Faith Hunter - Host

“Surprise,” I said softly as I placed my hand over his forehead to better feel his thoughts. “What poison is on the sword?” I said, louder.

All I got from his thoughts were words from a mage nursery rhyme learned in the cradle. “Blood and kin prevail. Blood and kin prevail.” The words hid his thoughts.

“Well, that’s just ducky,” I said. “Pull up his shirt.”

While my champards exposed Cheran’s belly, I pulled down the cuffs of my dobok and lifted the poisoned weapon in protected hands. Reaching between my two protectors, I placed the booby-trapped sword tip against his skin. I applied pressure, deliberately breaking his skin. Cheran turned white and gasped.

“Take out the gag,” I said. The gag was pulled from his mouth, and I said, “What poison and what antidote?” When he didn’t answer fast enough, I pressed harder, slicing a quarter of an inch below the skin, delivering a greater dose. His flesh quivered with shock. “What poison and what antidote?” I asked again.

I could read his desire not to answer, and his fear. In mage-sight, his attributes changed from the roseate hue of well-cooked shrimp to a paler shade, beer yellow. Sickly. He licked his lips. The camera zoomed close. I waited patiently, knowing he would break. Dropping the sight and opening a mind-skim, I breathed in his scent, both the scent that humans and animals can smell and the underlying scent of mages.

A strange odor came from Cheran, sweat and fear and imminent death. I bent over the mage and smiled wider, placing my foot on his abdomen. Making up his mind, his thoughts cleared. “It’s called spider blue,” he said, his voice vibrating beneath my boot sole, his throat working. “In my breast pocket. White vial.”

Audric joined us on the floor, going through the mage’s clothes. I spotted the TV camera maneuvering for a better angle as sweat broke out on Cheran’s face and soaked his shirt. Audric laid six vials on the floor, ones I remembered from the case of liquids in Cheran’s room. Poisons. Assassin.

“Please,” he said. “The antidote. The blue bottle. Two cc’s, delivered IV push.”

I hadn’t a clue what that meant, but Audric did, and found a small syringe with a needle in the killer’s cummerbund. Cheran was a traveling pharmacy. Audric drew up a small amount in the needle and shoved the mage’s sleeve up.

“Not yet,” I said. Cheran’s eyes slipped to me, desperation lurking within. I said, “What other nasty tricks are on the blades? On the other gifts?”

“None,” he said, quickly. “Nothing. I swear.” When I cocked my head to the side and waited, he shouted, “I swear before the High Host.” His thoughts were clear and certain. There was nothing else. Not today.

“How do I clean the sword of the contaminant?” I asked.

“Salt water.”

I stepped away and nodded to my champards. Rupert stuck the gag back in. Audric didn’t bother to clean the mage’s skin, simply inserted the needle and pressed the plunger. Cheran hissed, but his thoughts were unambiguous. We were in time. He’d live. I wasn’t sure I wanted him alive, but I figured that killing a visiting dignitary on TV, even if he had tried to poison me, wasn’t such a good idea.

I stepped back and sat in my chair, still holding the sword, the tip coated with mage-blood, the scent familiar and crisp. The town fathers backed away fast, the sounds of their feet echoing in the tall-ceilinged room. “I hope you’ll forgive me,” I said to Shamus Waldroup. “An internal matter.”

“So we see,” Ebenezer said, eyes wide. “Is it safe to allow him the freedom of the streets?”

“I think so. Or it will be after my champards remove his weapons and poisons and leave him with only those things he’s purchased in town.”

“It’ll be my pleasure,” Audric said.

“Good,” I said, without looking around. “For now, tie him up. Rope, not chain.” I lay the sword across the stove, careful not to touch any cloth that would—or should—burst into flame.

I stepped behind my chair and lifted the silver bowl of salt water I had placed there, just in case I needed it against a Darkness. It had another use now. I placed the bowl on the floor in front of the camera and the town fathers. Gingerly, I dipped in the sword’s sharp point. Nothing happened. No burst of dark smoke, no spit of electricity, but then this wasn’t a conjure. It was a poison. Audric handed me the singed scarf to complete the cleansing and I wet it, squeezing the salt water out to rinse across the sword.

When I was finished with the symbolic act, I lifted my battle cloak and used it to raise the silvered blade. Facing the town fathers, I angled my head for the camera, playing to it, using it to send a message to the New Orleans Enclave. They had sent an assassin. They wanted to play dirty.

“A battle warrior has few gifts to offer, except the might of her arm and a token of peace. This gift comes from the Enclave of my birth. It was meant to destroy me, and through my death, would have harmed this town. Therefore, it symbolizes a link between us.”

“The weapon is cleansed and no longer a danger. Let it be hung in a place of the town fathers’ choosing.” I transferred the sword, still in the cloak, just in case there were traces of the nasty poison on the sword, to Shamus Waldroup’s arms. “A symbol of the pact between us,” I said. And proof to Rupert that his dream was not, could not be, fact. Rupert’s face softened and he rolled Cheran facedown, placing his foot on the mage’s back.

I bowed deeply to the delegation, indicating that I was finished with my part of the official business. Audric surreptitiously moved the silver bowl. Probably afraid I’d trip on it.

Shamus, the senior father, set the sword to the side, stepped forward, and bowed as low as his creaky bones allowed. Like me, he turned slightly so the camera could see his face. I didn’t know if he was playing to the audience, making political hay while he could, nurturing the image of the town for the rest of the world, or a mixture of motivations.

He stood upright, his bald, dark-skinned head catching the light just as Audric’s did. “The town fathers of Mineral City welcome the neomage representative. We accept the gift of the sword and its symbol of harmony between consulate and town. We come bearing gifts and offers of peaceful trade, as well as asking the neomage assistance against this present Darkness.”

“Trade will be considered, of course,” I said, “but the defense of the town does indeed come first. Both passes to the town are blocked by avalanche, tons of snow and ice obstruct the Toe River, the train tracks, and all egress and entrance.” As if he didn’t know all this, but it had to be said for the camera, for the rest of the world.

“Darkness attacked night before last, fighting with new strategy, unlike methods devil spawn have historically used. They fought as if directed, as if led by a master of warfare. Dragonets came, and wreaked havoc. And at the end, a Dark tornado came out of the night and swept much away.”

I remembered the feel of the Dark wind, the terror, and the way my heart beat in triple time, fueled by adrenaline and exhaustion. I let the memory show on my face. And I settled back in my chair for a long, boring rehashing. But Shamus surprised me. Cutting through all the layers of protocol suggested by the visa, he said, “The Mineral City emissaries know the consulate general will offer her protection as she is able. We depend on her generosity of spirit and the gifts of protection and warfare provided by God the Victorious when he sent her to us.”

Okay. That was a shocker.

He stepped forward, holding out an old wooden box, the top upholstered in maroon velvet and centered with a finial that looked like pure gold. “Mineral City offers this token of our favor and appreciation to our town mage.”