He went off with Ender up the stairs.
“He’s such a boy sometimes,” Liora said. She turned back to Asti and Helene. “Don’t you two look . . . rustic.”
“Well, Greckinvale is on the outskirts,” Asti said.
“We don’t live the tony life of Maradaine there,” Helene added.
“A word like ‘tony’ ruins your disguise, dear. This is what you have to work with, Cansy?”
“She’s got my back,” Asti said. “That’s the part that matters.”
“Yes, you and trust are challenging friends. Fair enough.”
“He’s going up to the office right now,” Asti said. “Will that be an issue?”
“It shouldn’t. He’ll be down to play Saint Jontlen, he is so eager for that. It boggles me.”
“I imagine you’re easily boggled,” Helene said.
Liora narrowed her eyes at Helene. “Don’t think I don’t know nine different ways to kill you and make it look like a tragic accident.”
Helene shrugged. “When I come for you, darling, you’ll never see it coming.” She pointed to a table at the far end. “There’s something involving bread and hot cheese over there, I’m going to look into it.”
Asti saw that as Helene went off, her attention was still trained on him and Liora, keeping her line of sight clear. She knew her job, and that included burying a crossbow bolt in Liora’s chest if anything went wrong.
The band changed songs to something a bit more up-tempo.
“A carendatta,” Liora said brightly. “You remember this one in New Acoria?”
“Don’t start to—”
She took his hand, which stirred an instinct in him, but for once, not a violent one. For just a moment, her hand in his felt natural and normal. For a moment, he felt like he could be normal as well.
“Dance it with me,” she said. “For the memory.”
They went out to the center of the floor, engaging in the dance. The steps were easy enough, and the carendatta was one of the few of these formal dances that didn’t involve a ring of eight or more and a constant switching of partners. Even in these prescribed steps and staid structures of propriety, the carendatta was filled with underlying intimacy, a simmering heat between the dancers. Especially since the two of them had their eyes locked on each other the whole time.
In her eyes, he saw the deceptive, murderous traitor who had destroyed him. And even still, he could get lost in those eyes.
“You still have it, Asti Rynax,” she whispered.
Too many eyes were on them, too much attention. The revelers would mark both him and Liora, and if they remained the most interesting thing in the ballroom, that attention would hold through the Hide. That was the last thing he needed.
Fortunately, the thing that he wanted as the most interesting thing in the room suddenly walked through the ballroom doors, right on schedule.
“Lord and Lady Intiara of Upper Edelvale,” Win called out, with Vellun and Mila coming down the steps. Win coughed for a moment, and then announced the person right behind Vellun and Mila. Ken, with his hair in tight braids and wearing a modified version of a Druth gentleman’s dinner suit that showed his bare arms. Arms that were covered in scars and elaborate tattoos.
“And the honorable Natkel-cha of Paht’Kira.”
Nobody’s eyes were on Asti now.
* * *
“And the honorable Natkel-cha of Paht’Kira.”
It hadn’t escaped Mila’s notice that no one paid much attention when she and Vellun were announced, despite the fact that she looked spectacular in this dress. If every gig could involve some sort of regal ball, she would be perfectly content. It beat the blazes out of flower girls and street rattery. This was nothing like anything she had ever seen in her life. The ballroom was filled to the walls with beautifully dressed people in splendid coats with embroidered epaulets and pearl-laden dresses and opulence that took Mila’s breath away. Paintings and sculpture and silver and so much raw wealth she almost wanted to cry. This was how the nobility lived, while plain folk in North Seleth and farther west were scraping by, half-starved.
It was no wonder that they ignored her and Vellun. These people had seen plenty of girls in pretty dresses.
But once Kennith came in, that all changed. Heads—especially those with pale-powdered faces and wearing curled white-hair wigs—downright spun when Win announced that Ch’omik name.
A young couple approached with an eager air. “Did he come here with you?” the woman asked. Her dress was possibly the most scandalous thing Mila had ever seen outside of the Birdie Basement, with a display of cleavage so profound a man could get lost within it.
“Yes, he did,” Vellun said proudly. “I’ve been deeply privileged to have him as a traveling companion for many months.”
“You’ve been to Ch’omikTaa?” the woman purred out. “I am just fascinated by the eastern world.”
“Ch’omikTaa and the Jelidan cities, which I would never had survived without Natkel-cha. A gift from the saints, he was.”
Kennith strode over to them as if each step he made carried a portentous weight. “This is the celebration of the blood god?” he asked, putting on an accent that Mila assumed to be Ch’omik. She had no idea if it was properly authentic.
“Blood god?” the cleavaged woman asked. “No, it’s Saint Jontlen, who is the bloody saint.”
“But it is a fighting spirit that you worship.” Kennith said this with confidence. Mila was amazed—this was a performance on the same level as Pilsen at his best, and she had no idea that Kennith had been capable of such things. She always had the impression he rejected anything Ch’omik, save the chr’dach. But in this moment, he was reveling in the role. “This seems like a coddled place for such a sacred ceremony.”
“It’s hardly sacred,” the woman said.
“Just a bit of silly fun,” her companion added.
Kennith looked to Vellun. “You told me this honored the blood spirit of your people.”
“It does,” Vellun said. “In its own way.” He turned to the couple. “Baron Restick Intiara, and my wife Chelianne.”
“Charmed,” the woman said. “Lady Elisvea of Tiber, and my intended Thorton.”
“A pleasure,” Thorton said. Mila noted that his accent was far from the noble one she had been learning to fake. Perhaps Lady Elisvea had intentions outside her class.
“I’m sorry to be so brazen,” Lady Elisvea said to Kennith. “But can I see your arms?”
Kennith presented them to her. Fortunately they were quite well muscled, presumably from his machine work and caring for his horses. But the woman wasn’t asking for that, though she touched Ken’s arm with a sensual reverence. She was examining the series of intricate scars and tattoos that Kennith had put on with help from Almer and Mister Gin. Mila hoped they had made them well enough to withstand the close scrutiny the woman was giving.
A few other swells had approached, one in a military dress uniform. “So, chap, those tell your story, your rank, and what have you.”
Kennith turned to him, with a glower that could melt iron. He pointed to the markings on his right forearm. “Cha. From the House Taqhna of Paht’Kira.”
“And what brought you to Paht’Kira, old bean?” another of them asked Vellun.
“Well, it’s quite a tale . . .” Vellun launched into a yarn that was detailed and elaborate, involving a failure of fortune from his father, a merchant venture, and a shipwreck on the Ch’omik coast.
Mila used that opportunity to wander away from Vellun and Kennith while several people gave them their complete attention. She scanned the room. Asti was on the ballroom floor, dancing with a woman—an absolute treasure of a woman. Not just beautiful, but graceful and fluid.
This had to be Liora Rand. In a few moments, Mila could tell this woman was every bit as shrewd and dan
gerous as Asti had made her out to be. Every movement she made was deliberate and perfect. Her attention was on Asti, but yet she seemed to take in every part of the room as well.
But she didn’t give Mila any special notice as she made her way over to the table where servants were pouring drinks—strange blood-red drinks that didn’t look anything like wine.
“Careful there, it’s very sweet.”
Helene, holding up a glass, staying in character.
“I appreciate it,” Mila said, taking one of the drinks. She took a sip and found it shockingly sweet, even sickly so. It was not unlike licking pine needles dipped in honey, but with the added kick of Doctor Gelson’s breath. Mila nodded to Helene and held onto the drink, with no intention of having any more of it.
That was all the acknowledgment needed. Mila sometimes wondered if she should learn all the strange codes and signals that Asti and Verci shared, but most of the time it seemed like the Rynaxes were just showing off or something. Mila was pretty confident in her ability to get what she needed to know off a look from Helene. Things were going fine. Save for herself and Helene, and a woman in a purple dress who was stalking the drinks table, everyone’s attention seemed to be on themselves or Kennith. Helene slipped away from the table—she had handed off her duty of “eyes on Asti and Liora” to Mila, and she was going to her next task: making contact with Julien.
The music ended, though only Asti and Liora were still dancing at all. Almost the entire room was listening to Vellun and Kennith. One person wasn’t, though—he was the one who had signaled to the musicians to end. He went over to Asti and Liora.
“Well then, we’ve gotten quite a commotion in my absence, no?” he asked.
“Indeed,” Asti said. “It’s a bit vulgar, if you ask me. You think these people had never seen a foreigner before.”
“Yes,” the man said. “Did you catch the name of that man with him, darling?”
“Lord Intiara,” Liora said. “You know him?”
This man must be Lord Henterman. And it was obvious that Liora noted everything that happened. Mila looked at this young lord. He was a handsome enough man, but he looked devoid of any sense of guile. Or soul. The man seemed so jovially empty, Mila could scarcely believe he could be behind the fiery murder of all the people on Holver Alley. When she saw Mendel Tyne—when she killed him—she saw a man who ruled by petty fear, who held most other people in contempt. That man wouldn’t care who died at his word. She couldn’t quite see that in Lord Henterman’s face. There was almost nothing there at all.
“Not off the top of my head, but there are a handful of people that Ender sent invitations to who are up-and-comers of note. I imagine this Intiara is one of them.” He shrugged, as if complete strangers arriving at the party was to be expected. That wasn’t something Mila was about to complain about.
“He does know best,” Liora said.
“That would be your man there,” Asti asked, nodding in the direction of the stairs. Mila couldn’t quite see up there from her position. “Not part of your household staff?”
“No, no, he’s my attaché and secretary. Indispensable, that man. But come now, before we lose the crowd to this Ch’omik. The footmen will be bringing out the feast, and then we’ll be doing the Hide.”
“Joyous!” Liora said. “I plan on hiding very well, my love.”
“We’ll still strive to find you, dearest.”
Henterman walked toward the double doors on the far side, which servants were opening up as tables and trays were brought in. As soon as he had turned away, Liora’s face changed slightly, showing just a hint of disgust at the man whom she called husband.
Asti gave Mila the slightest of signals with his eyes, pointing her toward the stairs. He probably wanted her to note this Ender, the attaché. Made sense. If he was Henterman’s right-hand man, he would have plenty of information about whatever deals Henterman was involved in. Maybe Ender would prove an easier target than Henterman himself, and through him, they could find out what they needed to know about the fire, and what was behind it all.
Mila moved her way through the ballroom to get a better look at this Ender. As soon as she was in view, she gasped and almost dropped her glass. She was able to hold herself together, keeping the glass in hand and her mouth silent. There was no need to make a spectacle of herself, drawing every eye in the room on her, especially “Ender”. That would be disastrous. The last thing she needed was to have him make note of her, and recognize her as easily as she did him. Even in the smart suit, the crisp jacket, the face was one Mila wouldn’t forget.
“Ender” was none other than Treggin.
Chapter 25
THE DISTRACTION WAS CERTAINLY doing its job. Kennith put on an excellent performance. Helene had to give him full credit, she had no idea he had that in him. What had he said when Asti suggested he play an actual Ch’omik warrior lord? “I had heard enough stories from my grandfather to fake it well enough for a bunch of noble swells.”
The people seemed to buy it. The eyes that weren’t still on Asti and Liora were on Kennith and Vellun. So no one was marking Helene. Most importantly, Liora wasn’t paying any attention to her. Which gave her the chance to slip down a corridor to find the kitchens, find Julien. She had gotten enough of that oversweet swill on her breath that she could fake a tipsy wander if anyone caught her.
She only got two steps to the hallway when a lady in a sleek purple dress placed herself in front of Helene. “Well, hello again.”
Helene put on the best ladylike smile she could manage. “Hello yourself. You’ll forgive me—”
“Worry not, I already have,” the lady said, giving something of a bemused smirk. “I wouldn’t have expected to run into you here, however.”
“Well, this is the event, isn’t it?” Helene said, giving that “noble titter” Pilsen had taught her. She wished he was in here right now. “I mean, a real Ch’omik warrior? Very exciting.”
“Oh, him? Fraud. But you know that.”
“I what?”
The lady in the purple dress took Helene’s hand and pulled her into the hallway. “You really do need to work on your facade, girl,” she said. “Of course I already knew you don’t belong here.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Helene asked. She made a point of hitting every consonant the way she was supposed to, which probably made her sound like a lunatic.
“Darling,” the woman said calmly. “Clearly you don’t recall. I forget that my memory is uncommon. We’ve met. Two months ago, in Carol Woods.”
“Why . . . why . . . no, you must be . . .” Helene’s memory sparked. When was she in Carol Woods? When she was testing out her first Verci Rynax crossbow, hunting rabbits. When she was interrupted by that bounty hunter.
That rather posh bounty hunter.
“You’re a fake too!” Helene exclaimed, perhaps a little too excitedly. She had definitely lost any trace of her regal affect.
“I wouldn’t go that far.” She extended her hand to Helene. “Lady Melania Landron of Canthen Hall.”
“But you’re—” Helene looked around, making sure none of the other guests were paying them any mind. “You’re a bounty hunter.”
“A girl can be two things.”
“All right,” Helene said cautiously. “So . . . what do you want?”
“Well, I wanted to not be bored to tears, but Lord Henterman and this party were determined to do otherwise. You can imagine my joy in spotting you here.”
Helene shook her head. “Wait, no. We met for a minute. How could you—”
“So what are you hunting today, girl?”
“Helene.” Helene cursed to herself. Why had she said her name?
Lady Melania paused. “Is that who you’re hunting, or your name?”
“My name,” Helene said, regretting saying it as soon as it came out. “I’m not hunting anyone
. Exactly.”
“But you’re clearly up to some shenanigans, for a west Maradaine girl who’s a crack shot with a crossbow to be at a lord’s shindig like this.”
Helene wasn’t sure if that was some sort of threat to expose her, or an offer to join her.
“So what do you want?”
Lady Melania patted her on the arm. “Helene, darling, don’t worry. I’m hardly interested in snuffing the lamp on your plans, unless they interfere with my own. I was just thrilled, because your presence means at least something exciting might happen now.”
“Your own? A bounty on one of the swells here?”
“That would be fun, wouldn’t it?” Lady Melania sighed. “Though it would be dreadfully easy to take one of them down. Wouldn’t even have to take off my shoes.” She extended her foot for Helene to appraise. “You like?”
“I suppose,” Helene said. They were perfectly nice shoes, if she were the sort to be interested in shoes. “I’d kill to have my boots on and this frippery off.”
“Saints hear you on that, darling. This costume is a necessity of event.” She poked her head out of the hallway to look at the ballroom. “Am I spoiling some timing?”
“Not yet,” Helene said.
“But soon, yes. Then I won’t dally. Are you hunting someone called Crenaxin? Sometimes called ‘The Fervent Fire’ or some such nonsense. The rumors on him are rather sketchy, to be honest.”
That was new to Helene. “Sounds Kell or Racquin.”
“Yes, probably,” Lady Melania said. “I’m guessing that’s a no.”
“Never heard of him—it is a him?”
“I had presumed, but you have a point. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, but if I see him, well . . .”
“Can’t help you.”
“I understand,” Lady Melania said. “I think I quite like you, Helene. You have your crossbow on you?”
“These layers of petticoat can hide a lot,” Helene said.
“Capital. Well, you probably have some mischief to be about. You need any assistance, give a whistle. I don’t think my information tying this Crenaxin fellow to Henterman was meaningful. Now I’m simply bored. I’d leave, but appearances and family name must be preserved. Saints help me.”
Lady Henterman's Wardrobe Page 31
