Inner Sanctuary

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Having no answers, he rose and gathered his belongings. “I’m getting too old for this sort of thing.”

  Chapter Two

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Margaurethe clicked her tongue, giving Whiskey a slightly exasperated look. She adjusted the mid-length cuff of her silk jacket, unknowingly revealing her own case of nerves though she hid it with casual grace. The jacket, like the floor-length dress it accompanied, was a deep forest green that set off her eyes and contrasted the auburn highlights in her hair. “No, you’re not. Your introduction will last all of five minutes; you won’t have time to be ill.”

  Whiskey debated arguing the point. If she was the Ninsumgal of the European Sanguire, future leader of all Sanguire, she could order everyone to make time, right? Her stomach would thank her, though the janitorial department might have some reservations. Rather than argue the point, she tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder with a shake of her head. Elevator doors opened, spilling the two women and four of Whiskey’s Ninsumgal Guard, the Aga’gída, out into the ballroom level service area of The Davis Group building. Two of their brethren already stood in place, bristling with weaponry. One blocked access from the foyer and another stood near a long hallway to their right.

  “This way, Ninsumgal.” Ugula Aga’us Anthony, Whiskey’s captain, indicated the hall. “We’ve cleared a path to the foyer.”

  Surrounding Whiskey and Margaurethe, the personal security officers briskly walked toward the banquet kitchen with their cargo. Whiskey couldn’t decide whether the delicious aromas wafting toward her made her feel better or worse. She hadn’t had anything but toast for breakfast this morning, her nerves playing havoc with her stomach despite all of Sithathor’s attempts to entice her. Did she ever feel this nervous before? Somehow, Whiskey doubted Elisibet Vasilla had ever experienced such anxiety. If she had, she would have executed whoever had caused the sensation.

  For a moment, Whiskey almost felt closer to the Sweet Butcher.

  The hallway opened up to an area with three walk-in coolers.

  They rounded a corner, almost physically forcing themselves through the wall of noises and smells of a fully operational commercial kitchen. Cooks and assistants called orders to each other as a team dished up plates, covered them with metal lids, and stacked everything in rolling hot boxes. Meanwhile, others remained at the stoves and ovens, adding more chicken and steak and potatoes and steamed vegetables to the works. Off in one corner, the banquet maître d’ and Margaurethe’s master chef conferred over a crisis of some sort, hardly noting their passage.

  Whiskey had been through here before, though never during such an industrious display. The kitchen crew hardly batted an eye when she and her entourage whisked by, focused entirely upon the chaos around them. Past a giant rack of decorative desserts, a set of double doors led out to the back hall. Two more aga’usi waited there, saluting before opening the door to let them through.

  In the public area, the rumble of eight hundred guests and a hundred staff became clearly audible, though this corridor was as far from the action one could get without going into the service aisles. The main foyer near the public elevators held the main reception. From the sound level of the voices, many of the guests had remained to enjoy the hosted bar rather than take their seats inside the ballroom. Another four guards were stationed in this corridor—two at the doors Whiskey would use to enter the ballroom, one blocking access from the service aisle behind, and the fourth directing stray guests back toward the reception in the foyer. If all my personal security is here, who’s taking care of the rest of the place? She knew that almost half the building staff was devoted to security, but did there need to be this many aga’us to babysit her for this function?

  A Human server burst through from the service aisle, a tray with teapot in one hand, nearly running into the guard stationed there. She gasped in surprise at the sudden animosity directed at her. “I’m sorry! I forgot!”

  Four of Whiskey’s guard interposed themselves between her and the Human. One grabbed the woman, tumbling tray and pot to the ground with a crash. Anthony began to drag a struggling Whiskey back into the kitchen. Whiskey attempted to push his hands away, but he was physically stronger. Instead, she flicked at him with her mind, not enough to do more than cause a sting.

  “Stop it!”

  Anthony released her. “But Ninsumgal—”

  Whiskey straightened her rumpled shirt. “Let her go.”

  Released from the grip of two Sanguire men, the woman shivered, blinking at the crowd of suspicious stares. At her feet, tea water soaked into the carpet.

  “Step back. Clean this mess up.” As someone was dispatched to take care of it, Whiskey approached the server, hands out in a calming gesture. “It’s okay. You made a mistake. I understand.”

  Her compassion triggered the Human’s relief. “I’m so sorry, Ninsumgal!” she babbled. “They said not to use this hallway after five, but I didn’t realize what time it was. I was in a hurry. I mixed up an order at my table, and this was the quickest way. I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

  Whiskey smiled. “It’s okay. It’s all right.” Her hands rested on the thin shoulders. She felt the woman tremble beneath her touch, smelled the fear coming off her. “You’ll remember next time, I bet.”

  The server nodded adamantly, a skittish chuckle escaping her as she edged toward the doors leading back to the service area. Whiskey waved her security away, letting the Human flee through it to safety.

  “Well, that was entertaining. Can we get on with it?”

  Whiskey turned and grinned at Margaurethe, watching her feign annoyance as she brushed lint from her dress. “The sooner the better.”

  Margaurethe smiled, linking her arm through Whiskey’s. She gave Anthony a nod, and he spoke into the small microphone at his sleeve. Inside the ballroom, the music changed from a gentle background to something more commanding, and the voices of the people faded in anticipation. Around Whiskey the Aga’gída shifted, the original four flanking her and Margaurethe while the others returned to their posts.

  Patting Margaurethe’s hand, Whiskey smirked. “You know that sounds like the Star Wars theme, right?”

  Margaurethe sniffed. “Hardly. Though it’ll have to do until we can hire a composer.” The haughty exterior faded, and she gave Whiskey a real smile. “At least that little accident made you forget to be sick, yes?”

  Whiskey felt Margaurethe’s essence slip over her, wood smoke and mulled wine soothing the sudden jump of nerves at the reminder. She was about to agree, but the rousing music had faded. Father Castillo’s voice announced her over the loudspeaker.

  As her Aga’gída pulled the doors open, and the lights from the stage wash blinded her, Whiskey wondered what sort of reaction there would be should she upchuck onto her boots in full view of a number of Mayan, Indian, African and Japanese Sanguire diplomats.

  The wood smoke grew stronger, strengthening her. She gave Margaurethe a wan smile, and stepped forward onto the stage.

  Chapter Three

  Margaurethe patted her mouth with her napkin, setting it on her plate to indicate she was finished. Beside her, Whiskey poked and prodded her food without interest. Feeding the guests came first, followed by Whiskey’s Baruñal Ceremony.

  Margaurethe doubted Whiskey would relax until she had an opportunity to flee. I certainly hope Sithathor has a late dinner planned. She’ll be starved when she can finally relax.

  Reaching beneath the table, she lightly stroked Whiskey’s thigh, receiving a smile in return. The aroma of roses with a hint of blood filled her. Whiskey rewarded her by taking a healthy bite of food. The server came and removed Margaurethe’s plate, offering her favorite after-dinner tea and dessert. While she awaited his return, she looked out over the ballroom.

  Close to eight hundred guests filled the room. The majority of them were Sanguire local to the west coast of the United States and Canada, or hangers-on of various political factions
that had deigned to attend. Others came from Human families that had served the Sanguire for generations, vassals and kizarusi alike. A constant low rumble of conversation merged with the sound of silver on china and ice rattling in glasses. To dramatize the dais lighting, the rest of the room was kept at a lower illumination.

  Regardless, Margaurethe easily spotted the Ninsumgal’s guests.

  In the past six months, Margaurethe had succeeded in making contact with a number of world governments—it had helped that her companies, though largely based in the United Kingdom, had enjoyed success worldwide. Over the centuries, she had lent a hand to the Mayans of South and Central America and the Indians on the subcontinent. These two governments stood on the verge of following the example of the American Indians in signing treaties with Whiskey. The Mayans had some territorial issues with their northern neighbors, but Margaurethe hoped they could settle their differences soon. Once they did, The Davis Group would have a growing coalition of mutual support.

  The political delegates had reserved tables closest to Whiskey’s. The Japanese ambassador had insisted on seating twenty people at the front of the room. Aware of their prickly honor, Margaurethe had obliged. They took up two tables, creating a blot of black business suits and implacable faces.

  Next to them, the Africans wore colorful ethnic clothing, their flamboyant movements and speech contrasting with the controlled Japanese. Bold yellows and reds splashed across the warp and weave of the feasting fabric lying on all the tables across the room.

  One table held the American Indian contingent. Four of the Wi Wacipi Wakan and their spouses dined here. They held a place of honor, directly beneath the Ninsumgal’s seat, central to the front row of tables. They had signed a treaty with The Davis Group months ago, the only government yet to do so. Sitting with them were Whiskey’s only known living relatives—her aunt Zica and grandmother, Wahca. The Mayans sat three tables away, a move by Margaurethe to discourage any arguments between the two factions. Border skirmishes had been the norm for so long, it had taken concerted effort of diplomacy to keep them from “counting coup” on one another. Separating the two were the Indians from the subcontinent. They had arrived three days ago, and hadn’t had the opportunity to meet with Whiskey.

  The Agrun Nam of the European Sanguire had declined to answer their invitation. Margaurethe had expected the snub, though Whiskey had exhibited wistful hope that they would at least send a representative. Rather than gloss over the rebuff in front of their guests, a number of whom were European expatriates, a single empty table sat at the periphery of the front row. Margaurethe had made certain others knew for whom it had been reserved, knowing gossip was the lifeblood of most Sanguire. If she were a betting woman, she would lay odds that the Agrun Nam already knew about their seating arrangements.

  Giving up on her dinner, Whiskey sat back and tossed her napkin onto the uneaten food. She refused dessert, though did ask for peppermint tea. Margaurethe leaned closer. “It’s almost over.”

  “Not soon enough.” Whiskey grimaced, glancing down the head table at her advisors. “How much longer?”

  Margaurethe let her gaze stray over the others. The only one not present was Reynhard Dorst, Whiskey’s Baruñal, in charge of the ceremony proclaiming her an adult in the eyes of the European Sanguire. A podium divided the head table, standing to Whiskey’s immediate left.

  On the far side of it, Father Castillo and Chano remained in animated discussion, having become fast friends since the American Indian’s induction to the Board of Directors. The priest’s dark head bent toward the elder Indian, contrasting the sparse whiteness of the elder’s hair, and he wore the black cassock of his order. Chano’s nod to this ceremonial event was a red shirt with wide green bands embroidered at collar and cuff. A fringe of green cloth tassels cascaded from his shoulders and across the front of his chest. Beyond them, Valmont slumped in his chair.

  Despite his insolent slouch, he was a good-looking man with mahogany skin and neatly trimmed beard. His dreadlocks spilled haphazardly across his scalp, hanging to his shoulders. Rather than a standard Western-style suit, he wore a black midlength collarless jacket, perhaps to impress the Indian delegation. He currently levitated his dessert fork to combat his boredom, the utensil flashing in the stage wash as it whirled in a slow circle an inch above the tablecloth.

  Ignoring the desire to mentally goose Valmont, Margaurethe reached for Castillo’s mind, sensing dark chocolate. He looked her way, nodded, and waved one of the regular security officers over to begin the next step. “How about now?”

  Whiskey swallowed, her color fading.

  The lights in the ballroom dropped to their lowest setting, and the hubbub of discussion quieted. Servers disappeared into the service aisle, silently closing the doors behind them. Since Whiskey had followed the European manner of Turning, it had been decided that her ceremony would reflect that despite her American Indian heritage. The Sanguire from other nations had exhibited keen interest in being able to observe as each tribe-faction had its own ways. Spotlights centered on the doors at the back of the room, drawing the attention of eight hundred pairs of eyes.

  An altered Dorst stood bathed in the brightness. His facial features remained the same—gaunt and pale, the capacity for withering sarcasm resting in the curve of his generous lips—but everything else had changed. He was Gúnnumu Bargún, a shape shifter, one of the most talented and experienced of the European Sanguire. Gone were the three black mohawks that normally adorned his pate, replaced with shoulder-length brown hair. His clothing remained black, though it was no longer leather and spikes. Instead he wore clothing more appropriate to the 1300s, trousers and boots, tunic and cape. He strode toward the stage, the silver embroidery in his clothing catching the light. A baldric across his shoulder held the large silver and burgundy patch of Whiskey’s sigil—not the raven of Elisibet’s rule, but a stylized scorpion.

  Scorpions were solitary hunters, vicious and poisonous, apt to sting first and investigate later. Whiskey had researched the topic for weeks before deciding upon the scorpion. Margaurethe had argued for something less...sinister, but Whiskey had been insistent. Despite her aversion to all things Elisibet, she wanted to make certain everyone knew how dangerous she could be if necessary. Margaurethe wondered how the Agrun Nam would react to the representation.

  All eyes upon him, Dorst stalked to the front of the room, radiating strength. Not many knew his identity, but all Sanguire present noted his age, his power. Beside Margaurethe, Whiskey shivered. Margaurethe reached over to pat her shoulder. She wondered if anyone would bolt from the room when he introduced himself. With easy grace, he stepped onto the stage, standing in front of the podium dividing the high table. He bowed once toward Whiskey, and spun around to face the gathered assemblage. “I am Sañur Gasum Reynhard Dorst, advisor and Baruñal to Ninsumgal Jenna Davis.” An exclamation of surprise washed across the audience, and a playful grin crossed his face as knowledge of his notoriety filled the room. “I am here to proclaim that Ninsumgal Jenna has completed the Ñíri Kurám of the European Sanguire.” He turned with a wave toward Margaurethe’s side of the table, one of the spotlights sweeping across to illuminate Whiskey.

  “Come to me, child.”

  To her credit, Whiskey didn’t look as terrified as she had professed herself. Margaurethe watched her rise without stumbling, and circle around the high table to approach Dorst.

  She was proud Whiskey didn’t display the awkwardness she’d shown earlier in her apartment when preparing for this dinner.

  She wore a fitted silk suit of dark lavender with an off-white blouse, the satin texture shining beneath the lights. The garb was far outside of Whiskey’s comfort range, she being at home in baggy cargo pants and revealing camisoles, but she moved with elegance. Again Dorst bowed low to her in deference to her rank, not as part of the ceremony. Rising, he smirked at Whiskey’s grimace, and turned back to the audience. “I have guided Ninsumgal Jenna on the Strange Path, instructed he
r on her role among her people, and now proclaim her an adult. Do any Sanguire challenge this?”

  Margaurethe tensed. One of the proofs of Sanguire adulthood was the ability to mentally defend one’s self against attack. The European ceremony required a ritual challenge period where a peer called out the youngling in a mental duel before witnesses.

  Official challenges could be made and had to be accepted at this point. It was rare that someone utilized this opportunity for grievances, but it had happened in the past. Margaurethe glanced down the table at Valmont. He seemed as restive as she, his fork no longer spinning in the air, eyes scanning the crowd for potential danger just as Castillo did. Chano seemed oblivious to the danger, having never seen a traditional European ritual before.

  After a moment’s grace, Castillo stood in preparation of fulfilling his assigned role for the evening.

  “I call challenge!”

  Again Margaurethe tensed, staring out over the audience.

  Her gaze didn’t go far, finding one of the Japanese contingent standing at his table. She silently cursed, but didn’t otherwise react. Whiskey took the sudden change in stride, turning to face the man’s table. The question in Margaurethe’s mind was whether or not the challenger was doing this for his empress or some other reason. Had the Agrun Nam wanted to attempt something underhanded, this was when they could legally do so.

  The stranger came round his table and approached the stage, stopping when the Aga’gída blocked his way. Dorst smiled benignly down upon the Asian.

  “Let him pass,” Whiskey commanded.

  The guards followed Whiskey’s order, stepping back. As the challenger came onto the stage, the lights illuminated him. He was tall among his people, with blue-black hair pulled back into a long tail at the base of his neck. His dark business suit was impeccable, silver cufflinks flashing under the brightness.