Tarwyl groaned and pulled a blanket over his head. In Cor Talaith Tarwyl had been well known for sleeping like the dead and never speaking a word until he’d been awake for an hour. Davyn started to kick him again, but thought better of it. Instead, he poured water from a flowered pitcher onto his friend’s head, blanket and all. While Tarwyl leaped up, cursing and rubbing his dripping hair, Davyn grabbed a biscuit from a plate of them on the worktable. He grinned at my curiosity and waved his biscuit about the room. “Have you guessed how we’re going to get you into Aberthain Lair?”
“If you think to put us in a delivery wagon or play some stupid impersonation like MacAllister tried in Cor Neuill, give it up,” I said. “They’ll be waiting for just such a thing now they know we’re here. The warriors of the Twelve Families are not idiots.”
“Well, one might argue that,” said Davyn, “but they certainly almost had us last night, and this will be far trickier.”
“What, then? Are you planning to weave us into a bolt of cloth?”
“Actually ... Here, let MacAllister explain.” The Senai, a sword belt draped over his arm, topped the last stair carrying a plate of sausage.
“Explain what? Oh, all this?” He jerked his head about the room as he set down the plate and dropped the sword belt onto the table. “We’ve another bit of playacting to do. Easier”—he was concentrating on the soupy porridge he was scooping into a painted mug—“easier than the last time, I think.” He filled three more mugs, and we settled down to the fine-smelling breakfast. “You said there was only one entry to Aberthain Lair, Lara, but in fact there is a second. The Aberthani purposely installed their dragons close to the palace. They see it as a measure of their wealth and privilege to have dragons, and they like to show them off. Makes them feel strong and safe. In fact, whenever King Renald entertains, he takes his guests to view his little flock. At midnight his servants open the gate onto a balcony that overlooks the lair. Though they’re rarely used, steps lead from the balcony straight down to the dragons.”
“And you think to sneak into the palace and broach this gate?” I could not hide my contempt.
“Not at all. We’re going to let King Renald open it for us.” He picked up something from the table and whipped it across his face as he gave me a sweeping bow. The silver mask. “Madam, may I request the honor of your presence at a masked ball given by King Renald of Aberthain in honor of his daughter’s birthday? I’ve managed to come by an invitation, and I would very much regret going alone.”
A ball! At the royal palace of Aberthain! I had to force my mouth to speak instead of gape in disbelief. “You’re mad. Absolutely mad. You couldn’t possibly get in, and even if you could ... With me? No mask has ever been crafted that could pass me off as so much as a servant.”
Tarwyl bustled into a corner and returned holding a long gown of dark green silk, sewn with silver thread. “Mervil has only to finish the hem.”
“I can’t wear anything like that.” It was a ridiculous garment. A ridiculous plan. “I won’t.” In his other hand Tarwyl held a second silver mask, one designed to cover the eyes and the left side of the face.
“We won’t be there long,” said MacAllister, tossing his mask to the table. “We’ll arrive about eleven. The king always opens the gate at midnight. We’ll go through with the rest of the guests, but we won’t return with them. The Elhim believe they can hide your gear in the lair. Only an hour and we’ll be in. They’ll never think of us walking in the front door.”
“And how do we get out?”
The Senai hesitated only briefly. “I suppose Roelan will take us.”
Madness. “And if your dragon friend isn’t there or you can’t get its cooperation?”
“He’s there,” Davyn broke in eagerly. “I’ve seen him—a dragon the age of Keldar with a malformed shoulder.”
“And you’ll go whether I agree or not,” I said to MacAllister. “Whether you can get out or not. Whether you will be captured or go mad—or whether I will.”
“I have to go.”
How in the name of heaven was I going to stop it? “When is this ball? I don’t even know how to dance.”
MacAllister grinned like a fool. “Tonight. So you’ve no time to figure out how to talk me out of it. As for dancing ... I’ll teach you.”
Twice that day Ridemark search parties swept the Elhim districts of Aberswyl looking for a Senai murderer and an abducted woman of the Ridemark. Mervil’s front door was kicked in by angry clansmen, and MacAllister and I had to hide in a cupboard with a false back. As soon as the searchers were gone, Mervil packed his family and his assistants off with friends who planned to take refuge in the new Elhim sanctuary in the hills south of Aberthain. “Bad times coming,” he said.
MacAllister disappeared in midafternoon, and Tarwyl left with my armor bag to deliver it to Aberthain Lair. Davyn attended to me, seeing me bathed and combed and measured so that Mervil could finish the hem of my gown. Ten times I gave it up. “Narim never made me promise to wear silk gowns, nor to scrub my fingernails with stiff brushes, nor to allow some filthy Elhim to wash my hair with stuff that smells of whorehouses.” When Davyn smiled and began scrubbing my feet, I kicked him and said I would wear my own boots or they could all be damned. “This tent of a garment will cover my feet well enough, and I’ll not step into any dragon lair without my boots.”
As he had all afternoon, Davyn gazed at me with his soulful gray eyes. “Your boots are already gone with Tarwyl and will be dutifully awaiting you behind the cookshed in the lair. I’ll confess that shoes have been our greatest dilemma. Mervil has none to fit you, and there’s no time to get any made. Aidan has promised to come up with something.”
Aidan. “He’s enjoying this, isn’t he? Making me look ridiculous in this Senai finery.”
“Ah, Lara, when will you understand that you could never be ridiculous in his eyes?”
“Repulsive, then. Hideous.”
Davyn shook his head. “Do this for me. Watch his face as he sees you come down the stair tonight and judge how repulsive he finds you. As for now, we must practice your curtsy.”
“I will not.”
“You will be presented to the king of Aberthain. If you don’t curtsy, you’ll be arrested. Now do it.”
My leg did not enjoy curtsying. That gave me even more reason to curse the Senai, and the Elhim, and every male or sexless being that ever walked the earth.
Tarwyl staggered in at sunset with his left arm broken, his clothes in bloody shreds, and his face battered beyond recognition. As Davyn tended his injuries, Tarwyl kept trying to talk. “Have great care, Lara. They know you’re here. They’ve guards everywhere, primed to kill. I did no more than look at a Rider, and they were on me. They said I smelled of vigar. I don’t even know what that is.”
“The grease,” I said. “The fireproofing. Did they find—”
“Your armor is safely stowed. But you and Aidan must take care.”
“We’ll be all right,” I said. “Now let Davyn take care of you.”
“Then I’ll see you next at Cir Nakai,” he said. He smiled through the wreck of his face and let his eyelids sag.
“At the lake,” I said, though I did not believe it in the least. “Where is the blasted Senai?” I asked Davyn.
“Out procuring transport, I believe.” His kind face was grim and colorless as he dressed Tarwyl’s wounds with soft cloths and herbs and ointments.