The Battlemage Page 14

  “But couldn’t y—” Cress began, but Harold interrupted her sharply.

  “And even if I did manage to get to it, what then? My father would know I have turned against him. It would be civil war, with the nobility and generals taking sides once more. No, it would never work.”

  “Not you,” Othello said, lifting his head from his hands. He turned his eyes to Fletcher and nodded slowly. It was madness … but it was their only choice.

  “So who then?” Harold growled.

  “Us,” Fletcher said.

  CHAPTER

  24

  FLETCHER REMEMBERED LITTLE of the rickety carriage ride to Corcillum, or Arcturus ushering them up the stairs and into the dusty beds of the Anvil Tavern. It was a hazy mix of sleeping and waking, of furtive whispers and stolen glances from behind the carriage curtains.

  He had slept through the night, and it seemed most of the day also—for the view from his room’s window when he was woken by the scent of cooking was the dim blue of winter afternoon. Othello’s bed was empty, so he stumbled down the wooden steps to find the source, tripping over an abandoned boot he had wrenched off on his way up the night before.

  He was ravenously hungry, his stomach cramping like a clenched fist with every mouthwatering sniff of the food downstairs. Leaping the last steps, Fletcher came upon a group of tables in front of the bar, haphazardly pushed together and piled high with platters of steaming food. There were fried eggs with fat, golden yolks, and still-sizzling sausages as thick as his wrist. Crisp, thick cut potato slices sat in bowls, browned to perfection, topped with a garnish of steamed spinach and tossed with fried garlic cloves and sprigs of tarragon. Glass jugs of pulpy orange juice completed the picture, along with pitchers of crystal-clear water.

  It was a feast that could feed a small army, but there were only five seated around the table, already halfway through their meal. His teammates did little more than grunt at him, still devouring the food as if it might disappear at any moment. But there was someone else at the head of the table. A figure clad in green robes, who was as short as Othello and Cress.

  “Well, look who’s up!” said a familiar voice.

  It was Briss, Othello’s mother. Fletcher grinned and bent down to give her a big hug, which she returned fondly.

  “Hurry up and get some food inside you,” she said, waving him over to a seat beside the others. “Othello showed me a piece of that jerky you’ve been eating over the past few days. Horrendous!”

  Fletcher didn’t need to be told twice, pausing only to grab a knife and fork before stuffing his mouth. The next few glorious minutes were spent chewing and swallowing in silence, until his chin was stained with yellow yolk and his belly felt fuller than it had ever been in his life.

  “Your mother has already eaten, poor dear,” Briss chattered, filling the void with conversation. “Thaissa is upstairs looking after her; she’ll be bathed by now and tucked up in bed. The king says he’ll get her the best care in all of Hominum, don’t you worry about her.”

  By the end, the food had somehow miraculously been reduced to a few tattered scraps.

  Othello unleashed an exaggerated groan and rubbed his bulging midriff.

  “You’ve murdered us,” he said, shaking his head. “Death by food.”

  “How are you supposed to fit into your costumes now?” Briss teased, prodding his belly. “I’ll have to adjust them at this rate.”

  “Costumes?” Fletcher asked.

  Briss sighed from beneath her green veil and stood. It was only then that Fletcher noticed the folded clothing on a table behind her, along with a pair of what looked like shoe boxes.

  “For the ball,” Cress sighed, her voice glum. “When we sneak in.”

  “Well, don’t sound too excited,” Fletcher said, even as the reminder of their new mission filled him with trepidation.

  “You’ll see,” Othello grumbled. “You got off easy. Anyway, I don’t see why you’re complaining, Cress. I’ve got the worst outfit of all.”

  Cress broke into a broad grin, her morose expression fading at his words.

  “All right, settle down,” Briss chuckled, waving her hand for silence. She picked up a red bundle of cloth and frills, then handed it to Sylva, who took it with an apprehensive look.

  “From what Othello has told me, this might not be to your taste, but you have to look the part,” Briss said sheepishly. “I’ve made a few of these before, and they’re very popular with the young ladies of the nobility. There’s a hot bath ready upstairs for you and all the necessaries. Go try it on up there, then Thaissa will help you with your hair.”

  “I’m sure I’ll love it,” Sylva mumbled, trying to hide her misgivings. She trudged slowly up the stairs, holding the dress as if it were a poisonous snake.

  “Right, now, let’s see if this fits,” Briss said brightly once Sylva had gone. She took a pink garment from the table and shook it out. It was a flowing robe, complete with embroidered flowers around the hems of the sleeves and a delicate veil secured with a silver chain along the bottom. It was very pretty, and Fletcher could imagine Cress cutting a fine figure in the traditional dwarven garb. But …

  “The veil,” Fletcher said. “No wonder you’re so grumpy, Cress. Still, it’s just for one night.”

  Othello shuffled his feet, his face flushing the same color as the robes.

  “Well, yeah, but … that’s not mine,” Cress chortled, turning on the reddening dwarf. “Othello, I think pink is your color; it goes very well with your complexion.”

  “Oh, bloody hell,” Othello groaned.

  Fletcher couldn’t help but burst out laughing as the morose dwarf shuffled forward and allowed his mother to tug the robe over his head.

  “Just don’t tell Atilla,” Othello begged as Cress cackled and arranged the veil over his face, tucking in a stray wisp of red beard.

  “He should come and have a look, see what he’d look like in a dress,” Fletcher chuckled. “He is your twin, after all.”

  “Trust me, I wish Atilla was in your shoes,” Cress said, wiping a tear from her eye. “Or should I say, your gown!”

  She doubled over into hysterics again, and Othello slumped back into his chair in defeat.

  “I don’t understand,” Fletcher said, getting his laughter under control. “Why is he wearing a gown?”

  “Arcturus, Lovett and I have been up all night, working out a plan on how to get you through the palace undetected. Obviously there won’t be any dwarves invited to the ball, but there will be plenty of dwarven servers, all female, all wearing this uniform. So, Othello’s going to be playing dress-up today. It wouldn’t be the first time; remember when you were five years old and…”

  “All right, enough now,” Othello said loudly, tossing a half-eaten sausage at his mother. She ducked it and took another folded robe from the table, then handed it to Cress.

  “You know, somehow this doesn’t seem so bad anymore,” Cress said cheerfully, letting the garment unravel and holding it against her body. “I haven’t worn a robe in ages.”

  She shrugged on her own, leaving the veil on the table. Then she twirled, the loose muslin floating in the air, her eyes sparkling as she tossed her red hair.

  “It looks wonderful,” Briss said, covering her mouth to hide her smile of pleasure.

  “It really does,” Othello agreed, then cleared his throat awkwardly.

  Fletcher could not see Othello’s face, but he imagined the dwarf’s mouth was hanging open beneath the thin pink veil.

  “Now you, Fletcher,” Briss said, after giving both him and Othello a knowing look. “You’re too tall to be a dwarf, so you and Sylva will be attending as Seraph’s guests—luckily he’s staying in a hotel in Corcillum tonight and we were able to bring him up to speed.”

  Fletcher grinned at the thought of seeing Seraph again. The noble-to-be was like Fletcher in many ways, a commoner turned noble who had a close relationship with the dwarves. It would be good to see him again.


  “We’ll dress you as two members of his entourage,” Briss announced. “You’ll be wearing this.”

  She pointed at the table, where Fletcher could see a clean-cut suit of royal blue satin, edged with gold lace and tasseled epaulets on the shoulders. A pair of shiny black leather loafers with brass buckles sat beside them, as well as some elegant white gloves, there to cover the tattoos on his hand.

  “Off you go to try it on,” Briss ordered, shooing Fletcher away.

  Fletcher took the clothes into his arms and hurried up the stairs.

  “Mind you have a bath too,” Briss called after him. “I won’t have you stinking it up. Sylva should be done by now, and Thaissa will have drawn you another.”

  Fletcher grinned and turned right at the top of the stairs. He knocked on the girls’ room door.

  “Next door, Fletcher,” Thaissa’s voice came from behind the door. “Don’t come in! Hurry up before it gets cold—we’re almost out of wood; Cress and Othello hogged most of it this morning.”

  Wood? He moved on to the next room, to find a suite with a small window, a mirror, a stool and a large metal bathtub full of steaming water. The floors and walls were tiled, and there was a large drain beneath the tub and a crackling fireplace with a cauldron hung above it in the wall. There was a fluffy yellow towel on the stool, along with fresh socks, underwear, a razor, pumice stone and scissors. They had thought of everything.

  Within a few minutes Fletcher was enjoying the deep heat soaking into his bones, rubbing his body and hair with a bar of lavender-scented soap until suds seeped over the edges. Then, as the water began to cool and the bubbles receded, he attacked the calluses on his hands and feet and scrubbed the rest of his body until his skin was raw pink but cleaner than it had ever been.

  Next, he shaved away the wisps of hair that had gathered on his upper lip and chin, to leave himself baby-faced, more for Berdon’s sake than anything else—and the thought of the gentle giant sent a pang of pain to his heart. He had no idea where he and the villagers of Pelt might be, only that they would still be somewhere to the north, journeying downward.

  Finally, he bundled his locks into a rough ponytail and snipped off the split ends, leaving himself with a handful of hair that he surreptitiously tossed down the drain. That would have to do.

  He got out of the water, now tepid and stained, to dry himself off with the towel in the dim light of the dying fire. Realizing he had taken far longer than Sylva had, he tugged on the clothes and returned back down the stairs, barely looking at himself in the mirror.

  “Well, well,” Cress laughed as he arrived in the front room of the tavern, “look at you all fancy.”

  Briss clapped her hands with excitement and rushed over, tugging his jacket here, smoothing there, until she stood back and admired her handiwork.

  “You cut a fine figure,” Briss said. “You’ve lost a bit of weight since I measured you last, but I anticipated that. It fits you like a glove. Why don’t you put your shoes on; let’s see if I got those right too.”

  Fletcher slipped his feet into the loafers and grinned.

  “I could get used to these,” he said. “Comfy, but I could run a mile in them too.”

  “Well, you might need to tonight,” Cress reminded him, and he grimaced at the reminder of the purpose of their attire.

  “Have a look in there,” Briss said, pointing to a shoe box. Fletcher turned to the table, mystified. He picked it up, and the container felt oddly heavy. Curious, he lifted the lid.

  Only to see a pale visage staring back at him.

  “What the—” he gasped, dropping the box on the table.

  “Ah, you’ve found your new face,” Briss said, picking the box up and holding it out to him. “Well, go on, try it on, see if it fits.”

  Fletcher looked inside once more. It was a mask, made from porcelain so pale that it might have been bleached bone. In fact, with the empty eyeholes it might well have been a skull, were it not for the soft curves of the cheeks and the pouting white lips.

  A fine filigree of gold traced around the oval edge, curling inward at intervals with delicate whorls that curved around the eyes to draw attention there. It was terrible and beautiful at the same time, like a bird of prey.

  Fletcher lifted it to his face and felt Briss’s hands tying the mask in place with ribbons, tight against the back of his head.

  “It’s a masquerade ball, if you hadn’t guessed,” Briss said. “I took up pottery to sell pots, believe it or not, but we get more requests for these than anything else. They have several masques each year, and the nobles insist on having a new mask for each.”

  “Thank you,” Fletcher said, searching for the right words. “It’s … it’s hauntingly beautiful.”

  He turned to Othello, who had lifted his veil to get a closer look.

  “You know what, I’d rather wear the veil,” the dwarf said, shaking his head.

  “It gives me the creeps,” Cress agreed.

  Briss sighed.

  “Well, that’s what they like to wear; I made it as subtle as possible. You should see Sylva’s though—it has feathers.”

  “What has feathers?” came a voice from behind them.

  Fletcher turned, and his mouth dropped open.

  Sylva was coming down the stairs, transformed. Gone was the pale, almost silvery hair, replaced with flowing locks which had been dyed and curled to fall about her shoulders in a wave of sable, and the change was so startling that Fletcher was left speechless. Her shoulders were bare, with the red velvet of the dress hugging her slim curves and waist. Her hips held up a sweeping skirt, edged with delicate folds and layers that gave the impression of a budding rose.

  She had never looked more beautiful.

  “Nobody laugh,” Sylva growled, stomping past them. “Let’s get this over with.”

  CHAPTER

  25

  THE STREETS OF HOMINUM flashed by the carriage window, shadowed in the dying light of the winter evening. Few people were walking, and those who were, hurried with their heads bowed in the growing darkness. There was a sense of foreboding in the air, weighing heavy and thick like the smoke of an oil lamp.

  Cress and Othello had left for the palace on foot, with Seraph’s carriage arriving for Fletcher and Sylva soon after. Their reunion had been a happy affair, but their joy had swiftly deteriorated as they came closer to their destination. Now the three of them sat in silence, contemplating the night’s task.

  “I should be doing this alone,” Seraph said, shaking his head. “Or Arcturus. You’re taking a huge risk.”

  “He’s a known enemy of the Triumvirate, as are you,” Fletcher replied. “You’ll be the center of attention tonight, being a guest of honor and all. Far better for Sylva and I to be your anonymous friends, and then sneak off at the first opportunity.”

  Seraph grunted with reluctant agreement.

  “Let’s go over the plan again,” Sylva said, her voice forcefully cheerful.

  “Right,” Fletcher agreed. “You start.”

  Seraph leaned in to listen, his eyes wide with curiosity.

  “The Mite Alfric uses is being kept in the throne room, directly above the banquet hall,” Sylva said, her eyes shut as she recited from memory. “The demon itself has had its legs amputated and is fixed on the end of a blackthorn staff. It should have a cloth covering it, somewhere in the chamber.”

  Fletcher shuddered, remembering when Arcturus had told them of that horrifying detail. The Mite was wild, unconnected to any summoner, so it had to be kept in place during Alfric’s addresses to the people of Hominum.

  “To reach it, we must leave through one of the side doors in the hall and make our way up the stairs,” Sylva continued. “There, we will use the picklock spell to break in. I will remove the journal strapped to my leg and begin reading it aloud, while showing each page to the Mite.”

  Fletcher took over as she paused for breath.

  “Cress and Othello will be serving food and drink to the g
uests,” he said. “They will create a distraction while we sneak into the throne room. If all goes well, we should be done in a few minutes and the guests will be none the wiser.”

  Seraph’s eyebrows furrowed.

  “What happens if Cress and Othello’s distraction doesn’t work, and word gets out that you’re in there, making a speech?”

  “Then we’ll just need to hold off until the story is told,” Fletcher said grimly. “King Harold will order Rook and Lord Forsyth’s arrest. Then we wait. See if Alfric goes along with it.”

  “That’s the plan?” Seraph asked, his eyes widening with surprise. “What if he defends them?”

  “He’s in this up to his neck,” Sylva replied, her voice fierce. “And all of Hominum will be furious. If he wants to prevent his involvement from coming out and a crowd with pitchforks and torches marching on the palace, he’ll take Harold’s side and condemn the two as traitors. Hominum’s people may dislike the dwarves now, but when they find out who’s really behind the bombings, they’ll be out for blood. Alfric will sacrifice them to save his own skin.”

  There was a knock on the ceiling of the carriage, where the driver was sitting.

  “Well, I guess there’s no turning back now,” Seraph said. “We’re here.”

  They took their masks from their laps and put them on, the dusty scent of fresh-made porcelain thick in their nostrils. It was not a moment too soon, for the door swung open, and Fletcher found himself being invited out of the carriage by a footman in black-and-white livery and an exaggerated white wig.

  Gravel crunched underfoot, and then the full sight of the palace hit his view. He had seen it from a distance before, for the building was out of the way, toward the north of Corcillum. But up close, the true size and majesty of the palace became apparent.

  The mansion was built of white marble, but tonight it was tinged gold by the enormous embrasures ensconced in its lower walls. It was five stories high, with a central dome and two broad wings emergent from each side. The façade was held up by scores of pillars, as thick as oak trees and encircled by carvings of twisting vines. All around, carefully trimmed hedges loomed over sloping lawns, with elegant fountains trickling beside the graveled paths.