Chapter 6
NIK
The lights inside Souverain Lafontaine’s dining room lifted, followed by another round of timid applause.
Some of the most prestigious Directeurs and Professionnelles from every Société were gathered at the Exposé.
They chattered politely in their like-colored pods: yellows, blues, purples, reds, greens, beiges, and silvers.
Nik sat near the back, apart from the other Arts Humains, where he’d lurked all night, idly sipping champagne and nibbling the canapés that circulated.
Favored Sixteen, a young Professionnelle chef in a cream-colored suit, bowed to them, then to the Counseil des Sept established at a long table in the front of the room.
He was the ideal candidate with his infectious joy and boyish smile.
The crowd already buzzed with Patrons ready to vie for his attention.
Nik inched forward, eager to be the first to offer when the Souverains accepted him as one of the seven finalists.
All of this was too much drama for Nik’s taste.
The Counseil sat upon six gilded ornate chairs behind a table overflowing with fresh flowers and wine.
They’d each dressed in their best finery, which meant long lace trains upon which Perrault of Arts Littéraires allowed her poetry to flow; a wide-brimmed hat that rained dollops of cobalt paint upon Souverain Tremblay of Arts Visuel’s flowing pantsuit, and so much more.
Other than their jeweled ornaments, the Counseil were a beacon of white amid the vibrant room.
A reminder of their so-called perfection.
Nik set his napkin aside, eyes narrowed on the chef.
“Easy.” Blai touched his wrist. “Not this one.”
“Why not?” Nik muttered.
“Because he won’t make it.”
They’d been at this all evening; Nik would jump to place his bid, and Blai would pull him back.
The Souverains had filled up four of the seven spots already, which meant there were only three more opportunities to find someone—no.
Not just someone. The perfect puppet to obey his father and vote him in as Grand Souverain, a role that could destroy the rebels forever and restore order to Anespérer.
His father would use this power to create a new system where everyone would have a chance to learn an art.
No one would ever be orphaned and overshadowed like Nik ever again.
And Blai was wasting every opportunity.
“He’s perfect.” Nik motioned to the chef eagerly awaiting his fate. “The Counseil liked the meal and the magie was strong.”
“You and I both know the Counseil is after more than skill in the kitchen.”
“They want connections,” Nik agreed. “Favored Sixteen has worked in some of the best kitchens, and he’s the son of one of the wealthiest families in—”
Blai waved an impatient hand. “Apprenticeships, wealth, family. Blah, blah, blah. Sure, that delectable meal of a chef has connections, but not the right connections.”
On cue, Lafontaine shouted, “Next!”
Favored Sixteen gawked, blinking rapidly before being tugged out of the dining hall and back into the kitchen along with all the other rejected contestants. If the Souverains couldn’t find three more candidates by the time they reached the end of the Favored, the chef would get a second chance.
“Told you.” Blai winked, then returned to flirting with the other guests nearby.
Nik watched, envious of how easily they could change their shape to fit right in.
Blai was resplendent in a yellow suit that also served as a dramatic, billowing dress with a long train they swirled at every opportunity.
The mustard yellow sang against their rich brown skin, but nothing could distract from their smile and the way they wielded a fan in conversation.
Annoying as Blai could be, this was why Nik had invited them. They could work a room, glean information from a simple chat that would take Nik days of sneaking around to figure out.
When he’d told Blai about his real purpose tonight, they’d still jumped at the opportunity. It didn’t matter to them if Lafontaine had plans to uproot the Counseil. Blai wanted connections and a chance to tell a good story.
That’s all this is, Nik, Blai had said as they laid out their outfits. You need a chef people will root for.
“Dupont.” Blai tapped a long, canary-yellow nail against Nik’s cheek. “No one will want to work with you if you keep scowling like that.”
“I don’t understand these rules,” he grumbled.
“Social rules or those of the Counseil?”
“Both.”
“Four have already been accepted, right? Where did they come from?”
Nik hadn’t thought of that. All evening, he’d been trying to figure out what made someone worthy of competing in Objet d’Art? They had varying levels of experience, their dishes were all unique, and their family names ranged from Anespérer fame to unremarkable nobodies.
Blai smiled. “Not a single one of them comes from the richest districts. They’ve come from Le C?ur, the Fumée Quarter, even across the seas in Cael.”
Nik puzzled it out for a moment. “Places they still need control in.”
In Le C?ur, for example, Visuels took up most of the shops with their painting, architecture, and furniture stores. If Souverain Faucher of Arts Spectacle made the right move, she could open new theatres furnished by Arts Visuels and fed by Arts Culinaires.
“Expansion opportunities,” he muttered. “Places the other disciplines don’t have as much control.”
“Points for the smart boy.” Blai pinched his cheek.
Nik batted them off.
“A drink, Blai?” a woman in green asked.
“Absolutely.” Blai winked after her. “Be there soon, love.”
The crowd shifted between contestants, a chance for the Sociétés to do business.
Blacksmiths met with factory owners who met with tailors, and suddenly the biggest shop in the city had a corner market on the newest fabric.
A woman in Arts Nécessaire with ample land on the edge of the city whispered in the ear of a man in Arts Spectacle for a new theatre opportunity.
“We’re running out of contestants,” Nik said.
Even if Nik had defied Blai to compete as a Patron for any of the previous contestants, they would’ve turned him down.
Everyone here had more money, more supplies, and more advancement opportunities.
Nik’s burgundy suit, nice as it was thanks to Blai’s costume closet, still screamed Aspirant inferiority.
These chefs couldn’t waste their chances on him. Objet d’Arts didn’t come around often. With magie extending Souverain lives well beyond normal, it might be another forty or fifty years until the next one keeled over. If they wanted power, money, and the right partners, they needed to think big.
For the Patrons, they would become part of their Souverain’s inner circle if they succeeded in backing the winning chef. It was the biggest win-win of the century, and Nik needed it more than anyone else here.
“Blai, what do you think about—”
But they were already gone, leaning against a Directeur of Arts Littéraires who would’ve been difficult to spot in a crowd of peacocks. The massive purple quill feathers upon her head kept shaking with laughter the more Blai charmed her.
“I find her acting positively dreadful,” Blai cooed. “She butchers your beautiful words nightly!”
“That’s what I told Moreau,” the woman cried, “but no one listens to me.”
Blai’s face changed. Literally. The makeup shifted, sharpening their soft cheekbones, narrowing their lips, and carving out their nose. They were a feral cat about to pounce, and the woman delighted in the malevolence.
“I can’t imagine why. Is Moreau here tonight? I’ll tell him myself!”
“You wouldn’t!” The woman slapped Blai’s shoulder gleefully.
Blai shot upward. “Introduce me, and I’ll show you.”
The two got up, but before Blai could follow, Nik grabbed their elbow.
“What are you doing?” he hissed.
“Making connections of my own.” They tapped their fan in the direction of a man in a golden robe. “That is Directeur Moreau, and he’s next to take over the Labelle Theatre.”
“You can’t write plays anymore,” Nik warned.
“True, but Blai Lozano can avail their makeup and costuming skills to him, and if he so happens to be charmed by me, maybe I can help him find real playwrights to work with.”
“The Counseil only needs three more Favored. What if—”
“You brought me here to do a job, and I always deliver.” They produced a slip of paper from inside their low V-neck blouse and pressed it into his palm.
It was a list of twenty names. The Favored, in order of appearance with careful notes scrawled along the margins: people the chefs had pissed off, people they’d been seen having coffee with, dishes they’d made for impromptu guests at restaurants they worked in.
“Did you do this in a few hours?” Nik asked.
“One, to be exact. People here are very messy with their gossip.”
“This is…”
“Impressive?”
“Terrifying.”
Blai tapped one of the lower names on the list. “Word from the kitchen says Favored Seventeen is worth sticking around to see. No one has ever heard of her, and she was dancing in the kitchen, like this is just another day for her.”
He read the name again.
“Auclair?” Nik snorted. “It’s fake.”
“Then she’ll be in good company with us.” Blai glanced up at Lafontaine, who was finding his way back to his seat with the rest of the Counseil. “Care to dig into those daddy issues yet?”
Nik scowled.
“Lighten up.” Blai bopped his nose with the fan. “You’re at one of the most enviable events of the decade. This Auclair could be good for you.”
“This isn’t a holiday. I’m working.”
“Why not mix business with pleasure?”
Before he could even remind Blai that this was not his idea of pleasure, the double doors opened and the crowd fell quiet. A waiter with tight curls on the crown of his head entered without a cart.
“Introducing Favored Seventeen!”
Blai leaned in, voice soft and warm in Nik’s ear. “Trust me, you’ll know once you see her. Fight like hell to get her, and daddy will be kissing your cheeks and tucking you in with a bedtime story.”
They pulled away just as the chef sauntered in.
Nik got his first glimpse of Elouise Auclair.