"If I may suggest. Your Grace," the servant said, "do try that pizza roll closest to you. It's excellent."
Wellington glanced quickly to the servant's face, then down again. Your Grace, is it? And where do I know you from, man? He took the pizza roll; the servant smiled slightly, bowed, and walked off into the crowd. Louis-Phillipe brushed the crumbs from his lips. "What have you got there?"
"Pizza roll." Wellington popped it into his mouth and bit down. And nearly choked.
"Wellington? Are you all right?"
A piece of paper in a pizza roll? Surely not-- Wellington shoved the strip of paper between his cheek and gum with his tongue and swallowed the rest.
"I'm fine. He straightened. "Well, Louis, I must be off. I'm sure we'll bump into each other again tonight. There are others here I d like to talk to, I'm sure."
"Keep your ears open, Wellington. You might hear something even I haven't."
Wellington nodded, tongued the piece of paper gently, and walked back toward the refreshment table where he had left Napoleon and Marie.
Napoleon stood behind a particularly bushy potted palm, Marie at his side; it was the perfect place to escape from others. He peered out from behind the fronds: Wellington was headed their way,' and from the expression on the Iron Duke's face, something with a capital "S" had happened.
Napoleon's shoulders tensed, but he waited until Wellington drew near.
"Sssst! Over here!"
Wellington paused, glanced around as if utterly bored, then slipped in behind the palm.
Napoleon stared at him, trying to judge just how much he could say in front of Marie.
"Find out anything interesting?" he asked, watching Marie from the comer of one eye. Her face was puzzled, nothing more. His heart ached with longing-longing to open himself to her, to tell her everything he knew and suspected.
"Uh ... interesting? You might say so." Wellington glanced at Marie and his ears turned red.
"Your pardon, my Lady," he said, and reached into his mouth to take out a small piece of paper.
Napoleon drew a quick breath. "What the hell's that? And where'd you get it?"
"I haven't the foggiest idea what it is, and I got it out of a pizza roll."
"Well unfold it, for God's sake," Napoleon said, leaning forward to see. "That can't be what we're looking for."
Wellington unfolded the soggy piece of paper. There, written in pencil (thank God) was the word BATHRUM."
"Bathroom?" Wellington guessed, his forehead furrowed.
Napoleon rubbed his chin. "That's what it looks like. Now what does that have to do with--" A sudden lurch of his heart. Whoever had written the note could not spell in English. And that could only mean... "Wellington. There's a bathroom on this floor, isn't there?"
"Through that other room, behind the refreshment table."
"Napoleon--"
He winced. He had heard that tone in Marie's voice before.
"Marie," he said, taking her hands in his own. He met her eyes, saw the questions there, and swallowed. "Trust me, Marie. You don't want to know. Believe me, you don't."
"I think I do," she said calmly. "I've known you too many years not to read you right, and if I'm not mistaken, you and Wellington are up to your ears in something dangerous."
"Well..."
"Napoleon." She leaned forward and her voice fell to a whisper. "You asked me to trust you. Can't you trust me?"
"Dieu! Don't, Marie, don't make me tell you. If you know, you'll be in danger, too."
"And when haven't I asked to share your danger?"
He squeezed her hands and tried to smile. "Never. I know that. But--"
She stood there, waiting for his answer, and his throat tightened. Whose plant was she? Who had arranged for them to meet after so long? Augustus? The Administration? The Dissidents? He shuddered slightly. Did it go even beyond that: was she a plant within a plant? Or was she a plant at all?"
"All right, Marie," he said quietly, dropping her hands. "Things are changing in Hell. I'm sure you've noticed. To put it simply, to ensure our own protection, Wellington and I have agreed to work for--certain Romans on this side of the Park." Her eyes flickered with sudden understanding and he plunged on. "It's not supposed to be dangerous, but--" He shrugged. "You know Hell. Things are seldom what they seem."
"Now it begins to make more sense. I didn't think there was any power save duty that could make you come to an event like this ball." She drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. "What can I do to help?"
Napoleon held her eyes, all his doubts and fears poised on the edge of reason.
The moment came and passed, and his decision was made.
"Right now, Marie, I want you to stay here, out of sight and quiet. Wellington and I are going to the bathroom. If anyone asks for us, try to keep them occupied for a while."
"How long will you be in there?"
Napoleon glanced at Wellington and shrugged. "God only knows. It shouldn't be all that long."
He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Be careful, Marie."
"Me? You and Wellington are the ones to take care."
"Oh, come now. my Lady," Wellington said lightly, "how much trouble can one get into in a bathroom?"
Normal coloring was returning to Marie's too-pale face. She smiled, reached for Napoleon's hand and held it briefly. "Knowing the two of you, quite a bit."
The only problem with Louis' guest bathroom was that the men's room contained just two stalls.
A line had already formed outside the door; five men stood leaning against the wall, looks of patient suffering on their faces.
Napoleon tugged at Wellington's sleeve and came to a dead stop across the room from the one.
"We're in trouble now. It'll take some time to get everyone in and out."
Wellington shrugged. "Not much we can do about it."
"Huhn." Napoleon glanced up at his companion. "How sick do you think you can look?"
"What?"
"Sick, Wellington. How sick can you--?"
"Oh. Fairly sick, I should think. I'll have to work up to it."
"Hurry, then."
Wellington turned away and walked to the corner of the room. Napoleon resisted the urge to watch and instead stared at the five men who by now had begun to shift uncomfortably on their feet
"Napoleon."
It was Wellington's voice, sounding thin and strained. Napoleon turned as Wellington walked unsteadily toward him, and smiled slightly. The Iron Duke's face was now a pasty white, the dark eyes looking even darker against the pale skin.
"God, Wellington, you look awful!" Napoleon said as he took Wellington's arm.
"Is it something you ate?"
"Pizza roll," Wellington moaned. "Damned thing!"
Napoleon glanced at the five men who were now watching, their own discomfort momentarily forgotten. "Could you give us some help? My friend's eaten something that's made him sick."
"Uh ... there's already two follows--"
"I know." Napoleon led Wellington toward the door. "See if you can hurry things up, will you? I doubt Louis would like his carpet messed up."
"There is another bathroom upstairs," a second man said. "Why don't you--"
"Why don't you!" Napoleon snapped. "Can't you see Wellington's sicker than a dog?"
The first man rapped loudly on the door. "Hurry up in there! We've got someone out here who's sick!" One toilet flushed, followed immediately by the other.
Wellington moaned dramatically as two bewigged men walked out of the bathroom, both looking extremely put out. Those waiting in line whistled and clapped as they walked by, one calling out a lewd proposition.
"Come on, Wellington. You'll feel better in a while." Napoleon gestured to one of the men who pulled the door open. "Take it slow, Wellington. You'll make it." And over his shoulder: