‘Gotta get out by midnight, yeah?’ Teddy says. ‘That’s when they do the unmasking.’
I nod. I don’t want to imagine what will happen if we’re trapped in the crowd when the masks come off. All it would take is one guard to recognise us – or one guest to notice my friends’ low proclivity markings – and we’d be hauled outside with pistols to our skulls.
From our hiding place, we have a full view of the tower. Lanterns twist up the sides of the spire, sprinkling shards of light upon the stone. Music billows through doors and windows: a grand operatic number, played by what sounds like half an orchestra.
I spot dozens of sólfoxes confined to outdoor cages upon a wooden platform. They snap and claw at the metal bars. These creatures must belong to highborn Víndurnics, or perhaps Hinrik’s garrison of guards.
Guests glide through the streets towards the party, veils flowing behind them. The ladies’ gowns are soft and sweeping, coating their hips like liquid. The men wear dark suits and coloured cloaks: black and white, crimson and navy blue.
And above their costumes … the masks. They twist across eyes and noses, curling up with feathers and beads and shining gemstones. Hazy veils sweep out behind them, concealing the backs of their necks.
‘Let’s get going,’ Teddy says. ‘Better to go in with the crowd, I reckon.’
I feel like a fraud just thinking about it. Surely we’ll be caught in seconds. We won’t make it into the building.
I glance at the others. Teddy did well with our costumes, which he pilfered from a nearby boutique, and Clementine has disguised our various scrapes and bruises with stolen makeup. She looks beautiful, of course – a sweeping crimson gown, a mask of gold, and her blonde hair twisted up into a knot. Maisy wears lilac with a mask of feathered black, while Teddy’s mask is gold above a crisp black suit. It’s obvious that he’s matched his mask with Clementine’s. Despite my nerves, the thought brings a tiny smile to my lips.
It’s Lukas, though, who truly looks the part. A black cloak drapes around his shoulders, matching his dark hair. His eyes shine at me beneath a mask of white, and I fight a sudden urge to reach out and touch his cheek.
And then there’s me. I wear a silver mask and a gown of navy blue, with a string of tiny gems around the waist. The mask is tight and hot upon my skin, and it’s already starting to itch. The idea of wearing this outfit for hours, stumbling around with forced smiles and fake curtsies, is enough to make my stomach twist. I’m going to trip over, or knock off my mask, or give the game away by –
‘All right,’ Teddy says. ‘Everyone ready?’
I force myself to nod. I’m secretly glad that Teddy’s taking charge on this one, because this is his scene. Bluffing his way into parties, lying to richies … if anyone has a hope of getting us through tonight alive, it’s Teddy Nort.
The twins follow Teddy out of the alley. I’m about to hurry after them when a gloved hand slips into my own. I look to the side and see Lukas, a faint smile upon his lips.
‘You look beautiful,’ he says.
I stammer for a moment. I haven’t received many compliments in my life, and I have no idea how to respond gracefully. But his green eyes shine beneath the white mask and I know what to do without thinking about it.
I squeeze his hand back. ‘And you look very handsome.’
‘Like a prince?’ he says, his smile bittersweet.
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘Like Lukas.’
He looks surprised for a moment. Then his smile widens, and I know I’ve said the right thing.
‘Come on.’ I tighten my grip on his gloved fingers. ‘Let’s see what Lord Farran has to say for himself.’
And so we stumble towards the light of the ball.
We glide inside together, a crew of five draped in the finery of Víndurnic nobles. I wait for the shout of ‘Impostors!’ or ‘Frauds!’ Surely someone will wrestle us to the floor, shove pistols down our throats, and then …
Nothing happens.
The music rolls on. We climb the steps that bridge the gap between earth and tower, and cross the threshold in a surge of people. Accepted. Believed. Is this how Teddy has got away with it, all these years? Just confidence and costumes, and the willingness of his victims to believe what they see?
I hear laughter, chatter, the clink of glasses. The music swells around us and I spot the source: two dozen musicians, faces masked, painting the air with their melody. My nostrils fill with the scent of hot food as waiters brandish trays of tiny quiches and cream-stuffed mushrooms.
Hundreds of couples are already dancing, their masks shining beneath the lanterns. The walls are adorned with gleaming clockwork – cogs and wheels, vials and funnels. Soft heat and enticing aromas waft out from the pipes, while servants scuttle about to top up the system’s alchemy juices.
A huge spiral staircase rises into unknown levels of the tower. The steps are carpeted in crimson, and more tiny lanterns weave up the banisters.
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘It’s so …’
Even the twins look impressed. This scene is larger than even the flashiest party in Rourton. The number of guests could stretch to thousands in the upper levels of the spire. Layer upon layer of party, of music, of food and dancing and laughter, like a cake, or a trifle: every bite of pleasure heaped upon the next.
And down in the villages, the common folk prepare for war.
That thought stops me short. The beauty of this ball comes at a price. Those with ethereal proclivities don’t have to scrape for firestones, or work their knuckles bare in the fields. They won’t be forced onto the frontlines tomorrow to fight against Taladia. They’ll feast in their spires while Bastian and his neighbours die.
‘What now?’ Clementine whispers. She flashes a smile as a group of local women pass, slightly tipsy as they clutch champagne flutes in gloved hands.
‘We wait,’ I say. ‘We wait for Lord Farran to arrive.’
Lukas peers around, his focus returning to the spiral staircase. ‘Maybe we should go upstairs. It’s a bit crowded.’
His eyes flick towards me and I know what he’s thinking. It’s as crowded as the market. At any moment, another blade could flash out of the throng. A slash across my throat, a splatter and a crumpling body …
I shudder and silently tell myself not to be so morbid.
Teddy notices my unease. ‘No one knows who we are, Danika. I bet the crowd helps hide us, if anything.’
He sounds confident, but I see the way his gaze flickers across the nearby guests.
Great. They’re all worried. I take a deep breath and steady my nerves. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s get some drinks.’
Teddy’s eyes light up. ‘Oh yeah, good idea. Those glasses look like proper crystal.’
Clementine rolls her eyes. ‘Honestly, Nort, can’t you restrain yourself for a single night? This isn’t the time to steal the glassware.’
‘Nope, can’t restrain myself.’ Teddy seizes Clementine’s hand and bends to kiss it. ‘Can’t restrain my need to ask such a lovely young lady for a dance.’
Clementine stiffens. She glances at Maisy, unsure whether he’s mocking her or being serious.
Teddy winks at her. ‘Come on, Clemmy. I won’t bite.’
‘Perhaps not,’ she says, ‘but I certainly will if you call me “Clemmy” again.’
‘Ah, my dearest Miss Pembroke – how sorry I am for disrespecting you. I owe you a dance to make it up to you.’
He widens his eyes in such a plaintive puppy-dog manner that I have to stifle a laugh. Teddy’s full of it, of course, but it’s hard to resist such a ridiculous expression.
Clementine sighs. ‘Oh, very well. It might help to keep up appearances, I suppose.’
Teddy’s expression shifts into a grin as he tugs her towards the dance floor. I watch them go, a little anxious – is it really a good idea to split up? But Clementine’s right about keeping up appearances. We shouldn’t skulk around as a group. We should spread out, act normally, melt into the
party …
Maisy tugs my sleeve. ‘Danika, do you see that man?’
I turn. It takes me only a moment to spot him. A figure in a black mask. There’s something familiar about him – the way he moves through the crowd, perhaps, or the ginger mottle of his hair.
‘I’ve seen him before,’ Maisy whispers. ‘But I can’t think where.’
I nod slowly. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’
We both look expectantly at Lukas, who gives an apologetic shrug. ‘Just looks like a man in a mask to me. Maybe you saw him in the market?’
I strain to think back to the firestone traders, but shake my head. This isn’t one of them. It isn’t a figure from the market at all. This memory is older. Someone I haven’t seen in a while, like the echo of a dream.
Then the man is gone. He slips into the depths of the crowd, lost in a riot of colour and sound. A group of tipsy old ladies takes his place, their silver hair and wrinkled throats giving away their age despite the masks.
‘Yes, Frida, I told him last week, but he simply –’ one says loudly, before her voice is swallowed in turn by a pack of rowdy teenagers. The crowd ebbs and flows, a whirl of silk and gossip, and I realise that the man is lost to us. Unless …
‘I’ll get us some drinks,’ I say.
Lukas frowns. ‘You’re not going to –’
I’m gone before he can finish, slipping away behind a pair of lovers, their hands entwined and their eyes as hungry as flame beneath their masks. I press through the crowd, muttering apologies and flashing my most courteous smile. Some people use their proclivities to navigate the throng; they flicker in and out of existence, melting from light to shadow. The music swirls around us, rich and warm with the hum of violins, and it carries me out towards a patch of empty floor.
As soon as I’m free of the pack, I take a moment to breathe. I flag down a passing waiter for a glass of wine, remembering what Clementine said about keeping up appearances. I’m not exactly fond of wine; after years of working Rourton’s bar scene, it smells more like work than play. But I take a few sips and try to mask my displeasure.
Then I spot him. He’s twenty paces ahead of me, his arms folded as he leans upon the windowsill. I recognise his beard: that ruff of speckled grey and ginger. So familiar and yet so difficult to place. I know I’ve seen him before. I know it.
He turns. He wears a familiar silver necklace, dangling with alchemy charms. His black mask glints beneath a string of lanterns, and I realise the fabric is sewn with tiny crystals. The flash blinds me for a moment and I blink, unable to focus on the eyes behind the mask. I can sense him staring at me. Has he recognised me too?
For a terrible moment, I think I’ve miscalculated. I’ve mixed up my memories, and this is the man from the market. The man with the knife, the man who tried to slash my throat. He’ll leap through the crowd and cut me down where I stand, and in the confusion of the masks he’ll slip away as easily as –
And then I realise. I know where I’ve seen this man before.
It’s Quirin.
Quirin, the smuggler captain. The man who killed Lukas’s grandmother.
And the man who first sang me the prisoner’s song.
I turn. I’m back in the crowd before I know it, pushing and flashing apologetic smiles even though my heart feels ready to burst. How can he be here? Did he see me? Did he recognise my auburn hair, the shape of my face beneath the mask?
Quirin was the only smuggler from his clan to have crossed the Valley. The only one to have visited Víndurn.
Has he been spying for Lord Farran the entire time? When he sang of the prisoner, that night on the lagoon, did he know the man of whom he sang?
The last time I saw him, Quirin crushed our boat with a squeeze of his proclivity. His smuggling crew pursued us into the wilderness. He killed Silver. He almost killed us too. And that chain of alchemy charms around his neck … I know where he found them.
They belonged to Silver.
Quirin must have found her body in the undergrowth – in that ditch where we left her to rot. He took the chain from her body: a bloody token of the woman he murdered. He must have seen the broken dam, the flooded Valley. And then he set out towards Víndurn to sell his new information to Lord Farran …
It was him. The lone figure behind us in the Valley. The lone figure descending the cliff, crossing those barren plains. Too distant to see his face, or even the colour of his hair.
It was never a hunter. It was a smuggler.
And my mind thumps with those words again: that rhythm that I first heard in Quirin’s voice, on the banks of a night-brushed lagoon.
Oh Valley’s vein,
How we swim through your pain,
From the prisoner’s pit to the sky …
I hear it now. The rasp of Quirin’s voice. The sound of a flute. A quiet breeze, the slosh of water, a child splashing in the dark …
And around me, the Ball of No Faces. The two images mash together, jolted a little by the wine in my stomach, and the close-pressed limbs of the crowd. For a moment I can’t breathe. There’s just the rush of gloved hands and elbows and masks – so many masks, shining and feathered – and the rush of song and water.
And the night. All around me, the night. I feel a sudden rush from my proclivity and I close my eyes, scrunching back that power, pushing my awareness down into the darkest depths of my belly. I can’t deal with this now. I have to get back to my friends and warn them that Quirin’s here and we’re all in terrible danger.
The music cuts out.
A hush falls over the ball. People turn, all at once, as though a magnet has pulled their attention across the room. But it’s just a man descending the stairs. His mask is white. He wears a richie’s top hat and a silver cloak, shining like starlight beneath the lanterns.
Lord Farran.
This has to be him. The prisoner. The Eternal Lord. The man with the Silver proclivity, dressed in a cloak of shining silver. Not exactly subtle. Although if you’re ruling a country through the threat of your magic, I guess it pays to keep the threat visible. The silence is so thick I can taste it.
Lord Farran raises his hands in a gesture of welcome. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he says. ‘Welcome to the Ball of No Faces.’
His voice echoes around the hall. It’s deep and strong: a tone of natural command. I wonder if it carries to the upper levels of partygoers. I wonder if they’re all silent too, straining their ears, or whether they listen to the speech through alchemy charms and radios.
I’m mildly surprised that Farran hasn’t adopted a Víndurnic accent. But then again, isn’t his Taladian origin part of his legend? Perhaps he likes to remind people that he came to them from the Valley. To emphasise that he’s truly the prisoner – the most famous enemy of the Morrigan family.
‘Our nation faces a difficult time,’ he says. ‘A time of great strength, and great courage. King Morrigan of Taladia has been plotting against us. He has attempted to invade – both above the earth, and below it.’
Whispers hiss across the hall.
Lord Farran holds up his hands and the muttering dies. ‘I know these facts,’ he says, ‘because my spies have carried the news straight into my ears. I am not such a fool as to leave Taladia unsupervised. I have eyes and ears in every pocket of their society, and I have waited for the right time to strike. That time is tomorrow.’
Silence.
I risk a glimpse sideways, at the faces of the Víndurnics around me. The scene is almost eerie: hundreds of blank masks staring up at their beloved lord. With the sheen of their dresses and the gleam of their masks, they resemble statues: inhuman in the dappled light.
‘We shall not wait for King Morrigan to invade!’ Lord Farran’s shout slaps off the marble staircase, off the glistening walls – as loud as a gunshot in the silence of the hall. ‘It was a Morrigan who locked me in a prison of ice. It was a Morrigan who sent his hunters to pursue me across Taladia. It was a Morrigan who bound me in the Pit of the catacombs
, and left me to drown when the water rushed through. But did the Morrigans defeat me?’
‘No!’ a woman cries, before a hundred others take up the shout. ‘No!’
Lord Farran raises a fist. ‘The Morrigans tried to kill me, and now their descendants try to take our land. They are cruel tyrants to their people, and enemies to all who love prosperity and freedom. But this is the time to fight back. This is the time to show the Morrigans what it feels like to be victims!’
People cheer. A few punch their fists into the air. I scan the crowd anxiously for my friends, for Lukas. If Lord Farran had any idea that a Morrigan – the son of the king himself – stood in this very room …
‘King Morrigan is growing desperate,’ Lord Farran says, when the cheers have died away. His voice is quiet now. Sinister. A few people lean closer, straining to pick up the nuances in his tone. ‘His schemes have failed, and he’s due to begin his plan of last resort. He shall bring his army to the Valley – to traverse the slopes above that treacherous sea. And in the Valley, that army shall fall.’
As he speaks, Lord Farran crooks a finger, as though to coax a disobedient child into movement. The silver banister ripples, before tendrils of it melt up into the air, slowly spinning ribbons of silver. My breath catches in my throat. It’s true. This man’s proclivity is really Silver.
‘When dawn comes tomorrow,’ says Lord Farran, ‘our army shall march towards the Valley. And when dusk falls tomorrow, the soldiers of Taladia shall burn!’
His final words echo across the marble and the crowd erupts into applause. He waves a hand and the banister crashes back down into place – a perfect arch of solid silver. I hastily clap my own hands, scanning the crowd. I can’t see my friends. I can’t see Quirin.
Skyfire Page 14
