure that if it comes to a fight, Rupert is the one who stays down. Not me."
He looked at me and shook his head.
"You haven't listened to a word I've said, have you?"
"I..."
"Forget it, Robert. Do what you please. There's no point trying to talk to you in this mood."
Before I could answer, I heard the door open and looked up to see Claire.
"Are you two coming?" she asked, lightly, either not noticing...or more likely ignoring...the tension in the room.
"I'll follow you," Michael replied, "no doubt my brother will join us shortly."
And with that he turned and stalked out. Claire looked over at me quizzically, but I just shrugged.
"We had a disagreement...Give me a few minutes and I'll be with you."
"That's what you said last time, de Lacy," she said, with a warm smile, "this time I'm holding you to it."
And then she headed back outside, leaving me fuming as I tried to make myself feel human once more.