Nightbred(7)
“Jardin sentries are under orders to eliminate all threats,” Jayr reminded her. “They will kill your visitors first and ask questions second.”
“Okay, no guards.” She couldn’t let the men fight, but they wouldn’t be intimidated by a mere mortal female. It took a lot more to scare the Kyn. “Damn. I wish you were the high lord, Suzeraina.”
A startled laugh came over the line. “For that, you would have to cut out my heart, force me to drink the blood of small felines for fifty years, and cause me to sprout a furry manhood.”
“Thanks for that visual, my lady.” The shouts grew louder, and she knew she needed to go in and shut down this rumble now. “How can I stop this without anyone getting hurt?”
“Given that this ridiculous summons Richard sent out is involved, I think it may be beyond your capabilities, Christian.” Jayr sighed. “Call for your lord. Lucan would never expect you to manage this by yourself.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” And that gave her an idea. “I’m going to try something first.”
Chris quickly buttoned her blouse up to her collar before fastening her jacket and smoothing every tendril of hair back from her face. She needed to channel her old DCF caseworker, Miss Audrey, a pleasant-faced grandmother who’d had the disposition of a bipolar rattlesnake. Clenching her back teeth together and pursing her lips, she strode into the armory.
“Mr. Turner,” she called out, ignoring the men as she stalked between them. “Where are you?” Keeping her back to them, she took the ammunition invoice out of her jacket and slapped it down on the desk that served as Turner’s counter. “Lord Alenfar has a serious problem with this order. Come out here, please.”
“You’re trying to get yourself gutted?” Jayr demanded over the earpiece.
“The order will have to wait, lass.” The weapons master emerged from behind the shelves he was using as cover. “Perhaps you could come back another time.”
“This can’t wait that long, Mr. Turner,” she snapped. “The suzerain needs more copper rounds, immediately, and this vendor has put us on hold. Would you care to tell Lord Lucan that he can’t use his weapons because the ammunition is on back order?”
“That’s good; our men aren’t used to demanding females,” Jayr said over the earpiece. “Show no fear or hesitation. Imagine them as squabbling little boys. Which in truth is all they are.”
An ugly mutter made Chris turn her head and glare in that direction. “Excuse me, did you want something?”
“Do not drop your eyes or twitch a muscle,” Jayr warned. “Whoever started this will challenge your authority now.”
“From a mortal?” One of the strange Kyn, a bullnecked beast with spiked brassy hair, offered her a sneer. “What can you do, Pearl Girl?”
“That sounds like the instigator,” Jayr said.
One that thinks he’s a poet, too. Chris imagined biting into a lime, and let her expression match its sourness. “My name is Miss Lang, sir, and I do whatever Lord Alenfar wants. What is that?” Before anyone could answer, she walked between the men, scooped up the tattered paper, and scanned it. “This is an official summons from the high lord. What’s it doing on the floor?”
One of the jardin warriors nodded at the visitors. “They tore it down before we could see it.”
Another visitor said something ugly in another language.
“He says we took it from them,” the jardin warrior translated for her, “before they were done with it. But they cannot understand the summons.” He nodded at the spike-haired visitor. “Only that one speaks English.”
“Is that all?” Chris sighed and eyed the summons. “It says, ‘From Richard Tremayne by the Grace of God High Lord of the Darkyn, Chosen Ruler of the Realms, Territories, and Jardins, Defender of Truth and Eternity, to Our right trusty and well-beloved seigneurs, lords and lady paramount, and warriors sworn, Greetings.’” She lifted her head and regarded the visitor’s only English speaker. “You can tell them that would be the high lord’s way of saying ‘Hi, everyone.’”
“I told them what it means,” the spike-haired warrior said.
“Good—then you should have no problem translating the rest of this for your friends.” She skimmed the first page, reading out loud the important parts. “He writes, ‘The Scroll of Falkonera, stolen of late by our enemies, has been recovered by the guardian Helada.’ Sounds like the thieves fell victim to its death curse. Too bad for them. He mentions the ages, and how he commissioned the smith Cristophe Noir to forge the scroll, and so on and so forth.”