by Alec Hutson
“Quite a popular party.”
“The Masquerade is always the event of the season,” Xela says, putting on her ebony mask. “Not only the leadership of the Trusts are invited, but also the richest members of the guilds, the most prestigious scholars of the Seminarium, and the high clerics of the faiths.” She slips her arm through mine and begins to stroll towards the entrance. “Now stop gawking like a peasant and pretend you belong here.”
We join the throng pouring into the citadel of the Red Trillium Trust and pass down a wide hallway ablaze with brightly colored lanterns. Statues of stern-looking men and women glower down at us from niches set high up on the walls, and a gasp ripples through the crowd when one of these stone warriors moves stiffly to put his hands on his hips. Titters of laughter follow as the guests realize that at least some of the statues are painted performers.
“Such an entertainer, the Marquis,” remarks a woman in a peacock mask strolling beside us to her friend, who is fanning herself with an iridescent feather. “I expect tonight to be quite the spectacle.”
The passage empties into a vast, domed hall that at first glance appears to contain most of Ysala’s high society. The crowd is a swirl of women in elegant dresses and men in crisp tunics and uniforms done up with gold and silver buttons. All wear masks – some have unremarkable features, like the one the Contessa favors; others have protruding noses or strangely shaped eyes. Some are scowling, some laughing, some sobbing. Here and there – but very infrequently – I see guests who are not human. A blue-furred qayth wears a tall miter on his head, and one of the slug-people I’d marveled at in the Last Word is gesticulating fiercely with a glass full of green liquid as he makes some point to an elderly gentleman.
“The Contessa,” I say, pointing her out in the crowd. She’s easily recognizable because of the shock of silver running through her dark hair. “Should we go to her?”
Xela shakes her head firmly as she draws me towards the edge of the great space. “No. She will be watched by many, and we need to draw as little attention to ourselves as possible.”
From the fringes of the gathering we watch the Masquerade unfold. Xela plucks two fluted drinks from the tray of a passing server and hands one to me. Not far from us is a wide staircase of pink stone that ascends to the gallery overlooking the huge room – it seems to be forbidden to the guests, as a pair of guards block the way.
“That’s the best way into the rest of the manse,” Xela whispers to me out of the side of her mouth, then takes a quick sip of her wine. Her face twists at the sourness – it really is a terrible vintage, as I’ve already realized.
“And how are we going to get up there?”
“Just wait,” she replies, then presses her hands together and bows slightly in the direction of a tall black man in the colorful geometric robes I’d seen other Zimani wearing in Ysala. He ignores her.
I settle back, leaning against the wall, and continue to watch the party. Outwardly everyone is gay and festive, laughing and smiling and sharing toasts of the horrible wine, but beneath the surface I can feel tension. These are rivals pretending to be friends.
Through a gap in the swirling revelers I see a man with a huge belly wearing a mask shaped like a bear’s head. He sees me as well, as he lifts a foaming tankard in my direction. Where did he get ale? I’d love to be able to cleanse the taste of this wine from my mouth. I’m considering pushing through the guests to ask the fellow this when the shifting mass of people between us clears again and the man is nowhere to be seen.
I glance about but he seems to have vanished. A pang of unease goes through me. There had been something familiar about that man – his size, the huge belly, the brimming tankard of ale . . . could it have been the blacksmith from Soril? The one Bell had claimed was a saint?
“Xela –” I begin, turning to the shadowdancer, but she holds up her hand to silence me.
“Wait. Prepare yourself”
“What?”
A commotion from nearby. Two tall youths in jackets sewn with glimmering sequins are shoving each other not a dozen paces from where we are waiting. Gasps of surprise go up from the crowd near them, and a few revelers even go sprawling as one of the youths is pushed into them.
“Almost,” Xela murmurs.
This is going to deteriorate into bloodshed soon. The youth who has fallen lurches to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his slim silver rapier, but before he can draw his blade the guards who had been standing on the stairs are grappling with him. With an enraged snarl he tries to lunge for his rival, and they all go down in a tangled heap.
“Now,” Xela says, walking quickly towards the abandoned stairway. I follow her up the curving steps, expecting to hear some alarm raised behind us. But everyone’s attention must be on the melee, because we reach the gallery above unmolested.
Xela presses herself against the shadows of the far wall, out of sight of the Masquerade going on below. “That was planned,” she whispers as I join her. “They both work for the Gilded Lynx.”
She begins to slather herself with the shadows pooled around us, molding the darkness with practiced efficiency. In moments she’s completely sheathed in rippling black, and then she turns to me. I shiver as the tingling coldness spreads along my limbs.
When we are both covered she creeps along the gallery, sliding along the walls where the light from the electryc spheres strung below cannot reach. At the first passage Xela comes to she turns down it – there are lanterns hanging here, and the light makes her concealing shadows hazy and insubstantial. She pulls me aside and leans in closer, and to my surprise her expression looks almost panicked through the wispy shadows.
“Did you see them?”
“See what?”
“Back there. Ahead of us on the gallery.”
I think back. There had been the balustrade on the left broken by thick pillars, but otherwise the gallery had looked empty. “No.”
Her face twists in frustration. “Shadowdancers. I counted nearly a dozen, pressed against the pillars or along the wall. And there could be many more.”
“Like you?”
“Yes. And no. I couldn’t be sure, but I think they are ven-atlek. Exiles from the Umbra. Mercenaries.”
“What could they be doing here?”
Xela glances back at the corridor’s mouth. “I’m not sure. They must be working for the Red Trillium Trust.”
“Then something is going to happen tonight. We should hurry.”
With a last nervous look back towards the Masquerade, Xela nods and starts down the passage.
The Red Trillium manse is a maze of pink marble. Luckily the Masquerade must be drawing away the servants and other members of the Trust, as we meet few people as we move through the twisting corridors. Xela seems to have a preternatural sense of when someone is approaching, and we manage to crouch in shadow or duck into empty rooms before we are discovered.
“Do you know where we’re going?” I ask, hunkered against the wall after a dangerous-looking fellow bristling with weapons clomps past us and vanishes down another passage.
“Hopefully,” Xela whispers back as she uncoils from our hiding spot. “The Contessa’s spies tell her there’s a room that’s forbidden to everyone except the Marquis and his most trusted lieutenants. The rumors claim that strange experiments go on in there. We should be getting close.”
“Do you hear that?” I ask as faint sounds drift from the direction we’ve just come. Xela cocks her head, listening intently. It sounds like . . . screams. And not just one – many voices raised in terror or pain or anger. We share a long look.
“The Masquerade?” Xela asks, concern in her face.
“It must be.”
“Should we . . . should we go back?”
There’s a hollowness spreading in the pit of my stomach. Something is very wrong. “What can we do? There are hundreds of people back there . . . if something terrible has happened we’ll just be two more caught in the chaos. I think we need to find
Poz and the glitter. Maybe we can actually escape with them.”
She looks uncertain, but she finally gives a jerky nod. Then she starts hurrying down the corridor, all attempts at concealment abandoned. I follow.
Time seems to pass honey-slow as we explore the deeper reaches of the manse, and I’m sure either we’re lost or that we’ll be discovered soon. But the rest of the manse seems to have been emptied – I suspect that whatever is happening behind us has drawn all the Trust members away.
So it’s something of a surprise when we turn a corner and nearly collide with a pair of warriors guarding large double doors of shining red wood. They look as shocked as we are, their hands scrabbling for the swords at their sides. Before I can draw my own blade, Xela rushes towards them, sobbing.
“Oh! Thank you! Please save us, people are dying back there, it’s terrible . . .”
The tension visibly leaks from them as they take in this beautiful young woman in a sleek evening dress rushing closer. She collapses into the chest of the nearest guard, and he catches her before she can slide to the floor. He shares a confused glance with the other guard as her fingers flutter up to stroke his neck – suddenly a tremor goes through him and his hand flies to where she has touched him. He falls, and the other guard just has time to gape before Xela spins away and jabs her hand above his collarbone. He spasms as well, his legs going boneless as he joins his fellow sprawled on the ground.
I’ve barely had time to react. Xela turns to me and holds up her palm – a needle glints between two of her fingers, its tip stained red.
“A sleeping poison. They’ll wake up in a few watches with pounding headaches.”
With a grunt she cracks open one of the doors and pokes her head into the room beyond. Immediately she turns back to me, her excitement evident. “Quickly, hide them.”
As she pushes the doors wide I grab the ankles of one of the guards and drag him inside. The chamber is much larger than any we’ve yet encountered in this part of the manse. The soaring ceiling is shrouded in smoke, but through the haze I can see an elaborate mosaic spread above depicting the City of Masks. A hole has been hacked in Coldmercy Lake, and the smoke is trickling through it and into the night beyond. An ornate candelabra hangs down, but this isn’t what is illuminating the vast space. A large, curving brazier dominates the chamber, a white flame dancing. I’ve seen it before.
“The Cleansing Flame,” I whisper, still holding onto the legs of the unconscious guard. With some effort Xela wrangles the other guard inside as well and shuts the door.
“And that’s not all,” she says, letting the guard drop with a thump and pointing at the far reaches of the room.
My gaze follows where she’s indicating.
“Poz!” I cry.
The old scientist is bent over a long table cluttered with all sorts of flasks and books and strange metal contraptions. He raises his head at my voice, blinking owlishly through his spectacles.
“Talin?” he remarks in incredulous surprise. “What are you doing here, my boy?”
I cross the room quickly, flinching at the waves of heat rolling from the fire. “Rescuing you.”
Poz glances at the objects scattered around his workspace. “But I’m not finished . . .”
“Finished with what?” I ask as I come up to the old man and embrace him. The chest of glitter is beside him, its lid thrown back to reveal the fine, sand-like substance.
“Well, I’m close to figuring out the proper measurements for the glitter to react with the Cleansing Flame and achieve an optimal temperature. It’s very exciting. The kind of work that earns one a fully tenured position at the Seminarium when the results are published.” He finally seems to notice Xela striding across the room and the two guards lying just inside the entrance. “By the saints, what did you do to Kiv and Darry?”
“What? They’re fine. They’re just sleeping. What do you mean ‘optimal temperature?’”
“Really incredible, actually, if the theories are correct –”
Something slams against the chamber’s door, and we all turn in surprise as a woman comes stumbling into the room. Her white dress is torn and spattered with blood, and her face is pale from shock. She totters forward, her hand pressed to a bloody wound in her belly, and then trips over one of the prostrate guards and goes sprawling. She raises her head, and our eyes meet from across the room. I know that hair, black with a streak of silver.
The Contessa.
I start towards her, but before I can take more than a few steps someone follows her into the room. Milky skin, bright green eyes and ragged white hair chopped short.
Fen Poria is whistling jauntily as she strolls through the doors. She pauses, taking in the unconscious guards, the Contessa trying to drag herself along the floor while leaving a smear of blood behind her, and the three of us clustered around Poz’s worktable on the other side of the Cleansing Flame.
“No, don’t!” I cry as Fen Poria lunges forward and stabs down with a dagger that has materialized in her hand, thrusting the blade between the Contessa’s shoulders. Wrenching, horrible screams follow, suddenly cut short as the strange girl lifts the Contessa’s head up by her hair and slashes across her throat. Blood spills out in a great sheet, soaking her white bodice. Fen Poria releases her handful of hair and the Contessa’s face smacks into the stone floor with a fleshy thud. I’m almost to her now, my anger rising as I rip my sword from its sheath. The girl steps back with a wicked grin, her hand going to the underside of her left bracer, and I prepare myself to try and dodge the throwing knives I expect to soon come tumbling towards me.
“Stop!”
And we do. Somehow the authority in that command has stilled us just as we are about to come together in a flashing blur – I lower my sword, still thrumming with the tension of an onrushing battle, while Fen Poria’s hand drifts from her throwing knives. Her eyes quickly skitter to the chamber’s entrance.
The Marquis is standing there, alone, sporting the same leering red mask I saw in the temple of the Cleansing Flame. He’s wearing a rich crimson tunic trimmed with gold lace, and there’s a white-hilted sword sheathed at his waist.
“This is how it has to be,” he says. Silence follows this pronouncement, the only sounds in the chamber the crackle of the great flame and his boots scraping on stone as he approaches.
I don’t know what he means, but he seems to be speaking to me.
“How the threads all finally weave together.” He stops, putting his hand on his sword’s pommel. “In truth, I never truly believed in fate. But in a world where men can become gods, is the idea of a greater force shaping our destiny so unreasonable?”
An explosion of movement to our left. Xela, sprinting from the other side of the Cleansing Flame – she must have been creeping across the room ever since Fen Poria had slain the Contessa. The Marquis doesn’t even turn as she hurdles closer, a long knife glinting in her hand. Just before she reaches him Fen Poria smashes her, and Xela tumbles to the ground tangled with the feral.
Now the Marquis does turn, his head tilted slightly as if he’s enjoying this spectacle. The Zimani shadowdancer and the pale girl are like a pair of fighting cats, rolling around in a frantic blur. Then they separate, coming to their feet in an eyeblink. Xela is much taller, but her dress has already been slashed and she’s wincing with pain. Fen Poria’s movements are crisp and skilled, and from the way she’s brandishing her curving dagger she looks like an experienced knife fighter. Her eyes are wide and her cheeks flushed, and the smile filling her face makes me want to shiver. She feints forward, and Xela backs away.
The Marquis turns back to me. “It will be a good show, I’m sure. But it’s just the opening act.” His fingers tap out a quick pattern on his sword’s pommel. “It all comes down to us.”
“I don’t know you,” I say, trying to keep my eye on the figures of Xela and Fen Poria. If things go badly for the Zimani, I’ll have to help, even if it means cutting through the Marquis before I can find out wh
at’s going on.
“You do, Talin.”
Coldness prickles my skin at this. But it’s impossible.
The Marquis grips the hilt and draws his sword. The prickle becomes a flood as the light of the Cleansing Flame blazes along a tapering length of red glass. The white hilt . . . the slightly curving blade . . . it looks the same as the sword once wielded by Amara.
With his other hand the Marquis removes his red mask and tosses it aside. The hair on his head may be an unremarkable brown, but the close-cropped beard that had been hidden is a fiery red. His eyes are copper, and there are crow’s feet at their edges that hadn’t been there before, but the face is unmistakable.
“Valans?” I whisper, shocked.
A crooked smile. “I’m pleased to finally see you again, traitor. I’ve waited twenty years for this moment.”
“Twenty years? But it was just a few days ago . . .”
“For you, perhaps.” The red sword slices the air in a quick pattern, almost too fast to see. “Long ago I came through a Gate in the depths of this city’s sewers, spat out into some ancient, forgotten temple. Alone, with nothing but my mother’s sword to protect me from the horrors that dwelled down there. I thought I would die, being hunted through the tunnels in the dark, but there was something burning inside me.”
Xela and Fen Poria have stopped their circling and turned to watch what is unfolding between us.
“Anger. Hate.”
“Towards me?”
Valans sneers. “Of course. You took away everything from me – my home, my people, my mother. My sister. I was left bleeding in the darkness, sloshing through filthy tunnels, fighting off the blind white serpents and the things down there that gibber in the black.”
“I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.”
“Perhaps,” he says, shrugging. “Ghervas had told me some of the old stories, since I was to be the Red Sword one day. I knew the Silvers were betrayers. I thought . . . I thought at the time maybe you were different. But after I’d crawled out of the depths of this city, and when I could bring order to my memories of what had happened, I realized that you must have been sent back to finish what had begun when you Silvers abandoned our world and left the rest of us to die.”
