by Jean Winter
“What are you—?” Lyra started.
“Now,” J'Kor said, “I am going to ask you some questions and I want you to simply answer honestly, all right?” His voice remained mellow and nonthreatening, but his eyes locked on hers like an iron manacle.
Mejhisk nodded at J'Kor. “How many years has it been since you last interrogated someone?”
“A few,” J'Kor answered, disturbingly placid.
Interrogation? This guy was a PROFESSIONAL?
“I think you are scaring her, mate.”
“I am no' going to hurt you,” J'Kor said. “I just need to make sure you are telling the truth.” She felt his fingers adjust slightly at her wrists.
Mejhisk offered, “When we were in the army together, years ago, Kade was one o' our best interrogators—remarkably gifted in reading people, really.”
Blessed saints, he can't be serious! Lyra felt cold under the heat of Lord J'Kor's touch—a touch that knew, understood, and possibly became violent to draw things out of people. Maybe he wasn't as kindhearted as he seemed. He was ex-military, an experienced interrogator, a loyal patriot to the Republic! This was not good.
Breathe slowly. Keep steady eye contact.
“When did you join the caravan?” he began.
“About two weeks ago, my lord.”
“And at that time, you were to remain with the caravan past this auction?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Why?”
She could answer this fairly cryptically. “I came pretty beaten up and I needed time to heal.”
The tendons in his neck tightened and Lyra saw concern—anger?—flash across his features, perhaps assuming harsh treatment from a previous lord. “And when was it decided that you would go on stage today after all?”
“A few hours before the auction.”
“Because …”
“Because there was another khari'na that took ill and the manager wanted to fill his quota.” She tried not to spit out that last word.
“Are you still … injured?”
So far so good. “No, my lord.”
“And did you consciously orchestrate any o' the unusual events surrounding your sale?”
“No.” She was happy to answer that one.
“Did you sleep with the caravan's head of security or engage in any other inappropriate conduct?”
“No! … My lord.”
At this, the corners of J'Kor's mouth twitched upward. “And what were you doing wandering through Bansool by yourself the other day?”
“The Keeper asked me to run some errands for her. Her legs were bothering her and she needed help.”
“She trusted you to do this? Alone?”
“Evidently.”
“The bookstore—it was on your 'list'?”
“No,” Lyra admitted. “I had finished the shopping a little early and … I love to read.”
He grinned at her, then asked, “Where did you learn how to fight?”
Uh, oh. Here it comes. “I learned a little self-defense from my father,” she pointedly corrected.
“He taught you about knives, too?”
Lyra rolled her eyes. “Yes. He taught me how to throw knives.”
Just please don't get more personal. Please.
“And is the study o' 'self-defense' and tactical knife wielding a common practice among the people with whom you were raised?” J'Kor sounded much more like an officer now. Lyra gulped.
“No. They are just some skills my father picked up years ago as a younger man—from a friend, and he taught them to me. Or more like, forced them down my throat.” Lyra grimaced at the memories, fond ones now, of times she had resisted having to spar with him over and over and over again—a practice that had never fostered popularity with the boys. She glanced out the window in reminiscence. Luckily, Jon was one of the few not intimidated.
“All right,” J'Kor told her. “I need to see your eyes again. Just a couple more questions and then I promise the mental invasion is over.” Lyra took a breath and, feeling more hopeful, turned her chin to that piercing gaze one more time. Maybe she wouldn't be revealed as a former prisoner of war labeled an enemy to the Republic with a secret she would die for, after all.
His fingers over her wrists readjusted ever so slightly and his expression seemed to intensify. “Are you an honest person?”
Lyra squared her chin and looked straight into his eyes. “Yes.” — Darn it all! That was part of the reason she was in this mess in the first place!
The carriage slowed and came to a halt, and Lyra caught sight of a magnificent dining establishment with classic Old Oth'pilt style accents, reminiscent of the castles of Caldreen's feudalistic history. Caldreen'n high society, dressed to the hilt in trendy fashion, entered and exited from the grand, canopied and carpeted entryway. Smartly uniformed doormen, valets, and greeters worked in perfect harmony to direct the bustling traffic.
Their driver hopped down to get the door and Lyra made to pull her hands back, but J'Kor gripped her forearms tighter. “Wait. One more question.”
“Okay …”
Slowly, contemplatively, his fingers slid up the inside of her arms then caressed their way back down again. He shifted forward just a little closer, his large hands completely enveloping hers. If he was still feeling for her pulse, he would know that it had just doubled. A sly smile touched his lips.
“Do you find me attractive?”
Oh, no, no, no, no, no! That was almost worse than giving up her deepest secrets! Lyra's heart skipped a beat. “My lord—” But she got no further. The triumph in his face said he had just read her like a book.
Grrr.
Lyra sank into embarrassed silence, staring moodily at the laces of his waistcoat, mad at herself. Her hands were finally let go and J'Kor sat contentedly, smugly, back in his seat.
“Wait!” Until this point, Mejhisk had been quite happily playing the role of silent observer. He slid forward eagerly. “Can I ask her a few questions, mate?”
“No.” And J'Kor motioned for his friend to lead the way out.
Lyra was furious. She was trying so hard to keep a handle on this “game” she was being forced to play and he had just snatched the upper hand for himself, and … it just wasn't fair!
He stepped to the ground and turned to offer help. Lyra glared at his outstretched hand. She didn't care for any more false gentility from a smug pretty boy pinning her for some weak-kneed, starry eyed skirt who was falling for him just as easily as every other woman he knew.
On the other hand, the step down looked large and the street beneath, rather slick. She took the offer. On the way in, she also sullenly decided that she was not noble enough to return his tunic jacket still draped upon her shoulders. It was cold.
Lyra worked her gloves back on and looked over her shoulder at their taxi driver maneuvering his animals into a space for waiting. “Is Mr. Sullee going to stay with the carriage the whole time we are inside?”
“He should,” the interrogator answered, walking ahead through the thick, glass door held open by a uniformed doorman in bright green. “Are you concerned about your things?”
“Well …”
The words waiting to follow the “well” never made it out for, just inside, she was stopped dead in her tracks by a wall. A mirrored wall. Lyra stared in awe at the woman looking back at her.
“Have you no' seen yourself today?” J'Kor grinned through the reflection behind her, taking back his swash tunic from her shoulders.
“No,” Lyra whispered.
She didn't appreciate before how Maehan's daughter's, magically iridescent gown fit her frame so well. Loose folds swept across her breast and over her shoulders, accentuating a sloping, graceful neckline below a glossy mantle of hair, twisted and tucked in a very sophisticated arrangement on top of her head. The few small, wavy strands left down artistically framed the angle of her jaw. The flower Hundt had neatly tucked over one ear only complimented the style.
And Mar'go's
makeup job, well, she may have flailed a little in the ensemble area, but when it came to the face, Lyra had to admit that the girl really knew her stuff. Everything was a little on the dark side under the restaurant foyer's personal lighting scheme, but it was spot on for the glare of the stage: cheeks glowing underneath a delicate pink blush, eyes outlined and shadowed in a rather neutral color scheme, brows, a perfectly plucked arc above them, lips, the perfect shade of red for her skin tone. It all produced for Lyra a natural radiance and intelligence … and dignity.
Her eyes fell to the new, sparkling necklet resting primly at her collarbone. It went beautifully with the gown. Lyra quickly found her real necklet, still inconspicuously embracing her ankle near the floor.
Warm hands rested at the outside edge of her shoulders and J'Kor lowered his head near hers. “You did no' know that you looked like an otherworldly queen o' divinity, did you?” Quietly, Lyra met his gaze in the mirror while those hands slid slowly down to her wrists. “Did you also know that you took my breath away when I saw you?”
Lyra shook her head. “But this is not the real me, my lord. You forget the much plainer woman you approached in the reference section.”
A deep, masculine laugh rumbled out. His warm breath tickled her skin. “That was the image to which I was referring.”
Oh great. Another charming comeback. She wasn't about to humor him with a pleased blush, though. Not after that carriage ride. She just tipped her head, mumbling, “Thank you, my lord. You are too kind.”
Out of the blue, it suddenly dawned on Lyra how true her words were. What kind of anxiety and stresses must he have been reading from her in the short while they had been together? Surely with his skills he would already suspect that she was desperately trying to hide things about herself. Yet, the only questions he had asked pertained to present, relevant issues. It would have made more sense for an interrogator to start at the very beginning with where she was from and how she came to be with the caravan.
“Are you an honest person?”—his careful catch-all question to determine if he ought to be concerned.
The truth was, he had let her off easy. He was being very kind. Or very stupid.
Humbled once again, Lyra followed her owner to the maitre d' waiting behind a lustrously smooth podium heavily carved in sweeping lines and curlicues.
“How nice to see you again, Lord J'Kor. It has been a few years, has it no'?” said the short, doughy faced man with the round belly.
Round nose. Round glasses. The maitre d' was an artistic study in spheres.
“Aye, sir. I do no' make it into the city quite as often anymore.”
“So sorry to hear about the passing o' your wife. We have certainly missed her presence here. She was a very respected and regular patron.”
“Thank you,” J'Kor said shortly.
Wow! He's a widower, too?
The maitre d' glanced at his reservation book. “Well, we were expecting you nearly forty-five minutes ago, but I am certain we can still find something for you and your party.”
“Thank you, sir. I had an unexpected delay.”
A gorgeous dining room was opened up before them. Vaulted ceilings. Dramatically clothed tables placed around the perimeter, creating space for a generously-sized dance floor above which hung an immense chandelier dripping with white crystal. Delicate glass sculptures, giant abstract paintings, and oversized floral arrangements were slathered about. The whole scheme made Lyra afraid to touch anything for fear of smudging or breaking something.
On a tiered level on one side, a small, stringed ensemble played a lovely nocturne. Their table in the far corner beyond was draped in a shiny black cloth accented with scented, melting candles and blood red, linen napkins. The location made for an obstructed view of the dance floor, but Lyra appreciated the privacy it afforded.
Just as J'Kor had predicted, there were many khari'na here that Lyra recognized. Bit didn't appear to be among them. Lyra held her breath as she scanned through the multitude of bodies a second time for the white-blonde silkiness of Lord Malig'ahnt. He was not to be found, either. Phew!
The waiter took drink orders from the lords, asking J'Kor if he wished to order anything for her. Evidently permission was needed and she was not intelligent enough to order for herself.
J'Kor leaned over to her. “Do you have a preference in wine or champagne?”
“Um, no, my lord. Nothing of that kind for me, please.”
“Are you sure? I will order you anything you like.”
“No thank you. I don't drink.” He might as well know now.
“No' at all?” J'Kor eyed her curiously.
She quickly shook her head. “I would be quite happy tonight with just some water, please.”
Picking up his menu, Mejhisk “tsk”ed at her. “'Na Lyra, I am rather disappointed. I have always said that I canno' trust a man who does no' drink.”
“Then, I guess it's a good thing I'm a woman.”
Mejhisk's eyes shone over top his foldout menu before he went back to his reading. “Aye, indeed, brother. She is a good one, that,” he murmured approvingly from behind.
It did not take long for stares and whispers to start as news of her arrival at The Vishke spread. Lyra wished she could slink under the table. It was okay in the holding room when she thought everyone was just curious about her, but that was before she heard Mejhisk's surmisings in the carriage. Now she had a nagging feeling that the theory of her and Hundt masterminding an underhanded scheme to help her go for a higher price was the current prevailing opinion. Her implant began to itch again, taunting her.
A couple of gentlemen soon approached whom J'Kor and Mejhisk appeared to vaguely know. J'Kor was congratulated on an outstanding auction showing and each man took his turn giving Lyra the once over with their eyes. She tried to just smile politely back, but no sooner did they walk away when another lord presented himself in greeting, and another …
They hardly had a moment's peace to consult the menus. Lyra caught indistinct references to J'Kor's business affairs regarding how his stock must finally be doing quite well and how they must have underestimated the profit margin in the fine wool and fur trade. But ultimately, it was quite obvious that everyone just wanted to have a quick, closer look at the thirty thousand rednote khari'na.
For the most part, J'Kor received the comments and attention with good grace. His words only became short and clipped when men he clearly had never met before would pronounce their greeting then simply gawk at her. Meanwhile, Lyra quietly sipped her water—doing her best to pretend she didn't mind.
She soon found herself scanning the walls near and far for some sign of a powder room, though. No luck.
At present, a trio of men with a couple ladies in company were gathered around, making their appearance. With scathing glances, the ladies appraised her haughtily and then gave each other looks like they didn't know what all the fuss was about.
Lyra tried to patiently wait out the group before she sought to speak with J'Kor, but unfortunately, these were friends and a new line of conversation opened up with Mejhisk over a shared hunting excursion, leading to playful inside references and banter. Meanwhile, the women, introduced as the Ladies Hit'sik and Jayn, started in on how they had been missing J'Kor—and his late wife, “Ahna”—something terrible at the society gatherings. They so wished that he would come to the next one at Lord So-And-So's mansion.
More minutes passed. Lyra grew more and more urgent, but there was no way she was going to interrupt the women to ask for the location of the bathroom. There was also no way she was going to just stand up and walk away from the company to try to find it herself. She tried leaning closer to J'Kor and wrapping an arm around his to get his attention, but in his politeness to the speakers, he only placed a responsive hand over hers and continued to give them his undivided attention. Lyra waited one more minute until she couldn't stand it any longer! Finding his thigh under the tablecloth, she gave it a definite squeeze.
J'Kor stumbled slightly over his sentence. Finishing quickly, he cleared his throat lightly and excused himself for a moment. With a meaningful look, Lyra tried to whisper in his ear, but Mejhisk and another lord were laughing heartily at someone's joking comment. Her words got lost in the boisterous noise. The ladies watched Lyra through half-lidded eyes. She could feel her cheeks beginning to color.
Suddenly, J'Kor was pulling her up with him, politely begging their pardon. He walked her away to a nearby marble pillar surrounded in tall, leafy, potted greenery and looked down at her, a little mischief in his crinkles. “Will that be your usual signal when you wish to speak to me in private?”
“No. I mean,” Lyra suddenly felt shy, “forgive me, but I really need directions to a lavatory.”
“Oh!” His face registered a hint of discomposure. “Uh, it is right over here.”
He showed her to an inset section of wall and Lyra zoned in on an elegantly stained door with a placard nailed above labeled “Women.” Very relieved, she thanked him profusely and went to the door.
“Great! Another stupid khar,” a female voice snipped. “Read the signs, girl. This one is for women, that one is for you.”
Quickly drawing herself back, Lyra apologized to the disdainful lady who had approached from another direction. Khari'na segregation? The woman pushed her way past.
Flustered, Lyra searched in the direction the lady had pointed. There was another door about ten feet down the way, much plainer, labeled “Khari'na” where, through the thin wood came the casual laughter and prattle of women. With a glance back at J'Kor who had been beset with yet another lord, Lyra opened it.
The sudden, brutal silence hit her like a brick wall.
CHAPTER 14