House of Cards

by C. E. Murphy

  “To whose end?” Janx hissed. Margrit, to Alban’s shock, put a hand on the dragonlord’s arm, as if staying him. Daisani saw it as well, his eyebrows shooting up.

  “To all of ours, I should think. Chaos surrounds us at every side. We would all be better pleased with order restored. Am I wrong?” The last words were cut from ice, falling amongst the gathered group in frozen shards. Tony Pulcella shifted forward, hands knotted into fists. Alban caught a glimpse of agonized sympathy on Margrit’s face as she saw him move.

  “Whether we have it done or not, this isn’t the place to discuss it.” Her voice was inexpressibly soft, drawing the attention of six men, all but one of whom understood her point. “Gentlemen, I believe we should retire upstairs. We can come back to the party when this is settled.” She made a small gesture toward the ballroom stairs, and to Alban’s astonishment, the motley quorum moved at her command.

  So did Tony Pulcella. Margrit touched his arm, drawing him aside, and seeking out Alban’s gaze as she did. Alban paused, and she gave the tiniest shake of her head and an even briefer smile that sent reassurance burning through him. He nodded, then turned to follow the other representatives of the Old Races to the balcony above. Without, this time, showing off; like the others, he took the stairs, and found a faint thrill of amusement that he even considered doing anything else.

  “It was Daisani, wasn’t it.” Tony turned on Margrit and spoke through his teeth. “Your link between Russell Lomax and Janx was Daisani. Lomax was in his pocket. What’re they doing together here? Why’d you lie to me, Grit? What the hell’s going on? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “You have no idea how much I wish I could tell you.” Margrit felt as though the fight had drained out of her. “It’s business. I did think Daisani was the link, yeah. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t call because it didn’t pan out. Janx said he didn’t have anything to do with Russell’s death, and I believe him.”

  “I don’t. I don’t know what the hell’s going on with you, Grit, but whatever it is, you need to get out of it fast. Those guys are dangerous. Janx, Malik—shit, Daisani, too, for that matter. People with that kind of money just fuck you over, and I don’t want to see you go down for whatever they’re mixed up with.” Concern warred with anger in Tony’s voice and face. “Whatever’s going on, you can’t go up there with them.”

  “I have to. What I’m dealing with isn’t illegal, Tony, and that’s all I can tell you.” Her quiet resolve sounded implacable to her own ears. “But I do need to deal with it, and it’s something you can’t help with.”

  “This is the same shit that’s been going on since January, isn’t it?”

  Margrit pressed her lips together, then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. And you have no idea how sorry I am it means I’ve been cutting you out of my life.”

  “You’re not.” Concern faded, leaving anger and hurt. “You’re not sorry, Margrit. Whatever the hell it is, it’s more exciting to you than we are. More interesting. I’d love to be wrong, but I’m not. I’ll tell you this, though. Whatever it is, I’m gonna find out, and if it’s as dirty as I think it is, and you’re tangled up in it, you’re going down with them. You understand me? Whatever’s happening, I’m not protecting you.”

  Margrit took a deep breath, an ache crawling through her entire body. “I know.” She barely whispered the response, and with the whisper, stepped backward, toward the stairs the others had taken. “I know, Tony, and I don’t blame you. I really am sorry it’s happening this way, but I have to go.” She hesitated, then, helplessly, said, “Goodbye.”

  Angry color flooded Tony’s cheeks and he turned on his heel as abruptly as she’d ever seen him move. Margrit bit her lip, then climbed the ballroom stairs, stopping at the top to look back one last time.

  The party carried on, the revelers all but unmindful of the handful of men and the solitary woman who slipped away. Only one face lifted to the balcony, unerringly seeking Margrit’s gaze out of hundreds. An expression so subtle she couldn’t read it crossed his face: pleasure, perhaps, or anticipation. Margrit shivered and turned away, wondering why his name lingered so heavily in her mind.

  Biali.

  TWENTY-SIX

  KAIMANA HAD ALREADY left the gathering when she joined them on the balcony. The others waited on Margrit, holding back until she took the lead, as though it was agreed among them that the least important should go first, and take some of the problem of ranking away.

  Bemused at the idea, Margrit led them from the balcony to the elevator banks that lay above and beyond the ballroom. For all that there was more than enough room for the five of them, the air in the elevator bristled, making it crowded with expectation. Margrit felt more than her own weight bearing down on her feet. The temptation to catch Alban’s hand and hold on tight had passed as she’d realized that walking alone would carry greater impact than coming with the gargoyle. To walk with him displayed her loyalties too clearly, not that she—or anyone else—doubted where they lay. It was more a show of independence, of humans coming to the Old Races’ counsel meeting as equals, than anything else. Janx and Daisani would find it laughable, but she did it to shore up her own courage, not cater to them.

  The boardroom table in Daisani’s conference room had been replaced. Margrit nearly laughed, swallowing the sound only through awareness of the occasion’s importance. But Daisani had clearly intended to call the quorum together that night, rather than wait two more days. The table Kaimana sat at was round, and while he’d chosen the space farthest from the door, so he could watch people enter, it had no absolute head. He waited with an equanimity that gave lie to his peoples’ fate resting on the evening’s proceedings, and nodded in greeting as Margrit passed through the door. Unwilling to break the silence, she echoed his gesture.

  Malik walked in a few steps behind her, making her uncomfortable. She’d known he was there, but discovering him so close to her made her want to run, as if she’d somehow become his unsuspecting prey.

  Margrit watched him judge the five empty seats, his gaze lingering on those on either side of Kaimana. Another brief glance took Margrit in and dismissed her; her choice of seating was evidently irrelevant to the sour-faced desert creature. Piqued and amused, she took a seat, deliberately leaving one space between herself and Kaimana. Malik, half a step from the seat that would put him directly opposite the selkie lord, froze then snarled almost imperceptibly. The barest change of direction took him one seat farther away, leaving an empty chair between Margrit and himself.

  Kaimana met Margrit’s eyes without the slightest change of expression, but laughter seemed to sparkle between them. She felt a smirking triumph. Her presence unbalanced the table, and the situation, as much as it literally balanced it, three and three.

  Pebbles sat on the table in front of her, a pair of equal size, one black and one white. Kaimana had none in front of him, and Malik palmed the two at his chair as he sat. Margrit felt as though she was making another irrevocable move as she took the stones and folded them in her hands, white in the right, black in the left.

  Daisani and Janx came through the double doors together, as if they’d rehearsed. Margrit felt laughter slide around in search of release again, but kept it trapped. It was easy to imagine them staring each other down in the hall and finally choosing to enter shoulder to shoulder, neither willing to walk behind the other. They took the same places they had at the first meeting, Daisani to Kaimana’s right and Janx to his left. Only a seat between Margrit and Malik remained, putting them all in the positions they’d held the night before.

  Alban entered the silent room a half beat behind Janx and Daisani. Like the others, he glanced around and sat without preamble, the assembly quiet, as if waiting on some cue Margrit didn’t know to anticipate.

  “Who stands for the gargoyles?” The question snapped out from four mouths at once, startling Margrit so badly she squeaked, then winced, unable to cover either reaction. Alban, calm at her side, caught his breat
h to respond.

  From the other side of the room, at the doorway, Biali’s rough low voice broke in. “I do.”

  Not one of the Old Races—not even Alban—flinched at the other gargoyle’s interruption. Margrit’s hands spasmed against the table, but she kept herself quiet through force of will. Alban, to her shock, rose and stepped away from the table, as Daisani turned to Biali without so much as missing a beat.

  “And who are you?” Daisani spoke alone, the others deferring to him for no reason Margrit could see.

  “I’m Biali, born of the clan Kameh, cursed to work for a mangy dragon and watch over Alban Korund, called the Breach. I claim this position through right of age and right of acceptance among my people.” He stumped across the room and Alban fell back, expressionless as he gave up his chair and his position to Biali. Margrit’s heart throbbed against her ribs, making her dizzy with uncertainty. She could trust Alban to support her in the things she wanted from the quorum, but Biali was a wild card. She clenched her stomach muscles to prevent herself from leaping up and dragging Alban back, and knew the glance she cast at him was full of betrayal.

  A hint of apology darted across his face, but then he was gone, closing the door behind himself gently, and leaving Margrit very much alone in a roomful of immortals.

  Biali sat down with an intentional crash, scooping up the pebbles Alban had left behind. Every formal note the quorum had entered on was shattered, then made worse by his growled addition: “Bet you thought having Korund stand in meant this stayed out of the memories. You’re fools. Breach or not, not even he would keep a quorum out of the histories, and neither will I.”

  A shared glance went around the table, unreadable to Margrit and garnering a dismissive snort from Biali. Then, again on a cue she didn’t catch, voices lifted again to ask, “Who stands for the dragons?” Biali remained aggressively silent, though he turned his attention to Janx, as the others did.

  The dragonlord bowed from the waist, making an elegant flourish despite the fact that he was sitting down. “I do.”

  “And who are you?” There was a lavish amount of humor in Daisani’s voice as he asked, though his expression remained as grave as before.

  “I am Janx.” The sibilant hiss of his own name carried a soft challenge that sent another stir around the table. This time Daisani allowed himself a smile and returned Janx’s half bow, evidently accepting the abrupt answer as sufficient.

  “Who stands for the vampires?” Margrit still missed whatever subtle prompt allowed the Old Races to speak with one voice so easily, though Janx joined Biali in silence now that he’d been recognized.

  “I do,” Daisani murmured, then waited a delicious moment to see if anyone had the audacity to voice the question that was clearly his to ask. Malik shifted in his seat but held his tongue, and after a moment Daisani smiled again. “I am Daisani, called Eliseo, and I am the master of my kind.”

  A thrill shot up Margrit’s spine and her hands went cold, though none of the others looked surprised by Daisani’s statement. He saw her stiffen and cast an amused wink toward her, enough to throw her off as Kaimana asked, “Who stands for the djinn?” She joined in only on the last few words, her higher voice startling against his.

  Malik’s lip curled again, his gaze sliding to hers, but he restrained himself to an, “I do,” before his focus became intent on Daisani and his question. “I am Ebul Alima Malik al-Shareef din Nazmi al-Massrī of the desert wind and I claim this place by rite of passage.”

  Surprise and admiration washed through Janx’s expression, and he caught his breath as though he’d speak. He held his tongue, though, and a sudden warning flashed through Margrit. Kaimana was the only one left of the Old Races still unrecognized, all of the others having fallen silent after their introductions were made. There was no one left to demand she identify herself, her presence a disruption to what smacked of ages-old ritual. Before she could think, before anyone could speak, she lifted her voice, pleased with its strength and clarity. “I stand for the humans.”

  To her astonishment, approval flashed in Daisani’s eyes as he asked, without hesitation, “And who are you?” Buoyed by his acceptance, and ignoring both a hard stare of offended disbelief from Malik and Biali’s contemptuous snort, she lifted her chin. “I am Margrit Elizabeth Knight, advocate for the Old Races.”

  Janx looked delighted, and a surge of glee danced through Margrit. They’d invited her to their party, and she had no intention of going unnoticed. She turned her attention to Kaimana, and with everyone else, asked, “Who stands for the selkies?” Her own soprano contrasting with the thundering chorus lifted hairs on her arms and stirred the men, though none of them quite broke form to look at her instead of Kaimana.

  He came to his feet with ponderous grace. “I do.” He turned to Daisani, waiting out the question of identification before replying, “I am Kaimana Kaaiai, immortal selkie lord and leader of a changing race. I am your brother and tonight I am your supplicant, speaking for my people and their place in the Old Races.” All the easy islander patois was gone from his speech, leaving it as formal and intense as any of his contemporaries as he brought his gaze to each of them in turn.

  “We have broken a covenant. This I do not deny. We have survived by it. This, I put to you as a needful thing. We hold true to our old bloodlines—not one among us is called selkie if he cannot change his skin. Our children are no less than half-blooded—more than this and we lose the core of what we are. Many of us are more than that, bred back and kept close. You hold our fate in your hands.” He took one easy, deep breath, then turned his palms up as he sat. “I ask you to vote now.”

  “By age,” Janx said to Daisani, and for once respect threaded the dragon’s tenor voice. Daisani, to Margrit’s surprise, seemed to accept that respect with uncharacteristic humility, bowing his head to the dragonlord before bringing his attention to the vote. He echoed Kaimana’s gesture, turning a palm up to reveal a white stone. Janx, still more respectful and subdued than Margrit was accustomed to, echoed the gesture a third time, white stone held in his fingertips as he’d once held a priceless sapphire to tease Margrit with. Then both elders turned to Malik, expectation written on their faces.

  Malik gave Kaimana a hard look of dislike. Kaimana’s gaze remained neutral, but he nodded, an action so slight Margrit thought it could simply have been the strain of holding too still. Malik held out a moment longer, then slapped his palm on the table, a violent act of rejection.

  Janx glossed a smile at Margrit, pleased with himself, and nervousness swept her. Advocate or not, she found the idea of holding an entire race’s fate in her hands alarming. She looked back at Malik as he peeled his hand away to reveal his cast lot, then brought her attention to Biali. Thought caught up with vision an instant later and she jerked her eyes back to Malik.

  A white stone lay before him on the table.

  Janx inhaled, soft and sharp. Kaimana bowed toward Malik, a small gesture of thanks, and Biali grunted with surprise. Margrit’s heart fluttered, warning her that she needed to draw breath. Tense pleasure stretched Malik’s mouth, and for a long few seconds the quorum remained silent and still, absorbing the implications of his vote.

  Biali scowled at the gathering, his gaze lingering most darkly on Margrit. Kaimana watched without change of stance or expression, but Margrit’s hands went cold with the certainty that while the selkie lord had known how Malik would vote, the gargoyle’s choice was unknown to him.

  “No point in standing on shifting earth.” Biali opened his hand with none of Malik’s dramatics, the white pebble pale against even his skin.

  Margrit breathed a laugh, knowing she should keep the silent solemnity of the moment, but unable to resist looking at Janx as she unfolded her own fingers, stone gleaming white against her palm. “I wasn’t critical after all.” The admission was a relief and a disappointment all at once, though relief won out as a shiver of portents swept her.

  Janx ignored her, looking hard at Malik. �
�I wonder what the cost of that stone was.”

  “A peace accord,” Kaimana answered. “That his people and mine will not stand in each other’s way. There’s room enough for all of us.”

  Biali growled, far more emotion than Alban would have allowed himself, and Janx leaned back in his seat, fingers templed in front of his mouth. Margrit dragged in a breath, her eyes drawn back to Malik. Only Daisani gave no outward sign of his reaction as he looked from djinn to selkie lord.

  “That’s it, then.” Biali broke the new silence, glowering around the table. “Exile’s lifted and time moves on. This quorum is—”

  “Wait.” Margrit’s voice quavered, but she stood, making herself as large as she could in the presence of so many inhumans. “There are other issues to be addressed.”

  Mouths pursed and eyebrows lifted as curious attention was turned her way. Even Malik looked toward her without overwhelming antagonism. “Unless you’ve stolen children like changelings,” Margrit said to Kaimana, “there’s the issue of telling humans you exist.”

  She looked to the other four at the table, her confidence rising as she offered her argument. “This is a harder question, in its way, than whether to accept the selkies. Choosing to tell humans about yourselves is dangerous. A wrong choice could easily have disastrous consequences. But holding exile over someone’s head is too much, if you’re accepting the possibility of interbreeding. No one should make that kind of decision without their partner knowing the truth about them.”

  “Perhaps we should defer to those with experience in such situations,” Daisani suggested, his tone all politeness that belied a mocking glint in his eyes.