Reaper's Awakening

by Jacob Peppers

  Nicks studied the two for several more seconds then sighed, shrugging, “Well, shit, you gotta look on the brightside, I guess. Once the Church and the Bloodless are done with us, I don’t think there’ll be much left for the king to hang.”

  “The question then,” Cameron said, ignoring Nicks, still focusing on Memory, “is to how to get into the ball in the first place.”

  Memory nodded, rubbing a hand through her hair in frustration, “We’ll have to waste time going to a costume store—though whether or not they have any left this close to the ball, I’ve no idea.”

  Cameron grunted, “They’ll check invitations. Without one of those—”

  “Wow,” Blinks spoke, his voice one of awe and excitement, “I wonder where they got those from. They’re pretty.”

  The others glanced at each other then followed Blinks’s gaze to a man and woman who’d just risen from a nearby table. They were dressed in nice clothes, the man in a black tunic and trousers, a white mask covering his face and leaving only his chin ad mouth exposed. The woman wore a blue silk dress and a white mask that matched the man’s except for the spots of color on either cheek.

  Cameron met Memory’s eyes and grinned, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but she looks just about your size.”

  Memory smiled back, “So she does.”

  He nodded and rose, offering her his arm with a flourish and a bow, “My lady, I was wondering if you’d care to accompany me to the Ball?”

  She rose and curtsied, placing her arm in his, “Why, it would be my pleasure, sir.”

  Nicks watched them start away, their eyes locked on each other. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought the two were enjoying the prospect of getting tortured and killed. “Don’t mind us,” he called after them, “We’ll catch up. Or never mind,” he said, continuing despite the fact that they hadn’t turned, “I’ll just stay here. Alone.”

  “I’m here, Nicks,” Blinks said, “and where are they going?”

  Nicks glanced at the big man and sighed, “Come on. Let’s go find you a mask.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Oh, I swear, Clara, sometimes you’re as bad as a mother hen,” Leandria said, forcing cheer into her voice. “Really I’m fine.” Which, she had to admit, if only to herself, wasn’t exactly the truth. The truth was, she felt terrible, the worst she could remember feeling except for years ago, when she’d had the fever. Her skin alternated between bitterly cold and unbearably hot, and her head felt stuffy, her thoughts fuzzy and unfocused. She’d not wanted to come to the Ball, but for the first time her father had refused the Church in raising the drawing—at her request—and she had no doubt that snake Saliander Daven would plead his case again, and she would be here for it.

  That isn’t the only reason, and you know it, she scolded herself. And that was true. It was the biggest reason, of course, but if a certain young man with dark hair just happened to show up? Well, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried to break it off, was it?

  Clara removed her hand from Leandria’s forehead, frowning, “You’re sure? You’re burning up, cousin.”

  Leandria waved it away, “I’m fine. Now, what were you speaking of before?”

  Clara studied her for another moment then sighed, turning back to the ballroom. “It really is beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Leandria followed her cousin’s gaze. Hundreds of bright lanterns hung from the ballroom’s ceiling, their paper covers painted in every possible shade, creating a sea of color that rippled and moved with the draft. The effect it created made the dozens of small balconies circling the hall appear as if they were floating inside a rainbow.

  Finely finished oak tables sat at intervals on either side of the hall, their surfaces covered in pristine white table cloths on top of which would soon be placed all manner of food and drink, delicacies and rare vintages for all to share. This early in the evening, nearly all of the tables were empty, those few who’d already arrived choosing instead to walk around and socialize from behind masks of every possible color and make.

  Servants walked among them wearing fine white tunics and trousers with identical plain gray masks and carrying silver trays bearing all manner of snacks and beverages as they weaved their expert way in and out of the growing crowd. From where Leandria stood, the smells of a dozen exotic foods and sauces intermingled and mixed into a cloying, unpleasant aroma, and it was all she could do to keep from losing the light breakfast she’d had hours before. “Quite beautiful,” she managed.

  They began to make their way around the room, and Leandria groaned as Lord Revermont, a heavy-set noble who also happened to be the head of the Merchant’s Guild, walked up to them. “Good evening, princess,” he said, apparently deciding Clara was beneath his notice, “I wonder, has your father given any more thought to lowering the tax on imported goods? I know that his Highness is, of course, a wise and just ruler, but such taxes….”

  The man kept speaking, but Leandria was hardly listening. She’d heard this same argument before, a dozen times, at least, so she and Clara nodded on politely as he spoke. For men like Revermont who loved the sound of their own voice, little else was required.

  One of Clara’s friends called her name and she turned to Leandria, raising her eyebrows and grinning. Revermont didn’t so much as pause as Clara nodded her head in apology and hurried away. Leandria fought down a scowl as she watched her friend go, turning back as Revermont droned on about the kingdom’s economy and—unsurprisingly—the importance of the merchant class, forcing herself to smile and nod in the right places.

  Revermont was still making his case when she glanced over his shoulder and saw men and women in the white robes of the Church’s priests and priestesses. As she looked closer, she noted the masks they wore and grimaced. Every year, the church had its most favored priests and priestesses dress up as the Divines for the ball, and they spent their time lecturing anyone they could on the importance of leading their life according to the Divine’s will.

  She noted the mask of the first, that of a smiling child, painted and rendered in eerily painstaking detail that must have cost a fortune, the representation of Balen, the child Divine of innocence and hope, caretaker of orphans and abused, one painted eye twinkling with amusement, the other sporting a lacquered blue tear, the child god rejoicing for the young and, at the same time, mourning their suffering.

  Next to him stood a heavy-set man whose mask had been fashioned with a jutting jaw and pronounced cheekbones, and she shuddered to think how the Divine of Warriors and Valor might take seeing such an obviously out of shape priest stand as his representative. She saw also the tight-fitted robe of Fiondria, Divine Goddess of Temperance and unmarried women, the regal mask’s effect dampened somewhat by the drunken sway of its wearer. This made her think of the prefect, and she scanned the room, noting that he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Nor, too, was her father and for reasons she couldn’t explain, that absence worried her.

  “—that, princess?”

  Leandria turned back to Revermont, “Beg your pardon, my lord, my mind was wandering, what did you say?”

  “Sure, sure,” the lord said with a smile that never touched his eyes, and she knew that he would count it as a slight—such men as Revermont inevitably did, had mental ledgers in which each supposed wrongs were marked and tallied. “Well, I do hope you enjoy the ball, princess,” he said, flashing his false smile once more before turning and walking away with a stiff, tense gait.

  Leandria winced inwardly. As head of the Merchant’s Guild, Revermont was richer than anyone in the kingdom save the king himself—and some argued that even in that contest he was leagues ahead—and had a reputation for ruining those who he deemed his enemies. A man, her father had once told her, who craved power and gold the way starving men crave bread, and a man who would sacrifice both, in an instant, if it would bring about the downfall of a man or woman he felt had slighted him.

  She’d asked him if that were true, why he allowed such a man
to stay in power. Her father had only sighed and shrugged, “Revermont is a cruel, greedy thing, but he has also established himself as one of the pillars that hold up this kingdom. A carpenter might find such a one, when repairing a house, a pillar whose insides are rotten and foul, yet he must be quite clear on what should happen when he knocks it down, of how much he may lose. Else, the whole house is at risk.”

  Something had felt wrong to her about that, but she hadn’t been able to put it to words. Now, thinking of the prefect, of the Church, she thought that maybe she understood what had bothered her so much back then. How much of a house—how much of a kingdom—can be rotten before the whole thing must be counted as a loss?

  Either owing to her sickness or her dark thoughts, she found her mouth unaccountably dry and waived down a nearby server who hurried toward her, bowing low and holding his tray up to her. She took one of the fine silver goblets, thanked the man, and drunk deeply of the watered wine—her father made certain the spirits and wine were diluted until after his speech, lest those in attendance be too drunk to mark his words.

  She scanned the room as she sipped from her wine and noticed a man in a dark blue doublet and trousers standing with his back propped against the wall at the far end of the ballroom. The black mask he wore hid his features, but it seemed to her that the man was studying her, and she realized there was something familiar about the way he stood. It wasn’t until she noticed the hair, black as night that the mask failed to hide that she realized who it must be. Quintin.

  Before she realized what she was doing, she was making her way across the ballroom toward him. A wave of dizziness overcame her after a few steps, and she stumbled, dropping the silver goblet she held. Wine spilled across the fine tiles, wine so dark as to look like blood.

  She wavered, feeling faint. Hands caught her from behind, and she turned to see the servant who’d given her the wine, “Your Highness, forgive me,” he said, “Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, “thank you. I just had a faint spell, that’s all. It must be all the excitement.”

  “Of course, Your Highness,” the man said, bowing low, though she thought she saw doubt in his eyes before his head lowered. “May I lead you to one of the seating areas?”

  “I said I’m fine, thank you,” she said, then cursed herself inwardly for her short tone. The man was only trying to look out for her. And just how sick do I look, anyway? Quite sick, if the man’s eyes—visible through the mask he wore—were any indication, but he didn’t push the issue any further, instead bowing again and muttering an apology before making his way back into the crowd.

  Great, Leandria, she thought, take out your anxiety on a man who shows you kindness. How very gracious. She made her way into the crowd, meaning to find the servant and apologize, but instead she caught sight of the dark blue doublet and trousers disappearing up a staircase that lead to one of the small inner balconies of the ballroom. Divines, but he must still be angry with me, she thought, realizing that, just then, she wanted nothing more than to speak with Quintin, for him to tell her that everything was going to be okay, and she found herself feeling guilty and ashamed of how she’d left things with him.

  I’ll apologize to him, that’s all. Explain the situation. He’ll understand. They might not be able to be involved romantically—despite what her heart wanted—but surely they could still be friends. They could be that, at least.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “Ready?”

  “No, don’t turn around.”

  Cameron sighed and resisted the temptation to peek. “In case you didn’t know, we’re in a bit of a hurry here.” They stood in an alleyway, alone except for the couple they’d followed from the inn that were currently lying unconscious and naked nearby. A state they would have found themselves in anyway before the night was done, if he was any judge, though perhaps not in the same order.

  “Alright, you can turn around.”

  “Thank the Divines for—” Cameron cut off, staring at her in the moonlight. The blue dress fit her snugly, accentuating her curves and the thinness of her stomach. One lightly tanned, shapely leg showed where the tailor had split the dress at the knee—Cameron would have kissed the bastard if he could. Every time he’d met her, she’d had her hair in a ponytail, but now long dark hair cascaded over her shoulders.

  “Damn,” he said, without meaning to.

  She grinned, an amused glint in her eyes, “How do I look?”

  Her eyes on his, Cameron found it hard to think, let alone speak. “You uh … you look good.”

  She jerked her head, flipping her hair, “Oh, come now. Surely, you can do better than that.”

  “Beautiful,” he said, “You look beautiful.”

  She smiled, “Now, that’s better. I suppose the evening won’t be a total waste.” She studied him, looking him up and down, “And you don’t look so bad yourself. You really fill those clothes out quite … sufficiently.”

  Cameron grunted, looking down at himself. The bastard had looked his size, damnit. How was he to know the man had legs that belonged on a twelve year old boy? He sighed, looking back up at her, and she quickly looked away. It was hard to tell for sure in the moonlight, but he was fairly certain she was blushing. He grinned, pulling the mask down over his face and offering her his arm, “Are you ready for the ball, my lady?”

  She nodded, taking his arm. “It’s Mira,” she said, her voice so low he could barely hear it.

  “Hmm?” He said, distracted by the sight of her in the moonlight, by the feel of her arm in his, and damn if that dress didn’t fit her perfectly.

  She raised an eyebrow, as if she knew the direction of his thoughts, “My name,” she said, “it’s Mira.”

  He nodded, “It’s beautiful,” he said, then, before he could stop himself, “You’re beautiful.”

  She smiled widely, that blush creeping up her cheeks again, “Now, sir, I get the distinct feeling you are trying to woo me, and I’m afraid I don’t have time to be wooed just now.”

  Cameron grunted, “Alright,” he said, “but later.” Then they turned and, arm and arm, started toward the ball.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “By the Pit, Blinks,” Nicks said as the big man came up beside him where he stood in line to enter the ball, “what in the shit is that on your face?”

  The big man’s frown was visible beneath the pink, stylized mask he wore, complete with whiskers and lavishly long eyelashes. “You said I had to get a mask, Nicks. I couldn’t use the one from the man whose clothes I took on account of it broke.” He paused and, apparently deciding Nicks needed more information said, “It broke cause I hit him. Anyway, you said I needed a mask, so I got one.”

  Nicks groaned, “Divines help me, Blinks,” he said, keeping his voice low, “please tell me you didn’t beat up a little girl and take her mask.”

  The big man looked offended, “Of course not.”

  Thank the Divines for that, Nicks thought. “Anyway, when I told you to get a mask, I just figured you’d get it from a man is all.”

  “I did,” Blinks said, “I was walking around on the bridge, looking like you told me, and saw these two fellas talking. Least, I guess they was talking, though to be honest I couldn’t understand a word of it, what with their mouths smashed together.”

  Nicks groaned, “You didn’t make a scene did you? Last thing we need is the city guard coming for us.” Despite the mask the big man wore, Nicks could see the guilty look on his face, “Blinks,” he said in a low, scolding whisper, “you didn’t kill them did you?”

  “No,” the big man, a look of shock on his face, “of course not. I just asked him if I could have his mask is all.”

  Nicks sighed with relief, “Thank the Divines for that. Just so long as—”

  “Course, he said no,” Blinks said with a sigh, “Called me an oaf too. I’m not real sure what he meant by it, but I could tell it wasn’t nice, so I took his mask and left.”

  Nicks frowne
d. Something didn’t sound right about that. “He just let you take his mask and leave? He didn’t try to stop you?”

  Blinks considered then shrugged, “Not really. He was busy swimming.”

  Nicks stared at the big man, “Swimming?”

  “On account of I threw him in the river.”

  Nicks rubbed his temples in a vain effort to keep back a burgeoning headache, “And the other man?”

  Blinks shrugged, “That one was wearing a doll mask. I’ve never much liked dolls. Oh, Nicks, did I ever tell you about the time my Uncle Erwin—”

  “I didn’t mean his mask,” Nicks said, “I mean what happened to the other man?”

  “Oh,” Blinks said. “That. Well, he was swimming with the other fella. He was swimming on account of—”

  “You threw him in.” Nicks bit back a curse and looked back to the front of the line, saying a quick prayer to the Divines. He’d seen Memory and Cameron enter the ball not fifteen minutes ago. The two had looked quite comfortable, their arms entwined. From the way they kept looking at each other and how close they stood, it seemed to Nicks that they were having quite a good time. At least somebody is.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “Pit take it, we’ll never find the necklace like this,” Cameron said. They stood on the side of the ballroom floor, each holding a goblet of watered wine and taking small sips so as not to draw attention to themselves. The members of the Church were easy enough to pick out in their white robes, and he and Memory had spent the last hour “accidentally” bumping into them, while her deft hands made quick searches through the pockets of their robes. He’d been surprised by her skill at this, and she’d only smiled, explaining that it was a talent she’d picked up when she was little more than a child. Still, they’d checked half a dozen of the priests or more before realizing that it wasn’t going to be that easy. The Church wouldn’t be foolish enough to leave such an importance piece of leverage in a priest’s unprotected pockets.