128. How do you like your chances?

Author's note

Commissioned the art for Sam. I commissioned two artists I liked, so once both deliver, I'll make a poll to decide which to use for the rest of the main characters.

***

Sam’s voice echoed through the hall as some of the people winced, getting pricked by the sharp sound produced by his second tongue. Once again there was a lull in conversation, but this time it was tense and uncomfortable. He let the atmosphere linger for just a split second before continuing.

“Our ancestors did manipulate the mortal world—directly at first, then through carefully crafted strings,” he said as he moved to the podium in the middle, pushing the Frenchman aside. “But there is something that everyone gathered here seems to forget. THE STRINGS WERE CUT!”

As he spoke, he pointed at the balcony above the seating area, still covered in the black veil muffling all perception. Ophelia heard a murmur this time coming mainly from the noble faction.

“That’s the Shadow Gallery,” Q’Shar whispered. “After the war, when we separated our world from the mundane one, we needed an instrument of control. The Shadow Gallery were our agents, used to puppeteer the outside—shadow governments. Their identities were strictly protected, and their mission was to keep the balance. If anyone needed a big change in the mortal world, you would have to go through them. They would do it for you, but only if your request were deemed reasonable.”

“Are there none left?”

“Yes. It’s an open secret—mentioning them openly is considered taboo—but the truth is it’s all just gossip and conspiracy these days. The Illuminati, Freemasons, NWO—once powerful, now just jokes.”

“Reptilians?”

“Don’t be silly,” the cat said, looking at her with a frown, which left Ophelia with her mouth hanging open. She wasn’t kidding.

She was about to ask more, but Sam’s voice once again brought everyone’s attention to the center of the hall.

“Our ancestors might have controlled the world of mortals, but the strings they used are gone. And they weren’t easy to weave. We keep the Gallery veiled, pretending they might be there listening, waiting to move the world according to our will. Lying to ourselves!” Then something Ophelia didn’t see coming happened. The staff unraveled into Sam’s hands, and he pointed it at the Gallery.

The Pope stood up alongside many other representatives. But the casting was instantaneous, and two cutting storms tore into the veil. The material was clearly enchanted, considering it didn’t give easily, but it wasn’t made to protect against magic, and half the cover fell to the floor, revealing… empty seats. Not a soul was there.

There was an uproar in the hall, most of it directed at Sam, who stood proudly in the center. Ophelia followed Q’Shar’s eyes and saw he was looking closely at the Pope. The man himself was half a step from the podium, his mouth was opening and closing, confusion written across his face—and then he looked behind himself. It was a mistake: a quick, panicked, questioning glance at the mortal world’s Pope. But it was enough.

The cat smiled. “So that’s how it is.”

The Pope finally stood, hitting the crosier hard against the floor.

“That was a violation of the rules of the sabbath!” shouted the Pope over the bell.

“I thought the rules were quite loose this time around—the papacy had me fooled,” Sam said, looking up at the Pope.

Tension rose in the air. The third chamber was clearly on edge as the air grew electric. Ophelia could sense some people ready for battle. 

The Pope once again hesitated.

“I apologize for my outburst. The handling of my duel had me fooled about how loose the rules are,” Sam spoke into the taut silence. “I acknowledge my fault. But I felt it necessary to enlighten my compatriots about the state of things. I will accept it as my failure, but would still like to finish my speech—as a show of goodwill from the Church.”

He said it with a cold smile.

Everyone was looking at the Pope, who was clearly trying hard not to look back at the cardinals.

“The Pope’s position is lower than I thought,” Q’Shar whispered, his brows tight together.

“I—I’ll allow it… But the Alhazred clan will be charged a fine of 500 obols for a show of disrespect to the authority of the sabbath.”

Ophelia could swear she felt Sam stifle a “what authority” comment with a titanic flex of will. He turned back to everyone gathered.

“Didn't think they’d let him continue,” the cat whispered, slightly surprised.

“My lords, ladies, cats, mushrooms, and everyone gathered. I propose to you a question—a simple question with the most convoluted of answers.” He smiled briefly. “If the nobles want to control the mortal world from the… half-shadows, I wonder who they might want to use as the new strings? We clearly don’t have any of the old ones,” he said, pointing at the Gallery. “Nor do we have much pull in the world—with one exception of course… the religious faction, or rather their mortal-world counterparts. As the man said himself, once the ghosts and demons start showing, people will swarm to the churches. But… I’m sure the nobles weren’t suggesting replacing the Gallery with the religious faction and using them as new strings,” Sam said, disbelief filling his voice alongside fake surprise at his own suggestion.

Ophelia could see that even the Riswalts' perfect mask cracked slightly. He must have hit the nail on the head.

“Fuck,” Q’Shar whispered. “They really tried that.”

“They would destroy any balance within this gathering,” Sam continued. “And are we forgetting who cut those strings? The nobles are very quick to remember the glory of the past, but their memory seems full of holes when it comes to the Age of Inquisition. It was the very mortal churches that separated from us and hunted down our ancestors. The biggest book burnings in history were thanks to the very people we’d hand the mortal world to? That can’t be the idea. It would be preposterous!”

He looked over the gathered people, then spoke—his voice lower, deeper, with a dangerous note in it.

“Duke Rochechouart asked what changed, and I agree: the grain of sand that was once greed within the hearts of humans has been cultivated and grown into a mountain. I do not deny that. But that is not to our advantage. Even in the past, kings tried to hunt down our people for their power—even in the age when our strength was at its peak and men and women were afraid of shadows in the night, trembling at the mere mention of witchcraft—even then, mortals coveted our power. Now, with the greed of today, what do you think will happen when you offer the modern lords a chance to lengthen their lives? When you tell the same people who deny others basic human rights for a few extra dollars that you can cure their ailments and let them live an extra few hundred years? You think they will cower in fear and thank you?”

He paused for a second. Ophelia could see the duke take in air to reply, but Sam continued the moment the man opened his mouth. “A few of them—sure, they can be made examples of. But entire nations? They no longer use swords and bows. The men and women you want to control have weapons capable of leveling cities. I ask you: who among those gathered here can do that? How many years until someone like that comes to this hall? Tens? Hundreds? We can easily match the strength of mortal man, armed or not, but their machines? Bombs and technology? No—for now, at least—and it will be years until we can. Do you like your chances against a modern armada? Some of you still don’t look convinced, so let me make this easier for you. An ancient mortal army that any of our forefathers could level in seconds would also fall easily to a single modern explosive. I, too, don’t like my chances against a modern explosive. So those of you who think you can take on the whole mortal world… How would you like your chances against me?”

Sam finished speaking on a question, followed by silence. Silence, which exploded into a storm of angry shouts, ovations, and clapping. Emotions were running wild in all the factions at the apparent provocation. Sam stood there as people shouted and screamed at him. The light, cruel smile he wore when he wasn't controlling his expression was affixed to his face. He was enjoying himself, Ophelia realised. The duke wanted to shout an answer, but he missed his timing, getting shouted over.

The first sharp bell rang out, yet the noise did not die down. Before another bell could be rung, William stood up, and Sam once again shouted—using both his tongues to add that strange echoing note to his voice.

“I give the voice to William van Helsing,” he said, and looked at the Pope in the brief silence.

The man was clearly hesitant, but everything was in accordance with the law of the proceedings, and finding no reason to decline the voice, he nodded. William approached the podium, walking past Sam, and addressed the gathering.

“Lords and ladies, the words of Samuel of House Alhazred might be hard to hear and aggressive, but they ring true. The world being shackled by greed might be true, but that greed is not a friend of ours, and might as well push mortal men to repeat the witch hunts—this time supported by technology we are not proficient with. The mortal world will indeed need us, but we must acknowledge that they are also a real threat. We must position ourselves as the helpful hand guarding against darkness and provide a way for others to join our ranks and gain part of our knowledge. We must repay violence and betrayal a hundredfold, but we also must answer respect with respect and honesty of our own. And back in the day, thanks to the wisdom of the ancestors—the same ones the nobles like to mention—there was such a way… therefore, I, William of the House van Helsing, would like to propose a motion for reestablishment of the Exorcist Institution and let mortal organizations replace the Shadow Gallery, letting them openly participate in the proceedings!” William ended his short speech.

Another storm of shouts erupted across the hall. Ophelia also caught more gazes, this time, from some of the cat clans present.

“I rest my voice,” William finished.

“Are we really going to allow mortal agencies in these halls?! Share our knowledge with them?” shouted a representative from the nobles, not waiting for the voice. He then got up and approached the podium as the Pope quickly announced his turn, since the third chamber already had two speakers. “My family did not sacrifice their lives to stop inquisitors as servants run with books and scrolls, so that the knowledge in them could be etched onto bullets any other wretch could use. And replacing the Shadow Gallery with mortal organisations? You surely don't mean the government agencies created to deal with the supernatural? They failed at every project they attempted. If CIA's MKULTRA isn't enough, then how about the Gateway Process, MONARCH, or Montauk Project? Each time they touch magic, victims pile up. Are we going to share these halls with them? Why not invite the German Ahnenerbe while we're at it?”

“That’s why we need to guide them!” shouted someone from the crowd, the unaffiliated this time.

“No! Our contact with the world should be from people who have been part of it from the beginning! So… I would like to propose a motion to establish the modern religions as the new Shadow Gallery and use them as a means of control.”

As the man spoke those words, the hall erupted into chaos.

Shortly, a break was announced. Each person proposing a motion was asked how much time would be needed to prepare the final documentation. In both cases, the documents were already written and ready, so it only took a break to fetch them.

After that, everyone got a copy of the propositions and their details, which started a long discussion. It was a political debate, surprisingly similar to modern ones, with a lot of cheap personal attacks exchanged. Sam, surprisingly, was like a fish in water, but only when it came to throwing around insults. Finally, after he called one of the dukes “a walking pamphlet for lobotomies,” another break was called as the discussion devolved into a shouting match.

At the dinner break, Ophelia was sitting at the table with everyone else, reflecting on the gathering and listening to Q’Shar try to explain proper debate decorum to Sam. After around fifteen minutes of discussion—with Sam’s friends being as unhelpful as humanly possible, except Will—Q’Shar managed to talk Sam into addressing someone he didn’t like as “his lordship, future corpse,” instead of just “future corpse.” Which could be counted as progress.

Ophelia herself began to understand the bigger picture after reviewing the documents for both proposals. The religious faction was now led mainly by the organisation's mortal-world part. They teamed up with nobles to gain significant control over the mortal world and the magical one by association.

Q’Shar’s proposition was much more complicated. He motioned to establish a decentralized exorcist organization. On the surface, this seemed to be a move for the good of all, not bringing much power to either side, but after spending some time with the cat, she understood it wasn’t that simple. The organization wouldn’t have an owner on paper, but its resources very much would. He had already used a lot of money and resources to purchase clubs and buildings across the world for future guild houses—a lot of them disguised as clubs and cafés run by vampire clans and other affiliated smaller groups—not to mention using the massive knowledge possessed by the Alhazred clan as bait.

The exorcists might not have an “owner,” but Q’Shar already had the infrastructure and resources in place while everyone else hadn’t even made a move in this direction.

Ophelia made a mental note of that. This was the kind of power Sam didn’t care for, but she was interested in. Looking over the gathered people, she tried to remember how close they sat to Sam, who talked with whom, and who was missing.

Q’Shar finally gave up on Sam after the man argued about skinning as a debate tactic and turned to her with the deep sigh of a tired man after a day of backbreaking work. He caught her eyes as she was looking over the less prominent groups, trying to guess their allegiance.

“Husaria—a Polish nobility from the Sar-Sam-Sarmaci,” the cat struggled with the foreign word, “noble tradition. The best mounted warriors there are. Just don’t let them trick you into a drinking match. Even Sam would struggle.”

“So—nobles?”

“No,” the animal shook his head. “Look closer.”

Ophelia saw that the man wasn’t talking with another noble but rather arguing, looking anything but friendly, throwing around swear words starting with “K”.

“Our faction?” she corrected.

“Yes. They are nobles, but don’t do much politics. They act as mercenaries affiliated with our faction.”

Ophelia nodded and turned to the next group.

“Mermaids,” the cat said.

“Our faction.”

“Yes. Watch out when talking to them—they use a lot of honorifics even in English. Elder is issk, royal is arssk, and deceased is ntiss. You can mistake other ones, but those are very important.”

Ophelia shifted her gaze.

“Star gazers—ours.”

“Shrine maidens—religious.”

“Priests of Anubis—ours.”

“Priests of Zeus—this one’s tough. Religious.”

“Hood family—nobles.”

“Zyher Sect—also a tough one. Technically unaffiliated.”

They were done with the people she could see as Q’Shar regained a bit of life after talking politics with someone who actually listened.

After the break, they returned to the discussion, and finally, by the end, the vote was set for tomorrow morning. Ophelia noticed that the talk was surprisingly short for the massive law, but it didn't take much thought to guess why. The lines were already drawn, and there were very few people undecided at the start.

They stayed up late, finalizing plans and tying up all the loose ends until the next day’s votes opened the gathering.

And from the first vote, it became apparent that something had gone wrong.