“Treason is a capital offense with the Euro Sanguire, we understand that,” Castillo interrupted before Valmont could egg Nijmege into further tantrums. “We’re not attempting to undermine that, we’d just like to know what constitutes a treasonous action in the European government. If a treaty is signed, will another member state inadvertently break laws while visiting your country out of ignorance? What will the repercussions be?”
“This is useless! We’ll never make a pact anyway.”
Valmont chuckled. “Meaning, no, Padre.” He pointed a thumb at Dorst sitting across from him. “Maybe Reynhard can give you a hand in that regard.”
“I’d be most happy to assist you, Father Castillo.” Dorst almost preened, his actions lightening the tense atmosphere in the room.
Castillo, still vaguely irritated, nodded in appreciation. “Thank you, Reynhard. Perhaps we can talk when this meeting is concluded.”
“Which would be now,” Whiskey said. “We’ve gotten little done, and I need a break. We’ll continue this tomorrow.”
Bentoncourt nodded, his tone disgruntled. “I’ll have more pertinent documents available first thing in the morning.”
Nijmege opened her mouth to snipe but stopped at a sharp look from McCall. Whiskey imagined she’d planned on saying something about the Nam Lugal of the Agrun Nam doing footwork like an errand boy. Instead, Nijmege’s lips pinched closed and she looked away.
Bentoncourt continued. “I expect I can have the data in less than an hour. Do you wish to continue after a brief recess?”
Whiskey turned her attention from McCall’s indiscreet interference. “No, Lionel. I think we’re done here for now. We’ll meet again tomorrow.”
“Of course, Ninsumgal.”
All eyes shot to Bentoncourt at his use of her title. That’s new. His compatriots didn’t seem pleased, but Dorst’s pleasure shot off the scale. Whiskey didn’t bother to call attention to Bentoncourt’s slip—if slip it was. She straightened from her slouch. “This meeting is adjourned for the day. We’ll gather again at nine tomorrow morning.” She banged the gavel and the rustle of movement filled the air.
“I hadn’t expected that,” Margaurethe murmured as she gathered papers.
“Me neither.” Whiskey tapped her stack of paperwork into some order, watching Nijmege across the table. “Doesn’t look like they did, either.”
Margaurethe raised her voice. “Lionel, we’ll be having a small dinner party this evening downstairs. The Agrun Nam’s invitations have already been delivered to your quarters.”
“Thank you, Ki’an Gasan. I’ve enjoyed your chef during my stay.” Bentoncourt patted his abdomen. “Enough so that I believe I’ve gained ten pounds since I’ve arrived.”
“Matthew is excellent, isn’t he?” Margaurethe asked, coming around the table to join Bentoncourt. Her gait was smoother, the heavy brace having been replaced with a lighter version. She placed an arm in Bentoncourt’s and escorted him to the door, followed by Castillo and Dikeledi.
Whiskey watched her lover play hostess, her gaze flickering over the others collecting their things. She gave Jake a hand signal as she left the table and her bodyguard returned it, remaining behind to tidy up the table. This wasn’t one of her duties, but Whiskey had to make herself approachable by Nijmege. Though Jake didn’t like it, they both knew that neither Nijmege nor McCall would attempt assassination. Nijmege had her goal and McCall was content to follow her lead for the moment.
Nijmege’s eyes narrowed, jumping over to Jake’s physical distance. She glanced at McCall—something passed between them—but didn’t approach. Instead, she turned and swept away on the heels of Dikeledi, McCall in tow.
Frowning, Whiskey released her pent-up breath. “Damn.”
Dorst’s musical tones stopped her from saying more. “Perhaps our darling Bertrada is not as eager as she claims to be.”
“Or darling Samuel is holding her back,” Valmont agreed, though his voice was sardonic as he gazed at the Agrun Nam’s retreating backs.
“It could also be that she requires a different audience, Ninsumgal.”
Whiskey turned to Jake who had reappeared at her side. “What do you mean?”
“Everyone here knows what she’s doing and why. If she were to cause challenge in a private setting, there’s the chance that you won’t make it a public duel. She needs that publicity, not only to prove to the world that she can and will destroy you, but because it won’t offer you an opportunity to sweep her under the rug.”
Dorst tapped his fingertips together in overt joy at his protégé’s analysis. “Oh, I do love how you think, young woman. You make me proud!” He rolled his eyes heavenward and placed a palm against his chest in paternal bliss.
Both Whiskey and Jake smiled at his theatrics. “Then this dinner party should be where it happens.” Whiskey nodded, squaring her shoulders. “I hope so. I’m tired of waiting.”
Valmont clapped her on the shoulder. “As am I.”
Chapter Thirty
This dinner party was considered small. In reality that meant approximately seventy-five guests rather than three or four hundred milling about. Several round tables sparkled with candles and china place settings, some seats already occupied with delegates. Chano commanded The Davis Group table at the front of the room, chatting with Dikeledi’s daughter and Daniel. Dikeledi held conversation with the Mayans at another table, probably working on a clause of their upcoming treaty. As usual, Dorst had made himself scarce. People tended to avoid him due to his reputation and his presence would have put a pall on the evening. That didn’t mean he wasn’t here, lurking about as one of the servants. Margaurethe counted herself lucky that the remainder of Whiskey’s pack held a stunning lack of interest for these types of functions. At last report from security, they were holding an impromptu party in the poolroom, too gratified at the lightening of restrictions to care about a fusty dinner party.
The majority of the dinner guests still hovered just inside the entry where a wine bar was doing brisk business. Tall cabaret tables and servers offering hors d’oeuvres peppered the open space here. A gentle murmur of conversation ebbed and flowed as people mingled, a small lake of formal attire moving with the tide of gossip.
For a wonder, Sithathor and Margaurethe had gotten Whiskey into a stunning black evening gown. Despite adamant argument against the dress, she wore it well. Black satin and backless, it clung in all the proper places, showing off her narrow waist and the swell of her hips, the material flaring at the thigh as it flowed to the floor. Blessed with a natural grace, Whiskey appeared to have often worn such clothing. The muscles of her arms and back spoke of her martial arts training, the dragon tattoos writhing boldly along her right arm. Her blond hair had been pulled back at the sides, the normally straight tresses tumbling down in a wave of curls, which Sithathor had insisted was an integral part of the appearance.
Margaurethe sipped at her wine, admiring the view as Whiskey spoke with three of the Japanese delegates. Elisibet had always preferred men’s clothes to women’s as well, but even her lofty station hadn’t protected her from the cultural norms of her day. Most state functions had required her to dress appropriately for her gender. Whiskey wasn’t as socially inclined, preferring pantsuits—the more utilitarian the better. Her attempts to wear cargo pants and leather jackets to formal functions were based on serious consideration, and Margaurethe had used it to their benefit since the Agrun Nam had arrived.
Margaurethe wondered if perhaps she should have gotten pictures of Whiskey this evening when she’d had the opportunity. It might take a decade before Whiskey could be cajoled into another outfit like this. She’d conceded to the ensemble only as a means to an end. Hopefully a less androgynous appearance would give Nijmege a sense of power, and she’d push harder to achieve her challenge before the end of the night…providing Margaurethe didn’t find cause to kill the witch first.
Valmont sidled up to her, brandy glass in hand. Taking position at her side,
he turned to regard their Ninsumgal. “She looks spectacular. Your work?”
“And Sithathor’s.” They shared a smile, and Margaurethe studied the room. Since their private discussion three days ago, she’d found Valmont’s presence much less irritating. Somehow they’d reached a state of amity that had been missing since their strained reunion several months ago. The lack of spitefulness oddly relaxed her. She located Nijmege with her knot of delegates near Whiskey’s table and became restive once more. Nijmege held court with a handful of guests, including Margaurethe’s mother, the group casting sly smiles toward Whiskey upon occasion. Margaurethe wished Orlaith had departed before now but knew such a boon was too much to ask for. “Do you think Bertrada will get this over with?”
“One can hope.” Valmont followed her gaze. “Looks like she has quite the following there. McCall, your sainted mother and a couple of the Chinese ambassadors. Is that Singh from the Indian consulate?”
“Yes.” Margaurethe lowered her glass, grimacing. “He’s been swayed by Bertrada’s opinions it appears.”
“Huh.” Valmont sipped his wine. “I doubt it. He seems to be a fair-weather friend. I find it hard to believe that the Chinese and the Indians are willing to overlook their differences for a situation occurring half a world away.”
Margaurethe tilted her head toward Whiskey’s interaction with the Japanese contingent. “Which is worse for China? Dealing with the Japanese or the Indians?”
“Excellent point. Six of one, half dozen of the other. It could easily be the Indians conversing with Whiskey and the Japanese by Bertrada.” They stood in companionable silence for several moments before he spoke again. “About Whiskey’s plans…”
“Yes?”
“Has she discussed the issue of her second with you?”
Margaurethe studied her wine. Though a part of her knew that Valmont would be the best choice among Whiskey’s colleagues for the upcoming battle, she dreaded the thought of Valmont at Whiskey’s side. She didn’t know if it was mere jealousy or the niggling doubt that he’d betray Whiskey once more. “No. She hasn’t mentioned who she’s considering.”
He stood in long silence, before asking, “And are you on board with this plan?”
Margaurethe gave him a slight grimace. “To be honest? Not as much as I should be. I’d much rather you and I sort it out than put her in danger.”
He shrugged, regarding his glass. “That’s still an option. Bertrada’s not the European Ninsumgal. I can challenge her if I wish.”
“And then what?” Margaurethe looked at him. “If you die, Whiskey will be despondent and still have a price on her head. Bertrada is older than you, remember, she has more power.”
“You could join me as my second.”
Flabbergasted, Margaurethe knew she probably gaped like a dying fish. Before she could deny his words she snapped her mouth closed and turned away to stare at their dinner guests. Why hadn’t that thought occurred to her before? She ran her mind through all the variables, becoming more and more confident that it would work. Neither she nor Valmont could stand up to Nijmege alone, but the two of them together could sway the scales. It was the exact scenario Whiskey planned for only with different individuals involved. Yes, Whiskey would be infuriated, but she didn’t have the authority to intercede in a fully Euro Sanguire challenge, not being European. “Are you certain?”
Valmont’s dark eyes lit up. “Of course! Bertrada may know swords, but I’m better. She’ll probably still choose McCall on the basis of mental equilibrium.”
A twinge of uncertainty pierced Margaurethe’s hope. “That’s more than I have. I’ve never been one to dabble in the martial sports.”
“You’ve never put yourself into the position of dealing with challenges, either.” Valmont chuckled, lightly touching her forearm. “And all our reports say that McCall is even less inclined toward that sort of thing anyway.”
Margaurethe scowled. “No, he prefers hirelings to getting his hands dirty.”
“What do you say?”
She debated the idea. “Are we certain she’ll choose McCall as second?”
He scoffed. “Who else would accept? No one truly knows how powerful Whiskey is. They suspect, yes, but it’s not a known element. Bertrada can eat three younglings for breakfast without breaking a sweat. She doesn’t need muscle or power to help, even against the two of us.”
“She just needs to follow the proper rules for a duel.”
Valmont nodded affirmatively. “I’m certain she’s already discussed it with him. And I’m certain she’s assuming I’ll be involved as second anyway. From her point of view, she has a youngling and a younger man as opponents. McCall will simply be there to ensure propriety.”
The idea took firm root in her heart. Margaurethe was less than sixty years older than Valmont. Joined together, they would level the playing field if Nijmege chose McCall as her second. “It might work.”
“And we might be too late.” He stared over her shoulder with a scowl.
Margaurethe turned away, seeing Nijmege and her entourage bearing down upon Whiskey. Not yet! She hurried toward them, still awkward from the less restrictive binding on her injured leg, sloshing wine across her hand as she jostled an inconvenient guest. By the time she extricated herself, the incident had cost her several seconds delay. She arrived at Whiskey’s side, hearing Nijmege’s strident tones.
“—Should consider placing yourself in danger rather than cowering behind your family and friends for protection.”
A collective gasp rose from the witnesses, both those Nijmege had brought with her and the ones loitering nearby.
Whiskey’s eyes flashed at the invective, but she remained calm. “Is that the best you can do, Bertrada?”
“No, it’s not.” She closed the distance between them, fangs bared as she glared. That insult alone was cause for attack in polite Sanguire society. “You are a san-rabarra, sulum. You’re not ninsumgal. Nu me’en nata. You’re an unu narra.”
Margaurethe swelled in fury at Nijmege’s abuse. “You are a slave-bastard, covered in shit. You’re not ninsumgal. You do not exist. You’re a fraud.” Beside her, she felt Valmont do the same. She opened her mouth to give challenge herself, damn the consequences, but froze before the words could leave her mouth. Roses and blood caressed her, calmed her, held her still. She slid her eyes toward her lover, realizing that Whiskey also held Valmont silent. She dropped her gaze, knowing the moment was lost, and Whiskey immediately released her hold without retreating. Margaurethe felt her lover’s cold fury and determination.
“I challenge you, Bertrada Nijmege, for the affront you’ve given me now and all previous insults either within or outside of my hearing.” Whiskey bared her teeth, snarling at her enemy. “Put your money where your mouth is, bitch.”
Nijmege smiled, a flicker of glee glowed within her eyes. “Accepted! Shall we meet tomorrow?”
“No!” Valmont shouldered between them. “She hasn’t been released from her doctor yet.”
Margaurethe fought back nausea, glad Valmont, at least, was thinking clearer than she. “Only after she’s completely healed from her injuries.”
Nijmege sneered at the two of them. “Another day? Maybe two? I can wait that long.” Fangs still bared, she smiled at Whiskey. “And who shall the child call as her second, hmm?”
Whiskey tucked her chin. “You’ll know by the end of tomorrow.”
With a snort, Nijmege whirled about and paraded out of the room, Orlaith O’Toole in lockstep with her. McCall seemed a little pale but had a look of satisfaction upon his face as he followed.
Singh and his Chinese comrades suddenly realized they were in each other’s company, and awkwardly went their separate ways. This cued the other guests to drift away—the fight was over for the moment.
Margaurethe leaned close, taking Whiskey’s hand. “Do you need time?” She saw Jake hovering just behind Valmont and nodded toward the door.
“No.” Whiskey smiled, no longer app
earing angry or tense. “I’ll be fine until later. After all, we have guests.” She projected serenity beyond her years.
Margaurethe allowed herself to be escorted to their table, a morass of pride and fear whirling through her. The deed was done, the challenge called, and their goals would soon be realized or ruined. Whiskey had shed the fear and uncertainty in an effort to set her guests at ease. She was no longer the ungainly teenager trying to act mature in circumstances far beyond her abilities. Somehow she had evolved into this refined young Sanguire woman who would eventually rule a world.
As Margaurethe was seated at their table, she wondered when that had happened, and how she could keep up.
Chapter Thirty-One
Languid, Whiskey stretched and yawned, relishing the comforting bed warmth and the feel of the sheets as she came awake. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she opened them, turning her head toward her lover. Margaurethe remained asleep beside her. Whiskey rolled over, propping herself up on one elbow to get a better view.
Tousled mahogany hair splayed about Margaurethe’s face, its reddish highlights visible to Whiskey despite the darkness of the room. Though the taller of the two, Margaurethe’s delicate features were almost elfin in appearance compared to Whiskey’s. Those features were currently relaxed in repose, giving the impression she was only in her midtwenties. Stress and habit created fine lines about her mouth and eyes when she was awake, aging her another decade. Sometimes Whiskey had difficulty believing the woman at her side was in actuality almost seven hundred years old.
She shifted, twining a lock of Margaurethe’s hair about her fingers. Gently, she touched her lover’s mind, sampling the somnolent sensations there. Her movement or touch roused Margaurethe, and Whiskey traced along Margaurethe’s consciousness as it returned. When green eyes opened to look at her, she felt her heart flip in her chest. “I’ll never be able to express how much I love you, minn’ast,” she said, her voice rough from sleep.
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