Inner Sanctuary

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  “Those I didn’t know personally before they came here.

  Reynhard and Chano assisted, as well, so we were able to eliminate all of the Aga’gída, and quite a number of the general staff.”

  Andri interrupted them as he knocked and entered, carrying a tray laden with food.

  “Over there, Andri.” Margaurethe waved at a small table.

  “Yes, Ki’an Gasan.”

  While he set out dinner, Whiskey said, “I told the Padre to report news of this assassin to Lionel. Whether or not he tells any of the others on the Agrun Nam is up to him.”

  Margaurethe took the news well, though she wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like it, but it’s sound judgment. I’m beginning to believe that Lionel truly is an innocent in this.” She fingered the cuff of her robe in thought. “Does he know of Reynhard?”

  A loud clatter drew their attention away. Andri hastily gathered the dropped silverware, and polished it with a napkin.

  “My apologies, Ninsumgal,” he whispered.

  “It’s all right, Andri. Accidents happen.” Whiskey hated his naked fear of her. She resolved once again to try and change his opinion. Returning to the conversation, she said, “No. I don’t want the Agrun Nam knowing of him until they figure it out for themselves. That’s one more ace up my sleeve that Bertrada hopefully doesn’t know about.”

  “Good. I had planned to suggest it to you.”

  “My apologies, Ninsumgal. Dinner is served.”

  “Thank you, Andri.” Whiskey stood, reaching for Margaurethe’s hand. “You can go. Take the rest of the night off.”

  He bowed and scraped his way toward the door. “Thank you, my Gasan.”

  Whiskey sighed after he left. “I’ve got to break him of that habit. It’s annoying as hell.”

  “It’s expected.” Margaurethe led her toward their meal.

  “Shall we?”

  ***

  Whiskey and her pack spent the next few days furthering their education—savage forms of combat with Pacal within the limitations of their injuries, politics with Margaurethe, and other subjects with Castillo. Dorst had resumed his lessons in intrigue, as well. Other than one breakfast with her American Indian relatives and her brutally violent lessons with Pacal, Whiskey seemed surrounded by European Sanguire. The focus of her education was Eurocentric in the extreme, something she hoped to change in the future. She couldn’t hope to serve all the races in this growing coalition if she didn’t know anything about them.

  The board of directors did most of the work of the corporation’s business, and she was rarely needed for major judgments unless it came time to put a decision into place, or break a tie vote. It had been days since anyone had brought anything to her attention, not even about the ongoing political negotiations currently underway. She had no problem with that, though she sometimes felt the part of her that was Elisibet chomping at the bit in the desire to get more involved.

  Needing to escape her apartment, she decided on a public breakfast in the Residents’ Lounge on the fifteenth floor. It was sheer happenstance that Chano arrived at the same time. Smiling, Whiskey joined him at the buffet. “Good morning, wicakte.” She pulled out a tray and placed two plates on it. “How are you?”

  He vocalized acceptance of her aid, and smiled. “I am well. And you?”

  She stretched her back a little, rubbing her shoulder. “Very sore after yesterday’s fighting lesson, but okay.”

  Chano laughed, a graveled rumble emanating from his chest.

  “It is good for you to feel pain. It reminds you of what not to do.”

  “I’ll say.” She flipped some pancakes from the heating tray onto her plate, doing the same for him when he nodded acquiescence to her questioning look. “Pacal’s been vicious, but I think I might actually be learning something these days.”

  “Nupa has told me he is quite harsh. You are strong and intelligent. You will learn.”

  Whiskey smiled at his matter-of-fact belief. She wished it were that easy. Pacal seemed to have other ideas. The injury he’d sustained in their initial lesson had slowed him down somewhat, but his arrogance and thinly veiled dislike of Nupa wore thin. It didn’t help that some of that disfavor seemed to be directed at her. Whiskey could only assume it was because of her American Indian heritage and Pacal’s inability to see past his racism. She’d be damned if she’d complain to Margaurethe, though. One of the earliest lessons she’d learned on the streets was that the whiners were first to be taken out. No, she’d keep her mouth shut and learn. What better way to thumb her nose at Pacal than to defeat him at his own game?

  She and Chano worked their way through the buffet, and she carried their mutual tray to a table. Others greeted them, both Human and Sanguire, and she acknowledged their words and nods. She knew everyone on sight now, though still struggled with some of the names and positions. She relaxed once she sat down, knowing no one would approach while she ate unless it was an emergency or one of her pack. “I think I’m going to ask about expanding my lessons.”

  Chano peered at her over his plate, pouring his syrup. “I have heard they are quite extensive already. What do you believe is missing?”

  She briskly buttered her pancakes. “Indian Shamanism? African culture? Mayan history?” Spreading jam over the pancakes, she looked up at him. “For starters.”

  “For starters.” He barked a laugh, shaking his head as he set aside the syrup dispenser, and cut into his breakfast with a fork.

  “Do you think you will learn it all?”

  Whiskey finished a mouthful of food. “Probably not. Once I get through those, I’ll have to start on Japanese economics and the subcontinental Indian caste system.” She chuckled as he raised his chin in concession.

  “You make an excellent professional student.”

  She nodded, keeping her attention on her plate. “I’d much rather be an excellent ruler.”

  “You have the makings of one.”

  Warmed by his confidence in her, she risked looking at him.

  “Can you tell me something?”

  “If it is within my knowledge and power.”

  Whiskey thought back. “When Margaurethe attacked Valmont in the conference room, something happened to me...to us. I haven’t been able to find anything in the European books about it, so maybe it’s something else.”

  Chano placed his silverware down, giving her his full attention. “What was it?”

  She frowned, thinking of the right way to phrase the occurrence. “We connected on a very deep level. Much deeper than I’ve ever seen before. I could feel her emotions. I was able to see what she saw.” In a moment of brilliant revelation, she remembered seeing Valmont through Castillo’s eyes in Seattle.

  Oh, my God! It’s happened before.

  “That is known to happen when two people are profoundly in love.”

  She struggled to return to the conversation, setting aside her furious thoughts. It hadn’t been love for Castillo that had caused the last occurrence. It had been fear and anger. Her face warmed as she registered Chano’s words, and she knew she was blushing. “So you know about this...whatever it was? I haven’t found anything anywhere, and I’ve been really digging in the Sanguire literature.”

  He fixed an aged eye on her, tilting his head. “What you describe is a...a melding of the two egos, a blending of emotion and thought. Your people, the Lakota, call it mahasanni, second skin. The European Sanguire do not strike me as being of a romantic nature.” He returned his attention to his breakfast.

  “It makes sense that you are unable to find anything in their records.”

  Whiskey frowned, wondering if she or Margaurethe were being subtly insulted by his prejudice. Elisibet had loved Margaurethe with all her being, and hadn’t been able to do such a thing. Yeah, but Elisibet wasn’t much in the empathy department. That’s got to count for something. And it doesn’t explain what happened with the Padre. “I can’t believe that no one has mentioned it in all the centuries of documented h
istory. Are you sure that’s all it is?”

  Chano chewed on a piece of bacon as he considered. “I have heard that it can be something learned, though few have attempted it. The stronger a person, the more ability they have to penetrate the deeper levels of another’s mind.”

  That made sense. Considering he was one of the oldest Sanguire she knew besides Sithathor, she had to ask. “Can you?”

  He laughed aloud, drawing the attention from other tables.

  “Oh, no! Not I. If such were the case, my wives would have me under their complete thrall. I would be making their breakfast rather than eating my own.”

  She smiled. I bet Reynhard can. I wonder if Sithathor...

  Remembering the vision she’d had through Castillo, she began to eat again. Or maybe not. “I heard her thoughts in my head.”

  “Yet another reason I have never attempted this with my wives.”

  Whiskey chuckled. “I guess I can see why no one mentions it in the scrolls and books. Wouldn’t want any spouses to get funny ideas.” Or spill a secret weapon that could give other people ideas, either.

  “Agreed.”

  They passed the rest of the meal in silence, giving Whiskey ample time to consider their conversation. When the merging first happened between her and Margaurethe, she was under the impression that her lover was as surprised as she was over the matter. Since then, they’d been able to repeat the procedure, each time becoming easier than the last. Oddly, they hadn’t discussed it aloud, preferring to marvel at the superb sensations as they occurred rather than analyze them. She wasn’t even certain that Castillo knew she had seen his initial meeting with Valmont. Still an untried youngling, not even finished with her stroll along the Strange Path, how could she have done something like that to begin with?

  Yet Chano acted as if the ability were a normal thing among his people, though one reserved for true lovers. Whiskey wondered how many other nations had their own understanding of the talent. Had any of the Sanguire races done research on this ability? How many older, stronger Sanguire had trained themselves to access others’ memories and thoughts? She decided that Dorst did not have this talent. If he had, he would have turned up the Agrun Nam counselor responsible for the current assassination contract. Nothing could be kept secret from someone with this kind of ability.

  Thank God Elisibet never knew about it!

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I’m going to drop this rock over the side. Bet I could hit that Human in the red baseball cap!”

  Slightly alarmed, Whiskey sat up in her lawn chair, bare feet scraping the rough stone tile of The Davis Group’s roof. “No, you’re not!”

  Zebediah gave her an aggrieved look, pausing in his attempt to properly aim his projectile. “Why not? I probably won’t get him anyway.”

  Whiskey wondered when she had become a parent and how to change the fact. Before she could respond, Daniel spoke for her. “Dropping a rock from this height is just as damaging as shooting a bullet.”

  “Nothing heavier than ping-pong balls.” Whiskey gave Zebediah a stern look. She relaxed when he grumbled at the restriction and returned to hanging half over the side of the sixteen-story building to watch pedestrians and traffic below.

  In an attempt to discover new scenery today, the pack had taken over the roof. Electrical cords snaked from the elevator shaft tower behind them, powering a high quality stereo and a small bar refrigerator, both appropriated from Whiskey’s apartment. Ugula Aga’us Anthony had made an emergency trip to Costco, his purchases resulting in a wading pool, several deck chairs, a barbecue grill and assorted lawn toys. He had nixed the outdoor fireplace, the weather being too warm. Besides, tenants and workers in the surrounding taller buildings might overexcite themselves at the sight of fire on their neighbor’s roof. The pack had set up their impromptu camp on the opposite side of the building from Whiskey’s apartment, revealing the unfamiliar view of the city and the northwest hills. Though the day was warm, the overcast sky gave them a break from painful shards of sunlight. By the looks of things on the horizon, it wouldn’t be long before the cloud cover would burn off. Soon, sunshine would drive them back inside. Until then it was a perfect morning.

  Whiskey smiled, taking a drink from her beer. All we need is some sand, and we can have a beach party.

  To one side Daniel taught Chaniya the fine tradition of lawn darts with the aid of Alphonse. They’d had to improvise, removing the tips from the darts so as not to damage the decorative stone layering the rooftop. Nupa had come up with the idea of using pool chalk from the recreation level to more easily mark where a dart landed. He sat beside Whiskey, nursing a bottle of beer.

  The only pack mate missing was Cora. Whiskey assumed she was with her current paramour, Anthony. He had disappeared soon after delivering his purchases, content with the presence of six Aga’gída scattered about the roof alert for any threat. In any case, it had been a couple of hours since his disappearance.

  Whiskey had sent Andri off in search of both of them when he had delivered sandwiches a little while ago.

  “What happened there?” Nupa pointed the neck of his bottle at a large bruise on Whiskey’s thigh.

  Whiskey rubbed the injury. “Just something I picked up this morning at practice. You were there.” Though freshly wounded, the bruise had already succumbed to her Sanguire metabolism, appearing yellow-green rather than the livid black and purple it had been early that morning.

  “Pacal doesn’t pull his punches much.”

  “No. I think he believes pain gets the point across much better.”

  Daniel, taking a break from the games, appeared unimpressed.

  “There are other ways.” He opened the small cooling unit, and pulled out a bottle of water. Cracking it open, he took a deep draught before gazing at his pack leader.

  Nupa grunted agreement. “That’s what I say. I don’t think he’s teaching you anything but how to take a beating.”

  Whiskey blinked. Nupa rarely gave an opinion unless asked, and even then it was difficult to get him to speak. Despite the fact he was of the Tillamook tribe and that his immediate people had had nothing to do with the Mayans, he still felt the hatred that had been ingrained from centuries of border feuds hundreds of miles south. Naturally he held strong prejudices against Pacal, and had always been the most savage of the pack in their combat sessions.

  She picked at the label on her bottle. “Are you sure that’s the case, and it’s not a cultural thing? Different training techniques?” She smiled at him to ease the bite of her words. “I’m the one with the least experience or knowledge. Once I learn to defend against his attacks, I’ll get hurt less.”

  Nupa dipped one hand in the wading pool, watching the water play across his skin. “I don’t think so.”

  Daniel remained close. “Why?”

  After a moment’s regard, Nupa shrugged. “I’ve had training, not just my peoples’, but formal martial arts. I’ve never seen an instructor consistently pair others of like abilities, and then focus all his expertise on the one with the least.”

  Chaniya sidled over, a lawn dart still in her hand. “He’s right. In my country, you teach moves to the student and allow her to learn to use them with others of her proficiency level.” She flopped bonelessly into a deck chair. “Just because you are a ruler does not mean you are to be coddled, certainly. But no other culture does this with their martial arts.”

  Whiskey took a moment to digest this information. As stated, she had no formal experience. Neither did Alphonse or Zebediah who were most often paired in training. Daniel was the eldest among them, even older than Nupa. Despite his underprivileged childhood he was one of the better fighters in the pack, having had a more formal education. “What do you think?”

  “Could be they have a point. Pacal does appear to target you more often than anyone else.”

  His words held more weight than any of the others’. “But why? To what purpose?”

  Nupa gave a contemptuous snort. “W
ho knows how a Mayan thinks?”

  Whiskey gave a little shake of her head. “That’s racism, and it’s got no place here.” Nupa became stone-faced in response to her sharp annoyance. She gently caressed his essence to ease her words, tasting sea salt on her tongue. Chaniya’s touch on her arm pulled Whiskey’s attention away.

  “Maybe so, maybe no, but you can’t dismiss the possibility from his viewpoint. They’ve been battling off and on for as long as either of their people can remember. Their racial hatred can’t be dismissed because you’re trying to forge a conglomeration of nations.”

  Finding her argument valid, Whiskey raised her chin. “So you think it’s because I’m half American Indian?”

  Alphonse shrugged. “Why not?”

  “What if it’s something else?”

  Whiskey looked at Daniel. “Like what?”

  He ran his hand through his loose mohawk. “You said the Euros had hired an assassin. What if Pacal’s that assassin?”

  Mouth open, Whiskey gaped at him. Zebediah swore and the others exclaimed. Before they could build up a head of righteous fury, she raised her hand to stop them. With ease she gathered up their essences, holding them lightly to remind them of her strength. One thing she had learned over the last few months was that she had to keep her people firmly controlled. They had the capability for serious damage without a steady hand. “That’s stupid. He’s had plenty of opportunity to do the job. Training accidents happen all the time. Why wait and drag on the farce?”

  Because he’s Sanguire, and Sanguire have plenty of time to play their little games. The thought blindsided her, and she considered it as the pack mulled over her question.

  Alphonse slouched over to his brother and leaned against the edge of the building. “Okay, so maybe it’s not him. Maybe he’s got a different agenda. What if he’s working with that Agrun Nam chick who’s out to bring you to Europe?”