Lady Dragon

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Confusion assailed Whiskey’s annoyance. “Change? What are you talking about?” As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she knew to what Castillo referred.

  Margaurethe’s voice was flat as she explained what Whiskey already knew. “Once a question is brought up for a vote, it must be voted on unless there’s a valid argument to table it. I doubt Lionel would have dropped the subject of your European monarchy without your input.”

  Whiskey almost laughed in relief. “For a second there, I thought this was something serious! All I did was cut through the bullshit. Debating the point won’t change our goals.” Her humor dissipated when they both remained quiet. “Do I need to remind you of the bigger picture? I know you’ve been vested in my assuming the European throne for centuries, Margaurethe, but you’re getting off track. We’re working on something larger, remember, something that will benefit all Sanguire not just the Europeans.” Again they didn’t respond, and Whiskey’s anger freshened. “It’s called politics, Padre. You taught me the subject.”

  His dark eyes were direct. “Perhaps.”

  She tucked her chin, her internal ire building. No matter how much she learned, no matter how many flowery words of honor and support and caring were blown up her ass, her closest advisors still didn’t trust her to lead, not even Margaurethe with whom she shared so much more than politics. They thought she was too young, too stupid and too impetuous. Did Castillo see the same thing Margaurethe did when he looked at her? Did he long for Elisibet’s return to right the wrongs of the Agrun Nam? It was bad enough having to live down her homeless street kid reputation. Why the hell did she have to live down someone else’s notoriety too? The voice of Pacal, her Mayan personal defense instructor, abruptly crashed into her mind. “Acting is the sign of maturity, reacting the sign of a weak and childish person.” His words doused her anger, reminding her that she was still an infant in the scheme of the world and the Sanguire. Elisibet had been a prepubescent child when she’d taken the European throne but hadn’t had the strength of mind to stop herself from striking out with immaturity. Whiskey was older, better than that, and had the wisdom of people who cared for her.

  She exhaled roughly, expelling her anger. Castillo’s gaze had softened. He opened his mouth to speak, but Whiskey interrupted. “No. Don’t begin with regrets and recriminations, Padre. We both know I need all the knowledge you can give me if I’m going to survive…if we’re going to create this vision. If you don’t like what I do with that information, tough. But skip the guilt routine. It won’t do you any good.” Margaurethe’s mental tendril touched her, but she pushed it away, momentarily needing the distance to gather her emotional balance.

  “Whiskey—”

  “No.” She looked away from Margaurethe, turning back to the others in the room. Jake stood sentinel at the door, ever vigilant, nonjudgmental. Dorst, Valmont and Dikeledi remained paused at the buffet table and Chano watched from his seat on the couch. “Let’s be honest. We all know the best that’ll ever be said of me is that I didn’t turn out like Elisibet.”

  She heard a bottle being set down behind her, heard the rustle of clothing, felt the displacement of air cool upon her hands as Castillo came into view. He knelt before her, head bowed.

  “I offer my most humble apologies, My Ninsumgal. I reacted as your tutor, seeing an erring student, not my Ninsumgal. The weight of ruling the Sanguire will be heavy on your shoulders. I swore to follow your lead in all things, to offer my body, mind and soul to ease your burden. I’ve inadvertently added to that weight rather than help lift it from you.” He raised his eyes, baring his throat in supplication. “Will you forgive me?”

  A mixture of emotion washed through her. The anger was still there, a faint echo of ancient ugliness. Castillo had taken a position in her heart that had been empty since the death of her parents. She loved him as her true father. A flicker of remorse passed through her that she had overreacted to his and Margaurethe’s desire to see her at the head of their homeland. It seemed her personal insecurities were as dangerously subtle as Elisibet’s. They worked against her as good or better than any outside threat. Despite Castillo’s knowledge of Whiskey’s mental strength, he had knelt before her, placing himself in peril. It was a risk he knew well; neither of them would forget the last time she’d faced down her wrath and grief, Margaurethe included. Castillo had been witness, and Margaurethe had almost not survived the encounter. Perhaps that was why he had put himself so readily at her mercy now, to remind her of her true power.

  She felt the sudden shame of acting like a petulant child, wistfully gripping Castillo’s hands. “There’s nothing to forgive, Padre. We’re all tired and doing the best that we can. Everybody screws up.” She didn’t voice the fact that her errors would have worldwide repercussions. People died when she made mistakes. “Come on, get up and get something to eat. We’re nowhere near done with our briefing.”

  He stood, a welcome smile on his face, though his eyes displayed sorrow. Taking her hand, he gave it a gentle kiss. “Thank you, My Gasan.”

  She shooed him away, pretending nonchalance. Her mouth tasted like ashes, and her stomach held a solid lump where once it pined for sustenance. All the same, she needed to make an appearance that everything was well, that the misgivings of two of the most important people in her life were nothing but a hiccup, meaningless to her. She forced herself to return to Margaurethe who had remained at the liquor cabinet with a stricken expression. She smiled and caressed an olive-toned cheek. “It’s all right, minn’ast. I understand.” Margaurethe’s essence brushed hers. She allowed the casual contact, not giving her lover access to the deeper areas of her mind. Whiskey needed to get a handle on her emotions before opening herself that much. The lack wasn’t lost on Margaurethe. Regret fluttered across their bond. In response, Whiskey kissed her. “We’ll talk later. After things settle, okay?”

  Margaurethe searched her face for truth. Whiskey didn’t know whether or not she found what she looked for, but her expression cleared and she nodded once in agreement.

  “Let’s get some food before we faint away from starvation. We’ve got a long afternoon ahead of us.”

  Whiskey escorted Margaurethe to the buffet and proceeded to fill a plate for herself with food she didn’t want. She joked with Valmont, treated the others with good humor, and generally jollied most of her advisors back into a positive frame of mind. Margaurethe remained slightly subdued, serving Chano his sweet tea.

  Castillo seemed encouraged by Whiskey’s acceptance of his apology. He sank onto the couch between Dikeledi and Chano with a plate and napkin. “I think the only thing keeping me awake was the effort to refrain from yawning.”

  Valmont snorted. “And will you put that into your fine book, Padre?”

  “Of course not.”

  Margaurethe made an effort to smile. “No, our Ninsumgal’s biographer will no doubt increase the initial tension and hint at the shock and amazement as Whiskey deviated from the Agrun Nam’s plan.”

  “That was rather startling, wasn’t it?” Dorst tittered behind a hand as he moved closer. He chose one of the chairs by Whiskey’s desk and sat. “I knew that Lionel has always supported My Gasan, but I had no idea he’d so publicly start the ball rolling.”

  The dispute with Margaurethe and Castillo still fresh in her mind, Whiskey forced herself to remain upbeat. “Maybe putting that to rest will cool Bertrada’s jets.”

  “That is doubtful,” Dikeledi intoned. She held a juice bottle in long-fingered hands. “She seeks to avenge a wrong and has been consumed by her wrath.”

  Chano nodded, swallowing a sip of tea. “Agreed. Her hate is too strong. She will never allow you to rest.”

  Whiskey had often intervened between her two newest directors and the Euro Sanguire majority that comprised the board, not wanting Chano’s and Dikeledi’s opinions to be coerced by their personal sentiments regarding the European Sanguire. She’d lived in foster homes where children were manipulated by the propaganda thei
r caseworkers and care providers spewed about missing or mentally ill parents. Such actions caused nothing but heartache and grief. The last thing Whiskey had wanted was to turn this corporation into a mirror image of a dysfunctional foster home or Elisibet’s court. Therefore, this joint sentiment coming from the two directors who weren’t involved in the Sweet Butcher’s debacle caused Whiskey to blink in surprise.

  Valmont pushed out of his chair and went to the buffet for seconds. “Finally! Glad you could join the party.” He began making another sandwich.

  Margaurethe grimaced faintly at his flippancy. “I’m happy you are able to see past the surface.” She glanced at Whiskey, searching for an indication to censor herself and finding none. “As Reynhard has reported several times, Bertrada’s goals are to kill Whiskey in any way possible.”

  “What if she can’t succeed?” Castillo asked, staring at his root beer in thought.

  Whiskey frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

  He looked up at her. “What if Bertrada literally cannot succeed at her goal? What will she do then?”

  Since discovering Nijmege’s ill will toward her, Whiskey had always assumed she’d be able to reason with the woman. Spending hours in a closed conference room with her had laid that daydream to rest. Even Chano and Dikeledi understood that Nijmege was irrational in her desire for revenge. It had never occurred to Whiskey that she might fail.

  “She’ll destroy The Davis Group.” Chano’s voice was matter-of-fact.

  “She will.” Valmont nodded, settling down with another sandwich. “She’s a malicious bitch who has made it her life’s goal to extract revenge from Elisibet’s future self for the wrongs done to her.” He took a healthy bite of bread and lunchmeat, oblivious to Margaurethe’s chin lowering in distaste.

  Castillo’s mouth pursed. “There has to be some way to reach her, some way to appeal to her common sense.”

  A frown creased Dikeledi’s dark skin. “Everyone has their breaking point, Father.” She tilted her head, causing her dangling earrings to sparkle as they shifted with the movement. “I have seen Nijmege in negotiations before. She has never been so…adamant. I do not think the European Sanguire will enter into an agreement with The Davis Group lightly.”

  The talk continued on, skewing away from Nijmege’s irrationality and on to other topics of their initial meeting. Whiskey listened with half an ear. She had accepted that her life would be devoted to picking up one mess after another left by Elisibet. The Agrun Nam was the largest tragedy. Elisibet had stripped their power to the bone, and they hadn’t yet discovered how to strengthen themselves.

  Despite Whiskey’s exasperation with living under the Sweet Butcher’s shadow, she’d always tried to understand how Elisibet had come into existence, how the political disasters had begun. It was the only way she could shovel through the shit and find the gems and pearls within. Attaining a throne as a child, not being able to trust anyone or anything, it wasn’t any wonder Elisibet had become so paranoid and bloodthirsty. What a horrible life. And here Whiskey stood, following a tyrant’s footsteps, walking a tightrope between sense and outright futility. She trusted her advisors and her lover with her life. They would be there to help her when able, to guide her where necessary. But they couldn’t lead in her stead. They couldn’t be responsible for her choices. No matter what The Davis Group did, Whiskey held the ultimate accountability.

  She was twenty years old, older than Elisibet had been when she’d been put into power. But in the nature of the Sanguire, Whiskey was a babe in swaddling clothes. She didn’t even have the benefit of learning to rule from childhood. This situation had been dropped on her like a ton of bricks and threatened to smother her. She was supposed to be partying right now, maybe getting high, getting drunk, hanging with her friends outside the adult clubs, dancing at Tallulah’s, going to bed with some bar pickup. Not this!

  “Act, don’t react.”

  Calmness washed over her, and Whiskey let out a huff of amusement. She caught Margaurethe’s tentative questioning glance and smiled, reaching out to take her hand and essence. As she felt the mulled wine and woodsmoke caress her, she listened to her advisors chatting on about subjects unrelated to their negotiation. The sky outside had darkened considerably, the occasional raindrop pattering against the large window. Regardless of today’s hurdles, Nijmege’s menace, or Whiskey’s personal epiphanies, time moved on. “I think we’re done for today.”

  The others industriously cleaned up after themselves, placing used cups and plates on the buffet for removal, Whiskey included. Gone were the days when they all assumed servants would follow them around with trays and vacuums. Whiskey refused to make extra work for Helen simply because her people had a superior sense of entitlement and the majority of the service staff were Human.

  “Remember,” Margaurethe said as they approached the door en masse. “No negotiations tomorrow, but Dikeledi and Castillo are due to meet with the Chinese delegates regarding the feasibility of a communications business venture. And do recall that we have a symphony to attend at the convention center. We’ll be leaving from here at about five in the afternoon.”

  Valmont groaned and rolled his eyes. “Another function? Good God, Margaurethe! How many of these things must I attend?”

  Castillo chuckled. “The unfortunate downside to politics.”

  “At least you don’t have to come up with another suit at the last minute, priest,” Valmont snarked with a minimum of heat.

  With an exaggerated lift of his chin, Dorst quipped, “I’d be most happy to open my wardrobe for you, Valmont.”

  The thought of Valmont in hard-core black vinyl and leather made Whiskey laugh. Valmont winked at her before gifting Dorst with a scowl. Before the mock argument could continue, Whiskey shooed everyone out the door.

  Valmont held back as the others drifted through the reception area of the executive offices. “You’re wrong, you know.”

  Whiskey glanced at him, sobering at his uncharacteristically serious demeanor. “About what?”

  “The best thing that will be said about you, young Ninsumgal, is that you gathered our people together and created the Sanguire Golden Age.”

  She gaped after him as he turned and walked away.

  Chapter Eleven

  Valmont waited until the elevator doors closed upon Whiskey and her entourage before losing his smile. He hated seeing her like this—the general stress, the day-to-day political hassle of a youngling in her position. The added weight of Elisibet’s infamy didn’t often show itself as it had this afternoon. He’d seen hints of it, expected the dross to appear with the arrival of the Agrun Nam, but he despised its reappearance.

  He, Dikeledi and Chano were the only directors who didn’t reside on the property, though they each had office space. Whiskey had asked them all to eat in her apartment this evening, but Valmont had declined. Dikeledi had also bowed out, citing the need to jot down notes from today’s negotiations and prepare for the next day’s meetings. Chano had accepted, leaving Valmont unaccompanied as he glanced around the second-floor foyer.

  He wasn’t truly alone. The Executive Dining Room was doing brisk business, as expected on a late rainy Monday afternoon. He no longer had a retinue of security traipsing along after him these days. Margaurethe had at least gotten over her suspicions that much. As he stood there, a group from the R&D department left an elevator, their scientific jargon hardly pausing as they gave him a respectful nod in passing. Valmont entered the vacated car, pushing the button for the third floor rather than the lobby. Exiting moments later, he noted the overpopulated cardiovascular room with its treadmills and ellipticals industriously burning away Human fat cells. He nodded as he passed the security station and went out the patio door.

  The wind was brisk with a hint of chill mist. Rain was always in the forecast for a Pacific Northwest fall and winter. At least it wasn’t pouring buckets this time. He didn’t deviate from the main path as it took him around a corner and to a skywalk connec
ting The Davis Group headquarters with the property next door. Traffic rolled by beneath him on Clay Street as he passed overhead.

  Warmth enveloped him when he stepped into the foyer there. He couldn’t help his faint shiver as he readjusted his suit jacket. Chuckling at the guard seated at the security station, he said, “It looks like I should have brought an umbrella.”

  “We have one you can borrow on your way out, Sublugal Sañar Valmont.”

  “Much appreciated.” He walked to the desk, signing in on the clipboard. “How’s the day been?”

  “Slow and steady.” The guard took the clipboard to confirm Valmont’s signature, initialing beside it.

  Valmont turned to eye the elevators behind him. “The Agrun Nam are on the…twelfth floor?”

  “And the fourteenth.”

  He leaned against the security desk. “Where would I find Aga Maskim Sañar Nijmege?”

  The guard checked a roster. “She’ll be on the fourteenth, Nam’en. Suite 1432.”

  “Thank you.”

  Valmont was happy to reach fourteen. His elevator had filled with a handful of Human accountants on a lower floor. They’d filled his ears with the boring wonders of finance and economic theory during his short exposure. Had they not been employees of Whiskey’s, he might have considered taking a bite out of one or two of them just to stir up excitement. Instead, he glared at the numbers on the elevator panel until he was able to make his escape.

  A sign on a wall indicated he should turn left to reach suite 1432. It had been months since this building had seen renovations, but the scent of new carpet and paint lingered on the air. Originally an office complex, Margaurethe had converted the upper floors to diplomatic quarters for visitors and opened the lower levels to flesh out the business offices needed for her growing communications empire. With research being conducted next door, a nearby building being restored to serve as a shipping facility, and a factory being built in Beaverton, Valmont had to admit that Margaurethe had done quite well for herself over the decades.