“The order will have to wait, lass.” The weapons master emerged from behind the shelves he was using as cover. “Perhaps you could come back another time.”

“This can’t wait that long, Mr. Turner,” she snapped. “The suzerain needs more copper rounds, immediately, and this vendor has put us on hold. Would you care to tell Lord Lucan that he can’t use his weapons because the ammunition is on back order?”

“That’s good; our men aren’t used to demanding females,” Jayr said over the earpiece. “Show no fear or hesitation. Imagine them as squabbling little boys. Which in truth is all they are.”

An ugly mutter made Chris turn her head and glare in that direction. “Excuse me, did you want something?”

“Do not drop your eyes or twitch a muscle,” Jayr warned. “Whoever started this will challenge your authority now.”

“From a mortal?” One of the strange Kyn, a bullnecked beast with spiked brassy hair, offered her a sneer. “What can you do, Pearl Girl?”

“That sounds like the instigator,” Jayr said.

One that thinks he’s a poet, too. Chris imagined biting into a lime, and let her expression match its sourness. “My name is Miss Lang, sir, and I do whatever Lord Alenfar wants. What is that?” Before anyone could answer, she walked between the men, scooped up the tattered paper, and scanned it. “This is an official summons from the high lord. What’s it doing on the floor?”

One of the jardin warriors nodded at the visitors. “They tore it down before we could see it.”

Another visitor said something ugly in another language.

“He says we took it from them,” the jardin warrior translated for her, “before they were done with it. But they cannot understand the summons.” He nodded at the spike-haired visitor. “Only that one speaks English.”

“Is that all?” Chris sighed and eyed the summons. “It says, ‘From Richard Tremayne by the Grace of God High Lord of the Darkyn, Chosen Ruler of the Realms, Territories, and Jardins, Defender of Truth and Eternity, to Our right trusty and well-beloved seigneurs, lords and lady paramount, and warriors sworn, Greetings.’” She lifted her head and regarded the visitor’s only English speaker. “You can tell them that would be the high lord’s way of saying ‘Hi, everyone.’”

“I told them what it means,” the spike-haired warrior said.

“Good—then you should have no problem translating the rest of this for your friends.” She skimmed the first page, reading out loud the important parts. “He writes, ‘The Scroll of Falkonera, stolen of late by our enemies, has been recovered by the guardian Helada.’ Sounds like the thieves fell victim to its death curse. Too bad for them. He mentions the ages, and how he commissioned the smith Cristophe Noir to forge the scroll, and so on and so forth.”

“Go to the end and read, Miss Christian,” one of the jardin warriors urged. “The bit about the jewels.”

“Jewels, jewels.” Chris skipped ahead to the final paragraph of the summons. “Here’s something. ‘We therefore are well pleased to offer, for the elimination of this grievous threat, recompense to any oath-bound warrior of the Darkyn who should carry out a search to locate and secure the three gems. To he who successfully concludes this mission and delivers unto Us all three emeralds, We shall immediately grant the title of suzerain and rule of the territory of Ireland, including all present rights, properties, weapons, guards, warriors, and servants apportioned to the Irish jardin.’” She barely controlled a wince. “‘Given at Ì Àrd this first day of November in the nine hundred forty-fifth year of Our reign—’”

“Aye, all of Ireland for the jewels,” the spike-haired visitor crowed, interrupting her. “I’ve told that to my brothers as well. In but a handful of days it shall be ours.”

“This is not your territory,” a jardin warrior said. “It is ours to search.”

“Excuse me. Excuse me.” Chris had to raise her voice to be heard over the angry mutters from the rest of the men. “This territory belongs to Lord Alenfar, and he decides what happens here. All requests to search for anything will be made to him.” She turned to the visitors. “If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with the suzerain, as he prefers to manage any problems involving visiting Kyn. Although I will warn you, he takes a very hands-on approach.” She described Lucan’s ability to shatter bones and rend flesh with a single touch before she said to the spike-haired warrior, “Make sure your friends understand exactly what I just said.”

As the spike-haired warrior sullenly translated her words, the visiting Kyn lowered their weapons, and after a moment the jardin warriors did the same.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I have to take care of the master’s business with Mr. Turner.” She nodded at their swords. “Lord Alenfar doesn’t allow sparring in the tunnels, and besides that, stronghold visitors are required to disarm upon arrival. You may leave your weapons here; Mr. Turner will take very good care of them.” When none of them moved, she took out her mobile from her pocket and held a thumb over the keys. “I can call the suzerain and have him come down here to explain his policy to you. Personally.”

The spike-haired warrior translated one final time, and the visitors grudgingly moved one by one to place their blades on the counter.

Chris almost said “thank you” before she swiveled around to face Turner and tap the invoice with an impatient finger. “Now, about this ammunition back order. I checked the terms of the bid, and according to paragraph seven on page fourteen, if the supplier can’t deliver on schedule, a penalty charge of . . .”

As she complained about the problem she had already solved upstairs, Chris kept her back toward the men and watched Turner’s dour expression. A moment before she became convinced that they’d seen through her act, she heard the sounds of heavy footsteps moving into the corridor.

“Are they gone?” she whispered to Turner.

“Aye.”

Chris sagged against the counter. “Thank God.”

Jayr chuckled over the earpiece. “Nicely done.”

One of the jardin warriors went over and slammed shut the door. “You’re a clever girl, Miss Christian.” He nodded toward her jacket. “Your pocket is chiming.”

“Damn.” Chris took out her locator, which displayed an electronic dimensional map of the stronghold. A blue light flashed in the reception room on the third floor. “Mr. Burke must be back from the airport.” To Jayr, she said, “I have to go, my lady. I really appreciate the help.”

“Tell Lucan about this skirmish and the summons,” Jayr said, and then added, “When he’s in a gentle mood.”

“I will, my lady, and thank you again.” She switched off the mobile and removed her earpiece, and saw that the jardin warriors had also left. “Mr. Turner, you might want to talk to Aldan about scheduling our guys with the new guys for some quality time in the warriors’ circle. And while you’re at it, arrange for some interpreters for them.”

He nodded. “I believe I’ll close the armory for the rest of the night as well. Lass,” he said when she turned to leave, “what you did charging in here was very brave, but very foolish. None but that no-necked blowhard could understand you. One jab or swipe of the blade, and they would have done you in.”

“You’re right, I’m human, and blades are not our friends.” She bent to pick up one of the swords, and carefully placed it on the counter. Only then did she give him a wink. “But it worked.”

Chris hurried back to the elevator, apologizing to Aldan when he tried to stop her. “I’m needed in reception, guys, TTYL.”

As she pressed the button for the third floor, Chris heard Aldan ask, “Tee-tee-why . . . what?”

“’Tis a modern spoken code,” Glenveagh drawled. “It means she will converse with you anon—”

Once the doors closed, Chris used her mobile to text Sam about the new arrival in reception—Burke always personally notified Lucan—and then walked around in a circle as she shook her hands. For the most part she’d outgrown the really horrible panic attacks of her teenage years, but every now and then anxiety would start trying to creep back into her head, a silent rat that wanted only to gnaw at her confidence and composure until her brain turned to Swiss cheese.

Once she’d made enough money, Chris had gone to a therapist and paid three hundred bucks to have herself tested. The shrink had wanted to know why, but she’d lied and said it was for her job. A week later she’d gone in to get the results.

“You’re a little depressed,” the shrink had told her as she handed over the typed report. “Of course I can work with you on that.”

“Of course.” As long as she forked over more hundreds, which she didn’t have, so that was a nonissue. “But I’m not psychotic, schizophrenic, bipolar, paranoid, or in any way a danger to myself or others.”

The older woman smiled. “No, you’re not.”

“That should make my boss happy.” Chris skimmed the first page. “What’s this part about anxiety?”

“You’re a very confident, polished young woman . . . on the surface.” The shrink’s eyes dipped to the cross-shaped bulge under her T-shirt. “We all wear masks, Miss Lang, in order to project what we want the world to see about us. Most of the time it’s an idealized version of our true selves. In your case, however, I have gotten a very strong impression of a completely artificial persona. One you’ve been constructing and perfecting for some time now. And it’s not a mask; it’s a full-body costume. One I believe you wear to cover the fears that threaten your ability to function.”

Chris got to her feet and held up the report. “Can I take this?”

The shrink nodded. “You paid for it. Miss Lang—”