My Lady Quicksilver

Twenty-seven

“This is ridiculous,” Barrons snapped, stepping to the front of the dais in the closest he’d ever come to confronting the prince consort.

“You dare defy your prince?” The Duke of Bleight asked.

Of course that vulture would be here. They all were, Balfour taking the place left vacant by the demise of the House of Lannister. He drummed his fingers on his chair, the only sign of movement apart from the eagle dart of his eyes.

Lynch stood with his shoulders squared and his head high. He couldn’t quite control the racing beat of his heart. Death would never have been his choice, but then he had no choice. He could have handed the mech leader over in some attempt to sway the prince consort’s mind but that was dangerous. Too many people knew who Mercury was and Mordecai was the only one whose tongue he couldn’t control.

“I offer council,” Barrons replied icily, “when the rest of you would rather bite your tongues and bob your heads for fear of offending.” He turned to glare at the prince consort. “I know I’m not the only one who thinks this is foolishness. I’m just the only one who dares voice it.”

The prince consort cut him a sharp look. “You’re very close to crossing the line, Barrons.”

“And then we would be down two council seats. Perhaps you would prefer a dictatorship?” Barrons replied.

A dangerous move. But Lynch saw the thoughtful flicker in several of the councilors eyes. They were clinging to power and they knew it. All it would take would be for them to unite against him and the prince consort’s stranglehold would be over. But that would never happen so long as every councilor served his own purposes first.

As if he couldn’t control it, Lynch looked at Bleight. The duke was getting older, perched like a vulture in his chair as he glared at Barrons. Firmly in the prince consort’s pocket. For the first time, Lynch wondered what it would have been like if he hadn’t refused to duel his cousin. If that were him sitting up there, trying to hold the Prince Consort at bay.

His breathing quickened. He didn’t regret a thing, not truly, no matter how much heartbreak both Annabelle and Rosalind’s deceptions had wrought, for to have done things differently would have meant he would have been a different man.

Yet perhaps it would have been better for others. For the humans, the mechs, and the rogues, the ones the Echelon ignored as inconsequential. He could have held a position of power, of influence.

The lack of power irritated him now—to live or die by this man’s whim.

The prince consort finally turned his attention on Lynch, ignoring the speculative looks between his councilors. Or perhaps not fully aware of them. The queen stood at his side, her pale hand resting on his shoulder and her vacant eyes wandering the room. The fact that she stood while her husband sat was indicative of the power shift between them. Slowly her gaze settled on Lynch.

One powerless puppet to another.

“Do you think this is wise?” she asked quietly of her consort. “Sir Jasper has served us so very well over the years. Remember when he found cousin Robert for me?”

The prince consort shook her off. “Nearly two decades ago. He has not served us so well since. The city is almost overrun with humanists.” He glared at the Council. “Or has anyone forgotten that mayhem last night? Is nowhere safe? I can’t even sign a damned treaty in these halls or attend the opera in peace! No.” He turned back to Lynch. “I gave you a chance and you failed. I swore then that you would share Mercury’s fate and you will. Guards!”

Sir Richard Maitland took great pleasure in kicking his knees out from under him. The man had been stripped of command for failing to find Mercury and wore the ordinary epaulets of a lieutenant.

Lynch hit the marble hard, a fist in his hair wrenching his head back and the tip of a blade against his throat. Light streamed through the glass ceiling and Lynch suddenly couldn’t breathe.

This was it.

The doors slammed open. “Wait!”

His heart plummeted. Garrett’s voice. What was he doing here? Lynch jerked off balance, Maitland’s blade pressing hard against his throat. At least one other person didn’t want the disruption.

“Who is this?” the prince consort demanded.

“Lynch’s second, Your Grace.” Barrons sounded almost relieved. “Temporary Guild Master, Garrett Reed.”

“And your companions?” The prince consort’s snarl was lethal.

“You said he had three weeks to the day to deliver Mercury,” Garrett announced. “Let him up. I’ve come to bring you what you want.”

No. No. No. Lynch grabbed the knife and shoved it away, slicing his hand in the process. But he had to look. Landing on his hands and knees, his gaze went straight to the door.

Garrett stepped aside, revealing a hesitant pair in the doorway. Lynch barely saw the tall mech in chains, with the iron brace holding his knee in place so he could walk. All he could see was Rosa, standing there quietly, swallowing hard as her gaze darted around the room. Their eyes locked. Proud and beautiful and defying him with her knowing gaze.

Don’t.

But it was too late. The council’s breath caught, seemingly at once, as attention turned to the pair in the door.

There was only one reason she could be here. She loved him. Truly loved him. He saw it in her eyes as her weight shifted forward. No! The irony of it tore through him, that she was giving him everything he’d wanted from her—only for it to be the last thing he now desired.

“Where is Mercury?” the prince consort asked coldly.

“Right here,” Garrett shot back.

And Rosa took a deep breath and prepared to step forward.