“Relax,” Seraph said, squeezing Fletcher’s shoulder. “They’re just waiting for Didric to arrive. It should be any minute now. You two should get away from me; I’m the guest of honor remem—”
Seraph froze, the word dying on his lips. Then Fletcher saw them, walking purposefully into the entrance hall. Tarquin and Isadora. And they were heading right for them.
CHAPTER
26
THE TWO NOBLES WERE DRESSED in black military regalia, complete with matching masks that were no more than a simple white visor across their eyes. Indeed, Isadora was not the only woman to be wearing military dress—in the corner of his eye Fletcher saw that several other recent arrivals had foregone ball gowns for the more clean-cut look: noblewomen who bore high-ranking positions in the military, or in their own private armies.
Fletcher’s breathing quickened at the sight of the twins, sweat bursting across his palms. They stalked through the room like a pair of golden-haired lions, completely at ease in the ostentatious gathering of Hominum’s elite.
Ignoring the calls of greeting from the other guests, the pair walked directly toward Seraph. Fletcher felt Sylva snatching at his sleeve, but the shock of seeing the pair had rooted him to the spot. By the time he came to his senses it was too late, and Tarquin and Isadora stood before them, masked eyes flicking between the three of them.
“Congratulations, Seraph,” Tarquin said, his voice flat and unenthusiastic. “A noble at last. You have come up in the world.”
“Thank you,” Seraph replied stiffly.
Tarquin barely registered the response. His eyes were boring into Fletcher’s own, narrowing beneath the mask. Fletcher remained silent, but inclined his head slightly, as if in greeting.
“Well, don’t be rude, Seraph darling,” Isadora said, flicking her mane of hair. “Won’t you introduce us to your guests?”
Seraph cleared his throat, buying himself time.
“James Rotherham,” Seraph finally said, his voice an octave higher than usual. “He’s from Swazulu. Come to oversee our sulphur mines.”
“James Rotherham,” Tarquin asked, his brows furrowing. “That’s a northern name. And you’re a little pale to be from Swazulu, aren’t you, James?”
“Uh, he doesn’t speak our language very well,” Seraph said hastily. “His forefathers are originally from Hominum, hence the name and appearance, but he’s as foreign as they come.”
Fletcher bowed his head lower, and clasped his hands together in a gesture of respect. Tarquin grunted, the suspicion plain on his face, even with the eye mask. Still, his main interest was in Sylva, his eyes lingering on her slim frame a touch longer than Fletcher would have liked.
“Tell me, Seraph, why have you brought an elf to the ball?” Isadora said, then laughed at Seraph’s sharp intake of breath.
“Well, don’t act so surprised,” she giggled, slapping Seraph playfully on the shoulder. “Her eyes, they’re far too colorful. Even Mummy’s eyes aren’t that blue. Honestly, Seraph, don’t you have any friends from your own nation?”
She pretended to pause and think, then covered her mouth with a gasp of mock mortification. “Oh wait, they all died, didn’t they? I’m so sorry.”
Seraph stuttered with anger, and Fletcher had to resist balling his hands into fists. Fortunately, Sylva stepped smoothly forward and curtsied deeply before Seraph could reply.
“Good evening.”
An elven accent, pure and lilting, lay thick over her words. It was an impressive performance, and Fletcher grinned beneath his mask.
“I am a representative of the clans, here to negotiate a weapons deal with Lord Pasha.” She nodded at Seraph. “Our troops will be arriving on the front lines soon, and they need arms. We thought it best that I do not make my presence at the ball known, given the current … climate.”
Tarquin set his jaw, and the furrow in his brow deepened.
“Did you not consider the Triumvirate for your weapons?” Isadora asked, her voice sickly sweet. “Our factories are far closer to your borders than the Pashas’ are.”
“We choose who we do business with very carefully,” Sylva stated, crossing her arms. “It is a matter of … taste.”
The two stiffened at her words, and Fletcher saw twin spots of red appear on Tarquin’s cheeks.
“Come on, Isadora,” Tarquin snapped, taking his sister’s arm. “We must pay our respects to Lady Faversham.”
The duo swept off, disappearing into the crowd without a second glance.
“Swazulu?” Fletcher hissed. “Is that the best you could come up with?”
“Hey, don’t blame me,” Seraph muttered under his breath, stepping closer so Fletcher could hear him. “You’re the one who didn’t have a story ready, or even a bloody name. You know I only got told about this harebrained scheme of yours a few hours ago, right? I had to leave my two real guests twiddling their thumbs in my hotel room, and you’re lucky their invitations didn’t have names on them. Don’t forget, if this goes wrong, my life is on the line. Aiding and abetting traitors makes me one too.”
Fletcher sighed and took a sip of his wine. It was bitter in his mouth, and he swallowed it with a grimace. He instantly regretted it, feeling the acid liquid trickle down and sit in the pit of his stomach.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “We’ve got away with it, so no harm done.”
“Well, Sylva did no better; did you have to antagonize them?” Seraph moaned.
“I couldn’t help myself,” Sylva said, with a hint of regret in her voice.
“Just move away from me, before someone else we know comes to say hello.”
As if on cue, the announcer called Didric’s name, reducing the hubbub of noise to hushed whispering. Fletcher caught a glimpse of his nemesis, dressed in the bee-stripe dress uniform of his private army: an elegantly tailored two-piece with the chevrons of a captain emblazoned across the shoulders. He wore a silver, crescent-shaped mask that perfectly covered the burned half of his face. Instantly, he was surrounded by fawning subservants, desperate to become acquainted with the new lord.
But there was no need to hurry away, for the announcer called out to the guests.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please proceed to the banquet hall.”
Fletcher needed no further coaxing, and Sylva hooked her arm through his and joined the chattering crowds up the stairs. She struggled somewhat with every step, for the dress was long and caught under her heels. Fletcher realized that they were a poor choice of footwear for their night’s work, and pointless because they could barely be seen beneath the trailing skirts.