Rogue's Pawn (7 page)

Chapter
Eight

In Which I Learn to Fence

Like a child, I thrust my hands behind my back. My stomach felt wildly hollow all of a sudden, though it hadn’t bothered me much before.

“Lovely Gwynn,” Rogue said softly, “you need to eat.”

His concern washed over me and he raised a finger to my cheek, a feather touch that made me shiver. Now I understood why Persephone broke down and ate the pomegranate seed. She gave in to Hades. Maybe he’d been gorgeous and sexy, too. After all, he was the god of the Underworld, second only to Zeus in power. Kind of the bad boy of the Pantheon. And there I was, wanting to please my diabolical captor, too. But, call me paranoid, it made me deeply suspicious that everyone wanted me to eat from my specially prepared tray.

“My name isn’t Gwynn.”

“I can be stubborn, too.” Rogue waved the tray at me. In case I hadn’t noticed it before.

“If you’re so worried about time,” I countered, “why waste it on me eating? I hear there’s a banquet in my future. Or don’t you people have food at banquets?”

“Ground Rule Two,” he said. “Don’t act like you’re afraid of being assassinated. You must be nonthreatening enough to be underestimated.”

“Not unlike Ground Rule One.”

“Lady Gwynn, it’s a banquet. You will have to eat. You’ll also need your strength.” Rogue trailed his finger down my cheekbone again, but I batted it away. Too distracting.

“Stop that. And I’m not a lady and my name isn’t Gwynn.”

He waved that remark away. “You don’t know who you are. Here, eat.”

Perversely, I liked the impatient dictatorial Rogue better than the coaxing seductive one. It was true I was going to have to eat at some point. And for all that this magical place wasn’t the real world, it also wasn’t the Underworld where I could exist only in spirit. Easy not to eat when you didn’t have, oh, say, a body to keep alive.

“I’ll eat at the banquet—food I see other people eating. Nothing—” I pointed at the tray, “—especially prepared for me.”

Rogue glared at me. The tray vanished from his hand.

“Nice parlor trick.”

“Meant to demonstrate that food can be altered on its way to your mouth, if a sorcerer desired.”

“A sorcerer like you?”

“Any that wished to.”

“Nevertheless,” I said, “a girl has to have some standards.”

“Fine.” Rogue strode to the door. “Shall we?”

“I get two more ground rules.”

“We’ll cover them on the way—it will take a few minutes to walk to the banquet hall.”

“Can’t you just poof us there?”

Rogue raised that eyebrow at me and held up an arm, every debutante’s dream escort.

Sighing, I laid my hand on his forearm. Wiry muscle flexed under the black velvet. We walked out into a short hallway, more gray stones, torches burning merrily in sconces. Then we started down circular stairs. A tower. Of course—where else did you keep prisoners?

“Ground Rule Three. Don’t ask questions about magic. Don’t act surprised by anything you might see. No one is sure where you come from, what kind of abilities you have. All they know is you are powerful, you lost control and must be taught. Be mysterious.”

Mysterious was not my forte, but I could try. Seemed as though keeping my mouth shut as much as possible was a safe bet.

“Understood?”

“Yep, practicing being mysterious and closed-mouthed now.”

“Unprecedented.”

“Ha-ha.”

Rogue grinned down at me and my damn heart lurched. I must be just starved for attention. We emerged from the tower stairs. I hadn’t been able to track the number of turns, but it had to be four to five floors’ worth, a nice tall tower for prisoner-keeping. A wider gallery opened before us. Arched windows ranged along one side, looking down into an interior courtyard. No fog—wasn’t that interesting? It looked to be evening now, with torchlit windows glowing across the way.

“Final ground rule.” Rogue paused. I could barely hear the rush of his thoughts as he chose his words. I wasn’t going to like this one. “Make the best bargain you can, but watch the wording.”

“Meaning?”

“Just that. And remember to keep your thoughts to yourself—half the people here could hear them without trying, and quite a few can hear all they want to with a little effort.”

“Ooh, would that be a fifth ground rule?”

“Common sense—I don’t have to remind you to keep breathing, do I?”

We turned the corner and huge wooden doors swung open before us. A brightly lit banquet hall lay inside with a fireplace big enough for ten of me to stand in. People dressed to resemble jewels and flowers turned as one to stare at me. I wished I didn’t look like an éclair without icing.

Especially when Nasty Tinker Bell swept up, barely draped in strapless gold cloth. It looked as though her pert nipples were all that held up the top. I tried not to look too hard. Could it be Super Glue?

“Welcome to our banquet, Lady Gwynn,” Tinker Bell chimed. “We’ve been so bored, waiting for our guest of honor.”

“Lady Gwynn,” Rogue said, “may I present Lady Incandescence, whom I believe you’ve met, but to whom you have not yet been properly introduced.” Interesting that Rogue’s language seemed to have a more formal cadence.

I took that as my cue to use her correct name.

Damn—I should have gotten coaching on proper greetings. Though it would have been difficult to cover “formally greeting nasty noble folk who’ve dumped soup on your head.”

I gave Nast…Lady Incandescence (say
that
without rolling your eyes) the inclined head nod I used at my mom’s charity balls—tilt head to the right slightly and dip chin once, agreeable, pleasant. An all-purpose greeting for non-handshake situations.

Apparently not for this one, however, as she looked incandescently pissed. Or maybe that was just her usual face. I was just waiting for that moment when her dress would eventually lose its purchase.

Nasty Tinker Bell cleared her face with her trademark reboot and, smiling sweetly at me, said, “I hope everyone votes to kill you in the most painful method possible.” She punctuated the sentence with her bell of a giggle.

“Well, that’s honest, Lady Lightbulb,” I answered. Experiment underway—if I pictured the incandescent light bulb and used only part of the phrase, would it translate? The pucker on her charming forehead indicated that it came through slightly wrong, though not enough to argue with.

Rogue made a choking noise. He could read me well. But he manfully cleared his throat and said, “Respectfully, Lady Incandescence, recall that Lady Gwynn does not speak our language, thus hears what you mean, rather than what you say.”

She whitened a bit. Aha! She’d been indulging in courteous double-talk.

“Rogue, introduce us to your…guest.”

A group of three men ringed around behind Tinker Bell, who seized the opportunity to scuttle away, gold cloth still miraculously clinging to her nipples. Had to be magic—wasted too, as no one but me seemed interested in whether it would stick or not. Probably at some point in the evening, it would come “accidentally” unstuck from one or both, to her delighted chagrin. I’d worked with a gal like that, who managed to lose some or all of her clothing to some mishap or another, at every social event, including the office Christmas party.

Not everything here was different.

The men were dressed in Rogue’s style, in various colored velvets, all snug, all enticing. All were long-limbed, wore daggers and two of them had markings on their faces, though on the right sides. None were as large and complex as Rogue’s, and none shared his distinctive coloring. The one with no pattern was ebony dark, the black of his eyes blending into dark holes of pitiless empty space. I shivered, a strange terror crawling up my spine.

Rogue took my left hand and held it forward slightly. “Lady Gwynn, may I present Lords Falcon, Puck and Scourge.”

I tried a little curtsey this time, hoping my theater days would see me through, and they bowed solemnly. I tamped down any sarcastic thoughts about the names.

The first who’d spoken stepped forward. Falcon, maybe. Bright yellow eyes stared at me with raptorish intensity above a hooked nose. “Lady Gwynn, do you have a proposal for us?”

“You can’t expect her to make terms without hearing our bargaining points first,” Rogue said.

Falcon shot him an irritated glance. “Don’t assist your pet, Rogue. It makes you look weak. Or is that weakness why you want her?”

“Circumventing etiquette, even with a foreigner, is unworthy of you.”

“No point in waiting to break bread if she’s going to refuse.” The second one, wearing a dizzying ensemble of motley colors, tossed back waves of strawberry hair and grinned at me. This had to be Puck. “What say you, Lady Gwynn? Will you hold out? Yes? No? All of the Above?”

“Lady Gwynn looks forward to dining with us.” Rogue looked pointedly at me, replacing my hand on his forearm and covering it with his own.

“Oh, yes.” Mindful of Tinker Bell’s gaffe, I made an effort to be sincere when I said it. Actually food was sounding better all the time. I was getting a little lightheaded.

“Until the meal, then.” Falcon made it sound like my funeral. Puck tipped his small, cherry-red top hat, bowed and danced off. The ebony one remained, unmoving.

“Lord Scourge?” Rogue inquired, as if offering him another cup of tea. The fathomless eyes finally lifted from me, flicked to Rogue and then the man smiled, slow and feral, showing glistening pointed black teeth. He ambled off to join Falcon and Puck in a corner, where they talked, glancing in our direction occasionally.

“That guy gives me the serious creeps.”

Rogue glanced down at me, seemed about to say something, stopped himself. Fine—I didn’t want to talk about him either.

“Who’s in charge?” I whispered to Rogue.

“In charge?” He looked as puzzled as Blackbird had, as if the concept didn’t quite get through.

“You know, take me to your leader.”

“This is my place.”

“And who do you answer to—Queen Titania, maybe?”

“Titania?”

I wanted to pull my hair out. Instead I tried for the patient explanation.

“When I thought too loud at you, you said, ‘By Titania, woman, keep your voice down.’”

“Volume,” he corrected, scanning the room. People watched from various groupings, but no others approached yet.

“Whatever.”

“It’s an important distinction.”

“Okay, okay. But anyway, Blackbird said, ‘Thank Titania’ about something. To me, Titania is the name of the queen of the fairies and Oberon is the king—from stories. Now I understand these aren’t really their names, but if whatever you are saying is translating in my head as the name of the queen, that person must be logically the queen. The leader. The ruler. None of which words you seem to understand.”

“Titania isn’t a person. She’s…” He paused.

“Fictional?”

“No. Never that.”

“A goddess?”

“Ah, Lady Healer—your patient is doing admirably,” Rogue called out.

“Coward,” I muttered under my breath. He patted my hand.

Healer strolled up to us, Darling once more at her side. He blinked at me gravely. She was dolled up, still draped in green but in filmy slices, nothing as revealing as Tinker Bell’s seductive outfit. Her tumbled hair wound in complicated twirls and braids with ivy-like leaves intertwined. And she seemed to be wearing cosmetics. Come to think of it, Tinker Bell had been, too—I’d been so busy worrying about her nipples I hadn’t registered it at the time. Why hadn’t I gotten makeup?

Duh—Rule 1.
How quickly we forget.

I tried a sweet and biddable smile and a girlish curtsey to Healer’s greeting. That went over better.

“You’ve forsaken Lord Rogue’s colors?” She swept her hand at my outfit.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your black gown. I’m surprised you’ve refused Lord Rogue’s protection already. Or are you declaring him unworthy of your loyalty?”

This time, Rogue did not step in, though I could feel his arm flex. Apparently I was fielding this one alone.

“Lord Rogue has been gracious in his hospitality, but I thought it best that he not be affected by any penalties I might face. I represent only myself.”

Healer’s eyes flicked to Rogue. “So you will not stand surety for her debts?”

“I am responsible for my own debts, Lady Healer.”
After all, I’m a liberated woman, chickie.

“Interesting,” she commented, which sounded much the same as Tinker Bell’s “Fine.” Masters of the one-word insult, these gals.

“Well done,” Rogue whispered as Healer serenely glided away, Darling heeling like no cat I’d ever seen. “Now she has to vote to keep you alive, if she wants her pound of flesh from you.”

“Please tell me that’s not a literal translation.”

Rogue just looked grim, which was not comforting.

“So, this vote—majority rules?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Why do I bother asking questions at all?”

“I don’t know. You must admit I’ve tried to dissuade you.”

Another delegation approached us, of three ladies, all Red Carpet sex goddesses. My inferiority complex divided and doubled like a zygote. After the ladies, a mixed group stopped to chat. All asked pointed or veiled questions. Rogue remained pretty much silent, only patting my hand occasionally or whispering critiques of my diplomatic skills after they’d moved on.

One woman—and I use the term loosely—floored me by wearing nothing but a pair of enormous butterfly wings. Her nude and hairless body looked girlish, with skin nearly the dusk of an insectile thorax, while the wings soared above her in glimmering monarch oranges. Her hair, a short matching cap, framed large eyes with feathery lashes. I tried to act as though I saw butterfly-women all the time while I ducked her questions about the current war by batting my eyes and saying I left such decisions to the warriors, just being a girl myself. No one seemed to like this answer, but they seemed unsurprised and Rogue approved the maneuver.

“Ostentatious of her,” Rogue muttered as she pranced away.

“The wings? Are they real?”

“Did they look like illusion to you?”

“Let me rephrase—are they natural to her? Can she fly with them? If you thought she was being ostentatious, does that mean she doesn’t always have them?”