Wilhelmina trembled visibly, but Surreal hooked her hair behind her pointed ears and narrowed her eyes at Lucivar. ”Look, sugar-”
”Surreal,” Daemon said quietly. He shook his head. The last thing any of them needed was Surreal and Lucivar tangling with each other.
Surreal hissed. When she tried to shake off Prince Aaron’s hand, the man let her go, then shifted to block any attempt she might make to leave. Eyeing Lucivar with intense dislike, she moved until she stood beside Daemon. ”Is that your brother?” she asked in a low voice. ”The one who’s supposed to be dead?”
Daemon nodded.
She watched Lucivar for a minute.
For the first time since he’d arrived in Kaeleer, Daemon smiled. ”The demon-dead can’t tolerate daylight-at least according to the stories-so I would say Lucivar is very much alive.”
”Well, can’t you reason with him? I have a mark of safe passage and a three-month visitor’s pass. I didn’t come here to sign a contract for court service, and the day I jump when that son of a bitch snaps his fingers is the day the sun is going to shine in Hell.”
”Don’t make any bets on it,” Daemon muttered, watching Lucivar study the member of the Dark Council who was filling out the contract.
Before Surreal could reply, Wilhelmina sidled over to them. ”Prince Sadi,” she said in a voice that trembled on the edge of panic. ”Lady.”
”Lady Benedict,” Daemon replied formally while Surreal nodded in acknowledgment.
Wilhelmina glanced fearfully at Lucivar, who was now talking to the older Eyrien Warlord. ”He’s scary,” she whispered.
Surreal smiled maliciously and raised her voice. ”When a man wears his pants that tight, they tend to pinch his balls, and that tends to pinch his temper.”
Aaron, who was standing near them, coughed violently, trying to muffle his laughter.
Seeing Lucivar break off his conversation and head toward them, Daemon sighed and wished he knew a spell that would make Surreal lose her voice for the next few hours.
Lucivar stopped an arm’s length away, ignoring the way Wilhelmina shrank away from him, focusing his attention on Surreal. He smiled the lazy, arrogant smile that was usually the only warning before a fight.
Surreal lowered her right hand so that her arm hung at her side.
Recognizing that as
”You’re Titian’s daughter, aren’t you?” Lucivar asked.
”What do you care?” Surreal snarled.
Lucivar studied her for a moment. Then he shook his head and muttered, ”You’re going to be a pain in the ass.”
”Then maybe you should let me go,” Surreal said with sweet venom.
Lucivar laughed, low and nasty. ”If you think I’m going to explain to the Harpy Queen why her daughter’s in another court when I was standing here, then you’d better think again, little witch.”
Surreal bared her teeth. ”My mother is
”Think again,” Lucivar said.
Daemon’s hand clamped on Surreal’s right forearm. Aaron clamped down on her left arm.
The bell indicating the end of the service fair rang three times.
Surreal swore furiously. Lucivar just smiled.
Then a man’s voice, rising in protest, made them all turn their attention toward the table.
Daemon caught sight of the fussily dressed man who was busily straightening papers and ignoring the young Eyrien Warlord.
Snarling, Lucivar strode to the table, slipped through the line of confused, upset Eyriens, and stopped beside the man who was still pretending not to notice any of them.
”Is there a problem, Lord Friall?” Lucivar asked mildly.
Friall shook back the lace at his wrists and continued to gather up his papers. ”The bell ending the fair has rung. If these people are still available when you arrive tomorrow for claiming day, you can sign them to a contract under the first-offer rule.”
Daemon tensed. Lord Jorval had explained the first-offer rule of the service fair several times. During the fair, immigrants had the right to refuse an offer to serve in a court, or wait to see if another offer was made from a different court, or try to negotiate for a better position. But the day after the service fair was a claiming day. There was only one choice. Immigrants could accept whatever was offered by the first court to fill out a claim for them- and Jorval had implied that any position offered at a claiming was usually a demeaning one-or they could return to Terreille and attempt to come back for the next fair. He had spent two million gold marks in bribes in order to get on the immigration list for this service fair. He had the means to do it again if he dared risk going back to Terreille. But most had spent everything they had for this one chance at a hopefully better life. They would sign a contract for the privilege of crawling if that was the only way to stay in Kaeleer.
”Now, Lord Friall,” Lucivar said, still sounding mild, ”you know as well as I do that a person has to be accepted before the final bell, but there’s an hour afterward for the contracts to be filled out and signed.”
”If you want to sign the contract for the ones already listed, you can take them with you now. The others will have to wait until tomorrow,” Friall insisted.
Lucivar raised his right hand and scratched his chin.
The rest happened so fast, Daemon didn’t even see the move. One moment, Lucivar was scratching his chin. The next, his Eyrien war blade was delicately resting on Friall’s left wrist.
”Now,” Lucivar said pleasantly, ”you can finish filling out that contract or I can cut off your left hand. Your choice.”
”Shit,” Surreal muttered as she moved closer to Daemon.
”You can’t do this,” Friall whimpered.
Lucivar’s hand didn’t seem to move, but a thin line of blood began to flow from Friall’s wrist.
”I’ll inform the Council,” Friall wailed. ”You’ll be in trouble.”
”Maybe,” Lucivar replied. ”But you’ll still be without a left hand. If you’re lucky, that’s all you’ll lose. If you’re not”
A hurried movement made Daemon glance to the left. Lord Magstrom, the Dark Council member he had first talked with, stopped at the other end of the table.
”May I be of some assistance, Prince Yaslana?” the elderly man asked breathlessly.
Lucivar looked up, and Magstrom froze. The color drained from his face.
”Mother Night,” Aaron muttered. ”He’s risen to the killing edge.”
Daemon didn’t move. Neither did anyone else. A Warlord Prince who had risen to the killing edge was violent and uncontrollable. He wore the Black, the only Jewel darker than Lucivar’s Ebon-gray, but any effort he made to try to contain his brother would only snap whatever self-control Lucivar still had. At the very least, Friall would die. At the worst, there would be a slaughter.
”Lord Friall says the contracts can’t be filled out after the last bell,” Lucivar said with deceptive mildness.
”I’m sure he misunderstood,” Magstrom replied quickly. ”There’s an hour’s leniency after the last bell in order to fill out the papers.” When Lucivar said nothing, he took a careful breath. ”Lord Friall seems to be indisposed. With your permission, I will finish filling out the contracts.”
By this time, the white lace around Friall’s left wrist was a wet, bright red. Snot ran from the man’s nose as he wept silently.
At Lucivar’s slight nod, Magstrom pulled the papers away from the small pool of blood on the table and picked up the pen lying next to them. Retreating to the other end of the table, Magstrom sat down.
Lucivar raised his left hand and pointed at Daemon. ”He’s first.”
Magstrom filled out the top of the contract and then looked at Daemon expectantly. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
