The outer wall was vast, reaching five or six yards above my head, its top crowned with iron spikes. The burglar in me instantly examined it for handholds, for weaknesses. Of course I could climb it, but I easily spotted two security cameras. And even if it weren’t for those, as soon as anyone hopped over the wall, Ddraig Goch would know about it. Dragons and their lairs.
I touched my necklace, verifying that the small black rock with the USB plug Harutaka had given me was still there. Sometime during the evening, I would have to sneak away and find the server room to plug it in. I shivered in apprehension at the prospect. My palms began to warm up, and I forced myself to breathe deeply, and think of my daughter, chasing the fear away.
There were two armed men at the entrance gates, both looking at me with a mask of boredom as I got closer.
“Name?” one asked.
“Bethany Holt,” I said, giving the name Sinead had secured for the waitress role. Bethany Holt was a girl we both knew; she had been in Breadknife’s gang. She was one of the nastier people there, always searching for ways to bully the kids around her. She had homed in on Sinead, who’d unfortunately had a serious acne problem when we were sixteen, calling her the most unimaginative name available—pizza face. One memorable night, we filled Bethany’s bed with pizza sauce and Vaseline, and there was much rejoicing. We were a sophisticated bunch.
He checked his papers, then took a cursory look at the fake driver’s license I produced. Finally, he nodded at me, and I walked past the gate. For a second, my skin tingled strangely, and I wondered if it was Ddraig Goch’s senses as they sniffed at the stranger in his lair.
A group of young men and women stood a few yards away on the paved walkway to the entrance. They were looking around them, with expressions of awe mixed with nervousness, at the vast expanse of lawn that served as the front garden. It was already dark, and it was almost impossible to see the far ends of the garden; the darkness swallowed it. I pegged the group to be the rest of the waitstaff. One of them, a slightly older guy with an air of self-importance, strode toward me. He had a long cucumber-ish face, with hair that seemed like someone had doodled it with a black marker on his scalp. He had a large bag on his shoulder.
“Bethany Holt?” he said.
“That’s me.”
He glanced at his wristwatch, his lips twisted in displeasure. I had arrived three minutes late, and apparently this was his way of letting me know of his dissatisfaction. After a second or two of staring at his watch pointedly, he let out a long breath through his nose. It was probably part of the entire charade, but his sinuses were quite clogged, and the end of his breath was a soft squeak. He reddened and eyed me with anger, as if this was my doing. I made sure to remain perfectly composed, and did my best to remember the squeak’s exact pitch for when I told Sinead about it later.
“Right!” he said. “Now that you’re finally here, we can start.”
I joined the rest of the staff, and he stood in front of us, hands clasped behind his body.
“My name is Jonathan Roth, and I am the banquet captain,” he said. “The banquet’s guests tomorrow evening are very high class, and will expect a certain standard from the people serving them.”
He looked at each and every one of us carefully and then sniffed, as if we were all lacking in the quality that was expected by those important people. “To that end, we will discuss some basic rules.”
Thus began the long list of Jonathan Roth’s rules. I zoned out after rule three: Ladies are always served first. Instead of listening, I began mentally listing the security measures I spotted around me. Inside the garden I could spot three more security cameras, and I guessed there were more hidden within the mansion’s walls. We’d known about their existence, of course. We would be monitored at all times once we entered the mansion. Even if they didn’t sound the alarm as we crept through the hallways, they would be able to look through the stored footage later and identify us. That also meant that today, when I went to plug in Harutaka’s USB stick, I would probably be visible on the security monitors.
A man was patrolling the walls, carrying a submachine gun, and I was willing to bet that on the night of the banquet there would be more. Trying to enter the grounds over the wall would be suicide. No. The only way inside would be through the front gate, as guests or staff.
The group around me was moving, the monologue apparently over. Jonathan led us down the path and through a back door to the kitchen. It was huge, and already teeming with cooks and smells that made my stomach grumble. He gave an explanation of the various dishes we would serve during the banquet, and pointed out a few of the chefs’ names. Two of them had won on some reality cooking show. One owned a Michelin two-star rated restaurant. Jonathan let that sink in for a moment. Once he had ascertained we were suitably impressed, he led us to the dining room. Or dining hall. Or dining stadium. Whatever you called that.
It was an enormous hall, lined with round tables, the wooden floor polished to a high gleam. There were several huge windows along one wall, and the entire space was lit by a chandelier that probably cost more than my entire store. A double door stood at the far end, leading, I knew, to the lobby. Another armed guard stood by the door. The tables were covered in tablecloths, but were not set yet. That, Jonathan explained, was what we were there to do this evening.
“It’s important you get this right. I will be making sure that each seat is set correctly. If you mangle it, I will make you do it again. Here’s the order. Dinner plate, with a salad plate on top. To the left, dinner fork, salad fork, and napkin, in a classic three-point fold. If any of you doesn’t know what that is, please let me know and I’ll have you escorted from the premises.” He laughed, or I think that was what he did. It was a wheezy, slightly deranged kind of sound, ending with a snort and a slight squeak from his malformed nose. One of the young waiters followed suit, giggling slightly, marking himself as the group’s ass-licker. The rest of us stood silent.
“Okay.” Jonathan cleared his throat. “Dessert fork above the plate. To the right we have dinner knife, teaspoon, and soup spoon. I want an inch and a half between each utensil. If you need a ruler, feel free to ask for one.”
By the time he finished his explanation, Jonathan’s armpits were visibly wet. As the waiters milled around the room, starting to set the tables, I saw him open his bag and retrieve a fresh shirt from it. It was a garment bag, which he had obviously brought with him, expecting this problem. Jonathan’s squeaky nose was accompanied by a sweating problem.