Feast of Fools

John of Leeds had come out of the wings behind the dais, and had taken up a post at a dark wooden podium. He was wearing a traditional herald’s tabard, Claire realized, just like in books and paintings. She half expected him to pull out a long, thin trumpet.

He opened the book that he’d been holding outside the room instead.

“Behold,” he said in a deep, velvety smooth voice, “there comes to us on this day one who is worthy of our fealty, and as one, we welcome him to our house.”

Bishop stood up. A curtain pulled back onstage, and behind it was a huge dark wooden throne, heavily carved.

Bishop walked up the steps to take his seat on it.

Claire’s mother stayed where she was, at the table.

"What’s happening?” Claire asked. Myrnin shushed her.

“As I speak your name, come forward with your tribute,” John said. “Maria Theresa.”

A tall Spanish woman dressed in a glittering matador’s costume rose from her chair, took hold of the man she’d brought to the feast, and escorted him up onto the dais. She bowed to Amelie and then turned to Bishop on his throne. She bowed again.

“I give you my fealty,” she said. “And my gift.”

She looked at the man standing next to her. He seemed . . . stu

Bishop looked at him and smiled. “Princely,” he said. “I thank you for your gift.”

And he flicked his fingers at them, and just like that, it was over.

“Vassily Ivanovich,” John of Leeds called, and the parade went on.

Nobody got killed. It was just like Myrnin had said . . . a token. A gesture.

Claire let out her breath. She hadn’t even been aware how hard she’d been holding it, but her whole rib cage ached. “He could kill them. Right? If he wanted?”

“Right,” Myrnin said. “But he isn’t doing so.” He looked grave and focused under his clown’s makeup. “I wonder what’s stopping him.”

It was, Claire saw, going to stretch on for hours. She was glad they had seats, because standing would have been torture. As John of Leeds called each name, a vampire would rise and lead his or her human up to be presented to Bishop; Bishop would nod; and that would be it.

As life-and-death confrontations went, it was really boring.

And then it suddenly wasn’t.

The first hint came when Sam mounted the dais with his “gift”—he bowed to Amelie, but he only nodded to Bishop. Myrnin made a slight sound and leaned forward, dark eyes intent, and Bishop sat up straighter in his chair.

“I welcome you to Morganville,” Sam said. “But I’m not going to swear my loyalty to you.”

The hall went absolutely still, not even the little rustles of fabric and clinks of cups on china that had been noticeable to that point. Amelie, Claire noticed, had moved closer to Sam than she had to the other vampires.

“No?” Bishop asked, and beckoned Sam forward. Sam obliged by one single step. “Your lady will acknowledge me. Why won’t you?”

“I have other oaths.”

“To her,” Bishop said. Sam nodded. “Well, then, her oath to me will bind you, as well, Samuel. I believe that will do.” He eyed the girl. “Leave the gift.”

Sam didn’t move. “No.”

Amelie murmured something to him, but it was soft enough that it didn’t carry to Claire’s ears despite the excellent acoustics of the room.

“She’s my responsibility,” Sam said, “and if you want a gift, take what Morganville offers you. Freedom.”

He reached in the pocket of his rope-belted Huck Fi

Ysandre leaped from her seat. So did François. “You dare!” François snarled, and knocked the blood pack out of Sam’s hand. “Take that filthy thing away!”

Ysandre grabbed hold of Sam’s date by the hair and yanked her away. “She’s the tribute,” Ysandre said, “and you have no right to deny her to him.”

“He has no right,” Amelie said. Every word was clear as crystal. “But I do.”

Bishop’s eyes locked with hers, and for a long, long moment, nobody moved.

Then Bishop smiled, sat back in his chair, and waved. “Take her, Samuel,” he said. “I find she’s not to my taste, after all.”

Sam grabbed the girl’s hand, shoved François out of the way, and descended the steps back to the banquet-hall floor. Murmurs bloomed in the darkness as he passed. He headed straight for the table where Michael sat, leaned over, and said something. Michael replied, looking strained and a little bit desperate. Whatever the argument was about, it was ripping Michael apart to take the other side.

Sam yanked Michael to his feet, and this time Claire heard what he said. “Just come with me!”

Whether Michael might have or not, it was too late, because John of Leeds said, “Michael Glass of Morganville, ” and everybody waited to see what the youngest vampire in town was going to do.

Michael took Monica’s hand and walked to the dais. He mounted the steps, nodded to Amelie, and nodded to Bishop. Not much in the way of obedience either direction.

“Ah, the Morrell girl,” Bishop said. “I’ve heard so much about you, child.”

Monica, the idiot, seemed pleased about that. She risked her tall wig by doing a deep curtsy in those mile-wide Marie Antoinette skirts. “Thank you, sir.”

“Did I tell you to speak?” he asked, and transferred his attention to Michael again. “Your kinsman refused to swear fealty. What say you, Michael?”

“I’m here,” Michael said. “But I’m not swearing anything.”

There was a long, tense moment, and then Bishop impatiently waved him offstage.

Monica dragged her feet, simpering at the big, bad vampire. “What an idiot,” Claire muttered under her breath, and Myrnin chuckled.

“There are always a few,” he said. “Thankfully.” The next vampire was already onstage. He was a little more politic than Michael—he welcomed Bishop as a guest to Morganville, but again, no pledges of loyalty. Bishop looked sour. “Well, this is taking a turn for the interesting. I wonder how long he’ll tolerate it.”

Not long, it seemed, because Oliver was next. And even though Oliver bowed, there was something forced about it. Something militant. Bishop sensed it.

“What say you, Oliver of Heidelberg?”

“I bid you welcome,” Oliver said. “And nothing more.” He bowed again, mockingly. “Your days of ordering us about are done, Master Bishop. Haven’t you noticed?”

Bishop stood up. So did François and Ysandre. “Bring your tribute,” Bishop said. “And walk away, while I allow you to walk at all.”

And Oliver, the coward, dropped Eve’s hand and left the stage. Abandoning her.

Michael, down on the floor, tried to go to her rescue, but Sam tackled him and held him down. “Get off me!” Michael yelled, and the two of them rolled into a table and sent the expensive china and glasses flying. “You can’t let him—”

François and Ysandre were closing in on Eve like hunting tigers. And she was standing, petrified, caught in Bishop’s stare.

Shane stood up and took off the dog mask Ysandre had made him wear. He walked over to stand next to Eve, unhooked the leash, and let it fall to the floor in a slither of leather.

“I’m so done with this crap,” he said, and extended his elbow toward Eve. “How about you?”

“So done,” she agreed. “Though I do love a good dress-up party. Can I have the collar when you’re done with it?”

“Knock yourself out.”

They were trying to be cool, but Claire could feel the menace up there, the hair-trigger violence just waiting to erupt. And Shane couldn’t win. He couldn’t even hurt them. All he could do was get himself killed.

She fought to get out of her chair. Myrnin’s hand crushed her shoulder hard, forcing her down again. “No,” he said. “Wait.”

“They’re my friends!”

“Wait!”

He was right. Amelie stepped forward, between Shane and Eve and Bishop. “They belong to me,” she said. “They are not Oliver’s to give.”

“That argument could be made for anyone in this town,” Bishop said. “Will you deny me any tribute at all?”