Lady Dragon

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  “You’re most welcome, Ninsumgal.” Sithathor bowed.

  “Knock ’em dead,” Alphonse called after them.

  “Yeah! Break a leg!”

  Nupa snorted. “She’s not an actress, Zeb. She’s not going onstage.”

  “Want to bet?” Chaniya asked. “That’s exactly what she’s doing.”

  Margaurethe shifted her hand to Whiskey’s arm. Chaniya had the right of it; that was what Whisky was preparing to do—put on a show. Hiding her reluctance behind a mask of cheerfulness, she wished everyone well and left the apartment.

  In the elevator, surrounded by Jake, Margaurethe and a quartet of aga’gída, Whiskey stared at her reflection. She distracted herself from her blanched complexion by dropping her gaze to stare inward. Elisibet had distinctive opinions about the Agrun Nam. The trick would be to not let those predispositions get in the way of Whiskey’s reality. So far, she’d been able to do so with Dorst, Valmont and Margaurethe, but she’d had months to develop new experiences with them, to learn their strengths and weaknesses from a personal perspective. Other than last night’s reception, she’d had nothing but the Sweet Butcher’s violent genocidal policies and sentiments upon which to rely.

  The elevator opened, spilling its occupants into the lobby. More guards had been stationed here—too many. Whiskey narrowed her eyes, making a note to talk to Sasha about overstaffing. The present number didn’t make her safer so much as highlight fear to her enemies. Nijmege had probably taken one look at the amassed forces and felt a smug sense of joy that her unspoken threat had been the cause.

  The board awaited her a few paces away. Valmont had chosen an expensive suit today, looking like any high-powered businessman preparing a company merger. He was the only one of the trio who appeared modern despite his dreadlocked hair. Dorst wore his customary gothic leather, a sparkle of glee in his black eyes matching the glint from chrome spikes and snaps. Castillo’s cassock flowed to his feet, and he bowed at Whiskey’s approach. Chano wore jeans, soft boots and a simple button-up shirt. His concession to the diplomatic importance of this meeting was a red blanket he’d wrapped across his aged shoulders, fringes hanging from its edges and black woven designs showing the stylized artwork of his people. Dikeledi had also brought a dash of color, wearing a long orange boubou with purple and gold designs across the fabric, and large beaded earrings dangling from her lobes. Even Whiskey hadn’t dressed for a high-powered corporate meeting—she wore black leather pants and boots, a burgundy button-up shirt and a European-style black leather jacket.

  Whiskey’s small army stopped. “Good morning.” She nodded acknowledgment to her advisors. “Where are they?”

  “Already inside, Ninsumgal,” Jake answered before anyone else.

  She felt her heart leap as she glanced at the conference room’s double doors a few paces away. The man Margaurethe had hired as a herald stood there, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt. The aroma of mulled wine and woodsmoke warmed her, easing the roar of blood in her ears. She gave Margaurethe a smile. “Let’s get this started then.”

  Jake nodded, leading the way to the conference room. Before Whiskey got there, she had the doors open and two aga’usi deployed inside while she halted her charge’s advance. After the guards took a quick circuit of the room and its occupants, Jake nodded to the herald who stepped just inside the door.

  “Ninsumgal Whiskey Davis,” he announced, bowing. “President and CEO of The Davis Group.”

  Whiskey wanted to give in to her desire to flee. Instead, she tucked her chin and entered the room.

  The Agrun Nam ranged around the nearest end of the oval cherry wood table, leaving the far side available. Three had risen at the herald’s announcement. Whiskey expected Nijmege and McCall to show their stubborn disagreement, their seated forms no surprise. Nijmege in particular refused to even look in her direction as Whiskey took her place at the far end. The herald continued to announce everyone until the ample room filled. The new arrivals stood behind their chairs, and six aga’gída filed in to take stations on the perimeter. Jake stood at Whiskey’s right shoulder. The herald retreated, and the door guards backed out. The door closed with stark finality—it would remain shut until Whiskey called for it to open, whether in the next minute or the next week.

  “Thank you for coming,” Whiskey said. “Shall we be seated?” Taking her own words to heart, she did so, watching the others follow her lead. She felt markedly better now that she was no longer on shaky knees. Having the table between her and her opponents eased her nerves as well, though she knew it was merely a psychological advantage. If the Agrun Nam wanted to attack en masse, a wooden table wouldn’t stop them.

  Valmont and Margaurethe flanked her, Castillo and Chano on the far side of Valmont, and Dorst and Dikeledi beyond Margaurethe. As expected, Bentoncourt sat opposite, with Cassadie and Rosenberg on one side, Nijmege and McCall on the other.

  “Lionel, would you please open the meeting?” Whiskey felt Margaurethe become rigid as she handed the gavel to an aga’gída to deliver to the other end of the table. By asking Bentoncourt to start the procedure, Whiskey was allowing him to chair the meeting. This decision gave her visitors power over the proceedings.

  Bentoncourt appeared pleased that Whiskey allowed him the honor. He tapped the gavel before him. “I hereby call this meeting of the Agrun Nam and The Davis Group Board of Directors to order.” His voice was gruff but pleasant. “I believe the Agrun Nam’s first order of business is whether or not to recognize Ms. Davis as official heir to Ninsumgal Elisibet Vasillas.”

  The already tense atmosphere thickened. There it was, baldly stated, the elephant in the room. Its mention so soon in the caucus surprised Whiskey. None of her talking points had touched on this. Her goal was to negotiate a treaty with the Europeans just as she had with the American Indians and the Africans, not take over as the Euro leader. She glanced at her advisors. Castillo was openly agape at Bentoncourt’s audacity. Margaurethe and Valmont hid their astonishment with practiced ease, though both stared with rapt fascination. Dorst smiled in serene pleasure while Chano and Dikeledi calmly watched the proceedings.

  Whiskey resisted the urge to jump into the silence. Until this motion was up for debate, she had no place to speak. By yielding control to Bentoncourt, this had become a meeting of the Agrun Nam, not The Davis Group. Castillo had pounded Roberts Rules into her head for months, she couldn’t interfere until the proper time. The wait was going to kill her.

  “I move we vote on the matter,” Cassadie said.

  “I second the motion,” Rosenberg intoned beside him.

  Bentoncourt glanced to his right at his two mute companions. “The motion to vote on Ms. Davis’s legitimacy has been put forward and seconded. All for?”

  Two hands rose into the air. Whiskey didn’t need Dorst’s intelligence report to have predicted the split. She almost smiled at the faint resignation curling Bentoncourt’s lips.

  “Those opposed?”

  Nijmege and McCall immediately responded. Rosenberg didn’t bother to respond to Cassadie’s grimace for his abstention.

  Bentoncourt sighed. “The floor is open for arguments.”

  Perching her elbows on the table, Whiskey leaned her chin on joined hands. Most of her directors watched the proceedings with polite interest. Valmont gave an audible groan and leaned back in his chair, preparing for a long haul. McCall shot Valmont a look of distaste. Whiskey intercepted an unruly grin from her friend. She reached out with her mind to rein in Valmont’s natural sarcasm, not wanting him to piss off the Agrun Nam. Not yet, anyway. In response to her mental tap, he gave a soft snort and looked away.

  “Unless there’s been some new development,” McCall began, “there is no evidence genetically linking Ninsumgal Elisibet with Ms. Davis. She cannot be Elisibet’s heir if she isn’t of the same lineage. In fact,” he said, waving in her direction, “her familial background is a complete mystery.”

  Bentoncourt looked across the room. “Father Castil
lo, you were involved in that investigation. Have you turned up any new evidence?”

  Castillo looked at Whiskey, asking permission to speak. She nodded, and he smiled as he stood. “Yes, Nam Lugal, I have. While all formal European inquiries into Ninsumgal Whiskey’s lineage have met with dead ends, we have discovered she is a member of the American Indians through her mother. We are still searching for information on her father, whom we only know by name.”

  This appeared to be news to Nijmege. “You mean to say she’s half Indian?” Before anyone could respond, she scoffed, a grin doing nothing to soften the hard angles of her face. “Unless her father is a direct descendant of Maximal Vasillas, this motion is out of order.”

  “What’s the matter, Bertrada? Nervous?”

  Whiskey frowned and kicked Valmont under the table.

  Bentoncourt used the distraction. “We’re straying from the issue. Let’s stay on topic. I don’t want to be here all day and night.”

  “Hear, hear,” Dorst whispered, tapping his fingers together in quiet applause.

  Whiskey gave him a significant look, wondering if she’d have to monitor him too. His expression turned contrite though his eyes remained high-spirited.

  “Whether or not Ms. Davis is of the same lineage of Elisibet is moot,” Rosenberg said. “Had Elisibet announced an heir not of her blood, that person would be leading us now. Genetics have nothing to do with the issue at hand.”

  “True enough.” Cassadie looked across the table. “So, Samuel, Bertrada, your argument is invalidated. Shall we vote again?”

  “To what end?” McCall asked. “It will remain the same—two for and two against with an abstention.”

  “So we come to the meat of the matter,” Bentoncourt said. “What will it take to sway your vote?”

  “More than you can possibly pay,” Nijmege growled.

  McCall stopped her words, leaning forward. “I suggest a regent, someone to oversee the ruling of our kingdom until Davis can be legitimized.”

  Whiskey blinked in surprise and scanned her advisors for their responses. Margaurethe was rapidly angering. She knew that most of the people across this table had ordered Elisibet’s death. This political tap-dancing did nothing to change that. To Margaurethe’s mind, Whiskey was the embodiment of Elisibet and should be returned to power immediately. She’d worked toward that goal half her adult life. Chano seethed at the implied insult of Nijmege’s tone regarding Whiskey’s parentage. Castillo remained calm, as did Dorst, though the spy revealed a trickle of amusement at her prying. Valmont simply shook his head, his expression one of pity. Only Dikeledi seemed unperturbed by the Agrun Nam conversation.

  “A regent?” Cassadie asked, voice incredulous. “We’ve been in power for centuries, and now you suggest we give control to a third party?”

  “It certainly beats giving it to an untried youth whose validity is in question,” McCall said.

  Whiskey slowly sat back in her seat, frowning. She had called and they had come at her order. Though they argued about her place in their government, they subconsciously believed it was at the head of it. Rather than discuss mutual support and economic growth, obligations toward and equality with other coalition members, or pursuit of the common good for all Sanguire they chose to start off their negotiations with this. Their system was flawed, but they didn’t seem to be aware of the schism. They had broken it when they hadn’t replaced the Sweet Butcher, limping along as a royal parliament without a monarch.

  Bentoncourt hammered the gavel to gain order. “Either she is our ninsumgal or not—that is the question we are currently debating. Once the vote is finished we can discuss avenues for the transfer of power.”

  Nijmege glowered at Whiskey, her hatred palpable without mental project.

  Robert’s Rules be damned. Whiskey stood up to be recognized.

  “Chair recognizes Jenna Davis.”

  “I believe the Agrun Nam has misconstrued my reasons for calling them here. I do not seek recognition nor do I wish to become the leader of the European people.” Whiskey felt Margaurethe’s disgruntlement. Nothing would have pleased her more than to have Whiskey anointed European Ninsumgal just to disrupt their lives. Doing that would jeopardize what The Davis Group was created for, however, and that was to unite the Sanguire peoples worldwide under a single banner.

  Cassadie leaned forward, frowning. “You do not seek to reinstitute your monarchy?”

  “I do not.” Whiskey grinned at his confusion, not pointing out that his words confirmed the European monarchy was hers for the taking. She gestured to her advisors. “We wish to negotiate an agreement between the European Sanguire and The Davis Group, nothing more.” Her lips widened into a smile. “And to put an end to the hostilities that have been directed toward me from your esteemed council.”

  Cassadie’s glance flickered toward Nijmege but he said nothing.

  “Then I stand corrected.” Bentoncourt lifted his chin to Whiskey. “My apologies. We’ll postpone this motion indefinitely.” He tapped the gavel. “Would you prefer to discuss another topic?”

  “I would.” She turned to Jake at her shoulder, giving her a stack of papers that Margaurethe had brought. “I move that the European Sanguire and The Davis Group become diplomatic allies.”

  Dorst again tapped his fingers together in delight. “Oh, I must second that motion!”

  “We’ve taken the liberty of drawing up an agenda, which Zi Agada Jacobsen is distributing. It contains the general outline of previous diplomatic arrangements The Davis Group has made with the Wi Wicipi Wakan of North America and the Southern African Commonwealth. I thought it would be a good starting point.” She resumed her seat, watching as each sanari received their agenda. Forcing her shoulders to relax, she focused on the topics at hand. Now maybe they could get some work done.

  Chapter Ten

  Whiskey threw herself into an armchair, scrubbing her face in weariness. Her board of directors trailed in behind her, Jake closing the door and taking position just inside. Helen, Whiskey’s receptionist, had arranged a lunch buffet. It filled her office with the aroma of sliced meats, potato salad and the tang of dill pickles. Margaurethe immediately opened the concealed liquor cabinet behind Whiskey’s desk to retrieve beverages. Castillo joined her, accepting a chilled bottle of root beer.

  Chano sank onto the couch, his bones almost creaking aloud. Long tedious hours of negotiation took so much out of the elderly American Indian. Sometimes Whiskey wondered if she should ask for someone else from the Wi Wicipi Wakan to represent their government on the board. Chano had taken the post because of his age and wisdom as well as his physical location—he lived in the Pacific Northwest. She couldn’t imagine doing this without him, though. He scowled in her direction, his spirited gaze reminding her about judging books by their cover.

  Without invitation, Valmont followed Whiskey’s lead, going so far as to drape a long leg over one arm of his chair. “Dear God, I’d forgotten how much I hate these things.”

  Relieved by his diversion, Whiskey looked away from Chano and grinned. “Me too.” The amusement they shared muted as Margaurethe set a glass of soda beside her. Displeasure surrounded her lover like a cloud, having been evident from the beginning of the meeting. Whiskey was unsure where it had come from. She’d successfully gotten the Agrun Nam onto the right path despite Nijmege’s attitude and Bentoncourt’s attempt to hijack the proceedings. Why was Margaurethe still angry? Had it been Whiskey initially granting Bentoncourt control of the proceedings or Nijmege’s constant nattering that had gotten under her skin?

  Valmont also noted Margaurethe’s negativity and pulled an apologetic face, though his smile didn’t fade. “Better you than me,” lay unspoken between them.

  Castillo also seemed uncharacteristically solemn where he remained beside the liquor cabinet, not rejoining the others. Whatever was eating at Margaurethe also had a solid bite on him. Whiskey ran through the morning’s discussions in her mind. Her initial agenda had covered gener
al topics—nation-states obligations, mutual support and economic growth, and issues of equality and justice. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that hadn’t been discussed in meetings with the Mayans, Africans or American Indians. It had to have something to do with the European ninsumgal motion. The rest had been nothing more than the standard opening salvo of a political dialogue.

  Dorst approached the buffet, rubbing his palms together. “If I may, Ninsumgal? I find that tedious political maneuverings weaken me beyond endurance. I’m most famished.”

  “Go ahead, Reynhard.” His distraction gave Margaurethe the opportunity to move back to the bar and avoid a quiet word. Whiskey pushed away a stab of irritation, both at Dorst’s interruption and Margaurethe’s unknown issue.

  Valmont pulled himself to his feet. “I’ll second that. Do you want anything?” he asked as Dikeledi joined them.

  Still frowning, Whiskey waved him away, standing herself. “No, go ahead. I’ll get something in a minute.” At the cabinet, Margaurethe busied herself with a sweet tea for which Chano had a particular fondness. “You want to tell me what the problem is? You’ve both been pretty quiet.”

  Neither spoke. Castillo studied his bottle with interest, and Margaurethe stared over Whiskey’s head in thought. The others turned away from the food to watch the proceedings from the corners of their eyes, an ingrained reaction to protect their backs from potential danger.

  A hint of anger teased Whiskey’s heart, the familiar sensation reminding her that Elisibet’s first inclination to the unknown was belligerence. Despite intimate knowledge of her inner emotionalism, her annoyance grew. “Any time now,” she said. “We can’t work together if we don’t discuss things.”

  Castillo sighed and gave her a direct look. “I find it disappointing that you had the opportunity to make a serious change, yet you threw it away. I believe Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe feels the same.”