19
Fireworks burst above Carintheum as the city’s rich and infamous flocked toward Arcadium Hall. Felix climbed the temple steps with Myria on his arm. Excitement played a rapid tune across his spirits. He shouldn’t have felt cheerful—they were there to break the law—but dash it all, he did.
They were both dressed to the nines on the fruits of yesterday’s mischief.
Myria wore a pure gold gown that winked with topaz, and Felix, a coat of midnight silk with golden chasing at the tails.
That night, they were both purebred Carinth, with their hair, their eyes and their accoutrements all lustrous golden-dark.
Myria had worked the transformation before the looking glass that afternoon.
It was a marvel, what she could do with nothing more arcane than powder, paint and colored lenses.
They paused halfway up the steps to admire the scene.
The Praetor for Arcanic Affairs had thrown the ball to curry favor for his re-election, and all the jewels of high society had gathered for the revel.
Phaeton after phaeton glided to the head of the curving driveway, spilling out their wealthy passengers.
Servants waited in the wings to guide the chauffeurs out of sight, where they’d wait while their masters caroused the night away.
She was right. No better place to find an Imbrium, he thought. Now, if she’d only tell you why they need it . . .
That moment, as though summoned by the thought, a gorgeous red phaeton came sweeping up the path. It glinted like a jeweler’s display beneath the streetlamps, twenty thousand lyrin on wheels.
“I say. Is that the new Imbrium Caelestis?” Felix asked, gesturing to the vehicle.
“It’s the older model, darling,” Myria said in an aristocrat’s drawl. “And in red! Can you credit it?”
He saw her measuring up the phaeton from the corner of her eye. If it was a match, Lysander and Cassia would pounce. He knew they were somewhere in the rank of servants below, but their disguises were too good; he couldn’t mark them.
Then, a familiar man emerged from the phaeton.
“My, my,” she murmured. “If it isn’t Copperchaser Cendrius. I’m surprised he’s showing his face in public.”
There was no missing the fellow in his tasteless crimson greatcoat. He was scarcely on his feet before a dozen journalists emerged like locusts from the grass. They circled him in a flurry of scratching pens and arcanic typographs.
“Praetor Cendrius! What do you have to say about the furor at Haideum Castle?”
“Tune hasn’t changed, fellows. Nothing but a training exercise,” he said with easy charm, sliding off his gloves. “It’s perfectly routine to test the castle’s protections.”
“What of the rumors that a man escaped?”
The praetor chortled, pushing sideways through the crowd. “I can say with utter confidence, dear chap, that no one’s ever escaped from Haideum, and no one ever will.”
Felix wrestled down a laugh. He really oughtn’t be amused. Still, it’d take a soul of porridge not to smile when the escapee in question stood about thirty yards away. He glanced at Myria and saw the answering glee in her fool’s gold eyes.
They contrived to reach the doors right behind Copperchaser. Felix watched as a servant handed Cendrius a silver token.
“For your phaeton, sir,” the young man said. “The gatehouse won’t release the vehicle without it.”
The praetor tucked the token into the inner pocket of his greatcoat, then flicked out a cigarette case and ambled on. Felix followed close behind, with Myria in step.
They coursed down the central hallway with the crowd, beneath the towering statues of the Pantheon, passing through the grandeur as though it were nothing worth looking at.
Felix watched from the corner of his eye as Cendrius handed his greatcoat to a servant.
Ten steps later, they emerged into Arcadium Hall.
The place was glazed with pure enchantments.
The gods reclined above them on the pinkish-golden clouds that streamed across the ceiling—hunters, dancers, lovers and warriors, all toasting to the night.
Grapes and roses twined in dewy color about the marble columns.
The tables groaned beneath the fruits of paradise.
And the wines of paradise, Felix noted, eyeing up the bottles.
Screens of falling water marked the walls, lest any of the merrier guests walk straight into the illusion. Beyond them swept the flowered fields of Elysium. The air was scented with the blooming summer, and the marble floor awash with dancers.
As a child, he’d thought it strange that they used temples for such decidedly worldly affairs. He’d later come to understand that in Carintheum, religion was more a civic than a spiritual pursuit.
They’d once had gods of ancient pedigree.
Those sorts of deities had the temerity to disagree with them from time to time, though, so out they’d gone.
After a brief and ill-advised flirtation with worshipping the imperators, they’d settled on something impeccably Carinth—deifying their own heroes.
They promised protection, looked splendid on a pedestal, and let the people get on with whatever they pleased.
“I say,” Myria sighed, gazing at the scene. “I ought to be a praetor. I’d be very good at it.”
“You’ve no small talent for swindling. I’d say you’re well on your way.”
“Satire, sir? It’s beneath you.”
“You overestimate military humor. Now, what do you need?”
“Only to keep half an eye on Copperchaser until Leo gives the signal. Come with me.”
With that, she took him by the hand and spun him into the dance.
All the grand variety of Carintheum was on parade around them.
There were the mindless dandies and the flint-hard businessmen, the flirting fillies and the warriors silver with scars.
Copperchaser stood nearby amid a knot of the rich and lovely, peddling compliments and smiles as well as any backstreet hawker.
The dance was slow, though, and Felix’s spirits were running fast. He hadn’t realized just how fast until Myria tapped the hand that rested on her waist.
“You alright, old boy?” she asked under her breath. “Feels like you left the kettle on.”
He looked down, and abruptly realized that his hand was twitching with adrenaline.
“Long story,” he said by habit.
“Oh. That answers that, then.” Myria shrugged and turned her eyes elsewhere. Somewhere inside, he dropped his face to his hands. Still, he couldn’t help but grin at her look of studied indifference.
“I’m surprised you’re too polite to ask,” he said.
“Polite? Heavens, no. Just don’t give a toss.”
He shook his head and chuckled. She already knows. Might as well clear the air. Besides . . . He looked at her and wondered. She’d had her powers taken. That, at least, they had in common.
“You knew all along, didn’t you?” he asked. “That I couldn’t use my arcana.”
“Suspected. I didn’t step out in front of a phaeton for my own amusement,” she said with a sidelong smile. He raised an eyebrow at that look—the look of a cat that knew it was too appealing to be punished for its latest misdeed.
“To be fair, I didn’t mean for you to put yourself in danger,” she added. “I only wanted to see if you’d use your powers to help me.”
“Your methods are direct. I’ll give you that,” he said. “Very well. It was the battle of Draevund Heath. The Hjelvak army had Eversor cannons.”
“Those old things the size of battleships?”
“Mmm. The bolts were heading right for us. The centurion was preparing to catch them, but she needed a shield to dampen the blow. I took it, and . . . well, lost. Shattered my arcanic faculties.”
She was quiet for a moment, but where their hands joined in the dance, she gently pressed his palm.
“Must’ve made you quite a hero to the corps,” she murmured. Then, she met his eyes, and he saw an unexpected little softness there—something warm and steady behind the colors that changed like shot silk in her countenance. Enchanting, somehow, that still point amid the play.
At the sight, a part of him suddenly longed to speak, to let loose the thoughts that’d been blackening like a storm inside him since that day. Hero. Carintheum made heroes of the mighty and the dead. He’d managed neither. There was a reason men like him never lived past the end of the ballad.
But then, his instincts sounded a warning call. Be on your guard. He couldn’t help but like her, but to trust her would be foolishness.
“You’ve clearly never met my comrades,” he said instead. “No fancy notions in their ranks.”
“You’ve known them a long time?”
“Since I joined the academy, some of them. Goodness, sixteen years ago . . .”
“The Imperatrix Guard brought you here as a child?” she asked, making an elegant spin. “Where from?”
“We were living in the olive groves in Clarius Magna at the time,” he said. “Further back . . . I think they brought my great-grandfather to Carintheum from Isra when they saw his powers, but the blood’s been mingling ever since.”
It’d been the way for centuries. Show the promise of arcanic skill as a child out in the colonies, and the inspectors would spirit the family away to Carintheum, taking their abilities far out of reach of their discontented homelands.
“But what of you?” he went on, balancing her through another pirouette. “Do you recall anything of your life before . . .”
He trailed off as the piece drew to an end. The dancers fell still. He never learned if she would’ve answered, for a footman cleared his throat behind them. Myria turned to greet Leo, shimmering in the Arcadium livery. He offered her a shallow bow and a glass of pale lilac liqueur.
“Compliments of the house, ma’am,” he murmured. “Our friend should like you to know that the vehicle’s most satisfactory. She’d be obliged if you’d proceed sharp on the tenth hour.”
“How gratifying,” said Myria, then took the glass and led Felix out of the dance. Leo disappeared as quickly as he’d come.
“You’re stealing it?” Felix asked under his breath. Disapproval battled with exhilaration as he followed her toward the entrance hall.
“My dear sir, let the word insurance assuage your conscience. We’re doing him a favor.”
“I see. Kindly never do me a favor.”
“Oh, pish. It’s an old trick. They insure those things for far more than they’re worth. Every couple of years, they’ll pay some lowlife to steal and sell ’em, split the proceeds and claim the insurance. Eight thousand lyrin and a new phaeton.”
“That’s appalling!”
“You don’t end up a praetor if you can’t stomach a little swindle. Now, get the token from Copperchaser’s coat, there’s a good chap.”
“Me?” he exclaimed under his breath.
“Got it in one. That offensively red greatcoat.”
“I could hardly forget it, but why don’t you—”
“Drinkies,” she said, raising her glass. “He had a cigarette case in the pocket, if it helps.”
There was no more time for protest; they’d reached the cloakroom. Myria swept onward, and Felix turned into the little chamber. The attendant came upright with a start and hid his cigar.
“Don’t mind me. Just fetching my cigarette case,” said Felix.
Copperchaser’s red coat was unmistakable amid the rows of black. Felix slipped his hand into the inner pocket, and his fingers met the little silver token. He pressed it against the cigarette case and drew out both together.
Then, prize in hand, he strode straight out. It was absurd for his heart to beat so fast at such a little thing. All the same, it ran so hard that he could feel it in his head.
Your first crime.
Two minutes later, they were in the darkened phaeton yard behind the Hall. Felix gave a low whistle at the assembled cavalry. There had to be a million lyrin worth of vehicles arrayed across the ground.
“So many sweeties, so little time . . .” Myria sighed.
The chauffeurs were crowded about a brazier at the back of Arcadium Hall.
The light spilling from the windows cast a cozy golden glow across the scene.
It looked as if some of the spirits had mysteriously found their way outside; the gathering had a decidedly merry tone, with cards and laughter flowing fast.
Myria glided up with an officious air. A few of the chauffeurs glanced around. Then, two men sprang up like misbehaving schoolboys caught by the headmaster. He half recognized Lysander. The second had to be Cassia, swathed in mercuria.
“Phaeton,” Myria said shortly.
“Beg pardon, ma’am, sir,” Cassia answered in a stranger’s voice. “I’ll fetch her right away.”
“Mind that you do,” said Myria, slapping Copperchaser’s token into her friend’s hand. “And where’s that useless man got to?”
“Here, ma’am, here,” came Leo’s breathless voice from nearby. He manhandled a servant’s trolley down the stairs, its contents covered with a stained white tablecloth. Myria pointed wordlessly toward the phaeton, and he rattled off in Cassia and Lysander’s wake.
One minute later, the thieves were loading a small fortune in silverware and wine into the back of one admittedly delightful Imbrium Caelestis. If nothing else, Felix had to commend the opportunism; Leo had wheeled a whole trolley of stolen goods straight from the kitchens.
Myria smiled and wriggled down into the back seat, spreading her hands across the plush buttoned velvet. Felix made to climb in beside her, before Leo slipped between them. Cassia took the driver’s seat, Lysander at her side.
“You’re just . . . taking it?” Felix asked under his breath, glancing about the darkened phaeton yard.
“Yes,” Leo answered in an exaggerated stage whisper.
“Don’t fret. The driver’s sodden as a newt, and we stripped the patrium curses while we were pretending to help him clean it,” said Lysander. “Not that there was much to strip.”
“See. Told you he wanted someone to pinch it,” Myria said cheerily. “Goods all secured, Leo?”
“Of course, my imperatrix, and I’m pleased to say that I’ve obtained a week’s supply of biscuits.”
Felix clapped a hand to his brow. He wasn’t quite sure what’d come out of his mouth if he opened it, a reprimand or a laugh. He feared it’d be the latter.
“You’re a marvel,” said Myria, then waved a hand to Cassia. “Drive on, chauffeur.”
The phaeton started with a velvet purr. In moments, they were gliding through the moonlit yard.
Cassia produced Copperchaser’s token when they reached the gates.
A servant took it, stifling a yawn, and pulled a lever.
The patrium curses shivered back. With that, they swept out into the great glitter of Carintheum.
And away we go, thought Felix, fighting back a smile. Pantheon help him. He was one of them, now.
All things considered, it’d been rather too much fun.