Lady Dragon

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  A hazy smile teased Margaurethe’s lips, creating the expected lines along her mouth. She moved, reaching her arms above her in a lithesome stretch that put Whiskey’s mind into a completely different frame. Bringing her arms down, Margaurethe draped one across Whiskey’s shoulders. “I’m sure you’ll figure out a way, m’cara.”

  Whiskey grinned, leaning in for a quick kiss, her hand stroking Margaurethe’s bared shoulder. As much as she wanted more, she knew her breath was probably foul from the alcohol she’d imbibed at the dinner party last night. Rather than subject Margaurethe to the torture, she rolled over onto her back, pulling her lover into the crook of her arm. They lay together, minds and legs entwined as they both came fully awake.

  Mornings like these had been unheard of in Whiskey’s prior life. Normally, she’d awaken in a youth shelter or under a bridge. Rarely she’d find herself beside a bar pickup, neither she nor her partner inclined to spend much time together, both eager to flee the stiffness of an impromptu dalliance with a stranger. Even when she’d enjoyed sex with people she’d known, a sense of embarrassed awkwardness always followed in the light of day. The intimacy she’d developed with Margaurethe was much richer than she’d ever experienced. She’d spent years longing for something she couldn’t name. Now she had it and she’d be damned if she’d let it go.

  Margaurethe broke their silence. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I did,” Whiskey said, somewhat surprised at the revelation. “I hadn’t expected to, but I slept like a log.” She’d felt an odd serenity envelop her when Nijmege bared her fangs last night. That tranquility hadn’t fled in the harsh realization that she’d challenged an eight-hundred-year-old Sanguire woman to a duel. “What about you?”

  “I did as well.” Margaurethe snuggled closer, her hand stroking along Whiskey’s abdomen.

  They remained silent several minutes longer. By the sensations coursing across Margaurethe’s mind, Whiskey knew the quiet would end soon. As Margaurethe became more and more alert, her emotions turned from comfort to uneasiness.

  Margaurethe sighed. “About the challenge…”

  Smiling, Whiskey hugged her lover. “Yes, about that…” She received a slight pinch on her side for her droll tone.

  “Have you considered who your second shall be?”

  Whiskey forced herself to seriousness. “I have.” She pulled back to peer at her lover. “Why? Do you have any suggestions?”

  “I think Reynhard would be an advantage to have in the arena.” She glared at Whiskey’s guffaw, though the expression was without true heat.

  “He would against anybody else, yeah.” Whiskey snickered again. “But I’m trying to ensure that Bertrada uses McCall as her second. If I call for Reynhard, she might look for someone closer to his age to support her—he’s at least as old as Chano or Sithathor.”

  “Then you’ll need someone not much younger than she, someone with weapons experience.” Margaurethe dropped her gaze, relaxing into Whiskey’s embrace.

  “That is what Dikeledi suggested the other day.” She rested her cheek against Margaurethe’s head, deeply inhaling the smell of her shampoo. “I think you already know who I’m considering for the job.”

  “Valmont.”

  Whiskey half expected Margaurethe’s mood to sharpen into anger and disgust. When it didn’t, she frowned. “You’re not upset?”

  Margaurethe shook her head, her hair tickling Whiskey’s face. “Not as much as you expected, I’m sure.”

  Pulling back again, Whiskey stared at her. “Who are you and what have you done with my fiancée?” She received a stronger pinch in retaliation and pinned the offending hand beneath her arm.

  “Valmont and I have had our differences, but we’ve decided to set them aside for the nonce,” Margaurethe crisply informed her. She didn’t quite stick her tongue out, but Whiskey got the definite impression the thought had crossed Margaurethe’s mind.

  She smiled, hugging her lover. “I’m not complaining.”

  “Why Valmont?” Margaurethe asked, her voice muffled against Whiskey’s throat.

  Whiskey stared at the ceiling in thought. “He has the weapons experience I’ll need. Bertrada does have some skill in that department, more than I do.” Margaurethe nodded. “He’s of the right age to set Bertrada at ease. If she doesn’t think she’ll have a chance, she might appoint someone else as her second.” Fire erupted in her heart. “And I want McCall,” she growled.

  Margaurethe mentally soothed her, woodsmoke and mulled wine a fine counterpoint to the banked flames of her rage. “And his petition to be your Champion? Has that changed?”

  “No.” Whiskey used the change of topic to avoid her anger. “No. I don’t need a Defender of the Crown. I’m not the European Ninsumgal, regardless of what I might have been in the dark past. That’s a Euro Sanguire position, not one within The Davis Group.”

  “As it should be, though it’s unfortunate.” Margaurethe turned away to look at the alarm clock on the nightstand. “The modern era certainly could use some of the old ways.”

  Whiskey smiled, setting aside her contemporary Human sensibilities regarding the aristocracy of the past. “What time is it?”

  “Time to get up, My Ninsumgal,” Margaurethe teased. “Daniel wants to see us this morning and you need to speak with Valmont.”

  Disappointment washed through Whiskey and she groaned. “I don’t want to. Just five more minutes?”

  Margaurethe had already sat up, feet over the side of the bed. She looked over her naked shoulder, a glint in her eyes. “And what, pray tell, can you accomplish in just five minutes?”

  Not one to decline such a flirtatious invitation, Whiskey reached for her. “It’ll be faster if I just show you.”

  * * *

  Valmont stood in the reception area of The Davis Group’s executive offices, idling at the window as he watched pedestrians and traffic navigate the wet streets of a Portland autumn. He’d received a message this morning to speak to Whiskey and was in good spirits. There could be only one reason for her to want to see him this day.

  “Sublugal Sañar Valmont! How glorious to see you!”

  Valmont whirled to see Dorst approaching. “Reynhard.”

  Dorst’s eyes glittered with wicked joy. “I presume you’re here to see our Ninsumgal as well?” Before Valmont could answer, he turned toward the receptionist stationed at the large desk. “I do so hope she has those lemon tea cakes. They grace the palate so delicately.”

  The receptionist smiled. “If you’d like, Sañur Gasum, I can see if the kitchen has any.”

  “Oh! That would be wonderful, Helen. I’d be forever in your debt.”

  While Dorst continued to flirt and tease the receptionist, Valmont frowned. He thought he’d been called here as Whiskey’s second, but now had doubts. Did she mean to ask Dorst instead? Had Nijmege already announced McCall as her second, thereby allowing Whiskey to utilize someone with more strength despite the board’s strategic discussion? Why then would she have asked for Valmont to attend this meeting? Perhaps she wanted to grill him about Nijmege. He’d spent the majority of his childhood and youth in her household. Whiskey probably thought he’d have information she could use in her upcoming duel. His anticipation took a tumble, and he struggled against the rise of self-denigration that had been his constant companion for several centuries.

  “Valmont?”

  He broke away from his inner thoughts, seeing that Dorst had paused halfway to Whiskey’s door. “What?”

  “You’re coming, aren’t you?”

  Inhaling deeply, he straightened his shoulders. “Of course.”

  Inside Whiskey rose from her desk, a smile on her face. “Have a seat.” She gestured to the sitting area rather than her desk chairs. “Helen’s running a quick errand and then we can get started.”

  Valmont smoothed the disappointment from his face, putting on a rakish grin. He dropped onto the couch, crossed his leg at the knee and stretched one arm along the back. “Where
’s Margaurethe?”

  “Doing her thing.” Whiskey also chose the couch, turning sideways with her right knee drawn up to accommodate herself. “She’s getting the…venue prepared.”

  “Really?” Dorst settled in an armchair, his bright eyes avid with interest. “Do tell. Not the ballroom, I hope.”

  “The gymnasium.” She smiled at Dorst’s titter.

  “Blood is quite difficult to remove from carpet,” Dorst agreed.

  Valmont watched Whiskey pale despite her blasé handling of the topic. As much as he wanted to hound her regarding her choice of second, he refrained. She’d had a difficult childhood and a harsh adjustment period as she came to terms with both a life and past life so far removed from her normal experience. Sometimes it was difficult to believe she was still a toddler in Sanguire terms, not even two decades old. With so much on her plate already, he didn’t want to add to her burden. “I imagine it would be much easier than to replace carpet or clean it, as well,” he said, drolly agreeing with Dorst. “Much too expensive.”

  “Not to mention the awkward questions from the carpet layers.”

  Whiskey’s smile became more natural at their ribbing. She opened her mouth to speak but a tap at the door interrupted her. Helen entered with a plate of lemon tea cakes to add to the coffee setting, receiving smiles and blessings from Dorst. Valmont utilized the time to grab a cup of coffee, pouring a second for Whiskey.

  As soon as Dorst had finished his coquetry and Helen had left the room, Whiskey turned to place both feet on the floor. “So you know I’ve called you here because of the challenge. I need to choose a second and I need more information.”

  Valmont’s mood drooped. He’d been right. He was here to fill in any blanks Whiskey might have regarding Nijmege’s abilities. He forced himself to pay strict attention to her words. Even if he wasn’t her second, he couldn’t let her go into the arena without a thorough background and understanding of Nijmege’s training and habits. So focused on this task, he didn’t quite believe Whiskey’s next words.

  “Valmont, I’d like you to be my second.”

  He stuttered, his mind blank for several moments. “Wh-what?”

  Whiskey grinned. She reached over to pat his knee. “You. My second. Challenge. Will you?”

  The gears in his mind began turning once more, picking up speed as the fuel of delight sped them along. “Yes! Yes! Of course!” While a distant part of his mind tried to concentrate on at least acting somewhat mature, his heart wallowed in pleasure. Whiskey trusted him. She trusted him with her life! Margaurethe had been right. With considerable effort, he turned to the conversation at hand.

  “What have you got for us, Reynhard?”

  Dorst nibbled delicately at a tea cake. “Not much more than our dear Valmont already knows, I’m sure. Bertrada has always had sword training. In fact, I believe she used to train you, didn’t she, Valmont?”

  “Um, yes.” Valmont recollected his early training sessions in Nahib’s household. “She was rather formidable at the time, but didn’t apply herself beyond appeasing Nahib’s desire that she be capable of defending herself.”

  “Do you know if she continued her training?” Whiskey asked.

  Dorst wiped his mouth with a napkin, pausing in thought. “It’s my understanding that she left off for a time after Nahib’s execution. Once Mahar’s Prophecy was spoken she returned to it, but even that faded off over the centuries. One can only hold fury for so long before it exhausts one.”

  “And she’s had more than enough to keep her busy on the Agrun Nam,” Valmont said. “That’s a full-time job without a ninsumgal’s advisor to handle the High Court.”

  Whiskey nodded. “So if we’re lucky, she’s rusty. If we’re extremely lucky, she hasn’t trained in years.”

  “Unfortunately, your luck isn’t that good, My Gasan.” Dorst’s face held a measure of sympathy. “Once word of your return reached Europe, she renewed her training.”

  “Has she been working out here?” Whiskey sat forward.

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  Valmont also leaned forward. “I doubt she would anyway. The last thing she’d want is to show off her skill before her enemies.”

  Whiskey scowled. “Unlike me. I’ve had at least two training sessions since the Agrun Nam has arrived.”

  “Be thankful it’s only two, Ninsumgal.” Dorst reached for another tea cake. “That would hardly give her a decent showing of your skills, providing she did witness them.”

  As they continued to discuss strategy and tactics, Valmont enjoyed an inner tranquility he hadn’t known in centuries. He watched as Whiskey flashed smiles, spoke in serious tones, or scowled in annoyance, and all the while his heart sang. She trusted him with her life.

  I cannot let her trust be in vain!

  * * *

  Nijmege listened to the delicate strains of music, eyes closed to catch every audible nuance, ignoring her companions. Modern electronics certainly had improved the quality of recording instruments. She almost couldn’t discern the difference between this playback and sitting in the symphony audience itself.

  McCall grunted. “I do wish she’d hurry.”

  Nijmege cracked one eye open to regard her nervous partner. “She called challenge, Samuel. The deed is done. There’s nothing to do but wait.”

  McCall stood with his back to her apartment window, a scowl on his face. He harrumphed, an utterance more suited to a middle-aged visage than his youthful one. “It would be nice to know who she’ll choose as her second.”

  “It hardly matters.” Nijmege shut her eye again, trying to pick up the feel of the music. “She’ll die, and my goal will have been met.”

  Orlaith raised a wine glass in toast. “As it should be.”

  The women’s unconcern didn’t sit well upon McCall. He paced, disrupting Nijmege’s philharmonic concentration. “What if she chooses Dorst? Neither of us can withstand him. And by all reports, she’s quite strong in her own right, regardless of her youth.”

  Perturbed, Nijmege gave up listening to the music, turning her full attention to him. “Reynhard hasn’t been seen or heard from in almost four hundred years. Granted, he may have utilized his time keeping his martial skills intact, but he was never one for the dueling field to begin with. Despite his age, his strength has always lain with his covert ability.”

  “Davis would be a fool to pick him.” Orlaith sipped her wine.

  Their words didn’t soothe him. “Why can’t she be a fool? You’ve chosen me as your second. That’s rather foolish, don’t you agree?”

  “You could have declined,” Nijmege reminded him. He grimaced, obviously wondering if he still had the opportunity to do so. She relented. “You’ll be fine, Samuel. Trust me. You won’t need to physically fight anyone. All I need is for you to be there with me. Your strength will be enough to overcome that ñalga súp and anyone ill advised enough to agree to side with her.”

  Orlaith nodded. “All this talk that she’s as powerful as Elisibet ever was is nothing but claptrap. Have you ever heard of a youngling coming through the Ñíri Kurám with such strength?” She barely paused to allow either of them to answer. “No. You haven’t. It’s impossible. Even the Sweet Butcher wasn’t as strong as her propaganda claimed.”

  McCall hardly heeded her words, continuing to pace up and down the span of windows as the light of day faded behind him. Nijmege found it odd that he’d been a staunch supporter over the last months, yet now seemed ready to bolt at the least provocation. His lack of experience and prowess in a fight had him quite apprehensive, the complete opposite of her. For the first time in centuries she felt peace, knowing her path loomed steady, her destiny nearly completed. His agitation rather spoiled her heartsease.

  A knock interrupted more conversation, and an aide leaned into the room. “Aga Maskim Sañar, Sublugal Sañar Valmont is here to see you.”

  A rush of adrenaline pushed Nijmege out of her chair. Valmont! “Send him in.”

  Mc
Call stepped forward. “Does this mean he’s—”

  “Should I leave?” Orlaith asked.

  Nijmege waved McCall to silence, shaking her head in the negative as the door reopened and Valmont sauntered into the room. She only had to look at him to know the truth.

  “Bertrada, Samuel, Gasan Orlaith.” Valmont gave them a nod of acknowledgment rather than the slight bow that befitted their rank. “I believe you know why I’m here.”

  “Stop posturing and spit it out,” McCall snarled, his normally cool demeanor breaking under the strain.

  Valmont grinned. “My, aren’t you the demanding one, Samuel. Really, Bertrada, I know you like them young, but he’s hardly a puppy.”

  McCall bristled but recovered his control.

  Nijmege didn’t think it would be beneficial to agree with Valmont, especially since her companion actually did resemble a recalcitrant pup at the moment. “Get on with it, Valmont,” she stated, her bored tone masking the eagerness beating in her chest.

  “I’m here to inform you that Ninsumgal Whiskey will meet you tomorrow morning in the gymnasium on the third floor of The Davis Group headquarters. Does half past ten meet your approval?”

  “It does.” A slow grin broke through her attempt to remain serious. “I choose edged blades as weapons. I assume you’re to stand as her second?”

  “I am.”

  She nodded, feeling an unexpected pang at the knowledge. Valmont had been her lover’s protégé, had fought against the Sweet Butcher’s iron-fisted control during the last years of her life, and had avenged his mentor’s execution by assassinating Elisibet. Nahib wouldn’t have wanted them to come to blows. This is necessary. “Samuel will be mine. We’ll be there.”

  Valmont gazed at her, a wealth of meaning behind his eyes. He understood her position as she understood his. “I’m sorry it has to come to this, Bertrada. Nahib—”

  “—Is dead, and I intend to make certain his murderer joins him. Permanently!”

  Closing his mouth on what he’d planned to say, he bowed in acknowledgment. The sardonic smile rushed back onto his face as he looked at McCall. “Samuel, ever a pleasure. It’s a shame your first duel will be your last.”