Free Guardian of Honor by Robin D. Owens

thin knives
that looked extremely sharp, and several lengths of colorful silk that looked
like ties. She couldn't force her gaze away from the ominous, gleaming knives.
    Someone brayed a laugh. The lime-green guy. Too much. Her stomach
revolted. She vomited on the table and sank into welcome darkness.
    Very good, Alexa, Sinafin said, fluttering
gauzy wings.
     
    B astien leaned back in the corner booth of the Nom de Nom Tavern
and casually flicked his new hat with the broad brim onto the table. From the
corner of his eyes he watched for the reactions of the other Chevaliers to his
hat, and suppressed a smug smile.
    Unlike most of the Chevaliers in the Nom de Nom, he was not a
Lord's or Lady's Knight, but an independent. And the hat proved just how
successful he was. Stretching out his legs, he admired it again. The hat was of
his own design, with a great rim around it—wide enough to keep the frinks that
fell with the rain off a man's face or from slipping down his collar—if you had
tough enough material. Soul-sucker hide did just fine.
    It had been his first soul-sucker kill, and the bounty had been
prime. He grinned as he recalled the scene at the Marshall's Castle where he'd
dumped the remains late in the afternoon. Oh, it was great claiming the prize
from those tight-assed Marshalls who thought they were the best at fighting and
believed they knew everything.
    The assayer who'd counted out Bastien's gold had covered his
initial revolted horror at the soul-sucker's body by donning a self-important
air and informing Bastien that the Summoning had been a success—Lladrana now
had a new Exotique who would save them all. Trust the Marshalls to dig up and follow
all the old traditions instead of trying something new to defeat the invading
horrors.
    That had dimmed Bastien's pleasure for a moment—or until he had
requested the assayer provide him with the soul-sucker's skin in an hour for
his hat. It was Bastien's right to have the hide, and the clerk's appalled
expression had revived Bastien's spirits.
    Now that he recalled the scene, he frowned. There had been
something else—something that had made the hair on the back of his neck
rise—the silver hair that denoted Power, not the black locks. Had he seen a
pair of glinting eyes in the rafters of the storeroom? He shrugged it off and
gestured for some ale.
    After he'd gotten the skin he'd spent some Power fashioning the
hat he'd designed on the long volaran flight from the North.
    Unobtrusively he shifted in his seat. That last fight the day
before had been rough. A slayer, a render and a soul-sucker. They'd been
gleeful at their supposed ambush of a single prey—a volaran-mounted Chevalier.
He moved his shoulders to avoid a throbbing bruise.
    He'd rarely been in worse shape. Bloody tracks from the render's
claws covered his torso; a puncture from the slayer bore through his left
thigh, far too close to his balls to think of the wound without a shudder.
Bruises covered his body. Even the soul-sucker had marked him. Round, raised
bumps from its suckers dotted Bastien's right shoulder and scalp—thankfully
hidden by his clothes and his black-and-silver hair.
    The conversation rose as his new hat was noticed and became an
object for discussion. Only Marrec, who swore loyalty to Lady Hallard, actually
had the guts to turn from the bar to stare at the hat.
    When the serving woman Dodu brought his ale, she gave him a long,
slow look from under her eyelashes. "I can cancel my plans for tonight,
Bastien," she whispered.
    More than Bastien's aches throbbed at her invitation. He looked at
her plump hips and sighed. For the first time in his life he was in no shape
for bedsport. He had the feeling that if he took her up on her offer his reputation
as a great lover would shatter.
    "Ah, Dodu, my lovely, I only wish I could cancel my own, but
for once I must place duty before pleasure." He pasted a yearning
expression on his face.
    She narrowed her eyes.
    Bastien lifted her