House of Cards

by C. E. Murphy

  Kaimana shrugged big shoulders. “Our tradition has been to try to choose mates from those who had already discovered us. Our seaside villages were easy to observe, and more times than we liked, seafarers and explorers came upon us. But when we’ve chosen to tell outsiders, we’ve only offered our secrets to those we hoped to build lives with.”

  “And when those explorers moved to capture or imprison you, to make you their pets or trophies? When chosen mates couldn’t accept your nature?” Daisani spoke again, deference from the others due, Margrit now thought, to his greater age.

  Kaimana turned his gaze to her, keeping it steady as his voice. “When necessary we dealt with them as strongly as required. We are far less plagued by unexpected discovery now, but when we choose to tell humans—which happens less often with our numbers so replenished—we’re very careful. Most can accept us, and of those who do not, the larger percentage find it in themselves to guard our secrets.” He kept to the formal phrases and vocal tones, as if doing so hid the nature of what he admitted to.

  “And those who don’t?” Margrit had no more need than anyone else at the table to have it detailed for her, but put the question forth regardless, challenging Kaimana to answer it.

  He met her gaze for a long, quiet moment before replying, “There are accidents.”

  Even knowing what he would say, the answer buckled Margrit’s knees. She locked them, unwilling to lose face in the quorum by sitting abruptly, but her hands clenched at her sides. Intellectual awareness that murder was done—even a grim understanding and a deep, sickening fear that she herself could be moved to such action to protect a whole race of people—made hearing it, effectively condoning it, no easier.

  “I think we all agree it’s better not to need accidents,” Daisani said blithely, as if unaware of the real meaning of that word. “Perhaps a modification of our laws. We might tell those with whom we wish to mate of our true natures, but beyond that, to reveal us is still—must still be—an offense of significant proportions. I think exile is not unreasonable.”

  “And if you’re discovered accidentally by someone who can’t handle the truth?” Margrit asked.

  Daisani turned an unrelenting look on her. “Accidents,” he said, “happen.” He let the statement hang a moment, then turned to the others. “Are we agreed? Shall we make a vote of it?”

  The formal process went more quickly the second time, the identifications already made. Margrit offered her voting stones to Kaimana, respecting that he hadn’t voted when it had been his own motion on the table. Only one of the five voted against her: Malik, and no one, not even Margrit, was surprised by that. White pebbles gleamed around the table, her own vote tacit and, she was all too aware, approving the murder of humans. She closed her eyes a moment, absorbing that, then spoke before the sounds of action around her could turn to the quorum’s end. “Wait.”

  She opened her eyes to find surprise and irritation sweeping around her. “There’s one more law I want to address.”

  It was Janx who answered, his tone deceptively mild. “We have only one other law common to us, Margrit. You wouldn’t have us do away with order altogether, would you?”

  “Your third exiling offense,” Margrit said with determination. A chill sliced through her but she kept her voice steady, as she did in a courtroom. With Alban at her side she’d been confident of the vote. He would support her. With Biali in his place, she doubted the outcome, but it had been five hundred years or more since the last quorum. She would literally never have another chance. “Exile’s a much more civilized response to murder than our system has, but if we’re looking at your laws, that one needs changing, too. Even our laws allow for self-defense and acting to protect someone else.”

  Kaimana suddenly relaxed, becoming the casual islander he’d seemed when Margrit had first met him. “I hear that ‘he needed killing’ is still a viable defense in Texas.”

  Margrit flashed a smile. “I’ve never looked it up to see if that was true. I’d be too disappointed if it weren’t.” Humor faded, leaving her looking from each member of the Old Races to the next. “What happens if one of you challenges another? I know Alban’s been in a fight like that. What if he’d shown no mercy?”

  “Then he would have been exiled for it.” Malik’s reply was implacable.

  Margrit gave up all pretense of formality and rolled her eyes. “Thereby removing two people from your already limited gene pool instead of one. What if one of you loses her mind and does something to endanger you all? What if the only way to stop someone like that is by killing her? Would you exile the one who moved to save all your people? You’ve got no compunction against killing humans to protect your secrets. Does the same law apply to your own, or are humans now just dumb breeding material, not worth thinking of as living, intelligent beings?”

  “None of our people would be so reckless,” Kaimana said with certainty.

  Margrit took a deep breath. “Ask Biali about that.”

  The gargoyle straightened, as much a display of shock as she’d ever seen from his kind, and gave her a wary look that sharpened into anger.

  Janx, his voice still mild, said, “My dear Margrit, have you some proof that Biali has been murdering our kind, or has otherwise lost his mind?”

  Margrit muttered, “I’m not sure any of you are all that stable,” before lifting her voice to say, “No, but he might be able to provide some interesting insights about the changing nature of the Old Races.”

  “Biali?” Daisani’s voice carried a note of command that the gargoyle responded to blandly.

  “The lawyer’s not a fool, even if she’s human. All of us know about doing things we would never have dreamed of a few centuries ago. Who’s to say human madness can’t creep in along with human behavior?”

  As Biali spoke, Janx turned a sudden look on Margrit, his lips pursed and his jade eyes bright. Her heart lurched, a telltale sound to ears like Janx’s, and the thoughtful curiosity in his eyes blazed into private delight. “Let us vote,” he said abruptly. “Margrit’s point is made, if not at the length she might wish, but we are not a people prone to debate. By age,” he proposed again, and Daisani, without preamble, opened his hand to reveal a black stone.

  Disappointment surged in Margrit’s belly as Janx and Kaimana locked eyes, the former making his from-the-waist bow a second time that evening. “I defer,” he said politely. “I shall vote at the last.”

  Giving himself the balance to tip, if it came to that, Margrit thought. Kaimana nodded and followed Daisani’s lead, not waiting for the formal question to be put to him before he, too, opened his hand to show a black stone.

  Dismay surged through Margrit again, though Kaimana’s claim against the potential folly of people belonging to the Old Races tempered her surprise. Malik, too, turned up a black stone, though that, at least, came as expected. Alban would have voted her way, but with Biali at the table… She’d tried, she told herself. She’d tried, and at least Janx was likely to vote her way. It wouldn’t be an utter rout, and perhaps it would signify a move toward getting the changes in law that she hoped for.

  Biali turned his attention to Margrit, his scarred face dark with consideration. She met his gaze with as much forthright openness as she could, though her chest hurt with the possibility of defeat. Though he’d shown tiny bursts of crass emotion during the meeting, she could no longer read anything in his eye. It left her with a sense of being judged, and found wanting.

  He put his hands on the table with slow deliberation, still watching her, and then suddenly his ugly smile shaped his features as he opened his fingers.

  The same hand he’d opened twice before. Margrit’s breath caught, sending another painful lurch through her chest.

  A white stone sat in Biali’s palm.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  A RUSH OF NOISE filled Margrit’s ears, heat rushing through her entire body as she stared at Biali’s vote in disbelief. He dropped the stone on the table and leaned back, thick arms fold
ed across his broad chest. Only Janx’s flourish to Margrit’s left took her attention away from the gargoyle’s vote. She looked toward the dragon with a sense of curious unreality.

  Janx rolled his stone in his palm, bringing it up to display between his thumb and forefinger before he laid it on the table with a soft click of finality. It gleamed white, a final show of support for Margrit’s cause.

  “Three and three. The law stands. Biali?” Daisani looked toward the history-taker with expectation.

  The gargoyle shoved back from the table and stood, a block of flesh solid as a wall. “It’ll go in the memories, and anyone looking to see how it came to pass just has to ask. Any more surprises, lawyer?”

  “No.” Margrit’s voice cracked and she pulled her eyes from the white stone Biali had abandoned on the table. “No, I think that pretty much took care of it. I don’t know about any other laws that need rewriting.”

  “Then we’re done.” Biali stumped out of the boardroom with no more ceremony than that. Malik followed him, leaving Margrit alone with three elders of the Old Races.

  Janx stepped up to her side, eyes bright green with interest. “I believe you and I have some things to discuss. Perhaps I could escort you home. If you’ll have me, of course.”

  “There’s a question you may hear regularly, Miss Knight.” Daisani, full of teasing formality, appeared beside Janx. “An attractive, intelligent woman already conversant with the Old Races, when we’ve just agreed to change our laws of survival. All sorts of propositions may come your way.”

  Margrit blurted, “I need to talk to Biali,” and Daisani clucked his tongue in overweening dismay.

  “I’m shocked. Had I guessed who our young Knight might choose as her squire, it would certainly not have been Biali. Generations of children who might have been weep in despair. Margrit, if you’re returning to the ball, I’d be delighted to claim another dance.”

  “Sure.” She nodded as Daisani left the room, then turned toward Janx. Kaimana, still on the other side of the table, offered a very brief smile that sent an unexpected chill over Margrit’s skin. She believed the choices she’d pushed the Old Races to were the right ones, but the arrogance of that belief came back to her as she saw self-satisfaction in Kaaiai’s expression. He, like Biali, seemed to have nothing more to say, and left her standing alone with Janx.

  The red-haired crimelord offered his elbow, all graceful politeness, and looked pleased when Margrit took it. “I remember a time when you wouldn’t let me touch you, much less take your arm or share a dance,” he murmured. “Have you softened toward the hardened criminal, Margrit?”

  Remembered irritation rose up at the casual, dismissive way Janx had captured a lock of her hair in his fingers the first time they’d met. Margrit banished the memory with effort, trying to distance herself from the emotion. “It wasn’t your occupation that made me angry. It was the arrogant possessiveness. You don’t go around handling people like objects just because you think you can.”

  “On the contrary.” Janx pulled the door open, amused, and escorted Margrit toward the elevators.

  She huffed, trying not to share his laughter. “You shouldn’t. And you certainly shouldn’t do it to me.”

  “Or you’ll very nearly bite my hand, as I recall. I’ve learned caution. I’d like you to tell me about a name I once gave you, Margrit.” The elevator doors chimed closed behind them and Janx leaned on one reflective brass wall, full of falsely casual interest. “Tell me about Ausra.”

  A new wave of surprise washed through her, part of an endless ebb and flow. Margrit was unexpectedly grateful for the sleep she’d gotten that morning. Without it, the ceaseless exchange of high emotion would overwhelm her. As it was, she felt like staggering under its weight, and wished Alban were at hand so she could lean on his strength. She needed to talk to Biali, but she wanted to talk to Alban, to find out why he’d given up his place in the quorum so readily. To ask why he’d abandoned her, though an itching conviction told her choosing that word was unfair. “Is that why you voted on my behalf?”

  Janx gave a liquid shrug. “I voted with you because I enjoy upsetting the balance, though I’ll confess surprise at how badly it was upset tonight. But I’m reminded that I gave you a name—and a priceless stone—and I’ve heard nothing of either since.”

  “I gave the sapphire to Alban,” Margrit said flatly. The egg-shaped stone had held a star within it, translucent blue and milky white making up the bulk of its color, though a fragile spot of lilac had marked one end. It had been a gift from Alban to Hajnal hundreds of years earlier, and had ended up in Janx’s hands through Ausra and a corrupt policeman. “Take it up with him.”

  “Why, Margrit.” Janx’s tones were injured. “You promised you’d return it.”

  “Actually, I think you promised I’d return it. I never said I would. And even if I did…” Margrit smiled. “I lied.”

  “It’s wonderful,” Janx muttered, “that you feel confident in telling me that. I must be losing my touch. Ausra, my dear,” he said more clearly. “Tell me about Ausra.”

  “She blamed Alban for something he hadn’t done,” Margrit said bluntly. “She was killing people and trying to frame him for it, no matter what happened to the rest of the Old Races. She almost killed me.”

  “Ah. Nereida Holmes, your attacker this winter. I see.” Interest glittered in Janx’s eyes. “She had a daytime life, Margrit. A job, family, friends.”

  “She was Hajnal’s daughter, not Alban’s. Her father was human, a man who’d captured Hajnal.”

  “And you fought her off. An attacker with easily two or three times your strength.”

  “What’s the penalty for one of us killing one of you, Janx?” Margrit asked.

  Janx slid a sour jade glance at her. “Ask Saint George. Ask Beowulf or Ulysses. Look to your legends, Margrit, and answer that yourself.”

  “Immortality?” Margrit breathed the question, less humor in it than she’d intended. “That’s not what I meant, Janx, and you know it. What do your people do to us?”

  “We retaliate when we can. If we know the guilty party. If he doesn’t have a reputation for destroying seven of us in a single blow.”

  “So I’m better off keeping my mouth shut over what happened with Ausra. Let’s just work under the principle that it’s not unreasonable to hope that if the Old Races’ strictures are loosened for you, they might be bent for me.”

  “You have bent us so far we struggle not to break, Margrit.” Janx spoke lightly, but steel lined his words. “Change doesn’t come easily to our people, and we’ve upset the balance greatly tonight.”

  “How is it that five of you can make these kinds of decisions for your entire people? We’d have gone through public hearings and arguments, and the whole process would’ve taken years.”

  “Malik can’t,” Janx admitted freely. “Unless he’s faced the rite of passage. Succeeding would give him the voice he needs among the djinn to have his arguments heard.”

  “The rite of passage. You both mentioned that earlier. What is it?”

  “A challenge, usually within the tribe. He’ll have chosen a leader he thinks can be defeated and try to bring him down, thereby gaining that position. I wonder who he defeated. I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him.”

  A knot tied in Margrit’s stomach. “Within the tribe or the race?”

  Janx looked askance at her and she swallowed. “What if he’s far enough removed from the djinn to think of other people as his own? What if you’re the leader he wants to take down? Does he have to have already done it to stand for his people?”

  “Perhaps not if they’re very confident of his success, but I think not, Margrit. Not with this morning’s attempt on his own life. He’s badly shaken, or he’d have never approached you.” Janx pursed his lips in thought, then smiled brilliantly. “And I think that if I were him and intended on challenging me, I would have voted to overturn our third law. It would be ill-advised to strike at me withou
t killing.”

  Margrit sighed. “Yeah, that’s true enough. God, what have I gotten myself into?”

  Janx turned an unexpectedly sympathetic look on her. “It isn’t often that a human finds herself so thoroughly ensconced in our world. I wish I could be reassuring and promise that all will be well, but historically, it hasn’t worked that way. Our good, true Stoneheart may yet come to regret speaking to you that night.”

  Margrit managed a weak smile. “Somehow I get the impression that I wouldn’t necessarily be around in this scenario to share his regrets.”

  “Ours isn’t an especially kind world, Margrit, not even to those of us born to it. I would warn you toward caution, but—”

  “It’d be crying over spilled milk. Thank you, Janx,” Margrit said dryly. “I think, now that I’m feeling so reassured, that I’ll find Alban and have him drop me off on a nice high mountaintop until you’ve all settled this new way of—You didn’t tell me.” She broke off accusingly. “You didn’t tell me why you could make this decision for your whole race.”

  “No.” Janx smiled merrily and stepped back with an extravagant bow. “I didn’t. Good evening, Margrit Knight.” He turned on his heel and strode back toward the ballroom, leaving her with a helpless laugh on her lips.

  A peculiar ripple went through the ballroom as Margrit entered a few minutes later. Dark-eyed faces turned toward her briefly, beginning with those nearest the balcony and washing out to the edges, like a stadium wave effect. She saw one or two who were familiar: Cara Delaney, whose enigmatic smile made her seem much older than she had only a month or two earlier. Kaimana Kaaiai, who acknowledged her as solemnly as he had in the boardroom. His personal assistant, Marese, didn’t smile, but something in her expression suggested approval.

  And in the rest of the faces she saw thanks, admiration, delight, excitement. Selkie faces, all of them, dotted among the oblivious humans at the party. It would have been a formidable source with only mortals as attendees; with the selkie ranks swelling the guest list, there were over a thousand people swirling through Daisani’s ballrooms.