A white stone sat in Biali’s palm.

CHAPTER 27

A rush of noise filled Margrit’s ears, heat rushing through her entire body as she stared at Biali’s vote in disbelief. He dropped the stone on the table and leaned back, thick arms folded across his broad chest. Only Janx’s flourish to Margrit’s left took her attention away from the gargoyle’s vote. She looked toward the dragon with a sense of curious unreality.

Janx rolled his stone in his palm, bringing it up to display between his thumb and forefinger before he lay it on the table with a soft click of finality. It gleamed white, a final show of support for Margrit’s cause.

"Three and three. The law stands. Biali?" Daisani looked toward the history-taker with expectation.

The gargoyle shoved back from the table and stood, a block of flesh solid as a wall. "It’ll go in the memories, and anyone looking to see how it came to pass just has to ask. Any more surprises, lawyer?"

"No." Margrit’s voice cracked and she pulled her eyes from the white stone Biali had abandoned on the table. "No, I think that pretty much took care of it. I don’t know about any other laws that need rewriting."

"Then we’re done." Biali stumped out of the boardroom with no more ceremony than that. Malik followed him, leaving Margrit alone with three elders of the Old Races.

Janx stepped up to her side, eyes bright green with interest. "I believe you and I have some things to discuss. Perhaps I could escort you home. If you’ll have me, of course."

"There’s a question you may hear regularly, Miss Knight." Daisani, full of teasing formality, appeared beside Janx. "An attractive, intelligent woman already conversant with the Old Races, when we’ve just agreed to change our laws of survival. All sorts of propositions may come your way."

Margrit blurted, "I need to talk to Biali," and Daisani clucked his tongue in overweening dismay.

"I’m shocked. Had I guessed who our young Knight might choose as her squire, it would certainly not have been Biali. Generations of children who might have been weep in despair. Margrit, if you’re returning to the ball, I’d be delighted to claim another dance."

"Sure." She nodded as Daisani left the room, then turned toward Janx. Kaimana, still on the other side of the table, offered a very brief smile that sent an unexpected chill over Margrit’s skin. She believed the choices she’d pushed the Old Races to were the right ones, but the arrogance of that belief came back to her as she saw self-satisfaction in Kaaiai’s expression. He, like Biali, seemed to have nothing more to say, and left her standing alone with Janx.

The red-haired crimelord offered his elbow, all graceful politeness, and looked pleased when Margrit took it. "I remember a time when you wouldn’t let me touch you, much less take your arm or share a dance," he murmured. "Have you softened toward the hardened criminal, Margrit?"

Remembered irritation rose up at the casual, dismissive way Janx had captured a lock of her hair in his fingers the first time they’d met. Margrit banished the memory with effort, trying to distance herself from the emotion. "It wasn’t your occupation that made me angry. It was the arrogant possessiveness. You don’t go around handling people like objects just because you think you can."

"On the contrary." Janx pulled the door open, amused, and escorted Margrit toward the elevators.

She huffed, trying not to share his laughter. "You shouldn’t. And you certainly shouldn’t do it to me."

"Or you’ll very nearly bite my hand, as I recall. I’ve learned caution. I’d like you to tell me about a name I once gave you, Margrit." The elevator doors chimed closed behind them and Janx leaned on one reflective brass wall, full of falsely casual interest. "Tell me about Ausra."

A new wave of surprise washed through her, part of an endless ebb and flow. Margrit was unexpectedly grateful for the sleep she’d gotten that morning. Without it, the ceaseless exchange of high emotion would overwhelm her. As it was, she felt like staggering under its weight, and wished Alban were at hand so she could lean on his strength. She needed to talk to Biali, but she wanted to talk to Alban, to find out why he’d given up his place in the quorum so readily. To ask why he’d abandoned her, though an itching conviction told her choosing that word was unfair. "Is that why you voted on my behalf?"

Janx gave a liquid shrug. "I voted with you because I enjoy upsetting the balance, though I’ll confess surprise at how badly it was upset tonight. But I’m reminded that I gave you a name-and a priceless stone-and I’ve heard nothing of either since."

"I gave the sapphire to Alban," Margrit said flatly. The egg-shaped stone had held a star within it, translucent blue and milky white making up the bulk of its color, though a fragile spot of lilac had marked one end. It had been a gift from Alban to Hajnal hundreds of years earlier, and had ended up in Janx’s hands through Ausra and a corrupt policeman. "Take it up with him."

"Why, Margrit." Janx’s tones were injured. "You promised you’d return it."

"Actually, I think you promised I’d return it. I never said I would. And even if I did…" Margrit smiled. "I lied."

"It’s wonderful," Janx muttered, "that you feel confident in telling me that. I must be losing my touch. Ausra, my dear," he said more clearly. "Tell me about Ausra."

"She blamed Alban for something he hadn’t done," Margrit said bluntly. "She was killing people and trying to frame him for it, no matter what happened to the rest of the Old Races. She almost killed me."

"Ah. Nereida Holmes, your attacker this winter. I see." Interest glittered in Janx’s eyes. "She had a daytime life, Margrit. A job, family, friends."

"She was Hajnal’s daughter, not Alban’s. Her father was human, a man who’d captured Hajnal."

"And you fought her off. An attacker with easily two or three times your strength."

"What’s the penalty for one of us killing one of you, Janx?" Margrit asked.

Janx slid a sour jade glance at her. "Ask Saint George. Ask Beowulf or Ulysses. Look to your legends, Margrit, and answer that yourself."

"Immortality?" Margrit breathed the question, less humor in it than she’d intended. "That’s not what I meant, Janx, and you know it. What do your people do to us?"

"We retaliate when we can. If we know the guilty party. If he doesn’t have a reputation for destroying seven of us in a single blow."

"So I’m better off keeping my mouth shut over what happened with Ausra. Let’s just work under the principle that it’s not unreasonable to hope that if the Old Races strictures are loosened for you, they might be bent for me."

"You have bent us so far we struggle not to break, Margrit." Janx spoke lightly, but steel lined his words. "Change doesn’t come easily to our people, and we’ve upset the balance greatly tonight."

"How is it that five of you can make these kinds of decisions for your entire people? We’d have gone through public hearings and arguments, and the whole process would’ve taken years."

"Malik can’t," Janx admitted freely. "Unless he’s faced the rite of passage. Succeeding would give him the voice he needs among the djinn to have his arguments heard."

"The rite of passage. You both mentioned that earlier. What is it?"

"A challenge, usually within the tribe. He’ll have chosen a leader he thinks can be defeated and try to bring him down, thereby gaining that position. I wonder who he defeated. I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him."

A knot tied in Margrit’s stomach. "Within the tribe or the race?"

Janx looked askance at her and she swallowed. "What if he’s far enough removed from the djinn to think of other people as his own? What if you’re the leader he wants to take down? Does he have to have already done it to stand for his people?"