by Faith Hunter
Ignoring it, I stood, waiting for Audric to return to my right side, the proper place for my senior champard, the visa chimed in. Seraph stones. This stuff was complicated.
When Audric was in place, I drew on the visa and paged through the instructions, ignoring the dance steps. No way was I attempting a formal diplomatic gavotte on camera. Neomage attributes blazing with all the force I possessed, I said, “Cheran Jones of the New Orleans Enclave, visiting cultural attaché, gold and steel mage…assassin,” I said pointedly, “welcome.”
Cheran blanched.
Gotcha. I tilted my head a fraction to let him know I saw the reaction. “You have my leave to approach.” And I sprawled in my chair as if I were a monarch and this, my throne.
Cheran approached, following my lead and walking like a human instead of dancing like a mage, and swept off his hat. The bow was deep, as protocol dictated, but something about the set of his shoulders was mocking when he rose, swishing the silly cape back. “The Louisiana Enclave wishes to establish relations with the Appalachian consulate,” he said.
Audric replied, emphasizing the first four words I had given him, “The Battle Station Consulate welcomes you and is pleased to establish relations.”
Cheran blinked at the title. I liked it. The name fit the description of the town and it gave me all sorts of leeway to handle this any way I wanted. This might work. Maybe.
“As this is a new seat,” Cheran said, “it is appropriate for the Enclave of Thorn St. Croix’s birth to present her with gifts.” He knelt and laid out the three cases, snapping open each and laying back the lid of the first. I felt Audric tense beside me, but the cases held nothing dangerous. Well, not in the usual sense. The weapons I had found in Cheran’s room were dangerous, but not while lying in the case.
The weapons that had lain in one side were missing, the indentations empty, leaving only the silvered battle blades. Still, there were a lot of sharp, shiny objects, and I schooled my face to mild surprise at the sight of them. Taking a chance that Cheran wouldn’t notice a blended scan, I quickly blinked on mage-sight and then opened a skim, seeing what I had expected. Not the taint of Darkness, but something else. I felt the world surge beneath me and dropped the skim before I tossed my cookies on TV.
Rising to his full height, Cheran met my gaze and said with poorly concealed satisfaction, “The Enclave presents the weapons that would have belonged to Thorn St. Croix had she not left the Enclave…illegally.”
Well, well, well. He wanted to play dirty in all sorts of ways. The best defense was a good offense, but the unexpected ploy had its points. I threw a leg over the chair arm, assuming the position of the warrior barbarian, in truth. I narrowed my eyes and stroked the prime amulet that was the hilt of my longsword. And I sighed.
Beside me, Audric laughed and spread his stance, cocky and negligent and rude. “My mistrend did not exit illegally. She was drugged and removed. You are misinformed and ill prepared, mage.” Around me, the other champards took on aggressive postures.
Cheran’s face tightened in surprise. I knew from the haze in his mind that he was truly surprised, meaning that he hadn’t been in communication with Élan.
“We suggest you do a little research with Lolo, former priestess of the Enclave,” Audric said, his voice silky. “Though it is possible my mistrend was banished illegally, she has since been given license by the High Council of the Seraphim to protect her from pillaging humans, as is the right of the High Host.” He waved a hand, the gesture bored. “You may present the gifts.”
Cheran bowed again, this time as much to hide his thoughts as for protocol. From the large flat case, he lifted the longsword, holding it with a velvet cloth, tilting it to show off the sword’s beauty. The blade was tipped on the hilt with a large pink quartz nugget. Beside me, Rupert inhaled noisily. I glanced at him, his eyes riveted on the sword. The sword from his dream. The sword I killed him with.
“The longsword of Damocles,” Cheran said, holding the sword to me, one hand beneath the hilt, one beneath the blade, balancing the deadly weapon, yet his skin safe from contact, protected by the velvet. “Damocles, named after a Pre-Ap hero, was from the litter six in the second generation, the child of two battle mages who destroyed the attacking human army. This blade was made with wild magic by his parents, and he became a battle mage of great renown.”
I stood in a single fluid motion and extended my arms. Cheran met my eyes, holding them while he transferred the blade to me, sliding the velvet away in a fluid motion. As the weapon came down, I pressed my arms forward slightly, taking the gift on my wrists, on the heavy cloth of my dobok sleeves, rather than my bare palms. Some unnamed emotion skittered through his eyes, and deeper, in his thoughts. “The Sword of Damocles,” he said. If I hadn’t been deep in his thoughts, I’d have laughed at the whole hokey concept.
The mage glanced down as he stepped back, seeing the Apache Tear on my necklace. He didn’t know how much I knew, or if I had done the motion by accident, and he was uncertain, off balance, out of step with the dance that I now led. I wanted to keep him that way.
Something warm and powerful heated my arms through the dobok from the weapon I held, and I recognized the tingle of wild magic, the unpredictable power of my forebears, snared in the steel. It would be a joy to fight with such a weapon, I thought. But I never would. I couldn’t risk it.
Seeing my stance, Audric stepped forward and accepted the gift from me, holding the blade as I did, on the arms of his dobok. The cloth was protected by the conjures of mage masters, impervious to acid, resistant to fire. I nodded to the gift table, the table holding my offerings and, puzzled, Audric placed it there.
One at a time, Cheran Jones gifted me with the weapons that would have been mine long years ago, had I not been cursed with my talent. There were a lot of weapons. Audric accepted them for me, setting them on an empty display cabinet, within view of the camera. When the weapons had all been given, each with its history, provenance, and name, Cheran produced a small, flat box tied with string. Inside was a new leather dobok, black, but with a teal sheen like the iridescence of peacock feathers, and with a teal leather belt that held all the tools of the trade of war. A belt like Audric’s, full of throwing stars, small knives, vials for salt water and salt and other, more esoteric things.
I sighed with delight and lifted the dobok out, holding it up against me. It would fit, I was pretty sure. Beneath the uniform lay a pair of gloves and battle boots turned on their sides, the leather a dark teal glowing with recently applied energies of the masters who specialized in defensive warfare conjures. The gloves and boots looked of a size to fit me too.
“I’m more than honored,” I said. “The gift of weapons and battle clothes are needed and very welcome.” Handing the dobok and its box to Audric, I sat back down and Audric stepped forward, accepting a large satchel of proper clothing, diaphanous and silky—come-hither clothes—all sewn with stones and gold thread. He also accepted a gift of money, a nice heavy sack of clinking gold coin to establish my consulate. Cash money would have worked just as well, but the ceremony of gold was proper, according to the visa’s whisperings. Too bad the gold was official, and not mine personally.
Letters of state were presented in a coil tied with scarlet ribbon; others were sealed in envelopes, reminding me that I would need a lawyer with experience in international law and in the relatively new field of mage law. People I would have to contract with and pay. Therefore I needed experienced banking and investment advice. Seraph stones. The teeth of a licensed mage were beginning to eat away at me—I was losing my identity and my life one bite at a time. I sank back, making myself smaller, the reflex of a rabbit caught in a trap.
But no one seemed to notice, not even the blasted camera, which was thankfully focused on the next gift, a fur cloak from the skin of a single buffalo, which, Cheran assured me, had been caught in an ice floe and died. It was a statement for the camera to prove that mages were not violent beings who would slaughter
a beast for its fur.
I forced a smile onto my face, as if I were not aware that my life now belonged to others, that it had been stolen from me and there was nothing I could do about it. I accepted the fur and Audric slipped it about my shoulders. I felt the tingle of wild magic and wanted to toss it aside until I could inspect it with mage-senses. That might be construed as an insult to the New Orleans Enclave so I simply folded it from me as if the room were too hot, and handed it to Eli.
His young face was intent and careful and he accepted the gift with something like reverence, clearly wanting to do the job properly. I warmed at the sight and wanted to stroke his hair, which was plastered to his head in the shape of his hat, the cowboy hat resting on the counter behind him. Eased for reasons I didn’t understand, I turned back to Cheran Jones.
There were more gifts, additional money to furnish a consulate and guest quarters, offers of trade for the town, which had the town fathers grinning happily, the gift of a snow-el-mobile and the private train car Cheran had arrived in, for when I needed to travel. The loan of two legal and banking representatives, which I accepted immediately. The offer of additional attachés, which Cheran did not want me to accept. Out of spite, I welcomed all the help I could get, though I knew it was a moot point as no one could get in or out of the town until the snow was cleared or melted. I just felt like yanking his chain.
When Cheran was done, he said a pretty speech, which I gathered was written by a lawyer he detested. His thoughts were coming clearer the longer he was close, and I wished heartily for the real Apache Tear to block them. He was a petty man, full of self-indulgent opinions, prejudices, and judgments. And occasional sharp, focused images of the deaths of those around him, especially Audric, Rupert, and me. A homophobe who also wanted his own power base. Warped by the talent that made him an assassin? I had spoken rightly when I named his gifts. Cheran Jones was a walking death machine.
When he was done giving me gifts, I presented the gifts he would take back to the new priestess of the New Orleans Enclave, the necklace with the bit of Amethyst’s wheels, several fine, faceted stones that could be set into rings or necklace pendants, a small statue, and twelve necklaces, one for each dignitary at the Enclave of my birth. Cheran received an arm cuff made of Rupert’s Mokume Gane, beaten layers of different colors of gold. Cheran’s eyes widened at the magnificent gift. Rupert said nothing, though I hadn’t asked him for the piece. I could pay the shop back for the gifts with the sack of gold coins. Goody. I was marginally less broke. And the necessities of a public welcome to the visiting mage were out of the way.
The visa, after offering a dozen different ways I might approach the town fathers, fell curiously silent when I stood and knelt to them. I should have danced to the men before kneeling, but there was no way I was going to risk falling flat on my face on TV. I should have offered a lengthy flowery speech. I should have been dressed in see-through chiffon and gauze and looked like a sex machine. No way.
Face near the floor, I said, “Delegation from Mineral City, welcome to the sovereign territory of the Battle Station Consulate. This poor emissary warrior comes in peace to fight in your war against the Dark. Will you accept gifts and offers of trade from this consulate and this neomage, Thorn St. Croix?”
“We will,” Shamus said, his tone portentous. “We are honored by your presence.”
I stood, reached into a pocket of the battle cloak, and pulled out the bloodred silk scarf. I also palmed a fire-starting amulet, the one that I used to light my stove. Turning to Audric, I held out the scarf and jutted my chin at the longsword with the pink quartz nugget in the hilt. Perplexed but agreeable, Audric took the scarf and covered his palms before lifting the sword and offering it to me. Our skin was protected from the hilt and blade.
Cheran’s cheek quivered at the careful handling of the weapon, and I smiled at him, all teeth. Turning my back to him, I looked pointedly at Rupert and then turned to the town fathers. As if I were polishing a prized possession, I wiped the entire longsword with the scarf, and thumbed on the fire-starter incantation. The silk darkened and smoked. It burst into flame.
Everything seemed to happen at once. Moving with the speed of our kind, Cheran stepped back, his head down, his hands moving to his waist. Audric muttered a single syllable that sounded like, “Bird.” Rupert stuck out a foot, neatly tripping Cheran, the simple ploy using the mage’s own speed against him. Eli caught the small mage and settled him to the floor, a semiautomatic gun under his chin. Rupert, moving with the fluid speed that training with a half-breed had provided him, rested a dagger just below Cheran’s breastbone, angled to pierce the mage’s heart, effectively stopping any attempt the mage might have made at escape. Audric slapped a gag in Cheran’s mouth. I dropped the sword and burning scarf onto the stove. Lucas dumped the contents of the teakettle over the small fire. Ciana picked up the mage’s hat and set it on a counter. I pocketed the amulet. All that in an instant. It looked practiced, choreographed, as if Cheran’s treachery had been expected.
“Place your hands on the floor,” Rupert said, his voice conversational, “over your head.” With another nudge, he said, “Hands, one on top of the other, palms down.” It was an uncomfortable pose and Rupert repositioned his blade, pressing the point on the back of Cheran’s upper hand, depressing it enough to draw blood.
His face pale, Cheran took a shaky breath through his nose, knowing he was well and truly caught. But not knowing why the scarf on the sword had erupted in fire. His thoughts said quite clearly that the poison he had used wasn’t supposed to do that.
“If you try to move,” Rupert continued, “I’ll push down on this knife. Hard. If I think you might want to move, or if you start a conjure when my mistrend pulls the gag out, I’ll push down. I’ll stake you to the floor. Nod if you understand.” Cheran nodded once. “Even if you get away, you’ll sever tendons. It’ll be nasty. You won’t use your hands again for a while, maybe a long while if the town fathers arrest you. Understand?”
When the mage didn’t respond, Eli shoved his boot tip into the mage’s side. “Answer my buddy champard here, or I’ll think you need to be taught some manners, bucko.”
“I unnerstan’,” Cheran said through the gag.
His voice was a bit too calm for my comfort level so I bent over him and took off the fake Apache Tear, letting him see me drop it on the counter. It landed with a soft tink and the mage’s eyes widened. Clearly he had been counting on my wearing the Tear constantly, even when it would be smarter not to. Which made me wonder if the charm in the real one was addictive. It would be a clever move if so. Then I wouldn’t want to take it off. Ever.
“Surprise,” I said softly as I placed my hand over his forehead to better feel his thoughts. “What poison is on the sword?” I said, louder.
All I got from his thoughts were words from a mage nursery rhyme learned in the cradle. “Blood and kin prevail. Blood and kin prevail.” The words hid his thoughts.
“Well, that’s just ducky,” I said. “Pull up his shirt.”
While my champards exposed Cheran’s belly, I pulled down the cuffs of my dobok and lifted the poisoned weapon in protected hands. Reaching between my two protectors, I placed the booby-trapped sword tip against his skin. I applied pressure, deliberately breaking his skin. Cheran turned white and gasped.
“Take out the gag,” I said. The gag was pulled from his mouth, and I said, “What poison and what antidote?” When he didn’t answer fast enough, I pressed harder, slicing a quarter of an inch below the skin, delivering a greater dose. His flesh quivered with shock. “What poison and what antidote?” I asked again.
I could read his desire not to answer, and his fear. In mage-sight, his attributes changed from the roseate hue of well-cooked shrimp to a paler shade, beer yellow. Sickly. He licked his lips. The camera zoomed close. I waited patiently, knowing he would break. Dropping the sight and opening a mind-skim, I breathed in his scent, both the scent that humans and animals can smell and the u
nderlying scent of mages.
A strange odor came from Cheran, sweat and fear and imminent death. I bent over the mage and smiled wider, placing my foot on his abdomen. Making up his mind, his thoughts cleared. “It’s called spider blue,” he said, his voice vibrating beneath my boot sole, his throat working. “In my breast pocket. White vial.”
Audric joined us on the floor, going through the mage’s clothes. I spotted the TV camera maneuvering for a better angle as sweat broke out on Cheran’s face and soaked his shirt. Audric laid six vials on the floor, ones I remembered from the case of liquids in Cheran’s room. Poisons. Assassin.
“Please,” he said. “The antidote. The blue bottle. Two cc’s, delivered IV push.”
I hadn’t a clue what that meant, but Audric did, and found a small syringe with a needle in the killer’s cummerbund. Cheran was a traveling pharmacy. Audric drew up a small amount in the needle and shoved the mage’s sleeve up.
“Not yet,” I said. Cheran’s eyes slipped to me, desperation lurking within. I said, “What other nasty tricks are on the blades? On the other gifts?”
“None,” he said, quickly. “Nothing. I swear.” When I cocked my head to the side and waited, he shouted, “I swear before the High Host.” His thoughts were clear and certain. There was nothing else. Not today.
“How do I clean the sword of the contaminant?” I asked.
“Salt water.”
I stepped away and nodded to my champards. Rupert stuck the gag back in. Audric didn’t bother to clean the mage’s skin, simply inserted the needle and pressed the plunger. Cheran hissed, but his thoughts were unambiguous. We were in time. He’d live. I wasn’t sure I wanted him alive, but I figured that killing a visiting dignitary on TV, even if he had tried to poison me, wasn’t such a good idea.
I stepped back and sat in my chair, still holding the sword, the tip coated with mage-blood, the scent familiar and crisp. The town fathers backed away fast, the sounds of their feet echoing in the tall-ceilinged room. “I hope you’ll forgive me,” I said to Shamus Waldroup. “An internal matter.”