SciFi and Fantasy Stories: Ch 3 The Circle of Ice & Fire

Written by Alice "Muffin Girl" Smith

Chapter finished 10/5/03

~_~

Part One (Soap) - *

Part Two (I Propose a Game) - *

Part Three (Dear Hen) -- *

^*^*^

Two-Faced Weasel, but that was one dream I was more than happy to wake from. I hadn't had that one for awhile. Near death experiences were apparently better for your mind than they seemed. Sunlight streamed through the window onto my eyelids. It was pleasantly warm, but entirely blinding.

"Tackim," I managed through my yawn, "shut those damn shades. Some of us aren't bats, you know." Odd, but he didn't immediately throw something at me for my effort. Must have already headed to breakfast. Or lunch. I was sleeping pretty late these days. Crew was convinced that excessive sleep would somehow cure me of Kurk. Personally, I was a firm believer that active duty would be an easier medicine to swallow. Five months of sitting around... It can do bad things to a guy's mind. I actually laughed at one of Tackim's jokes yesterday. And if there was one thing that was never funny, it was the humor of a Back-Stabbing Fishmonger. That Circle had serious issues, and Tackim was always ready and willing to contaminate poor Earthen minds. Like mine needed any help.

For example, something about the light was triggering that bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. The one that you'd get walking through dark alleys in the middle of the night with a heavyset guy keeping pace about a half block away from you. Just what I had against the light, I didn't know. I was way too paranoid these days. Probably had something to do with Dip; she was out on Kurk as a Negotiator. Not that the girl couldn't handle herself... there really wasn't a good way to end that sentence, was there?

And what the hell did I have against the light? It seemed like it was coming from the wrong angle. Active duty, oh yes, that's what I needed. Something to correct the deep-frying of my brain. Another month, Crew said, just one more month--can't have you going to a Circle with those scars, now can we? Just wait 'til you're done healing. As if Quip hadn't had a field day patching me up. Four months of sitting around for no reason, and Crew was well aware of it.

Seriously, why was that light bugging me so much? This was ridiculous. With a defeated sigh, I gave up trying to ignore the fact I was awake and let my eyes pop open. I blinked. The sun was coming in from the wrong angle because my bed was facing the wrong angle. Not to mention it wasn't my bed. And the small fact that this wasn't my room. And the minor technicality that the sun was the wrong color. Oh. Right. The Circle, and Jen the rude hen, Canary Lady... Yeah. Yeah, that made things easier to understand.

I was not a morning person.

Waitaminute... How did I get back to the room? Something about severe mental trauma at the hands of a few disgruntled prisoners seemed to imply that this wasn't the place I should be at. Not that I was complaining... but this was pretty... strange. Yup.

Someone knocked on the door in that better-than-you manner I recognized as Cutter's. Just how he could belittle me with a door knock was beyond my conscious mind. He was just talented, I supposed.

"Yeah?" I called out after the urge to fake sleep and thereby waste his valuable time passed. Without asking permission, he entered. Then again, at least he knocked first. Last time I'd gone to his room, I didn't remember paying that simple courtesy.

"Tough Kid." He began quite creatively, leaning against the wall. "Just what the hell did you think you were doing yesterday?" The moment it took me to formulate a suitable response was more than enough time for him to plow right past that small opening. "I didn't give you permission to spend all bloody day out there. And I most certainly did not give you permission to turn suicidal on me."

"Huh...?"

"Working is one thing. Working 'til you collapse is something else. It's bad enough having a lunatic on my team without everyone on this bloody Circle knowing it. You read me? Another incident like this, and I'll see to it your commander has you cooling your heels back on Earth." His little speech was delivered in a disturbingly unconcerned monotone. He'd been rehearsing this all night, I could tell. For a moment I couldn't say anything; the urge for sarcasm was much too strong under that no-nonsense gaze. And sarcasm would just send him storming out of this room without listening to a word I said.

"Cutter," I began smoothly, aware of that little trilling edge to my voice that threatened laughter. "You are slightly misinformed." Oh yeah, he'd been stewing over this for hours. Usually he was willing to listen to my excuses, if only to allow me a chance to dig myself deeper. This time, he just bowled straight over my voice with his own.

"Get dressed, and come downstairs. The Western Riders showed up while you were gone." Cutter pushed off from the wall and simply walked out. He kicked the door shut behind him. Through it all he'd kept his serene commander face on. Okay, maybe now wasn't the best time for the truth. I'd have to try again, after the blinding rage had cooled into mere murderous anger.

In an unhurried manner--I had no strong desire to catch up with Cutter sooner than was strictly necessary--I obeyed. For different reasons, I ran a searching hand inside my jacket. The black knife had been returned to its designated pocket. Whatever that meant. This Circle was confusing.

Cutter had disappeared by the time I emerged from the relative safety of the room. Not that this was a bad thing. I could find my way to the dining hall just fine, thank you--it was just downstairs, after all, the only other room on first floor besides Ken's office and the kitchens--and frankly, I was just as happy not to have his pleasant conversation. I set off down the hallway, not precisely hurrying. And by not precisely, I mean I stopped every ten feet to examine the doors. Each one of them had this really simple design carved into its wood, you see. My own door had a little leaf. Cutter's had a branch. The next one down the line had a little fluffy cloud. Yuck. The one down from that had a little simplistic stream. Just who would put so much effort into carving these pointless little things in pointless little places, I didn't know. Art had always seemed a frivolous venture to me. Who cared what yellow and blue made, when you could just go out and buy green? The next door-

Opened. Right into my nose. With a yelp, I went down. The door shut again with a hurried little noise as if someone on the inside had just gotten the livin' daylights scared out of them. I experimentally removed my cupped hands from my poor little nose.

"Hey, watch where you're opening that thing!" I sounded like a duck.

"Sorry..." A boy muttered, his voice soft and timid through the door.

"Ack, don't apologize. You didn't know I was out here." I really, really sounded like a duck. You are what you give grenade launchers to, I suppose. I experimentally prodded at the bridge of my nose as I rose to my feet. Not broken, but tender. Note to self: no poking the nose that just got slammed by a door in the future. Soft Voice finally risked opening the door again, with slow, methodical care. A youthful face peered at me, intense white-blue eyes full of concern.

"You quite all right?" He asked after a moment.

"Ah, yeah. Don't think I'll be doing that again." I mumbled, wincing as I prodded my poor nose despite myself. Mental note: don't do that.

Apparently realizing it was just the local idiot and no one important, the boy stepped from his room fully, and shut the door behind him. He was a Western Rider, I assumed. His clothes, if nothing else, gave him away. He was dressed entirely in blue, its dark, nearly black hue serving to neatly direct all emphasis upon those nearly white blue-hued eyes. It was the same material that Canary Lady had worn, presumably; not a single shadow dwelt upon its length, as if it glowed. On such a dark material, the laughable results were markedly absent. He looked as though the shadows had reached for him, and he'd calmly waved them back. He looked the sort of guy that could do that, though I couldn't quite place my finger on why. He was only even with my own unimpressive height, and his robe clung to his form, accenting his slim shoulders and thinly muscled frame... But staring into those vivid eyes lurking under the black bangs from his unkempt hair, I suddenly doubted my initial impression that he was a child. Strange that his voice was so soft, I could barely hear him.

"Really sorry. Didn't see you there." Given the fact he'd been behind a door at the time, I didn't doubt the excuse.

"No problem. I was just, ah, looking at the little design on your door there. Didn't know anyone was staying in this room." Plus, I was the sort of moron that attracted accidents. But I left that part unspoken, given its obviousness. He studied me for a moment with those sharp eyes of his, clearly concerned for my well being.

"You are Ambassador Mather?" Or not.

"Yeah." Wince. Note to self: STOP POKING THE STUPID NOSE ALREADY.

"Good to meet you. West." He offered out his hand, and I instinctively shook it. It was only after a moment of reflection that I realized it was the first hand I'd shaken on this Circle. Huh. Either the Westerners shook hands, or Cutter had introduced them to that fine art yesterday. And honestly, what was a Westerner doing with a name like 'West'? I had the lurking suspicion that I might as well call him Joe or Bob. It had that ring of a stereotypical name. Not like Percy. I had to give my parents that: they hadn't given me a common name.

Not that little idiotic me could possibly know it at the time, but West had a funny way of talking. He sometimes clipped off the opening words in sentences. For example, what he had meant to say was, "It is good to meet you. I am The West." Note the capitalization. He wasn't a Bob. He had Bob and Joe working for him. Along with Sue, Hal, Debby, and John. The West was The Head Rider. Leader of a nation. And to think, I thought that quizzical stare had been for my well being. After the initial shock was over, he was just wondering why I wasn't prostrating myself before him. Lowly Ambassador from an unheard of province that I was.

Wince.

"Are you feeling better? After yesterday, I mean." In retrospect, that soft little voice was more curious than concerned. West was used to people knowing exactly who he was, and exactly how low they were in comparison.

"Oh, yeah." I made a waving-off motion with my hand. "I just needed a bit of sleep." Did everyone know about my 'passing out'? Weasel, that held potential to get annoying fast. "Thanks for your concern." He tilted his head; the robin examining its squiggling find.

"Are you headed down to breakfast, then?" His white-blue eyes had gained a suspicious gleam that I recognized. He was up to no good. Just how that question tied in with his mischievous plotting, I was too nearsighted to see.

"Yeah. Are you?" It was a fair enough response. Didn't commit to anything, didn't risk offending. He must have only been eighteen or so, but I was under the disturbing impression his brain was working a notch higher than mine.

"Indeed." His sweet little smile turned that quiet word into something altogether different. "Shall we walk together, Ambassador Mather?" And from that moment on, I was caught in the garden gnome's scheme.

Wince.

"Naysay, Ambassador Mather." His voice had a pleasant laughing trill as he lightly settled a staying hand on my arm. "You will be dining with me this light." Oh, but he looked so sweet. Oh, but he sounded so evil. I paused, one foot inside of the doorway of the dinning hall, the kid already waving his arm in juvenile beckoning from the inside. "In fact, I would take great offense if you did not break fast with me." It was finally Cutter's face which tipped the scales. This malicious young adult was up to something, but Cutter had been rehearsing speeches again. I could see it in his eyes as he stared at me from the table.

"Well we can't have that, now can we?" I'd take the unknown fate to the guaranteed ear-full, thank you. We exchanged mutually devious smiles. The look on Cutter's face as I turned around was simply priceless, though I doubt it did a thing to cool him down.

It was to Ken's office that West led me, his blue-black cloak swishing with a playful slapping noise at the light, almost dancing steps he took. Inside, redecoration from office to greenhouse had been completed, and it was clear Suzu had simply outdone herself. Blank spaces of wall contrasted tactfully with looping arrangements of vine and flower to create the air of a garden in late summer, after its owner has just come back from a month-long vacation. Gracefully chaotic as only nature can be, that is. The floor had been covered over with a light blanket of bright green, the same shadowless fabric as all the Westerners wore. There were two of them, in addition to West and a Canary Lady that barked a growl as she saw my shining face. The three of them were lounging on the floor in the center of the large room, messing with what looked to be cook pots. The others were a man, approximately of Canary Lady's height and dressed all in uproarious red tones, and a woman of the same stature as West clad in a deep earthy red-brown.

"Master West, that is the Ambassador I have spoken of." Canary Lady offered, her tone taut and clipped as she slowly stood.

"Yeasay, I am aware." And so I was introduced to stage one of his most horrible plan: tick off Canary. "Really, Lady Tweet, you act as though I don't know leaf from vine sometimes." Canary was, I would find out later, his old nursemaid. He had born her a distinct grudge ever since the time she'd had him spanked for going through her undergarments. At the time, I was simply confused at the tastefully gloating gleam to his eyes.

"All I propose, Master, is that perhaps he is not suited for the company we entertain." I've never had my ruffian status stated so eloquently. She made a strange little half-bow while she said it, but her eyes never left my face. 'Master' West flashed her a small, toothy grin, and denied her comment. Instead he lightly took my arm, and led me to the center of the room. A surprisingly firm hand on my shoulder seated me next to the short red-clothed man. He was tending to what was, indeed, a cook pot. The inner contents looked surprisingly good. Given my experiences with native cuisine, I didn't trust that initial reaction. The red-clothed man gave a small, self-conscious smile at my attention to his work. It looked like vegetable stir-fry, with short angel-hair noodles and some kind of white sauce mixed in. He was currently stirring in green spice from a little glass jar.

"Jeannine and Kenneth have committed themselves to dining with us, correct?" I blinked up from the grub, not quite trusting that softly laughing tone in West's voice. He had seated himself at my side, and was innocently peering into the contents of the earth-tone woman's pot. The pots themselves were ceramic, by the way--as large as your standard cook pots, with a red glaze that caught the light with almost a metallic sheen. Canary Lady huffed something unintelligible, finally reclaiming her seat on the other side of the earthen-tone woman. It was as far away from me as she could inconspicuously get. Not that that was very far at all. Cook pots and all, we were only taking up a space some eight or so feet round.

"Yeasay." The red man flickered his eyes upwards briefly. "Something we should know, Master?"

"Esteemed Sirs and gentle Ladies, I propose a game. Granted that Ambassador Mather is willing." Oh yes, granted. His soft little voice certainly left me no opening to protest. "Let us seek to reclaim that which was taken from our colleagues."

"Master." The earthen-tone woman frowned over at him. "You promised not to leave last eve. Your words have a tang of ren Ritsa's influence. If I may be so bold." She was rewarded for her efforts with a blush rising over his delicate cheekbones.

"Yeasay, that may be so." He shrugged slightly. "Yet it remains that we would not know this, otherwise--the esteemed Ambassador Mather is caretaker of the Black Knife." I think Canary almost choked. I certainly lofted an eyebrow. Ritsa. I remembered that name from the lovely chaps yesterday. The girl who'd so kindly escorted me back to Go, no doubt. "You do have it on your person, correct?" He turned an eye on me. Wordlessly, I fished out that troublesome piece of metal from my jacket, holding it up for all to see. I really don't know what Canary could have been choking on, but she was managing the trick somehow. West nodded, quite satisfied.

"Mistress Ritsa's lost it." Red man declared simply, eyeing me like I was something in the gutter he'd like to poke with his toe. Just to see if it would twitch, you understand.

"Yeasay." West nodded happily. "But it's a bit convenient, isn't it? White for Black, you agree?"

"Mister Kenneth won't like it." Earthen-toned woman said, her tone more thoughtful than contradictory.

"Err... I don't quite understand?" I asked quite reasonably. What with all of them staring at me contemplatively seeming to indicate I was a key player in this upcoming plan.

"Well," West smiled at me quite pleasantly. "It's simple, really." His soft little voice gained a lecturing quality as he continued. "Any given individual may only guard a single Knife at a time. Jeannine has in her possession the White Knife; she rules the Wen'kian. You have the Black Knife; you have power over the Ro'kian. The Wen'kian are peaceful; they were no threat to the Southerners even before Jeannine was granted their care. Now the Ro'kian... They are the war worms. Jeannine would much rather have an army at her beckoning than the little worms that tend to trees." He smirked, as if this were some joke. "She would be more than willing to trade White for Black." While the specifics were going over my head--Ro'kian was what the monster I'd seen my first day here was called, I'd gathered that much, but Wen'kian was not ringing any bells--I was grasping the gist of things. Knifes were symbolic to these people of ownership. A bit strange that they thought a little toy like this (well, maybe not a toy, I remembered with a wince) would be a sign of controlling a species, but I wasn't about to say anything against it. If Cutter were here right now, he'd be gloating. This was a form of religion, and no mistake. Dear Jen the Rude Hen wanted a Knife that symbolized power much more than some dinky thing that stood for forestry.

"That girl--Ritsa--she told me not to let the Fire Riders get their hands on this." I dangled the knife between my thumb and forefinger, my gaze on it somewhat mistrustful. The thing looked just as blunt and harmless as ever, yet still... the memory of that pain was fresh in my mind. And unless I really had worked myself so hard I passed out, and was merely delusional...

"Yeasay, Ambassador Mather." West bobbed his head in agreement. "Can't have Jeannine truly controlling the Ro'kian. Yet ownership of the Knife may be passed only willingly from the previous owner. If you do not will it to be so, the Knife will never be truly hers." And what a fun little religion it was, too. Very, very trusting that all parties would hold up their end of the agreements. I'd stick with my darling Two-Faced Weasel and all the self-reliance therein, if it were all the same. Never mind the fact I was apparently a key player in their church hierarchy at the present moment.

"All right. I guess. So what do I have to do?" You sure that's gonna work? By the sounds of it, dear Jen stole that white knife in the first place; who's to say she won't just do it again? Ah, the thoughts that you think compared to what you say...

West smiled, and the red man unceremoniously grabbed the Black Knife from my hand. Surprised indignation rose within me as he handed it off to Canary Lady.

"Don't worry, Ambassador Mather. It will be returned." West spoke soothingly. I really should have known better than to suppress that indignation.

^*^*^

When Ken and Jen entered, our malicious little stage was set. Granted there was no visible difference from before... but it was the thought that counted.

Their clothing alone was enough to send home the point that we little Earthlings were by no means important. A curiosity, sure, but not important. Not here. Ken had traded in his worn leather clothing for an ensemble of white. It wasn't the same shimmering fabric as the Westerners wore, but a different kind that seemed to catch the shadows inside itself and send them racing to lighter areas in geometric patterns too quick and complex for my mind to grasp before they changed into something entirely different. He wore an elaborately cut shirt of this material, its neck and cuffs trimmed with a blue lace that gave the shadows a metallic sheen. His normally tangled black hair had been trimmed and combed back. Suspended in the center of his forehead by a thin silver chain was a small oval of black stone. The sword at his waist was gone, replaced by a sapphire-hilted dagger that had been peace-bound to its ornately worked leather sheath. He wore this change of clothes easily, as if it was no different from his usual attire.

Jen, in her turn, had traded in her work clothes for a tightly clinging tank top of shimmering red fabric. It hid much, much less than it showed. She had a very nice tummy, I noted. Among other virtues that her baggy leather shirt had concealed. Far below where that so-called shirt ended, a skin-tight pair of shadowless black shorts began, held to her hips either by their tightness or the belt of golden links, to which a small white-hilted knife was hanging. Shortly thereafter, said shorts ended. The legs of a Goddess began at that point. Ken was watching the movements of my eyes closely by this point, and he didn't seem to be enjoying where they lingered.

"Nice hair, Jen." I commented pleasantly enough. Indeed, her dark red hair had been braided and then wound into a loose bun near the top of her head. Keeping this neat contraption upright was a golden mesh of loops that contained the bun as effectively as a particularly tight lunch-lady's hair net. A small strand of hair had been tactfully omitted from this process, and it hung down her right cheek in a thin braid of its own, weighted down by a three feathers--black, gold, and red. From her Flame Bird, no doubt.

It's funny what you can see while still seeming to look at a woman's hairdo. She, ah, looked like she was a bit cold in those whimsically minute scraps of sewn cloth.

"Thank you, Ambassador Mather." Jen dipped her head graciously, her green eyes promising that I would be punished severely for the course of thoughts my mind was taking. Never mind that her Flame Bird wasn't here to give her detailed insight; I was a man, after all. Assumptions were safe in this situation.

"Yeasay, Jeannine, your hair is quite lovely." West seconded, no more or less innocent than I was.

"Yeasay. They speak truth, Mistress Jeannine." Piped up the man in red. We were all going to die; that was very clear in the furious set of her bare shoulders. But hey --at least we were getting our last meal, right? Oh most gracious Weasel man, you hath provided for your flock quite nicely.

"You are all too kind." What a musical voice she had when signing our death warrants!

"Do make yourselves comfortable." West finally offered, sweeping a gracious hand to the two vacant spots we had kindly left open in our little circle of friendship. With an air of carefully repressed fury, Jen seated herself next to me. It was either that, or next to West... I guess I was the lesser of the two evils, eh? Wonder what her standards were... Ken gracefully lowered himself to his knees at her other side, obviously content in the knowledge that Jen would be much more protective of her body than he could ever hope to be. "Jeannine, I must say, I am quite impressed that you were able to find proper Southerner attire this far from the white sands."

"I brought them north with me, Master West. They do not take much space to pack." Her voice was as carefully reserved as a queen's as she knelt next to me, her back straight with womanly pride. There was nothing to take shame in, from what I could see. She had the most darling freckle on her back...

"That was quite foresighted of you." West nodded his agreement, smiling just as innocent as can be.

"Indeed." She said it with a great air of finality. In other words, this conversation stops here you gawking vultures.

"So..." West clapped his hands, obviously coming to the same conclusion I had--Jen was ready and willing to kill us all right here, right now, if we didn't stop complimenting her. "Kenneth. How is your father doing? I was most regretful to hear that Master North would not be joining us for our stay." West really had a knack for pressing people's buttons. Ken, who had been idly staring into the earthen-toned woman's pot, suddenly gained that same straight-backed attitude of utmost royal pride that radiated from dear Jen.

"He is quite well, Master West." And there was his innocent voice, back in all its stomach-turningly dishonest force. "He sends his regards."

"And does he send word of my proposal?" West seemed perfectly at ease with his guest's obvious discomfort. I had to say, I was feeling a bit sorry for dear Jen. Hens wearing less than a bathing suit really shouldn't be put in a room with three strange men.

"He does not." Ken's innocent little tone was sounding positively forced past his clenched teeth.

"Interesting, interesting. And what do you make of it, Kenneth? Be truthful with me. By Green Knife, I will take no offense."

"I think it unwise." Ken had taken to staring somewhere straight in front of himself, above Canary Lady's head and far, far away. "The Eastern Riders have always stood divided. Restoring them to power would only lead to further chaos, and I see not how your influence could keep them in check."

West nodded reasonably. "True, all true. Yet who says the East is divided?" If it was possible, husband and wife stiffened further. "If nothing else, your--how shall I put this?--influence has shown them the weakness that comes with division. It is my belief that they will choose a single ren, if given the chance."

"And perhaps, Master West, you merely attempt to barter for the sake of a dead dream." Jen's tone was a wonderful mix of sarcasm and loathing. For myself, I'd gone back to staring into the red man's pot. He was doing likewise. 'Tis not for mere mortals to meddle in the affairs of the exceedingly ticked-off higher powers.

"Perhaps, Jeannine, you should consider your own dreams before assaulting those of others. Tell me, how fares your sister? I have not heard from her since that most unfortunate accident."

"She is quite fine, Master West. Quite fine." I could hear her teeth grinding even before she stopped talking.

"Really, now? That is wonderful news. So you have found a Ro'kian willing to serve as counter to the Holding?"

"Not as of yet, no." There was a certain desperation in her voice that I really, really wished I was imagining. Because if I wasn't, Jen the rude hen was on the brink of tears.

"Quite unfortunate."

"Soup's done." The earthen-tone woman tactfully spoke up, her voice full of false cheer. Stay around women too long, and you'll notice something --they always come to each other's aid. Never mind such silly nonsense as nationality. If men were the offenders, women would unite. End of story.

We ate in silence. The food was deliciously familiar, the pasta akin to something I'd once eaten at an Italian restaurant back on Earth and the soup suspiciously like simple wild rice with vegetables aplenty. If any of us had been so inclined, we could have deluded ourselves with the thought that we ate in silence because the food was so good. I was a bit inclined, but my imagination wasn't quite good enough to block out the murderous steel that had come into Jen's eyes, nor the taut lines about Ken's mouth. I bet they were both thinking fondly of those swords they had left in their room... Though in another thought, perhaps this was exactly why they had left those tempting weapons behind. I toyed with any number of ice-breaking statements--'Good soup, huh?', 'Good pasta, huh?', 'Good weather, huh?'--but decided to tactfully hold my silence. Not because I was afraid of getting my head bitten off by this tough crowd, oh no, but because they were really such stupid things to say. Particularly when the straight-backed woman sitting next to me was hiding the occasional sniffle behind sneezes. 'Hey West, do you know what the word chivalry means?', 'Hey West, do you know you're a jerk?', 'Hey West, how about I kick your arse?' Really, it was better I kept my mouth shut. And no, I was not feeling overly protective of the Rude Hen. She was a Beacon; I was just looking out for one of my own.

"Good soup," The guy in red offered up. He cleared his throat uncomfortably as all eyes spontaneously settled upon him. "What spices did you use?" The earthen-tone woman smiled insincerely.

"Oh, just the regulars. Blue Leaf, Garess, Miv, Frino Tail..." She trailed off. The red man looked as if he was trying to think of some way to continue the conversation. A brave and noble soul, that one, but not of the quickest wits. Conversation ground to a halt once more.

Some things should just stay grounded.

"Jeannine, if it is not ill mannered of me to discuss this over the meal, may I speak of a bit of business?" West carefully asked. Jen didn't reply. Nor did she make eye contact with him. I had my suspicions as to why, but wasn't inclined to embarrass her by seeing if I was right. Not perturbed, West continued. "It has come to my attention that the forests of the East are somewhat... worse for ownership?" His voice carried a glimmer of true sadness, but the sudden tremor that went through Jen's body was enough to distract my sympathy from it.

"You suggest that I do not tend to my duties, Master West?" What lingering sadness she had in her had just been obliterated in the flash fire of her anger.

"I suggest only that the management of trees is not well known to those who have never before seen their like." He held up a hand to forestall whatever remark she was obviously ready to make. "I also suggest that the care of warriors is not best suited to those who would rather see to their fields." That had her attention. With her head sharply cocked to the side like that, she looked every bit the Hen ready to peck at her meal. Ken was discreetly picking at his pasta, paying so little mind to the conversation that I'm sure he could have spoken it back word for word. "It seems to me that perhaps care should be placed where care is best suited."

"Your suggestions have a grain of truth, Master West." It was not an admittance; not from her. It was an invitation to continue. West caught the eye of Canary, and nodded slightly. She produced the black knife, and wordlessly set it upon the ground, horizontally in front of her knees. Jen's breath caught in her throat as she stared at the thing reverently, her eyes a showcase of emotions. Simple hope warred with an almost animal desire to obtain the troublesome toy. With deliberate care and a great air of casualness, she set aside her uneaten food and turned her gaze upon West. "An interesting suggestion."

"Indeed." He agreed, his pale blue eyes committing to nothing. For a long moment they simply stared at each other. Never taking her eyes off of him, Jen unsheathed the knife that rested at her waist. It glimmered a milky white as she set it down on the shadowless green fabric in front of her. West smiled a knowing smile, nodding to Canary, his eyes never leaving Jen. Canary lifted the black knife in her hand, and handed it hilt-first to Jen. Jen took it without the slightest hesitation, handing off the white knife to Canary with her other hand.

"If it is not entirely ill-mannered, I would feel most comfortable if your messenger fulfilled her end of the contract first." Jen mildly stated.

"Not ill-mannered at all, Jeannine. I consider it a display of my trust in you." West smiled a toothy smile, nodding again to Canary. Canary Lady toyed with the white knife for a moment, took a sharp breath, and drove the blade into the palm of her hand up to the very hilt. I think I nearly had a heart attack just then, as she drew in a shaky breath. It sounded absurdly loud, in a room where no one else was breathing. She paused for a long moment, and then slowly drew the blade back out from her hand. A thin line of white glittered for a moment where she had been impaled, and then it was gone, and there was nothing to show that what had just happened had really taken place.

Was that what happened to me, then?

Canary flashed a small smile to West, flexing her hand experimentally, as if testing that it was well and truly whole. I could understand that reaction.

Jen paused a moment, her gaze contemplatively locked on Canary. And then without even the preparatory pause the other woman had taken, she stabbed her own hand through with the black knife. It was just my own sympathetic memory, but for a moment it seemed like I felt the blade sliding through my hand again. Except it wasn't with the pain I remembered; it was dimmer, and somehow hot. That's what memory will do to you. I wiggled my own fingers as Jen went to withdraw the black knife from her flesh. She was smiling triumphantly, even though I could see the pain of it in her eyes. It was a bit of a kick to my manly pride that two women had just gone through the same thing as I had, with barely a bat of their long eyelashes. That's why when Jen gave out a little gasp of pain as she drew out the knife, I took satisfaction from it. Her back went rigid, and her green eyes looked hurt in the manner of a kicked puppy.

When her eyes shut and she slouched forward, she still had that small smile on her face, warped somewhat by her gasp. Ken caught her, his hand frantically raising to her neck. It took me a long moment to realize he was testing for her pulse. And by then, the verdict was already in.

"Who-?" He began softly, an emotionless gaze locked upon West. He had to stop, and draw in a slow breath, before he could finish. "Who owns the knife?"

West gave a pleasant little smile, utterly remorseless in his previous and upcoming actions. "Ambassador Mather, of course."

If I had learned anything on Kurt, I would have bolted for the door before Ken could do anything more than hold the dear hen to his chest. But I just couldn't stop staring at her.

Why was it always my fault?