“A drink, Blai?” a woman in green asked.
“Absolutely.” Blai winked after her. “Be there soon, love.”
The crowd shifted between contestants, a chance for the Sociétés to do business. Blacksmiths met with factory owners who met with tailors, and suddenly the biggest shop in the city had a corner market on the newest fabric. A woman in Arts Nécessaire with ample land on the edge of the city whispered in the ear of a man in Arts Spectacle for a new theatre opportunity.
“We’re running out of contestants,” Nik said.
Even if Nik had defied Blai to compete as a Patron for any of the previous contestants, they would’ve turned him down. Everyone here had more money, more supplies, and more advancement opportunities. Nik’s burgundy suit, nice as it was thanks to Blai’s costume closet, still screamed Aspirant inferiority.
These chefs couldn’t waste their chances on him. Objet d’Arts didn’t come around often. With magie extending Souverain lives well beyond normal, it might be another forty or fifty years until the next one keeled over. If they wanted power, money, and the right partners, they needed to think big.
For the Patrons, they would become part of their Souverain’s inner circle if they succeeded in backing the winning chef. It was the biggest win-win of the century, and Nik needed it more than anyone else here.
“Blai, what do you think about—”
But they were already gone, leaning against a Directeur of Arts Littéraires who would’ve been difficult to spot in a crowd of peacocks. The massive purple quill feathers upon her head kept shaking with laughter the more Blai charmed her.
“I find her acting positively dreadful,” Blai cooed. “She butchers your beautiful words nightly!”
“That’s what I told Moreau,” the woman cried, “but no one listens to me.”
Blai’s face changed. Literally. The makeup shifted, sharpening their soft cheekbones, narrowing their lips, and carving out their nose. They were a feral cat about to pounce, and the woman delighted in the malevolence.
“I can’t imagine why. Is Moreau here tonight? I’ll tell him myself!”
“You wouldn’t!” The woman slapped Blai’s shoulder gleefully.
Blai shot upward. “Introduce me, and I’ll show you.”
The two got up, but before Blai could follow, Nik grabbed their elbow.
“What are you doing?” he hissed.
“Making connections of my own.” They tapped their fan in the direction of a man in a golden robe. “That is Directeur Moreau, and he’s next to take over the Labelle Theatre.”
“You can’t write plays anymore,” Nik warned.
“True, butBlai Lozanocan avail their makeup and costuming skills to him, and if he so happens to be charmed by me, maybe I can help him find real playwrights to work with.”
“The Counseil only needs three more Favored. What if—”
“You brought me here to do a job, and I always deliver.” They produced a slip of paper from inside their low V-neck blouse and pressed it into his palm.
It was a list of twenty names. The Favored, in order of appearance with careful notes scrawled along the margins: people the chefs had pissed off, people they’d been seen having coffee with, dishes they’d made for impromptu guests at restaurants they worked in.
“Did you do this in a few hours?” Nik asked.
“One, to be exact. People here are very messy with their gossip.”
“This is…”
“Impressive?”
“Terrifying.”
Blai tapped one of the lower names on the list. “Word from the kitchen says Favored Seventeen is worth sticking around to see. No one has ever heard of her, and she wasdancingin the kitchen, like this is just another day for her.”
He read the name again.
