Realizing he had escaped a potentially messy death, Valmont relaxed. A little. “I meant to say, how do we know he isn’t the hired assassin?”
“Nam Lugal Bentoncourt said much the same.” Castillo gave Whiskey an apologetic look.
“You’re joking.” Whiskey grimaced and turned away, leaving Valmont at the door to follow or not.
“Who knows what he thinks?” Valmont ventured farther into the room. “What has he been doing since Elisibet’s demise? Where has he been? How do we know he hasn’t branched out into other avenues of entertainment?”
Castillo frowned. “Like assassination for sport?”
It took an iron will for Whiskey to control her temper anew.
Forcing herself to step back from her immediate response, she looked at the situation from Valmont’s point of view. While her historical education was of a more general nature, she had searched the growing Sanguire library for more information on all the players from Elisibet’s reign. That data coupled with her insight into the Sweet Butcher’s thoughts and feelings gave her a much larger picture than anyone else. “Reynhard has never enjoyed killing for killing’s sake. In fact, the only time he refused an order from Elisibet was when she asked him to kill someone he didn’t believe deserved death.”
Valmont frowned, moving to stand at the window. “Blaylock, wasn’t it?”
A vision filled Whiskey’s mind of a younger Dorst looking much aggrieved and apologetic. “Yeah.”
“He refused and still lives?” Castillo raised his eyebrows. “I find that intriguing. I’m surprised she didn’t rip his throat out.”
Whiskey smiled wanly. “It was a close thing. But Reynhard was more useful alive than dead.”
“In any case,” Valmont said, “it’s been hundreds of years. People change. Perhaps he’s found a taste for blood. We can’t be certain.”
Whiskey thought back to her experiences with Dorst since he arrived in her life with a bag of hamburgers. She had been a homeless teenager, ignorant of who and what she was. He had treated her with honesty and kindness—feeding her, offering a safe haven, and guiding her along the Strange Path. He’d been the first to swear fealty, long before she’d finished the Ñíri Kurám, long before she understood the scope of her destiny.
Even then she had known him to be...if not a friend, then the next best thing. Since he had sworn fealty he had followed her blindly, just as he had followed Elisibet. Seeing him through Elisibet’s eyes, she saw the truth. Dorst had been in love with Elisibet, a doting father figure twisted about the Sweet Butcher’s little finger. She sighed, and looked at Valmont. “You’re wrong. It’s not him.”
“Don’t let sentiment blind you—”
“It’s not him.” Whiskey sniffed. “Didn’t you just say last month that he was a dog in need of a master? That his life wasn’t complete without someone to ‘rule over him, and pat him on the belly’ when he did a good job?” She jabbed a thumb into her chest. “I’m his master, you can’t deny that.”
“Not a very charitable view,” Castillo murmured.
Whiskey shot him a glance. “I don’t have time to be charitable, Padre.”
Valmont brought his hands up, palms out, to indicate surrender. “It was but a thought.”
“Not a good one.” Whiskey turned her back on them, hands on her hips, as she attempted to regain some control over her anger. “Do either of you have anything useful to add?”
Castillo’s cassock rustled as he stood. “No. I’ve made my report. Do we know where Cora and Anthony are?”
It surprised Whiskey that she had no idea what had been done with the bodies. Sasha had allowed Whiskey and her advisors into Cora’s quarters long enough to witness the devastation. After that, she’d chased everyone out to do a full investigation.
Valmont’s voice cut the silence. “They’re down in the clinic right now. Once your new Ugula Aga’us finished with her photographs and such, she transferred them there for autopsy. Daniel was assigned.”
Whiskey sighed and turned back. Daniel had inherited the job of house doctor due to his training and experience. As much as she hated the idea, she couldn’t let him suffer alone as he cut into his friends. “I should be down there, too.”
“It’s too late.” Valmont’s tone was gentle, an unfamiliar sympathy in his eyes. “He’s finished. You’ll have to talk to Sasha about his findings.”
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Whiskey nodded.
“All right. You two go get some sleep.” She glanced outside to see it was still light out. “Or whatever. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Castillo bowed, a quick bend to forestall her argument against it, and left the room. Valmont lingered a few moments longer. “I’m staying nearby. In case you need me.”
Whiskey nodded, her feeling of apathy already putting her actions back on automatic. “Of course. Thank you. I’ll call if I do.”He paused, a pained reflection in his eyes. “Good night, Ninsumgal.” He bowed, and left, closing the door behind him.
Whiskey let out a shuddering sigh, feeling very much alone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I say, these emergency meetings are becoming quite tedious.” Cassadie strolled to his chair and flopped down. Most the others were already there. “What’s this one about?”
Bentoncourt opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a new arrival. “What is it now?” Nijmege demanded, marching in to the main council chambers. She didn’t bother sitting down.
“Has there been another attempt?”
“Do be seated, Bertrada.” Cassadie gestured at the chair before the perpetually annoyed woman.
“I’ll stand, thank you.” She pointed her hawk nose at Bentoncourt. “Well?”
Rather than speak, Bentoncourt slid several sheets of paper toward his peers. “We’ve received a response regarding our last vote. I thought you’d want to see it for yourselves, so I made copies.”
Nijmege snapped up the offering, staring at the text. Her chin dropped to her chest, and the sound of her teeth grinding became clearly audible. A vein throbbed at her temple.
“A direct response from Davis herself?” Rosenberg frowned.
“Have we heard from Valmont or Margaurethe?”
“No.”
McCall looked up from his copy. “What about that priest you’ve been talking to? Castile?”
“Father Castillo. No, I haven’t heard from him since he updated me on the investigation into the current murders.”
Bentoncourt waved at his peers. “This has been the only response to our demand for her to attend us.”
Nijmege crumpled her copy, tossing it to the floor. “Then we send a team to extract her.”
“We are not going to dispatch a covert operation on foreign soil without permission from the Wi Wacipi Wakan.” Bentoncourt sat up, eyes flashing beneath his dark brows. “And since she’s at least half-blooded and currently on their rolls, I doubt they’ll give it.”
“If we don’t retrieve her, we will appear weak!” Nijmege aggressively leaned her weight on the conference table, hands spread wide.
Unimpressed, Bentoncourt shook his head. “You should have thought that before you all decided upon this course of action.”
“Sour grapes, Lionel?” Cassadie shook his head. “It’s not the first time you’ve lost a vote. Certainly you have something a bit more constructive to bring to the conversation.”
“For this discussion?” Bentoncourt scoffed, unable to hold back his annoyance any longer. “Are you all daft? This entire line of reasoning is nothing but folly.” He forced himself to his feet, emulating Nijmege’s aggressive stance as he leaned over the table.
“We are weak, and have been since the Purge! We barely kept our people together during those dark times, and continue to struggle to this day. We’re under constant probing from China, India and Russia. All our military forces are tied up in keeping our nation from falling apart piecemeal, and you now want to throw them at a woman who’s destined to
reunite our people? You’d drain our resources for an act that couldn’t possibly succeed, and leave our borders unprotected against an invasion!” He slapped his hands on the wooden surface. “What is wrong with the lot of you?”
Before anyone answered, he pushed away from the table, putting distance between himself and his political comrades.
“What’s wrong is that we are falling apart at the seams—not just the Agrun Nam, but the European Sanguire as a people. We’ve attempted to lead as a council without a monarch, and we are failing. Our people are either blissfully complacent, or they are in collusion with our enemies for profit. Mahar prophesied that Elisibet’s return would cause much strife, but that she would unite a divided people. We can’t divide much more before there’s nothing left to unite!” Bentoncourt glared at them, gauging their responses.
Cassadie, ever the optimist, had raised his chin slightly in concession, expressing contrite alarm. Master of the Office of International Affairs, he had apparently never thought of the situation in this manner before, preferring to enjoy the illusion that the all-knowing Agrun Nam remained firmly in control as he wandered from one social event to another. Elisibet’s father had assigned Cassadie this particular seat on the council. He had been a force of nature on the battlefield when Elisibet’s father fought for his throne, a man of action not diplomacy, a vital commodity in a violent time. The centuries and the growth of Human civilization had softened him.
Rosenberg’s thick-lidded eyes were narrowed to slits as he considered Bentoncourt’s statement. Bentoncourt would have preferred him in Cassadie’s position, but the Nam Lugal held no power to shuffle job functions. That was a power held only by the usumgal or ninsumgal ruling over them, an adjustment that hadn’t been brought up for amendment since Elisibet’s demise. So Rosenberg remained in the position that had been open upon his installation, the Office of Finance. His was the quiet, brooding demeanor that promised somber consideration and resolute action. There was no telling which way he would jump. Once his decision was made, however, the Devil himself wouldn’t be able to convince him otherwise, not without some serious evidence.
The youthful McCall frowned, studious as he watched his peers. It was rare for him to speak out, and he remained true to form. Bentoncourt had hoped that after a century of experience the boy would have opened up a bit. At age four hundred, Bentoncourt was carving out a nation with his best friends at his side—Aiden Cassadie and Elisibet’s father, Maximal Vasilla.
It seemed those times and those sorts of people didn’t exist any more. McCall’s attention to detail served him well in the Registry Office, but he lacked fire in the belly.
“You sound like you want the Sweet Butcher to return,” Nijmege accused.
Bentoncourt regarded Nijmege. “No, I don’t want a tyrant to return. But then, I don’t assume that a physical resemblance has anything to do with personality. You’ve seen the same reports I have. Can any of you recall a time that Elisibet acted as Ms. Davis does?” He realized that McCall and Rosenberg had never known Elisibet. Waving at Cassadie, he said, “Well, Aiden? Think about it.” Cassadie shrugged and nodded, leaning back in his chair.
“She was a petulant little bratling as a child. Maximal spoiled her horribly after her mother died.” He sighed. “She got worse as time passed, only beginning to mellow when Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe came into the picture.”
A sense of validation loosened the tightness in Bentoncourt’s chest, even if he’d had to damned near impel the admission. “And let’s be honest Bertrada. No one here believes you want Davis brought here for her safety. As soon as she arrives, you’ll attempt to challenge her or have her murdered. The only reason the vote went through was because the others think they can keep Davis safe from you.”
Nijmege gasped and sputtered as she paled. Her gaze darted around the room at the others, not finding support to deny the statement.
A rueful grin softened Cassadie’s face. “You’re not quite as devious as you think you are, Bertrada. You’ve been quite the fire-breathing dragon since news of Davis came to us.”
She flushed, glaring at the rest of them. It took a moment for her to regain some control. “Perhaps so.”
Bentoncourt resisted the urge to scoff at her. “There’s one other thing of which you should be aware.” He stepped back to his chair, and pulled sheets from his stack of reports.
Handing them out, he ignored Nijmege’s stubborn glower.
“One of the building security officers has family here, and has been sending regular correspondence. I think we know how Ms. Davis is gaining her information about our meetings and actions.”
“Dorst? Reynhard Dorst?” McCall straightened in his chair, mouth dropping open as he stared at the report. “He’s alive?”
Nijmege swore.
“He was her Baruñal.” Bentoncourt seated himself. “He’s been working for her from the beginning, and was the first to swear fealty.”
“That certainly makes things stickier, doesn’t it?” Cassadie dropped the report onto the table. “Do we have any intelligence regarding his actions since he surfaced?”
Bentoncourt shook his head. “Not really. He conducted her Baruñal Ceremony—the one we refused to attend—and is working with a handful of younglings that Davis has taken under her wing. I’ve no doubt he’s reprising his network of espionage and training a new cadre.”
“Like we don’t have enough problems.” Nijmege turned and marched out of the room.
McCall half rose to follow, then sank back into his chair. He looked at those remaining. “How sure are you of Davis’s intentions, Lionel?”
Bentoncourt’s eyebrows raised. Is this the type of crisis it will take for young Samuel to come out of his shell? “I firmly believe that the only threat she’ll be is to whoever threatens her and her friends. Yes, her very existence causes strife and chaos, but I don’t think Mahar meant Davis would personally cause it.”
Rosenberg spoke. “Is Davis still under the impression that this recent assassin has been hired by one of us?”
“Yes, she is.” Bentoncourt shook his head. “I’ve heard the evidence, and I can see where she could come to such a conclusion.” He raised his hand to stop Cassadie’s reaction. “That doesn’t mean it can’t also come from any of a half dozen other factions, I know. I’ve passed on what intelligence information I could without going in to too much detail.”
McCall studied him a moment. With a curt nod, he stood and left the room.
“I believe I need to conduct some research on Sañur Gasum Reynhard Dorst. If this meeting is over...?” Rosenberg waited for an affirmative nod before exiting.
“Looks like the party’s starting. Too bad we threw away our invitation, eh?” Cassadie shook his head.
Bentoncourt sighed. “We still have the chance to make things right, Aiden. We don’t have to crash the gates. Davis appears to be somewhat amenable to change, unlike certain members of this august gathering.”
Cassadie chuckled. “Yes, well, I can’t see Bertrada running with open arms to welcome Davis home. You may have publicly unveiled her here, but her plans haven’t changed.”
“I know.”
“I have a prophecy of my own.”
Bentoncourt snorted. “You’ve become an oracle?”
“Oh, no. I’m far too visceral for that.” Cassadie grinned, though his eyes were serious. “I predict that our dear Bertrada will die at the hands of our dear Jenna Davis.”
The wry humor faded from Bentoncourt’s heart. “You think so?”“I do. Bertrada is driven.” Cassadie drew to his feet, pushing his chair in and standing behind it a moment. “She won’t wait until the reunification is complete before attempting what her heart desires.”
Bentoncourt could only agree.
***
It was almost over. Cora’s vigil service and funeral liturgy were finished, and Whiskey stood at the graveside awaiting the rite of committal. Having a priest as an advisor made moot the decision of what sort of
funeral to have. Clouds blanketed the sky, and the rain had stopped, leaving behind the scent of damp earth. Whiskey had selected a cemetery plot near a line of pine trees, and the only sound beyond the gentle murmur of mourners was the steady dripping of water onto the wet ground. A large awning had been erected over the grave to protect them from further showers. A hundred people huddled against the damp, roughly half from Whiskey’s Aga’gída. The rest were her pack, her advisors, and a number of others—Human and Sanguire alike—here to pay respects to the dead.
As Father Castillo read from his book, Whiskey scanned the attendees. Had Margaurethe had her way, the security staff would have outnumbered the mourners, two to one. As it was, their presence still made the Humans nervous. A number of them were senior management, there more to pay respect to Whiskey than the wild-child Cora. They stood with faces pulled into expressions of sympathy, huddling beneath wet umbrellas, their eyes watching and watching and watching. Is one of them the assassin? Whiskey forced herself away from her ever spiraling thoughts. She recognized the paranoia, having witnessed many such thoughts from Elisibet’s memories. No Human had been involved in the murders, no Human had the stamina or the physical strength capable of the act that had occurred. No, the paranoia came from recognizing their insincerity. Whiskey had heard the platitudes after the service as they all drifted by in ones and twos to take her hand. She saw the falseness they portrayed. Few of these people had known either Cora or Anthony. How could they act so heartbroken and concerned?
The same question filled her mind as she studied the Sanguire mourners. Each diplomatic retinue currently in negotiations with The Davis Group was represented, most with the chief envoy and two or three aides. In deference to the solemn proceedings each entourage kept themselves separate from the others. Pacal stood with his people, a vaguely condescending expression on his face. Is it him? Is he the assassin? The disdain sparked a flash of fury within Whiskey’s chest, and she thrust the emotion away, her gaze falling upon the coffin before her. She wouldn’t turn Cora’s funeral into a bloodbath.
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