Lady Dragon

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Whiskey blinked, surprised at his ability. She couldn’t afford to let him take over the conversation. Brutal honesty was required. Her voice low, she said, “If you see fear, then you know I’m not Elisibet, for that was an emotion she never revealed to anyone. As for knowing the consequences of my actions, where else could the fear come from but making a catastrophic mistake?”

  They studied one another for long moments, oblivious to music and conversation surrounding them.

  “Two valid points.” Bentoncourt’s eyes crinkled. “If I may?”

  She felt the nebulous caress of his mind and calculated his motive. Was this a precursor to an attack, or a compelling? In either case, she was confident she could repel him regardless of their difference in age. One of the things she shared with Elisibet was extraordinary mental power. Thanks to the Sweet Butcher, she also had intimate knowledge of these people while they were forced to deal with a stranger. Granted, four hundred years could change a person, but their weaknesses had to still exist, could still be exploited. Even so, Castillo’s opinion of Bentoncourt carried a lot of weight with her. He was of the opinion Bentoncourt was on her side.

  Beside her, Jake must have sensed the mental request. She silently stepped closer, hovering inches away from Whiskey’s right shoulder to stare at Bentoncourt with tucked chin. Whiskey picked up the sensation of soft fleece and the aroma of carnations, Jake’s essence reminding Whiskey’s guests of her presence. Not for the first time Whiskey marveled at the soft delicacy of Jake’s mental touch, knowing how dangerous she could be.

  “It’ll be fine, Jake.” Whiskey waited until her bodyguard tamped down her essence, almost smiling at the way Bentoncourt blinked in surprise at the interruption. “You’ll have to excuse, Zi Agada Jacobsen. She takes her job seriously.”

  “As well she should,” Cassadie said.

  “Lionel?” Whiskey offered him the mental contact, psychically tasting his essence as he did hers. A wash of taste hit the back of her tongue, a well-brewed beer on a hot dusty day. The memory it brought up was distant and musty. Apparently Elisibet had rarely connected with him in her life. It held a hint of familiarity, and she committed the experience to memory. The contact faded and dropped away.

  “Thank you.”

  Whiskey turned to Cassadie. “And you?”

  He held up one hand in surrender. “No need to exhaust you, Ms. Davis.”

  His reason for denial was weak. She wondered if his refusal was because he wasn’t who he seemed to be. Cassadie was a fire-starter, a Tál Izisíg, and had trained Elisibet in that talent. If any of the Agrun Nam would be most familiar to her, it would be him. Considering the last assassin had impersonated someone Elisibet had known in the past, Whiskey frowned. She wondered how she could push the issue without burning any political bridges.

  The herald called out over the room, “Sublugal Sañar Valmont Strauss and Father James Castillo, The Davis Group Board of Directors.”

  The interruption derailed her thoughts and eased her frazzled nerves. A welcome smile crossed her face as she saw the padre weaving through the crowd in her direction. Valmont disappeared into the throng. She wondered if she should put security on alert for bloodshed. It would be just like him to goad Nijmege into some sort of public altercation.

  “Father Castillo!” Cassadie welcomed the priest into their circle.

  “Good evening, Ninsumgal.” Castillo bowed deep to Whiskey. “Sabra Sañar Cassadie,” he said by way of greeting as he shook Cassadie’s hand. Neatly inserting himself into the gathering, he stood between Whiskey and Bentoncourt, providing a welcome physical barrier.

  Bentoncourt smiled, his gruff face lighting. “Father Castillo, well met.”

  “Thank you, Sañar.” He turned to gaze at Whiskey, winking slightly. “Is she not everything I told you?”

  Whiskey groaned inwardly, feeling her cheeks redden. It was a struggle to not roll her eyes. That was just like the padre to play the proud papa. Good God, what else would he be saying tonight? She suddenly wished she were at Valmont’s side, dealing with Nijmege. Potential bloodshed was preferable to this.

  “And more.” Bentoncourt’s grin included her.

  Cassadie stopped a waiter, passing out glasses to their small group. Offering one to Jake, he affected amusement when she refused. “So, tell me, Father. How did you find her again?”

  “Actually, she found me.”

  As Castillo regaled them with the tale of seeing the exact replica of the Sweet Butcher wander into his soup kitchen more than a year ago, Whiskey scanned the room. Valmont had latched onto Francesca, irritating Margaurethe no end. Whiskey breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wasn’t inciting a riot. Yet. Orlaith, McCall and Nijmege had remained near the entrance, watching with calculated expressions. They were talking about her; she needed no superior hearing to see the stares and glares as the three conversed, heads together.

  Missing a sanari, she scanned the room, wishing she were back up on the dais with a better view. It was several minutes before she located Rosenberg. He had left his place at the rear wall, standing now to one side a few feet away. No doubt he analyzed her every move, observing her profile without her knowledge as she dealt with the common trappings of conversation.

  Not willing to allow him anonymity, Whiskey excused herself and approached. Her security entourage shifted with her, creating a bubble of protection that flowed to surround her and Rosenberg. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it, his features registering nothing but the general interest they already held.

  “Ernst, thank you for coming tonight. I know you’ve had a tiring day of travel.”

  He bowed his head. “Ms. Davis, thank you for inviting me.” His gaze held a measure of cool calculation as he openly studied her.

  Whiskey almost grimaced at his examination, reminding herself it was to be expected. She wondered if it would ever stop. Would she feel like a bug under a microscope for the rest of her long, long life? Not knowing what to say, she resorted to the same question she’d asked Bentoncourt. “What do you see?”

  His answer was quick and forthright. “I see Ninsumgal Elisibet Vasillas, the Sweet Butcher, reborn as prophesied by Mahar the Oracle.”

  Her eyebrows rose. She wasn’t sure she liked the inclusion of Elisibet’s nickname in his pronouncement. “Really? Not everyone agrees with you.” She tossed a glance at Nijmege and her cronies.

  “Perhaps not.”

  Well. Not much one for talking. Whiskey struggled to find something to say. “You’re in charge of the treasury, right?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  She gave him the once-over, noting his well-muscled frame, thick neck and short hair. His hand was calloused when she had shaken it, the kind of calluses that indicated swordplay. Her hands were beginning to develop the same signs from her work with Pacal and Valmont. “I’m surprised. I’d think you’d be in charge of the military since you’re a fighting man.”

  “It’s a matter of timing, Ms. Davis. When I was appointed by the Ninsumgal, the sole open position was the Office of Finance.”

  His words opened a floodgate of memory. Members chosen for the Agrun Nam filled the available vacancies. Ideally, a person suited to finance would have risen to Rosenberg’s current position. Elisibet had bucked the system, preferring to put ill-prepared people in charge of things they didn’t understand. It was easier to keep everyone powerless against her. Nijmege’s office was a prime example. Nahib had been Nam Lugal and Bentoncourt had led the Judicial Office. When Elisibet murdered Nahib, Bentoncourt had been next in seniority, rising to take over the position of leadership. That was why Nijmege had the Judicial Office now. Elisibet thought it humorous to fill the seat with Nahib’s grieving lover.

  Considering Rosenberg’s obvious military training, she frowned. The European structure separated powers between the Agrun Nam and Ninsumgal’s advisors. Without a monarch, the High and Low Courts had been combined under Nijmege’s dominance. To have survived so long, the Agrun Nam had
to have taken over the military after the Purge, something that had been under Valmont’s province as Defender of the Crown. “Which one of you is in charge of the military?”

  “Ideally, one of the ninsumgal’s advisors,” Rosenberg explained, not realizing the extent of her knowledge. “However, when Elisibet was assassinated, Lionel took control.”

  That was a relief. The thought of a Sanguire military trained in covert operations being run by, say, Nijmege was frightening.

  “He also assumed control of the knightly orders and our navy,” Rosenberg continued without prompting. “The Judicial Office was extended to include Lower Court functions. As there was no more royal household, the palace was abandoned until recently.”

  “Recently?” Whiskey felt Margaurethe’s mind searching for her. She answered by second nature, her ears tuned to Rosenberg.

  “When you were discovered, we had it refurbished, and staff and security hired.”

  She blinked. This was new. “It’s still there?” she asked, immediately kicking herself for asking a stupid question.

  “Yes. It’s ready for the ninsumgal’s presence now.”

  Whiskey pondered this as Margaurethe arrived at her elbow. God, it would be awesome to walk the halls of the palace. What memories would a visit prompt? A flash of dinners and dances crossed her mind’s eye as Margaurethe and Rosenberg exchanged pleasantries. Margaurethe made their apologies and pulled her away. Whiskey thanked Rosenberg for his candor and said her goodbyes.

  Once they were clear, she blew out a breath. “Thanks,” she said between her teeth as she smiled at people who bowed or nodded in her passing. “Can I get out of here yet?”

  Margaurethe’s laugh warmed her. “I think it’s time. You’ve seen and been seen. Now we leave them to their gossip.”

  “Do I have to make a grand exit?”

  Margaurethe took her hand, squeezing it. “Unfortunately. It will be quick, I promise.”

  They were at the dais, and Whiskey took the steps two at a time, forcing Jake into a trot to keep up. She spun around at the top. Sudden stage fright caused her heart to thunder as all conversation promptly died. She swallowed with a dry mouth before pasting a smile on her face. “Enjoy yourselves, and thank you for coming.”

  She blushed as her people began a round of applause that forced her visitors to at least make a genteel offering of the same. The aga’gída surrounded her, Jake and Margaurethe at either elbow, and guided her out the back of the banquet room. As they quickly made their way through the service corridor back to the elevators, she glanced at Margaurethe.

  “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

  Chapter Seven

  Back in her primary office, Whiskey felt much better for the ginger ale Margaurethe had procured. She sprawled on the leather couch, boots propped up on the coffee table, leather jacket long since discarded and draped on her chair at the desk. Margaurethe sat in a chair across from her, adding a dollop of cream to her tea.

  Jake stood at the door, tilting her head as she received a transmission over the radio. “They’re here.”

  Whiskey dropped her feet to the floor. “Let them in.” Jake opened the door, revealing The Davis Group board still dressed in their reception finery. As they drifted in, Whiskey said, “Pull up a chair, folks. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. Let’s make this short.”

  “At least you got to leave early,” Valmont groused. He eschewed a seat, preferring to lean against the bookcase with his arms across his chest. “I had to put up with Gasan Bentoncourt’s nattering for an hour or more.”

  “Serves you right. You were only there to annoy Margaurethe.” Whiskey gave him a sidelong grin. He lifted his chin in concession, returning a playful smile.

  Castillo settled on the couch beside Whiskey. “I spent some time with Gasan Bentoncourt. She’s a delightful woman, full of questions.”

  Frowning, Margaurethe leaned forward to pour him tea from the service on the coffee table. “Be careful with her, Father. She’ll win into your good graces and pump you for information before you realize what’s happening.”

  Whiskey reached out and patted Castillo’s arm. “She’s right. Don’t get suckered, Padre.” She grinned at his consternation as he mentally went over his conversation with Bentoncourt’s wife. Turning her attention to Chano, she watched as he slowly lowered himself into an armchair. “How about you, wicahca? Have any interesting conversations with our new delegation?”

  He grunted in distaste, accepting a cup of tea from Margaurethe with a flash of pleasure that quickly disappeared. “No. That Cassadie speaks like Coyote. He is too smooth, I don’t trust him. And the Mayan ambassador monopolized the conversation when I tried to speak with Bentoncourt.” He blew on the tea to cool it before taking a sip. “Rosenberg, though. He seems strong of purpose, a soul of deep water. His spirit is that of an Indian, not a white man.”

  Everything that came from Chano was filtered by his perceptions, including the racial distinctions between Sanguire. Whiskey sighed but didn’t say anything. Chano was a wise and just man on the American Indian council, the Wi Wacipi Wakan, and his opinion wasn’t that different from any other Sanguire in the world be they Mayan or Chinese or European. American Indian Sanguire didn’t hate the white man for some distant crime of genocide—Chano had lived through it himself. Their hatred was one of personal immediacy as was their enmity to their southern neighbors, the Mayans. It had taken a lot of work to get the two nations to sit down in talks together. It would take a lot more to get them to come to an agreement, to heal the hostility between them.

  “I agree about Rosenberg.” Dikeledi had taken one of the chairs at the desk, turning it around to sit tall and straight before the gathered board. “In our dealings with the European Sanguire, Rosenberg has always had a strong presence. He knows his job well and is a shrewd negotiator.”

  Unlike the American Indian Sanguire, the Africans had long been involved with the Euro Sanguire over the centuries to reasonably positive ends. Whiskey leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Were you involved in the initial treaties between them and your government?”

  It hardly seemed possible, but Dikeledi sat straighter. “I was.”

  Castillo perked in obvious curiosity. “What can you tell us about them?”

  She gave the priest a stern glance. “I cannot reveal confidences.”

  Whiskey held up her hands. The newest member to the board was prickly. Until she became comfortable with her peers, Dikeledi needed careful handling. “No secrets. I think the padre is just curious about their skills at the treaty table, am I right?”

  “Exactly.” Castillo nodded. “My apologies, I only meant to ask what your impressions of the Agrun Nam were during your dialogues.”

  Mollified, Dikeledi raised her chin in concession. “They seemed quite knowledgeable and don’t appear to have changed. During the African/European negotiations, they were aware of several contingencies that we had thought secret, and bargained well to get what they wanted. In the end, our treaty was mutually beneficial. We’ve had little cause to revisit it.”

  A slight click drew Whiskey’s attention to the door. Dorst smiled at Jake as he closed it, sweeping forward into the room. He paused at the edge of the gathering, an amused look on his face as Dikeledi continued speaking.

  “I had not met Samuel McCall before this evening, however. He seemed to be another quiet man, not prone to conversation. Nijmege, as expected, was less than pleasant.”

  Valmont snorted aloud, shifting to slip his hands into his pockets. “Small wonder that. I saw the storm clouds above her head this afternoon when she arrived.” He paused as if an idea had just occurred, his smile widening. “Wait. She always looks like that! Silly me.”

  “Must you be so flippant?” Margaurethe demanded, her tone indicating annoyance.

  “As a matter of fact—”

  “Can it!” Whiskey gave Valmont a warning glance. Given the opportunity, he’d poke and prod Margaurethe until she ex
ploded. It was easier to stop him than Margaurethe. His verbal jabs were his way of playing. Before Elisibet’s death, Margaurethe had joined in the games as well. Now his pastime infuriated her.

  Valmont gave an amiable shrug but remained silent.

  The peacekeeper of the group, Castillo smiled at Margaurethe. “I had the pleasure of meeting your mother, Margaurethe. She seems like a delightful woman.”

  If his goal was to ease Margaurethe’s vexation, he failed. Instead, her lips thinned and a line developed between her eyebrows as she scowled. “Yes, she does, doesn’t she?”

  Castillo paused, realizing he’d made a mistake but uncertain how to rectify it. He glanced quickly around the room, mouth open to speak though he said nothing.

  Valmont saved him. “She’s much like Francesca Bentoncourt in that respect, Padre. Don’t let your guard down with Orlaith O’Toole, either.” He bared his teeth in a smile. “The female of our species is most dangerous.”

  Whiskey couldn’t argue his statement. Despite a muscle jumping in Margaurethe’s jaw, she didn’t seem overly upset with Valmont’s summary of the situation. Whiskey reached for Castillo’s mind, lightly comforting the dark, bitter chocolate. “One thing I got from Ernst is that the palace is up and running.”

  The sardonic air disappeared from Valmont’s expression. “Really? Now that’s interesting. When did they do that?”

  Dorst stepped forward, inserting himself into the conversation. “Those contingencies were put into place not long after our dear Father Castillo passed his information on to the Agrun Nam a year ago.”

  “You knew about this?” Margaurethe asked, turning in her seat to look at him.

  He bowed deeply, tilting his head to reveal his neck to her. “I most certainly did, Ki’an Gasan. My apologies for not having notified you earlier. I didn’t think the information pertinent.”

  After the day she’d had, Margaurethe was on edge and spoiling for a fight. Her chin dropped to her chest, and she drew a breath to speak. Whiskey saw the warning signs and jumped into the conversation to forestall them. “Is it the same palace that I remember?”