Another sigh rose from those pouty lips, and a delicate ivory finger pointed accusingly. “You’re not ready, mistress.” Her last words dripped with mockery and accusation.
“Daphne, your bad attitude can do nothing to spoil this day,” Chenaya replied as she pulled on a scarlet fighting kilt and buckled on a broad leather belt that gleamed with gold studs.
“Since Daxus,” Daphne whined, “you’ve given me no more throats.”
Chenaya tied the straps of her sandals and lied patiently. “I’ve told you before. The only other names I could give you would all be Raggah. Daxus sold information about your caravan to that gods-cursed desert tribe. They’re the ones who sold you to the pirates on Scavengers’ Island. There was no conspiracy to dispose of you. It was just business as usual for the Raggahs.”
It wasn’t the truth. But those others in Sanctuary who had plotted to destroy
Daphne’s caravan were too important- given the threat posed by Theron-to let
Daphne carve them. Despite Chenaya’s promise, Daxus was the only throat Daphne was going to get.
“Right,” Daphne snapped. “Business as usual. They just happened to land themselves a princess of Ranke-Kada-kithis’s wife. Nothing personal. How stupid do you think I am?”
“I’m sure I haven’t begun to plumb your depths.” Chenaya lifted her sword from a wooden chest at the foot of her bed. “If you’ve got nothing better to do than bitch about life’s un-faimess, then get up and head for the practice field. Leyn will instruct you today.”
Daphne sat up, startled, angry. Then, her face recomposed itself into a familiar frown. “Leyn?” she cried. “Where’s Dayme? He’s supposed to be my trainer.”