Chapter 19
Sarad Nukpana wanted the exchange to happen at midnight in the temple ruins near the Mal’Salin family compound. The Saghred was in the mausoleum on the embassy grounds. It sounded simple enough. Go to the party, take home one soul-stealing rock as a party favor, and while we were in the neighborhood rescue Tarsilia. Simple. Right.
Things were getting entirely too complex. Mychael’s plan for sneaking us unnoticed into the embassy involved wearing what I considered to be entirely too noticeable clothes.
King Sathrik Mal’Salin’s theme of choice for his debut in Mermeia was a masked costume ball. The masked and disguised part I could understand and completely agree with. Walking into the goblin embassy with a mask on appealed to me on many levels, and all of them involved my continued survival. But the fancy costume part went a couple of big leaps too far. I knew that highborn goblins and elves alike were jumping at any chance to attend and outdo each other in extravagance and drama, but that didn’t mean I had to join them.
Mychael said I did.
“So you propose we all just stroll in through the front door?” I asked.
“That’s the preferred way to enter when you have invitations.”
“Uh, Mychael, don’t those invitations have your name on them? Being Justinius Valerian’s official representative and all?”
I might have seen the beginnings of a sly grin. “They do. Which is why we won’t be using them. One of my men will be posing as me for the evening.”
“Does he know what he’ll be walking into? Aside from me and Piaras, you’re probably next on Nukpana’s most-likely-to die list.”
“He knows. He volunteered. Three more of my men will be accompanying him.”
“Then whose invitations are we using?”
“In addition to his home, the count is graciously allowing me to assume his identity for the evening. Gavril and I are cousins, so we’re similar enough in build and coloring. Add a mask and costume to that, and no one will know that I’m not him. Gavril, his bride, and four guests have invitations. They were due to arrive back this morning, but I sent word last week that considering the state of affairs here, he and his new wife might want to extend their honeymoon a few more days. They thought it was a wonderful idea.”
I heard only one thing. “We’re posing as newlyweds?”
“Yes.”
For one of the few times in my life, words failed me.
“The new countess is from Rina,” he said, mistaking the source of my concern entirely. “No one here has ever seen her, so no one will know that you’re not her.”
“Except Sarad Nukpana.”
“You’ll be masked.”
“I’ll be wearing the beacon.”
“You’ll be with me,” he said. “And we’ll be surrounded by my men.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Mychael already had two wins in his column against the goblin grand shaman.
“You and I, in addition to Piaras and Garadin, will be using four of the count’s invitations,” Mychael said. “Vegard and Riston will be using the other two. My men without invitations will get onto the grounds another way.”
“How many men?”
“All of them.”
Finally, something I could agree with.
Though Mychael could have emptied out the Guardian citadel on Mid, and I wouldn’t have felt secure. The Guardians might be able to protect me from Sarad Nukpana, but there wasn’t a thing they could do about the Saghred. That was my adversary to face, and when it came down to it, I’d be going it alone, just me and the Soul Thief. Not my idea of a fun date.
That made me remember something else. Prince Chigaru Mal’Salin wanted the Saghred almost as badly as he wanted to kill his brother. When you’ve been feeding a hate as long as Chigaru and Sathrik, you get good at it. Nothing like a potential reunion between homicidal brothers to add spice to the evening.
“I don’t think we’ll be the only ones using someone else’s invitations,” I told Mychael. “I can’t see Prince Chigaru being in town and sitting this one out. He seems to think any opportunity to get his hands around big brother’s throat is one worth taking.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he were there.”
I wouldn’t be surprised either. Concerned, yes. Surprised? Definitely not.
“Though for a distraction, there’s nothing like a nice, public assassination attempt,” Garadin said from the doorway. He walked a couple of steps into the room and executed a slow spin. “How’s this?”
My godfather looked like he had just stepped out of a Nebian pasha’s throne room. His long, sapphire silk tunic flowed over full matching trousers. Both were completely encrusted with silver embroidery. The tunic was fastened down the front with a profusion of silver and pearl buttons. It was topped with a wrapped-silk turban with a jeweled pin at the front. It was a bit overdone, but on the whole tasteful and suited Garadin perfectly.
I wish I could say the same about my chosen ensemble for the evening. When I say chosen, I don’t mean by me. I would never have selected the extravagance of bronze velvet, ivory Pengorian silk, gold embroidery, and jewels that spilled across the chair beside me as either my first or last choice. Mychael had picked our costumes personally. I was pretty sure I could trust the Guardian paladin with my life, but I knew now that I couldn’t trust him with my wardrobe choices. If Mychael said that fancy dress was necessary, I’d go along, but only to a point. I had to draw the line somewhere.
“Can I at least wear black?”
“No,” he told me point blank.
“Why not?”
“It says so on the invitation, along with the no weapons request. Only Mal’Salin royal guard and retainers will be wearing black. Not having any guests in black cuts down on any confusion or misunderstandings. As to weapons, we’ll carry, but they’ll have to be small.”
I didn’t want another misunderstanding with a Mal’Salin guard, but I did want to blend in with the woodwork. With the attention that gown was guaranteed to attract, I’d have trouble not being the center of attention.
Costumed balls were a staple of the wealthier classes in Mermeia, so the trunks and armoires of the count’s palazzo yielded a bumper crop of what Mychael deemed appropriate attire for the evening.
I looked at the costume again. Judging from the feathered mask and golden hooked beak, I think I was supposed to be a hawk. There were worse things I could be, and a bird of prey was oddly appropriate for the evening’s activities.
The gown’s flowing skirt and short train were bronze velvet, with an elaborate feather pattern painstakingly embroidered in gold thread, and sprinkled the entire length with tiny, golden jewels. The skirt was slit in the front to reveal the same treatment in ivory Pengorian silk, with what looked to be diamonds. The tight sleeves were similarly done in ivory with embroidered bronze velvet oversleeves attached at the shoulders and falling to the floor to represent wings. The bodice was ivory leather and intricately tooled with gold to resemble smaller feathers. I approved of the leather and even the corset I’d have to wear underneath. I wouldn’t be comfortable, but at least I’d have marginal protection against pointy steel objects that went stab in the night.
While I had to admit it was beautiful, the gown wasn’t appropriate for anything I had planned this evening. For one, I liked breathing. Between the corset and the gown’s low-cut bodice, air would be the only thing that wasn’t ample. Second, my legs needed to be free for life-extending activities like fighting and running—neither of which I have ever been able to do in a gown. And from the looks of things, the bronze oversleeves almost brushed the ground. First whiff I got of trouble, those sleeves were history. Though if worse came to worse, I could slash my bodice laces if I needed more air, and hike up my skirts if I needed to run away from something.