Jack shrugged.
Gaston leaped into the air. It was an incredibly powerful jump. He shot off the floor as if he’d been fired out of a cannon, flying through the air straight for me. The inn’s wall split. Thick flexible roots, smooth with wood grain but agile like whips, exploded from the wall, jerking Gaston out of the air and wrapping him into a cocoon.
Jack dashed underneath Gaston. The inn’s tendrils snapped at him, but he dodged, gliding out of their reach as if his joints were liquid. It was a beautiful thing to watch. I let him get within three feet of me and taped the broom on the floor. The broom handle split, fracturing. Brilliant electric blue shot out and hit Jack’s skin. He convulsed and crashed down like a log.
George threw something. The hand movement was so fast, it was a blur. The tendrils shot out to block and a four-inch dart fell harmlessly to the floor.
The floor of the inn parted like water and Jack sank into it up to his neck. Around me the room stretched slightly, waiting. The broom reformed in my hand. I flicked my fingers and the floor surged up, twisting, raising Jack to my eye level. Above him Gaston hung, suspended upside down. Only his face was visible.
The grey-eyed man unhinged his massive jaws. “Well. This is a bit of a predicament.”
I faced the far wall and pushed with my magic. The wood disintegrated. A vast shallow sea, pale orange, stretched before us under pearl-grey sky. In the distance jagged peaks tore through the water, silhouetted against a scattering of reddish planets. The wind bathed me, bringing with it scent of salt and algae. Yes, this will do nicely.
Ripples troubled the surface. An enormous triangular fin with long spikes carved the water like a knife, speeding toward us.
“The inn is my domain,” I said. “Here I am supreme. If you keep making yourself into a nuisance, I’ll banish you to that ocean and leave you in there overnight.”
The fin was barely twenty five yards away.
Twenty.
Fifteen. A glistening blue hide rose out of the water.
The wall rebuilt itself just before an enormous mouth studded with dagger teeth thrust out of the ocean.
Caldenia descended the stairs. “Ooo. Bondage so early in the morning, dear?”
If only. “May I present Caldenia ka ret Magren,” I said. “Her Grace is a permanent guest of the inn.”
George got off the couch and executed a flawless bow with a flourish. I let the tendrils unravel around Gaston and he dropped to the floor softly and bowed as well.
“Are you going to let me go?” Jack asked quietly.
“I’m thinking about it.”
“So Gaston gets to go but I don’t?”
“I like him more than I like you.”
Jack looked at me and grinned. “Fair enough. I’ve got what I asked for.”
I dissolved the floor and let Jack go make his introductions.
George drifted over to me. “I didn’t know you can open dimensional gates.”
“I can’t, but Gertrude Hunt can.”
A cough made me turn. Orro stood in the doorway of the small dining room.
“I think breakfast is ready,” I announced.
The three men, Caldenia, and I walked into the dining room and we sat around the heavy old table. Tendrils slid from the wall and a plate gently slid in place in front of me. I blinked. An egg, cooked paper thin, like a crepe and folded into an elaborate purse filled with small chips of potatoes fried to golden perfection, crumbled sausage, and tiny pieces of mushrooms. A thin green stalk sprouted from the center of the mix, bearing delicate pink flowers, carved from a strawberry. A small basket woven of narrow strips of bacon sat next to the egg purse, holding a sunny side up egg sprinkled with spices and next to it a flower of cucumber petals bloomed with a center of egg yolk that had been piped onto it with a surgical precision. It was so pretty, I didn’t know to eat it or too frame it. The aroma alone made my mouth water.
“Eggs three ways!” Orro announced and retreated into the kitchen.
Eggs three ways were unbelievably delicious. Watching Caldenia sample them was an experience in itself. Her Grace daintily tried the filling of the egg purse, swiped the tines of her fork across the piped egg yolk, picked up the tiny bacon basket and delicately slurped the entire thing into her mouth. Sharp carnivore teeth flashed, bacon crunched, and she dabbed her lips with a napkin.
My seat let me glimpse a narrow slice of the kitchen from the doorway. Inside it Orro paused at the island, a kitchen towel in his hand.
Her Grace put down her napkin. “Exquisite.”
All of Orro’s needles stood on end. For a second he looked like one of those neon-colored spikey balls you can buy in the toy section. A moment later his needles lowered back into place and he continued to wipe down the island.
Lunch was served at twelve and featured something called “Simple Creme Fraiche Chicken and vegetables,” which turned out to be roasted chicken with crispy skin and meat so tender, it fell apart under the pressure of my fork, served with fresh spinach, citrus, almonds and some sort of unbelievably delicious dressing. I couldn’t possibly keep Orro. He was too expensive, but I’d be a fool not to enjoy it while it lasted.
By six thirty everything was ready and I waited on the back porch, wearing my robe. The designated point of entry was in the field behind my orchard, out of the way of the front road, and the brush and trees would block most of the flashy side effects of the guests’ arrival. I had gently encouraged six apples trees to move a few yards to the side, so we had a clear path through the orchard and from where I stood, I could see the field, its grass freshly mowed. The sky was overcast, promising an early, moody evening. A cold breeze came, swirling through the trees.
Almost forty guests, most of them high-ranking. One misstep and my reputation and the inn’s ranking wouldn’t recover. My mind kept cycling through the preparations: quarters, ballroom, instructions to Orro. At the last moment I had reactivated the stables. The inn had already formed the stables once, many decades ago, so all I had to do was move it out of the inn’s underground storage. Unearthing them strained the inn and me both, but it was better to have the stables and not need them than letting someone’s prized racing dinosaur soak in the cold rain while you made them available.
I’d thought of everything. I went down my check list and crossed off every item. Still I felt keyed up. If I was an engine, I would be idling too high. I could handle forty guests. I had handled more than that at my parents’ inn, but only for short time and none of them were actively at war with each other.
It would be fine. This was my inn and no amount of guests could change that.
I reached out and touched the post supporting the roof over the back porch. The magic of the inn connected with mine, restless. The inn was nervous, too.
The posts and the roof were a new addition the inn had grown on its own. I hadn’t realized this, but I had developed a habit of walking out onto the back patio, which used to be a concrete slab, and watching the trees. Sometimes I would bring a folding chair out and read. The Texas sun knew no mercy and after I burned for the second time by staying out a minute or two too long, the inn took the matters into its own hands and sprouted stone and wood porch posts and a roof. It also replaced the concrete slab with some flagstone and I wasn’t sure where the inn had gotten it.
“It will be fine,” I murmured to the house, stroking the wood with the tips of my fingers. The inn’s magic leaned against me, reassured.
“It will,” George said. He stood next to me wearing the same outfit as this morning, but now he also held a cane with an ornate top, a dark wood inlaid with twisted swirls of silver. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a knife in it. He also developed a mysterious limp. It appeared the Arbiter liked to be underestimated.
Behind us Gaston and Orro carried on a quiet conversation. The window was open and the sound of their voices carried to us.
“So if it was your first meal, why eggs?” Gaston asked. “Why not caviar or truffles or something complicated?
”
“Consider Coq au Vin,” Orro answered. “Even the simplest recipe requires is a long process. One has to have a mature bird and marinade it in burgundy for two days. Once marinated, thick slices of bacon must be sauteed in a pan. Then the chicken must be browned, smothered in Cognac, which is then to be set on fire.”
This was definitely an Earth recipe, specifically French. Where in the world did he learn it?
“Then the chicken must be seasoned. Salt, pepper, bay leaf and thyme. Onion must be added, chicken must simmer, flour is to be sprinkled onto the whole endeavor, and then it will be simmered. More ingredients are added, bacon, garlic, chicken stock, mushrooms, until it all blends into a delicious harmonized whole.”
“You’re making me hungry,” Gaston said, “But I still don’t see the point.”
“No single ingredient is the star of that dish,” Orro said. “It is a whole. I could cook it in a dozen ways, altering amounts of ingredients and spices and creating new variations. How is the stock made? What vintage is the wine? A second year cooking student can make this dish and it would be edible. The very complexity of its preparations makes the recipe flexible. Now consider the humble egg. It is possibly the oldest food known throughout the Universe. The egg is just an egg. Cook it too long, it becomes hard. Cook it too little and it turns into a jellied mess. Break the yolk because of your carelessness and the dish is ruined. Gouge the gentle skin as you peel the shell and no culinary expertise can repair it. The egg allows no room for error. That’s where true mastery shines.”
Jack slipped into the kitchen and walked out onto the porch. “There is a police car parked in the subdivision two houses over. The male cop inside is watching the inn.”
I sighed. “That would be Officer Marais.” Like clockwork.
“Should we be concerned?” George said.
“Officer Marais and I have a history.”
All people had magic. Most of them didn’t know how to use it, because they never tried, but magic still found ways to seep through. For Officer Marais it manifested as intuition. Every gut feeling he had was telling him that there was something not quite right with me and Gertrude Hunt. He couldn’t prove it, but it nagged at him all the same. Officer Marais was both conscientious and hardworking, and tonight a hyper hunch had warned him that something “not quite right” was about to happen, so he must’ve driven to the Avalon subdivision and settled down to watch the inn.
“He has an over-developed sense of intuition,” I explained. “That’s why I’ve made sure everyone knows to enter through the orchard. As long as he doesn’t see anything, we’ll be fine.”
“Did you confirm with the delegates?” George asked.
Jack nodded. “Otrokar at seven, the Merchants at seven thirty, and vampires at eight. I heard something interesting from the home office. They say we’re in for some rough waters with vampires.”
George raised one eyebrow. “House Vorga.”
Jack sighed. “This thing when you know things before I tell them to you is really annoying.”
“So you’ve told me.” George turned to me. “The delegation includes knights from every House immediately engaged in combat on Nexus. There are three major Houses and two minor. All major Houses initially were receptive to the peace talks; however, in the past few days, House Vorga began to lean in favor of continuing the conflict.”
“So what does that mean?” Gaston asked from the kitchen.
“Your guess as good as mine.” George grimaced. “It could mean House Vorga made a secret alliance with House Meer to bring down the other Houses. It could mean someone in the House Vorga has been offended by someone from House Krahr stepping on their shadow, or wearing the wrong color, or not pausing long enough before a sacred altar. It could mean someone saw a bird fly the wrong way over the steeple of the local cathedral. It’s vampire politics. It’s like sticking your hand into a barrel filled with forty cobras and trying to find one garden snake among them by touch.”
The best thing about vampire politics was that they were the Arbiter’s problem. I just had to keep the vampires safe.
George was looking at the orchard, his face distant.
“Say George?” Gaston asked. I glanced at him and he winked at me. “Why forty?”
“Because it’s a sufficiently large number to make the odds of finding a garden snake improbable,” George said, his voice flat.
“Yes, but why not fifty or a hundred? Why such an odd number? Forty? Snakes aren’t commonly measured in forties.”
George pivoted on his foot and looked at Gaston. The big man flashed a grin.
Jack chuckled to himself.
“When he concentrates like that,” Gaston told me, “if you are really quiet, you can hear the gears in his head turning. Sometimes you smell a faint puff of smoke coming out of his ears…”
The air above the grass tore like a transparent plastic curtain, showing a deep purple void for a fraction of a second. The void blinked its purple eye and a group of otrokar appeared on the grass. One, two, three… twelve. As expected.
The otrokar in the front started toward us. Huge, at least six five, and muscular judging by the powerful arms and legs, he was wrapped in the traditional otrokar half-cloak, which was more of a really wide long scarf designed to shield your arms and face from the sun. While worn, it covered their head, shoulder, and torso to mid-thigh. The handle of a giant sword wrapped in leather rose above the otrokar’s shoulder. The second ortokar followed the first’s footsteps. He was slender and shorter than the leader by about four inches. The difference between the two was so pronounced, they almost didn’t look like the belonged to the same species.
The others followed.
The leader reached the porch and pulled the cloak off in a single fluid move. An enormous otrokar woman stood before me, clad in leather and wearing the traditional half-kilt. Her skin was a deep, rich bronze with a hint of orange. Muscles corded her frame. Her hair was French-braided on her temples, the braids running toward the back of her head. The remaining wealth of hair was brushed back into a long mane. At the root, the hair was so dark, it seemed black, but it gradually lightened and at the tips, the color turned to deep ruby, as if her hair had been carefully dipped in fresh blood. Her dark violet eyes under black eyebrows examined us, assessing. Her posture shifted slightly. In the split second she glanced at us, she had seen everything: Jack, George, me, Gaston in the doorway and Orro in the kitchen, and she formulated a battle plan.
George bowed. “Greetings, Khanum. I’m sorry we have to keep our voices down. Local law enforcement is nearby. I trust the trip went well?”
“We survived.” Her voice was deep for a woman. The kind of voice that could roar. “I hate void travel. It feels like my stomach is turned inside out.” Khanum grimaced. “I suppose we’ll have to do the formal entrance once everyone is here.”
“That is the custom,” George said.
The otrokar at her side pulled off his cloak. He didn’t wear armor, only the kilt, and his torso was exposed. He was lean and hard, his muscles light but crisply defined under the bronze skin tinted with green, as if life had chiseled all softness off him. If he was human, I would put him in his thirties, but with the otrokar age was difficult to tell. His hair, long and so black, it shone with purple highlights, fell on his back. Thin leather belts and chains wrapped his waist and dozens of charms, pouches, and bottles hung from them. The Khanum looked like a powerful predatory cat. Next to her he looked like a weathered tree, or perhaps a serpent: nothing but dry muscle. His face matched him: harsh, chiseled with rough strokes, with green eyes so light they seemed to glow with some eerie radiance. If he wasn’t a shaman, I’d eat my broom.
He surveyed the inn. “Is there a fire pit?”
“There is a room set out specifically for spirits,” I told him. “With the fire ring.”
His eyes widened a fraction. “Good. I will ask the spirits to show me the omens for these peace talks.”
“The omen
s better be good,” Khanum said quietly, her voice laced with steel.
The shaman didn’t even blink. “The omens will be what the omens will be.”
The Khanum took a deep breath. “I suppose I have to get on with it.” She raised her voice slightly. “Greetings, Arbiter. Greetings, Innkeeper.”
“Gertrude Hunt welcomes you, Khanum,” I bowed my head. “Winter sun to you and your warriors. My water is your water. My fire is your fire. My beds are soft and my knives are sharp. Spit on my hospitality and I’ll slit your throat.” There. Nice and traditional.
Next to me Jack became very still. He didn’t tense; he just became utterly at peace.
Khanum smiled. “I feel at home already. Winter sun to you. We will honor this house and those who own it. Our knives are sharp and our sleep is light. Betray the honor of your fire, and I’ll carve out your heart.”
The door swung open, obeying the push of my magic. I stepped through. “Please follow me, Khanum.”
Ten minutes later I was back at my post on the porch. The inn had sealed the entrance behind the last otrokar. The only way they could exit would be through the main dining room.
At seven thirty the area above the field shimmered, as if a ring of hot air suddenly rose above the grass. The shimmer solidified into a giant ship, with sleek curving lines that made you think of a manta ray gliding through the water. The elegant craft sank to the ground, landing like a feather, a hatch opened, and Nuan Cee stepped out. Four feet tall, he resembled a fox with the eyes of a cat and ears of a lynx. Soft luxurious fur, silver-blue and perfectly combed, sheathed him from head to toe, turning white on his stomach and darkening to an almost turquoise dappled with golden rosettes on his back He wore a beautiful silky apron and a necklace studded with blue jewels.
Nuan Cee saw me, waved, and called over his shoulder. “This is the right place. Bring all the things.”
He started toward me. Four foxes emerged, carrying a palanquin with rose curtains. Behind them five other foxes, their fur ranging from white to deepest blue, walked, hopping lightly over the grass, all five adorned with silks and jewelry. A low braying sound came out of the belly of the ship. A moment and a small fox emerged, tugging on the reins of what looked like a furry cross between a camel and a donkey. A precarious stack of bags, packs, and chests sat on top of the beast, piled almost twice as tall as the creature itself. The fox tugged on reins again and the donkey-camel stepped into the grass. Behind him another beast appeared, led by a different fox.
Sweep in Peace (Innkeeper Chronicles Book 2) Page 7
