by Faith Hunter
Yeah. He’d been plotting against me behind my back. If there was a need for formal display it should have been only in my presence. In an instant I drew on the visa and searched through possible proper actions on the part of a visiting mage. I quickly concluded that Cheran Jones thought I was stupid. He was about to be disabused of that quaint notion.
“And?” I asked, drawing the word out lazily.
“No moment has been appropriate to present you with the bequest.”
I stared at him long enough for him to know I had caught him in a lie, letting my reaction fill my face. Long enough for the kids behind him to snicker, the sound bright on the frigid air. Long enough for passersby to slow and watch, and for Jasper to stop in the doorway of the furniture store, his black robe of office swaying in the cold wind. I realized the kirk elder had come from the mass funeral and knew I should have been there too. My shame at missing the funeral made my expression harder and Cheran’s cheeks reddened with more than the cold. I should have been there; it was too late now. But it wasn’t too late to deal with my visiting mage.
“Well,” I said at last, mocking, at which Cheran tensed, his smile stiffening in place, “gifts from the priestess of the Enclave of my birth, for the Appalachian consulate. I reckon that means me,” I drawled. When he didn’t react except to raise his brows, I hardened my tone, stood, and looked down my nose at him. “Cheran Jones, you have my leave to approach me with everything that is mine or that is the property of this consulate.”
His mouth opened and closed so fast it was like a camera shutter working. I smiled, all teeth and anger, using the expression that had made Rupert backstep fast. “I allow you ten minutes’ leave to be in my court, downstairs, in Thorn’s Gems. Ten minutes.”
It was a public humiliation, and Cheran’s eyes blazed hot in the instant before he bent and bowed. “At the consulate’s command.”
“Then you better boogie,” Zeddy called from the protection of the bakery’s display window. “’Cause she looks pissed.” The other boys hooted with delight as Cheran stood straight and strode for the boardinghouse, moving with mage-speed, a blur that left the humans gawking.
I cocked my head at Zeddy and smiled my thanks. To Jasper, I said, “The first official meeting of the Mineral City consulate will convene in nine minutes. Do you think some of the town fathers would be interested in attending?”
“Oh, yes,” he said fervently, “I do indeed.” Moving quickly, he took off and rounded the building into an alley, cutting through, making the most of his limited time.
From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Romona Benson standing at the intersection, camera on her shoulder. She was grinning fiercely, and I knew she had me framed in a close-up. I wanted to curse, but I raised my brows instead, as if permitting her to speak. She lowered the camera to point it at the street. “Is the press welcome?” she called.
“Film only, no direct uplink with that sat phone you’ve been using, and give me the opportunity to edit out what I want, and you’re welcome to attend.” When her face fell, I said, “I know it’s not the way things are done with the press, but take it or leave it. And we’ll schedule a televised personal interview for later this week.” If I live that long, I thought.
“They’ll fry me for this, but we have a deal,” she said, and the reporter took off too, moving pretty fast for a human.
I had nearly nine minutes. An eternity for a mage at full speed. I pulled my mage finery from the armoire and set it aside. The silk and lace were not enough. Or were too much. This was to be the first meeting of a consulate I didn’t want, but knew I had to protect if I wanted to survive, wanted to keep my friends alive. I pulled out my dobok. It hadn’t been cleaned since the battle. It was bloody, aromatic, torn and sliced, and very well used. It looked deadly.
Moving fast, I pulled off my clothes and dressed, adding every weapon I owned. When they were in place, I braided my hair into a battle queue and pulled on battle boots. The mage-leather boots were still uncomfortable on my puffy and tender soles, but I had washed out the old blood, and I didn’t intend to be standing much.
Grabbing my battle cloak, a silk scarf in a vibrant bloodred color, and the weapons I liked best—the Flame-blessed tanto and the walking-stick sword—I went downstairs to set the stage for what I hoped would be a very public affirmation of my intent to remain the town mage of Mineral City as long as I had a visa or as long as I drew breath. And the onset of a plan to protect the ones I loved. I set my amulet necklace over my head and drew on the visa and my primes for strength. For a mage, it was tantamount to a prayer for wisdom and strength. I’d need both if I was going to succeed at this. And a mountain of luck bigger than the Trine.
One minute to go, I considered the stage I had set in the center of Thorn’s Gems, my favorite wingback chair in the center of the room, my battle cloak open over it, the silk lining exposed to the world, ripped and stained with my blood, a small footstool nearby so my short legs wouldn’t dangle like a child’s. My silver scrying bowl filled with salt water was tucked behind my chair in case Cheran came prepared to attack me with an article of Darkness. Once he was disabled, I could cleanse the taint. It would be very flashy; Romona Benson would love it; it made me sick to think about the media attention. But to protect the ones I loved, I’d do a lot more than play to the camera. Of course, if he used poison, I was a lot more likely to die.
A table to the side near the stove was heaped with jewelry I had made, including one piece with a fragment of amethyst from the cherub’s wheels, a gift for the priestess that I hoped would leave her reeling. The other things were for the Enclave’s mage council, and one bracelet was for Cheran, the visiting dignitary who, I was pretty sure, wanted my consulate seat, the little snark. Others were for the town fathers, sundry gifts I might be expected to bestow. I would be paying back Thorn’s Gems for months, but it would be worth it if it kept the backstabbing—maybe literally—mage from usurping my place.
I added water to the kettle, placing teacups, loose tea, and silver out just in case I needed it, though the visa assured me it wouldn’t be proper to serve tea.
Breathing fast, Audric and Rupert clattered down the stairs and stopped, standing beneath the prophecy of my birth. A Rose by any Other Name will still draw Blood. A foretelling by the woman who had set my life in motion. I didn’t know what had happened to Lolo and answers to my questions weren’t going to come easy. I was flying by the seat of my pants, my life motto.
I grinned at my champards in their warlike finery. Audric, his dark-skinned head reflecting back the lights, was dressed in black dobok with his scarlet master’s belt knotted beside a battle sword I probably couldn’t even lift. He wore a weapon harness strapped to his chest and looked like a walking death machine, bristling with sharp-edged steel. Rupert again wore his best navy tunic and pants. His newly named battle sword hung at his side.
“Nice getups, boys. Audric, this is now the formal consulate of Mineral City. The consular residence is above. We’ll need guest residences asap. Think we can rent the store next door and turn it into apartments?”
“It’ll take money,” he said. “And you’ll need more than two champards. I made some calls. But you’re wearing the wrong clothes. You need—”
“I’ll get the money. And this is a battle station, not a trade consulate. I won’t be dancing.” Audric looked uncertain, but the visa that held a repository of diplomatic information wasn’t offering anything to the contrary so I was going with the idea that I had been putting together since leaning against Rupert. Then I heard his words. He made some calls?
The bells over the door jingled, announcing Romona Benson, who rushed in with a swirl of icy air, her blond flyaway hair whipping in the outside wind. “Am I late?” she asked, and stopped cold. She surveyed me, then my champards, and back to me before swinging up the camera and clicking on a button. A red light glowed on the front, and suddenly the reality of what I was doing hit home.
My smile and th
e adrenaline high drained away. If I messed this up, I might end up dead. And so might my champards. So might Jacey, Ciana…Spawn balls, what am I doing?
As if echoing my thoughts in a different key, Romona muttered, “I’m gonna win a bloody Pulitzer with all this.
“Consulate General St. Croix,” she continued in a newsy tone, “you have eschewed the usual mode of dress for formal events in favor of a bloody and war-torn battle uniform. Can you tell us why?”
Consulate general? What the heck was that? Formulating an answer to her question, I walked to the wingback chair and sat, motioning Audric and Rupert into place behind me. Before I could figure out how to answer the reporter’s question, the door opened again and Eli Walker strode in, dressed in his usual cowboy finery: jeans, a great-looking pair of embossed and tooled boots, a fringed jacket, and a buff-colored cowboy hat that shaded his amber eyes.
He flashed me a glance but strode to Audric. “I ain’t done embassy stuff before,” he said, turning on a lackadaisical charm. “Where does the most junior champard stand, anyway?”
I froze in the act of settling myself, knowing my expression was caught in the camera, and when this aired, it would be clear to the world that I was…nonplussed was close. Looking like I had been hit over the head with an ax was closer. Calls, Audric had said. How many? And to whom? I slowly sank into the seat while Audric directed Eli to my left and behind Rupert. All I could think, was, Good. Three is an auspicious number. On its heels was the thought, Another one I may get killed.
The door opened again, the bells over it ringing like a paean of joy. Cheran Jones, his face impassive, walked in, carrying three cases. Into the opening behind him walked three city fathers, Jasper and Shamus in brown robes and Ebenezer in work clothes, smelling of smoke, dirty, and fire-scorched. He had either been burning the last of Darkness from the battle or he had been cleaning up a burned building. Yet even with the filth that covered him he stood tall, his back unbowed, face serene. This man had sat in judgment over me not long ago. He hadn’t been in my favor at the start of my trial, but he had listened, and he had suspended final judgment until after all the evidence was presented, unlike several other town fathers and elders.
Farther along the street, Elder Culpepper and his son, Derek, raced to get in on the action. I was pretty sure they wouldn’t make it, and schooled my face against the satisfaction I was feeling. It didn’t last long. Lucas and Ciana pushed through the crowd gathering outside and entered the shop, faces pale but similarly determined.
“Uncle Rupert?” Ciana said, pulling herself up to her full height and squaring her shoulders. She was in play clothes, jeans and scuffed boots, the seraph pin blazing on her chest. “I wanna support my stepmama. Where you want us to stand?”
Lucas focused on Eli, as if reading something in my newest champard’s face. His eyes hardened before finding mine. He said, “Ciana was there when the call came in. She insisted. And I agree. Where do we go?”
Home, I wanted to say. But I didn’t. I let Audric direct them into place at my left, near Eli, but to the side, out of the way of guns and steel. I was pretty sure Lucas and Ciana were standing in the place protocol dictated for my consort and child, marking them under protection, part of my household, and under the protection of the Enclave that licensed me. It was something I should have thought of, a way to protect Ciana from those who might someday want to take away her seraph pin. Only problem? The small technicality that the seraphs had licensed me, not the Enclave.
The visa hadn’t offered anything useful about the difference that tiny detail made in diplomatic dealings. I didn’t know if that meant the visa had nothing to offer because my situation was unique, or if it meant that when I offered my protection to my three champards and my consort—heaven help me, my consort—and his child, I was legally offering the protection of the High Host of the Seraphim. Could I bind the Host with my word? I had an awful lot of questions, not a single answer.
Blood of the saints. I had no idea what I was doing; neither did the visa. If we didn’t know what I was doing, it was likely no one else did either. The thought made a titter rise in my throat and I swallowed it down hard, afraid that if it got out, I’d cackle like a madwoman.
The small crowd shuffled in, the town fathers to the front. The door closed behind them. Romona Benson eased around to the side behind a display cabinet, a position giving her camera maximum scope of the events I was probably about to botch.
Knowing I had reached the point of no return, I arranged the amulets on my chest so the visa and my circular prime were unobstructed, and set the prime amulet that was the handle of the walking-stick sword to the front, across my abdomen. I allowed my neomage attributes to blaze out, my skin glowing the pearly roseate hue of my kind, a glow of energy that even humans could see, and a badge of office of its own.
I looked back at Audric. “Secure the door,” I said softly. I heard Cheran gasp, but ignored it, waiting for my champard to seal us in. As the lock clicked, someone tried to open the door, the latch rattling. I didn’t look up, and because I paid it no attention, no one else looked either. A polite knock followed, then one less polite.
Ignoring it, I stood, waiting for Audric to return to my right side, the proper place for my senior champard, the visa chimed in. Seraph stones. This stuff was complicated.
When Audric was in place, I drew on the visa and paged through the instructions, ignoring the dance steps. No way was I attempting a formal diplomatic gavotte on camera. Neomage attributes blazing with all the force I possessed, I said, “Cheran Jones of the New Orleans Enclave, visiting cultural attaché, gold and steel mage…assassin,” I said pointedly, “welcome.”
Cheran blanched.
Gotcha. I tilted my head a fraction to let him know I saw the reaction. “You have my leave to approach.” And I sprawled in my chair as if I were a monarch and this, my throne.
Cheran approached, following my lead and walking like a human instead of dancing like a mage, and swept off his hat. The bow was deep, as protocol dictated, but something about the set of his shoulders was mocking when he rose, swishing the silly cape back. “The Louisiana Enclave wishes to establish relations with the Appalachian consulate,” he said.
Audric replied, emphasizing the first four words I had given him, “The Battle Station Consulate welcomes you and is pleased to establish relations.”
Cheran blinked at the title. I liked it. The name fit the description of the town and it gave me all sorts of leeway to handle this any way I wanted. This might work. Maybe.
“As this is a new seat,” Cheran said, “it is appropriate for the Enclave of Thorn St. Croix’s birth to present her with gifts.” He knelt and laid out the three cases, snapping open each and laying back the lid of the first. I felt Audric tense beside me, but the cases held nothing dangerous. Well, not in the usual sense. The weapons I had found in Cheran’s room were dangerous, but not while lying in the case.
The weapons that had lain in one side were missing, the indentations empty, leaving only the silvered battle blades. Still, there were a lot of sharp, shiny objects, and I schooled my face to mild surprise at the sight of them. Taking a chance that Cheran wouldn’t notice a blended scan, I quickly blinked on mage-sight and then opened a skim, seeing what I had expected. Not the taint of Darkness, but something else. I felt the world surge beneath me and dropped the skim before I tossed my cookies on TV.
Rising to his full height, Cheran met my gaze and said with poorly concealed satisfaction, “The Enclave presents the weapons that would have belonged to Thorn St. Croix had she not left the Enclave…illegally.”
Well, well, well. He wanted to play dirty in all sorts of ways. The best defense was a good offense, but the unexpected ploy had its points. I threw a leg over the chair arm, assuming the position of the warrior barbarian, in truth. I narrowed my eyes and stroked the prime amulet that was the hilt of my longsword. And I sighed.
Beside me, Audric laughed and spread his stance, cocky and
negligent and rude. “My mistrend did not exit illegally. She was drugged and removed. You are misinformed and ill prepared, mage.” Around me, the other champards took on aggressive postures.
Cheran’s face tightened in surprise. I knew from the haze in his mind that he was truly surprised, meaning that he hadn’t been in communication with Élan.
“We suggest you do a little research with Lolo, former priestess of the Enclave,” Audric said, his voice silky. “Though it is possible my mistrend was banished illegally, she has since been given license by the High Council of the Seraphim to protect her from pillaging humans, as is the right of the High Host.” He waved a hand, the gesture bored. “You may present the gifts.”
Cheran bowed again, this time as much to hide his thoughts as for protocol. From the large flat case, he lifted the longsword, holding it with a velvet cloth, tilting it to show off the sword’s beauty. The blade was tipped on the hilt with a large pink quartz nugget. Beside me, Rupert inhaled noisily. I glanced at him, his eyes riveted on the sword. The sword from his dream. The sword I killed him with.
“The longsword of Damocles,” Cheran said, holding the sword to me, one hand beneath the hilt, one beneath the blade, balancing the deadly weapon, yet his skin safe from contact, protected by the velvet. “Damocles, named after a Pre-Ap hero, was from the litter six in the second generation, the child of two battle mages who destroyed the attacking human army. This blade was made with wild magic by his parents, and he became a battle mage of great renown.”
I stood in a single fluid motion and extended my arms. Cheran met my eyes, holding them while he transferred the blade to me, sliding the velvet away in a fluid motion. As the weapon came down, I pressed my arms forward slightly, taking the gift on my wrists, on the heavy cloth of my dobok sleeves, rather than my bare palms. Some unnamed emotion skittered through his eyes, and deeper, in his thoughts. “The Sword of Damocles,” he said. If I hadn’t been deep in his thoughts, I’d have laughed at the whole hokey concept.
