The Dominion’s etiquette dictated that nobody could sit higher than the Sovereign. We solved that problem by raising the throne platform to six feet high and making two seating galleries, one on each side of it. I filled the galleries with cushy ornate seats arranged in three rows, packed the observers into the gallery on my right, and stationed Gaston there to keep things calm.
I spared the Observer Gallery a glance. Karat and Dagorkun sat in the front row, with Cookie between them. They left a seat open for Caldenia on Karat’s left. Her Grace was taking her time. I wished she would hurry up.
The gallery on my left remained empty. It was reserved for the Holy Ecclesiarch and his retinue and the Sovereign’s attendants, except for Resven and Miralitt, who had their own designated places.
I looked across the room, searching for Sean. He was still at his post by the far wall. Between us, the 12 delegations waited. We had arranged them in two columns, 6 delegations per column, each group segregated from others by a short decorative wall. We put the four most volatile delegations in the first and last row, so both Sean and I could keep a close eye on them, and sandwiched the less troublesome delegates between them.
The row directly in front of me held the otrokars and House Meer.
The otrokar delegation was on my right, decked out in traditional otrokar green and Southern red. Otrokars biologically adjusted their bodies for their chosen role starting at puberty. For example, Dagorkun was a general and a strategist. He had aimed for versatility and a balance between speed, strength, size, and durability. The majority of the otrokar diplomats were strategists as well. One would expect most of the members of the otrokar delegation to look like Dagorkun. Only two of them did.
Of the 20 otrokar delegates, excluding the candidate, 6 were over 7 feet tall, with huge shoulders and massive chests, the bruisers who would charge into the fight first, smashing through the enemy’s vanguard. Another 6 were lean and fast, likely swordsmen or other close quarters combatants, ready to become a coordinated whirlwind of steel, capable of precise and rapid carnage. Of the remaining 8, 3 were likely marksmen, 2 were medics marked by long green sashes, 2 looked like Dagorkun, and the last otrokar was a shaman in a ceremonial kilt, with an exposed torso, a mane of ruby hair so dark it was almost black, and a dozen thin leather cords and chains dangling with charms and pouches wrapped around his waist.
This wasn’t a diplomatic party; this was a Southern otrokar warband. Even the two strategists looked battle ready. Their candidate, a tall, powerfully built warrior, might have lacked the bruisers’ bulk, but he would snap any adult human male in half like a twig. He moved like a leopard, every rippling muscle perfect, and the way he glared at Dagorkun didn’t bode well.
The Holy Anocracy delegation on my left didn’t look any less menacing. The vampire society consisted of Houses, some large, some small, each with their own military force and territory. This delegation came from House Meer, an aggressive, formidable House with far-reaching ambitions.
House Meer and House Krahr, into which my sister was going to marry, were on the verge of becoming sworn enemies. Over the last few years House Krahr had grown in power, and House Meer was trying to keep them in check. During the Nexus peace summit, House Meer sent three knights to torpedo the peace talks, and Sean, in his role as Turan Adin, killed them in about two seconds, scaring the hell out of everyone. Very few people knew about Sean’s alter ego, so I didn’t worry about him being recognized, but the possibility did occur to me.
House Meer was not a fan of humans, inns, or me. The twenty of them loomed in their syn-armor like a solid block of darkness. Their candidate, a statuesque female knight with platinum blonde hair and the remarkably even skin tone particular to vampires, was sneering so much, her face was in danger of becoming stuck like that.
The fewer opportunities we gave House Meer and the otrokars, the better, which was why we put the Kai and oomboles in the second row as a barrier between them and everyone else.
The third row featured the two delegations from opposite ends of the Seven Star Dominion. They were the most likely to mind their manners, simply because they were representing the Dominion, but like all Dominion diplomats, they were also prone to murder, which was why we put the Temple of Desire and Donkamins in the fourth row to throw everyone off balance. Gaston referred to this strategy as eye candy and eye scary, and it seemed to be working.
The Temple of Desire was missing its candidate. According to their representative, Lady Wexyn Dion-Dian was indisposed after the transit and would join us shortly. I had glimpsed her only briefly. She rode in on an antigravity palanquin, hidden behind translucent curtains, a full fifteen minutes ahead of her scheduled time, and I passed her procession in the hallway as Sean led them to their quarters. Her attendants, both male and female, were also shrouded in shimmering diaphanous fabric that moved in the slightest breeze, delicately hinting that under all those gossamer-thin layers lay sexy bodies and amazing beauty. The Temple had elevated the skill of suggestion to a fine art.
The fifth row, behind the Temple and Donkamins, contained the feline Higgra and the elegant Gaheas, humanoid, with skin the color of amber and very long dark violet hair that reached to their knees. Of all the delegations, the Gaheas were the most striking. They looked breathtakingly beautiful, moved like flowing water, and spoke in melodious voices. They had also perfected psionic warfare and could melt a sapient mind with a focused thought. The bejeweled tiaras on their heads weren’t there for decoration.
The last row held more troublemakers. Murder Beaks were on the right, closest to Sean. Avian, flightless, and armed with huge beaks and powerful clawed feet, this species would’ve given Earth’s prehistoric Terror Birds a run for their money. They had a strong prey drive and killed for sport. Their name for themselves translated as Murder Beaks, and they insisted on the literal translation so the entire galaxy would know of their predatory awesomeness. Fortunately, they had tried to invade the Gaheas, who were their immediate neighbors in space. The Murder Beaks knew exactly what a focused mind wave could do to their brains. They minded their beaks and talons.
Finally, across from the Murder Beaks, the Dushegubs were a dark tangle of roots and limbs, shrouded in foliage, as if some nightmarish forest had magically sprouted in the corner of the room. They had large begonia-looking leaves, purple at the edges and brilliant blue in the middle, splattered with random patterns of the brightest Pepto-Bismol pink. Sean was standing across from them, and Tony had parked himself on the side, just in case they wanted to try anything. The gorgeous woman who was their candidate perched on a large Dushegub root like some dryad.
It was a lot. The variety was dazzling and confusing, but mostly very dangerous and anxiety-inducing.
The wall behind Sean parted, forming a tunnel. What was he doing?
Oh.
A huge lupine shape emerged from the tunnel and sat on his haunches by Sean. Sean lowered his hand. Gorvar sniffed his fingers and rubbed his shaggy cheek against Sean’s hand.
At my feet, Beast let out a quiet growl, just in case the oversized wolf decided to run across the ballroom and attack me.
A low trumpet sounded. Gaston cleared his throat, his voice amplified by a microphone and spilling from the hidden speakers. We needed a Master of Ceremonies, and he had enthusiastically volunteered.
“Her Grace, Caldenia ka ret Magren,” Gaston announced in a deep resonant voice. His High Galactic was excellent even without the translator. “Letere Olivione, Dystim Adrolo, She Who Controls Fate, the Light of the Midnight Sun.”