It is most perplexing...
     The aged face of Don Alfonso, El Rey, peers forward in his own thoughts as he sits in the quiet of his private study. With a sigh, he removes his spectacles -- what old man should be without them? -- and he sets them neatly aside. Fingers rub at the bridge of his nose and at the corner of his eyes. One should think that immortality would rid one of eye strain, and yet...
     Fingers steeple in a moment of thought, perhaps of prayer, and he turns within the body of the fine leather chair, that of the King of Librarians and Archivists, to reach for his phone. It is not a cellular line. It is not even new technology. His is resolutely rotary, even as he is resolutely himself in a modern age.
     At his side, a cup of tea cools and the slice of orange that was in the bottom of the cup now floats at the surface, giving up the ghost of its fragrance on the steam as it rises.
     A private number is dialed, and a passage is made from secured line to very secured line, from Espana to ... wherever Those Two are now...from Alfonso through a prince's secretary to a phone in Venice.

     William is in the middle of pouring scotch, aged scotch from a bottle that long since lost its marking, when the phone rings. Two cell phones sit side by side on the drawing room's end table, beside one of the several private sitting areas. It is late in Venice. It is late in Spain.
     Who could be calling?

     From his seat, Ian quirks at his handsome partner, then laughs suddenly, brightly. "If you say so," he offers, looking down at his latest study of calligraphic work. Two cranes, gold and blue tipped, lift above a pool of water and into the sky. In the ripples, characters barely appear, like a watermark, indicating unity. "I'd have harmony, but I cannot get that right. You are correct," he affirms, thinking better of his choice.
     But then a phone rings. And it's his.
     Ian's attention turns to the phone as he reaches for it, slightly surprised. So rarely does he receive calls, and usually from Gerald's daughter. A shrug, mostly to himself, and Ian opens it.
     "Yes," he says, Gaelic there. If they know what tongue it is, then maybe the call's come to the right place.

     "Buenas noches, Prince," Alfonso's voice is aged warmth. "It is Alfonso of Espana. I hope this is not interruption to your evening. Do you have a moment?"

     Alfonso? It is William's turn to quirk a look to his handsome partner, and there is a question in his eyes as he hands you your scotch. He holds his own and glances to the phone, checking to see if you picked up the right one.
     The glance does not last long. Soon, it returns to the painting. It is perplexing. Not the painting or the cranes...

     The blank look on Ian's face tells all. He blinks, and his expression returns to some semblance of normality. "Your Majesty," Ian offers politely, human respect due there, "...this is..." his brows arch, "...indeed a pleasure." Ian looks up to accept his whiskey, taking a quick taste of it. After it, he mouths, Alfonso...
     "How is your night," Ian continues.

     "I wish I could be calling under better circumstances. Please convey my greetings to the Other Prince," he mentions, gallantly interjecting an extended courtesy to The Other. "I shall speak with him another time." There is the briefest of pauses. "I am calling in regards to our mutual friend, Valan Montague. He and Edward are now in Espana. He came to see me in some distress, Prince. I understand from him that you might have seen some of the cause of his distress. I am hopeful that you can provide me some description, some information." He sighs, "...anything which might help me get to the root of the issue. He is quite troubled. He has told me that you sensed it... perhaps even saw the mark of something on him. And that is why I am calling you. Again, it is a disruption to your evening," his hands lift in apology from across Europe. "But I hope you forgive it."

     William sips at his own scotch, pulling at his suit as he takes a seat beside you. He looks to you, eyes intent as if he could read the news, whatever it might be, simply by looking at your expression.

     Ian's expression remains questioning, but suddenly furrows at something said. "I..." he begins, "...I...well..." a glance at William, "...it is...a true statement." Not only the source, but the subject. Ian is stunned. "You'll forgive me, Your Majesty, I am...not only surprised to hear from you, but also...this topic." A while ago.

     "But what you say...is true...I was concerned about something there. Something," Ian mouths, 'valan', "...was disturbing. We were visiting in Switzerland, and I," how to explain, 'had a moment', "...I felt something strange in his presence. "Onyx," he tries to recall, then closes his eyes, "...dark," that word again, "...coiling. Snake-like. Or...something that moved. We were having a conversation, he is delightful, really, but something else behind it. I am not sure that he is even aware of this or honestly, whether or not it had anything to do with him at all..."

     There is a thoughtful sound, and behind that the chiming of a spoon against china. Alfonso sips at the orange spiced tea, setting it aside as he continues to listen. "There is reason to believe that it was him, himself. He is certainly aware or very strongly believes that something is wrong. I am, too, inclined to believe him. He tells me that he can... read the sin off of a person, that such things simply started coming to him. That he can know their fear or demons, and if he were any less of a person could easily use this to his benefit. That he, as he put is, seems to bring out the worst in people. I do not know if this is... youthful exaggeration or not. I have not seen it in action. He states that he can also bring an entire room of people to some ecstatic pleasure. That there is some... thing in him... that has used it to even cause pain with its intensity. It is not so much one or the other that concerns me, but that any of these should be in the body of a vampire of his young age. Were these things to be found in, say, Edward or William, while annoying," he smiles a little there, "... it would not be so... unusual."

     William hears his name and quirks up an eyebrow as he silently sips his scotch. An elbow on the back of the sofa, his hand to his forehead, he listens and watches you. Valan. Alfonso. While no judgements are made or voiced -- you and the king are given a great deal of deference -- his expression is equally curious, puzzled, and concerned. What is going on in Spain now?

     There was a placid look that suddenly quirked again. Well, Ian's face seems to say.
     "Sabbat," he says evenly. "He's...Edward's childe, yes?"

     Now William's attention crystallizes...

     On the phone: "Si, he is. And Edward is Maria's. There is no sabbat pollution in that line. Or... at least... not directly." There is a moment of thoughtful silence. "It is unusual... highly irregular... for such powers to be passed along without intent," he is thinking aloud now, "... and certainly very rarely outside of their own packs. And blood rituals , of one kind or another, would be required. I simply do not see Montague practicing such. He has been only rarely out of Edward's view. And London... that does not add up...it would not be something easily acquired, and certainly not easily acquired in London. Or France. What of the Tremere. Could they put upon someone the magics belonging to another? I have never heard of such." But you... well, you have knowledge of the Tremere that few could match. For better or for worse.

     Ah, the Tremere. The color in Ian's face changes. "They could," he thinks, recalling them, "...potentially so." No one ever said Ian was unbiased. But then again, because you are paranoid does not make what you say untrue. "Lasombra," he also offers, "...but to contaminate? That is an unusual skill, if we assume of their honorable," has to be said, "...lineage..." eyes looking to William as he discusses his friend...

     "Yes, well, it is Spain. My country, I love her, but...you know her history. If the Lasombra had the ability to contaminate, the world would be a much different place, my friend, of that I am sure. But the other option is simply unthinkable. I cannot see Valan Montague and Edward Meurelle pouring over chicken bones in a basement. No, no, I know Edward is not sabbat. His former fiancee, Saint Germaine, however was not so fortunate. Perhaps ... in her slaying... something passed. Though... again... without intent? It does not seem likely." Alfonso sighs, "I apologize for thinking aloud, my friend, but I this matter is quite personal, quite perplexing. While I have no reason to doubt Maria, or the lineage, it may be time to take a closer look at El-Adar itself. I know that Valan and Edward have visited the oasis on several occasions. Even the Moor was there on one occasion." His voice drifts off in his own thoughts. "And you know what they say about an oasis. Just because one has a camel does not mean one is right with God."
     There is only the briefest of pauses again, and once again the chiming of a spoon against china. "If there is anything else you think of that you think could help me in solving this riddle, my friend, please do not hesitate to bring it to my attention. I appreciate your words. It has given me... much to consider. Much to consider. I may need to call on you and Guillaume again in the future. Trust that I shall do so with only the utmost of discretion. For all concerned. My best to you, Prince, and to your Other. I am not certain what else may be constructive to ask at this time."

     If he were not on the phone, Ian would sigh slightly. He looks at you furtively, then nods to something on the phone, "All avenues must be examined," he offers, "...if it is as you say, Your Majesty. I wish...I were more assistance here. And with the history you have explained, yes...there are several opportunities there. I would...caution against letting any know that you are asking. In case eyes also have ears. For perhaps this was...intentional."
     "That is...how else to..usurp...such a line?"

     "The line... has its enemies," Alfonso notes. "The last several years have seen several... marks of increased activity. This may not be as isolated as originally thought, no. That is my concern. If one looks at the death of Blancheflor, the invasion of Chinon, the explosions in Malaga by William in recompense, the finishing off of Blancheflor's pack... while the pack may have died, the problem... may have simply been passed to a new generation. There has been a tit-for-tat for years now. This... matter with Valan... may simply be the tatted return. Most concerning." Indeed. Most.
     "I will be proceeding with extreme caution. Should anything else arise that might require your attention, Prince, I will be certain to contact you. I appreciate your input. It has been invaluable. I will leave you to the remainder of your evening. I have interrupted it long enough."

     Sitting quietly as he has for the entire call, William extends a hand toward you, his arm resting against the back of the sofa. Dark blue-violet eyes are quietly fixed, his expression placid and planning. What he has heard so far, he does not like. He does not like at all.

     "A good evening to you, Your Majesty - " Ian says gently, "I will update William, and if there is anything to do, please let us know."
     The call is ended with a quiet benediction in Spanish: Be well, go with God, it is all the same. Good night.

     William lifts an eyebrow. "What do you think, amours..." The black of the suit, the white of the shirt, fold against the darkness of his own skin.

     "I think," Ian says softly, turning this face to you, "...there is a problem."

Posted by rowan at June 05, 2006 08:17 PM