Page 83 of A Bloom in Winter

CHAPTER TWENTY–EIGHT

There’s an aristocrat in the waiting room. He’s demanding to see the King.”

Tohr was sitting in the steel core of the Audience House when Saxton ducked into the corridor to make the announcement. And go figure, after the previous two nights, it was the last thing he wanted to hear.

“He doesn’t have an appointment, does he?” Tohr shook his head as he hopped off his stool. “I mean, of course he doesn’t.”

“We do have time to accommodate him.” Saxton glanced at Qhuinn and Vishous. “If the King wants to see him? We’ve been efficient tonight.”

“I’ll go check.” Tohr tucked the back of his black shirt into his leathers. “What’s the name?”

“Whestmorel.”

Great. The squeaky wheel of theglymera. Just what they needed.

“Did he give a reason?” Although Tohr could guess. “Or a pretext.”

“He’s refusing to say.” Saxton glanced at the clipboard in his hand. “We have over a half hour.”

As V muttered something ugly, Tohr nodded at the solicitor. “I’ll go ask Wrath—and tell Deena we’ll handle this—one way or the other, I’ll take care of him. She doesn’t need to worry about the guy.”

That receptionist was totally not going to be put on the front lines of dealing with an aristocrat like Whestmorel, especially if it was a “no” from the King. That male was a member of the new guard, which was not a compliment. He’d taken to sending memos on behalf of a “number of interested parties,” as he called them, about issues they felt were pressing. So far it was all about festivals, social standards, and bullshit like that, but the frequency had been increasing.

And Tohr knew—he could just feel it in his bones—that something was cooking.

“Deena will be well pleased she’s released of that duty.” Saxton inclined his head. “Thank you very much.”

With that settled, Tohr walked down to the door that had a black dagger with the handle down and the tip pointed up on it. He knocked with a single knuckle and waited.

“Come in,” came the muffled response.

As Tohr triggered the door release, the panel slid into the wall. The entry into the Audience Room from the steel corridor could be opened four different ways: To the left, to the right, and into the wall either way, depending on what was going on inside. Usually, it was just disappeared into the slot. But if something bad was happening—and everything was designed in the facility to ensure that was never what was going on—you could detach it and use it as cover. Or not—

“What we got.”

Across a room that was draped in royal silks of red and black, Wrath was sitting in one of the two armchairs, and George, his golden retriever, was in his lap. The great Blind King was wearing his usual black muscle shirt, and the black wraparounds on his aristocratic face made him seem even harsher than his impatient greeting. Off to the side of him, a folding tray table was sporting a foot-long sub that had been cut into bite-sized pieces.There was also a Coke and a bag of Doritos with the turkey, lettuce, tomatoes, and mayo, hold the onions.

Well, at least he’s having something to eat, Tohr thought. The King was not going to be happy about the newsflash, and hopefully having a little food on board was going to dull the—

“Tohr,” came the impatient prod. “What’s going on.”

Tohr cleared his throat, and gave the dog a little wave. As he got a wag in return, the Marco/Polo he and George always did refocused him.

“We have someone in the waiting room who’s not on the schedule.”

A section of the sub was given to George, and the golden took it with his soft mouth, neatly munching the nubbins down.

Wrath’s nostrils flared. “Who.”

“It’s a member of theglymera.”

“They don’t exist anymore.”

“Well, yes, that’s right. But I was using the term more as a descriptor—”

“So what you’re saying”—Wrath took a draw from the glass bottle—“is that we have an entitled toddler with a self-importance problem bullying my receptionist and demanding to see me.”

“That’s pretty much where we’re at—and FYI, that’s whatglymerameans to me.” Tohr walked across and straightened the Kleenex box on the corner of Saxton’s desk. “It’s Whestmorel. And we have the time, just so you know. Not advocating an audience, though.”

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