by Lisa Shearin
The goblin king’s masked ball was being touted as the event of the social season. Call me a pessimist, but I couldn’t help but think of it as hunting season, with me as the prized catch being delivered dressed and trussed to the hunter’s front door.
The beacon seemed to think it was about to get what it wanted. At least that was the impression I got. It was hard to believe it had only been three nights since Quentin had stolen the beacon and given it to me for safekeeping. Ever since then, the beacon had either been completely silent, or trying to kick a hole in my chest. After we set out from the count’s palazzo, the beacon had settled down to a gentle hum in time with my heartbeat. Glad to know one of us was happy with our destination.
To help keep gondola traffic moving on the canals, and to avoid any flaring tempers that might result from gridlock or clashing cultures, classes, or magic, the mayor of Mermeia had ordered all members of the city watch, not otherwise assigned, to traffic duty. I know the watchers loved that. They were angry, they were armed, and most importantly, there were five of them at every major waterway intersection. There were more than a few aristocrats in town for Sathrik’s little get-together; aristocrats who felt entitled to go where they wanted, when they wanted, and to answer to no one when they went there.
Our city’s finest were there to tell them otherwise.
In an elaborately draped and gilded gondola to our port side, a Pengorian noble was being issued a stern warning for failure to yield to a smaller vessel. It probably wouldn’t have gone any further than a warning, but when the indignant Pengorian in question started shrieking about his privileges in this and any other city, the watcher said nothing else and promptly began writing him a ticket. As we turned the corner at the bell tower, I could still hear the noble’s shrill protests.
It warmed my heart.
Though what filled me with less than a glowing feeling was the rolling motion caused by the heavier than normal traffic on the canals. My normal—and entirely rational, I might add—fear of drowning had little to do with my present discomfort. I tried to focus on the unmoving building in front of us, rather than the all-too-moving water undulating below me. My eyes believed the deception. My stomach didn’t buy it for a second.
In addition to his house and invitations, the count had given Mychael the use of his gondolas. While thankfully not as extravagant as some of the floating palaces attempting to make their way to the embassy without tipping over, the count’s gondolas were sleek and tastefully elegant. Some of Mychael’s Guardians were outfitted in the count’s house livery of blue and white, and were piloting the gondola Piaras and I were in along with Mychael. The count’s other formal gondola was to our starboard, also with a full complement of Guardian oars-men with Garadin and Vegard looking miserable in his borrowed finery.
Weapons wouldn’t be allowed in the embassy, and any who tried to defy the royal edict would be denied entrance. We all needed to get inside, so we played by the rules—to a point. Elaborate costuming allowed for all kinds of places to conceal a small blade or two, or three or four, or more in my case. I was wearing enough steel to make me feel as comfortable as possible, considering the circumstances. And I made sure Piaras was similarly armed. The problem being, I was sure plenty of King Sathrik’s guests were thinking along the same lines. So unless Sathrik wanted to kick most of his guests out, he was going to have to make a few concessions.
Piaras and I were both masked and wore dark, hooded cloaks. Mychael had determined, and Garadin agreed, that with most of the high nobility from the seven kingdoms in attendance, Piaras’s costume wouldn’t stand out in the least. Besides, it was the only costume in the count’s trunks that fit him. I took a wait-and-see attitude. I had to admit that this was one time I didn’t want to be able to say “I told you so.” However, as an extra precaution, Mychael had asked us to sit in the section of the gondola near the stern that was draped from view. Neither of us had objected.
“Raine?” Piaras ventured from the plush upholstered seat next to me.
“Yes?”
I couldn’t see his face, but I didn’t need to. Just hearing him say my name told me he probably looked as scared as he sounded. I squirmed in my bodice in a vain attempt to get a decent lungful of air. If I looked as uncomfortable as I felt, we were quite a pair.
“How much farther?”
From the sound of his voice, he didn’t want to be any closer. The only place he wanted to be was home. I’d like to be there myself. Under my bed sounded like a nice, cozy spot. Piaras had never been into the heart of the Goblin District. Piaras had never wanted to go, even on a dare from his friends. Not that his friends would go themselves, or would many other elves, for that matter.
“We’re almost there.” I reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. His fingers curled around mine and didn’t let go. I was glad he didn’t.
“Are you scared?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.” I’d have to be seven types of insane not to be afraid of where we were going—and who would be there waiting for us. I had an extra reason to be terrified that had nothing to do with psychotic goblins. I’d be getting up close and personal with the Thief of Souls.
Piaras seemed to know what I was thinking and squeezed my hand reassuringly. “It’ll be okay. We’ll all be there with you.”
That would have been a comforting thought, except for the gnawing fear that having my friends anywhere near me was as far from okay as it was possible to be.
The Guardians guided the gondola around the corner at the clock tower that marked the entrance to the Goblin District. I had always found it to be an inspiring sight. On a normal night it would inspire a better than average case of the creeps. Tonight it inspired that along with awe, intimidation, and a goodly dose of terror. Maybe it was the circumstances, though I imagine it was exactly the effect the Mal’Salin family was going for. No doubt Sarad Nukpana had a hand in the party decorations that met King Sathrik’s guests as they made their way up the Grand Duke’s Canal to where it flowed past the steps of the goblin embassy.
The buildings in the Goblin District were of arched stone and gleaming marble—both were dark and built to be as imposing as possible. At least that was my impression of goblin architecture. But for all I knew, goblins thought it was cozy and reminded them of home. Gates were of intricately twisted wrought iron, and the tops of most, if not all, ended in a sharpened point. The streetlights glowed a dim blue. Supposedly the lighting was for the comfort of sensitive goblin eyes. That may be the case, but in my opinion, the goblins just did it to discourage visitors. It worked. I certainly wouldn’t come here for an evening out.
Apparently the goblin king’s party planner was looking to maximize the effect tonight. Caged torches mounted on tall metal spikes were spaced at regular intervals on both sides of the canal. The torches blazed with blue flames easily two feet high. The long shadows cast from those flames gave the impression that the buildings were looming out over the canal—and over the guests’ gondolas that traveled it. Mounted on the spikes were twin banners in the crimson and black of the House of Mal’Salin. Between the banners was a burnished shield that was easily an arm’s span wide. The shields were emblazoned with the family crest that Piaras and I were all too familiar with—the double serpents surmounted by a crown. The crests were inlaid with red enamel that glowed with a life of their own. In the torches’ light, the snakes on the crests seemed to writhe against the steel.
Then there was the warm greeting of the Mal’Salin royal guard in full battle armor standing at attention, illuminated by the blaze of the torches. They were spaced every twenty feet or so on both sides of the canal, and in addition to the usual curved daggers and sabers, each carried a slender spear with a particularly lethal-looking hooked blade at the top.
Piaras’s hand had started to sweat. Or maybe it was mine.
“This was not a good idea,” Piaras said from between clenched teeth.
“There’s nothing wrong with the idea,” I tried
to reassure him—and me. “Just the welcoming committee.”
I was determined not to be scared. The trappings of terror decorating the canal banks had Sarad Nukpana’s name written all over them. Once again, he was only trying to frighten me so that I couldn’t fight him. I wouldn’t let him succeed.
But that didn’t stop him from doing a damn fine job.
The steps of the goblin embassy extended down into the canal. As we neared the steps, the gondola pilots guided their boats into a single line. When their passengers had safely disembarked, they pulled away, making way for the next guests. I say safely, because due to both the costuming and masks, maneuverability and visibility were at a minimum for some partygoers. There were goblin footmen there to assist, but I wasn’t about to take any proffered hands, especially if they belonged to someone working for the Mal’Salin family. I would rather risk going for an unexpected swim. I needn’t have worried. Mychael jumped out first and gallantly offered his hand to me. And once he had it, he didn’t let go. Considering where we were, I didn’t mind.
Piaras stepped from the gondola by himself without a stumble. Just before we had disembarked, he had given my hand a firm squeeze, then stood resolutely, his jaw set. My little brother was growing up.
I looked at Mychael standing by my side—and kept looking. He was magnificent. Regal in the purple and gold of an ancient Pengorian knight, the paladin’s surcoat looked almost black in the flickering torchlight, entwined vines and leaves finely embroidered in gold thread on the soft suede. Mychael’s mask was etched gold, the perfect setting for those glorious blue eyes. The costume, the embassy, a king’s masked ball. Mychael clearly belonged here. I didn’t.
He caught me looking. I quickly glanced away.
I felt him raise my hand to his lips. “You’re beautiful,” I heard him murmur.
I didn’t know what to say. I’d never been very good at compliments, especially those addressed to me.
He smiled and kissed my hand again, taking his time before draping my arm over his to escort me inside.
To get inside, all of the guests had to walk up the stairs flanked by yet more royal guardsmen sporting enough enameled steel to anchor a ship—or sink one. They didn’t seem to mind the weight. They also didn’t seem to blink. Eerie. Though I’m sure the Mal’Salins frowned on such displays of weakness. And when a Mal’Salin royal frowned, heads rolled, or so I’d heard.
At the top of the stairs, I saw a small goblin lady, her bearing regal, wearing a gown of the most ethereal fabric that I had ever seen. The color shifted and shimmered with the torchlight. Her hair and face were completely covered by a pale cloud of a veil that fell past her shoulders. Beneath that, she wore a mask as well. She reached out one tiny, gloved hand and placed it lightly on the arm of a goblin who was dressed as a jester, but he apparently had left his good humor at home. His bearing was straight, either from naturally good posture or tension. Considering where we were, it could have been both. I might not be the most nervous person here tonight, but I think I had the most reason.
The lady tilted her head to look up at her escort as he said something to her.
I knew her.
I tried to get as close to Mychael’s ear as possible. Not easy in my hat.
“The couple at the door, the small goblin lady…”
“Yes?”
“A’Zahra Nuru.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Do you recognize her escort?”
“No, but he’s probably one of the prince’s courtiers. He’s too short to be the prince.”
“Well then, let’s see if they get in.”
I wasn’t anywhere near as casual about it as Mychael, but on a positive note, at least I knew what the primari was wearing. Chances were once she was inside, she would be meeting Prince Chigaru. If I couldn’t avoid my enemies this evening, it’d at least be nice to spot some of them before they spotted me.
The goblin primari gave her invitation to one of the guards at the door. He looked at it and then at her. He returned it to her and the door opened. She started to step across the threshold, then paused, glancing back over her shoulder. The beacon still vibrated happily inside my bodice. I fought the urge to cover it with my hand. I knew the gesture wouldn’t do any good and would only draw attention.
A’Zahra Nuru paused a moment longer, then she and her escort entered the embassy.
Now it was our turn.
The guard gestured us forward. Mychael swept up the steps without hesitation. Piaras, Garadin, and I followed with Vegard and Riston Kirkwode, the dark-haired Guardian from Tam’s place.
The guard scrutinized the invitation then our masked faces, each in turn. I hope the Count of Eilde, or his politics, hadn’t bought us more problems than perks. The guard turned to confer with a superior. The officer was checking another invitation, and the guard had to wait until he was finished. Next to me, Piaras took a breath and held it. While he did that, I entertained myself by wondering which was closer—the dagger in my bodice, or the throwing knives in the hidden pockets of my gown.
Mychael waited seemingly without a care in the world. He even began humming a tune currently popular in the eastern kingdoms. He had nerve. The humming continued, and with it came a smile. It was contagious. A corner of the goblin guard’s mouth turned upward. He turned away from the still-busy officer and returned the invitation to Mychael.
“There’s no need to keep you waiting, sir. On behalf of His Royal Majesty, King Sathrik Mal’Salin, I bid you and your guests welcome. Please enter.”
Chapter 20
“It’s not the song that matters, but how you sing it. Or in this case how you hum it,” Mychael was explaining to an amazed Piaras. “A light and friendly tune to inspire light and friendly thoughts.”
I really didn’t care how he did it, I was just grateful that he had. I kept telling myself that there was probably nothing to the sentry’s reaction to either our invitation or to us. But it would take more than my own assurances to convince my heart rate to return to normal. Call me insecure.
While we waited our turn to enter the ballroom, I took the opportunity to familiarize myself with the lay of the land. Others were obviously doing the same thing, but I was probably the only one, or at least one of the few, looking around in case I needed to make a quick getaway. The floorplan of the goblin embassy was similar to that of other great houses along the Grand Duke’s Canal. The first floor was reserved for entry and less important rooms. Mermeia was prone to flooding, and no noble wanted to constantly have to rescue the ancestral portraits and Great Aunt Gertrude’s favorite chairs from rising waters.
We were in a lavish reception area, with an imposing staircase that swept up to a landing in front of a massive stained-glass window, again featuring the House of Mal’Salin crest. From there, the stairs split to either side to continue to the third floor, and the grand ballroom. All around us, guests were removing the outer cloaks they had worn to protect their finery. Piaras and I had left ours in the gondola. We had no intention of leaving the way we had come in. Since the count had been nice enough to loan us everything we needed for the evening, it would be rude to knowingly leave behind something we had borrowed. In my mind that also included returning the costumes we were wearing without any unsightly slashes, holes, or bloodstains.
The lighting in the embassy was dim enough for goblin comfort, but bright enough so that the elven or human guests wouldn’t bump into each other. As in Tam’s place, the lighting was purely for theatrical effect. Playing tricks on the eyes with light and shadow.
I didn’t like it one bit.
I wasn’t just being paranoid. I was being watched. The black-garbed Mal’Salin guards and courtiers blended in all too well with the decorative shadows. They were watching me; but to be fair, they were also watching everyone else. And just because the official color for Mal’Salin guards was black didn’t mean there weren’t watchful loyalists lurking around wearing silver gossame
r or pink butterfly wings. I was certain the embassy was positively seething with those alert for troublemakers, and especially watching for me. While Sarad Nukpana hadn’t requested that we attend the ball, I know he had to have been expecting it.
Garadin hovered by my side. Vegard was an oddly comforting presence just behind my right shoulder. The blond berserker was as armed as he could be and not clank. If all hell broke loose at some point in the evening, as a Guardian, Vegard was more than qualified to acquire any weapons he needed from one of the many Mal’Salin guards taking up useful space. I welcomed his company.
I leaned over to Garadin. “You’d think if Sathrik was that paranoid about someone trying to stick a knife in his ribs tonight, he would have just stayed home.”
“Murder and intrigue are as natural to the Mal’Salins as breathing,” he told me.
“Then Sathrik’s in for the time of his life tonight.”
I tried to locate A’Zahra Nuru without being obvious. Considering the vision restriction of wearing a mask, and the plumed velvet enormity that was the hat on my head, doing anything subtle was next to impossible. But I tried, and I looked, and I didn’t see the goblin primari. That was good and bad. I didn’t want to run into her, but I also wanted to keep anyone who I knew was after me in my line of sight. The beacon was no help. It just continued to hum happily. I would have liked to have shared its positive outlook, but my other senses that I had had for far longer, and trusted far more, told me otherwise.
I just wanted to find the Saghred before Sarad Nukpana found me.
“Are you ready?” came a deep voice close enough to touch.
It was all I could do to keep both feet on the floor.
It was Mychael.
“Don’t do that!” I managed, once I got past my heart in my throat.
“Shall we?” he said, offering me his arm.
I hesitated, then placed my hand on top of his. “Let the fun begin.”
