Lover Enshrined

I’d like to go to ZeroSum, he signed.

“Why? ’Cause you think it’s going to get Blay out?” Qhuinn went over to the briefcase and loaded the other gun, the clip sliding into place with a whisper and a click.

You need to tell me what’s doing. Now.

Qhuinn put on the holster and plugged the weapons in under his armpits. He looked… powerful. Deadly. With his cropped dark hair and those piercings in his ear and that tat underneath his blue eye, if John hadn’t known the guy, he would have sworn he was looking at a Brother.

What happened between you and Blay?

“I cut him loose, and I was cruel about it.”

Good God… Why?

“I was on the way to jail for murder, remember? He’d have eaten himself alive worrying about me. It would have ruined his life. Better that he hate me than be lonely for the rest of his days.”

No offense, but are you really that important to him?

Qhuinn’s mismatched eyes drilled into John’s. “Yes. I am. And don’t ask any questions about that.”

John knew a boundary when he saw it: Conversationally speaking, he’d just run into a concrete wall with barbed wire around it.

I still want to go to ZeroSum, and I still want to give him a chance to meet us out.

Qhuinn pulled a light jacket from his bag and seemed to gather himself as he put it on. When he turned back around, his characteristic smart-ass smile was back in place. “Your wish is my command, prince of mine.”

Don’t call me that.

As John headed for the exit, he texted Blay, hoping the guy would show eventually. Maybe if he was bugged enough he’d relent?

“So what should I call you?” Qhuinn said as he leaped ahead to open the door with a flourish. “Would you prefer ‘my liege’?”

Give it a rest, would you.

“How about good ol’-fashioned ‘master’?” When John just glared over his shoulder, Qhuinn shrugged. “Fine. I’ll go with fathead then. But that’s your damage, I gave you options.”

Chapter Thirty-one

There were two things the glymera liked above all else: a good party and a good funeral.

With the slaughter of Lash’s parents, they had both.

Phury sat in front of the computer in the training center’s office, a headache directly behind his left eyeball. He felt like the wizard was taking an ice pick to his optic nerve.

Actually, it’s a drill, mate, the wizard said.

Right, Phury thought. Of course it is.

Is that sarcasm? the wizard said. Ah, right. You’d planned to be a washed-up junkie and a disappointment to your brothers, and now that you’ve succeeded you’re getting cheeky. You know, perhaps you should start a seminar for others. Phury, son of Ahgony’s ten steps to success at being an utter, irredeemable failure.

Shall I get the ball rolling? Let’s start with the basics: being born.

Phury planted his elbows on either side of the laptop and rubbed his temples, trying to stay grounded in the real world instead of the wizard’s boneyard.

The computer screen in front of him glowed, and as he stared at it, he thought of all the shit that was coming into the Brotherhood’s general e-mail box. The glymera just wasn’t getting it. In the message he’d sent out to them, he’d reported on the attacks and urged the aristocracy to get out of Caldwell and take shelter in their safe houses. He’d been careful with the wording, trying not to incite panic, but evidently, he hadn’t been dire enough.

Although you’d think the slaughter of their leahdyre and his shellan in their own home would be enough.

God, there had been so much death from the Lessening Society last night and tonight… and given the glymera’s responses, there was going to be more. Soon.

Lash knew where every single aristocratic family lived in town, so there was a chance that a significant portion of the glymera was at risk for exposure. And the poor kid didn’t have to give each of the addresses out under duress, either. If the lessers got into just a couple of those homes, they’d find clues to so many others-address books, party invitations, meeting schedules. Lash’s leaks were going to be like an earthquake hitting a fault line, blowing the whole landscape apart.

But was the glymera going to be smart about the threat? No.

According to the e-mail he’d just gotten from the Princeps Council’s treasurer, the idiots were not going to their safe houses. Instead, they had to mourn this “staggering loss of such a well-appointed male and female of worth” by throwing another party.

No doubt so that they could wage a power struggle for who would be the next leahdyre.

And in closing? The guy had tacked on a little ditty that the glymera’s Council would be collecting on the debt owed to Lash’s family as a result of Qhuinn’s actions.

Well, weren’t they givers. It wasn’t like they wanted the cash for themselves to… say… fete a new leahdyre. Oh, hell, no. They were “safeguarding the important precedent of ensuring that bad deeds were punished.”

Sure they were.

Thank God Qhuinn was free of them, although Wrath’s appointment of the kid as John’s ahstrux nohtrum was a shocker. Bold move, especially as it was retroactive. And just over what appeared to be a fight that Qhuinn had stopped in an inappropriate way? There had to be something more to what had happened in that shower, something that was being kept on the down-low. Otherwise, it made no sense.

The glymera was going to know Wrath was protecting Qhuinn, and the appointment was going to come back to bite the king at some point. Even so, Phury was glad that was the way it had all shaken out. John, Blay, and Qhuinn had been the cream of the trainee crop, and Lash… well, Lash had always been trouble.

Qhuinn might have had the mismatched eyes, but Lash had had the defect. There had always been something off with that kid.

The computer beeped as another e-mail landed in the Brotherhood’s inbox. This time it was the late leahdyre’s right-hand man. And what do you know, the guy advocated a “strong stance against what is a tragic series of losses, but ultimately a low threat to our secured abodes. It is best at this time that we come together and go through the appropriate mourning rituals for our dearly departed…”

Okay, talk about stupid. Anyone with half a brain would pack up their matched sets of LV and hightail it out of town until the dust settled. But no, they’d rather get their spats and their gloves out and make like they were in a Merchant-Ivory movie, with all the black clothes and the ceremonial expressions of condolence. He could just hear the elaborate, phony-ass sympathy exchanges they’d volley back and forth to one another while mushroom puffs were passed by doggen in uniform and a polite fight for political control ensued.

He only hoped they would come to their senses, because even though they pissed him off, he didn’t want them waking up dead, so to speak. Wrath could try to order them out of Caldwell, but chances were that would just make them dig their heels in even harder. The king and the aristocracy were not friends. Hell, they were barely allies.

Another e-mail came in, and it was more of the same. We’re staying and throwing a party.

Man, he needed a blunt.