Chenaya smirked at that. "My uncle presumes a great deal."
The Beysa finally shrugged. "Perhaps it is just your nature to be rude," she sighed. "Perhaps that will change as we come to know each other. Kadakithis told me he promised you a party when you came to see him. In half a fortnight I, myself, will host an event to welcome you and Lowan Vigeles to our city."
Chenaya forced a tight smile, then kneeled to wipe her blade on the nearest assassin, rose, and sheathed it. "My father and I will of course accept the Prince's invitation." She stroked Reyk's feathers. "I love parties."
The two women locked gazes, and their eyes betrayed their mutual hostility and distrust. However, this night was Chenaya's. Shupansea might have learned about the threat to the Prince, but it was she, a Rankan, who prevented its success. The fish-eyed warriors at the Beysa's back were just so many spectators to admire her kills.
"My thanks and those of your cousin for your exertions on his behalf," Shupansea said stiffly. She waved a hand, and half her guards began to carry the bodies away. "Now, it is a little late to entertain visitors, don't you think? I believe you can find your way out." The Beysa turned away and reentered the palace.
"Keep the grapples," Chenaya said lightly to the guards as she headed down the walkway. "I shouldn't need them again."
A BREATH OF POWER by Diana L. Paxson
"A red one-Papa, I want a red fly now!" - Lalo looked down at his small son, sighed, and picked a crimson chalkstick from the pile. Deftly his hand swept over the paper, sketching a head, a thorax, angled legs, and the outlines of transparent wings. He exchanged red for gold and added a shimmer of color, while Alfi bounced on the bench beside him, a three-year-old's fanatic purpose fixing his gaze on each move.
"Is it done. Papa?" The child squirmed onto the table to see, and Lalo twitched the paper out of the way, wishing Gilla would get back and take the boy off his hands. Where was she, anyway? Anxiety stirred in his belly. These days, violence between the Beysib invaders and a constantly mutating assortment of native factions made even a simple shopping trip hazardous; their oldest son, Wedemir, on leave from his caravan, had volunteered to escort her to the Bazaar. The Beysib honeymoon was over, and every day brought new rumors of resistance and bloody Beysib response. Gilla and Wedemir ought to be back by now....
Alfi jiggled his arm and Lalo forced his attention back to the present. Looking down at the boy's dark head, he thought it odd how alike his firstborn and his youngest had turned out to be-both darkhaired and tenacious.... For a moment, the years between were gone; he was a young father and it was Wedemir who nestled against him, begging him to draw some more.
But of course there was a difference to Lalo's drawing now.
"Papa, is the fly going to be able to see?" Alfi pointed at the sketched head.
"Yes, yes, tadpole, just wait a minute now." Lalo picked up his knife to sharpen the black chalk. Then Alfi wriggled, Lalo's hand slipped, and the knife bit into his thumb. With an oath he dropped it and put his finger to his mouth to stop the bleeding, glaring at his son.
"Papa, do it now-do the trick and make it fly away!" said Alfi obliviously.
Lalo repressed an urge to throw the child across the room, sketched in antennae and a faceted eye. It was not Alfi's fault. He should never have started this game.
Then he grimaced, picked up the paper, and shut his eyes for a moment, focusing his awareness until he could-Lalo opened his eyes and breathed gently upon the bright wings....
Alfi stilled, eyes widening as the bright speck quivered, expanded its shimmering wings, and buzzed away to join the jewel-scatter of flies that were already orbiting the garbage-basket by the door.
For a blessed moment the child stayed silent, but Lalo, looking at the insects he had drawn into life, shuddered suddenly. He remembered-a scarlet Sikkintair that soared above the heads of feasting gods, the transcendent splendor of the Face of Ils, the grace of Eshi pouring wine... and beside him had sat Thilli, or was it Theba-oh gods, could he be forgetting already?
"Papa, now make me one that's green and purple, and-" A small hand tugged his sleeve.
"No!" The table rocked as Lalo surged to his feet. Colored chalks clattered across the floor.
"But Papa-"
"I said No-can't you understand?" Lalo shouted, hating himself as Alfi gasped and was still. He extricated himself from behind the table and started for the door, then stopped short, trembling. He couldn't leave-he had promised Gilla-he couldn't leave the child in the house alone! Damn Gilla, anyway! Lalo brought his hands to his eyes, trying to rub the ache behind them away.
There was a small sniff behind him. He heard the faint clicking as Alfi began, very carefully, to put the chalks into their wooden box again.
"I'm sorry, tadpole-" Lalo said at last. "It's not your fault. I still love you Papa's just very tired."
No-it wasn't Alfi's fault.... Lalo moved stiffly to the window and opened the weathered shutters, gazing out over the scrambled rooftops of the town. You would think that a man who had feasted with the gods would be different, maybe have a kind of shining about him for all to see- especially a man who could not only paint a person's soul, but could breathe life into his imaginings. But nothing had changed for him. Nothing at all.
Lalo looked down at his hands, broad-palmed, rather stubby in the fingers, with paint ingrained in the calluses and under the nails. Those had been the hands of a god, for a little while, but here he was, with Sanctuary going to hell around him at more than its usual speed, and there was nothing he could do.
He flinched as something buzzed past his ear, and saw the colored flies he had created spiral downward toward the richer feeding-grounds of the refuse heap in the alleyway. For a moment he wondered wryly if they would breed true, and if anyone in Sanctuary would notice the winged jewels hatching from their garbage; then a shift in the wind brought him the smell.
He choked, banged closed the shutters, and stood leaning against them, covering his face with his hands. In the country of the gods, every breeze bore a different perfume. The robes of the immortals were dyed with liquid jewels; they shone in a lambent light. And he, Lalo the Limner, had feasted there, and his brush had brought life to a thousand transcendent fantasies.
He stood, shaken by longing for the velvet meadows and aquamarine skies. Tears welled from beneath shut eyelids, and his ears, entranced with the memory of birds whose song surpassed all earthly melodies, did not hear the long silence behind him, the stifled, triumphant giggle of the child, or the heavy tread on the stairs outside.
"Alfi! You get down from there right now!"
Dreams shattering around him, Lalo jerked back to face the room, blinking as dizzied vision tried to sort the image of an angry goddess from the massive figure that glared at him from the doorway. But even as Lalo's sight cleared, Gilla was charging across the room to snatch the child from the shelf over the stove.
Wedemir, a dark head barely visible above piled parcels and bulging baskets, stumbled after her into the room, looking for somewhere to set his burdens down.
"Want to make it pretty!" Alfi's voice came muffled from Gilla's ample bosom. He squirmed in her arms and pointed. "See?"
Three pairs of eyes followed his pointing finger toward the ceiling above the stove, where the soot was now smudged with swirls of blue and green.