Wedding Bells, Magic Spells (13 page)

Markus’s absence had been noticed and asked about. Mago and Isibel had gone with a version of the truth—always best when the absolute truth would cause a panicked stampede. Markus was recuperating from an illness, and hopefully would be well enough to attend the talks in the next day or two.

If it were anyone else, I’d have said fat chance of convincing the best diplomats in the kingdoms, but this was Mago we were talking about. He was all of that and things they wouldn’t know until it hit them at the negotiation table.

I’d spoken with Mago and Isibel twice so far this evening. Now Mago, making his way toward me through the crowd while Isibel was chatting with the Caesolian ambassador, signaled he was stopping by for chat number three. As far as the delegates were concerned, we’d only recently been introduced, not grown up together.

Everyone knew only too well who and what I was, and they were steering clear. Once Mychael arrived that would change, but until then, it was as if I was an ill-tempered sky dragon. Steer clear and you wouldn’t get fried.

“At least they’re acting like they’re enjoying themselves,” I noted to Mago when he got close enough.

“These are career diplomats, Raine. Not only do they enjoy this kind of thing, it provides them with valuable insight to their fellow delegates, or as we say in the financial sector—fresh meat.” My cousin inclined his head to a Majafan delegate with a smile a barracuda would’ve been proud of.

“You’re having the time of your life.”

Mago took a deep, satisfied breath. “It is a refreshing change of pace.”

“Markus wants to steal you from your banking job.”

More smiling and nodding. “I know. We’re presently in the courtship phase of negotiations.” He glanced over at where Tam, Imala, and Dakarai Enric were acting like they were enjoying drinks and light conversation. Tam wasn’t even wearing leather. Imala had dimples. Dakarai Enric was a sweet old man. None of it helped. Every last one of the other delegates was giving them a wide berth, like feeder fish around sharks.

Maybe it’d help if goblins wore a color other than black.

“They’re not going to make friends like that,” I muttered. “Though if Tam and Imala walked up to any of the other delegates, they’d pee themselves, faint, or have a heart attack.”

No one had weapons. That was a good thing. No chance of panic-related accidents. Though apparently word had gotten around about Tam’s abilities. Unless you were suicidal, no one wanted to talk to a man who could kill you with a single word. The whole death curse thing worked against you, especially in social settings. Even more unfortunate was that the Nebian ambassador had met Tam before. It hadn’t gone well. Tam didn’t like the Nebian, either. It was the only thing they’d ever agreed on.

Mago grinned devilishly and set his drink on a passing tray.

“I don’t think this will cause heart attacks, but let’s see if I can stun the room into complete silence by introducing Mago Nuallan, elven diplomatic attaché, to the goblin delegation.”

I bit my bottom lip against a snort. Oh, I wanted to see that.

“And me with a front-row seat,” I murmured.

Mago straightened his doublet. “Prepare to be dazzled.”

As my cousin crossed the room, Isibel gave him a breathtaking smile and joined him—and you could have heard a cocktail fork drop as the two elves gave a warm greeting to the three goblins.

“Isibel and Mago seem to be enjoying themselves.”

The voice came from right behind me, and I damned near jumped out of my skin. If recognition hadn’t overridden my survival instinct, I could’ve stabbed my own fiancé.

“Don’t do that,” I said around a smile for the benefit of the Brenirian attaché, who was venturing closer, now that Mychael was by my side.

Mychael put his big hand around my waist. It was warm and comforting. I breathed out a little sigh and felt myself relax. A little.

“You really don’t like these things, do you?”

“No, I don’t. If I knew—and liked—these people, it’d be different. But I don’t, so it isn’t. Are there a lot of receptions that the paladin is required to attend?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Some are Conclave related, others for the college and faculty.”

“I know some of the faculty, and like them. That might not be too bad. Conclave mages…” I didn’t finish that sentence, and knew I didn’t need to. Mychael knew how I felt. Though if Garadin and Tarsilia signed on as two of the Seat of Twelve, I would have no problem attending any function on this island. I told Mychael about their arrival and the potentially amazing news.

He smiled and nodded in approval.

“Words can’t describe how wonderful that would be,” I said.

“If Justinius is self-appointing replacements, he’d better do it quick and get them invested and sworn in even quicker,” Mychael said. “In times of crisis, an archmagus has made personal appointments, but that was for the sudden death of one or two of the Seat of Twelve.”

“Two would die at the same time?”

“About two hundred years ago, one challenged another to a duel. Let’s just say they were too evenly matched.”

“That could do it.”

“It could and did.”

“Has he told you the names of any of the other candidates he’s considering?”

Mychael shook his head. “He has his work; I have mine. If I need to know or he needs my help, he’ll tell me.”

I just looked at him.

“Yes, I know. You couldn’t do that.”

“Aren’t you in the least bit curious?”

“He has his work—”

“And you have yours. Yes, I got that. But—”

“I had no doubt that he’ll make fine choices, and I’ll enjoy hearing them when he tells me.”

I looked over to where Justinius was listening while the Caesolian ambassador, Duke Something-or-other, talked the old man’s ears off, probably about their northern border with Rheskilia and the goblins. The Caesolian delegation had a near obsession with it. The Caesolians were concerned that once the goblins made nice with the elves, they’d turn their military might loose on their southern neighbor. I had two bits of news for the duke. One, the goblins’ military might was in disarray right now, and quite frankly had always been larger in rumor than reality. Two, goblins had absolutely zero interest in acquiring anything south of the Straits of Mourning. Well, unless it was Caesolian red wine. Goblins loved their Caesolian red. But as far as I knew, no kingdom had ever gone to war with another over fermented grape juice.

Though from the way Justinius Valerian’s fingers clenched his wineglass, he’d probably like a bottle of it right now to break over His Grace’s head to get him to stop talking.

“I think he prefers ‘traitor mage housecleaning’ to diplomacy,” I observed.

Mychael took a healthy swig of his own wine. “Don’t we all? It’s certainly easier to know when you’re making progress.”

“Another day, another room I hate,” I muttered.

Vegard grunted in agreement. “I don’t think anything good has ever happened in here.”

It was early the next morning, and we were standing in the meeting room of the Seat of Twelve.

The last time we’d been in here, there’d been a raised dais with twelve throne-like chairs. It had looked less like a meeting room and more like a star chamber for passing judgment.

I’d been summoned once to a meeting of the Seat of Twelve, though it had felt more like an ambush. The Khrynsani had claimed I’d stolen the Saghred from the goblin people and wanted me turned over to them for prosecution. Inquisitor Taltek Balmorlan of elven intelligence had wanted to lock me away for everyone’s safety. That was what he’d said. What he’d really wanted was to use me and the Saghred as a weapon to wipe out the goblins. Carnades Silvanus, an actual member of the Seat of Twelve, had merely wanted my head on an executioner’s block, the sooner, the better.

None of that had scared me. Well, not too much. What had terrified me was Carnades’s and Balmorlan’s claim that through my contact with the Saghred, I’d contaminated Piaras. They wanted to take him into “protective custody.” Taltek Balmorlan was later exposed as an arms dealer, except that the weapons he dealt in were magically gifted people, people who had talents that made them powerful and deadly weapons. Like Piaras’s spellsinging ability. He’d later had Piaras kidnapped, and Phaelan and I had barely been able to rescue him before Balmorlan would have taken him off the island on his private yacht.

So this room had absolutely zero fond memories for me.

Over the next few days, if we managed to get a peace treaty agreed upon and signed, I’d reevaluate my opinion, but not until then.

The room was of a size to contain the twelve thrones and any poor sot or sots who got called in to answer for their actions.

For now, a circular table had been installed with twenty-one chairs around it. There were Seven Kingdoms, and no more than three delegates per kingdom were being allowed at the negotiating table or in the room.

That didn’t mean the delegations couldn’t have ridiculously large support staffs. But Justinius had declared—and Mychael would enforce—that only three of the staffers could be in the citadel during the talks. If one of the delegates needed anything, that request would be relayed through one of the three Guardians assigned to each delegation. That meant one Guardian per delegate from the time they entered the citadel until they left. Outside the citadel’s walls, the delegates’ safety was the responsibility of their own security people. Armed Guardian escorts were available to escort delegates back to their embassies, if requested.

So far, no one had asked for it, but Justinius kept the offer on the table. He didn’t want to waste valuable Guardian time and resources playing chaperone to any delegates who decided to have a night on the town. If they got themselves into trouble blowing off steam or releasing tension from spending a day at the negotiating table, their own people would have to haul them out of whatever they landed in.

However, if that trouble ended behind bars, it would be Mychael’s job to go down to the city watch station, smooth down any ruffled diplomatic feathers, bail them out, and escort them under guard back to their embassy.

Justinius had made sure that each delegation knew the rules before they set foot on the island. He was too busy to babysit people representing their kingdoms who didn’t have the good manners and enough sense to act like it.

Mychael and Sedge Rinker, the chief watcher, were fully prepared to make an example of the first one who tried. Or, if the arrestable offense was serious enough, the offending diplomat could cool his or her heels in a cell overnight before being escorted back to their embassy and forced to remain there for the duration of the talks, so-called diplomatic immunity be damned.

The Myloran delegation had just arrived. There were only three of them, but they were huge. Two rough-looking men and one seriously imposing woman, all of them taller than Vegard. They wore furs and leather, and if any of the delegates were going to get in trouble, get arrested, and get thrown in jail, chances were good it’d be these people. For them it wouldn’t be breaking the law, it’d be a night on the town.

I rather liked them.

Vegard definitely liked them. My Myloran bodyguard was grinning.

“You know any of them?”

“By reputation only.”

“What kind of reputation?”

“It ain’t for their diplomacy.”

“I got that impression.”

“With my people, what you see is what you get. We prefer blunt talk to diplomacy.”

My family was much the same way. Phaelan’s idea of diplomacy involved firing cannon shot across your bow rather than through your waterline.

“From the looks of this group, their idea of blunt talk includes blunt force trauma. Good thing weapons aren’t allowed in here.”

Vegard chuckled. “Only if who they’re negotiating with likes hearing themselves talk and takes too long getting to the point.”

I thought of the Nebian ambassador. Imala had told me that “weasel” was about the best thing Aeron Corantine could be called, and that was being exceedingly generous. One weasel versus three massive Mylorans with no patience for oily maneuvering and evasive talk. This was gonna get real ugly, real fast. Though at least it meant it wouldn’t be boring.

“Do you know who’s been assigned to babysit them?” I asked.

“Herrick, Arman, Drud, and Jarvis.”

“Those names sound familiar.”

“They’re the Guardians who were assigned to babysit Piaras when Sarad Nukpana was trying to take over his mind.”

“Big guys, magic heavyweights, don’t take any crap.”

“That would be them.”

“Wait, I thought it was one Guardian per delegate.”

Vegard grinned. “The paladin thought it’d be prudent to give the Myloran delegation an extra.”

“Good idea.”

“They know when to stand back, and when to step in. They’ll let the Mylorans enjoy themselves while minimizing the bloodshed.”

“What section of town would be their idea of fun?”

“They usually stay close to the waterfront. We’re a sea-faring people.”

I winced. “That’s what I thought. I’d better warn Phaelan to keep his boys on a short leash. Their idea of fun involves bloodshed, too.”

Vegard glanced around at the new décor. “At least they’ve taken out the thrones.”

“I see I’m not the only one who thought that’s what they looked like.”

“That’s one more thing I’m going to change,” came Justinius Valerian’s voice from behind us. “Plain, comfortable chairs. Not too comfortable, though. Decisiveness and quick action need to be taken in this room, not naps—and certainly not self-glorification.”

I went and stood next to him. “Has anyone told you today that they love you?”

The old man grinned impishly. “Not a one.”

I leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Well, I love you.”

Unless my eyes deceived me—and they didn’t—Justinius Valerian blushed just ever so slightly.

Mychael came over. He’d heard the exchange. “Sir, are you trying to steal my fiancée?”