“Who’s ’at?” The guard squinted into the dimness.
And then: Two splintering explosions rent the air.
The barrels burst open like overripe fruits, shedding shards of timber, spraying arcs of amber fluid. I could smell it on the air—it was ale, not water—and the guard, who looked as though his heart had seized, raised his torch high and stamped off toward the ruckus.
Silently, nimbly, I stayed close to the wall and darted through the doorway. Into the Veil.
—
I found myself in a narrow, panelled corridor, an open door to my left, a heavy curtain ahead. From the doorway came the sounds of clinking pans and shouted orders. Smoke and the mustiness of spice filled the air. As I hastened past, a palm covering my mask, I glimpsed black stoves, stacked caskets of wine, milling figures, also masked, decked out in dark uniforms.
“Hoi!” came a shout. A servant moved toward me, but I was gone before they could make it two steps. Up the hallway, through the curtain…and into a maelstrom of color and light.
If the mansion’s exterior had been impressive, its interior took my breath away.
I had stumbled into an enormous hall, three tiers of galleries and black-railed balconies projecting out over its mirror-polished floor. Everything here was gilt-edged and gleaming, from the ivy-twined pillars rising to a painted ceiling, where a stained glass skylight shone scarlet in the sunset, to the velvet couches and spindly-legged tables set out in front of the mahogany bar. There was music playing: a string trio in the corner and someone on a higher floor plucking a harp.
All around the walls were luxurious red curtains, similar to the one I’d just slipped through. Some, held back with lengths of gold rope, gave access to passageways, nooks, and hidey-holes. I moved away from the servants’ entrance—and found myself well and truly part of the masquerade.
There were dandies in ridiculous-looking fashions—expansive ruffs, ballooning pantaloons—and nobles in sleek gowns and padded doublets that looked like they’d cost me fifty years’ worth of wages. It was so far removed from the nabyrium halls of Arbenhaw that I felt I’d stepped into a different world. Even the Shearwaters’ finery on Bower Island seemed drear, conservative, compared to all this.
The thought of Arbenhaw, of the island, brought me back to myself.My meeting.I’d been so distracted by the spectacle that for a moment I’d almost forgotten why I was here. I slouched a little, swiped a glass from an end table, and tried to look as though I came here every week.
There were other Orha trailing after their employers, and the drone of laconite was clearly audible. They’d attempted to cover it up with music, but the quantity of the stone on display was astounding. Earrings, carcanets, rings, embellishments…even a full-on laconite headpiece. All for show, a ritual of the rich.
Then—a feather touch at my elbow. A low voice, male, murmuring in my ear: “You’re early. This way.”
My stomach flip-flopped. A young man in a lion mask—maybeonly a few years my senior—was leaving my side, heading for the nearest spiral staircase. He had a bright golden-blond ponytail, a black uniform like the other servants.
This had to be the person I’d been invited to meet. It was a little worrying, how easily he’d identified me…My chest thudded dully as I thought of Zennia.Please,I thought.Please say this wasn’t all for nothing.
Casually I trailed him up the metalwork steps.
On the second floor was a trio of veiled contortionists, slim bodies bent into impossible positions. A jester, her white mask frighteningly blank, juggled five glass balls as she watched me pass.
Then, up ahead, coming right toward me—
“You tell him they’re having a rematch next week. He should come. So should you. It’ll be a good night.”
I recognized that confident drawl, the black curls sprouting from above a boar mask. It was Turnstone, the young man who’d come to Rexim’s luncheon. And beside him…
My heart began to knock on my breastbone; my skin turned clammy, my next breath snagged. A figure that looked a lot like…no,wasLlir—rangy, lean, in the same clothes as earlier—weaved his way down the gallery, face half covered by a carved silver mask. Behind him came Tigo in a mask of his own, in the unmistakable purple livery of the Shearwaters, and next to him one of Turnstone’s Orha—the one with the scar, black eye hidden beneath his mask.
“I’m not sure that’s wise,” came Llir’s measured answer.
Turnstone glanced at him, lips quirking upward: “I knew there was a reason we used to call you Stick-in-the-Mud Shearwater.”
What were theydoinghere? I half turned away, trying to force my legs to obey me. Then the realization finally registered: The remaining half of Emment’s debt…of course they’d have chosenthisas a meeting place.
I ducked my head, feigning a sip from my glass, hoping my mask and new clothes would conceal me. And sure enough, when the quartet swept by, none of them picked me out from the crowd.
Pulse racing, I hurried after my contact, toward one of the heavy velvet curtains. There, the lion-masked man held it open, brow raised at the delay. I shook my head, panting.
Within, I found myself in a dim, pokey cubbyhole: no more than a round booth with a low, curving ceiling, a bench, and a table with a burning candle. There were etchings of birds in the wood on the wall—a sandpiper, a falcon, an osprey. And a shearwater.
“Interesting choice of mask,” said the man as he slid in after me, closing the curtain. His tone was light, his voice youthful. “A cuckoo might have been more apt.” He cocked his head and studied me with interest, a small smile on his lips, just visible beneath his mask.
“Why?” I said. “And who are you?” After that close call, and with sunset imminent, I was keen to get on with it. “I found a note inviting me to come here—”
