Myreon took a deep, shuddering breath. How odd, that his words would make her feel better. It sharpened her suspicions. She looked at him closely. “Thank you, sir, but I’m afraid I don’t understand what you want with me. More directly, what does the League want with me?”
“Well spoken.” The necromancer nodded slowly. “I have been given the weighty honor, Magus Myreon, to once more make you an offer of assistance.”
Myreon stopped in her tracks. “Assistance?”
The necromancer had begun to wind his way up the side of the cavern along a narrow track. He stopped. “Yes. Your revolution, if it is to succeed, needs succor.”
Myreon frowned. “You . . . you would help me—help us—fight? What does the League get in exchange?”
Now the necromancer laughed—a raspy, dry thing, like leaves in the wind. “Get? Get! Ah, friend Myreon, is it not obvious?”
“Humor me.”
The necromancer produced a scroll tube from the sleeve of his robe and passed it to her. “We get you.”
Myreon carefully slid the contents of the scroll tube into her hand and gingerly unfurled the pages.
It was a contract.
The Sorcerous League—that secret conspiracy of black wizards, necromancers, and wild sorcery—was offering her a membership.
Chapter 25
Party Crashers
On the evening of the Blue Party, the coaches lined up along Crown Avenue for blocks. Everyone—every title-bearing peer, from the lowest of landless hedge knights to the mighty Counts themselves—were dressed in their finest, their masks firmly in place, ready to enjoy this final event before the spring campaigns saw them return to their provincial homes to defend their birthrights against the very people they would be dancing with tonight.
Artus peered out the window of their rented coach, looking at the palace, lit up and shining on the shores of the lake. “You know what I can’t believe?”
Tyvian adjusted Artus’s ruff and straightened his doublet. It was of a vibrant royal blue—a message so obvious it would be like a thunderclap. “What is that, Artus?”
Artus jerked a thumb at Sir Damon, who was sitting opposite them both and dressed in a relatively pedestrian doublet, breeches, and powdered wig, a blue armband on one arm and a black one on the other. “So, all this time—after all that trouble—all we needed to do to get in this party was to ask Damon to invite us?”
Sir Damon raised a hand. “I’d still like to point out that I’m not technically permitted to bring guests I’m not married to.”
Tyvian nodded. “Which is why I’ve taken the liberty to draw up documents of marriage.” He pulled a pair of scrolls from a pocket in his greatcoat. “Sign here and here, please.” Tyvian held out an autoquill.
Sir Damon goggled at the papers. “But . . . but sir! We . . . we can’t be married!”
Tyvian snorted. “And why the hell not? These documents are perfectly in order—I’ve already had them witnessed by a shepherd of Hann.”
Artus looked at them. “How’d you do that, anyway?”
“Your weight in gold marks,” Tyvian replied. “I told him that it was for some lovely gentlemen whose names I’d fill in later. He didn’t ask too many questions, Hann bless his greedy, open-minded little heart.”
Sir Damon took off his wig and dabbed at his sweating head. “But I don’t want to marry either of you gentlemen—let alone both!”
Tyvian snapped his fingers to focus the knight’s attention. “Look, Damon, the wards around that palace will not permit uninvited persons to step on the grounds. The only reason we’re technically marrying you is so you can therefore invite us both to the Blue Party and we can get in so that I can get to the throne room and do what must be done. That’s it. I promise there will be no actual romance involved.”
Sir Damon sighed. “And . . . if I do this, you’ll tell me what became of Lady Hool?”
Tyvian nodded, still holding out the quill. “Yes.”
“And you’re certain she’s safe,” the knight demanded, looking Tyvian in the eye.
Tyvian didn’t waver. “Safer than she is with me and Artus. By a long shot.”
Artus grunted and looked back out the window. The boy was still sulking.
Sir Damon sighed and took the autoquill. A few penstrokes later and they were officially polygamists. “How do you know so much about the palace wards, anyway?”
Tyvian shrugged, rolling up the scrolls and slipping them back into his coat. “Last time I infiltrated the Blue Party, I robbed Countess Ousienne of the Star of Rolonne.”
Sir Damon’s jaw hit the floor. “That was . . . you?”
Tyvian nodded, letting his mind drift back. “I pawned it in Tasis for a king’s ransom. I bought my flat in Freegate with that money. And a deathcaster, to boot. Damned useful thing . . .” He looked over at Artus. “. . . until somebody lost it on an exploding spirit engine.”
Artus snorted. “The exploding part was your idea, not mine.”
Sir Damon shook his head, his eyes wide. “You fellows have lived quite the life, haven’t you?”
Artus shrugged. “It ain’t as glamourous as it looks. I get stabbed pretty regular. And sometimes have to marry two men.”
Tyvian touched where the firepike bolt had singed him. It was still tender. “Risks of the business.”
Slowly, the procession of coaches filed through the twenty-foot-tall gates of the palace and rolled along a road through the pastoral gardens that formed the front lawn. The great courtyard of the Peregrine Palace was enclosed on three sides by soaring, buttressed buildings, each a hundred feet high and longer than any single building Artus had ever seen. They were made of gray-white stone with royal blue roofs, and from them rose spires and turrets that flew the banners of all the Great Houses in equal proportion. Ahead of them the gates stood open—thirty feet tall, each door probably weighing multiple tons—and beyond them was a cavernous hall. Pillars of mageglass and silver held aloft a vaulted ceiling of limestone and alabaster, all carved with falcon and raptor motifs—falcons in flight, falcons at rest, falcons standing watch, falcons rampant and passant and every other heraldic posture. Twenty-foot-long banners of pure royal blue hung from poles so high up, only sorcery could have possibly placed them there.
The floor was packed with nobility from every house, all of them wearing some shade of blue—a symbol of unity, of nationhood. They also wore some kind of black, as a sign of mourning for the deceased Count Andluss. Tyvian found both sentiments deeply ironic.
“We made it onto the grounds,” Artus said. “So, I guess your marriage thing worked.”
“Please, sir,” Sir Damon broke in, “I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain.”
Tyvian nodded. Better to have the limp noodle out of the way, anyway. “Lady Hool and her son Brana have left the city, probably heading north. They left yesterday night.”
Sir Damon nodded. “Then, sir, I must take my leave.” He held out a hand. “I wish you luck on your quest.”
Tyvian took his hand and shook it hard. “And you on yours, sir.”
Sir Damon opened the door and set off on foot, walking back toward the palace gates.
Artus frowned. “What was that all about?”
Tyvian shrugged. “I know. And to think we married that man.”
The coach stopped and a servant opened the door. At most Eretherian parties, there would be another servant with a guest list and a third one to announce their arrival, but the Blue Party was supposed to be more egalitarian than that.
Tyvian slipped his mask into place. “Keep an eye out for Defenders. A fair number of people in here will be shrouded, so expect the unexpected,” Tyvian cautioned.
Artus sighed, fiddling with his ruff. “I miss Brana already.”
Tyvian slapped Artus’s hand away. “Brana is a gnoll, Artus, and a young one, at that. He belongs with his mother and he does not belong here with us. That’s enough of your moping. Stay on task. If we do this right, we can end this
all tonight.”
“And then maybe Hool will come back.”
“Sure,” Tyvian said, shrugging. “You never know.”
He did know, though. Hool, he was sure, was already miles outside of the city, headed who knew where, her pup by her side. And good for her, too. Somebody should get out of this mess he called his life in one piece. It sure as hell couldn’t be him.
Tyvian got out of the coach and adjusted his own clothing. He had gone for a foreign style—a Saldorian waistcoat and cravat, a long greatcoat over his shoulders, and a tall hat featuring an illusory castle tower with white doves flying about it. The fabric was all done in royal blue as well with periwinkle embroidery. He had a crystal-topped swagger cane, too, just to complete the look of a foreign nobleman. “There. Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” Artus grumbled, looking at the sea of lace and ostrich feathers before them.
And in they went.
There were at least seven hundred guests, not counting all the servants, so just getting inside was a bit of a challenge, as they found themselves pressed against legions of masked peers. Not everybody was going in a uniform direction either, and, given the vagaries of Eretherian etiquette, Tyvian and Artus had to keep bowing and politely waving people past them. Progress through the gallery’s atrium into its main hall was agonizingly slow—what should have taken five seconds took ten minutes. It really didn’t matter, though. They had been noticed, and word was being passed.
Artus didn’t miss it either. “They’re talking about us.” He nodded toward a group of ladies, whose eyes were locked on them while their fans obscured their mouths—whispering among themselves. There were others, too. Word was spreading.
“How do they know who we are?” Artus asked. “We’re wearing masks and hats and wigs and everything.”
Tyvian tapped Artus’s doublet. “We’re wearing royal blue. We’re self-identifying.”
“Why?” Artus looked down at his clothes. “What’s royal blue mean?”
Tyvian sighed. “Think about it for ten seconds, will you?”
A gap opened, and they managed to slip out of the atrium and into the main hall. As the center was given over to dancing, the crowd of people around the edges of the hall was dense—much of it servants, too, who somehow managed to maneuver plates of hors d’oeuvres around each other and all the guests without spilling a thing. One of them paused in front of Artus. “Silver, monsieur?”
On the plate were pieces of silver, beaten wafer-thin and coated in a thin, clear syrup. Artus gaped at it. “To eat?”
Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Stop acting the provincial, Artus. Silver wafers are cheaper than caviar, you know.”
“But . . . but . . . it’s money, not food!”
Tyvian shrugged, scanning the crowd. “These people have so much of both they scarcely pay attention to either one. Now, focus—who do you see?”
Artus nodded toward a high chair halfway down the hall. “There’s the Countess of Davram—nasty old bitch.”
Tyvian winced. “Artus, we’re being watched, remember? These people can all read lips.”
Artus stood on his tiptoes. Tyvian realized that, at some point in the recent past, Artus had become noticeably taller than he was. When the hell did that happen?
“I think I see Count Duren of Vora . . . and Count Yvert of Camis—they’re in the corner over there, sharing some wine.”
Tyvian slipped past a few ladies, who curtsied to him as he went. “Any sign of Ousienne of Hadda? Or Sahand?”
“Nope,” Artus said, his attention distracted by a beautiful woman in white passing by.
Tyvian nudged Artus. “Try to pay attention, okay? We’d better split up. You remember the plan, correct?”
Artus tore his eyes from the passing beauty. He was blushing. “Find the counts, tell them you’re planning to make your claim tonight, hand them your note, then tail them and see what they do.”
Tyvian nodded. “And we get out of here before the Defenders crash the party looking for us. Any questions?” Artus shook his head. Tyvian clapped his hands together. “Right—let’s go.”
Artus slipped into the crowd and disappeared after a few steps—not even Tyvian could pick him out. Thank the gods the boy has learned something.
In contrast, Tyvian intended to be conspicuous. The game was a relatively simple one—he needed to renounce tonight. To do that, he needed quorum in the Congress—in the throne room. To get quorum without a patron to drum up support (which had been his initial plan), he needed all of the counts present to have an immediate reason to get to the floor of the Congress, and so he’d written four letters, each of them explaining he was about to do what that count probably didn’t want him to. This would cause them to rush into the throne room to stop him, thereby giving him his quorum. Assuming everything went to plan.
“Excuse me, sir.” A woman took him by the hand. “Might I have this dance?” Her grip was strong—not the light grip of an Eretherian lady at all. She pulled Tyvian toward her. Between the grip and her slight stature, Tyvian knew exactly who it was he was about to dance with.
Tyvian caught her other arm by the wrist by instinct and kept himself a hand’s breadth from her body. “Hello, Adatha.”
She was wearing black and silver—going rather overboard on the “mourning” request, only rendered risqué by the plunging neckline and the slit cut up the edge of her gown to above the knee. Hers was not a ball gown at all—it was designed to be moved in. Her mask was a simple black Colombina with a crimson feather attached to one corner and diamonds dotting the edges. The mask had only one eye-socket. “Hello, Tyvian.” She tried to press close to him.
Tyvian retreated, and so they began to dance. “Still working for Velia Hesswyn?”
Voth laughed. “Sadly for you, yes.”
Tyvian frowned as they spun, but he kept his hand firmly on her wrist. “Why would I be sad? It isn’t every day a beautiful woman throws herself at me.”
Voth twisted in his grip, so Tyvian spun her and they wound up back where they started. Voth was still grinning. “It’s sad because this is to be your last dance, darling.”
Tyvian arched his eyebrows, which was no doubt lost beneath the mask. “Really?”
Voth advanced again, and Tyvian retreated, letting her lead. They passed through and between several different couples, also lazily twirling to the music. Voth tried again to get close, but Tyvian turned her momentum into a full extension of her arm, so that they stood connected only by his grip on her wrist. Then he saw it, glinting in the lamp light: a gold ring on her middle finger—a gold ring with a needle extended from its bottom edge.
A poison needle.
Voth spun back into his arms, trying to twist her wrist out of his grip, but Tyvian bent her back and dipped her low, her poison ring still held well away from his body. Voth laughed. “This is going to be fun, isn’t it?”
Tyvian grinned, despite himself. “Trying to kill me always is.”
Chapter 26
Last Dance
Artus sighed and straightened his doublet again—the damned thing kept riding up. “Okay, so here it goes—”
Artus dove back into the crowd. His nostrils were assailed by scores of different perfumes, combining to make the dance floor one big olfactory fog. Powdered wigs and masked people, feathers and fans made up the majority of his vision. He stood on tiptoes, just to get a fix on Countess Velia of Davram. There she was, still on the edge, still in her high chair. He pressed forward through the throng, squeezing between dames and knights with a few strategic apologies to keep from being kicked. Every once in a while he stood up on tip-toe to get his bearings again, and then dove back in, making steady progress toward the woman in the high chair—his navigating star.
A person put a hand on his shoulder. “Artus? Is that you?”
Artus turned. It was a girl, but between the wig and the golden, feather-topped mask, he couldn’t guess who it was. “Yes?”
She giggled. “I knew
it! I’d know those shoulders anywhere!” She leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “It’s me—Elora.”
“Oh. Uh . . . hi. Nice to see you.” He tried to turn away and she pulled him back.
“I’m so sorry about the salon. When I heard your house was attacked, I was so worried!” She wrapped her arms around him in a hug, resting her head on his shoulder. “I knew then I had been foolish. I’m so relieved you’re safe.”
Artus placed his arms lightly on her back. “Umm . . . are you sure you should hug me so close. I mean . . .”
Elora giggled and pressed closer to him. “Don’t be silly! It’s the Blue Party! Nobody even knows who we are!”
“Really? ’Cause I’ve kinda found almost everybody knows who everybody els—mmphhfff . . .” Elora kissed him, pulling him close. Artus felt like he couldn’t breathe.
She let him go and smiled up at him. “Can you forgive me? Please?”
“I’ve really got important things to do, so . . .” Artus tried to pull away, but she kept hold of his hands.
“We could spend the whole night together! The unmasking won’t be for hours! Come on, Artus.” The eyes behind her mask sparkled with mischief. “We could have a lot of fun, you know.”
Artus looked over his shoulder. Countess Velia was no more than five paces away. “Uhhh . . . well . . .”
“Artus!” Another girl—this one willowy and graceful in a lacy gown that tread perilously close to being white, but somehow managed to be sunny yellow, instead—had her hands on her hips in the universal sign of being angry at him. “What are you doing?”
Artus blinked. “I? Me? I was just trying to—”
“Oh please, Michelle!” Elora sneered. “Artus doesn’t have time for bony little things like you! If he kissed you, he might choke.”
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