Lady Dragon

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  “Really?” McCall glanced at the man being discussed. “Gods, another one. Where does he get them?”

  “Jealous?”

  He snorted. “Hardly. I’m surprised he keeps his mind on international affairs. Do you think all of his ambassadorial abilities run toward bedding world leaders?”

  Nijmege’s mouth twitched. “Someone had to take Elisibet’s place in that arena.”

  “With Davis here, perhaps she’ll reclaim her diplomatic crown.”

  A bubble of irritation popped her idle response before it could be voiced. They had to focus, especially now that they were deep within enemy territory. “Aiden has accused me of continuing with my intentions regarding Davis.”

  That got McCall’s attention. He gave her a sharp look, brow furrowed. “What did he say?”

  “He said I couldn’t have it both ways, that he knew I didn’t believe Davis wasn’t who she claimed. Aiden is under the assumption that I plan to kill Davis for what Elisibet did to Nahib.”

  “It’s to be expected, I suppose, considering the manner in which you were outed several months ago.” McCall scanned their surroundings. “You think it came from Lionel?”

  “Oh, very, very much.” Nijmege sipped her wine.

  “Yet, here we are, minutes from meeting the young ninsumgal.” He studied his drink in thought. “We may have to change our plans.”

  “I won’t miss my chance, Samuel. I’m too close.”

  “We can always muck up the negotiations. The Agrun Nam has to be in unanimous agreement to accept terms like this.”

  Her laugh was bitter. “You’re so naïve, Samuel. We’ll sit in that session for years if we lock horns. No new business will be begun; no old business will be concluded. What will happen to the people we’re supposed to rule in that time?”

  He looked away with a sigh. “Are you suggesting voting in favor?”

  “What choice do we have?”

  His eyes grew distant in thought.

  “Once we’ve submitted to her control, my hands are tied. To challenge the ninsumgal is tantamount to treason against the realm. I may as well just lay down and die now.”

  “We’re looking at a business merger, not a governmental one,” McCall pointed out. “It might not equate to the same thing.”

  Nijmege scoffed. “Do you think that any treaty we sign with The Davis Group won’t have that stipulation in the contract?”

  “What if she challenges you?”

  Nijmege stopped and blinked.

  McCall grinned. “If she challenges you to judicial combat, you’ll have free reign to do as you please. Certainly, you’re more experienced with blades than she is; she’s a child! You’ve centuries of experience.”

  She listened with half an ear, running through the European legal complexities. Her responsibilities within their justice system gave her a wealth of information. It could work. All she had to do was incite Davis to call the challenge. “What if she’s appointed a Defender?”

  “If we move fast enough, it may be moot.” He touched her arm, strengthening their mental connection in the process. “Think about it. Who would she appoint, if anyone? Valmont the Traitor?” McCall laughed at the absurdity. “She says she has Elisibet’s memories. She’d be a fool to put Valmont back into the same position he held when he assassinated the Sweet Butcher.” He regarded the crowded foyer. “She’d never appoint Dorst or that silly little priest. The only people left are the old Indian and their newest member, Ambassador Dikeledi. Do you think the esteemed ambassador would accept the honor when she’s so new to her position?”

  Good God, it really could work. Frustration and anger faded away in light of the first real hope Nijmege had felt in months. It was almost finished. Soon her revenge would be complete, Nahib’s death avenged, as it should have been so long ago—by her hand, and no one else’s.

  “Maskim Sañar McCall, Bertrada.”

  Nijmege forced her mind back to her surroundings, finding a grim Orlaith O’Toole beside her. She tamped down her elation, setting aside the barely formed thoughts and plans until she could give them more attention.

  McCall formally bowed. “Gasan O’Toole, it’s a pleasure to see you here. I had no idea you were invited.”

  She smiled a greeting. “I wasn’t. I’m a gatecrasher.”

  “I see you’ve survived your first audience,” Nijmege said.

  “Yes. It was…intriguing, to say the least.”

  “Do tell,” McCall said, his interest obvious.

  Before Orlaith could regale them of her meeting with Davis, the dulcet sound of a bell rang through the foyer. Everyone in the room paused in their conversations, their eyes drawn toward the double doors that opened. The herald stood there, calling out in a clear voice, “Hear me! Hear me! Be welcome! It is my joyful privilege and duty to announce Ninsumgal Whiskey Davis of The Davis Group. Enter and be welcome!”

  Chapter Six

  Two aga’usi and Jake escorted Whiskey and Margaurethe from the private sitting room. In the corridor, she heard her guests still mingling in the crowded foyer beyond the black drape. Another pair of aga’usi had taken up positions at the double doors across the corridor, crowding the short expanse of hall. Unlike Whiskey’s Baruñal ceremony several months ago, there was no need to loiter in the hallway. After a brief check on the radio, Jake ordered the door to the ballroom opened and ushered Whiskey and Margaurethe inside.

  The room was smaller than the stately dinner affairs Whiskey had suffered in the past. One of the benefits of taking over a former hotel with banquet facilities was the use of the temporary walls built into the design. Since the guest list was only three hundred names long, the ballroom had been divided in half to accommodate the lesser number. Several tall cabaret and small cocktail tables were scattered about the room, each draped with black linen and lit by glowing burgundy tea lights. The walls held prominent tapestries bearing the colors and sigils of each Agrun Nam member’s house. Central to the room, two gorgeous buffets curved on either side of an ice sculpture. Whiskey raised an eyebrow at the crystalline scorpion adorning the center of the table. Margaurethe had argued for weeks against her choice of sigil, but certainly wasn’t shy in rubbing Whiskey’s political enemies’ noses in it when given half a chance.

  The aga’gída, her royal guard, stood at all the doors, each wearing a baldric of black, maroon and silver. She overheard frantic discussions from the service aisle as the staff made last-minute announcements. A handful of servers put final touches on the buffet, and bartenders manned the portable bars ensconced in two corners of the room.

  A low riser with a single chair and a side table sat at one end of the room. Hanging floor to ceiling behind it was the black and maroon banner with her stylized sigil, the silver threads glinting as air from a ceiling vent caused the material to shift. Though the overhead lights had been lowered to give a relaxed ambience, they also made the spotlight on the stage that much more striking. Whiskey frowned. Margaurethe hadn’t been able to sway the board of directors to introduce a formal throne into this reception, but she’d done everything else possible to create the illusion of royalty. She’d claimed it would put the Agrun Nam off their game if Whiskey were introduced in a manner that suggested she ruled them. Whiskey thought it would put them off in a completely different way. There was such a thing as overkill. It behooved her to keep the European sanari on their toes for as long as possible, but the line between pomp and insult was very fine. She wouldn’t be able to get away with removing the seat entirely, but…“Jake.”

  “Yes, Ninsumgal.”

  Whiskey pointed at the stage. “Find another chair like that. I think there’s one in the foyer, over by the restrooms. I want it placed on the stage, too.”

  “Of course, Ninsumgal.”

  As Jake spoke into her microphone, Margaurethe gave Whiskey a wary look. “What are you doing?”

  Whiskey smiled, patting Margaurethe’s arm where it hooked through hers. “What I told your mother I was doi
ng. You’re my equal in all things, minn’ast.” She felt Margaurethe stiffen, and her smile widened. “And if I have to suffer under a hot spotlight, so do you.”

  A flurry at one of the doors interrupted Margaurethe’s attempt to debate the issue. A matching chair was hustled into the room and placed on the stage. One of the aga’usi had the foresight to snag a server, and a pot of hot water and a teacup soon sat beside the bottled water on the side table.

  “Much better, don’t you think?”

  Margaurethe tried to scowl but failed. She leaned over to kiss Whiskey’s cheek. “It looks fine. Thank you.”

  Unable to stall any longer, Whiskey allowed herself to be escorted to the stage. She waited for Margaurethe to choose a chair, suddenly not sure on which side she was supposed to sit. There were so many rules and regulations about etiquette that she still hadn’t gotten them all straight and Elisibet’s memories didn’t always play out when she needed them. Her woefully poor knowledge of protocol perforated her confidence, deflating her. She swallowed hard as her nerves reminded her that she was moments away from meeting the Agrun Nam. Even if Elisibet’s memories were playing hide-and-seek, the emotions of betrayal and anger burned hot in Whiskey’s abdomen. Margaurethe sat in the left chair, and Whiskey settled in the remaining one with relief.

  “My Ninsumgal?”

  Whiskey darted a look over her shoulder. Jake had taken up position at her right shoulder. Two other aga’usi were stationed at either rear corner of the stage and two stood on the ground level before it. Jake raised her eyebrows in question, one finger to the earbud she wore. Her professional calm did much to ease Whiskey’s sudden attack of jitters. “Yeah, okay. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Margaurethe reached across the space separating them to take her hand, giving it a squeeze before releasing it. Jake murmured into her microphone and all the guards in the room suddenly seemed more alert. The door nearest the foyer was pushed open, and Whiskey heard the clear voice of the herald. “Hear me! Hear me! Be welcome! It is my joyful privilege and duty to announce Ninsumgal Whiskey Davis of The Davis Group. Enter and be welcome!”

  The sudden hush in the foyer didn’t last long as guests filtered into the room. When people of social status entered, the herald called out their names and ranks, just like in a bad movie. At least two-thirds of the visitors had been here before when Whiskey honored other visiting delegations. There might have been a hitch or two in step and speech as they noticed the stage and unusual seating arrangements, but they quickly overcame their surprise. Free food and drink was a universal balm regardless of station. It was just her imagination that all she heard was the blood pumping in her ears and the gentle creak of her leather jacket when she shifted in her chair. She cursed silently to herself as she realized her sunglasses were still in the sitting room. Too late for that particular crutch now.

  At least a third of the guests bowed to her as they drew near, heads tilted to reveal their throats. It wasn’t lost on Whiskey that they were all Sanguire and all wore her colors. Others nodded or smiled in greeting—delegation members and their support staff who had previously met with the board of directors, Human employees of The Davis Group, and local Sanguire and kizarusi who’d had the privilege of attending functions here before. Those that did neither were the Agrun Nam and their personnel. She thought it interesting that many of the latter looked to their sanari for a hint of proper procedure. They wanted to follow the protocol set by their peers, but weren’t sure they should.

  Whiskey straightened in her chair and lowered her chin, giving them all a good look at her. This was what they had come for, to verify who she was and who she would be. She always sympathized with animals in zoo exhibits during these functions, now more than ever. No doubt they thought her an animal, clad as she was in biker jacket and boots. It wasn’t the first impression she’d wanted to give to Orlaith O’Toole, but Margaurethe was right. Whiskey’s rough appearance would give her an added edge of protection for a short while, at least until the Agrun Nam ascertained she truly wasn’t Elisibet. Margaurethe indicated her approval of the stern pose by caressing Whiskey’s mind, leaving the smell of mulled wine and woodsmoke in its wake to drift across her senses.

  Whiskey’s gaze swept across the strangers and she picked out the Agrun Nam, locking eyes with each in turn. Bentoncourt appeared reserved as always, his true feelings hidden behind a mask of calm. Next to him stood his wife who avidly examined Whiskey in return. Rosenberg hovered along the rear wall, standing tall under Whiskey’s scrutiny. Both McCall and Orlaith O’Toole appeared unimpressed and bored with the proceedings. As expected, Nijmege glared back, tucking her chin in firm defiance.

  It was Cassadie who broke from the rest. He glided forward, stopping at the base of the dais so as not to alarm the guards, and bowed. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Davis. Aiden Cassadie at your service.”

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you as well, Aiden. I’d like to welcome the Agrun Nam to my home.” She lifted her voice and the attendees quieted, allowing her words to permeate the room. “Please, enjoy yourselves. We’re here to get to know one another better as we’ll all be working closely together.” She gestured to the orchestra that had used the break to move their instruments inside the room. They began to play again and the hushed buzz of conversation became louder to compensate.

  Whiskey felt her ears burning. She forced herself not to focus her superior hearing on the different discussions. Bentoncourt joined Cassadie and she tamped down a rush of nerves. She reached for Margaurethe’s hand, pulling her to her feet as she stood. “Come on. Let’s get this shit over with before I have a heart attack,” she murmured.

  A flurry of movement erupted from her security staff as she moved. She gave Jake an apologetic look, knowing she made their job more difficult. This was something that had to be done, however. Two aga’usi that had been floating through the crowd joined the pair already on the floor. They created a loose circle around her and Margaurethe. Four more positioned themselves on the dais, giving them a clearer field of fire.

  On the floor, Whiskey gave her guests a polite nod and offered her hand. “Lionel, Gasan Francesca.” It felt awkward to use their first names. Bentoncourt was almost as old as Chano, and his wife not that much younger. Margaurethe had said it was normal for a ruler to address her immediate underlings with such familiarity. They would be required to use her royal title when speaking to her. She wondered what response she’d receive in return.

  Bentoncourt’s dark eyes pierced her as he shook her hand. “Ms. Davis.” He bowed politely. “It’s good to see you again, Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe. It’s been some time.”

  Nice dodge. Whiskey, taking Francesca’s hand in greeting, almost heard the sarcastic remark burning the tip of Margaurethe’s tongue. She held her breath.

  “It certainly has, Lionel.” Margaurethe’s voice was smooth and hospitable. “And Francesca! It’s been many years since I’ve seen you. How have you been?”

  Relieved at Margaurethe’s restraint, Whiskey turned to Cassadie. He attempted to kiss her hand, but she was ready for him. It was best if he learned immediately that his glib tricks would be worthless against her. She firmly grasped his hand and pumped it twice, applying enough strength to get her point across. “Thank you for the greeting, Aiden. I wondered if everyone expected me to turn into a three-headed dog up there.”

  He grinned, an impish flicker in his eyes. “Between you and me, I think it was a valid concern.”

  She smiled, finding him exactly as Elisibet remembered—quick to adapt but strong in his convictions. Dorst’s reports had been quite thorough. Addressing the three of them, she said, “I hope your rooms met with your approval? If not—”

  “Oh, I like them very much,” Francesca interrupted. “We’ve a wonderful view of the river. What’s it called again?” She looked among them for answers.

  “The Willamette.” Whiskey recalled Margaurethe’s warning about Francesca’s air-headed
act. Elisibet had no memories of the woman Whiskey could use. By all reports, Francesca had never been to the Sweet Butcher’s court and had only married Bentoncourt within the last century. “It’s a tributary of the Columbia River north of here.”

  “I noticed quite a bit of boat traffic, too. Was that a cruise ship I saw just before we came downstairs?”

  Margaurethe stepped in to answer, interrupting Francesca’s distraction. “Why, yes. There’s a lunch and dinner cruise that operates most days.” She gave Whiskey a smile and wink. Releasing her arm, Margaurethe took Francesca’s and slowly guided her away. “Perhaps one day during your visit we can reserve it for our personal use.”

  “Oh, that would be brilliant.”

  “We have a concierge at the lobby desk. They have information on many excursions in the city and surrounding area.”

  Whiskey didn’t know if she should be relieved or worried as Margaurethe disappeared into the mass of people. Now nothing stood between her and two of the most powerful men in the European realm. She didn’t think Cassadie was much of a threat, at least not at the moment. The unknown here was Bentoncourt. Regardless of Castillo’s insistence that the Nam Lugal was loyal to her potential, his manner was more guarded than Elisibet’s memories indicated. Debating what to do next, she decided he would prefer a direct approach. She purposely turned to stare him down. “Well, Lionel? What do you see?”

  He frowned as he considered a response. Beside them, Cassadie radiated waves of amusement. “I see a replica of a tyrant, though you don’t look nearly as perilous as your portrait in the lobby. I see a child playing at being in charge, without knowing the consequences. I see,” and he paused, peering closer, “fear.”