“That scheming little tramp!” Primula said. “I see it all now—”
“I nominate Krystal Winterborn!” someone called.
“She’s wanted to be Queen for years,” Primula said. “And now she’s cheated—”
“Huh?”
“She stacked the lists,” Primula said. “Erased some of the names she knew would vote against her and added her friends.” Primula tapped her own sheaf of papers. “I’ll soon put a stop to this nonsense—”
“I nominate Cabella Ironhand!” called someone else. Cabella had been Queen of the Ball for the past three years; as a sergeant herself, she could count on the sergeants and corporals to vote for her.
“I nominate Sophora Segundiflora,” yelled another.
“I refuse the nomination,” Sophora said. “But thank you.”
Across the floor, Harald Redbeard met Mirabel’s eyes and grinned; then he winked. “I nominate Mirabel Stonefist,” he said loudly. Krystal whirled and glared at him; Mirabel felt as if she’d just had the wind knocked out of her. What did he mean? She’d never been a candidate for Queen of the Ball.
“What are you up to?” asked Primula.
“Nothing,” Mirabel said. “I had nothing to do with it.”
Primula glared at her, but apparently decided Krystal was the bigger game, and started across the floor.
“Nominators, make your way to the Donations Table,” Lord Mander said. “Voters, you may begin lining up to vote when the nominations have been verified. Nominees, come join me at the front of the room.”
“Go on, silly,” said the freckle-faced girl when Mirabel hesitated. “I didn’t realize you were important—imagine being nominated for Queen of the Ball.”
Mirabel made her way through the crowd, accepting congratulations and wolf whistles, until she joined Krystal and Cabella at Lord Mander’s side. The room seemed full of eyes; she had never been shy, but she’d also never stood on a dais being stared at by a roomful of people while wearing a whore’s dress and a necklace that annoyed the Queen. She could see over the heads of the others to the Donations Table, where Harald was just then handing over a gold piece to one of the clerks.
“Look ’em over, folks,” Lord Mander bellowed past her ear. “Here they are, three lovely and talented Members of the Ladies’ Aid & Armor Society. For those who don’t know them well, let me introduce… Krystal Winterborn.” Krystal twirled; her gown glittered in the light. Enthusiastic cheers from part of the crowd, including her barbarian followers. “Cabella Ironhand.” Cabella, in a handsome rose brocade, smiled and waved at the crowd, to similar cheers from her supporters.
Mirabel felt like a stray cow at auction, not a candidate for Queen of the Ball. As far as she knew, she had only one supporter, and he had his back turned, leaning over the Donations Table. “Mirabel Stonefist,” Lord Mander said, and she struck an attitude and did a swirling dance step. To her surprise, another storm of wolf whistles and cheers broke out.
Lord Mander looked at the Donations Table, got the wave he was waiting for. “All right, folks—all the nominations have been verified. You vote with your silver… form three lines, have your coins ready… you know the rules.” He nodded, and the band began to play “Stillwater Faire” to cover the shuffling and talking.
Cabella turned to Mirabel. “Do you know what Primula’s upset about? She cornered me to ask about the list of people I’d addressed invitations to… she’s never complained before.”
Past Cabella’s shoulder, Mirabel saw Krystal’s tense face. “I’m not sure,” she said. It wasn’t her place to embarrass Krystal in front of the whole group. “I thought it was just me; she complains about my handwriting every year.”
“Well, whatever it is, she thinks it’s serious. She’s talking to our Chancellor—” Cabella nodded to the far corner, where Primula, gesturing and waving papers, had trapped Sophora Segundiflora.
“She thinks everything is serious,” Krystal said, with an edge to her voice.
Harald Redbeard was relieved to find that aside from a few unarmed sergeants in dress uniforms the ball consisted of civilians in fancy outfits. Some costumes required weapons, to be sure—the barbarians had fake spears, and Gordamish Ringwearer had a peculiar looking knife that couldn’t possibly work in a fight—but nothing he need worry about. No one had tried to relieve him or his crew of their pirate cutlasses, which were not fake at all, and with which he intended to make a clean sweep of the gathering’s jewels and gold.
His nomination of Mirabel Stonefist—whom he did intend to steal away for later enjoyment—would generate more cash in easily snatched piles. He’d explained to Gordamish that it took fewer votes overall to win in a three-way split than a two-way split.
Now Harald leaned against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for his moment and wondering where the city guard was. He hadn’t seen a guardsman all day. He imagined they were all carousing in some illegally open tavern barred to the public. This crowd now—he eyed them professionally. From royalty obviously self-indulgent to citizens full of good food and strong drink… easy marks, every one.
The only problem he foresaw was that necklace. Which one was real? Maybe he’d better snatch both. As the lines of voters thinned out, Harald glanced around and signalled his crew.
“And the winner is…” Lord Mander bellowed. Silence fell; the woman at the Donations Table pointed to one of the piles. “Krystal Winterborn!”
Cheers and groans from the crowd, a shriek of glee from Krystal, then a booming, “No, she’s not!”
“Am too,” Krystal said, stamping her foot. The crowd roared.
“No.” Sophora Segundiflora made her way to the nominees’ stand. “Some voters were not invited guests; Primula has explained how the misunderstanding occurred.” She scowled at Krystal, who pouted back. “We are going to expel the wrongfully invited guests, and vote again.” In a low voice that Mirabel could barely hear over the hubbub, Sophora said, “You’re lucky, Krystal, that we care more about the reputation of the Society than you do, you naughty girl. Otherwise we’d expose you publicly.”
“But Chancellor—”
“Shut up, Krystal,” Sophora said. Then, more loudly, “As your names are called, please line up over there—” She pointed toward the band. “If your name is not called by the end of the list, you can simply leave and no questions will be asked.”
“Oh, we’ll leave now, if it’s all the same to you!” Mirabel recognized that voice, but it took her a moment to realize that Harald Redbeard and the other pirates had surrounded the Donations Table, and the cutlasses laid to the clerks’ necks were not decorative accessories. Two pirates were already scooping the piles of coin into the Society’s brass-bound money chest. Another pirate was creeping up behind the Queen.
Even as she stared, Mirabel felt a sharp steel point at her back. “I’d come along if I was you,” said someone behind her. “Cap’n’s got a fancy for you, as well as them pretties you’re wearing. Be a good girl now.”
Mirabel’s years of training took over, and she threw herself forward off the dais, tucked and came upright; she heard the pirate curse, the boom of his foot as he leaped after her, then the louder thud of his body as he hit the floor near Krystal. Sophora stood over him, his cutlass in her hand. “Here, dear—you’re quicker.” She tossed the cutlass to Mirabel. “Go save the Queen.”