The moment of pain brought him briefly awake. His grey eyes came alive again with that sharp intelligence. How had I even thought I was dancing with Silversword? This was the real thing. “Bounty, what’s happening?” he asked urgently.
She was coming, it was too late, she was already here. I drew my nails away and his face returned to that awful neutrality.
Amber and gold filled my field of vision. An exquisite hand uncurled from the mass of warm silk, reaching not for me but for my dance partner. “May I cut in?” she requested in a glorious voice, so very polite.
I let go, and she took him. I sank to my knees on the glass, the ruby dress spilling like a bloodstain around me. I wanted nothing more but to hear her voice, to worship this woman, to dance to her music for all eternity. The twisted piece of leather in my breast-band dug more firmly than ever into my soft flesh, but I could barely even feel it.
The music flooded back, and I almost wept at how relieved I was to hear it again, at how good it was in my ears. A hand reached down to me, and it was an amber and gold consort, as bland and faceless as the other dark princes. His lady danced with my green knight, so he was free to give me a whirl around the dance floor.
I let him draw me to my feet, and we danced, red and gold. Silversword was gone, dancing in the arms of our enemy, and I didn’t care. I just wanted an excuse to keep listening to the music.
Don’t ask me how long we danced. It could have been days.
Now that our queen had graced us with her presence—and there was no doubting that she was a queen, for all that she wasn’t the one we’d been told she was—there was a new purpose to the dance. We weren’t spinning and twirling for our own sakes. She danced with my green knight—her green knight—in the centre of the stage and we whirled around her in formation, paying court to them both.
She poured herself over him, not only the gold and amber silk of her gown and the pale ivory of her hands, but her whole body. Her mouth found his eyes and throat, and she melted into him so stylishly that we applauded her.
Maybe in that moment I didn’t see anything wrong with the way she was blatantly molesting him in front of us all, but the shoe in my breast-band thought otherwise. It rolled around down there like a mad thing, desperately trying to get my attention.
I lost track of the music for a split second, just long enough to see the face of my dark dancing partner in amber and gold.
He had freckles.
It shouldn’t have meant anything to me, but in those three seconds before the brief image was wiped from my head, Eliander the hero waltzed past with his sapphire princess, and I twigged.
His brother had been paid in an earlier tithe, and if the man in my arms was not his brother, I would eat the little misshapen leather shoe currently trying to punch its way through my ribcage.
I might eat it anyway. It might shut the little bugger up.
Reaching out blindly to the nearest dark prince, I allowed the dance to swap him for my own. This one wore a shining pink suit, and rose-quartz Demi slipped easily in the arms of the golden boy. It was a start.
I grabbed for another dancing partner, and ended up with the jet-suited Chas in my arms. Excellent. Assassins were supposed to have strong willpower, weren’t they? I dug my fingernails into his hands and neck until I drew blood, but he didn’t flinch, let alone wake up from the dancing reverie as Silversword had.
I would have to look elsewhere for a partner in crime, and unfortunately Silversword was the only one completely out of my grasp. His dance with the Queen of the glass pavilion had developed into something even more sensual, her gold and amber-clad limbs like a spider wrapping its victim.
The switching of partners had now been incorporated into the dance pattern, and I barely had to nudge the blank-faced Chas into handing me on to Georginne’s silver prince. Three faceless princes later, I was dancing with Eliander.
My nails had no effect on him, and nor did my whispered suspicions about his freckled brother being alive and faceless in a golden suit. I considered biting him on the neck, but the dance changed and I was already being exchanged for Fredo’s faceless princess.
Great. Even if I did wake this little zealot from his stupor, he would be just as likely to blame me and my hobgoblin blood for this whole mess, then try to shove a stake through my heart.
Before I had a chance to try the fingernail thing on him, I realised that he was already reacting to me. His hands quivered where they touched mine, and there was something in his eyes—distaste? Hey, anything was better than that blank expression.
It occurred to me that no matter how unnatural this whole set up was, I was the thing most likely to disturb him. After all, I was the only fey for miles around. I leaned in and kissed his froggy little mouth, putting plenty of oomph into it. That did the trick.
He pushed me off him, sputtering. “Get away, unclean harlot!”
I kept hold of his wrists even as he shoved at me. I managed to drag him out of the dance and to the very edge of the glass pavilion. As he struggled more violently to detach himself from the evil hobgoblin wench, we slid beautifully off the edge and fell in a tangled, thumping heap on the snow below.
I took the opportunity to kick off my ruby slippers. The ballgown vanished, leaving me in my gymslip and pigtails. I lunged for Fredo’s feet, but he was too fast for me.
“What are you doing, witch?”
“Saving your life! Look around! I’m not the enemy here.”
He looked up at the pavilion, and I saw the exact moment when the music recaptured him. He ran for the glass stairs. I tried a tackle, but I couldn’t do much but lunge at his knees and let myself be dragged back up to the place I’d been working so damn hard to escape from. At least I was close to his shoes. Before he set foot on the pavilion, I had pulled one of his dancing slippers off and hurled it into the snow. He turned on me, furious, and I went for the other shoe.
With a snap, he was back in his mock-courtesan outfit, leather breeches and silk shirt, holy symbols rattling at his throat. He growled at me, and ran after his shoes.
I ran faster, toward Georginne’s fallen shoe sack, and started throwing the contents at him. There was a shoe for every occasion in that damned sack. I just had to find the one that would fix him.
When the first stiletto hit him between the eyes, Fredo roared and lunged at me, the thought of killing me obviously more tempting than anything the music had to offer. I kept pelting him with shoes. One of them exploded into talcum powder when it hit him, and another covered him in strawberry jam. One unfolded into a pirate’s cutlass before I even had it out of the sack, but I tossed it aside. No point in asking for trouble. Fredo trod on one of the many shoes that now littered the snow around him, and was suddenly costumed as the rear end of a pantomime horse.
As he grabbed for my throat, I pushed a fuzzy slipper at him and it unfolded into a giant feather bed that burst, sending feathers everywhere. The next shoe turned into a huge, burning candle. I blew it out and hit Fredo over the head with it.
He went down, dazed.
In about two moments, the music would get hold of him again. It wouldn’t be long before it got me too. Already I was feeling the pull of the ruby slippers. But I’d had a brainwave, and none too soon.
There was enough soft wax in the top of the candle to make two sets of ear-stoppers. Once mine were secure, I shoved the second pair in Fredo’s ears. He glared at me, but I put a finger to my lips and pointed to the glass pavilion in the hope he would remember where the real threat lay.
Silversword was no longer visible. Only his emerald-slippered feet stuck out from the elegant, writhing mass of gold and amber silks of the mistress of the glass pavilion. We didn’t have time to waste.
Fredo’s eyes widened at the scene, and he promptly dropped to his knees in prayer to his god, the mighty Raglah the Golden.
I rolled my eyes. Somehow I didn’t think that a god who spent most of his time chatting up maidens while pretending to be a giant sw
an was going to be much help here. I brandished the sack of shoes, and pointed at the glass pavilion.
Fredo stared suspiciously at me, but our duel had at least shown him the versatility of this sack of random weapons. Grudgingly, he nodded. We were allies, for now.
As we reached the top step of the glass pavilion, I saw Silversword’s emerald slippers disappearing under the gold and amber silks of the mistress of the glass pavilion.
“War!” I shrieked, and started throwing shoes on to the dance floor. Fredo followed suit, grabbing three or four at a time. Before the mistress had even figured out she was under attack, we had created complete chaos.
Boom!
–§–§–§–§–§–
There were shoes everywhere. The dancers stumbled on to them, and into them. The rose quartz prince stepped in a stray boot and suddenly found himself wearing a full suit of armour. Demi stumbled on a sandal and ended up flat on her back in a large pile of custard.
Fredo and I kept throwing. We weren’t even halfway down the sack. I was beginning to suspect that it was bottomless.
Some of the shoes were musical, rattling out cheery little tunes that disrupted the siren song of the dancing music. Those dancers who tried to battle on regardless soon found themselves stepping out of time, slipping on custard, and generally having a bad time of it.
Chas was the first to free himself, snapped out of his reverie by an exploding glitter bomb of an evening pump with attitude. His assassin’s skills returned with a vengeance, and he slithered so fast off that glass pavilion I barely even saw him move. Demi too, once she was free of the custard, thumped her current dancing partner in the snoot and leaped down into the snow, heading for the silver trees.
Fredo was indiscriminate with his shoe hurling. I had a specific target in mind. Every shoe I threw was aimed straight at the bitch queen who was still wrapped around Silversword. My aim sucked, so very few of them had hit her, but you can’t blame a girl for trying. Finally a pink lady’s dress-boot cracked the queen across the top of her head, spilling chilled champagne in such abundant froth that her silks were soaked into a dripping mess.
I’d hit her where it hurt, right in the wardrobe.
She came up off him with a raging howl that resounded deep inside the glass pavilion. “Who are you to challenge me?”
Her voice was still poised and perfect, even in the depths of rage. I fought the urge to throw myself on her mercy and beg to be forgiven.
Silversword rose up behind her with a pair of ceremonial Zibrian dancing clogs, one in each hand. They were a miracle of modern engineering, pointed metal and jagged edges. He shoved one in under her ribs and used the other to slice her throat open. Her blood bounced against the cold glass of the pavilion floor as she fell, and she even did that with calculated beauty and grace.
We ran. What else could we do? I tried counting to make sure all our people were safe, but it was hard to be certain in the chaos. Silversword rolled free of the glass pavilion, grabbing Georginne as he went. I heard her trying to convince him that they should stay to pick up all her shoes, but he just grunted and pulled her away.
The faceless dancers remained on the pavilion, still trying to dance to the music that even they could no longer hear. I made a try for Eliander’s brother, catching his arm. “You could come with us. All of you. You could come home…”
His eyes glowed red, and he snarled at me with teeth that were no longer human. So that was why she’d gone to so much trouble to hide their faces. I tried to pull free, but he flashed those fangs of his and came in for my throat. His gold-suited body jerked twice, then fell back, sliding from the sword that Eliander had been carrying on his back this whole time. I stared for a moment at the grim, freckle-faced hero, wondering if he knew he had just killed his brother.
He knew. He also knew that I knew that he knew. And so on, and so forth, but there wasn’t time for all that. Time to run.
We raced through the snow. Silversword and Georginne were ahead of us, Fredo and Demi ahead of them. Chas was already over the first rise, where the silver trees were thicker. Behind me, I heard the sound of sharp stiletto shoes ringing on glass, and I ran even harder.
Bounty Fenetre, World Track Champion of the Cosmos. Who’d have thought it?
–§–§–§–§–§–
“What do you mean, she’s not dead?” demanded Silversword.
The seven of us were sheltering in the silver and gold forest, around one of Georginne’s shoe fires. Eliander scrubbed at his sword, all traces of boyishness now eradicated from his freckled face. Fredo sat huddled on a rock, glaring at all of us, but especially at me. I might have saved his life, but he still hated my entrails.
Silversword was outraged by my certainty that the Bitch Queen was still coming after us. “No fey creature walks away from two fatal wounds from cold iron.”
Good to know someone still read the old ballads. “She’s not fey,” I told him. “Not even a little bit.”
“Two fatal wounds from cold iron wouldn’t do a human much good either,” said Chas in a professional tone of voice. He was doing a weapons check, systematically sliding every blade out of concealment on his body, then snapping it back into place. I’d stopped counting after thirty.
“She’s not human, either,” I sighed. “Not anymore. She’s running on pure energy. Liquid elegance.” I looked hard at Demi, waiting for her to contribute. “You know what she is. You probably know who, as well. Don’t tell me she isn’t one of those portraits on the Academy wall.”
Demi looked miserable. She barely lifted one graceful shoulder in response.
“She’s a courtesan?” said Silversword in disbelief.
“More courtesan than I’ve ever seen all at once,” I said grimly. “I can’t think that she’s anything else.”
“She doesn’t have to actually be a courtesan,” said Chas brightly. “Maybe she’s just eaten so many over the years that we can’t tell the difference.”
I was still looking at Demi. “Who were the Senior Mistresses before our current lot? This has Academy Retirement Plan written all over it.”
“Mistress, not Mistresses,” she said quietly. “There was only ever one Senior Mistress at a time, and the position was won by duelling.”
“How do courtesans duel?” Silversword asked with a frown.
“Sequins and hairpins at twenty paces?” suggested Chas, not entirely joking.
“Anastazia was a Senior Mistress who was so powerful that no one could beat her,” Demi went on, staring at her feet. Georginne had outfitted us all with furry winter-clothes boots, though she disapproved of how many of her precious shoes I had already wasted. “The more ambitious ladies of the Academy resigned themselves to waiting until she died of old age before they could have a chance at the top spot, but two generations passed and they realised that she wasn’t getting any older.”
“Magic,” grunted a disgusted Fredo.
“Anything but,” said Demi. “Anastazia had access to the deepest secrets of the courtesans. It’s a different kind of power to magic—order rather than chaos, a form of elegant energy. They discovered that she had been feeding from the younger students. Drinking their life force, their poise and beauty and youth. At least one student every year since she came to power had just—disappeared.”
“Seven every seven years, to be exact,” said Eliander in a harsh voice. They were the first words he had spoken since killing his brother.
“How did they get rid of her?” Silversword asked.
“No single courtesan could duel her and win,” said Demi. “Three of the most powerful and ambitious members of the Academy—Malisand, Valmont and Tiffaine, combined their powers and took her down together in the duel to end all duels. It was the worst kind of cheating, but no one said a word against it. Anastazia was banished from Zibria, and had her courtesan’s license revoked. Now we have three Senior Mistresses, and they have vowed that there will always be three. If one gets too powerful, the other two can
intercede. It’s too dangerous any other way. Her portrait isn’t on the Academy walls any more, Bounty. She represents our greatest shame.”
“Did the Senior Mistresses know this was who we were facing?” I asked.
Demi looked startled “I don’t think so. They would have come themselves—they’ve beaten her once. What chance did we have?”
“Assassins have lousy luck against courtesans,” muttered Chas. “Somehow they always talk us out of killing them.”
Eliander regarded his own weapons, the sword and the club, with some disgust. “If slitting her throat had no effect, I don’t suppose hitting her over the head would help.”
“If she is not of the fey, my god has given me nothing with which to fight her,” said Fredo, sounding genuinely distraught. I made a note to myself to keep clear of the holy symbols he was wearing, if they were designed to combat the fey.
Georginne was rummaging through her shoe sack, but with an air of despondency.
“I killed her once and it barely slowed her down,” Silversword said bitterly.
I interrupted. “Stop feeling sorry for yourselves. We know what she is now, and that means we do know how to vanquish her. We need a courtesan to beat her in a duel.” There was only one courtesan among us, and we all looked at her.
Demi crumpled. There was little left of the immaculate professional she had been when we set out—the snow and dancing and blood and fear had knocked her calculated training out of her. She shook like a leaf. “I can’t. Bounty, I just can’t! I’m not strong enough. I’m not good enough! I can’t even stand up to Mistress Tiffaine without breaking out in spots. What makes you think I can beat a courtesan who needed all three Senior Mistresses to knock her down?”
“You’re a courtesan,” I said firmly. “It’s what we need right now.”
“I’m not courtesan enough!” she wailed, and it was true.
Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles) Page 96
