by S. G. Night
The Mechanist laughed mentally and brought out her tools. She altered each set of runes, then sabotaged the critical mechanical components as well.
She went from ballista to ballista, tools in hand, duplicating her previous effort. It took her less than ten minutes to rework each emplacement’s rotendry, disable the firing mechanisms, jam the pivot-rings in the bases, and break several essential springs. If anyone tried to fire the weapons, the uncontrolled force would probably rip the emplacements apart — along with anyone nearby — and then explode as the sabotaged rotendry caused the incendiary bolts to detonate on the deck.
With the ballistae taken care of, Alexis moved on. If memory served her right, the machinery that linked the helm to the rudder was located near the back of the vessel. She found the hatch that led below-decks and slipped inside.
She had just located the back room when, out of nowhere —
Alexis.
Alexis nearly jumped out of her skin. The voice had come from inside her head, clear as a bell, and terrifying as hell.
Alexis, it is me. Notak. I have established a telepathic link with you to communicate. Just think your response, and I shall hear you.
She clutched at her chest, gasping as the panic subsided. Dammit, Notak! she thought. You scared the fauling piss out of me!
My apologies, came Notak’s reply. I keep forgetting that you and Toren are not trained in magic like the others are. I should have given you a warning earlier.
Yes, you should have.
Where are you?
Alexis shook her head exasperatedly and kept moving, heading into the back room of the ship where she found a series of chains and gears lining the walls. I’m on the first corvette. I’ve taken care of the weapons, and I’m dismantling the rudder-chain as we speak.
Excellent, Notak responded. We are making good time. Be sure to let me know once you have dealt with the other ships.
No problem, Alexis thought as she wrenched the chain free and mangled it beyond repair. At this rate, I’ll be back before you know it.
——
“Sun’s gone,” Rachel whispered to Racath as she peaked through a crack in the shed. “I think all the guests are inside by now.”
Racath sucked in a breath. “That’s my cue, then.” He lifted his hood and stuck his head out through the door, checking the shoreline-path for Arkûl patrols. The path was clear.
“Wait for ten patrols to pass, then follow. You know where you’re headed?”
“Top-story window, south-east wall,” Rachel nodded.
“Good,” said Racath. “I’ll see you on the fifth floor. Wish me luck.”
Silently, he slipped out of the shed, across the path and onto the sloped lawn. The house rose up from the top of the hill, a hundred yards from where Racath stood: a silhouette against the clouded night, flickering with the light of a dozen windows.
Racath moved under the cover of darkness, darting from cover to cover up the hill. He ducked down in fox-holes, crouched behind sections of broken stone wall, and pressed his back against the trunks of trees, hiding from the wandering eyes of any servants who might have been out on the lawn.
He snuck through the garden at the edge of the mansion’s perimeter and crept over to the south-east wall. A cursory assessment of the wall reaffirmed what Notak has said before; Racath could see a dozen trouble-free routes to climb from the ground up to the first four stories. The solitary window on the fifth floor, however, seemed impossibly far away from everything else.
But that would be Rachel’s problem, not his. His was just to reach the fourth floor windows. He put it out of his mind and found solid grips on the wall.
Racath began to climb, crawling up the wall like a spider, skirting around the frames of lower-floor windows to avoid being seen.
At the fourth floor, he shimmied around the wall until he found a serviceable window. Peaking inside, he found the ballroom — a massive square chamber with a high vaulted ceiling. A thousand lamps and candelabras cast glares of light off the gold that trimmed almost every surface inside. Several servants bustled about making last minute preparations. On a raised stage near the front wall, several dark-dressed musicians tinkered with their instruments, practicing for the upcoming dances.
Racath unlocked the window with a flick of telekinesis. Wrapping himself in the ‘Flage, he slithered through the window, shutting it gently behind himself. The cloaking Magick was only so effective, but the glare from the numerous lights added to the illusion. The servants, in all their hurry, did not notice the peculiar shape of distorted air that slinked across the dance floor toward the stairs at the back of the ballroom.
Once Racath reached the broad split-level staircase, he chanced a camouflaged glance up the final flight. As Notak had said, there was a pair of Arkûl standing guard on the fifth-floor landing. Impossible for him to sneak past — hence Rachel’s role in this operation.
He noticed a door to his right, just a few feet away from the base of the stairs. Carefully, he stepped over and cracked the door open. Inside he found a broom cupboard, dark and cramped. Perfect.
After double-checking to make sure the Arkûl on the landing were not looking down in his direction, Racath quickly opened the closet door and hid himself inside. Releasing the ‘Flage, he released the breath he’d been holding for the better part of ten minutes. His job was done, at least for the moment, and now the real waiting game began.
——
When dessert was over, Monger announced that the party would be moving up to the ballroom on the fourth floor. The servants showed the guests to the stairs. Monger stood and extended his arm to Nelle again.
“My dear.”
Nelle noticed the subtle turning of the Baron’s voice beneath his words: there was no real invitation in them. It wasn’t really a command, either, not even a demand that Monger insisted she obey. It was more like an assumption. As though he couldn’t possibly fathom any reason why she wouldn’t accept his arm.
Nelle complied and he escorted her to the stairs. As they ascended, Nelle evaluated her situation. Her performance at dinner at been fantastic, if she did say so herself. She’d kept his attention and sufficiently polished his pride. As a result, the false god was glowing with self-important pleasure. Nelle could see it in his stride, in the faint hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. Now, it was time to change direction — to reinforce her role as the dominant party.
Chords of mellow music greeted them as they entered the ballroom. The procession of nobility formed two lines across the broad, glossy floor. Everyone else seemed to know exactly what to do, and Nelle was grateful that she could merely mimic Monger’s lead. She stood in one line, and he took the space directly across from her. Quiet fell as the music slowed and Rodgers stepped forward to announce the dance.
The seven-foot-tall Demon was eyeing her, taking the opportunity to get another full view of her body. Nelle fought the urge to flinch. It made her feel like a slab of meat at a butcher’s cart. But Racath and the others were counting on her. So she let him stare, tilting one hip slightly outward to accentuate her curves. At this distance, she could look him in the eye without fear of giving herself away, and so she did, batting her eyelashes like she had before. The smirk that had been smoldering on the edge of Monger’s face since dinner broadened into a toothy, lecherous grin. Nelle winked at him.
“To begin, a Piedmont Four-Step!” Rodgers announced, gesturing at the musicians on the platform.
The throaty music began to rise and fall in rhythm, and the dance began. Nelle offered a silent prayer of thanks; the Piedmont Four-Step was a formalized derivative of the folk-dancing she’d learned as a child. It had been years since she’d danced, but the muscle-memory was all still there.
It began with a bow, and then a step sideways. The lines of nobility stepped in circles around each other, grasping fingers as they twirled in time with the music, periodically trading partners with the person beside them.
Humans and De
mons alike enjoyed the dance. A realization struck Nelle as she danced: she didn’t find the Demons’ presence odd at all. She didn’t think it strange to watch these creatures — these horrible, terrifying, half-formed monstrosities — dressed in formal attire, engaged in a social dance alongside those of the Human gentry. They blended perfectly with the Humans…but no, Nelle took that back. It wasn’t that the Demons blended in with the Humans. Rather, the nobles, the rich, the elite, Humans with the power and responsibility to safeguard their people — and yet blatantly ignored that responsibility — were the ones who blended in perfectly with the devils. They were one in the same.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Monger asked as Nelle returned from a brief partner-exchange with the balding viscount on the Baron’s right.
Nelle forced her eyes to twinkle at him. “Of course, My Lord. You throw quite a party.”
The dance ended, and Rodgers announced a new step: the Velvet Tangle. Nelle took the opportunity to further her goal of reasserting herself. This particular dance began with the female partner taking a long step forward toward the male. So, when Nelle moved, she accentuated every turn of her hips, every motion of her curves, keeping her eyes half-lidded, fixed on Monger. She took the Demon by his thick-fingered hands and moved with him.
“You have a lovely home, My Lord,” Nelle purred. “I’ve never seen a ballroom as marvelous as this.”
Monger’s chest puffed as he twirled her. “You flatter me, my dear.”
“I imagine I do,” Nelle said coyly, stepping close again in time with the music.
Monger’s eyebrows rose and he chuckled deep in his chest. “So bold! I enjoy a woman who knows how to toe the line.”
“I can do more than toe, My Lord.” Nelle purred.
Monger chuckled again then sniffed appraisingly. “My my, what is that perfume you’re wearing?”
“Ardent labdanum, My Lord,” Nelle replied immediately. “Ambered. Does it please you?”
“Yes, indeed,” Monger grinned. “A remarkable fragrance. It adds a certain…spark.”
Two more dances went by in much the same fashion. Eventually, Rodgers announced a dance called the Spinning Lilac. It was essentially a simple couples’ dance, only it included a partner-exchange every few minutes. Monger led her by the hand and waist. She wasn’t tall enough to reach his shoulder so she ended up placing a hand on his arm instead. She continued to work her charms, toying with him, until the switch came and she ended up dancing with a fleshy little man who introduced himself as the marquis of a nearby island-estate. Nelle chatted with him disinterestedly, and then returned to Monger.
The second switch arrived and Nelle found herself in the arms of a tall man in dark clothes. She didn’t even bother to look at him as they began to dance.
“Praise be the stars!” the man said in a dramatic whisper. “What fortune have I! ‘Tis an angel fallen from the skies!”
Nelle blinked in surprise. She knew that phrase. It was a quote from something, a book — a line out of Skyward Seeing. With sudden clarity, she recognized the warmth radiating from the man like a shelter of firelight. She recognized the gentle grip of his hand on her waist, the space between the fingers entwined with hers. She recognized his voice. Looking up, she saw a familiar face beaming back at her. He’d smoothed his hair away from his face, and his shadow had been replaced by a black, gold-trimmed vest. His fiery eyes burned bright.
“For surely you must be an angel, fallen down to earth,” Racath grinned. “For what but an angel could wear such striking eyes as yours. But where then are your wings, fairest one?”
A smile of her own spread across Nelle’s lips. It wasn’t a forced smile like she’d given to Monger. It was a smile she didn’t even have to think about. “Clipped them, I did, sir, so temptation could never fly me from your arms.”
Racath laughed once and squeezed her hand. “Terrible line.”
“Terrible book.” Nelle squeezed back delightedly. “What are you doing here?”
Racath shrugged. “I’ve been sitting in the broom cupboard by the stairs since for more than an hour. I needed a vacation. Thought I’d come and check in on you.”
“Where’d you get the clothes?” Nelle asked archly.
“Illusions.”
“Useful trick, isn’t it?” Nelle said. “Illusions, I mean.”
Another shrug. “In a way. But honestly, I don’t know how Notak can do this for so long. I’m using half my brain right now just to keep these clothes from turning into smoke. How he manages to keep a dozen illusions going at once without batting an eye…”
“Half your brain, huh?” Nelle teased. “No wonder you’re stepping on my feet.”
Racath’s face paled and his eyes darted to his shoes. “Oh God, am I?”
“No, I’m just giving you a hard time,” Nelle laughed. “You’re doing fine. I didn’t know you could dance.”
“I can’t,” Racath admitted. “I’m making this up as I go.”
Nelle nodded approvingly. “Not bad.” She was quiet a moment. “You’re hotter than before.”
Racath frowned at her. “Excuse me?”
“Before you found your dosdom,” she explained. “You were just…normal temperature. But now your body heat’s higher. It’s like you give off warmth.”
“Ahh,” he said, grinning the slanted grin she loved so much. “Well, you know. Fire.”
Another brief, peaceful silence. She felt at home with his hand around her waist….
“So how’s it going with him?” Racath asked, jerking his chin distastefully at Monger.
Nelle sighed. She didn’t want to talk business. She wanted to flirt and banter like they had in the domus. “Well enough,” she answered grudgingly. “I think I’ve got him hooked.”
Racath nodded. “Good. Rachel should be in place soon. Try to get him upstairs as soon as the dancing is over. If he takes you down to the drug den, he might try to pour some head-wash down your throat. And that could mess everything up.”
Nelle grimaced. “Okay…”
Racath didn’t even need to ask what was bothering her. He just knew. “You’re going to be fine,” he told her for the second time that evening. “I promise. I’ll be right behind you and Rachel will be just outside the door. I won’t let him touch you. Just get him alone, and I’ll take care of the rest. Can I count on you?”
Nelle took a shaky breath through her teeth and nodded.
He gently squeezed her hand again. But then he made a face, sniffing, like he smelled something foul.
“What’s wrong?” Nelle asked.
Racath shook his head. “You smell wrong,” he muttered.
Nelle felt herself blanch. “Is it noticeable? Do I need more perfume?”
“No, you’ve got enough perfume,” Racath said. “That’s the problem, though. You don’t smell like…you.”
“Ohhh…” Nelle grinned. “And what do I usually smell like?”
“Raspberries,” Racath answered without pausing. “And lime. I like it.”
Nelle laughed at him. “You’re too cute. Thank you. But Demons don’t seem to like raspberries and lime. Too quicken-ish for them.”
Racath leaned back a little and looked her up and down. There was something in his eyes, something…deep. He was suddenly very serious. “You look beautiful.”
Nelle snorted. “Thanks.”
“I mean it,” Racath told her. “You’re too good for him. Too good for anyone.”
Nelle rolled her eyes. “It’s just the makeup…” she murmured diffidently.
“No,” he shook his head. “It’s not. In fact, the only thing that could make you lovelier is if you took the makeup off. All it’s doing is hiding your pretty face.” He kissed her forehead then and stepped away, vanishing into the crowd of party-guests as the next switch began.
Her head reeling, Nelle went back to Monger and half-heartedly continued her attempts at wooing him. He didn’t seem to notice her sudden lack of effort.
�
�You are a fine dancer,” Monger complimented her after a few minutes. “Where did you learn?”
“My mother taught me,” Nelle answered truthfully, but her mind was somewhere else.
“The way your hips dance intoxicates me.”
The way your hips dance intoxicates me? Nelle resisted the urge to vomit. “Dancing isn’t the only thing they’re good for,” she intimated, flashing her perfectly fake smile at him.
Monger did not speak, just grinned his wicked grin and gripped her tighter, his eyes moving up and down her satin-clad body.
It wasn’t the same way Racath had looked at her. When Racath had looked her up and down, there’d been something marvelous and inexplicable in his eyes. When Racath had held her waist, there had been tenderness in his touch. When Racath had woven his fingers with hers, there had been a joining, a mutual bond between their hands.
When Racath had looked at her, he was seeing her. Seeing her as a person, as a woman, as a friend. As someone he valued more than anything else in the world.
But when the Baron Monger — the disguised Tayran, false god of war and Duke of Dor’mon — looked at her, there was only uncomplicated lust. There was no gentleness in his touch. He was clutching her hand, shackling her, imprisoning her in the event she might try to run away.
When Monger looked at her, he was viewing her. Viewing her as a toy, a plaything, a slab of meat on the butcher’s cart. Something to be used, broken, and thrown away.
When Monger looked at her, there was no love in his eyes.
And Nelle despised him. True, the Baron had been courteous all evening. Never rude or belittling. Polite and courteous as any noble could be, if a little vain. But it didn’t matter to her. She hated him. She hated all of them. She hated their parties and their gossips and their soups and their dances — their selfishness, their pettiness, their disregard for everything but their own selves. She hated the fact that, without Racath standing beside her, it felt like these people — these monsters — could suck all the love from her body with a single breath.
She despised him. And she couldn’t wait to watch Racath put Daragoian through his chest.
