“Tell you what,” Harald said, slipping the knife back into his boot. “My friends wouldn’t like it if I went and they had to stay here with nothing to drink. If you can get us all in, that’s more votes. How about it?”
“Great. My name’s Gordamish Ringwearer, by the way; you can call me Gordy. I’ll need all your names for the invitations—nobody gets in without one.”
Mirabel Stonefist scowled at the stacks of invitations. Every year, she tried to argue the Planning Committee into hiring a real scribe to address them, and every year the Committee insisted it was too expensive. They had to have money for decorations, for the orchestra, for the food, and of course the drink. Which meant that each member of the LA&AS had to address a stack of envelopes herself, in whatever scrawly, scribbly, crabbed and illegible handwriting she possessed.
Primula Hardaxe, chair of the Committee, always made some remark about Mirabel’s handwriting. I never claimed to be an artist, Mirabel thought, stabbing the tip of the quill into the ink-bowl. Not with anything but a sword, that is. She looked at the list she’d been given. Naturally she was not entrusted with the invitations to important persons. She hadn’t been since the time her version of “Lord Pondicherry and Lady Cordelia” was misread as “Lard Pound and Laid Coldeels” and delivered to the butcher’s.
She was halfway through the list when her old resentment cleared and she noticed the names. Harald Redbeard? She’d heard that name before, surely. She shook her head and copied it as carefully as she could. Skyver Twoswords? Again, something tickled her memory then withdrew. Gordamish Ringwearer? Probably the cavalry units; they recruited all sorts of people, not just the solid peasants and smalltraders’ children who ended up in the real army.
She realized she’d just left the “g” out of Ringwearer, and muttered an oath. That’s what thinking did for you, caused mistakes. It wasn’t up to her to decide who got invitations; all she had to do was address the blasted things. She struggled through Piktush Drakbar, Zertin Dioth, Badaxe Oferbyte, and the rest.
At last, she had her stack finished—smudged with sweaty thumbprints, slightly rumpled, but finished. She put them in the basket (noting that it was now half full) and stirred them around. With luck, Primula wouldn’t know who had done which. She hoped that every year.
Three days before the ball, Mirabel tugged at the bodice of her green ball gown. Her armor still fit; what was the matter with this thing?
Of course she could wear a corset. She hated corsets. Just something else to take off, the way she looked at it. She tugged again, and something ripped.
Perhaps she could get through the ball without raising her arms. No. She liked to dance, and she liked to dance fast. She pawed through her trunk. The old copper silk still had that chocolate stain down the front where she’d jogged someone’s elbow, and the midnight blue had moth all up the front center panel.
Time for a new gown, then; after all, she’d worn this one four years.
Strictly speaking, it was not a costume ball. But it had become customary for guests to dress up in whatever fanciful outfits they chose. Thus the appearance of a crew of pirates (striped loose trousers, bucket boots, eye patches), several barechested barbarians, and someone clad mostly in chains and other bits of uncomfortable-looking metal attachments provoked little comment. They had invitations, surrendered at the door to a little girl wearing the red cloak of a Ladies’ Aid & Armor Society ward, and that was all that mattered.
Sergeants Gorse, Covet, Biersley, Dogwood, Ellis, and Slays, all resplendent in dress blue, were not so lucky. They had attended the ball for years; the Ladies’ Aid & Armor Society knew better than to exclude sergeants. This meant nothing to the stubborn nine-year-old who had been told to let no one through without a card. Last year she’d been banished to bed after singing “Sweet Sword of Mine” with the orphan chorus, and she was determined to prove she was old enough for the responsibility.
“They just forgot to send ours, or it got lost,” Sergeant Gorse said. “We’re sergeants, Missy. Sergeants are always invited.”
“Miss Primula said no one can go in without an invitation, no matter what they say.” The nine-year-old tossed her butter-colored braids and glared up at them. The sergeants shuffled their feet. Any one of them could have tucked her under one arm and had room for a barrel of beer, but she was an orphan. A soldier’s orphan.
“Suppose you call Miss Primula, then.”
“She said don’t bother her,” the nine-year-old said. “She’s busy.”
Sergeant Heath strolled up behind the other sergeants, also resplendent in dress blue. “What’s going on here? Why are you fellows blocking the door?”
“They don’t have invitations!” clashed with “This child won’t let us in, and we’re sergeants.”
“Decided not to invite you lot this year, eh?” Sergeant Heath smiled unctuously at the child, and reached past Sergeant Gorse to hand over his card. “Remember your antics last year, do they? That bit with the tropical fruit surprise not quite so funny on second thought?” He strolled through, exuding virtue. The others glared after him, then at Sergeant Gorse.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Sergeant Gorse said. “It was really Corporal Nitley, and I know he got an invitation.” He looked around and spotted a familiar figure hurrying along the street.
“She’ll take care of this,” he said confidently. She was, after all, in his unit.
Mirabel Stonefist discovered that no one had time to make her a gown, or even repair the old one. She tried the plastic wizard the Ladies’ Aid & Armor Society had on retainer, but he was overbooked, without even a spare six-hour reweaving or banish-stain spell.
She couldn’t possibly mend it herself. She was even clumsier with needle and thread than with a pen. That left only one possibility, her sister Monica. The Monica who was still angry with her for not rescuing Cavernous Dire from a dragon. Hoping for the best, Mirabel knocked on her sister’s door and explained her problem.
“You have a lot of nerve,” Monica said. “You didn’t even invite us this year.”
“I put your name on the list,” Mirabel said. “I always do.”
“I’m sure,” Monica said, in the tone that meant she didn’t believe it. “But when you need something—at the last minute I notice, never mind my convenience—here you are. I’ll fix it for you all right!” Monica grabbed the dress, and ripped the bodice all the way to the waist. “There!” Then she slammed the door in Mirabel’s face.
Mirabel turned away from the door. That was it, then. She would just have to go in uniform, and be laughed at. As she trudged down Sweet Street, someone hailed her.
“Why so gloomy?” Dorcas Doublejoints asked. Dorcas, an exotic dancer, had maintained her friendship with the LA&AS ever since they’d solved the mystery of her missing belly.
Mirabel explained, and displayed the torn bodice.
“Oh, that’s not a problem.” Dorcas eyed her. “You won’t fit my clothes, but we have lots of clothes in my house. Come along with me.”
Mirabel stood in Dorcas’s suite, with a flutter of lovely girls around her, all offering their best gowns. She noticed that they all called Dorcas “Miss Dorcas, dear” and drew her own conclusions. Somewhat to her surprise, she found that the strumpets’ best gowns were fine silk of the first quality.