Chapter 12
The sun was dipping low in the sky as we exited onto the steep cobbled street. Though sunset—the time given in my mysterious summons—still looked to be an hour or so off, I glanced at Vercha and Debry nervously. I still needed time to locate the Veil.
“Now, to market,” Vercha said, consulting a list. “There’s the glovers to visit. But oh, first the drapers…”
I dug around in my pocket, fervently hoping my plan would work.
“Miss Haney asked me to get some new clothes,” I ventured, bringing out a few coins. I’d left some in my pocket, but Vercha didn’t need to know that. “Simple things, she said. Workwear and shifts. But I don’t know which stalls are best to try…”
“Goodness,” said Vercha, staring down at the paltry sum.
“That won’t do. That won’t do at all.” She frowned.
“Didn’t I say you should always come to me?
Here.” She fished around and brought out a heavy coin purse, round as an apple and straining around its contents.
“This should do it. Make sure you get some nice outfits—a gown or two, some smart bodices and hose. Try Crengar’s, on East Street, not the market.
Stalls, indeed.” She looked me up and down.
“Really, I should come with you. I have a fine eye for fabrics and tailoring, you know.”
“Oh, no,” I said, panicking. “You have so much else to organize.”
“She’s right, Miss,” said Debry, eyeing my funds jealously.
Vercha gave a sigh. “Yes, I suppose so. But later, you must come and show me everything, and if it’s not quite right, we’ll send it back with Ferda.”
Heart pumping now, I forced a grateful nod.
“Meet us back at the carriage at sunset,” Vercha called as she beckoned Debry down the street.
Sunset. My stomach swooped.
I’d have to hope this meeting—whatever it had in store for me—was quick.
—
An hour later, I lurked in an alley and gazed out at the Veil, which glowed rose gold with the setting sun.
I’d had to ask directions, but I was careful to approach someone who looked about as far removed from the Hundred as possible: an old, grizzled sailor hefting a crate of hardtack. He’d squinted at me, taking in my fine livery, and pointed me toward a street called Queen’s Wharf.
The Veil had immediately caught my eye: a large, proud, four-story mansion, all red brick, white plaster, and black timber detailing.
Vines wreathed its walls and curled around its windows, behind which I could just see heavy scarlet drapes.
A sign hung above its carved double doors, depicting a masked jester peering from behind a curtain.
I heard chattering, high laughter, the tinkling of glasses.
Patrons, impeccably dressed and, of course, masked, were queuing outside, filing past two burly doormen. There were Orha there, too—liveried and straight shouldered—but they were all accompanying someone or other.
Hells damn it. How would I get in alone?
First things first: I had to look the part.
Crengar’s had been a lucky suggestion from Vercha: An entire wall of the establishment was covered in masks. The tailor seemed to cater particularly to the fickle fashions of the Hundred, and my Shearwater livery meant I attracted no comment.
Retreating deeper into the alley, I changed behind a barrel, stuffing my bag of clothes well out of sight. I’d chosen carefully: an embroidered blouse, a new brushed bodice, and a pair of velvet breeches.
The mask had taken me even longer. There were eye masks, full-face masks, masks with long noses.
Masks of feathers or lace or ceramic…even the terrifying visage of a dragon.
I skipped over the grinning, blue-green likenesses of niskai, ribbons trailing from their edges like water, and masks made of bark to symbolize tree men.
In the end, I picked the sharp-beaked mask of a bluebird, drawn to its bluish-violet and gold feathers. I hoped the colors—which nearly matched the Shearwaters’ banners—might clue in my contact as to who I really was.
Now I fastened it over my face and checked my hair in the glass of a cracked window.
I’d ditched my usual braids for this, twisting my red locks up into a knot.
I’d never in a hundred years pass as a noble, but I hoped, even in the absence of my livery, I’d pass as just another of those haughty Orha.
It wasn’t quite full sunset, but I was horribly conscious that Vercha and Llir would soon be waiting at our carriage.
I sidled around to the rear of the building, finding that it backed onto a pretty little yard.
It was quieter here, and shadowed beyond the streetlamps, but there was a single bored-looking guard standing sentry, overseeing an entrance I assumed was for staff.
The door hung open, raised voices drifting out.
There was a well in the yard and, around a corner, some large barrels. I kept to the shadows. An idea budded in my mind.
The barrels were standing just out of the guard’s eyeline. From my hiding place, I took a few deep breaths—imagined it was just another practical at Arbenhaw—and whispered a few choice words under my breath.
Nothing happened at first. I murmured again. The quiet was broken by a long, ominous creeeak.
“Who’s ’at?” The guard squinted into the dimness.
And then: Two splintering explosions rent the air.
The barrels burst open like overripe fruits, shedding shards of timber, spraying arcs of amber fluid. I could smell it on the air—it was ale, not water—and the guard, who looked as though his heart had seized, raised his torch high and stamped off toward the ruckus.
Silently, nimbly, I stayed close to the wall and darted through the doorway. Into the Veil.
—
I found myself in a narrow, panelled corridor, an open door to my left, a heavy curtain ahead.
From the doorway came the sounds of clinking pans and shouted orders.
Smoke and the mustiness of spice filled the air.
As I hastened past, a palm covering my mask, I glimpsed black stoves, stacked caskets of wine, milling figures, also masked, decked out in dark uniforms.
“Hoi!” came a shout. A servant moved toward me, but I was gone before they could make it two steps. Up the hallway, through the curtain…and into a maelstrom of color and light.
If the mansion’s exterior had been impressive, its interior took my breath away.
I had stumbled into an enormous hall, three tiers of galleries and black-railed balconies projecting out over its mirror-polished floor.
Everything here was gilt-edged and gleaming, from the ivy-twined pillars rising to a painted ceiling, where a stained glass skylight shone scarlet in the sunset, to the velvet couches and spindly-legged tables set out in front of the mahogany bar.
There was music playing: a string trio in the corner and someone on a higher floor plucking a harp.
All around the walls were luxurious red curtains, similar to the one I’d just slipped through. Some, held back with lengths of gold rope, gave access to passageways, nooks, and hidey-holes. I moved away from the servants’ entrance—and found myself well and truly part of the masquerade.
There were dandies in ridiculous-looking fashions—expansive ruffs, ballooning pantaloons—and nobles in sleek gowns and padded doublets that looked like they’d cost me fifty years’ worth of wages.
It was so far removed from the nabyrium halls of Arbenhaw that I felt I’d stepped into a different world.
Even the Shearwaters’ finery on Bower Island seemed drear, conservative, compared to all this.
The thought of Arbenhaw, of the island, brought me back to myself. My meeting. I’d been so distracted by the spectacle that for a moment I’d almost forgotten why I was here. I slouched a little, swiped a glass from an end table, and tried to look as though I came here every week.
There were other Orha trailing after their employers, and the drone of laconite was clearly audible.
They’d attempted to cover it up with music, but the quantity of the stone on display was astounding.
Earrings, carcanets, rings, embellishments…
even a full-on laconite headpiece. All for show, a ritual of the rich.
Then—a feather touch at my elbow. A low voice, male, murmuring in my ear: “You’re early. This way.”
My stomach flip-flopped. A young man in a lion mask—maybe only a few years my senior—was leaving my side, heading for the nearest spiral staircase. He had a bright golden-blond ponytail, a black uniform like the other servants.
This had to be the person I’d been invited to meet. It was a little worrying, how easily he’d identified me…My chest thudded dully as I thought of Zennia. Please, I thought. Please say this wasn’t all for nothing.
Casually I trailed him up the metalwork steps.
On the second floor was a trio of veiled contortionists, slim bodies bent into impossible positions. A jester, her white mask frighteningly blank, juggled five glass balls as she watched me pass.
Then, up ahead, coming right toward me—
“You tell him they’re having a rematch next week. He should come. So should you. It’ll be a good night.”
I recognized that confident drawl, the black curls sprouting from above a boar mask. It was Turnstone, the young man who’d come to Rexim’s luncheon. And beside him…
My heart began to knock on my breastbone; my skin turned clammy, my next breath snagged.
A figure that looked a lot like…no, was Llir—rangy, lean, in the same clothes as earlier—weaved his way down the gallery, face half covered by a carved silver mask.
Behind him came Tigo in a mask of his own, in the unmistakable purple livery of the Shearwaters, and next to him one of Turnstone’s Orha—the one with the scar, black eye hidden beneath his mask.
“I’m not sure that’s wise,” came Llir’s measured answer.
Turnstone glanced at him, lips quirking upward: “I knew there was a reason we used to call you Stick-in-the-Mud Shearwater.”