The Battlemage Page 15

  Alfric had nearly bankrupted Hominum building it—it was why he had abdicated the throne to his son, Harold. The people of Hominum had been close to an uprising at the time, and the change of ruler had calmed things down. Or at least, the impression of a change of ruler.

  “Right this way, if you please,” the footman said, bowing and scraping as he led them over the gravel toward the well-lit entrance. There were milling crowds of people waiting to be announced upon entry, their gaudy clothing lit by the flickering flames in a kaleidoscope of colors.

  Fletcher turned to Sylva, checking to see if her mask was hiding her ears. The disguise itself was similar in design to his, but used silver tracing instead of gold. It was edged with the green-blue of peacock feathers, arching back to cover her elven ears, which had also been folded and tied in place to keep them hidden behind her new locks.

  Turning from Fletcher, Sylva took Seraph by the arm and walked on ahead. After all, she was his guest. Feeling an irrational pang of jealousy, Fletcher scratched at his collar and followed.

  The people waiting in the palace courtyard reminded Fletcher of a host of tropical birds, preening and calling to one another in an exaggerated display. He had thought his and Sylva’s costumes alarmingly bright and conspicuous, but now he realized that theirs were simple in comparison.

  Officers paraded with gaudy medals sparkling on their chests, their military regalia on full show. Many of their masks only covered the upper half of their faces: grotesque affairs of hooked noses and horns, a parody of the chiseled, handsome jaws beneath. Women with painted white faces accompanied them, their hair piled high in fanciful styles, with fake beauty spots stuck strategically about their cheeks. Their skirts were layered with flourishes of silk, so wide and heavy that Fletcher was sure that they had to be held up by metal framework beneath. Most wore but a simple eye mask, so as to show off the beauty of their made-up complexions.

  Nobles were no less extravagant, marked out only by the symbols of wealth that adorned their bodies. Jewels sparkled on the noblewomen’s chests, while the noblemen’s fingers were weighed down by heavy rings of gold and silver.

  Even in the cool winter air, Fletcher began to sweat as they entered the torch-pooled lights on a red carpet outside, joining the queue behind a gaggle of young women. Ahead, the names of the guests were being announced as they entered between the cloistered pillars and through the enormous double doors to the entrance hall.

  A sudden thought hit Fletcher, and fresh sweat broke out on his forehead, slick against the porcelain mask.

  “Name,” Fletcher hissed, stepping forward and pulling Seraph aside.

  “What?” Seraph asked.

  “My name, what is it?” Fletcher hissed. The queue edged closer, and a pair of unaccompanied junior officers joined behind them.

  “I don’t know. Make something up,” Seraph replied, tugging his arm away and rejoining Sylva. Seraph’s own mask only covered his eyes, and Fletcher could see the tan skin of the noble-to-be’s jaw tightening with anxiety.

  The girls ahead had reached the front of the queue, pausing to cackle uproariously as one of their group stumbled, her foot caught in her dress.

  Fletcher’s mind was blank. James Baker. Mason. Why couldn’t he think of anything else? He gritted his teeth as the announcer took the invitations from the women ahead, announcing their names in quick succession.

  “Priscilla Hawthorne!”

  The name swirled around his head.

  “Vivien Findlay!”

  Was his name supposed to sound common? Or eastern, like Baybars or Pasha?

  “Rosamund Bambridge!”

  Something simple. Anything.

  “Helena Bambridge!”

  And then Seraph was showing his invitation, motioning for Fletcher to come forward.

  “Name, sir?” the announcer asked.

  “James Rotherham,” Fletcher stuttered, the words out of his mouth before he could take them back.

  “James Rotherham!” the announcer bellowed. Then he was through, stumbling into the golden glow of the entrance hall. He was blinded by the bright chandelier, heard the jabbering of a thousand conversations.

  The entryway was packed with people standing in circles and reaching out to snatch proffered carafes of sparkling wine and salmon-cream-crowned rusks.

  A broad marble stairway dominated the room, with a red felt carpet up the center leading up to an elegant double doorway above. The chamber itself was as wide as the atrium at Vocans, though not as tall. As he looked above, Fletcher was enthralled to see the ceiling was painted with a colorful mural of an ancient, white-haired king, a golden crown resting on his head and his hands outstretched to spill dozens of demons across the vaulting in a vortex of pale light.

  Realizing he was gawping, Fletcher lowered his eyes, to see servant girls in pink dwarven garb weaving through the waiting crowds, drinks and food held aloft on platters. One hurried closer, her veiled head turned toward him.

  “A drink, sir?” she asked.

  Fletcher nodded wordlessly, accepting a fluted glass of fizzy wine and bringing it to his lips.

  “Don’t actually drink it,” the dwarf whispered, shuffling closer. “You need a clear head tonight. Seriously, don’t drink anything but water, just in case we…”

  She tailed off as a noble wandered by and took a drink from her platter. Fletcher couldn’t help but grin, his anxiety dropping a few notches. He lowered the glass and Cress scurried off, dodging through the crowds with her empty platter held aloft. She paused beside another dwarf, one whose overly broad shoulders left Fletcher in little doubt that it was Othello. It was only now that he recognized the red espadrille shoes the two wore, the prearranged identifier to set the two apart from the other dwarven servants.

  “When does it start?” Sylva said from behind him, making him jump. He spilled a splash of wine on the marble floor, and he hastily mopped it up with his loafer.

  “Relax,” Seraph said, squeezing Fletcher’s shoulder. “They’re just waiting for Didric to arrive. It should be any minute now. You two should get away from me; I’m the guest of honor remem—”

  Seraph froze, the word dying on his lips. Then Fletcher saw them, walking purposefully into the entrance hall. Tarquin and Isadora. And they were heading right for them.

  CHAPTER

  26

  THE TWO NOBLES WERE DRESSED in black military regalia, complete with matching masks that were no more than a simple white visor across their eyes. Indeed, Isadora was not the only woman to be wearing military dress—in the corner of his eye Fletcher saw that several other recent arrivals had foregone ball gowns for the more clean-cut look: noblewomen who bore high-ranking positions in the military, or in their own private armies.

  Fletcher’s breathing quickened at the sight of the twins, sweat bursting across his palms. They stalked through the room like a pair of golden-haired lions, completely at ease in the ostentatious gathering of Hominum’s elite.

  Ignoring the calls of greeting from the other guests, the pair walked directly toward Seraph. Fletcher felt Sylva snatching at his sleeve, but the shock of seeing the pair had rooted him to the spot. By the time he came to his senses it was too late, and Tarquin and Isadora stood before them, masked eyes flicking between the three of them.

  “Congratulations, Seraph,” Tarquin said, his voice flat and unenthusiastic. “A noble at last. You have come up in the world.”

  “Thank you,” Seraph replied stiffly.

  Tarquin barely registered the response. His eyes were boring into Fletcher’s own, narrowing beneath the mask. Fletcher remained silent, but inclined his head slightly, as if in greeting.

  “Well, don’t be rude, Seraph darling,” Isadora said, flicking her mane of hair. “Won’t you introduce us to your guests?”

  Seraph cleared his throat, buying himself time.

  “James Rotherham,” Seraph finally said, his voice an octave higher than usual. “He’s from Swazulu. Come to oversee our sulphur mines
.”

  “James Rotherham,” Tarquin asked, his brows furrowing. “That’s a northern name. And you’re a little pale to be from Swazulu, aren’t you, James?”

  “Uh, he doesn’t speak our language very well,” Seraph said hastily. “His forefathers are originally from Hominum, hence the name and appearance, but he’s as foreign as they come.”

  Fletcher bowed his head lower, and clasped his hands together in a gesture of respect. Tarquin grunted, the suspicion plain on his face, even with the eye mask. Still, his main interest was in Sylva, his eyes lingering on her slim frame a touch longer than Fletcher would have liked.

  “Tell me, Seraph, why have you brought an elf to the ball?” Isadora said, then laughed at Seraph’s sharp intake of breath.

  “Well, don’t act so surprised,” she giggled, slapping Seraph playfully on the shoulder. “Her eyes, they’re far too colorful. Even Mummy’s eyes aren’t that blue. Honestly, Seraph, don’t you have any friends from your own nation?”

  She pretended to pause and think, then covered her mouth with a gasp of mock mortification. “Oh wait, they all died, didn’t they? I’m so sorry.”

  Seraph stuttered with anger, and Fletcher had to resist balling his hands into fists. Fortunately, Sylva stepped smoothly forward and curtsied deeply before Seraph could reply.

  “Good evening.”

  An elven accent, pure and lilting, lay thick over her words. It was an impressive performance, and Fletcher grinned beneath his mask.

  “I am a representative of the clans, here to negotiate a weapons deal with Lord Pasha.” She nodded at Seraph. “Our troops will be arriving on the front lines soon, and they need arms. We thought it best that I do not make my presence at the ball known, given the current … climate.”

  Tarquin set his jaw, and the furrow in his brow deepened.

  “Did you not consider the Triumvirate for your weapons?” Isadora asked, her voice sickly sweet. “Our factories are far closer to your borders than the Pashas’ are.”

  “We choose who we do business with very carefully,” Sylva stated, crossing her arms. “It is a matter of … taste.”

  The two stiffened at her words, and Fletcher saw twin spots of red appear on Tarquin’s cheeks.

  “Come on, Isadora,” Tarquin snapped, taking his sister’s arm. “We must pay our respects to Lady Faversham.”

  The duo swept off, disappearing into the crowd without a second glance.

  “Swazulu?” Fletcher hissed. “Is that the best you could come up with?”

  “Hey, don’t blame me,” Seraph muttered under his breath, stepping closer so Fletcher could hear him. “You’re the one who didn’t have a story ready, or even a bloody name. You know I only got told about this harebrained scheme of yours a few hours ago, right? I had to leave my two real guests twiddling their thumbs in my hotel room, and you’re lucky their invitations didn’t have names on them. Don’t forget, if this goes wrong, my life is on the line. Aiding and abetting traitors makes me one too.”

  Fletcher sighed and took a sip of his wine. It was bitter in his mouth, and he swallowed it with a grimace. He instantly regretted it, feeling the acid liquid trickle down and sit in the pit of his stomach.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We’ve got away with it, so no harm done.”

  “Well, Sylva did no better; did you have to antagonize them?” Seraph moaned.

  “I couldn’t help myself,” Sylva said, with a hint of regret in her voice.

  “Just move away from me, before someone else we know comes to say hello.”

  As if on cue, the announcer called Didric’s name, reducing the hubbub of noise to hushed whispering. Fletcher caught a glimpse of his nemesis, dressed in the bee-stripe dress uniform of his private army: an elegantly tailored two-piece with the chevrons of a captain emblazoned across the shoulders. He wore a silver, crescent-shaped mask that perfectly covered the burned half of his face. Instantly, he was surrounded by fawning subservants, desperate to become acquainted with the new lord.

  But there was no need to hurry away, for the announcer called out to the guests.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please proceed to the banquet hall.”

  Fletcher needed no further coaxing, and Sylva hooked her arm through his and joined the chattering crowds up the stairs. She struggled somewhat with every step, for the dress was long and caught under her heels. Fletcher realized that they were a poor choice of footwear for their night’s work, and pointless because they could barely be seen beneath the trailing skirts.

  By the time they reached the doors, Fletcher was sweating beneath the heat from the bright torches that lit the way, pooling around his neck to leave the black curls of his hair soaked with perspiration. They stumbled through into the new light of the banquet hall, only to gape in wonder.

  Three long tables stood side by side, in a room lit with so many chandeliers that it was as if the very ceiling was ablaze. The floor was the warm umber of polished mahogany, and marble busts that depicted generations of the royal family lined the walls, glowering at the assembled guests as if disapproving of the extravagant display.

  Foppish footmen bowed and scraped as they walked in, before leading the guests to their places. Fletcher found himself sitting opposite a heavy-set nobleman, whose face was already red from drink. The man was seated between two young women who were clearly his guests, for they fawned over his every word. Both were heavily made-up, with their hair piled high and matching golden masks across their eyes.

  “Of course, it’s a damned shame,” the man was saying as Sylva and Seraph sat down on either side of Fletcher. “I mean, King Harold’s a good sort, heart in the right place and all that, but he’s gone too far this time.”

  “You’re so right, Bertie dearest, far too far,” one of the women gushed, leaning closer so that Fletcher could see a large black beauty spot on her left cheek.

  “Far too far,” the other repeated, nodding along. She had an unusually long neck, her head bobbing like that of a stork.

  “Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile, that’s what I always say,” Bertie continued, his jowls wobbling as he rapped the table with his knuckle for emphasis. “Dwarves need to know their place. Now look what’s happened. A few hundred of the buggers marching down here, armed to the teeth, and all the while their bombs going off left and right.”

  “It’s positively ghastly,” Beauty Spot said. “We aren’t safe in our beds at night.”

  “Now, Old King Alfric, he’s got the right idea,” Bertie mumbled. He held up a finger, then lifted a fluted glass of sparkling wine and quaffed it in a single gulp, spilling half of the pale liquid down his lacy white shirt.

  Then he leaned in and beckoned Fletcher, Seraph and Sylva closer. Reluctantly the three bent their necks, if only not to appear rude and attract attention.

  “I have it on good authority that the old king has ordered the Pinkertons to seize the dwarven workshops tomorrow night,” he whispered, looking over his shoulder in case a dwarven servant girl was nearby. “Because, of course, that’s where the bombs are being made. I’m old chums with Alfric, and of course, he confided in me.”

  “You’re so in the know,” Long Neck said, covering her mouth with a hand.

  “Of course, Alfric comes to me for advice all the time,” Bertie continued bombastically. “Can’t make a decision without me.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Seraph said, humoring the loud-mouthed man. “He must trust your opinion a great deal.”

  Fletcher very much doubted that the cold, calculating Alfric would be friendly with the drunken braggart before him. Most likely the man had heard it through the rumor mill and was simply boasting to the impressionable young ladies.

  But the news was troubling. The dwarven foundries were located in the basements of the dwarven homes, built into the bedrock and secured by metal doors. Alfric would be hard-pressed to break into them, but it would mean that the Pinkertons would invade the dwarven homes themselves. On top of it a
ll they would be trying to enter the most secret sanctums of the dwarves. There would be riots that night, one way or another. All part of Alfric’s grand plan to instigate a revolt.

  “The best part of it all is that we’ll finally get a look at how they’re making their damned guns,” Bertie continued. “I told him, I said, ‘Alfric, you’ve got to see about the guns.’ Once we have that, we’ll have no need for the sneaky little buggers. We can arrest the lot of them and throw away the key.”

  The noble tossed the dregs at the bottom of his glass into his mouth, then smacked his lips and sighed contentedly.

  “Well, that seems jolly harsh, Bertie,” Beauty Spot said, fanning herself. “Couldn’t we just … send them on their way? Maybe put them on a ship or something?”

  “Far too dangerous,” Bertie said, glancing around the room for a servant girl to refill his glass. “They started it, after all. The bombing was all their doing, and then one of them killed that brave boy on that mission, right in front of our eyes. That proves it; they’d come back and wipe us off the face of the earth if they could. No, Gertrude, it’s them or us.”

  “But why?”

  It took Fletcher a moment to realize it was he who had spoken.

  “I’m sorry?” Bertie said, the sweaty forehead above his mask wrinkling into a frown.

  “Why did she kill Rufus Cavendish?” Fletcher faltered, unsure if he should continue.

  “Who knows why these creatures do such things?” Bertie said, waving away the question as if it were an annoying fly. “Probably to send a message to all of Hominum, tell us all exactly how dwarven bread is buttered, so to speak. The point is, she did it.”

  The wrinkles of the nobleman’s frown deepened, and his eyes narrowed behind his mask. Clearly the man was not used to being questioned in that manner.

  “I say, who the devil are you anyway?” he said. “I don’t recognize your uniform.”

  “My guest,” Seraph said smoothly, while laying a calming hand on Fletcher’s thigh. “And I am Lord Pasha.”