Must Love Hellhounds

the armor was ineffective. The protocol had been added to prevent the armor from being stolen. Before the code had been added, a few Britlingens had been murdered for their armor. It was used in cooler weather. The two women had already cleaned their summer-weight gear.
    Batanya had turned her suit inside out and was cleaning the inner surface with a pleasant-scented solvent from a large green pot. Clovache was using the all-purpose cleaner on the hardened pieces that could be strapped on over the liquid armor.
    Clovache threw a finished piece down on the towel she’d spread on the ground and picked up another one. “Hard drill this morning,” she observed.
    “Trovis was not in a good mood,” Batanya said.
    “And why would that be?” Clovache asked, trying to sound innocent.
    Batanya flushed a little, causing the scar that ran across her right cheek to stand out. Clovache had heard people tease Batanya about the scar, but they only did it once. “He tried to jump me in the bathroom last night. I had to give him an elbow to the gut. Trovis is making a fool of himself.”
    Clovache agreed. “If he’s trying to show you who’s boss, he is a fool,” she said. “And if he keeps it up, I shall go to Flechette and put it to her that Trovis should be removed from his command.”
    “That would make Trovis crazy, which is a good thing,” Batanya said. “But it would make us look weak.”
    Clovache looked startled, but after a moment, she nodded. “I understand. We should be able to eat whatever Trovis puts on the table.” She tested the strength of a strap. “If worse comes to worst, perhaps he’ll have an accident.”
    “Hush your mouth,” Batanya said, genuinely shocked. “After all—”
    “Britlingens don’t kill Britlingens,” Clovache said dutifully. “We leave that to the rest of the world.”
    That was the first lesson a novice learned when he or she came to the fortress.
    “There are exceptions,” Clovache said stubbornly as she gathered up her armor. “And his obsession with you provides one.”
    “Not for you to say.” Batanya stood, the sheet containing all her paraphernalia draped over one shoulder. “I’ll meet you at the gate in a couple of hours?”
    “Surely,” her junior said.
    Later that same afternoon, the two bodyguards strolled down to the Pooka Palace. Batanya grumbled about the narrow streets and their ancient cobblestones, which made it very impractical to keep a hovercraft at the castle. This was a source of grief to Batanya, who loved to drive fast.
    Pooka Palace had opened its outside section in honor of the balmy weather. The place was full of familiar faces from the Collective. Though Britlingens had the run of the city, they tended to linger close to the hilltop castle. Naturally, the shops that clustered in the winding old streets around the base of the hill were mostly dedicated to serving the bodyguards and assassins who lived in the ancient castle. There were a lot of storefronts that advertised repair services, either of armor or of arms. There were magic shops filled with arcane items the witches of the Collective might need or want. There were dark-fronted shops filled with bits of machinery that the mechs found intriguing. There were at least a score of bars and restaurants, but Pooka Palace was Clovache’s favorite.
    Waiting at a fairly clean table was a friend of theirs named Geit, a broad-shouldered and genial man who could swing a sword with enough force to take off a head with one lop. He was an assassin; though Clovache and Batanya were in the bodyguard division, they didn’t discriminate in their friendships as some did.
    Geit had already ordered baskets of fried pooka and fish, and they’d just toasted with three tankards of ale when they saw a child from the castle approaching, wearing the red vest of a messenger. Though walking quickly, the boy was also playing with a conjuring ball; it was clearly a cheap one, but the ball was still charged with enough magic to keep it in the air for a few seconds each time he tossed it up. The child interrupted his play to scan the faces at the tables. He spotted them and trotted over.
    “Lady Warrior, excuse me,” said the child, bowing. “Are you Senior Batanya?”
    “I am, squirt,” Batanya said. She drained her mug of ale. “Who needs what?”
    “Commander Trovis has, ah, requested, that you and your junior come up to the fortress immediately, to the Hall of Contracts.”
    Geit whistled. “But