Whiskey hadn’t known that. The news certainly gave credence to Castillo’s opinion. Had Bentoncourt really felt threatened, he would have had Whiskey killed long before she had finished the Níri Kurám and become a credible threat. Instead, he had notified his peers on the ruling council, and one of them had made arrangements with Rufus Barrett to assassinate her. According to Reynhard, only one of them was responsible for this. “I guess what I’m asking is, can he be trusted?”
“Trusted with what?”
She chewed her lower lip, gaze drifting out at the heavy gray cloud cover. She’d have to ask maintenance to apply a treatment to the windows soon. Thankfully these windows didn’t face south. She’d be roasting in long-term direct sunlight. Shaking away the incongruous thought, she returned her attention to Castillo. “With information.”
“While we do have an advantage with Sañur Gasum Dorst on our side, you must be aware that the Agrun Nam also have an excellent network of informants. How do you know he doesn’t already have the information you wish to share?”
“If Reynhard can’t find out who hired this new assassin, do you think Lionel would know he existed?” Castillo conceded the point with a faint grin and a wave of his hand. Whiskey set her half-empty glass down and stared at her fingers. “We’re almost finished with negotiations with the Mayans. The African and Japanese should fall in line soon, followed by the Indians. Pretty soon, our board of directors is going to be a very eclectic.” Whiskey counted the governments on her fingers. “The Europeans are next in line after that, and the most likely to balk.”
“Don’t count your eggs before they hatch. Anything can happen in politics.” He poured himself another glass of lemonade, refilling Whiskey’s. “It took months to get the Mayans this far; the others will take just as long or longer. You could be looking at years before needing to worry about the Agrun Nam’s inclusion in The Davis Group.”
“Years of one assassination attempt after another.” She uncrossed her legs and sat forward, elbows on her knees. “Sooner or later, one of them will succeed. The only way I can stop it is to have the ear of someone on the Euro council.”
“Someone who will work with you rather than against you.”
“Yes.” Whiskey flopped back in her seat. “It’s not only the sharing of information between governments here—”
Castillo interrupted her. “It’s also about opening lines of communication that will help make the transition easier when it comes time to bring the Agrun Nam into the fold.”
“Exactly.” Whiskey stared at him with such intensity that he squirmed. Dialing back her apparent vehemence, she forced herself to relax. As much as she wanted everything to be done now she was becoming used to the idea that her plans could take months or years to accomplish. What good was it being a High Ninsumgal over all she surveyed if she had to wait for directors and committees? It was easy to see why Elisibet did things the way she did at times like these. She had never sat on her butt, waiting for people to finish talking. “I want you to be the go-between with Lionel. He knows your name, and will listen to you.”Castillo sat back, mouth open in surprise. He closed it. “You want me to be your liaison with the Agrun Nam?”
Whiskey grinned. “Yeah. You’re a trustworthy man. He’s probably had you investigated since you came up on his radar, and he knows that. Can you imagine how he’d feel if I asked Valmont to do the deed?” She didn’t bother to mention the other members of her board of directors. Chano was an unknown, Dorst would raise a thousand red flags of warning, and Margaurethe would flat-out refuse if asked. Whiskey needed someone whom Bentoncourt might actually listen to for this task.
He frowned at her words, but gave grudging acknowledgment.
“All right, how will I contact him, and what do you want me to say?”
“I’ve got his home phone number and his private office line.”
She stood, going back to her desk to retrieve the information.
“Reynhard got it for me months ago. I just haven’t bothered to call.” Castillo took the offered paper with a shaking hand.
Concerned, Whiskey knelt down beside his chair. “Are you okay, Padre?”
“Perhaps a little awestruck.” He stared at the contact information. “I’ve never met any of the Agrun Nam, let alone had personal phone numbers or addresses.”
A smile curved her mouth. He reminded her of a teenaged girl with her celebrity idol’s autograph. “Looks like you’re moving up in the world.”
“Apparently.”
Whiskey patted his forearm, stood, and returned to the couch.
“I want you to tell him about the new assassin. Let him know we believe one of his sanari are responsible for hiring whoever it is. Nothing else.”
Castillo nodded as he carefully folded the paper, and put it into a pocket of his cassock. “He’ll ask how we got this information.”
“I don’t want him to know about Reynhard. There are probably enough rumors as it is. Let’s not give him too much.”
“You realize he might already be aware of him. Sañur Gasum Dorst brought up a major point regarding communication between your people here and their families at home. He played a large part in your Ñíri Kurám ceremony.”
“Maybe so, but if they haven’t figured it out yet, no reason to hasten the news along.” She thought a moment. “Tell him what we know about their last vote; that might tip the scales in your favor.”
“Okay.” Castillo sipped his lemonade. “And you think this will bring the Agrun Nam closer to The Davis Group?”
Whiskey gave him a grudging nod. “I do. At the very least, it might force out who’s responsible. The sooner we can pin down who’s involved, the sooner we can act.”
“Act?” Castillo scooted forward in the chair, all traces of awe gone. “As a government, it’s Nam Lugal Bentoncourt’s option to act, not ours. All we can do is attempt to press charges.”
A sardonic expression crossed her face. “Which we can’t really do, can we? I’m the victim, and I’m not considered European Sanguire. I have no legal basis for bringing suit against any of them.”
“Then what will you do?”
Whiskey resisted the desire to look away, instead staring into Castillo’s eyes. “I’ll legally challenge whoever is responsible.”
***
Bentoncourt’s private line jolted him from sleep. He grunted, and fumbled for the noisy phone as its piercing tones pealed again. Through sleepy eyes, he noted it was a little after one in the morning. He had only been in bed for three hours. Beside him, his wife of eighty-four years mumbled complaint and rolled away. “Yes?” He rubbed his square face.
“Sir? It’s Father James Castillo with The Davis Group. I’m very sorry for the late hour, but there’s something you should know.”
That woke him. “This is my private number. How did you get it?” Bentoncourt glanced over his shoulder, verifying his wife had returned to sleep. Thanking God for wireless receivers, he forced himself to his feet.
There was a momentary silence. “I have my resources.”
No doubt. In seconds, Bentoncourt stood in the dark hallway, the bedroom door closed. “What is it you want, Father?”
“A contract has been put out against Ninsumgal Davis, and a professional assassin hired to do the job.”
Why did they insist upon calling her Ninsumgal? Bentoncourt slumped against the wall, his free hand massaging his forehead.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid I am. I have it on good authority that whoever attempted to have Whiskey killed several months ago has put out this contract.”
Bentoncourt yawned despite himself, scowling at his lack of control. Why wait until now? “How did you come by this information?”
There was a long pause. “I can’t say.”
He raised a dark eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yes, sir. We believe it’s someone on the Agrun Nam. I’m unable to give you specifics until the traitor can be found.”
/>
Bentoncourt felt a mixture of pride at Castillo’s firm stance, annoyance at his refusal to be more forthcoming, and pleasure at his obvious hesitant tone. “I assume you’re telling me this on orders from Davis?”
“Yes, I am.”
He had known Castillo had gone over to Davis’s camp when he had disappeared from Seattle with her. This simply confirmed his information. “Have you sworn allegiance to her?”
Another slight pause. “Yes, sir. Months ago.”
Bentoncourt grimaced. “So everything you report is at Davis’s order?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you playing me?”
“No, sir! What I’ve said is true. I’m not misleading you in any way.”
Disgruntled, Bentoncourt soothed his wounded pride with the fact that Castillo was a supremely honest man; a full background check had been done on him the minute his existence had been made known. He had never been caught in a lie, regardless of the circumstances, and seemed to follow many of the precepts of the Human religion he followed. Which meant any information he gave would be true—or twisted before he received it. “Do you have any idea why this person has waited so long between attempts?”
Castillo’s sigh was audible. “I believe it was triggered by the last Agrun Nam vote regarding the Ninsumgal’s return. I’ve heard it was quite a close call with a divided council and one abstention.”
Shock washed over Bentoncourt, freezing his blood. “You know of that vote?”
“Yes, sir.”
Unable to remain still, Bentoncourt strode down the hallway and into his study. He switched on the light, mind reeling.
Whoever Davis received her information from seemed firmly planted within the Agrun Nam’s network. Who the hell could it be? Certainly not one of the others. Cassadie immediately popped into his mind. Would Aiden do this? He continued to pace the room, phone to his ear. “That vote was secret, Father. Yet your informant seemed to easily get the information. Whoever it is, he or she is damned good.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. I’ll relay the compliment.”
“Something to consider, however.” He frowned. “If your friend can get in and out of the Agrun Nam facility without discovery, what’s to stop this person from also being the assassin, planting false information?”
The thought had apparently never entered Castillo’s mind.
He didn’t speak for some time, as if thoroughly digesting the suggestion. “Nothing, sir.”
“I would suggest you speak to your Ninsumgal about the possibility.”
“I doubt it’s the case, sir, but I’ll do that.”
Bentoncourt stared at the floor, not seeing the thick carpet beneath his bare feet. “Anything else?”
“No, sir. Whiskey just wanted you to know about the assassin. She asks that you keep your eyes open.”
He chuckled mirthlessly. Whiskey? What an infernal nickname. “So I’ve passed muster, eh? That’s good to know.”
“I’ve always insisted you had nothing to do with the attack on her, sir.”
“And I’ve always insisted you’re too trusting. Best leave the decisions to those more paranoid than yourself, Father. While it’s a horrible way to live, at least you’re prepared for any inevitability.”
“Of course, sir.” He sounded unconvinced. “I prefer to put my trust in God for those preparations.”
“Good night, Father.” Bentoncourt glanced at the clock on the mantel, calculating the time difference. “Or in your case, good afternoon. Thank you for calling. You’ve given me much to think on.”
“Certainly, sir. Good night.”
Bentoncourt dropped the receiver to his desk. He sank into the chair with a groan.
So the mysterious traitor had hired an assassin. He wondered if it was in his name again, or if the original plan to discredit him had been put to rest. He assumed it was a Sanguire, which narrowed the list of likely suspects. A professional, of course.
Unlike that hapless Human who was hustled into trying last winter. Not many Sanguire did this sort of thing except for entertainment. Long lives and old money meant for little need of mundane jobs in today’s society. Most of those who worked for a living enjoyed their careers far too much to care about the pay.
Davis’s ability to ferret out information had increased dramatically. Who had come in contact with her recently? Was it this new assassin, turned traitor against his employer? Or perhaps someone sowing seeds of misinformation to keep his prey off the true trail. Could the existence of such a report be merely rumor given to Davis for some obscure reason? Perhaps one of the other sanari had made contact. Nijmege? She seemed the least likeliest candidate after McCall. Bentoncourt couldn’t comprehend why she would do such a thing. Her hatred of Elisibet and Davis would make it impossible for her to converse with the youngling.
Perhaps she and McCall had hatched some bizarre plot to gain Davis’s trust, bring her to Europe, and dispatch her. McCall would have been the one to approach Davis in that case.
Bentoncourt rubbed his temples. So much for getting more sleep tonight. He wistfully thought of the warm bed, the smell of his wife’s skin, the texture of the sheets. Damn. He picked up the phone. If he couldn’t sleep, neither would his aides. Someone had to know whether or not any of the sanari had made contact with Davis.
Chapter Eighteen
Whiskey frowned at nothing as darkness stole over the sitting room. The storm that had gathered during the afternoon had reached its full fury a little more than an hour ago, rattling the windows with wind and rain. The power had flickered a little, but everything seemed to have calmed down.
It had been an eventful day—getting her butt whipped by Pacal, Margaurethe’s attack on Valmont, Reynhard’s report regarding another hired assassin. Everything was colored by Whiskey’s interaction with Margaurethe. She hadn’t seen her lover since the advisors’ meeting she had interrupted. Would the distance that dogged them still be there when they next met? Or would the closeness they had experienced that afternoon remain solid?
She hoped the latter.
Andri crept into the room. “My Ninsumgal?” His voice was tremulous, unwilling to interrupt her thoughts.
“Yes, Andri?”
“Dinner will be ready soon. Do you wish to dine in private?”
Whiskey frowned, glancing back at the scared little man.
Dinner was normally her chambermaid’s province. She delighted in whipping up new and unusual recipes to tantalize Whiskey’s rather plebeian palate. “Where’s Sithathor?”
He bobbed multiple times as he spoke to his shoes. “She has asked that I serve tonight so that she might finish some tasks.”
Since her hiring, Sithathor had found any number of things to keep herself occupied. Whiskey had to wonder if Sithathor’s gift was the same as Valmont’s, the ability to move things with the mind. Telekinesis would do wonders as a housekeeper. Whiskey felt that the whole concept of “keeping house” was as arcane as alchemy, and twice as confusing. The one time she had argued with Sithathor over the placement of furniture, she had lost.
Better not to repeat that little episode. “Thank you. That will be fine, Andri. Maybe Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe will join me.”
“As you wish, Ninsumgal.” He seemed pleased to accommodate her as he backed away, nearly prostrating himself in the process before closing the door.
Regardless of her distaste with his constant fawning, Whiskey was glad Andri had turned up. At least she knew a servant had survived the Purge after Elisibet, not just the ruling classes. It would be nice to learn about his experiences, but he was far too skittish yet. Whiskey had spent most of the week trying to ease his nervousness to no avail. Odd how quickly she had grown accustomed to his submissiveness, much as she disliked it. She couldn’t figure out whether she treated him as a servant because he acted as one, or because she had fallen into Elisibet’s thoughtless habits.
Elisibet’s power and sense of entitlement were seductive, and Whiskey sometimes won
dered if she was strong enough to withstand the inherent temptations. Imagining a life as a world ruler was fine for daydreams, but Whiskey’s life expectancy had multiplied tremendously. Providing she remained reasonably wise about her health and security, she could live for several centuries instead of a few decades, leaving her much more opportunity to make mistakes. And a long time to live with them.
Andri was one of Elisibet’s mistakes. The poor man had been under the Sweet Butcher’s thumb for several hundred years, having been assigned as Elisibet’s servant at her birth. He had learned his lessons well. It made sense that he expected the same from the woman who looked almost identical to his previous monarch. Why come back if Elisibet treated him so poorly? She assumed it was his age, having known many broken homeless people in her time on the streets—they returned to what was familiar and comfortable, even if it was abusive. Apparently, even Sanguire fell into that mindset if the maltreatment lasted long enough. Whiskey consoled herself with the fact that he had only been here a few days; she had plenty of time to undo the damage Elisibet had wrought.
A knock at the door interrupted her gloom. “Come in.”
Margaurethe entered, and Whiskey smiled welcome. Receiving an easy one in return blunted her concern. Whatever had happened in the conference room continued to affect them both.
Margaurethe wore her dressing gown, her feet bare as she padded across the carpet. “Andri has informed me that dinner will be served in a few moments.” She sat without invitation in an armchair.
Whiskey’s gaze wandered lazily over Margaurethe. “You look comfortable.”
“I am,” she said with a smile. “I spent the afternoon grilling your employees. It doesn’t look like any of them are this unknown assassin.”
Considering how Whiskey’s chambermaid and Margaurethe got along, it was no wonder Sithathor had found a project for this evening. Margaurethe had probably personally taken care of that interrogation. “That’s good to hear, though that’s a lot of people. Did you get to everybody?”
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