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Go bridle me my milk white steed

Go bridle me my pony

I will ride to London court

To plead for the life of Geordie.

The singer's voice floated in the air. Durga was a little girl again, transported back in time from this world of endless duty to the land of story. For the first time in years, she thought of the old matriarch—her matriarch. She would have loved this.

It wasn't fair. How strange that the world could go on without Durga's iron-willed guardian. How was it possible to exist and then to not exist? The only person who ever loved her as Durga, not as The Chosen
One.
She hadn't realized how lonely she had become.

Two pretty babies have I borne

The third lies in my body

I'd freely part with them, every one

If you'd spare the life of Geordie.

That particular verse cut too close. Especially in light of her talk with Faina. Poor Faina. The spell was gone, like a web swept away. Durga entered Magda's chamber fully in the present.

"Emissary." The music broke off as everyone stood.

The musician! What an odd character. He was prettier than any member of the delegation he served. The three men and one woman from Versailles were dressed in plain brown homespun and were ornament-free.

An insult to Corcovado, if Durga thought it through. She shared a look with Magda, who seemed to agree.

The musician was tall and dark-skinned, without blemish. He was fit in the old way, lean but not at all thin. His black hair was braided close to his skull, decorated with bits of carved wood and sparkling rhinestones. He wore gold earrings and a gold necklace, rings, and hammered gold armbands on his biceps. The gold appeared to be real.

His downcast eyes were fixed on his guitar as he fussed with one of the tuning pegs. He seemed quite put out to have his song cut short merely to greet Durga, Emissary of Sanguibahd. His bad manners matched those of his masters, who had demanded an audience with no notice.

Those masters gaped at Durga's hair and left shoulder as if she were an attraction in a traveling circus. Good. This was why she kept the shoulder bare, to display the black widow spider tattoo, the mark left when the goddess made her a chalice.

All chalices received a totem, as Asherah called the tattoo. The goddess herself had placed Durga's spider in a painless lightning-quick flash. Faina had to have her lotus blossom put on the old-fashioned way, as Chita did her palm frond.

The spider was impressive, but the hair was the more important sign. Blood red with white blazes at the temples. It set her apart as the chosen one, a direct human line to the divine. Her hair was long and thick, and she wore it tricked up on top of her head, not only to bare her shoulder but also to feel the breezes on her neck.

She used these symbols of her fate to keep adversaries off balance and all people at a distance. Let Versailles be a little awestruck.

"I apologize for keeping you waiting. How fortunate that you brought your entertainment with you."

They must be taking the musician to perform at the coronation as a gift. She was pleased. She'd like to hear that voice again. A different song, though.

"There has been an outrage," the delegation leader said. "Versailles demands satisfaction." They were still standing. There had been no introductions. The impertinent man had actually yelled at Durga's back.

Years of icy distance-keeping went into her answer. "If there has been an
outrage,
then Versailles surely will have satisfaction." She was the chosen one. Over the years a few unfortunates had tried to cross her, and to a bad end. Asherah loved an excuse to smite a
petty creature,
as she called human beings.

The man took in her hair again and stared at the spider as if it might crawl off her shoulder and scamper over to him. She was glad to see him tremble.

"I didn't realize the French lost their manners as well as the Louvre in the cataclysm."

As she enjoyed her joke, she caught the musician watching her with wide brown eyes full of unbridled admiration. A liberty far beyond his station.

The leader's face had paled, but he stood his ground. "Emissary, forgive my intense emotion, but this is a serious matter. The heir provided by Sanguibahd is a pretender. A bagger. He doesn't look like our scion."

"What are you saying?" Was she really hearing this?

The woman put her hand on the man's arm. She took a more reasonable tone. "We are saying that someone made a switch. Perhaps our heir died or was given to someone else."

"Great Asherah, that's a hard accusation." Durga sat down and motioned for everyone else to do the same. Her mind swirled with the implications.

"Emissary," the woman continued. "We don't demand satisfaction." She shot her counterpart a look of warning. "We don't demand anything. We ask for justice."

The musician was still watching, evaluating Durga's response. She found herself caring about his opinion, and she didn't like it. "We'll convene a Team of Inquiry immediately." The standard response to a complaint.

"Composed entirely of
Corcovadans
, I assume?" The musician might be talented and pretty, but he went too far.

"Singer, you forget your place."

His smile broadened. Infuriating! The gods had restored the Great Chain of Being, and this singer had clearly forgotten his place on the chain. He didn't even try to hide his admiration for her.

She'd seen that kind of admiration before.

Men came to Corcovado brimming with humility and desperate with hope for the natural born heirs needed to secure their dynasty. Without fail, hope stepped back, replaced by lust.

The chalices had flawless teeth, skin, and hair. They trained in martial arts and had the best food and purest water. They weren't skeletal like so many starving in the world. With fertility came rounded hips and full breasts. Soft femininity radiated through their toned musculature and sense of entitlement.

They were exquisite objects of desire, as the goddess had intended.

But no man had ever looked at Durga with that desire until now. She gripped the arms of her chair and tried to remember what she'd been talking about.

"I propose a compromise." The Matriarch spread her hands in conciliation.
Oh, right. Team of Inquiry.
Jake's mother had become Matriarch after the old Matriarch died. Magda was an experienced politician before the cataclysm, the Emperor's favorite concubine.

In fact, when Jake had resisted the kingship, Durga suspected that Magda had something to do with Garrick coming in with an offer.

 
"We'll include a neutral member on the team. The scion of Luxor, perhaps. Luxor is celebrated for its rulers' integrity."

Thank Asherah for Magda. She knew how politicians' minds worked. The delegation broke out in smiles. No one else noticed the hint of mischief in the Matriarch's voice.

"I agree," Durga said. "We'll name the scion of Luxor to the Team." She'd never met him, but she trusted Magda.

Durga took in another cleansing breath. How many times had she done that today? She hadn't lost this much self-control since the first matriarch died.

But this was about more than a gorgeous man's inappropriate attentions. All day today, Durga had been feeling sorry for herself, wallowing in her incompetence. She should never have put Faina in a position to be hurt. And Chita's situation was her responsibility too. She should have kept Geraldo away from all the girls.

She rose, indicating that this meeting was over. "I assume we'll meet again at the coronation."

"Of course, Emissary." The musician slung the guitar bag over his shoulder. He was the tallest person in the room and the most beautiful, completely overshadowing the rest of the delegation. "Every city with means will attend. They'll want to show respect for the Great Chain."

To punctuate his audacity, he kissed the Matriarch's hand—and she allowed it.

At last Durga was alone. She'd seen too many people today, starting with that orientation class. She needed half an hour with her own thoughts before she spent ten hours packed in the Red Monster with Magda and all the servants. And a one-year-old infant.

From the wall of windows in her penthouse bedroom, she watched the Versailles airship pull out of the dirigidock. It blundered close to the Monster then floated away over the bay through the low clouds. It was as brown and drab as its delegation.

Except for that one person. The audacious musician.

He was rude—and actually a little scary and exciting—but he wasn't drab. In fact, he was too handsome. No, that wasn't it. She was accustomed to beauty. She was inundated by beauty. The singer wasn't too handsome.

He was too male.

Those gold bands on his dark brown biceps had accented his muscles, hard and defined. His face was muscular too. What would it be like to run her fingers over his cheekbones and jaw, and his soft full lips? And the black eyebrows that had arched and dipped according to his thoughts.

His thoughts. For a servant, he thought too much. The way his expressions kept changing, it seemed he had an opinion on everything. Maybe he was more than a musician. Maybe he was the court jester!

No. That man wasn't any kind of fool. He had been impressed by her, but he hadn't been intimidated.

He could be useful. This was the first time she'd seen someone she'd care to practice with. All the chalices had technique partners, usually well before they were eighteen. Durga knew people gossiped about whether she was too cold to be a chalice. Maybe Asherah had sent him to her for that very reason. He was gorgeous and intelligent—and talented. He was tall. His chest was so broad, she could get lost in his embrace. What would it be like? Overwhelming, maybe. Maybe a little thrilling.

Maybe she should stop thinking about that singer.

Most of her luggage had been taken down to the Monster, but there was one more thing to pack, one more thing she wanted to do. She had to try on the dress one more time.

She stepped out of her typical black one-piece jumpsuit, a fine blend of soft hemp and flax that clung to her breasts, waist, and hips. The right sleeve was three-quarter length, and her left shoulder and arm were bare. She kicked off the training shoes she always wore and tossed her bra on the jumpsuit.

Jake's coronation was the first big formal event of her adulthood, and she meant to show everyone that she was no longer a child.

The only other coronation she had attended was when the first king of the new world order was crowned in Garrick. She was fourteen. The city had made her sick. Literally.

Samael's fire had never touched Garrick. The sky there was actually brown from the smoke that still poured into the atmosphere from its refineries. The place was so polluted that the building filters couldn't clean the air completely. Every time she'd just about get an unspoiled breath, a faint nauseating sick something would creep into her nose.

After that she only went out into the world when she had to, to collect new chalices.

This coronation was a special circumstance. As the singer had commented, every city with means was sending a delegation. Durga had to make an appearance, if only to protect Sanguibahd's interests.

Garrick had begun to meddle in Sanguibahd's affairs. They had nearly secured for themselves the airship and sailing ship charters until Durga intervened. In the end the Matriarch had awarded the charters to Hibernia and Ithaca, the cities with the best bid proposals. Durga was going to the coronation to remind Garrick who was the higher power.

The other reason was Versailles. Not their complaint itself. If valid, they would be made whole.

But other cities had other complaints, and there were rumors of a move toward democratic rule. Grumblings that Sanguibahd had too much power. It would be good for the poobahs, as Jake called them, to see her in all her glory.

Hence the dress.

She stepped into the skirt and pulled up the front panel. It barely covered her breasts. Thin ties
criss
-crossed her bare back. There, the minimalist style ended. The skirt was a dramatic cascade of ruffles made of black silk taffeta imported from ZhMngguó. When she moved, the fabric responded as if it were a sensate extension of her body.