“Well, well,” Cress laughed as he arrived in the front room of the tavern, “look at you all fancy.”
Briss clapped her hands with excitement and rushed over, tugging his jacket here, smoothing there, until she stood back and admired her handiwork.
“You cut a fine figure,” Briss said. “You’ve lost a bit of weight since I measured you last, but I anticipated that. It fits you like a glove. Why don’t you put your shoes on; let’s see if I got those right too.”
Fletcher slipped his feet into the loafers and grinned.
“I could get used to these,” he said. “Comfy, but I could run a mile in them too.”
“Well, you might need to tonight,” Cress reminded him, and he grimaced at the reminder of the purpose of their attire.
“Have a look in there,” Briss said, pointing to a shoe box. Fletcher turned to the table, mystified. He picked it up, and the container felt oddly heavy. Curious, he lifted the lid.
Only to see a pale visage staring back at him.
“What the—” he gasped, dropping the box on the table.
“Ah, you’ve found your new face,” Briss said, picking the box up and holding it out to him. “Well, go on, try it on, see if it fits.”
Fletcher looked inside once more. It was a mask, made from porcelain so pale that it might have been bleached bone. In fact, with the empty eyeholes it might well have been a skull, were it not for the soft curves of the cheeks and the pouting white lips.
A fine filigree of gold traced around the oval edge, curling inward at intervals with delicate whorls that curved around the eyes to draw attention there. It was terrible and beautiful at the same time, like a bird of prey.
Fletcher lifted it to his face and felt Briss’s hands tying the mask in place with ribbons, tight against the back of his head.
“It’s a masquerade ball, if you hadn’t guessed,” Briss said. “I took up pottery to sell pots, believe it or not, but we get more requests for these than anything else. They have several masques each year, and the nobles insist on having a new mask for each.”
“Thank you,” Fletcher said, searching for the right words. “It’s … it’s hauntingly beautiful.”
He turned to Othello, who had lifted his veil to get a closer look.
“You know what, I’d rather wear the veil,” the dwarf said, shaking his head.
“It gives me the creeps,” Cress agreed.
Briss sighed.
“Well, that’s what they like to wear; I made it as subtle as possible. You should see Sylva’s though—it has feathers.”
“What has feathers?” came a voice from behind them.
Fletcher turned, and his mouth dropped open.
Sylva was coming down the stairs, transformed. Gone was the pale, almost silvery hair, replaced with flowing locks which had been dyed and curled to fall about her shoulders in a wave of sable, and the change was so startling that Fletcher was left speechless. Her shoulders were bare, with the red velvet of the dress hugging her slim curves and waist. Her hips held up a sweeping skirt, edged with delicate folds and layers that gave the impression of a budding rose.
She had never looked more beautiful.
“Nobody laugh,” Sylva growled, stomping past them. “Let’s get this over with.”
CHAPTER
25
THE STREETS OF HOMINUM flashed by the carriage window, shadowed in the dying light of the winter evening. Few people were walking, and those who were, hurried with their heads bowed in the growing darkness. There was a sense of foreboding in the air, weighing heavy and thick like the smoke of an oil lamp.
Cress and Othello had left for the palace on foot, with Seraph’s carriage arriving for Fletcher and Sylva soon after. Their reunion had been a happy affair, but their joy had swiftly deteriorated as they came closer to their destination. Now the three of them sat in silence, contemplating the night’s task.
“I should be doing this alone,” Seraph said, shaking his head. “Or Arcturus. You’re taking a huge risk.”
“He’s a known enemy of the Triumvirate, as are you,” Fletcher replied. “You’ll be the center of attention tonight, being a guest of honor and all. Far better for Sylva and I to be your anonymous friends, and then sneak off at the first opportunity.”
Seraph grunted with reluctant agreement.
“Let’s go over the plan again,” Sylva said, her voice forcefully cheerful.
“Right,” Fletcher agreed. “You start.”
Seraph leaned in to listen, his eyes wide with curiosity.
“The Mite Alfric uses is being kept in the throne room, directly above the banquet hall,” Sylva said, her eyes shut as she recited from memory. “The demon itself has had its legs amputated and is fixed on the end of a blackthorn staff. It should have a cloth covering it, somewhere in the chamber.”
Fletcher shuddered, remembering when Arcturus had told them of that horrifying detail. The Mite was wild, unconnected to any summoner, so it had to be kept in place during Alfric’s addresses to the people of Hominum.
“To reach it, we must leave through one of the side doors in the hall and make our way up the stairs,” Sylva continued. “There, we will use the picklock spell to break in. I will remove the journal strapped to my leg and begin reading it aloud, while showing each page to the Mite.”
Fletcher took over as she paused for breath.
“Cress and Othello will be serving food and drink to the guests,” he said. “They will create a distraction while we sneak into the throne room. If all goes well, we should be done in a few minutes and the guests will be none the wiser.”
Seraph’s eyebrows furrowed.
“What happens if Cress and Othello’s distraction doesn’t work, and word gets out that you’re in there, making a speech?”
“Then we’ll just need to hold off until the story is told,” Fletcher said grimly. “King Harold will order Rook and Lord Forsyth’s arrest. Then we wait. See if Alfric goes along with it.”
“That’s the plan?” Seraph asked, his eyes widening with surprise. “What if he defends them?”
“He’s in this up to his neck,” Sylva replied, her voice fierce. “And all of Hominum will be furious. If he wants to prevent his involvement from coming out and a crowd with pitchforks and torches marching on the palace, he’ll take Harold’s side and condemn the two as traitors. Hominum’s people may dislike the dwarves now, but when they find out who’s really behind the bombings, they’ll be out for blood. Alfric will sacrifice them to save his own skin.”
There was a knock on the ceiling of the carriage, where the driver was sitting.
“Well, I guess there’s no turning back now,” Seraph said. “We’re here.”