Nevernight (38 page)

“Very good.” The servant stepped to the top of the ballroom stairs and announced in a loud voice, “Bara Cuddlegiver of the Seaspear clan, and companion.”

A few of the three-hundred-odd guests glanced in the pair’s direction, but most of the throng continued with their conversations. Mia took Tric’s arm and led him down the stairs, nodding at the folk who’d looked their way. She waved down a passing servant, who lit a black cigarillo in a slender ivory holder and handed it over dutifully. Mia slipped the smoke through her masque’s lips and breathed a contented, gray sigh.

“
Cuddlegiver
?” Tric hissed.

“Better than Pigfiddler.”

“’Byss and blood, Mia…”

“What?” she smirked. “I’m sure you give lovely cuddles.”

“Black Mother help me,” Tric sighed. “I need a fucking drink…”

Fourteen servants materialized beside the boy, bearing trays with almost every beverage under the suns. Tric looked taken aback, finally shrugged and took two goldwines.

“Very thoughtful of you,” Mia said, reaching for a glass.

“Sod off, these are mine. You get your own.”

Mia looked about the sea of masques, silk, skin. A string quartet played on a mezzanine above, a perfume of beautiful notes hanging in the air. Couples danced in the room’s heart, clusters of well-heeled men and well-frocked women chatting and laughing and flirting. The music of golden rings against crystal glasses rang amid the hidden faces. Aalea was right; it was easy to forget who she was among all this.

Mia sighed. Shook her head.

“It’s a sight,” Tric agreed.

“This used to be my world,” she said softly. “Never thought I’d miss it.”

The sharp chime of metal on crystal caught her attention, and Mia turned to the mezzanine above. The music stopped as all eyes looked up to a smiling gent, half his face hidden by a
domino
of beaten gold. His coat was silk, embroidered with golden thread, the cravat at his throat studded with gems, rings on every finger.

Our host, Praetor Marconi, no doubt.

“Ladies and gentlefriends,” the man spoke, his voice rich and deep. “I welcome you to my humble home, one and all. I’m not one to speak overlong and part you from your revels, but it is the season of Great Tithe, and I would be remiss if I did not give my thanks to each of you, and most of all, to our glorious consul, Julius Scaeva.”

Mia found her jaw clenching. Eyes scanning the crowd.

“Alas, our noble consul could not attend our gala, but still, I’d have each of you charge a glass and raise it in his honor. Six years have passed since the Kingmakers sought to slave us once more beneath monarchy’s yoke. Six years since Consul Scaeva saved the Republic, and ushered in a golden age of peace and prosperity. Without him, none of this would be possible.”

The young praetor raised a glass. Everyone in the room raised theirs, save Mia. Tric looked at her, eyes widening. To not toast the consul would invite scandal. Teeth grinding so hard she feared they might break, Mia plucked a glass off a nearby tray and raised it like the rest of the sheep.

“Consul Julius Scaeva!” Marconi cried. “May the Everseeing bless him!”

“Consul Scaeva!” came the crowd’s cry.

Glasses were clinked, drinks quaffed, polite applause filling the room. Praetor Marconi stepped down with a bow and the music picked up again. Mia was scowling behind her masque. Suddenly missing this world, this life, far less than she had a moment ag—

“Do you dance?” Tric asked.

Mia blinked. Looked up at Tric’s masque and the hazel eyes beyond.

“What?”

“Do. You. Dance?” he repeated.

Mia laughed in spite of herself. “Why? Do you?”

“Shahiid Aalea has been teaching me. In case I found myself having to romance some marrowborn daughter or dona of quality.”

“Donas of quality tend to have rather high standards, Bara Cuddlegiver.”

“She says I’m excellent, I’ll have you know.”

The boy offered his elbow. Mia glanced around the room. Empty, smiling faces, hiding the real faces within. These marrowborn bastards dipped in gold and lies. Had she really ever felt like she belonged here? Had this ever been her world?

She lifted her masque and quaffed her glass of goldwine with one swallow. Grabbed another from a passing tray and finished it just as quick.

“Fuck it, then.”

Dunking her burning cigarillo in a passing glass of wine, she took Tric’s arm.

As they stepped onto the dance floor, Tric took her by the hand, his big, sword-callused fingers entwined with her own. Butterflies took wing in her belly as he placed his free hand at the small of her back. Mia swore the music got louder, the conversations around them seeming to dim. And there in the midst of that sea of empty, smiling faces, they began to dance.

It was odd, but with the boy’s face covered, Mia could see only his eyes. Staring up into those big pools of sparkling hazel and realizing they were fixated entirely on her. All the pearls and jewels, the silk and glitter, the opulence on display. These pretty dons and donas all dipped in gold. And still, he only looked at her.

She’d known he was graceful from watching him in the Hall of Songs, but Daughters, for all his other failings in Aalea’s lessons, the boy could dance. For a moment, Mia found herself swept up, cradled in his arms, spun and dipped and swayed as the music seemed to grow louder still and all the world beyond became nothing. For a moment, she wasn’t Mia Corvere, daughter of a murdered house, parched with the thirst for revenge. Not a fledgling assassin or a servant of a goddess. Just a girl. And he a boy. Their eyes blind to all but each other. Aalea’s voice echoing in her ears.

“Enjoy yourselves, my dears. Laugh. Love. Remember what it is to live, and forget, if only for a moment, what it is to serve.”

“Invitations, please.”

Mia realized the music had stopped. The room was silent. She turned, found herself looking at three Luminatii legionaries, bedecked in polished gravebone breastplates. The leader was built like a brick wall. Cold blue eyes looking right at Tric.

“Invitations,” he repeated.

Tric glanced to Mia. Reached into his coat pocket.

“Of course…”

The centurion snapped his fingers, pointed at Ashlinn and Osrik loitering on the edge of the crowd. “Them, too. Anyone with the blood tears.” Soldiers were fanning out among the astonished guests now, singling out the acolytes wearing Aalea’s masques. Hush. Pip. Jessamine. Petrus. Carlotta …

Tric was fumbling in his pocket, brought out only flakes of dust.

“I’m sure I had it a moment ago…”

Mia reached to the hidden pocket inside her corset. But where her invite had been safely stowed, again there was only a handful of dust. As if …

As if …

“As I thought,” the centurion declared. “Come with us, Bara
Cuddlegiver
.”

Hands clamped down on Tric’s elbow. Mia’s wrist. She glanced to Osrik as Ashlinn was seized by the shoulder. Mia caught a glimpse of manacles, the gleam of steel. The guests around them were appalled that their gathering had been interrupted, Praetor Marconi demanding to know who would dare disturb the peace of his house. But in a blinking, the illusion of that peace all came undone.

Tric grabbed the hand that had seized him, bent back the owner’s arm and snapped it at the elbow. Mia tore a stiletto from her corset, stabbed the Luminatii holding her in the wrist. She heard a crash, a strangled scream as Jessamine put her wineglass into a legionary’s face. Osrik roaring over the top.

“Go! Go!”

Mia lashed out with the stiletto, bloodying another centurion reaching for her. Tric was already off, bolting across the room and smashing men and women aside as he barreled through the mob. Catching a flying drinks tray as he passed, he hurled it at a window, the panes exploding with a crash as he dove through afterward. Mia was right behind him, hissing in pain as her arm was sliced open by the jagged frame, tumbling onto the thin strip of grass running the palazzo’s flank. She landed atop Tric, knocking the breath from his chest with a
whufff
.

“Halt!” came the roar. “Halt in the name of the Light!”

Mia hauled Tric to his feet, wincing with pain, arm drenched in blood. The pair dashed down the alleyway, crashing glass behind them, cries of alarm. Mia heard an upper window explode, saw Hush leap across to the palazzo opposite and scramble onto the roof, white coat now splashed with red. Heavy boots behind them. Bitter winds on her skin. The pair arrived at the tall, wrought-iron fence surrounding the palazzo grounds, Tric throwing himself over in one smooth motion.

“Come on!” he hissed.

Mia looked over her shoulder, saw four Luminatii dashing toward her, sunsteel blades drawn and blazing. But evening gowns, it seemed, weren’t the best attire for a desperate foot chase, let alone vaulting ten-foot-high wrought-iron fences. Mia slashed at the gown with her stiletto, tearing it loose at the thigh. She flung herself at the fence, scrambling over just as a burning longsword whistled through the air, slicing wrought iron into molten globules. Tric’s arm flashed through the gaps, his blade gleaming red. She heard the boy cry out in pain. Dropping to the cobbles beside him, they were off, bolting into the freezing wind.

“Where to?” Tric panted.

“Aalea,” she gasped.

Tric nodded and dashed down the pier, kicking some poor servant into the drink as he requisitioned his gondola. Mia dropped in beside him as he punted out into the canal, smashing at the water furiously as half a dozen Luminatii jumped into watercraft behind them and gave chase. Tric steered their gondola toward the palazzo where they’d met the Shahiid. There were no Hands out front, no lights in the windows. Barreling through the front doors, they found the entry hall and room they’d dressed in empty. The air dusty. Cold. As if no one had set foot in the house for years.

Heavy boots. The front door bursting open. Mia cursed, grabbed Tric’s hand and dashed for the back door, crashing out into a thin alleyway that ran the rear of the building. They heard shouts behind, the ring of steel. Whistles blowing in the waterway beyond, calls for more troops, tromping feet. Tric kicked through the kitchen entrance of another palazzo, servants shrieking as he and Mia barged past, out into the foyer, shouldering through the front door and onto a cobbled thoroughfare.

Mia’s arm was gushing blood. Tric was gasping, clutching his side. Mia saw a scorch mark on his jacket, smelled burned flesh. He’d tasted sunsteel somewhere in the struggle at the fence, his waistcoat soaked with blood.

“Are you all right?” she gasped.

“Keep running!”

“Fuck running,” she snapped. “I’m in a bloody corset!”

The girl swung herself up onto the step of a passing carriage, plopped onto the seat beside an astonished-looking driver wearing the livery of some minor house.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hel—”

Her elbow caught the man in the belly, her hook toppled him out of his seat and onto the cobbles below. She pulled the horses to a whinnying halt, tore her
volto
loose and turned to look at Tric with eyebrow raised.

“Your carriage awaits, Mi Don.”

Tric leaped onto the rear step and Mia snapped the reins against the horses’ backs as a quartet of breathless Luminatii barreled onto the street behind them. The carriage tore down the street, bouncing and juddering over bridges and flagstones, Mia cursing as she almost flew from her seat. The marrowborn legate to whom the carriage belonged stuck his head out the window to see what all the fuss was, found a girl in a shredded evening gown where his driver should’ve been. As he opened his mouth to protest, she turned and looked at him, bloodstained skin and narrowed eyes, a cat made of what might have been shadows perched on her shoulder.

The man pulled his head back into the carriage without a word.

“…
well this is bracing, isn’t it
. .?”

“That’s one word for it.”

“…
you seem to have lost half your dress
…”

“Kind of you to notice.”

“…
though given the way you danced with that boy, i imagine losing only half is a disappointment
…”

Mia rolled her eyes, whipped the horses harder.

They abandoned the carriage south of the Hips, Mia hopping down onto the cobbles and tipping her tricorn at the bemused owner. Up on the driver’s seat, the wind had been bitterly cold, and Mia’s lips were turning blue. She was on the verge of lamenting her choice of attire again when Tric pulled off his frock coat and, without a word, slipped it around her shoulders. Still warm from the press of his skin.

They dashed through back alleys and over little bridges, wending their way south toward the Bay of Butchers. Arriving at the Porkery, they stole inside, creeping up the stairs to the mezzanine above the now-silent killing floor.

Mia was dizzy from blood loss, her arm dripping, the sleeve of Tric’s coat soaked through. Tric’s waistcoat and britches were drenched too, his hand pressed to an awful gash in his side. Their faces pale and pained, the memories of the music, the dance, the whiskey and the smiles already a tattered memory. They’d barely made it out with their lives. Creeping down the twisted stairwell, the stench of copper and salt rising in their nostrils, down, down into the blood-drenched chamber below.

Shahiid Aalea was waiting for them.

Gone was the elegant gown, the drakebone corset, the pretty
domino
. She was dressed in black, rivers of raven hair framing that pale, heart-shaped face. The only color was her smile. Red as the blood dripping down Mia’s arm.

“Did you have fun playing at being people, my loves?” she asked.

“You…” Tric winced, still breathless. “You…”

The Shahiid walked across the tile toward them. Lifted Tric’s hand away from his wound and tutted. Kissed Mia’s bloody fingertips.

“Our gift to you,” she said. “A reminder. Walk among them. Play among them. Live and laugh and love among them. But never forget, not for one moment, what you are.”

Aalea released Mia’s hand.