Mourningbird (Empire of Masks Book 3)

by Brock Deskins

  “I’m fine. Just a brief bit of vertigo. Why don’t you go inside and meet your friends. I’d like a moment to take in some fresh air before subjecting myself to that stuffy interior.”

  “Would you like me to stay with you?”

  “No, no, go. I will join you in a moment.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Confounds, woman, just do as I say and stop badgering me!”

  Joselyn turned away. “Forgive me for being concerned!”

  Dorian flicked his hand over his shoulder as he stormed away, choosing a path cutting through the manicured lawns that would take him to a lesser-used area of the palace. He found some servant entrances, but they too were warded. Dorian doubted they had taken the time and expense to ward every door and window into the palace and cast his gaze to the second floor. Summoning power from one of his soul stones, he slipped his retracted void lance into his belt, solidified the shadows darkening the corner below a balcony, and scurried up the side with the speed and ease of a lizard.

  The Necrophage planted his feet on the balcony floor and froze, listening for the sounds of occupancy and the aura of arcane traps. He detected neither. He slipped through the unlocked balcony doors, glided into the room beyond, and stepped out into the hallway. Dorian had taken only a few quick strides when someone called out behind him.

  “Sah, guests are limited to the first-floor ballroom,” a guard said.

  Dorian took up a more shuffling gait and waved a hand over his shoulder. “My apologies. I got turned about searching for a lavatory that wasn’t in use. I’ve got my bearings now.”

  The Necrophage located a stairway down to the first floor that, as luck would have it, deposited him in a hall opening into the ballroom. He stood on his toes, trying to peer over the ocean of heads bobbing in the sea of humanity clogging the ballroom.

  He spied his “wife” across the room talking to some masked old biddies, but she was not the one for whom he was searching. His malevolent eyes finally located the young naval officer. Dorian smiled, and his cold heart beat in anticipation of the man delivering his declaration of war.

  ***

  Kiera clutched Conner’s arm as he guided her through the partygoers. She felt like a rammox thrown into a den of horned devils. The ostentatious presentation of wealth and projected sense of superiority was almost overpowering. Every woman in the room wore more jewelry on their bodies than Kiera had seen in a lifetime. The men stood about, puffing out chests filled with expensive cigar smoke and boastful words. Kiera was unsure which made her want to gag more, the stench of their cigars or their sense of entitlement.

  Conner leaned down and whispered into her ear. “You should try to smile a little instead of looking as if you just stepped in rammox dung with bare feet.”

  “Given that that would be a pleasant experience compared to being here, I would smile at the prospect.”

  “You are an actress tonight. Act like you want to be here.”

  “I’m having a hard time finding my motivation.”

  “Imagine you are punching them in the face.”

  Kiera’s scowl curled into a smile. “Hey, that works!”

  Several men recognized Conner despite his mask, or perhaps because of it, and insinuated themselves to engage in small talk. Conner introduced Kiera as his niece. Some of the men grinned as they assumed niece was a code word for something lecherous, which only made her smile brighter as she envisioned herself giving them a proper thrashing. A much younger man grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away.

  “Care to dance?” he asked, taking Kiera’s hand in his before she could decline.

  Her fanaticized violence was a split second from becoming reality when Wesley pushed up his mask and grinned at her.

  “What brings a lowborn Blindside girl like you to a place like this?”

  Kiera pushed him away at arm’s length. “Me? What in the Tormented Plane are you doing here? And wearing a mask! Are you trying to get yourself fixed with a grotesque veil?”

  “Nope.” Wesley nodded at a corpulent, much older, woman talking to another guest near the refreshment table. “I’m here with her, and as such, am entitled to wear a guest mask under her house symbol.”

  “Yeah, quite a catch.”

  “Hey, it was short notice. Besides, getting in is all that matters.”

  Kiera grinned up at him. “I assume getting in her is part of the deal?”

  Wesley tossed his head and tried his best to look disinterested. “This is a party. I would rather not talk about work.”

  “What are you really doing here?”

  He smiled and covertly opened his coat to reveal several pieces of silverware slipped into small pockets sewn into its interior. “Robbing these fools blind, of course.”

  “You are going to get yourself arrested!” Kiera hissed.

  “Not a chance. You have your skills, and I have mine. Besides, I have a friend with wealthy connections to get me out of any trouble. Right?”

  Kiera spoke through clamped teeth. “I can’t help you if you get caught stealing from the goddam duke!”

  “I’m not going to get caught.” He looked over her head. “I think I see your boyfriend.”

  Kiera turned around and saw Bertram standing next to a woman whose mask was the most decorative she had ever seen. The porcelain was so thin that it looked as if it had been painted onto her skin. If her face at all resembled the mask, she was an incredibly beautiful woman. Bertram caught her looking his way, spoke a few quick words with the woman she was certain was Lysse Dushane, and began walking toward her.

  Kiera spun back to snap at Wesley but he was gone. She turned again, seeking an escape route but found herself face to face, or rather mask to mask, with Bertram.

  “Felicity, I’m glad you could make it,” Bertram said, taking her hand and lifting it toward his mask’s porcelain lips.

  Kiera shivered in revulsion, or so she hoped. There was too much touching and potential touching going on for her liking. She tried to pull her hand away without making the move appear violent, but Bertram had a firm hold he would not easily relinquish. A spark leapt from her fingers and through his mask’s narrowly parted lips.

  Bertram bolted upright and released his hold with a laugh. “I see your appearance is not the only thing shocking.”

  “Shocking how?” Kiera asked, feeling that there was a veiled insult to his words.

  “I mean you look wonderful with your hair done properly and in formal attire instead of a girl fresh off the farm.”

  “Oh, so you mean I clean up nicely.”

  “Yes!”

  “Because before I looked like a filthy, lowborn beggar.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean at all,” Bertram said hurriedly. “I just meant—”

  “That I’m a farm girl who has no business mixing it up with highborn.”

  “No, I just…” Bertram let out an exasperated sigh. “You know, proper protocol dictates that one remove their mask before engaging in a duel, even if the weapon of choice is words.”

  Kiera shrugged. “Suits me. Since you already lost the first round, I’ll let you pick the weapons for the next.”

  Bertram looked up at the high ceiling as if beseeching help from the gods and laughed. “Very well. We will hold our next bout in the ballroom with our weapons being dance this time.”

  “Isn’t this the ballroom?”

  “No this is just the gathering hall where people stand about talking and waiting to catch a glimpse of important people as they arrive.”

  Kiera scowled behind her mask as Bertram led her away. “I don’t dance.”

  “And I don’t duel with words. Sounds like a fair exchange to me.”

  They entered a room even larger than the gathering hall. Kiera spotted the source of the music she had heard upon entering the palace. An orchestra played on a stage at the far end of the room. Brass cones, like the flared end of large horns, sprouted from the wall behind them and piped the music throu
ghout the palace.

  It seemed impossible, but the ballroom was even more extravagant than the gathering hall. Gold leaf covered everything not carved from marble or cast from void steel. Some kind of marble sea creature spewed water from its mouth into a pool, the fountain occupying the center of the ballroom.

  “It’s something isn’t it?” Bertram asked, catching Kiera’s wondering gaze.

  Kiera snapped out of her trance. “Yeah, especially when compared to the thousands of shabby, starving lowborn I passed on the way here.”

  “I see you’re wasting no time engaging in our next battle, but you’re using the wrong weapon. You’re a settlement girl, so I’ll forgive your lack of protocol.”

  Kiera arched her eyebrows as Bertram led her onto the dance floor. “You’ll forgive me, like you would forgive a stray dog for not being house-trained?”

  He clamped his mouth shut to stifle the agreement he was about to issue. “I have to ask you to forgive me. I seem to be intent upon saying the wrong things tonight. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Well, you’re kind of short, you’re arrogant, pretentious, you’ve been protected by walls of wealth and privilege your entire life, you think you know what’s best for everyone based upon your own standards, and you think every girl in Eidolan is in love with you.”

  Bertram laughed loud enough to draw people’s eyes to him. “Is that all?”

  “Your hair is stupid.”

  “How is my hair stupid?”

  “It’s all yellow and wavy and blown back like it’s trying to avoid your stupid face.”

  He nodded and chuckled. “So my hair and my face are stupid.”

  “They’re all part of the whole stupid real estate that is your head.”

  “Fair enough. I think that pretty well covers me. What about you? Tell me about the Amazing Felicity Aylmer and her exciting settlement life out on the frontier.”

  Kiera shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. I spend most of the day driving rammox from field to field.”

  “I see. Is that how you learned to dance?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing. You’re just missing more steps than a crumbling tower. I guess there’s just not much to dance about out in the wastelands. Too much time spent not getting eaten by dune drakes or pillaged by nomads.”

  Kiera could not see Bertram’s face behind his mask, but she knew he was teasing her from the tone of his voice and the sparkle in his eyes.

  “We dance plenty. It’s just not so slow and boring. This is more like a wandering funeral than a party.”

  “So you prefer something more lively?”

  “Always.”

  Bertram signaled the orchestra, and the music’s tempo picked up from a waltz to a tango. Kiera gasped when he pulled her in tight and they spun across the dance floor, and he lifted her from her feet several times in the process.

  “Hmm, I guess this isn’t one of your homesteader dances either,” Bertram said when Kiera stumbled to keep her balance as she came out of her spin.

  “Not exactly. Why don’t you let me lead, if you think you can keep up?”

  “By all means. I’m sure I can pick up your quaint farm dance easily enough.”

  Kiera knew his taunting was nothing more than the continuation of their verbal duel, but it was time to get more physical. She twisted his wrist as if to initiate a twirl, but when Bertram tried to duck beneath their clasped hands, Kiera dropped into a squat and swept his legs out from under him, depositing him painfully, and embarrassingly, onto his backside.

  Several audible gasps sounded, and the other dancers opened a larger circle around them. Kiera performed a pirouette that ended in a wide sweeping of her arms reminiscent of one of her wind dancer forms.

  Kiera held her pose and said in a mocking voice, “Oh, it appears you missed a step.”

  Kiera expected anger, but Bertram’s laughter reached his eyes as he climbed to his feet and took her hand once again. “I think I recognize this particular dance. Thuumian, isn’t it?”

  “Why, yes it is. I see your knowledge isn’t limited to acting like a rake and failing to solve crimes.”

  “Oh no, I have a rather eclectic skill set and love learning new things,” he replied as they stomped and whirled across the clearing the other dancers had afforded them.

  Bertram pushed against her right shoulder while pulling her left hand to spin her out of his arms. Kiera followed his lead, but instead of turning in the opposite direction, Bertram moved with her, dropped down, and swept his leg out, tripping her to the floor.

  “Oops. I think you missed a step,” he said with a mischievous grin. “I’m not sure since I don’t really know this dance.”

  Kiera ignored his proffered hand, arched her back, scissored her legs, and vaulted into an aerial cartwheel. The crowd around them thickened, and they applauded Kiera’s acrobatic move. Bertram caught her in a tango’s embrace the moment she landed.

  “You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Kiera said through clenched teeth.

  “Immensely.”

  “I’ll have to try harder to remedy that.”

  Bertram flung her out at arm’s length and jerked her back toward him. Kiera twirled and launched a kick at his head. Bertram blocked the strike by catching her by the ankle.

  “Really, boots with a gown?” he remarked. “That is quite the offense to ballroom fashion.”

  “Yeah? Well here’s another one.”

  Kiera leapt up and tried to mule kick him in the groin, but Bertram turned and caught the blow on his hip. Still grasping her ankle, he spun them both in a tight circle, forcing Kiera to hop on one leg. The crowd laughed at the comical display, adding fuel to her fiery anger. Bertram flung her out once more before snapping her back into his clinching arms.

  Kiera felt something prod into her lower back. “That better be your pistol poking me!”

  “Only one way to find out. Reach back, give it a squeeze, and see if it goes off,” he replied, unable to keep the snigger out of his voice.

  With a bestial growl, Kiera leapt up, pushing off of Bertram’s arms to flip over his head and straddle his shoulders. She raised her elbow to deliver a smashing blow to the top of his head, but Bertram, either through instinct or pure luck, pushed past the blinding folds of her gown and intercepted the strike.

  Maintaining his hold on her elbow, he gripped her leg just below the knee, whipped his upper body toward the floor, and heaved his unwanted passenger away. Kiera rolled with the toss, cartwheeled, and performed a pair of backflips. She stood up, her back pressed against a buffet table, and glared at Bertram. Bertram extended his hand with a smile and made a beckoning motion.

  Kiera looked behind her, grabbed a carving knife from a roast, and charged with an unintelligible battle cry. She whipped the knife in front of her, forcing Bertram to hop away while sucking in his gut to avoid the swinging blade.

  The gathering gasped and murmured at the spectacle, but Bertram only laughed harder when one of his dress uniform’s gold buttons went flying into the crowd. He ducked beneath a wild swing, sprinted past Kiera, and ran for the buffet table. He plucked a rose from a vase and held it before him as if it were a knife.

  Kiera stalked toward him with cautious steps. Bertram circled her, taunting her with his botanical blade. Kiera lunged in a series of feints, but her foe would not fall into her trap. She pretended to make another mock assault but committed to it halfway through.

  He sidestepped the lunge, grabbed her wrist, and disarmed her. He pulled her into his arms, plunked the rose stem into her mask’s mouth hole, and spun her away.

  Bertram raised his arms over his head, his left hand still holding the carving knife. “Sahs and sahmas, I give you the Thuumian matrimonial dance!” He bowed at the waist toward Kiera. “Let’s give my excellent dance partner a round of applause.”

  The crowd clapped and cheered. Kiera was thankful that her mask hid her brilliantly red face. Rastus Velarius a
ppeared and spoke into Bertram’s ear before the two men disappeared into the crowd. Kiera started when someone grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her toward the buffet table.

  “If you are through making a spectacle of yourself, now would be a good time to slip away and do some reconnaissance,” Conner said. “You can use the excuse of needing to see to the stain on your dress.”

  Kiera plucked the rose from her mask and looked down. “What stain?”

  Conner flicked his wine glass and sloshed a heavy dollop of purple liquid onto the shimmersilk bodice. “That one. Rastus has just called all of the city leaders and key people out for a meeting. Most of the palace guards will be near them, so you should have the run of the place as long as you stay away from the east wing.”

  “Fine, but I didn’t make a spectacle out of myself! He made one out of us both.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Just be careful. There’s no reason to take risks tonight.”

  “What am I looking for again?”

  “Any kind of correspondence between palace officials and gang leaders, particularly Nimat,” Conner answered. “The best way to find a criminal is to follow the money. I want to see who in the government has direct dealings with the topside gangs or Undercity.”

  Kiera snorted. “Maybe you should have found an accountant to do your infiltrating.”

  “Yes, then maybe we would have been subjected to just a vigorous mathematical competition instead of a back alley brawl with the duke’s nephew in the middle of a ballroom filled with the most powerful people in the empire.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Kiera responded with a shrug as she walked away.

  She headed toward a set of stairs she hoped would take her away from the ballroom and give her access to some of the government offices. Just before he reached the stairs, someone in a pale blue gown and flanked by a woman in red on her left and green to her right stepped into her path.

  “I don’t know who you are or what your game is,” Lysse said, her voice tight with anger, “but Bertram belongs to me, and you best keep away from him.”