They took their masks from their laps and put them on, the dusty scent of fresh-made porcelain thick in their nostrils. It was not a moment too soon, for the door swung open, and Fletcher found himself being invited out of the carriage by a footman in black-and-white livery and an exaggerated white wig.
Gravel crunched underfoot, and then the full sight of the palace hit his view. He had seen it from a distance before, for the building was out of the way, toward the north of Corcillum. But up close, the true size and majesty of the palace became apparent.
The mansion was built of white marble, but tonight it was tinged gold by the enormous embrasures ensconced in its lower walls. It was five stories high, with a central dome and two broad wings emergent from each side. The fa?ade was held up by scores of pillars, as thick as oak trees and encircled by carvings of twisting vines. All around, carefully trimmed hedges loomed over sloping lawns, with elegant fountains trickling beside the graveled paths.
Alfric had nearly bankrupted Hominum building it—it was why he had abdicated the throne to his son, Harold. The people of Hominum had been close to an uprising at the time, and the change of ruler had calmed things down. Or at least, the impression of a change of ruler.
“Right this way, if you please,” the footman said, bowing and scraping as he led them over the gravel toward the well-lit entrance. There were milling crowds of people waiting to be announced upon entry, their gaudy clothing lit by the flickering flames in a kaleidoscope of colors.
Fletcher turned to Sylva, checking to see if her mask was hiding her ears. The disguise itself was similar in design to his, but used silver tracing instead of gold. It was edged with the green-blue of peacock feathers, arching back to cover her elven ears, which had also been folded and tied in place to keep them hidden behind her new locks.
Turning from Fletcher, Sylva took Seraph by the arm and walked on ahead. After all, she was his guest. Feeling an irrational pang of jealousy, Fletcher scratched at his collar and followed.
The people waiting in the palace courtyard reminded Fletcher of a host of tropical birds, preening and calling to one another in an exaggerated display. He had thought his and Sylva’s costumes alarmingly bright and conspicuous, but now he realized that theirs were simple in comparison.
Officers paraded with gaudy medals sparkling on their chests, their military regalia on full show. Many of their masks only covered the upper half of their faces: grotesque affairs of hooked noses and horns, a parody of the chiseled, handsome jaws beneath. Women with painted white faces accompanied them, their hair piled high in fanciful styles, with fake beauty spots stuck strategically about their cheeks. Their skirts were layered with flourishes of silk, so wide and heavy that Fletcher was sure that they had to be held up by metal framework beneath. Most wore but a simple eye mask, so as to show off the beauty of their made-up complexions.
Nobles were no less extravagant, marked out only by the symbols of wealth that adorned their bodies. Jewels sparkled on the noblewomen’s chests, while the noblemen’s fingers were weighed down by heavy rings of gold and silver.
Even in the cool winter air, Fletcher began to sweat as they entered the torch-pooled lights on a red carpet outside, joining the queue behind a gaggle of young women. Ahead, the names of the guests were being announced as they entered between the cloistered pillars and through the enormous double doors to the entrance hall.
A sudden thought hit Fletcher, and fresh sweat broke out on his forehead, slick against the porcelain mask.
“Name,” Fletcher hissed, stepping forward and pulling Seraph aside.
“What?” Seraph asked.
“My name, what is it?” Fletcher hissed. The queue edged closer, and a pair of unaccompanied junior officers joined behind them.
“I don’t know. Make something up,” Seraph replied, tugging his arm away and rejoining Sylva. Seraph’s own mask only covered his eyes, and Fletcher could see the tan skin of the noble-to-be’s jaw tightening with anxiety.
The girls ahead had reached the front of the queue, pausing to cackle uproariously as one of their group stumbled, her foot caught in her dress.
Fletcher’s mind was blank. James Baker. Mason. Why couldn’t he think of anything else? He gritted his teeth as the announcer took the invitations from the women ahead, announcing their names in quick succession.
“Priscilla Hawthorne!”
The name swirled around his head.
“Vivien Findlay!”
Was his name supposed to sound common? Or eastern, like Baybars or Pasha?
“Rosamund Bambridge!”
Something simple. Anything.
“Helena Bambridge!”
And then Seraph was showing his invitation, motioning for Fletcher to come forward.
“Name, sir?” the announcer asked.
“James Rotherham,” Fletcher stuttered, the words out of his mouth before he could take them back.
“James Rotherham!” the announcer bellowed. Then he was through, stumbling into the golden glow of the entrance hall. He was blinded by the bright chandelier, heard the jabbering of a thousand conversations.
The entryway was packed with people standing in circles and reaching out to snatch proffered carafes of sparkling wine and salmon-cream-crowned rusks.
A broad marble stairway dominated the room, with a red felt carpet up the center leading up to an elegant double doorway above. The chamber itself was as wide as the atrium at Vocans, though not as tall. As he looked above, Fletcher was enthralled to see the ceiling was painted with a colorful mural of an ancient, white-haired king, a golden crown resting on his head and his hands outstretched to spill dozens of demons across the vaulting in a vortex of pale light.
Realizing he was gawping, Fletcher lowered his eyes, to see servant girls in pink dwarven garb weaving through the waiting crowds, drinks and food held aloft on platters. One hurried closer, her veiled head turned toward him.
“A drink, sir?” she asked.
Fletcher nodded wordlessly, accepting a fluted glass of fizzy wine and bringing it to his lips.
“Don’t actually drink it,” the dwarf whispered, shuffling closer. “You need a clear head tonight. Seriously, don’t drink anything but water, just in case we…”
She tailed off as a noble wandered by and took a drink from her platter. Fletcher couldn’t help but grin, his anxiety dropping a few notches. He lowered the glass and Cress scurried off, dodging through the crowds with her empty platter held aloft. She paused beside another dwarf, one whose overly broad shoulders left Fletcher in little doubt that it was Othello. It was only now that he recognized the red espadrille shoes the two wore, the prearranged identifier to set the two apart from the other dwarven servants.
“When does it start?” Sylva said from behind him, making him jump. He spilled a splash of wine on the marble floor, and he hastily mopped it up with his loafer.