By the time they reached the doors, Fletcher was sweating beneath the heat from the bright torches that lit the way, pooling around his neck to leave the black curls of his hair soaked with perspiration. They stumbled through into the new light of the banquet hall, only to gape in wonder.
Three long tables stood side by side, in a room lit with so many chandeliers that it was as if the very ceiling was ablaze. The floor was the warm umber of polished mahogany, and marble busts that depicted generations of the royal family lined the walls, glowering at the assembled guests as if disapproving of the extravagant display.
Foppish footmen bowed and scraped as they walked in, before leading the guests to their places. Fletcher found himself sitting opposite a heavy-set nobleman, whose face was already red from drink. The man was seated between two young women who were clearly his guests, for they fawned over his every word. Both were heavily made-up, with their hair piled high and matching golden masks across their eyes.
“Of course, it’s a damned shame,” the man was saying as Sylva and Seraph sat down on either side of Fletcher. “I mean, King Harold’s a good sort, heart in the right place and all that, but he’s gone too far this time.”
“You’re so right, Bertie dearest, far too far,” one of the women gushed, leaning closer so that Fletcher could see a large black beauty spot on her left cheek.
“Far too far,” the other repeated, nodding along. She had an unusually long neck, her head bobbing like that of a stork.
“Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile, that’s what I always say,” Bertie continued, his jowls wobbling as he rapped the table with his knuckle for emphasis. “Dwarves need to know their place. Now look what’s happened. A few hundred of the buggers marching down here, armed to the teeth, and all the while their bombs going off left and right.”
“It’s positively ghastly,” Beauty Spot said. “We aren’t safe in our beds at night.”
“Now, Old King Alfric, he’s got the right idea,” Bertie mumbled. He held up a finger, then lifted a fluted glass of sparkling wine and quaffed it in a single gulp, spilling half of the pale liquid down his lacy white shirt.
Then he leaned in and beckoned Fletcher, Seraph and Sylva closer. Reluctantly the three bent their necks, if only not to appear rude and attract attention.
“I have it on good authority that the old king has ordered the Pinkertons to seize the dwarven workshops tomorrow night,” he whispered, looking over his shoulder in case a dwarven servant girl was nearby. “Because, of course, that’s where the bombs are being made. I’m old chums with Alfric, and of course, he confided in me.”
“You’re so in the know,” Long Neck said, covering her mouth with a hand.
“Of course, Alfric comes to me for advice all the time,” Bertie continued bombastically. “Can’t make a decision without me.”
“That’s very interesting,” Seraph said, humoring the loud-mouthed man. “He must trust your opinion a great deal.”
Fletcher very much doubted that the cold, calculating Alfric would be friendly with the drunken braggart before him. Most likely the man had heard it through the rumor mill and was simply boasting to the impressionable young ladies.
But the news was troubling. The dwarven foundries were located in the basements of the dwarven homes, built into the bedrock and secured by metal doors. Alfric would be hard-pressed to break into them, but it would mean that the Pinkertons would invade the dwarven homes themselves. On top of it all they would be trying to enter the most secret sanctums of the dwarves. There would be riots that night, one way or another. All part of Alfric’s grand plan to instigate a revolt.
“The best part of it all is that we’ll finally get a look at how they’re making their damned guns,” Bertie continued. “I told him, I said, ‘Alfric, you’ve got to see about the guns.’ Once we have that, we’ll have no need for the sneaky little buggers. We can arrest the lot of them and throw away the key.”
The noble tossed the dregs at the bottom of his glass into his mouth, then smacked his lips and sighed contentedly.
“Well, that seems jolly harsh, Bertie,” Beauty Spot said, fanning herself. “Couldn’t we just … send them on their way? Maybe put them on a ship or something?”
“Far too dangerous,” Bertie said, glancing around the room for a servant girl to refill his glass. “They started it, after all. The bombing was all their doing, and then one of them killed that brave boy on that mission, right in front of our eyes. That proves it; they’d come back and wipe us off the face of the earth if they could. No, Gertrude, it’s them or us.”
“But why?”
It took Fletcher a moment to realize it was he who had spoken.
“I’m sorry?” Bertie said, the sweaty forehead above his mask wrinkling into a frown.
“Why did she kill Rufus Cavendish?” Fletcher faltered, unsure if he should continue.
“Who knows why these creatures do such things?” Bertie said, waving away the question as if it were an annoying fly. “Probably to send a message to all of Hominum, tell us all exactly how dwarven bread is buttered, so to speak. The point is, she did it.”
The wrinkles of the nobleman’s frown deepened, and his eyes narrowed behind his mask. Clearly the man was not used to being questioned in that manner.
“I say, who the devil are you anyway?” he said. “I don’t recognize your uniform.”
“My guest,” Seraph said smoothly, while laying a calming hand on Fletcher’s thigh. “And I am Lord Pasha.”
Even beneath the mask, Fletcher saw Bertie blanch. After all, Seraph’s affiliation with the dwarves was no secret.
“I … that is…” The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I know you have a certain … sympathy for the dwarves. I didn’t mean to cause offense.”
“None taken,” Seraph said, tightening his grip on Fletcher’s knee, as if to warn him not to take it further. He needn’t have bothered—Fletcher was already regretting his outburst.
Further awkwardness was avoided by the gentle dingle of bells, announcing that food was ready. Soon servants were sweeping between the tables, balancing enormous platters, complete with gleaming covers to keep the food warm. Within minutes the center of the table was filled with the steaming dishes, and the waiting stewards removed the covers with a simultaneous flourish.
Fletcher’s stomach clenched with hunger at the sight of it. The delicious scent that wafted beneath his nose filled his mouth with saliva.
Largest was the quarter of a stag: its rump slow-roasted overnight to leave the flesh succulent and soft. A swan stuffed with mushrooms and oysters sat beside it, the crispy skin basted in a pulped sauce of figs and saffron, glistening beneath the flickering flames of the chandeliers above. Farther down the table was a whole roast boar, a crisp red apple held in its mouth.