Guardian of Honor (9 page)

The Swordmarshall scanned the room, and Alexa followed her gaze.
Everyone held goblets, though only hers and Thealia's were gold. A movement
came from the dimness under a fancy, colorfully tiled cabinet. Alexa narrowed
her eyes.

"Viva Alyeka!" Thealia exclaimed. Her voice boomed off
the tiles.

Alexa jolted and turned to the woman.

"Viva Alyeka!" the other women returned
enthusiastically, and her name hit her ears several different ways.

Alexa slipped. Thealia steadied her with one hand and clinked her
goblet against Alexa's with the other. Gazing at her over the edge, Thealia
gulped down her drink.

Alexa did the same. The brew slid across her tongue and down her
throat, coating them like honey.

Everyone else drank too. Thealia smiled benignly at Alexa, took
her goblet and handed both to a nearby woman. Then she
gripped Alexa firmly by the elbow, pulling her through the
water to the steps.

Bathtime's over. Too bad. Alexa blinked and blinked again, a haze
gathering over her eyes. Her mind dulled.

Alexa!

Alexa stopped at the top of the pool and peered around the room as
she was patted dry with huge fluffy towels.

It's Sinafin, Alexa!

Sinafin, the little fairy. Alexa's lips curved in a goofy grin.
She looked harder for the tiny pink being, swayed, and was held upright by
several sets of hands.

Alexa, think!

Think? It was hard to think. How could she think with the
gold-colored robe dropped over her head? She couldn't see, could hardly
breathe.

Her head popped through the neckline and she craned to find the
fairy.

I'm not a fairy now, only in your dreams.

Did that make any sense? No. Nothing in the past twenty-four hours
made any sense. Alexa frowned, started forward and stumbled. What a klutz! She
hadn't been this clumsy in years. A thought nibbled at the darkening cotton of
her mind. Can't think. Clumsy. Odd stuff. The drink! She'd been drugged!

She gasped, but couldn't stop her feet from shuffling along as the
women walked on each side of her, holding her arms. Thealia swept ahead of them
with decisive steps. Alexa wished she could dredge up fury, but sharp emotions
were just as hard to find as clear thoughts. She took one last glance back at
the cabinet. Something that looked like a foot-long dust bunny stared at her.
Maybe it was a dandelion. With eyes... She grunted as she stubbed her toes on
the first of a long set of winding stairs.

Time and mind fogged. When the mist parted, Alexa stood in
an elaborate rectangular room. The bright colors and
sunbeams made her blink. People packed the room. Lots of soldiers in different
uniforms, mostly men. She saw Marwey linking arms with her guy.

Click. Click. Click.
Alexa followed the sound to
Thealia's forefinger tapping on the table in front of both of them. A large
variety of odd objects lay on the table. They zoomed in and out of focus. A
smooth stone. A spur? A cap. A tin cup.

That made her think of the goblet she'd drunk from, obviously
doctored. Her mouth was dry and tasted like mud. Her stomach quivered. Bile
rose up her throat. Through willpower she forced it back. Swallowed.

The table was covered in silver-shot blue damask; the things on it
looked well-used and common, like they didn't belong. Many brilliant lines
wiggled from them. Alexa tried to step back, but was held in place by a couple
of people. Her vision had narrowed, so she couldn't see them.

The lines seemed to writhe like a mass of worms. They all led from
the objects to...men. She traced a bright yellow thread from the cap to a man
leaning against the wall. She thought she could smell him from here. She
gagged. Forced herself to stand up straight and take a deep breath. Maybe it
would keep the dizziness and nausea at bay.

"Deshouse, Alyeka," Thealia said.

Alexa scowled. Didn't the woman know any other word? Choose,
choose, choose...first a baton, then a lover. Alexa's stomach rolled at the
recollection of the night before.

A lime-green line slithered to a guy in the corner. Alexa glanced
at him and he grinned, showing broken, stained teeth.

Ick. Every strand from the objects looked neon-nasty, and when she
squinted to see the men they led to, her stomach roiled. How many were there?
Twenty? Thirty? None of them appeared to be
anyone she'd
care to meet, but she had the vague idea that this was like last night—the
Marshalls wanted her to choose a man.

Time stretched. She heard murmuring and turned her head. The flash
of silver caught her attention. A small side table contained long thin knives
that looked extremely sharp, and several lengths of colorful silk that looked
like ties. She couldn't force her gaze away from the ominous, gleaming knives.

Someone brayed a laugh. The lime-green guy. Too much. Her stomach
revolted. She vomited on the table and sank into welcome darkness.

Very good, Alexa,
Sinafin said, fluttering
gauzy wings.

B
astien leaned back in the corner booth of the Nom de Nom Tavern
and casually flicked his new hat with the broad brim onto the table. From the
corner of his eyes he watched for the reactions of the other Chevaliers to his
hat, and suppressed a smug smile.

Unlike most of the Chevaliers in the Nom de Nom, he was not a
Lord's or Lady's Knight, but an independent. And the hat proved just how
successful he was. Stretching out his legs, he admired it again. The hat was of
his own design, with a great rim around it—wide enough to keep the frinks that
fell with the rain off a man's face or from slipping down his collar—if you had
tough enough material. Soul-sucker hide did just fine.

It had been his first soul-sucker kill, and the bounty had been
prime. He grinned as he recalled the scene at the Marshall's Castle where he'd
dumped the remains late in the afternoon. Oh, it was great claiming the prize
from those tight-assed Marshalls who thought they were the best at fighting and
believed they knew everything.

The assayer who'd counted out Bastien's gold had covered his
initial revolted horror at the soul-sucker's body by donning a self-important
air and informing Bastien that the Summoning had been a success—Lladrana now
had a new Exotique who would save them all. Trust the Marshalls to dig up and follow
all the old traditions instead of trying something new to defeat the invading
horrors.

That had dimmed Bastien's pleasure for a moment—or until he had
requested the assayer provide him with the soul-sucker's skin in an hour for
his hat. It was Bastien's right to have the hide, and the clerk's appalled
expression had revived Bastien's spirits.

Now that he recalled the scene, he frowned. There had been
something else—something that had made the hair on the back of his neck
rise—the silver hair that denoted Power, not the black locks. Had he seen a
pair of glinting eyes in the rafters of the storeroom? He shrugged it off and
gestured for some ale.

After he'd gotten the skin he'd spent some Power fashioning the
hat he'd designed on the long volaran flight from the North.

Unobtrusively he shifted in his seat. That last fight the day
before had been rough. A slayer, a render and a soul-sucker. They'd been
gleeful at their supposed ambush of a single prey—a volaran-mounted Chevalier.
He moved his shoulders to avoid a throbbing bruise.

He'd rarely been in worse shape. Bloody tracks from the render's
claws covered his torso; a puncture from the slayer bore through his left
thigh, far too close to his balls to think of the wound without a shudder.
Bruises covered his body. Even the soul-sucker had marked him. Round, raised
bumps from its suckers dotted Bastien's right shoulder and scalp—thankfully
hidden by his clothes and his black-and-silver hair.

The conversation rose as his new hat was noticed and became an
object for discussion. Only Marrec, who swore loyalty to Lady Hallard, actually
had the guts to turn from the bar to stare at the hat.

When the serving woman Dodu brought his ale, she gave him a long,
slow look from under her eyelashes. "I can cancel my plans for tonight,
Bastien," she whispered.

More than Bastien's aches throbbed at her invitation. He looked at
her plump hips and sighed. For the first time in his life he was in no shape
for bedsport. He had the feeling that if he took her up on her offer his reputation
as a great lover would shatter.

"Ah, Dodu, my lovely, I only wish I could cancel my own, but
for once I must place duty before pleasure." He pasted a yearning
expression on his face.

She narrowed her eyes.

Bastien lifted her fingertips and kissed them.

Dodu sighed and withdrew her hand. "Some other time,
then."

He grinned. "Definitely."

With a swish of the ass she knew he admired, she served another
table. Bastien shifted, trying to find a less painful position.

The door opened, letting in gray twilight and the stench of
frink-filled rain. Bastien's smile faded. His brother Luthan scanned the room,
spotted Bastien and strode to him.

Bastien's brows knit. Luthan didn't move with his usual fluidity,
and pallor showed under the golden tone of his skin. He looked as if he'd been
through an ordeal—more than just confronting the Marshalls in their Council,
which Bastien had heard Luthan was going to do—as the new Representative of the
Cloister. His acceptance of the position had spurred a lot of talk, since it
now left the Chevaliers without a spokesperson to the Marshalls.

Was Luthan's streak of silver over his right temple wider? Bastien
scowled. They were very different in personality, but close nonetheless.

Luthan stopped and looked down at the lounging Bastien, dressed in
render-hide. Luthan himself had a pure white surcoat over his flying leathers,
decorated with the coat of arms of their
mother's
family—the estate Luthan claimed for himself. When Luthan's eyes fixed on
Bastien's hands scored by the tentacles of the soul-sucker, Bastien sat up
straight. Then Luthan's gaze lingered on the new hat.

"That is the ugliest hat I've ever seen."

"You wound me to the core!" Bastien placed fingers over
his heart.

Luthan scowled. "Looks to me like your last fight did
that."

Bastien cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. "And you
look like merde too." He swept his hat to a corner of the table.
"Sit. I know Council meetings are bad, but it shouldn't make you look like
a herd of volarans ran over you."

Grunting, Luthan gingerly settled his long length on the opposite
bench of the booth, angling his body so he could keep an eye on the room as
well as his brother, an automatic strategy for a trained fighter. Bastien, of
course, had taken the last booth with the wall at his back. Standing at the bar
gave Chevaliers more freedom, but Bastien hadn't been sure he could stay
upright for long. Eyeing his brother, Bastien didn't think Luthan could handle
the usual jostling at a crowded bar either.

"You look like merde," Bastien repeated.

Luthan stared at him, and his gray eyes seemed to have become
darker. Bastien frowned, but when that pulled at the wounds in his scalp, he
stopped and suppressed a wince.

"Jerir," Luthan said, as if that explained everything.
He caught Dodu's attention and lifted a hand for ale.

"Jerir," Bastien echoed, mind racing. He was supposed to
be the quickest of wits of his family, and Luthan usually made him use every
one of them. "An Exotique and jerir. Knowing the old tales, I'd say the
Marshalls must have used it as a test."

When the ale was set in front of him, Luthan stared down at the
liquid. Then he looked up with gleaming eyes and a slight
curve of the lips, lifted the mug in a half salute to
Bastien, and drank. He set the glass down, pulled a pristine handkerchief from
an inside pocket and dabbed his lips. "Right you are. There were several
tests, but I don't know the details. I
do
know that they—" he
jerked his head toward the Castle "—have a whole pool of the stuff."

Bastien choked, swallowed, breathed through a couple of gasps.
"A pool?" He shook his head. "Can't be. Jerir is scarce and
valuable."

"A pool. The ritual bathing pool in the Temple, to be
exact." He closed his eyes and a shudder rippled his long frame.

Bastien leaned forward and pressed his fingers on his brother's
fisted hand. "What is it? How can I help?"

"Take the job as Chevalier Representative to the Marshalls'
Council."

5

"B
ecome the Chevalier's Representative?" That jolted a laugh
from Bastien and he leaned back against the padded wall—just the contraction of
his chest hurt, by the Song. "Very funny."

Luthan didn't open his eyes. "I'm not joking.
Listen
to
your last words. You want to help, to matter, to make things better."