Rogue's Pawn

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “You can’t expect her to make terms without hearing our bargaining points first,” Rogue said.

  Falcon shot him an irritated glance. “Don’t assist your pet, Rogue. It makes you look weak. Or is that weakness why you want her?”

  “Circumventing etiquette, even with a foreigner, is unworthy of you.”

  “No point in waiting to break bread if she’s going to refuse.” The second one, wearing a dizzying ensemble of motley colors, tossed back waves of strawberry hair and grinned at me. This had to be Puck. “What say you, Lady Gwynn? Will you hold out? Yes? No? All of the Above?”

  “Lady Gwynn looks forward to dining with us.” Rogue looked pointedly at me, replacing my hand on his forearm and covering it with his own.

  “Oh, yes.” Mindful of Tinker Bell’s gaffe, I made an effort to be sincere when I said it. Actually food was sounding better all the time. I was getting a little lightheaded.

  “Until the meal, then.” Falcon made it sound like my funeral. Puck tipped his small, cherry-red top hat, bowed and danced off. The ebony one remained, unmoving.

  “Lord Scourge?” Rogue inquired, as if offering him another cup of tea. The fathomless eyes finally lifted from me, flicked to Rogue and then the man smiled, slow and feral, showing glistening pointed black teeth. He ambled off to join Falcon and Puck in a corner, where they talked, glancing in our direction occasionally.

  “That guy gives me the serious creeps.”

  Rogue glanced down at me, seemed about to say something, stopped himself. Fine—I didn’t want to talk about him either.

  “Who’s in charge?” I whispered to Rogue.

  “In charge?” He looked as puzzled as Blackbird had, as if the concept didn’t quite get through.

  “You know, take me to your leader.”

  “This is my place.”

  “And who do you answer to—Queen Titania, maybe?”

  “Titania?”

  I wanted to pull my hair out. Instead I tried for the patient explanation.

  “When I thought too loud at you, you said, ‘By Titania, woman, keep your voice down.’”

  “Volume,” he corrected, scanning the room. People watched from various groupings, but no others approached yet.

  “Whatever.”

  “It’s an important distinction.”

  “Okay, okay. But anyway, Blackbird said, ‘Thank Titania’ about something. To me, Titania is the name of the queen of the fairies and Oberon is the king—from stories. Now I understand these aren’t really their names, but if whatever you are saying is translating in my head as the name of the queen, that person must be logically the queen. The leader. The ruler. None of which words you seem to understand.”

  “Titania isn’t a person. She’s…” He paused.

  “Fictional?”

  “No. Never that.”

  “A goddess?”

  “Ah, Lady Healer—your patient is doing admirably,” Rogue called out.

  “Coward,” I muttered under my breath. He patted my hand.

  Healer strolled up to us, Darling once more at her side. He blinked at me gravely. She was dolled up, still draped in green but in filmy slices, nothing as revealing as Tinker Bell’s seductive outfit. Her tumbled hair wound in complicated twirls and braids with ivy-like leaves intertwined. And she seemed to be wearing cosmetics. Come to think of it, Tinker Bell had been, too—I’d been so busy worrying about her nipples I hadn’t registered it at the time. Why hadn’t I gotten makeup?

  Duh—Rule 1. How quickly we forget.

  I tried a sweet and biddable smile and a girlish curtsey to Healer’s greeting. That went over better.

  “You’ve forsaken Lord Rogue’s colors?” She swept her hand at my outfit.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your black gown. I’m surprised you’ve refused Lord Rogue’s protection already. Or are you declaring him unworthy of your loyalty?”

  This time, Rogue did not step in, though I could feel his arm flex. Apparently I was fielding this one alone.

  “Lord Rogue has been gracious in his hospitality, but I thought it best that he not be affected by any penalties I might face. I represent only myself.”

  Healer’s eyes flicked to Rogue. “So you will not stand surety for her debts?”

  “I am responsible for my own debts, Lady Healer.” After all, I’m a liberated woman, chickie.

  “Interesting,” she commented, which sounded much the same as Tinker Bell’s “Fine.” Masters of the one-word insult, these gals.

  “Well done,” Rogue whispered as Healer serenely glided away, Darling heeling like no cat I’d ever seen. “Now she has to vote to keep you alive, if she wants her pound of flesh from you.”

  “Please tell me that’s not a literal translation.”

  Rogue just looked grim, which was not comforting.

  “So, this vote—majority rules?”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Why do I bother asking questions at all?”

  “I don’t know. You must admit I’ve tried to dissuade you.”

  Another delegation approached us, of three ladies, all Red Carpet sex goddesses. My inferiority complex divided and doubled like a zygote. After the ladies, a mixed group stopped to chat. All asked pointed or veiled questions. Rogue remained pretty much silent, only patting my hand occasionally or whispering critiques of my diplomatic skills after they’d moved on.

  One woman—and I use the term loosely—floored me by wearing nothing but a pair of enormous butterfly wings. Her nude and hairless body looked girlish, with skin nearly the dusk of an insectile thorax, while the wings soared above her in glimmering monarch oranges. Her hair, a short matching cap, framed large eyes with feathery lashes. I tried to act as though I saw butterfly-women all the time while I ducked her questions about the current war by batting my eyes and saying I left such decisions to the warriors, just being a girl myself. No one seemed to like this answer, but they seemed unsurprised and Rogue approved the maneuver.

  “Ostentatious of her,” Rogue muttered as she pranced away.

  “The wings? Are they real?”

  “Did they look like illusion to you?”

  “Let me rephrase—are they natural to her? Can she fly with them? If you thought she was being ostentatious, does that mean she doesn’t always have them?”

  “I thought you were going to stop asking questions.”

  “I never said that,” I hissed, but had to desist in the face of another interrogation by a man with Richard Gere silver hair.

  A ripple ran through the room. People melted out the doorways, water receding from high tide.

  “Banquet time,” Rogue said. But we didn’t move. We stood in the spot he’d staked out, side by side, my hand still on his arm, as the room emptied.

  Chapter Nine

  In Which I Sell My Soul to the Highest Bidder

  Apparently Rogue was going for the late dramatic entrance, because by the time we entered the hall, everyone was seated. Staring at me, of course. I felt like the glazed pig at the banquet. Two empty chairs waited at a raised table.

  “Is mine the one with the Sword of Damocles hanging over it?” I whispered as we sedately walked up to the dais.

  Rogue didn’t deign to answer. Shocking.

  The peculiar lads with the bowed heads stood by the heavy wooden chairs. They seemed to be the same ones. Either that or they were part of some servant class that all looked identical. After I sat, my servant guy slid the chair up to the table so that the massive arms sealed to the edge. That, with the low table over my lap, effectively caged me. I might be able to squirm out on my own, but it wouldn’t be easy. Coincidence? Oh no, no, no.

  I tried to calm myself, to still the feeling that everything had spiraled ho
pelessly out of control. Here I was, at what appeared to be a faerie banquet out of the old stories. Everything had moved so fast, keeping me off balance. Concentrate on finding a way out of here. That was key. Whatever negotiations would occur tonight, I needed to wrangle a way back to my own world. Regardless of the price.

  Rogue ensconced himself at my right, while Lord Puck sat to my left, his back turned while he talked effusively, with much hand-waving, to his companion. Blackbird’s voice drifted by and I spotted her next to an archway, directing a stream of servers with bowed heads carrying platters and bowls of food, unified in their sameness. They made my skin crawl and the hair rise on the back of my neck. I slid a glance at Rogue out of the corner of my eye. He was engaged in conversation with a woman on his right I hadn’t met, but who seemed to be all shades of pink, from nymphet outfit to eye color. Since he was occupied, I took a good look at the server near me. Healer had referred to them as “Rogue’s people.” I wondered if he’d created them somehow or manipulated them magically. They seemed…off.

  If this were so, he might have manipulated me in the same way, were it not for the silver I wore. I ran my fingertips over the smooth collar, flush with warmth from my skin. Not just restraint but protection. Something to keep in mind. Clearly Rogue was a politician. In my experience, politicians liked people to underestimate them. Or worship them. Flip a coin.

  Rogue turned then and looked at me, full blaze-on blue. “You’re thinking something, but I didn’t quite get it.”

  I smiled sweetly. Innocently, I hoped. “Following instructions. Being quiet. Waiting to eat my supper like a good girl.”

  His gaze dropped to my lips, and my breath caught at the visual caress. Damn, I really hoped I wouldn’t regret the not-kissing him when I had a chance.

  “No need for regrets, gorgeous Gwynn,” Rogue murmured. “You may yet have my lips on you.”

  Warmth pooled between my legs. Rogue smiled into my eyes again, the blue a hotter shade now and I caught a fleeting edge of his thought. Lips trailing down my throat. And farther. Kissing, hell, this guy could be the best sex I ever had, not that there was a lot of competition there, but still.

  Eyes on the prize—don’t get distracted by the pretty boy.

  “True. Mind your thoughts—you’re getting…loud, again.”

  I wrenched my gaze away as Rogue breathed out a laugh. He set his hand on mine, squeezed lightly and turned back to Pinkie. Platters were set before us, and Rogue waved the lads back, though they dished servings to others. He served himself, then slid the platter to me, so I could choose my own portion. It was so smooth, I could believe this was normal etiquette, but I knew he did it for me.

  I gave Rogue a brilliant smile and he winked at me, the left side of his face away from the room. I hadn’t noticed before that his marking extended onto his eyelid, with a thorn tipped in amber. I fought the desire to run a fingertip over it.

  No silverware of any type. Oh, and no one was eating. All eyes were turned our way, including Puck’s avid gaze. He had one brown eye and one of sea-green, a disconcerting imbalance.

  “They’re waiting for you to eat first,” Rogue said sotto voce.

  “Do I eat with my fingers?” I said through my smile.

  “Yes.”

  I reached for a slice of bread, looked at Puck and pulled off a piece, toasted him with it, and ate. It was really good, honey and sunshine combined. A susurrus ran through the room and everyone began eating and talking. I wolfed the rest of the bread. Puck sighed and tossed a something brightly jeweled at Falcon, who caught it, looking grimly satisfied.

  It seemed we ate for hours, course after course of meats in various sauces—which were excellent, fortunately, since I had to lick my fingers clean—fruits, breads, cheeses. No salad course, sadly. I tried a little wine, but it was terribly sweet, like a frothy version of Thunderbird. I needed to keep my wits anyway.

  Though I ate ravenously—always from a dish Rogue first served himself—I never felt full. I forgot my circumstances after a bit, heady with the food and merriment. And Rogue’s intense regard. After this we dance all night, I wake up at Devils Tower and a hundred years has gone by. I should be so lucky.

  The room abruptly hushed.

  Falcon stood. “I vote for death.” And sat again.

  Several voices murmured agreement.

  And, so much for the merriment.

  Wait, I thought to Rogue, don’t I get some discussion first? Bargaining points?

  “Whisper, don’t project,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “‘Spoken’ thoughts carry farther.”

  “That is my bargain,” Falcon declared, confirming the point.

  “Why should I agree to die then?” I asked. If we’re going to deal, let’s deal.

  “Why should we agree to let you live?” He looked interested at least.

  “Lady Healer still needs to be paid—how can I do that if I’m dead?”

  Healer stood from half a dozen places down the table, Darling stretched beside her plate, fishing something off it with a delicate paw. “It’s true, I have a debt to reclaim. Her corpse would not be worth as much as she owes.”

  I would have stood for my answer, but no, I was trapped by the table. A toddler wedged into a highchair amidst the grownups. “I would pay Lady Healer back for her great services to me.”

  “Services that would have been unnecessary if we’d just let her die and not healed her in the first place.” Nasty Tinker Bell popped up like a little gold cork. I thought about throwing a piece of fruit at her, then remembered something.

  “But your judgments are not considered,” I said, seizing on her remark from before.

  “It’s true, Lady Incandescence, you know you may not speak.” Falcon frowned at her. “Lord Rogue, as host, do you wish to censure her?”

  “The lady may leave my table,” Rogue answered easily.

  Nasty Tinker Bell threw her trademark look my way, with a generous slice for Rogue. Then she poofed, leaving a shower of golden glitter tinkling down on the table. A smattering of polite admiration ruffled through the room, as if that had been a particularly good trick. I raised my eyebrows at Rogue, who returned my gaze with bland indifference.

  “Why doesn’t she get to vote?” I whispered out of the side of my mouth to Rogue.

  Amused interest glittered in his unearthly eyes. “She is in my service—until I release her, she may only do as I say.”

  Nice system.

  The pink gal next to Rogue stood. “Lady Healer, what do you claim as recompense? Lord Rogue has claims of hospitality as well.”

  “Traditional payment is acceptable—a life in return for her life.”

  And here I’d been thinking a pot of gold.

  “Lord Rogue?”

  “Return service is acceptable.”

  “Lady Gwynn, do you agree to the terms?”

  I could see now that Pinkie had rosy wavelike patterns on the right side of her face, reminiscent of the fluted petals of a carnation. I chose my words carefully.

  “As you are aware, lady, I am a stranger to your people and naive in the world—I apologize, but I do not understand the specifics of the terms. Can someone elucidate for me?”

  Someone in the room laughed and Puck shifted restlessly next to me, but I thought I felt Rogue’s approval, though he appeared to be toying with the remains on his plate.

  “Enough of this,” a voice called out. “She is too powerful. No terms. Death!”

  “By dancing!” shouted someone else, which was greeted with general enthusiasm.

  “Harnessed to our yoke,” Puck said, “she could be a considerable weapon in our glorious battles against the outlander barbarians.”

  “Harness a lion to your cart, Puck, and see who it scratches!”

  This brought
on general hilarity, with suggestions shouted out for bedding wildcats, various paraphernalia to be used in the harnessing, and the likely state of Puck’s genitalia following certain efforts.

  Puck joined in, leering at me. “Perhaps I’ll rent her service from Rogue!”

  “Can you afford that?” Rogue returned, sweeping a hand at the room, finishing at Healer. “Consider the price of my hospitality.”

  I was uneasy about what services I might render and suddenly felt much less enthusiastic about the concept of bedding Rogue. The difference between rape and rapture—all in the marketing.

  Blackbird approached the table, to my surprise. “Lord Rogue, your guests grow restless. Perhaps those uninvolved in the setting of terms could be excused to begin the dancing? The musicians stand ready.”

  Rogue gestured with an elegant hand. Noblesse oblige. The room swelled and exhaled, abruptly empty except for about ten people. To my dismay, dark Scourge was one who remained, though he’d yet to say anything.

  “Lady Blackbird,” Rogue called as she turned away, “please stay.”

  “Me? I have no voice.” She sounded nervous.

  “Not that you elect to use. Nevertheless, you were sent to me by your family for a reason, no? Otherwise you’d still be picking apples in your country home while your husband roams the land on foolish quests?”

  Blackbird looked sad and lost for a moment. Easy to forget what a jerk Rogue was capable of being at times. She reluctantly took an emptied chair and folded her white hands like birds settling for the night.

  “A life for a life, Lady Gwynn,” Pinkie took up, as if there had been no interruption, “is just that. Lady Healer gave you your life back—”

  “Plus extended years,” Healer inserted, “with removal of existing disease states and poisonous intrusions.”

  “You always do such excellent work, Lady Healer.” Falcon bowed to her, his yellow eyes glittering.

  “Including extended years,” Pinkie allowed. “But Lady Healer has stated she is willing to accept one life in return. That can be your life, Lady Gwynn, or another’s.”

  “I don’t have any lives but my own,” I tendered.