by Marmell, Ari
The baron rose, and Madeleine successfully fought off the urge to find something on which to wipe her hand. “And what do you think of the marquise's party?” she asked, mostly to keep Doumerge from guiding the conversation himself.
“Eh.” The weasel twitched his fingers as though brushing off a length of cobweb. “Acceptable, I suppose, for one of her means, but she's clearly trying to rise above her station. I doubt she's fooling anyone with her pretensions to greater wealth and breeding. Or, well, she's certainly not fooling me. I suppose I oughtn't speak for those with less refined sensibilities.”
“Well,” Madeleine breathed, clearly hanging on Doumerge's every word (and trying not to cringe as said breath drew his attention, with alarming rapidity, to her neckline). “I certainly wouldn't even consider disagreeing with you, dear baron.” Mostly, she added silently, because if I did, I'd probably start by folding you in half like an envelope and shoving your heels up your nostrils.
She was just trying to think of some polite way to extricate herself from further conversation—which shouldn't have been that difficult, since the two of them weren't precisely good friends or even close acquaintances—but apparently Doumerge was feeling particularly gregarious. (That, or he believed he recognized, in Madeleine, a potentially captive audience for his great social insight.) Even as she drew breath to speak, the baron turned so that he might intertwine his arm in hers. “Come, my dear. I can tell you with complete confidence who's worth being seen with and who isn't. Perhaps I can even introduce you to a few new friends, hmm?”
When the woman who had three separate names, and until recently had made her living entirely through theft, responded with, “I'd be delighted,” it was perhaps the single greatest lie she'd ever uttered. She offered her unwanted companion a tight smile, mostly intended to keep her from gritting her teeth, and allowed him to half lead, half drag her through the packed multitudes of high society.
For endless minutes, he prattled on about this lord or that baroness, this marquis or that mistress. Everything from wealth to breeding, from the size of one person's estate to the size of another's debt, from the mismatched colors of one outfit to the fraying wig of another…If it could be commented on or gossiped about with any degree of disdain, Doumerge was ready with a wit that was about as pointed and razor-honed as a bowl of soup.
For her part, Madeleine pretended fascination with his droning, nodding or gasping or grumbling in all the right places, and otherwise continued listening for information regarding her actual interests. Information that, as before, was proving frustratingly elusive.
She was, however, paying enough attention to Doumerge to drag him abruptly to a halt in both midstep and midsentence.
“I'm sorry,” she said sweetly. “Introduce me to who, now?”
“Gurrerre Marguilles,” the baron repeated. “Lord of—”
“I know who Monsieur Marguilles is,” Madeleine told him, allowing a touch of frost to condense over her words. “I fear that I find the man rather frightfully boorish, and I've nothing I care to say to him.”
Which, while not entirely true, was far safer than saying, He's met me as someone else, and while I don't think he knows Widdershins well enough to see through the makeup, I'm not about to take the risk. Plus, if I have to talk to him, I'll either start crying over Genevieve, or punch him somewhere really rude.
“Oh. Uh…” The Baron d'Orreille, clearly unprepared for Madeleine to have found any fault in one of the few aristocrats whom he himself had deemed as worthy of their time, was plainly at a loss. “Well, I certainly shouldn't be so discourteous as to insist, but—”
“Splendid! I'm so delighted to hear it.” Again she cast about her, looking for any sort of distraction (and possibly an excuse to break away from Baron Weasel-face already). “Why don't you instead…”
Holy gods! Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt Olgun start, then slowly begin to simmer with a rapidly growing rage.
Here he was, right here! Standing beside one of the tables, a glimmering goblet of wine in one hand, he was currently laughing at some witticism or other offered by one of the many blue bloods gathered around him. He still wore mostly darker grays and blacks, though his tunic and his vest were both trimmed in gleaming silver. Here, at this formal affair, neither his traveler's coat nor his tricorne hat were present, but the chiseled, angular features and the black braid were more than enough.
To say nothing of the dark eyes, currently flashing with mirth but capable of such a deep, angry malevolence…
“Him!” This time it was Madeleine who dragged the baron through the sea of people, towing him, a captured ship in her wake. After a few steps, she held herself at an angle where she could point out her target without drawing his attention in turn. “Can you introduce me to him?”
“Ah…That is…” Doumerge flushed lightly, apparently embarrassed to be caught out by the young woman he was so hoping to impress. “I fear that I haven't been formally introduced to the young lord myself, so it would be improper for me—”
“Then just tell me who he is!” She found herself about to stamp a foot in emphasis and forced herself to relax, to remember where—and who—she was at this moment.
“Uh, his name is Evrard, I believe.”
Yes, I know that! She found herself about to scream. But what's his full—?
“Evrard,” the baron continued, “d'Arras.”
D'Arras? D'Arras? As in d'Arras Tower?!
Widdershins, who had taken at least some of her mentor Alexandre's lessons to heart, and thus hadn't uttered a single true profanity in about four years, said, “Oh, shit….”
Magali was a serving girl in the Lamarr household, just one of many. Perhaps thirteen years of age, she was round and pretty of face, with just a hint of the beauty that would be hers as an adult. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back in a simple tail, and her entire body was stuffed into a tightly laced gown and corset of formal pearls and golds, despite the fact that few of the partygoers would ever look upon her.
No, because tonight, Magali's duties were all upstairs, tucked away in a few large but secluded rooms about as far from the chatter and tumult as one could get while remaining within the manor proper. Here, a number of beds, sofas, chairs, and tables had been neatly and meticulously prepared, and had far more swiftly been ravaged beyond recognition.
Here is where the children played, and where Magali was officially (hah!) in charge.
Not many children ran and played through the suite of rooms. The bulk of the guests who were also parents had, of course, left their sons and daughters at home in the care of servants or relatives (and far more often the former than the latter). But some, for reasons ranging from the age of the child to simple affection to wanting to display their heirs to their fellow aristocrats, had brought their offspring along. And of course, there were the Marquise de Lamarr's own three children as well. In total, then, there were about nine of them, not counting Magali herself—Magali, who was somehow supposed to keep a rein on the little rampaging monsters when, as a simple servant (and a young girl at that), she couldn't really discipline, punish, or yell at them.
“Pierre! Ives!” She was trying desperately, and failing miserably, to keep her voice down to normal levels. “Stop that this instant!”
The two boys in question stuck out their tongues in perfect unison, and continued jumping on the sofa cushions and laughing hysterically at the goose-down blizzard spawned by their antics. In the interim, Marie was in the corner crying (again) over some imagined slight or other, while Chrestien and Alberi had already made an absolute disaster of their clothes, wrestling and punching under the table. (Magali couldn't tell, at this point, whether the boys were playing, or had progressed to an actual fight. She wasn't sure if they were sure, either.)
It was enough to try the patience of a saint, a god, or even a saintly god, let alone a thirteen-year-old girl. Magali was, herself, about to break down in tears—that, or start taking a belt to ti
ny rears, and to hell with the consequences!—when she thought she heard…
Yes! There it was again. Barely audible over the chaos, a faint rapping on the door to the main room. It was too much to hope that the party was over already, but maybe some of the parents were departing early? If they'd take even some of the children with them, it might be easier to…
“Yes?” Magali called, sidling up to the door. “Who is it, please?”
“We have treats!” The voice that called back was somehow odd, dissonant, but over the clamor and through the thick wooden door, Magali couldn't really make out what was wrong with it. It was probably her imagination, anyway…“Treats for the children!”
This hadn't been part of the evening's plan, so far as Magali knew, but she welcomed it. If the brats were busy stuffing themselves on pastries, then at least they wouldn't be cackling and screaming for a few minutes.
Without the slightest trace of hesitation, Magali threw open the door….
A few frantic moments of intense (and only borderline polite) questioning of Doumerge revealed a number of fascinating facts about the man Madeleine had previously known only as “Evrard.”
The remaining core of the family d'Arras had, for roughly a decade, dwelt in the heart of Rannanti, Galice's nearest neighboring—and often rival—nation. (Unconfirmed rumors suggested that, for much of that time, the d'Arrases weren't there to oversee their business interests, as claimed, but were in fact political prisoners—albeit well-treated and lavishly kept political prisoners—held against the possibility of future leverage.) Only a few years ago, the family had finally returned to their homes in the Galicien city of Vontagne, where most of them lived to this day. Evrard himself had arrived in Davillon some few months ago, not long after the death of William de Laurent.
As to why he had come—or indeed, anything else about the young aristocrat—gossip was heavy on speculation but frighteningly light on confirmed fact. Business or pleasure, politics or romantic interest? There were as many theories, if not more, as there were curious ears and whispering mouths to theorize. On only three points were the majority of the tales about Evrard in agreement: First, that he was the only d'Arras to have visited Davillon from Vontagne. Second, that he was not yet firmly attached to any of Davillon's respected citizens, either on a political or long-term romantic level.
And third, that—as he had mastered the blade-play of Rannanti as well as Galicien culture—he was purported to be one of the finest duelists of the modern era.
This last detail was more than enough to convince Madeleine to be grateful that Robin had stopped her from drawing steel on the man. Even with Olgun's aid, he didn't seem the sort of fellow with whom she'd care to cross blades. And the name he shared with the tower that had been the site of her greatest robbery was more than enough to explain his vendetta against her. But what none of this told her was…
“How?!” It was the fourth or fifth time she'd asked in the ninety seconds since she'd disentangled herself from the Baron d'Orreille and made her way—as rapidly but as unobtrusively as possible—toward the door. “How in the name of Khuriel's left sock did he know it was me? Nobody in the Guild would've told an outsider that! Nobody!”
Olgun's answering wave of confusion and concern wasn't much of a response, but it was all she really expected.
Time and again, as though it were deliberately conspiring against her, the press of the crowd threatened to shift her back toward the center of the room; and time and again, Madeleine forced herself the other way. The change of outfit, of carriage, of attitude, and of makeup from Widdershins to Madeleine had fooled many people who knew her far better than Evrard d'Arras did, but she found herself absolutely unwilling to take the chance. She was certain, to the depths of her gut and her soul, that if anyone would see through it at exactly the wrong moment, it would be he.
The rich aroma of roast meats and sweet wines was no longer enticing but cloying and overpowering, threatening to choke her. The hum of the throng had become a roar; the laughter, ear piercing and sinister. She wanted to cry, to scream, to punch or throw something. It was all too much, and she couldn't focus, not in the midst of all this. She had to get out, find somewhere private (and safe from discovery), and figure out what to do next.
Finally, finally the front door was in sight; the two servants whose job was purely to open and close said door, and perhaps take a cape or a coat from the occasional guest, almost near enough to speak to. Madeleine found herself gasping as though she'd just broken the ocean's surface after a deep and exhausting dive.
At which point, just as freedom was within reach, she learned two things. First, that it wasn't to be that easy. And second, that she'd been wrong: It was not, in fact, Evrard d'Arras who would be the one to see through her disguise at the worst possible time.
“We knew you'd be here. We—he sensed it!”
“Squirrel?! You little bedbug, I should—Gods! What happened to you?!”
Indeed, it was Squirrel, and indeed, he appeared to be someone a plague victim might well cross the street to avoid. His complexion was a sickly gray, nearly transparent, and his cheeks were so sunken that his face seemed little more than skin stretched over skull. His eyes were so bloodshot they had more red in them than white, his lips were chapped and bleeding, and if he'd changed clothes or bathed since she'd last seen him, it clearly hadn't taken. Swathes of his sleeves were actually matted to his skin by dried mud and other filth. It was probably only the overwhelming aroma of the party that kept his own stench from being lethal, or at least leeching the colors from nearby fabrics.
(He was also, she noted, wearing a blade at his belt, but it most assuredly was not the one she'd lost.)
All of which inevitably led to her second question, which was, “And how the frying frogs did you even get in here looking like that?”
And indeed, the closest of the guests and servants were beginning to glance their way, raising hands to mouths or stepping back in scandalized chagrin at the sight of what appeared to be a diseased pauper in their midst. Silence rippled outward, crossing the entire chamber, followed rapidly by a second ring of horrified and angry murmurs.
“I sneaked. I do a lot of sneaking now. More than I used to.” He giggled, then made an ugly snorting through his nose as he tried to stop. “Maybe even more than you do.”
“Uh, yeah.” Madeleine glanced around, saw her “fellow” aristocrats backing farther away, and several of the Marquise de Lamarr's guards pushing their way through the thick curtains of heavy fabrics and powdered flesh. “You should get out of here before they get hold of you, Squirrel.” And before you say something to expose me, you nitwit! “We can deal with our own little disagreements”—and figure out how you recognized me so easily!—“later on, yes?”
“Yes. Or no. I don't think I should leave. He wouldn't care for that at all.”
“He, who?” Before she could ask anything further, however, a warning surge of emotion from Olgun inspired her to glance over her shoulder. The guards were awfully close, now….
“Olgun? Would you mind?”
A faint tingle in the air, a rush of power that only she could feel, and several of the guests tripped as they attempted to clear a path for the nice men with swords. The result was a sudden collision of nobility, jamming men and women against their neighbors, and briefly but thoroughly blocking the path.
“Come on, you lunatic.” Recoiling even as she did so, Madeleine put a hand on Squirrel's shoulder—shuddering at the faint sense of grit and grease beneath her palm—and started steering him toward the doorway. “Let's get you out of—”
Apparently, even a god (or a god of Olgun's stature, anyway) could be thrown by a crowd as tightly packed and squirming as this one. A handful of men-at-arms he could sense easily enough. But a lone individual? By the time Madeleine felt Olgun's second warning, it was far too late to avoid the encounter.
“Well. I see that even in a host as distinguished as this one, you'll find a way to at
tract associates of your own quality.”
She didn't even have to recognize the voice; she actually recognized the smug. “Monsieur d'Arras,” she greeted him through clenched teeth, dropping her hands to her sides and turning his way. Am I even wearing makeup here? Seriously…!
Evrard stood some few feet away, the fingers of his left hand idly stroking his chin. The grin that spread above those fingers was openly predatory. “Ah. I see you've puzzled it out. And by what name shall I call you, hmm?”
Madeleine—Widdershins—bit her lip and answered with a glare that would have sent a gorgon crying home to mommy.
The d'Arras scion only chuckled. “It's only, there's so much potential here! I'm not actually sure what to do with this first. Though I will say that it answers certain questions about how you manage to operate as you do.”
By this time, not only had they attracted a wide ring of fascinated observers, but the household guards had finally pressed their way to the front as well. There was no way for Widdershins to prevent several dozen people from hearing whatever it was Evrard chose to say next. She swore she could feel the floor falling away beneath her feet. It wasn't so bad as when her life as Adrienne Satti had ended that horrible night all those years ago, but it was uncomfortably similar.
And with that realization, her head abruptly rose. Unblinking, back straight, and voice steady, she said simply, “I won't dance for you, Evrard. Do what you have to do.”
Evrard's smile faltered. Clearly, he'd been hoping for something a bit more satisfying. “All right, then. If that's the way it's to be, I—”
Whatever he might have done was halted, however, by a sudden cacophony of shouts. Some surprise, some grief, but largely a chorus of anger, they filtered in through the open door and the nearby windows from some commotion or other on the roads outside.
