Damien turned. ‘We had an understanding,’ he stated. ‘Stick to it, and speak of this arrangement no further.’
Aulton offered a curt nod, his bald head gleaming. ‘As you wish.’
‘Damn and blast,’ swore Fabian. ‘I don’t know why I endure this. Do you even have a Tailors’ Guild in this damned city?’
‘You look fine,’ called Aulton.
‘I look beautiful.’ Fabian stood in front of a mirror which stretched the breadth of the wall, and adjusted his long, cascading hair. ‘No thanks to these damned breeches.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Damien, brushing past the singer.
He stopped moving when he sensed five more heartbeats come into the corridor.
Four watchmen appeared—along with Pyron Thackeray.
His handsome features beamed. He had on a black bowler hat and equally dark greatcoat, both of which served to highlight the crystal-blue of his eyes. The Prime Councillor gripped his cane, his knuckles white. Concealed weapon.
He marched through like he owned the opera house.
‘Prime Councillor!’ squealed Fabian. ‘I am honoured to meet you.’
Thackeray addressed the singer but stared at Damien. ‘Please. The honour is mine.’
‘Why, Prime Councillor,’ Fabian giggled, ‘you are much too kind. It’s all in the writing—the playwrights never receive enough credit, in my humble opinion.’
Aulton coughed into his hand, earning a sharp look from his associate.
‘Mister Carney.’ Thackeray peeled his gaze from Damien. ‘Lucien tal Giorgio speaks most highly of you.’
‘He is a gentleman of the highest calibre.’
Damien hated the falseness of these pleasantries, one of the many reasons he was glad to be far from Rhis and the aristocracy. It repelled him, the way they presented one side of themselves by day and another at night—all because they were fearful of what their fellows may think of them should their hearts’ desires ever be revealed. Father was the same. Why mother put up with his philandering, he would never understand.
Thackeray bared a smile and seized Damien’s hand. ‘You’re the man I have to thank for apprehending the crew of the Liberty Wind.’
‘Indeed,’ said Damien. He read the Prime Councillor’s pulse: Steady, calm. ‘I am relieved to see you are alright, Prime Councillor.’
Good grip—favours his left hand over his right—the watchmen are nervous but not Thackeray—likely wearing armour beneath his greatcoat. Most efficient way to neutralise him: Disable weapon hand, wrist blade through jugular, sever windpipe. Watchmen are jittery—quick to react but the shock will afford two to three seconds before they attack—ample time to eliminate them.
But that is not the objective.
‘Enjoy the performance,’ said Thackeray.
Lucien tal Giorgio’s voice emanated from the auditorium, announcing the performance would commence shortly. The gentle breeze of a thousand voices carried into the hallway.
‘I intend to,’ said Damien.
‘Should’ve worn a clip-on,’ Gallows muttered, his brow wrinkling as he caught himself in the mirror. His fingers were not made for tying bow-ties. Ignium bulbs lined the mirror’s frame, doing an excellent job of highlighting just how stupid he looked in his tuxedo. Some gift.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Couressa, relaxing in a seat. She looked immaculate, her gown like a layer of frost around her figure. Her golden hair tumbled over her bare right shoulder, and her toffee-apple lips gleamed in the light. She seemed completely at ease, so at home here. Gallows couldn’t fathom how she remained so calm before a performance—but then, she wasn’t about to kidnap the nation’s Premier in front of the whole kingdom.
A knock on the door, then Aulton Carney’s voice: ‘Five minutes, Ginny.’
‘Thank you, Aulton,’ she called. ‘Mmm, I do love this part.’
‘Hanging around backstage with a butter-fingered twit in a monkey suit?’
‘The anticipation, Tyson. The electricity in the air. Don’t you feel it?’
Gallows hadn’t noticed before, but she did seem more fidgety than when he met her earlier with Damien. She bounced on her heels, her pupils dilated. Rush of nerves before performing, I guess.
She appeared by Gallows’ side, slinked her arms around him and took the liberty of tying his bow-tie.
He froze.
She drew herself closer to him, her slender fingers brushing his neck.
His skin crawled at the sensation.
‘There,’ she whispered, red lips parting to reveal perfect teeth. ‘You know, you scrub up quite well when you’re not leaping into collapsing buildings.’
A pearl of cold sweat rolled down Gallows’ back. In contrast, his throat had turned as dry as sand. He stepped back and said, ‘I’m… I’m gonna check backstage.’
To feel this liberated was a revelation. She always settled into her work gear like a second skin; if anyone had told her she’d have to dress up in a gown, brush her hair right—be fancy—she’d have laughed and swore at them.
But now that she was here?
Yeah, maybe Serena could get used to being a lady. A chance to forget all that had happened over the last few days, a chance to be someone else—even if she couldn’t get to Enfield, that in itself was a positive.
No. I’ll get to him. And I’ll make him explain everything.
She glanced at the empty seat to her left—she’d expected Milo to appear next to her.
A great glass dome depicting the Indecim—the pantheon of Gods—loomed above her. Something in the back of her mind told her it was one of tal Varaldo’s works. The Gods were all organised in accordance to the seasons: Musa and Terros for autumn, Lunos, Nyr and… some other one for winter, and so on. The dome seemed so far away, so out of reach. Serena guessed that was the point.
The auditorium stretched to infinity, all swooping arches and deep red curtains, but the stage itself wasn’t as big as she’d pictured. Still, she had an excellent view from her seat—in the ‘Dress Circle’, apparently.
She drank in all the sights, all the sounds. Jozef once told her that ushers would sell ice cream to the audience, that customers would sit in cigar lounges during intervals, drink wine and cocktails and eat mouth-watering canapés. Well, Serena didn’t see any of that, but it was impressive all the same.
Her eyes fell on something familiar.
Is that…?
Surely not.
Below, Sister Ingrid ushered a troop of children and teenagers. She strained to pick out their details… Was that Evelyn Drassler?
Holy shit!
Serena bounced from her chair and peered over the ornate balcony edge.
Angelo.
Unmistakeable. His feet shuffled at the end of the trail, hands stuffed in his pocket. He’s totally brought a book with him.
Gods only knew what he must think of her. What had they told him? That she’d killed Marrin? Thinking about it made her want to rush over and explain everything.
Tumultuous applause drowned out her thoughts; the musicians had begun to take their positions in the pit below. There must have been a hundred of them, shuffling their music sheets and exchanging nervous smiles.
A pencil-thin figure strode out onto the stage, an old-ish guy with curly grey hair. Serena reckoned he must be important, judging by the acclaim. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am Lucien tal Giorgio of the Guild of Musicians. It is an exquisite pleasure to see so many of you here!’ His voice reached every corner of the place as if by some unseen magic. ‘Tonight’s performance is dedicated to our fallen brothers and sisters—they are safe in the arms of Eiro and Musa.
‘Music is a singular truth,’ he continued. ‘If we open our hearts to art, poetry and music, allow their beauty to fill our souls, then peace—surely—shall follow.’
The lights began to dim.
No! It’s too early! Where’s Enfield? Shit. Where would the posh folk sit?
Serena craned her neck; everyone was posh.
‘Now,
without further ado,’ announced tal Giorgio, ‘it is my sincerest pleasure to present to you the Musicians’ Guild of Dalthea, accompanied by the world-renowned talent of the Carney Company—and Miss Genevieve Couressa!’
Even the cheering was musical; it expanded, flowed and folded in on itself like a wave.
Butterflies filled Serena’s chest as a soft string melody played out.
The red curtains parted, and the spotlight shone on a glimmering statue carved from ice, radiating strength and beauty.
Genevieve Couressa.
Her voice soared.
Gallows watched her from the wings. She was singing the opening canto to The Rose and the Crown, a ballad from years ago. The house band in the Laguna Lounge used to play it all the time, but they were pitiful amateurs compared to this.
The way her skin had brushed his, just for a moment… It was a sensation he couldn’t cast away no matter how much he tried. Her fingertips were still there, dancing upon him like spiders crawling on his flesh.
He shifted the curtain—the thick darkness draped around the vast auditorium made it impossible to pick out Thackeray, but Damien wouldn’t have much trouble. Kirivanti would be out there somewhere too.
Just under thirty minutes to go.
Every minute Pyron Thackeray spent free was an insult to Sera’s memory.
‘Should this man of yours really be here?’ he heard Fabian say to Aulton.
Carney grumbled. ‘Concern yourself with your own task at hand.’
‘A city fresh in the grip of terrorism and you bring scruffy mercenaries to act as guardians.’ Gallows stopped listening to the prancing dandy when he started flapping about some tiny costume detail being out of place.
Gallows’ heart thrummed in his head. Damn the Gods, this was killing him. His fingers caressed the hilt of his shortsword. Genevieve had admonished him when he fastened it across his tux, but it was the only part of his ensemble he felt comfortable with. He paced around the backstage area. The glacier outline of a grand piano loomed next to him.
Time dragged. He hadn’t even scoped the basement yet, checked it for any alterations since Damien memorised the blueprints. If only those two dandies weren’t here, he could go down and check without raising suspicion.
He glared past the glass depiction of the Gods. Up in the ceiling, Damien would be getting to work. Climbing upside down with nothing to cushion against a hundred-foot drop? Gallows was happy to leave that part of the plan to him.
Muffled voices came from Carney and the other one; they were going over lyrics.
Now was his chance.
He sallied to the rear of the backstage area, behind the piano, scanning the ground for the metal grate. C’mon, c’mon…
There.
He slid the bar lock back and yanked the hatch open, and then swung a leg down into the depths of the basement, searching for the rungs that Damien promised would be attached to the back wall. He scuffed the tips of his ‘Balmoral dress pumps’ against the wall. Whatever. Gallows preferred boots anyway.
Twenty minutes.
He inched down, the smell of stale air wafting up from the-
An anchor-heavy weight seized his shoulder and wrenched him up.
‘What you up to, then?’
Gallows twisted around.
Veronica’s minder Pierro grinned at him. ‘Hullo, mate!’
The attic was well guarded, but not well enough.
Two watchmen and one unfortunate usher lay slumped in the corner, gagged and tied with the rags from Damien’s dress uniform. A shame to ruin such a garment.
Damien’s sneaking gear blended into the darkness, letting the shadows claim him like a casket closing over a corpse. Using an old, wooden hand drill, he unscrewed the padlock holding the hatch in place. Crew would use this to fit lighting fixtures and other mechanisms to the ceiling, depending on the production. Thankfully, Genevieve Couressa leaned towards simplicity. He hoisted it open, and Genevieve’s voice filtered through.
Deep sea blackness confronted him. He steadied his breath—the motes of dust in the attic tickled his throat. He forced Genevieve’s voice from his head, calibrated the differences in the air, tuned into the audience. Their breath rose and fell, quickened and slowed, like notes of music.
Wouldn’t it be better if every one of them fell silent?
Applause roared out, swiftly followed by Fabian Aereli’s voice.
Shapes crept out of the swarms of people beneath him, like he was flying above distant tombstones in the night; vague forms at first, then details—an overweight man, a woman with curling auburn hair…
…breathing, cheering, shouting…
Damien picked Pyron Thackeray out in the darkness. He sat content, watching the performance across the expanse of the auditorium, sitting in a private balcony above the Dress Circle—two floors above Kirivanti. The Prime Councillor’s ring of bodyguards stood unmoving.
Away from the main body of people—good, easier to escape unseen—but getting to him will be more difficult. He weighed his options: Doubling back and approaching the balconies from the ground wouldn’t be possible if he wanted to remain undetected. Even incapacitating a watchman and using his uniform was out—Pyron Thackeray would no doubt know the names and faces of every member of his retinue, and even if he did get through, Damien would still have to contend with the four guards in close proximity to him without being seen.
So that left continuing with plan A—scale the ceiling. Only now he’d have to climb towards the rear wall before approaching the balcony to make sure he didn’t stray into Thackeray’s eye line.
He examined the flash bomb—they burned twenty times as bright as an ignium lamp, but only for a fraction of a second; it would temporarily blind opponents while a high-pitched frequency rang out to disorient them. He would deploy the flash bombs when the lights went out—they was more effective in the dark. Two in the crowd, one at Thackeray. Damien would drop onto the balcony and incapacitate the guards, then escape via the rear exit and rendezvous with Valentine, Thackeray in tow.
Twenty minutes until the intermission—plenty of time to get into position before Tyson cut the power.
He gazed up at the stained glass dome in the ceiling, and sensed the presence of the Schiehallion flying just beyond the gaze of the Gods.
Serena applauded with a great smile on her face. She hoped Angelo was enjoying this as much as she was. Genevieve sounded amazing. Her voice touched everyone, and though she knew it was impossible, Serena was sure Genevieve looked her in the eye during The Rose and the Crown. Even the guy onstage was incredible.
Genevieve linked hands with the gentleman once the embers of the cheering faded. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘allow me to introduce Fabian Aereli!’
Serena applauded as hard as anyone else in the room, though she hadn’t a clue who he was.
Aereli bowed once, twice, three times, relishing the attention. His face beamed brighter than the Wind’s floodlights. ‘We have a treat in store for you,’ he called.
A section of the background floated up into the air, disappearing somewhere. It revealed an older man—kinda handsome for his age—sitting by a huge piano—a curving, beautiful, gleaming thing that could have been carved from the same iceberg as Genevieve’s dress.
And then he started playing.
Serena’s heart swelled.
It was The Raincatcher’s Ballad.
She started clapping—most people did, but only a few really did. Screw ’em. This ain’t for them—it’s for us.
Genevieve’s voice floated through Serena, Fabian’s too. ‘By gaze of stars and glow of the moon, navigate sea and sky. Pitched to the wind, pray homeward soon, for Heaven’s Court we’ll fly…’
The words sailed towards Serena, like the whole thing was for her and her alone. She sang along, which earned her a few looks from her neighbours, but she didn’t care. She rested her chin on her knuckles, leaning forward to savour every detail of the spectacle. Her eyes moistened.
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She hoped the night would never end.
An old woman tutted behind her and someone muttered an apology. Seats sprang back as the neighbours to her left were forced to their feet. Gods damn it. What was going on? Why now? Why interrupt this song—her song?
She turned to look—some guy, whispering excuses, ploughing through the row of people. Serena recognised something about him, but it was dark and she couldn’t pick out his features-
His eyes met hers.
Junior Councillor Enfield.
Sourness burned her mouth and dread filled her stomach like ignium filling a ballonet. She snapped her gaze back to the stage.
He sat next to her.
The stupid gown she wore itched at her skin, but her body froze. She didn’t dare cast a glance back his way—she stole quick looks to the rows in front of her, the stage, the ceiling, looking for something—anything—to get her out.
Her heart chugged in her ears like the train that left her behind at Trevelyan Station. Genevieve’s voice dissipated around her—her words were nothing more than an inconsequential breeze.
How the rutting hell did he know I was here?
Her skin prickled. The same terror that swept over her when lightning rained upon the Liberty Wind rose in her belly.
Stay calm. Breathe. It’s okay. You’re disguised. He hasn’t recognised you. It’s okay. Breathe.
There was still time; she could excuse herself and leave, run into the night, make a plan-
No. I told Myriel I was done running.
But what could she do right now? Sit there and hope he didn’t recognise her? That wasn’t a plan.
Stupid girl. Just run!
She got to her feet. ‘Excu-’
Enfield’s hand coiled around her wrist.
‘You’re going nowhere.’
‘V’s pal!’ Pierro announced. ‘What did I just catch you doing?’
Really don’t have time for this. ‘Genevieve asked me to make sure the rigging was in place.’
‘Down there? Oh-ho, I don’t think so, mate!’
Symphony of the Wind Page 39
